Best Sternum Poems
dust-wearing-wind carries a feeble cry in its palm,
settles it near ears that can no longer hear.
Cries arise from hollows of your hungry face,
a pulpit of high cheeks bones— in sharp relief
to sunken skin-scape sallow and paper thin—
a preacher on the harrows of hunger.
Vulture keeps a still, silent vigil,
a patient witness to your starvation,
comrade and adversary
in a fight for your last breath and beat.
Your loyal companion, a symbol of death
where drones rain with flames on tents of refugees
and sky splitting missiles make shrapnel of the sun,
where dragon fire artillery shoots the moon
and shreds stars till they fate-fall
like the last nightjars from nocturne skies.
Dear child of war,
alone with nothing in your belly but a stone,
rib bones a famine cage,
thoracic fingers squeeze your soul.
Your heart a hostage,
flutters like a lost moth against your sternum.
I long to hold you and feed you
honey made from a million wild flowers
uncrushed beneath metal plates of tank treads.
I yearn to bathe you of collapsed concrete dust
cleanse you of your mother’s blood, her
rattle-boned, battle-owned, maternal body wrapped
over yours as they fed her Kalashnikov lead.
My faraway ache for your plight pales
against your tiny body’s black-rose-throes,
a pawn to thorns of soldiers
grown on rocket-torn-boot-worn streets.
War-zone fig trees bear no fruit,
hibiscus buds die as hornets knit nests into shrubs,
tomorrow but a diseased wheat field laid to waste.
Dear child of war,
deliverance will come when pall-bearer winds
carry your cries elsewhere…
The human skeleton,
is made up of 206 bones
By jove, they are hard,
as if made of stones!
The brain you think with
is in the Skull or Cranium,
the Maxilla and the Mandible
are for chewing bubble gum.
It's atop the spine
which has 33 Vertebrae in all
You're sure gonna break it
if there's a nasty fall.
The 12 pairs of ribs
act just like a big ring,
while 10 fix to the Sternum
the bottom 2 are Floating.
The shoulder blade or the Scapula
is joined with the Clavicle
How they organize the movement
Is another spectacle.
The arms have the Humerus,
the Radius and the Ulna,
The hands' have wrist bones
called Carpals (not made in China).
With Metacarpals and Phalanges
we complete our hand,
don't you forget the lower limbs,
upon which we stand.
The hip bones make the Pelvis
from which the Femur originate
If you gyrate it like elvis
the Patella is sure to break.
Tibia and Fibula
are there in the Shin
The Tarsals and Metatarsals
shape your feet as it's seen.
Our journey ends here
Let me take your leave,
Take good care of your bones
for as long as you live.
Before the rain fell and the sky's rainbow set the scenery,
I had a day that will never cease my mind.
The center of my core fell into a creek by the cottage
and drifted down slowly into rigid waters.
All of your affection dwindled like a soft Spring snowflake..
-melting...melting...melting-
Winter willows weep for the loss of its warmth, and I
weep for the loss of your affection.
Considering your disregard, my loneliness was expected.
Now, a part of me seems to be missing...
a part of you.
Our light bulb went dim, and our white turned grey, all
within one hour of time.
Perceptions of consequences decided upon your actions
left my warmth arrested by your cold.
How will I live without you?
My tenderness is dripping slowly
into soft memories we shared.
Half of my heart is yours...
half of my heart is lost.
You've searched for your puzzle pieces,
and I thought I was the one who would make you whole.
All I was to you was a mess you had to clean up.
Underneath the picture lays a broken mirror.
So broken the broom slid right through it with ease.
You left me with such ease..
Seven years of misery and distress to come.
Women are supposed to love wholeheartedly,
and partners are supposed to reflect like prisms
radiating into...
their lovers soul.
Behind my sternum and between my ribs,
my heart has almost been emptied.
Oh, how I regret letting you borrow my essence;
my internal bosom God gifted to me
thinking it was all yours.
My tenderness is dripping slowly
into soft memories we shared.
Half of my heart is yours...
half of my heart is lost.
Date Written: December 29, 2015
In mania, the body unbinds itself.
The skeleton’s dense marrow becomes hollow,
an avian adjustment. It is accelerated evolution.
Fluttering and floating in a slew of thoughts
like nervous wind chime chatter.
My brother blew in through the rattling gate
accompanied by October’s cruelest gale.
Eyes unwillingly wide, levered by a crowbar
his hazel doorways ripped from their hinges.
He ran fervently through the streets of West Chester
with lungs coated with cannabis and amphetamines
until there was blood beneath his toenails, dripping out
just like Jesus’ wine weeping out from his searing limbs.
As he entered into the home of our distant childhood,
his back burned from the warm wrath of penitent leather
the self-flagellation, the begging for the flames of Purgatory
To appease the eyes of a looming Lord
his fate-sealing gaze hidden in twilight’s comforting veil
He says he holds a guilt beyond human comprehension,
that he is an evil person. I tell him we are just flawed people.
After a decade of intentful detachment, my brother cracks open
his ribcage as it blooms like a flower from his sternum.
