Best Tightened Poems
She felt his hands so gently lift her hair
Her fingers trembled on the moistened quill
She knew his lips would graze her shoulder bare
Her writing she kept up to mask her thrill
He pressed into her back his angel face
as thighs of steel closed in on rounded hips
Her line of thought she could no longer trace,
for she was lost in wonder of his lips
Her sonnet all forgot, her quill fell down
She felt his hands undo the single bow
that loosely held together evening gown
She smiled at wanton ways she’d come to know
With patience born of love he did undress
She leaned back on his chest till she was freed
His hands sought out her breasts with sweet caress
and in their palmed embrace she sensed his need
She stood up to her feet, and she turned round
to face her lover seated on his chair
She drew his face to taste what hands had found,
for well she knew the pleasure he found there
She watched his mouth and tongue dominion claim
A moan from deep within escaped her lips
She felt herself go weak, and he untame
for grip of hands just tightened on her hips
And soon she found herself on bed of love
Enraptured was her body and her mind
With trembling hand she touched his face above
as he plunged to her depths release to find
As morning light tinged sky in pink array,
she slipped out of his arms and sat to write
The honeyed words dripped down without delay
and soaked the page in rhyme of love’s delight
Eileen Manassian
We don't talk about it, I was mutely told,
Schooled in your nonverbal narcissism, I Attest
I became a linguist in the language of silence;
The tightened line of your mouth when a speck
of childhood play leaked through the Aperture
of your wall of control; the Nuance of your slit eyes,
the stiffness of your shoulders when I disturbed.
The famine of your brevity, starkly juxtaposed with
the Proclivity of your friendly words for the neighbors;
Your perfunctory weak praise, more to lessen your guilt
than lift my esteem.
Even as I write this Saga under the weight of betrayal
nearly undone by our mutual oath of avoidance, and
after decades of delay, you have the Temerity to now
charge me with building the distance, keeping the barricade.
I am bluntly surprised, by your surprise; to accuse me of
this Barren contact, is to blame the clay for the cracks
in the hands that molded it.
And you dare say, why am I this way?
When I inherited the Marrow from you-
10/27/18
for John Hamilton's Eight Word Challenge contest
required words: Aperture, Attest, Barren, Temerity, Saga, Proclivity, Nuance, Marrow.
When I met the tall and amiable Vietnam War veteran,
my shyness showed,
yet, my throat dried and tightened when he softly
spoke the words, "The war never goes away."
All these humanity destroying wars never cease,
soldier's names, faces, their eyes so well-worn.
Their love letters sent home never faded in their
immortality.
The soldiers who made it home alive weren't
given a hero's welcome.
Their nightmares flashing as they wake up
sweating in their sheets in the dark,
yelling for respite from still hearing and
being in the firefight, still seeing the VC,
and witnessing the life breaths leaving
mortally wounded brothers.
Descending into the night's loneliness,
the blue-gray of the t.v. on low volume,
the sobbing of a loyal wife.
Some marriages, families split apart
with crushing sadness,
many veterans homeless on U.S. streets,
such a heartbreaking shame shadowing
over the face of America the beauty.
Surviving veteran's hair becomes snow-white,
war wounds achingly arthritic,
memories of their war buddies still sweetly
preserved in their mind's images.
Vietnam War veteran's reunions as their
bones stiffen, but still salute their brothers
and sisters in arms,
their hats with the name of the war,
the pride of their service.
Many barely out of high school,
with brothers of the same town,
the same state,
so much youth called up,
joining brothers from other regions
of the U.S.
Blessed by God in their fraternity,
their bravery.
The deep red poppies represent their
precious blood.
I remember the 1960's-70's searing
scars in my mind,
weeping for the loss, the hurt in our
hearts over the Vietnam War.
MIA's, POW's,
disappeared as aging families still pray,
still wait.
In the local Veteran's Cemetery,
I met a woman in her eighties,
she was a little confused,
couldn't recall where her Vietnam veteran
son's grave was located.
She told me her daughter-in-law couldn't
bear to visit his grave.
