Best Veiny Poems
seeded in battle
growing amongst the death mass
weep
no longer in grief
blooming blooming high
veiny stem all aglitter
she
will outlive your fray
trusting the true gale
in her dance she instills mirth
cry
for the joys of life
Laura Breidenthal
March 28, 2016
For Mystic Rose’s Split Haiku Contest
The bitter lips of wind kiss veiny petals
between the moon licked eyes so close
it forms a bond of sinew riddles
that only seem to be broken in mornings burst.
Hungry is the man that immerses himself in earth
only to rip from her the fruits of her labor.
Though through his tireless labor
Gaia’s beauty rings true through sun stained petals.
Peace is reached in the embrace of flesh to earth
when worm hugs cling to filthy thumbs, close
at hand. Backyard jungle comes forth bursting,
screaming in the wind her untold riddles.
With seeds the soul is riddled,
left to blossom in spring time bee labor.
Pollinate ideas in soil and watch them burst
forth in an epilogue of firey petals.
Take it in and drink the soul of the earth.
For only in the kiss of earth
may we find an answer to life’s riddles.
When the sun is setting and the moon is close
be proud of your days of labor
and relish in the ginger petals
that gleam for you in star bursts.
The sun will always rise again, bursting
in the robins sky. As yawning earth
stretches sleepy petals
skyward in search of cotton riddles.
Let not the throat run dry for hearted labor
when Eden is so very close.
Clinging to the mirrors edge, don’t close
the door to your sanctum. But burst
instead through vines of gold, the labor
from your hands have beautified earth
you may never solve all the riddles
scratched in sun on soft petals.
Hold the petals close in hand
as riddles burst from sweetened bulbs
joined forever to the earth in loving labor of the soul
A tiny mottled maple leaf
appeared outside my window pane.
Its superficial veiny face
Clung wet glass precariously.
Its nemesis, the wind, blew strong
But yet the tiny thing held on.
Its struggle onset reverie
I saw self-similarities:
bygone years of bold contentions
underdog I need to mention;
but like this leaf I gave my all
I cared not where the chips might fall.
As this enlightenment gave way
The wind had whisked the leaf away.
Tiny
Whiny
Shiny
Veiny
In spring birds have tiny whiny child
With skin that is shiny veiny mild
For V.R.S.
A bend, a pirouette--a flower's dance
reflects in his shadowed eyes, and in her
thorned steps, the atrophying force rooted and redoubling.
Promise me, he breathes behind a teacup
while she is encapsulated in a globe of fading light.
The briny-dotted atlases sit reverent,
assembled beside the living-
room's songs of foreign heartbreaks, each seeded and
grown rampant ivy on her mind's towers, those unseen
cracks of weathering leaving only dreams
of dreams to recirculate like seasons in a day.
Worn linen florals ebb about her body, settling in her late autumn
and hoary winter languishes beyond the pane
where wind-animate limbs, a veiny applause, galely
knock, and her upon the balustrade of
the Palladium,
Hermetic roses beneath her toes.
Were we ever as good as frozen petals?
I see you South Carolina’s motherless child….
The chains of slavery set you free…
You are my history book and the link to my pit less soul…
Love began with you Mississippi midwife…..
Smells of Sage and Catnip, fried green tomatoes and pot liquor…
Your veiny swollen hand healed the sick and brought in new life….
Missy Anne played for your time without a lamenting thought your sister you chose ….
With loving respect I see you gazing back at me on Murdear’s bedroom wall…
Your picture yellow and cracked yet fresh with the dawn….
As your soft brown eyes and pomaded hair blew your aura into the busy confusion
of my present…
I wish for you….
I long for you…though you have transcended poverty, inadequacies, and time…
You are the balm of ancestral roots…
My darkest love is your eternal strength…
Your great gift of strength challenged me to be….
The breeze brushes against an oak,
up the veiny bark and passed the lark,
Frictional rapping of leaves breathe to life
a thousand voiced whisper-
the softest bellow echoes
across the wild grass
Sweeps against her hair,
a sea of shining brass,
and enters the labyrinths
into a soul spun of broken dreams,
an empty web of rips and holes
and sodden, sullen gleams
Unraveling thread from her sleeve,
attaching bait for one last wish
her heart dragging from a string
so that she may catch
a fish.
A broken muscle, pumps and slackens.
It's feeling dulled in her chest.
Lifts a hand up to feel it move,
But there's no sound beneath her breast.
The veiny parts have all been cut,
A very clever trick.
He whispers, “if I can't be with her,
I won't let her live.”
Above ,
sitting atop a crested hill
solitary , but nary lonely
Agemo is what he answer's too
but question is alway's on his mind
His twin , Ahpla , calls him a dreamer
Agemo has grown to expect this
considering Ahpla's domineering demeanor
alway's suggestive to take without quarter
not understanding his brother's nature
how Agemo recieves more satisfaction giving
being there for the rest of the pack
helping to create a pleasant atmosphere
Ahpla's role as a tough , no-nonsense
protector , can show no weakness
he love's his brother Agemo
but at time's detest his obvious softness
But the pair with it's conflicting opposites
has found a way to oversee
those dependent on their intelligence
stern at times , yet comforting
Right now though ,
Agemo continues to watch
the rise of the moon's daily journey
wondering what tomorrow will bring.....
