Best Tendons Poems
(this is not a comment on gun rights in U.S.A. I am from Canada where we do not face the same challenges. rather i seek to speak to the creative mind. the search for the peace in our hearts. the gun is not literal but represents the violent soul. i hope i have not offended anyone.)
almost everything that wraps
the bone structure of the hands
is responsible for its sense of touch
touch,
the neck of a guitar
a lover’s hair
via a pen
through and to the end
of a paint brush
our sensitive
our creative
side
flows through our hands
the first time i held a gun
my skin melted off
than the
tendons
muscles
veins
arteries
followed
fell off the bone
stripped to its empty frame
i held the gun
with a raw naked bone
pulled the trigger
with a cold dead hand
i never held a gun again
the flesh grew back
in peace and love
my creative voice
is alive again
travels easily
through my brand new hands
Categories:
tendons, passion, peace,
Form:
Free verse
Just a Little Bit Free
I feel that I need to get out
to walk by the oak and pine trees
breathe fresh air and. see young creatures
climb pines and fences — roam all about
I feel the need to have the sun
warm my bones, my tendons my veins
I want to hear people laugh and
walk with their dogs out to the park
throw balls have picnics have fun
I want to say hello and talk
For I know they have been polite
watching me now for 2 years
trips to doctors, to surgery with a cap
and thin hair, with a cane taking walks
They ask me how I am
and I smile and say good
now a year later they appear
to believe me, a large breath escapes
now its only every 4 months I go for an exam
Still the doctors tell me to be careful
to stay away from children with
their sneezes and coughs
A lonely prescription, but
I do have my dogs
Another MRI and dyes injected
another Congressman gone from
the same disease, so sad but his was a 4
and I am a stage 3. still every
blood lab is collected, every cell inspected
This weekend we hope to see
a play under the pine trees
I will get tired and my bones and spine
will ache, my brain will need a quiet rest
Cancer of the brain is not
an easy thing to fight off, its tough, unkind
though now it could be a year or possibly more
the chemo/radiation is cruel, but for this month
I feel good enough to allow me to be
just a little bit alive —a little bit free
Categories:
tendons, longing,
Form:
Rhyme
This subtle dance in smallest tendons
And tiniest of contractions,
In littlest of words.
Minor C, disclosed in me in
tapping of ten digits
on my sheets.
When they dance in, and straighten,
Lift me so high, I smile...
Upright posture.
Ink flows in, -in colours inimitable
by any wild palette-
and out again.
Arabesque in a lazy Arabian Night
by a knight chained
and beaten, battu.
Let my hands play F and C
Let their hands help,
Legs changé.
In inmost words that find
their final place,
ultimately.
***
March 3, 2017
© Darren White
Categories:
tendons, beauty, body, dance, health,
Form:
Free verse
Scarlet Rivers--by David Lustrup 2016
if you saw my heart tonight
you wouldn't recognize it
trodden trampled torn apart
before i realized it
shredded hanging bleeding
tendons torn and tattered
you were everything to me
you were all that mattered
and now im drowning in this blackness
circling the drain im going down
where is the end to all this madness
this misery is so profound
memories play like movies in my mind
kissing your lips so bittersweet
little short films playing constantly
tear jerkers on repeat
and id give my torn, and tattered heart
for a bright tomorrow, where were not apart
and id sell my last drop, of blood you see
for a single smile, that was meant for me
under star filled skies, in the deep dark night
i remember you, in the pale moonlight
with a million stars, shining in your eyes
how much i loved you, you never realized
as i pull the trigger
as i hit the ground
flashes of your face fly
as lights are dimming down
life is fleeting now
as im bleeding out
let the rivers flow, the rivers flow, scarlet rivers flow now.
Categories:
tendons, anxiety, death, lost love,
Form:
Roses feel no pain.
Stretching muscles and tendons,
They strive for God’s light.
Categories:
tendons, earth, earth day, environment,
Form:
Haiku
Nervous from this angry energy
Tendons tight and lungs held steady
Control is what I am
Control this seeping cold
Control this rising anxiety
One day soon this balloon shall pop
You won't want to be here when it does
So run
Run to somewhere that my pain can
not effect you
Whether that be a planet away in the
cloud of drugs or simply the
next state over with a new
lover
Wherever you need to flee I shall not
judge
I only know that you do not want to
be here when this
body floods
Categories:
tendons, absence, depression, words, drug,
Form:
Free verse
My father hauled a dead sea turtle
from a beach in the Florida Keys
he coveted that shell.
I was not allowed to watch, but
I tried to see my father over the dunes
sand spurs in my feet
I pushed upward
over gentle curves of sand
to see the gutting of that sea turtle
wondering how life was removed.
Flies everywhere,
do they kettle or simply swarm over death?
I did not know I was too young.
The angles of my father’s wrist —
he held the knife
his bones and tendons
rippling under his skin
cutting, and cutting
scraping flesh from shell
finalizing death.
My father worked for hours
in the Florida sun
I watched, and watch
to understand this man, I’d never
seen so violent and destructive.