We found his grave,
his name glistening in the dew of
that gentle May morning,
as wrens and sparrows sang on
blossomed boughs.
A chance encounter became such a
gift to honor her son,
and his mother.
To let her know he was not forgotten,
but cherished,
Welcome Home. ~
Written: November 26, 2023
_______________________________________
In ephemeral moments
Whispering remembrance,
Of gilded blooms
Once shoved
Embedded into priceless papyrus.
I dwell in visions that have faded away
Life is thwarted by shaping it
Beyond vibrant hues
Stardust tumbles down
Blisters of emptiness
A silence that pervades.
Alone, holding only gray
Sorrow tightened
A heart's wound is reopened
To beat uncertainty.
Into an intricate mind
Tones of gray scale.
Nyx opened black arms
threading her twilight fingers
and cradled my awe
to turn my hair, white
she filled my eyes with stars
firing a comet to
the core of my heart
my second breathe
carved dragons of fire,
as Aeolus filled each lung,
Terpsikhore sang music
into the life and death
of this epic
~~~~~
I taste a southerly breeze
catching it on the tip of my tongue
rolling it into my lungs
I sing appegio
to throw a shadow of night
the circle of her arms
has tightened,
and the nebula
in my eyes,
threaten to shoot
from their sockets
I have finally
felt the meteor
lodged in my heart,
move in its longing
for one last blaze
of release,
only the breath of God,
holds for revelation
~~~~~
TERPSIKHORE (or Terpsichore) was one of the nine Mousai,
the goddesses of music, song and dance. In late classical times
--when the Muses were assigned specific literary and artistic
spheres--Terpsikhore was named Muse of choral song and
dancing, and represented with a plectrum and lyre.
AIOLOS (or Aeolus) was the king of the winds who kept the
stormy Anemoi Thuellai and Aellai locked away inside the hollow
heart of the floating island of Aiolia. At the command of the gods
he released these to wreck devastating storms. Since the Winds
were often conceived of as horse-shaped spirits, Aiolos was titled
Hippotades, "the reiner of horses," from the Greek hippos ("horse")
and tadên ("reined in tightly").
Running, running, get away,
move aside! I can't stay!
Time is gone and I must go
hurry now, move too slow.
Heart is racing, pounding loud
press myself against the crowd.
Watching others hurry on,
ticking clock, move along.
Can't stop now I smell the fear
of those that stop and linger near.
Quickly, quickly, time to leave,
Father Time there's no reprieve.
Running, running, get away,
from my mind I cannot stray!
Eager thoughts that haunt my head,
every moment turned to dread.
From this prison, must escape
or leave to time my soul to rape!
Running rampant, eager thought
red streaked vision, can't be caught!
Heart is racing pounding loud
emotions seething, darkened shroud.
Mind will falter soon I know
melting dreams that ebb and flow.
Running, running, get away,
can't break free, must obey!
Vicious needs draw ever near,
fight I must against the fear.
Hands on me, the straps draw tighter
motionless I fight the niter.
Tightened crowd drawing closer
Leave me now, you saintly poser!
Help me not, no need to linger
take from me your putrid finger!
I can hear you softly speaking,
honey venom from lips leaking.
----------
"No outburst today Doctor, completely catatonic, although his eyes have begun to twitch rapidly like when he had the last one."
"Thank you, Nurse. I'll be careful."
"What do you think goes on in his sick little mind?"
"He has no regular or discernible brain waves, probably nothing at all... Broccoli."
"What?"
"He's a vegetable."
----------
Let me out, anger growing,
veins are pulsing, head exploding!
09/20/15
Dark & Twisted Contest-HM
Nathan D.
10/16/2015
C’est la vie, Billy!
His cheeks a deep scarlet,
His jaw tightened in an eerie grin,
He stands, rooted to the spot
While the snot in his nose
Like a long gooey
Streak of
Chewing-gum
Slowly comes dripping
Onto his dappled T-shirt,
and his eyes, like dazzling agates,
Fixedly follow the interminable course of
The red rubbery ball
As the projectile
In a deafening clash,
Smashes the headmaster’s office window.
What is it to hear a poem?
