Best Suture Poems

FUTURE SUTURE


The past gaining ground
old fools look back failing to
outrun the future.


Not the first, not the last.
we are the present’s 
future past



5/10/2016

submitted to – Future – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Nayda Ivette Negron...

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It’s 3 am
I’m naked & naive
Undressed by shadows
Jetsam of scuttled me
I can feel their fingers
Howling down my back
Lightning crashes
Whispers
Your window cracked

Pull me in
Cast me out
Bleed the truth
Suture my mouth
If hope is dead
Then grieve with me
Caress their silence
Now we’re free

Do you see my face
Sewn by jagged...

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Nature the suture
that palpably stitches
the wounded souls...


P.S This is the title of my poetry book published on Amazon Kindle......

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abused as a small child, 
so meek and so damn mild-
innocence brought sadness, 
in adulthood came madness. 

daddy couldn’t put the bottle down, 
he tried and failed many a time-
too many bruises black and brown, 
falling back down every time I climb.
I was beauty and...

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Poems Like Some Suture

Poems are in past, present and soon to be future
Have been like wound together which you suture
Brought back so they can normally function again
Even if from past, the present and here and when.

Ideas may suddenly start appearing into your mind
Wanting and willing...

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Poetic transfusion,
 prose bleeding through

Words but a suture
 —stitching the truth

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2014)...

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Poetic transfusion
  prose bleeding through

Words but a suture
  —stitching the truth

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2014)...

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Raw and uncut, the Poet
  sharpened his edge

The entry wound targeted,
  with fury bright red

The first cut the deepest,
  and clean to the bone

His wound bleeding freely,
—its suture unknown

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)...

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The subtle thread which mends a laceration
is woven through fresh, tender flesh to bind
disreconciled horizons, disentwined
by words sharper than the knives of damnation.

Then, even once that painful separation
is closed, there’s still so much left to attend
to,—wash the wound, put bandages, amend
echoes saddled with righteous indignation....

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Spillage on my picture,
Dark black creature,
Now you can see the
White lines, purple, either.
Running up my arms like a suture, churning
Piercing gaze through the dark, hurting,
In and out like quick breath, blurting,
But all I don’t see front is certain,
Bright like medic hand, mine or my brand,
But...

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