My father never divorced my mother, but
she left him, he left her
the chaotic kettling cycle of a relationship:
One would return, then the other
only to repeat: leave – return – leave…
cutting words sharp angular words.
That shell hung on our wall for years
seeming to decay with the marriage.
There were no hills of sand to hide behind, only hollow doors
no sand spurs to remind me that I had feelings
no sounds of the ocean or seagulls
to cover
the gutting.
I sold that shell to a neighbor kid for fifty cents.
Previously published by Headline Poetry & Press 2019
Categories:
tendons, boy, childhood, family, father,
Form:
Free verse
How vast and pervasive is the Moon?
Hugeness hints there stand two
Orbs and a turbulent stream
Simply like the dawning sun
All over the half-moon horizon.
On the shore of credulity
The froth shed detritus and sea salt
Carving a path into level sand
Slicing the weft out of silk
By cutting across the fabric kernel
The waves were sealed on the scanty shore
The furor was in harmony with the dust
Pearl-like seaweed and scrubber.
Moonlight over the Sea at Dawn
It is ideal and so spectacularly tempting
The churning water bred white foam
I am enthusiastic to have the plunge
The tendons, sinews, and guts were all wary
A season invests these twilight hours
Fetch the ache and gentleness
Misleading magnetism
My inner mermaid is hopeless
The moon was merely out of the embrace.
It related me to a no-blue world
Spume was kicked by white ponies
As they did in our fourth year of dreams
Cantering toward the welling of time
In the utter stiffness at the two ends
Do not feel dire about shedding tears
The spectrum of the dull light
We never noticed.
Written: October 29, 2022
Categories:
tendons, adventure, destiny, dream, moon,
Form:
Free verse
I stand neck-high tall
within the quicksand
of my infirmities.
Green and gaunt,
I hesitantly genuflect.
Ravaged tendons and corpuscles
are barely breathing
within the vacant corridors
of a soiled carcass.
My ardor for vindication
has been abandoned.
I presently refrain from accepting
the consultation of
umbrous soothsayers.
Readers of tealeaves and tarot cards
hurl my infractions towards
the apex of your divinity
and the nadir of my scrutiny.
I espy no Judas rope
(dangling from lofty boughs)
as scores
of unanswered novenas
sleep beneath my fingernails.
Scars flourish upon my skin -
agnate to larvae
and dried leaves.
The density of my marrow
turns moss covered and dank.
Choirs of starving nestlings
bear witness to my afflictions.
Swallowing the last notes
of a disenchanted requiem;
they slowly bind my wrists
with twigs of knotted reflections -
as Harper Lee's macaws
peck my cheeks and
the calculated feast ensues.
A murky blanket
of eventide quilts me
in fibers of remorse.
Lesions burst
underneath my skin;
they herald my inhumanity
as I impishly smile.
Connect-the-dot cold sores,
(not found in children’s books)
entwine a raw endoscope probe -
mocking
my charted results.
Inky woodlands
are devoid of carnival mirrors
and inner deliberations.
Such forms
of bun coed celebration minuet
within another's emptied psyche.
The conduits
to my umbra are blocked.
All exits are closed.
So, into the woods I go,
medicine chest-closed
and matchstick available.
Searching for answers
the starving nestlings
formerly consumed.
Categories:
tendons, introspection
Form:
Free verse
The Black Stallion
On a hill overlooking a wide broken canyon
runs a beautiful wild horse, an impressive black stallion
Mile after mile, in the distance, the stallion runs
he's wild and free galloping with pure abandon
Untamed and unbridled, he proudly flaunts his energy
No one can break him, his spirit is always wild and free
Nostrils a flare he bolts to the distant horizon without care
No one approaches, whoever could, who ever would dare?
His black coat glistens in the sun, in the pale morning light
His tendons tighten and flex as he readies for his flight
He rides like the wind vanishing quickly from my sight
I wait for his appearance, he arrives shortly before twilight
He sees me approaching at daybreak, will he allow me to his side?
All I want to do is be his friend, climb on top and go for a ride
He never allows approach, in a flash he's gone, far away he roams
He's wild, proud, and free, it's true, but... spends his days alone.
John Derek Hamilton
June 19,2016
Categories:
tendons, beautiful, friendship, horse, imagination,
Form:
Verse
We are all so young,,, even the ‘old hands’
Imagining a time with no bull rope is hard to plan
It’s riding with a heart and unflagging spirit revealed
That’s a most fitting description of what’s usually concealed
The dream most have had since they were born
About riding horses, bulls, and such without scorn
It’s about the ride, that 8 seconds of time
That lead you and the bull to a place uniquely sublime
Riding bulls or whatever, it really don’t matter
As long as your heart, your family, and your thoughts aren’t scattered
Whether it’s the big show or not, you really don’t mind
You’d ride a milk cow if she’d fly out the gate, so inclined.
So even if you ride for the money, or the fame
No matter what you draw, you look for no blame
Because even though bones, and tendons are often broken
And if you’re deemed old because your thirty something year is now unspoken
It’s really the heart that prevails when the body can’t follow
And provides that last 8 seconds, that make you feel less hollow
And,,, when someday your heart and mind don’t yearn for the ride,
It’s time to reflect and possibly stand off to the side.