Ears ajar.
Eyes focused.
Mouth shut.
I struggle to listen when such words cut open
my head and try to make a nest out of my brain.
I DO NOT WISH TO HEAR A POEM!
My body jolts under these straps of limitation,
tightened by my ability to hear.
Why must one be limited to hear a poem?
I cast out stones towards those who care to listen.
Why don’t we be the poem?
Climb inside the mouth of a poem and
understand it’s true voice.
Be the pen kicking fiercely at the paper,
leaving behind marks of genius and creativity.
Rip open the heart of a poem and suck its
blood dry.
Feel a poem.
Be a poem.
Live a poem.
See words rise from the paper,
as they dance between the strings
of your heart.
Grab a hand of the message and twirl
it around your mind and smother its
meaning with praise.
Curl up inside the dot of an ‘i’.
Slide across an ‘l’ and mold it into a ‘t’.
Travel across an empty plain were stubborn
boulders cry.
Attack black and white ideas with shades
of blue and green.
Drive a sword through their hearts and leave
them dead to what is known.
Fight a poem.
Hurt a poem.
Heal a poem.
Turn the waste of sound into
vibrant waves of belief and inspiration.
Let yourself be swept away by
imagination and surrealism.
Find your soul inside of a poem and
claim it as your own.
Bring down the fortress of structure and
make its remains into martyrs of lost cause.
Open the doors of a poem and remodel
what’s inside.
NO! I do not want to hear a poem!
It sends pain through my soul to see the
voice of a poem silenced by the ignorant
dangers of sound.
Help yourself and plug your ears.
Visualize the words through serene images of
beauty cultured by unmatchable craft.
See a poem.
Grab a poem.
Know a poem.
Be influenced by a poem.
Learn a poem and all of its meanings.
Threaten a poem.
Scare a poem.
Stab a poem.
Teach it how to live amongst a world of vultures,
hungry for mistakes and misinterpretations.
Guide a poem into a building filled
with a million little fingers.
Like a poem.
Be touched by a poem.
Love a poem.
Show the world your insides.
Show them the words to your poem.
Born in Ireland in eighteen seventy four
He was a remarkably brave explorer
Three times to Antartica he did go
To that barren wilderness of ice and snow.
Once with Captain Scott and twice on his own
And it was on his third visit that his bravery became known
The expedition was to reach the southern pole
For all the great explorers, it was the ultimate goal.
The Weddell sea was freezing and tightened its grip
And crushed the Endurance, the expedition ship
The crew saved all the equipment and food stores too
They were stranded on an ice floe there was nothing they could do.
But the floe breaks up and on the sea it floats
So the order was given to launch the life boats
They set sail for Elephant island in the southern ocean
And with worsening conditions approached it with caution.
It was a temporary move, they knew they couldn't stay
Shackleton had to get help, there was no other way
Except for five crewmen all the rest did remain
On the island for four months with its inhospitable terrain.
South Georgia was the place that they needed to get to
From there they would be able to launch a rescue
Eight hundred nautical miles they had to row and sail
Through gigantic waves with snow, ice and hail.
Stromness whale station, it was their goal
But on their boat the harsh conditions had taken their toll
South of the island they had to land on a beach
Thirty six hours north was help, they needed to reach.
Three of the crew were taken ill, no more could they take
So Shackleton and two others, a long trek they did make
They trekked in conditions that could have caused harm
But they reached the whale station and raised the alarm.
The three sick crewman were rescued, thankfully still alive
And the twenty two on Elephant island were struggling to survive
Penguin and seal meat was what they had to eat
But they kept their hopes up not admitting defeat.
On August the thirtieth in nineteen sixteen
A Chilean navy ship on the horizon was seen
It was Shackletons fourth attempt to rescue his crew
Their ordeal was now over, but hell they'd been through.
Written 9th January 2018
* For my children - no one has touched my heart as deeply *
~
There ne'er were "perfect" parents -
We contend the best we can
Amidst our love's conveyance,
There remains no flawless plan.
We strive to keep our wee ones safe,
Hold their hearts until they've grown,
Yet advised we have to "let them go",
When they seek new lives, their own.