Ahpla and his twin brother Agemo
are the proud protector's
of a land called " Laskrizon "
a lush mountainous valley
nestled northwest by southwest
in the western hemisphere
Hidden to most , known only to few
legend tell's it , that Laskrizon
is a famed combination , called so
considering it's the last lacrimal horizon
the final portal , the last vestibule
where Nature hope's , and other's wait
uncertainty weigh's heavy here
The pack are guardian's of a secret
holders , protector's of a treasured jewel
only knowing , a time will come
the unknowing stirs an unease
but the honor bestowed keeps steady
Alway's a watchful eye to the sky
never was told what to look for
they believe they'll know ,
when the time arrives
anxiously awaiting
fortitude a definite calling here
The jewel is a stone
more so , a rough corpus
a veiny mass ,
crystalized in time from space
some have called it a seed from heaven
in the land of the two-legged
it's been called many names
grail stone , philosophers stone
even the water stone of the wise
All the pack knows
is to protect at all cost's
lest it falls into dire grips
The stone's purpose is unknown
easily overlooked at first glance
closer inspection reveals it's uniqueness
only under the light of the sun
distinct golden specks and threads
glorious in it's smallness , yet
simulating a galaxy of stars
with the spiral wynd of veins
a frozen beauty...........
( to be continued....)
The bottle was found upon the shore,
looking forlorn and green with a cork,
it wasn't impressive except that a
note was folded inside ready to be
read by the beachcomber with delight.
Seagulls encircled the event as if they
knew what the discovery was all about,
eyeing the lone man unplugging the
bottle made them more curious as he
went about with much dramatic bravo.
Placing the bottle upside down and tapping
the bottom made the yellowed note fall out,
carefully unfolding it with large veiny hands,
he read each word written in delicate and
flowery cursive as if done by a woman.
'Jonathan Dearest as I am writing this letter,
my ship is out to sea taking on water and
soon will be sinking with many on board,
including me because there are not enough
lifeboats on the Titanic...'
At the crossroad
Where I cried and rise to stardom
Unchained from within
And sing a song of freedom
There my seed would be, shouting "Father well done" !
At the crossroad
Where the scriptures were misinterpreted
And puzzle rearranged
There my people would be, dancing on their veiny drips
At the crossroad
Where the throat of the pen would not be stuck
and chest not tight
It teeth will be given it greatest bite
At the cross road
Where the pen will drip venomous ink
and cast silence to it earliest dark
There we would be, celebrating success
like yesterday's event
At the crossroad
Where my demise will be displayed
And wounds scraped open,
Where the titles of my pieces will be swept under the mud
There I would be, with a soured heart
repainting my darker past
BLAQ POET
PAKAMARA
Storm is abrewing
Building up fiery hot air
Dragon in disguise
Flapping its green veiny wings
Making geese fly home backwards
Old man sits in the air-
the wind's firing the life at him
while the young girl sits in grief,
waiting.
The old man really does know
and understand her sorrow
but she doesn't understand why he gets her.
They sit in agreement-
disagree thoughtfully
and remind eachother of a loved one.
To he- she's a mirror image of his daughter-
alone,
frightened,
pure.
To her- she's the essence of her mother
keen, stern,
yet approachable.
The wind continues to blow and the boat sails along the sea
while both the man and girl
realize what life's made up to be.
And though his worry has oppressed all else
he feels at ease seeing the girl in his final hours,
she smiles,
the first in years,
the first since 98,
when her parents' lives were taken by a drunk,
those nights of fighting now only selfish,
but as she examines his arm, veiny and shaking
he reaches out and grabs it, a clench of confirmation
that the time is right
and then the ship went down,
it went down that very night.
and thus free verse runs amok as prose with line breaks that must be just supposed to make a turn – or not – get caught in rhythmic flow or rambling thought. But then again it’s all the same –but not….I guess – unless – you’re somehow caught in webs of veiny, spider guilt for weaving things no spider’s built. Legions have waged prosaic inquisitions haunted by wordless suspicions lurking in the hallowed halls of those who ingest whatever falls upon their ears of sightless peers denied the sound of visions birth slow bowing in a manner curt unsure of when the end is nigh whether to laugh or trembling cry beneath the wandering endless drone – discordant voices lacking tone or tolerance for skeptic wow…I saw an apple with a cow and seven sheep in bearded drag twelve humble men about to brag of feats of chicanery and stealth that stole from the words their only wealth as all the rainbows turned to blue as colors were to hard to do – no pots of gold no poignant brew to blend the colors in new hue just one big muddle of verse free words stirred into a cheese-less curd raised to heights some think absurd but then again it could be prose and then again nobody knows……
John G. lawless
©1/19/2019
The brightly warm golden glow
from the a flamed small ebony
wick of a beige wax candle
Flickers aimlessly as the base is undauntedly uplifted by its wood
carved handle...
As I try to steadily transport it across the darkened room,
there is a sudden flurry
Extinguishing my single source of light
which caused my visual center to become blurry
Panic-stricken, my weakened
legs strode eastwardly back
towards the knee-high
mahogany end table
Searching desperately for dry matches to reignite the flame
in the tiny corner of the gable
As God's heavenly tears boldly precipitated through foggy
patches upon the bruised earth
In complete stillness, I listened as the rains permeated
through the decayed eaves of the hearth
Upon instance of relighting the died-out flame, I slowly
pivoted towards the exit of the dimly lit attic room
This room holds a prosperous family epoch once surrounded by
opulent possessions; and has since been overcome by gloom
As I quickly inserted my splintered forefinger through the empty doorknob hole of the decomposed wooden closet door
Many contented memories flood my mind of the photo albums
and objects kept herein representing our family core
When the squeaking rusted door hinges separated
from the discolored crackled-plaster structure, I seized the chance
To pass through the thickly-
spun spider webs and multitude of dust particles that
over-whelmed my initial glance
After thoroughly examining the concealed musty remnants,
my small veiny cold- blooded right hand forced
the aged door shut
Closing a minuscule portion of
my family's past, leaving it to
weather the storms ahead that
will engulf our summer hut