Life doesn’t end for there’s still plenty to do
There is always a new bull rider that wants to be you
They may need a hand, and inspiration or two
And a true bull rider’s heart is to return the gift given you.
Categories:
tendons, cowboy-westernheart, heart, time,
Form:
Couplet
The mechanical components, the valve that pumps my heart
The reactive nerve endings that serve a sensory stimulus
The tear ducts that latently only lend lubrication
The silly little practical necessary body bits, pieces and parts
I yawn & it reminds me… I should probably inhale & exhale
I smile because it is simply facial muscles that need exercise
I do mechanical muscle management to strengthen & maximise
Biomechanical body’s like mine don’t simply go frail..
My skin surface is stimulated, & sympathetically constricts.. it must be cold?
My mental function set to maintain a neutral base
My muscles, skeletal system, ligaments, tendons & bony structures
Encapsulated by a mechanised myofascial web, complete the outer mould
Organs operate internally as a well serviced engine, its all systems go
Emotions just pesky little hormone imbalances, from a time long ago
Where we as woman once needed in order to reproduce
Will evolution shrink our ovaries as they have outgrown their use?
My tongue embraces words, my tongue the sharpened sword
I trip stumble & fall and my senses heighten
My pelvic floor constricts & I feel it twitch & tighten
I massage the distressed muscles & release multiple rewards
It’s my body, it’s my temple, my vessel my machine
Not some sensitive, high strung weak inferior copy of a male
It is supple, soft and silky to the touch, all curves & contours
It’s my body, it’s my temple, my vessel my machine……
Categories:
tendons, beautiful, gender, identity, woman,
Form:
Light Verse
a ghost haunts the country of Laos
sieving through jungles
crackling twigs because
it has not yet died
beware of it
the one who drags one foot
while the other rots 20 feet away
shoes made of cast metal
footprints ever so present
in night fall
imprints of bomb shells in mud fields
a phantom roams
plains in Laos
hide your children
its breath reeks of agent orange
its shouts
dynamite flames that dusts away human bones
and bamboo baskets
a stench of wheezing willing to fold
curl
leaves and skins of families who
who hide in forest
till their flesh shrivels
like the lungs of many dead soldiers
the fissures of its face
exposes land mines
crooning a song of torment
through throats of civilians fleeing
on the hair of this
wicket phantom
its hair droops the length
of the Ho Chi Minh trail
hear its whispers
it also cries
moans of a past that begs
to be remembered
clawing trees to spell out its name
the ghost wails pain
filters itself everywhere
whimpering
peeling steal and lead
by the millions
what remains become chains
that burrow into earth
by cluster bombs
big bombs
B-52 bombers dropping
in its tons of U.S. congress approval
in ink
an old friend still alive and well
and under moonlight
refugees run
only to meet more trouble
in camps
they desire to break away
from this ghost and its name
and no one recalls its name
of this
ghoul who rages through
the country of
Laos
melting tendons and flesh
this ghost hungers
for humans
screeching napalm gas on
palms of
guerilla soldiers
american soldiers
and vietcong alike
death does not even remember its name
beware but
tell your children
light the candles and the
incense
the ghost drifts because
no one wants to
know about its name
The Secret War
put this crying soul
of secret history
to rest
recognize
its name
bless this curse
that wants to
name
all the people
it claims
and they too
will remain alive
like mines beneath the soil
seeds of calamity
Categories:
tendons, death, history, horror, humanity,
Form:
I wish I could be as gorgeous as you are now. Strong and strong-willed. Muscled and lean. Compact, hard, soft, curved. Covered in sand. You are all long legs, tendons straining to push muscles further. You are all long hair tied back, braided. Concentration written on your face. 4 girls. 1 net. 1 ball. 21 points. And you are a glowing beast.
Dedicated to Misty May-Treanor and Kerry Walsh.
Categories:
tendons, inspirational, sports,
Form:
Free verse
Like a character in a Dr Seuss book
I play the New Years “Push Me Pull You” game
Daily I stretch stubborn limbs
Into pretzel-like shapes
Hoping to mitigate nature’s downward force
I beg my legs to carry me with a ballerina’s lightness
Instead I’m gratified to lumber like an elephant
But just as surely
Gravity returns each night
Tightening my joints’ screws
Pulling my tendons’ strings
Compressing my spine's vertebrae
Ignoring my pleas
To just stay where I put them
Hips refuse to do my bidding
I say, “Swivel!”.
They reply with a half-hearted twist
Like opening a tin with a rusty can opener
They creak and protest
Surrendering minimally to my commands
I pray for rubber-band arms
As I reach behind to unzip
I receive a lock-jaw response
Elbows protrude in disjointed positions
Instead of a ballerina’s plie
My legs respond with twisted screams of agony
My neck once had backward eyes that inspired terror
In kids afraid of being discovered
Now it is straight-jacketed into a forward position
Like a soldier in a parade line
Afraid to get called-out by the commander
Don’t push us too far my muscles yell
Aches and pains too terrible to imagine
Will be your rewards
If you overextend.
Categories:
tendons, body, humor, new year,
Form:
Free verse