Their youth is gathered nigh to us,
Guided in our tightened clasp,
Too soon, they widen wings to fly,
And we must then loose our grasp.
But no matter what their journey,
Or the distance that may grow,
There's one sweet truth, enduring:
We will NEVER ... let them go.
Written on September 5, 2021
For the "The One Who Touched My Heart" Poetry Contest
Regina McIntosh, Judge & Sponsor.
The battle begins with an assault on the hill
Our men respond knowing my will
The white warriors continue their drill as before
My men are confident to the core
I order attack on the right white flank
The whites maintain their tightened rank
Generals continue to deploy the men
Since the White attack, this general must defend
My right bank archers saw the chance
Neutralized the left bank Archers in confidence
The trench warriors were stopped in their tracks
This stalemate will eventually end on the flanks
The White General moved to his right
Surrounded by warriors ready to fight
A squad of tanks guarded his side
The Master General needed to hide
My main power entered the fray
The enemy King cornered in the bay
The battle continued action to action
General to General, Grant and Jackson
Both sides fought to the end
The White warriors had to defend
I saw the opportunity to be great
My final maneuver delivered Checkmate!
A Chess Poem
Grinding you in the coal black mortar of my expectations,
I know your substance is not one to powder under impact
And yet I work here, feverish, to prove my trepidations wrong
I grind you, harder against the walls, and you never powder,
You are shards of glass, getting smaller and smaller,
Cutting through the walls, straight into my skin
I cry out in a thousand minuscule pains,
As you enter mercilessly into my bare flesh
Tinkles flair as the wind blows upon the incisions
I sparkle in the night of our plight,
Terrorized by the horrors I have constructed,
Toying with you… you…the finesse tool to my agonies
You gained control of me like a mimed puppet master,
The binds I had tightened upon you asphyxiating my sanctuaries,
Tied along you, and twined around me
Silent, smiling, seething…
You begged me to scream
Your glass shards icing into my pupils, through my brain,
And out into the recesses of all my verbalized fears
I shove the remaining shards into my fleeting sight,
A hawk screeching, being stabbed in the eyes by its own feathers
Expelling blood and tears …matter and might,
All I wanted to do was finally see you…
To take in the scent of my grounded version of you
So long though had I whiffed in the potent poison you always were,
Too long, as it no longer has the same effect my nostrils numb for…
She walks away.
Girlish and glorious
laughter
floats
through air
like a kite on a string
that pulls
tautly slipping through tightened fingers,
burning a little,
and slicing through
if ever left unattended,
so preciously tensioned
against the cold
benumbing
wind.
Tears begin to flow
but I do not know . . .
my heart?
or the wind?
If my heart, then am I sad
to be here on the ground
or joyful
to be watching the kite
fly?
In answer, a quivering.
A wisp.
"She will not fall or float away while I hold her thus.
She will be beautiful for me."
Wondrous.
These words I write rest, riff, repeat half and whole notes within.
It vibratos, quavers, and resonants in your noggin.
Strumming soberly on my-six standard
snapped, worn and improvised heart strings.
Chords tuned over life’s onerous tread
Tightened and loosened in my head.
Allowing residue if I transcribe attunement
So, I reworded through musical arrangement
Of neither trumpet-warning war to make ready
Nor saxophone-uplifting gravity of anxiety
But guitar, from my heart, playing my testimony.
When reading, your experience's singalong in harmony
My eyes fell closed and lashes fluttered
Over creaseless cheeks and smiling lips
And then Time’s carousel had stuttered
And anxiousness had tightened its firm grip
As what once was became all new
The rules of youth so sudden turned
The pleasant, carelessness I knew
Became a muddled pile of lessons learned
And everything bore consequence
And my mistakes became my errs
And choices led to long suspense
While aged societies conferred
And weighed my words my worth by faults
Deciding if I might deserve a place
To be accepted, or to be locked in vaults
Of loneliness, shame and disgrace…
And though I merely blinked I know
That I cannot go back through passageways
Although I will not dream of letting go
of innocence and childhood days.