He says there is a sickness in his soul, and that I will
never truly know him.
My mother and father have had heads made of granite
since he has come home. There are heavy eyes shadowed with
bags made of storm clouds. They have prayed with their
clergy. They have contacted multiple attorneys.
My sibling is a storm that has wrought ruin, but
he can heal. His violent storm might sow a beautiful season
The warmth of his first real smile will bring upon renaissance,
and as the tears and snot seep into the soil of my shoulder
our cheeks may grow a vibrant emerald moss.
Sometimes I contemplate about my own self-destruction.
I wonder if I am at fault for the way this state has simply become a dreadful inevitability.
I wonder if I am at fault for the way my mind hums with a silence that scratches my soul.
I wonder if I am at fault for the visceral, undeniable pull that tugs at my sternum.
Fatigue.
It’s a conflictive concept.
It’s practical. It’s biological. It’s physical.
But for me, it’s the definition of my existence.
It’s the medical complications that pile up through my fingernails like tangled vines on a hanging tree.
It’s the pocket-sized triggers that push me back into a room with claw marks on the door.
It’s the way that no matter who I am, what I am, or where I am, I will always be a victim of exhaustion.
Not the sleepy, heavy-lidded homesick type.
But the invisible type.
The blood-itching need for evaporation.
The throat-clamping desire for combustion.
The tear-scarred plea for deterioration.
And I wonder if all I am meant to be is a hanging tree;
vexed by the vines of her own making and hung by the carvings of her own captivity.
When I read, gravity loosens its grip,
a small unfastening felt first in the ribs.
The page tilts the air, bending it around me
like a soft distortion in the fabric of breath.
Words behave as particles~
colliding, scattering, recombining in the quiet behind my eyes.
Characters arrive as changes in mass,
their presence altering the room’s center of pull.
Some make the world lighter;
others press gently on the sternum
as if adjusting the density of thought.
I feel them move through me
like currents slipping along an unseen axis.
Sentences stretch time~
not metaphorically, but with the slow elasticity
of something being warmed by attention.
Moments dilate; minutes contract;
the clock becomes a suggestion
rather than a law.
My pulse syncs to the story’s frequency,
a low hum of shifting energy
that travels through bone and breath.
The book becomes a field generator,
rewriting the physics of the room
until everything around me feels slightly untrue
and beautifully so.
By the final page, equilibrium returns~
but not the same one I began with.
When the book ends, the world doesn’t snap back.
It settles slowly, in its own uneven way,
as if the constants I rely on have shifted a little.
I move through the room with a changed center of balance,
still feeling the story’s pull inside me,
a private force that lingers long after the cover shuts.
Bones
We have 206 bones in our skeletal system
Far too many to completely list ‘em
But here are a few for your edification
In case you missed ‘em in your education
Tibia, fibia, femur, and sternum
Are four of the larger if you’d care to learn ‘em
But malleus, incus and stapes I fear
Are the smallest you have, so they fit in your ear
You have a funny bone called the “humerous”
You’ve only got two, so they aren’t very numerous
Your ribs, on the contrary number twenty-four
Adam gave one away, still he had plenty more
Enclosing your brain is the hardest bone you’ve got
Known as the “Cranium” more often than not
And “Mandible” is the medical name for “Jaw”
You rely on it mostly when it’s time to gnaw
Your phalanges are your fingers and toes
Both may be places where a ring goes
And down around your knees are your patellas
You scraped them a lot when you were young fellas
Your vertebrae make up your spine; you’ve got ‘em
Cervical, thoracic, and lumbar near your bottom
They’re separated by small discs in between
But should one slip, the pain can be mean
Of course, there are others that are well-known
Like the radius, ulna, and coccyx bone
Sit them all down in a comfortable seat
And at a fancy restaurant, say “Bone Appetit!”
"Hey, lassie, How about going a-mooning? – We two
I like full moon giving wrong ideas at the right times
Feel salty air, sun kissed hair, in this endless summer".
“Oh, just take me there,
party at night, no sleeping
The water flowing,
hot guys there, butterflies here.
My hips do the dips;
my belly has turned to jelly.”
“Hey lassie, try to dance with knees together
Too bad if your knickers are leather
Want to spin? Don’t even try
Or everyone will shout “Oh my, Oh my”
“ Oh, yea, My breasts is at its best,
My back has gone all slack’
My sternum is all bunkum;
My navel is all a-wobble
Ice cream, Bike Rides, Late Night Bashes.”
Surfing, swimming, hear waves crashing
Shopping, driven round town, music loud,
The top is down, days by the pool in the warm breeze.
Later we might have a hoedown in the barn
Let’s gather at the dust time
Maybe some neighbors will play old time music
We will sing and square dance.
+++
October 19, 2014
Form: Free Verse
Third Place Win
Contest: Hoe Down by Shadow
Collaboration by Dr. Ram Mehta and Kanu Mehta. (Not on PS)
Contest: Hoedown by Shadow Hamilton
It feels good to scream.
Too shout to the top of your lungs,
with all your might,
with all your pain,
with all your air,
that fills your black lungs
damaged by years of cigarette smoke,
to feel your dieaphram expand
to feel your chest expand,
to feel your heart skip a couple beats,
thump. thump. thump.
Put you face to the pillow
breath in. Let it all come out.
Let
it
all
come
out!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!
Feel the lunatic release from your head
free the demons from your soul.
Let
it
all
out!!!
Scream like there is no tomorrow,
feel the pain go away.
It feels good to scream,
to get it all out.
Then light a cigarette,
breath in
drink whiskey,
red wine,
sit at a hunched over position,
at a typewriter
and scream with words on paper
and go down and get your screams published.
Then everyone can read, and hear your screams
and not just your neighbors.
Let
it
all
out!!
It feels good! Trust me. It feels good.
It feels good to let it all out,
let it out,
don't deny yourself freedom
let it all go,
free yourself,
free your tourmented soul,
fill your cancer filled, black lungs
expand your chest,
crack your sternum
and feel the pain go.
Let it all go.
Let
it
all
out!!
It feels good to scream!
Lancing, shooting pain
Stabs to the left side - sternum
Doctor notes: Love lost
wishbone
the furcula
attachment wing muscle
pulling tugging bending breaking
sternum
Happy Thanksgiving All
May Your Wishes Come True
Love Kathy & Jenny
i like spelling "i" in the small case
doesn't it make me humble?
yet, do i feel this way
ever?
humble pie ...
death, destruction, deplorable images
smash your loved one in the face
reality gravitates around
a death mask
feel your sternum ...
apply C.P.R.
and maybe your pericardium
becomes electric
again
telling you what to do
so that thoughts of originality
slip into dreams
Smooth, effervescent glowing skin
Free of blemish and blighting toxin
Undulating curves of glossy satin
Red cloak shrouds comely Saracen
At the core a being of fibrous substance
From stem to sternum burgeoning affluence
Delicately woven fabric with scintillating elegance
At close quarters emanating a sweet fragrance.
A free-flowing stem signaled detachment
A stalky divide prevented rapprochement
Intricate, inner designs forestalled advancement
Coarse, deepening chasm threatened determent.
Forthwith, I loves tender began to preen
Steadily peeling through the stealthy sheen
Cutting to heart's core, affections to glean
Loves' seed from ensconcing barriers did ween.
(In Tudu Hospital in the former Saigon,
several hundred dead babies have been
preserved in formaldehyde. They are
hideously deformed as a result of their
mothers having been contaminated by
Agent Orange, a chemical diffused in
Vietnam as part of the American military
offensive, Operation Ranch Hand.)
Things To Do
Everything's sterile. The quiet reek
of formaldehyde seeps from neat shelves.
Tall glass jars, the size of mega-buckets
of Colonel's chicken, line the walls
floor to ceiling. Let's take a look, friend.
Downtown Hanoi, at a loose end,
we'll see the sights.
But they won't see us.
These fetuses and newborn babes
gaze out uncomprehending,
the faintest hint of surprise
darkening their big bug eyes.
Here, a head is elongated like squash.
There, a tongue cascades from a mouth
to fuse with a sternum. Tiny heads
hone to a point, like someone tried
to put them through a pencil-sharpener.
Faces that will never blink look out
and seem to ask, rhetorically,
if this was really meant to be.
By what rule of law or war,
by what technological advance
could it have served somebody's end
to make us monsters,
before we even had the chance
to be born?
It’s that dream again
I’m running, faster, faster
He got me with his knife
sliced deep down my sternum
the blood trickles around my hand
as I keep applying pressure.
I had to run; I never win hand-to-hand
but if I can get through the door
I can usually force it shut
maybe long enough to lock it
He’ll slam his fists on the door
struggling to open it
I resist but I never find out if I can lock it
My alarm always goes off at this moment
like a rat trained to run through a maze
I move through the motions of
morning routines,
shower, dressing, a quick breakfast,
and as I open the door to leave for work
He’s back!
I slam the door shut
heart drums loud in my ears as
he screams through the oak wood,
pushing hard to get through
I feel it give and the door swings my way
and I push back harder
sweat trickling down my neck
My alarm goes off
Wait a minute—
I wasn’t awake?
Get out of bed completely drenched,
pinch myself a couple times
has the dream come to an end?
it’s never lasted quite so long.
I’m late for work.
The day feels like a blur
a water colored painting
with splash effected corners
my coworkers crack their jokes
as we drink our pick-me-ups
they remind me to pack the shipping.
Wait—
Haven’t we done this before?
Just the other day it seems
I pack the box and hand it to the FedEx guy
It’s him again! Shut the door!
It creaks and slams as we go back and forth
Blood trickles down my chest
did he really cut me this time?
If the door could give a little more
I might be able to slide the bolt
and lock him out once and for all
My alarm goes off
That was still a dream?
Am I awake this time?
Missed three calls from work,
gotta move fast, be there as fast as I can
run to the kitchen as I hop into my pants
grab some buttered toast off the plate
as I run for the door
Wait a minute...