Best Violence Poems
October: I'm eighteen, shortcutting home
through an autumn-burnished churchyard -
copper-lustred leaves, moss-skinned stone -
a jaunty swing of skater skirt and arm,
college folder square-sturdy in my hand.
In the moment. In the last pale pulse of sun.
Hey, can you tell me...?
I halt. I turn...
Cold earth. Colder blade dimpling my skin.
My coral cameo earrings scatter,
daisy-dotting the green.
My back is spiked by needles of yews.
Sun skews, sky side-slides
until his face is the firmament.
I'm staring into the tumid blank-bloat of blue;
the ground hardening beneath me,
the death-spike trees stiffening.
Heavy Special Brew breaths.
Grubby, moist fingers
like grubs crawling over my breasts,
and, weirdly, I'm smelling pepper -
horror-spice of pungent lust,
its acrid nose-thrust -
and woodsmoke is drifting from somewhere...
lung-flame, tongue-flames
of searing words - his words -
blazing like the umber tumbling leaves.
Please...Please...I'll...
Fear-forced bargaining, but I'm beyond care.
And I'm aware
of the church steeple rising,
its phallus penetrating sky.
The tilting church could topple
as tears crystal-crush in my eyes.
Fear-faint, already half gone
in a soundless scream, my muted mouth
mouths silent goodbyes
to Sarah, to Mum.
Time slows to a crawl.
I try to call. Nobody comes
but the man who has me ground-pinned.
Bleachy stink of semen
whitening my ripped skater skirt,
but some things don't fade
and there is no clean in this, just dirt,
wet leaf-mulch, shame.
Ineradicable hurt.
Sacred soil is soiled, sullied.
Stunned, I stumble
shoeless, knickerless,
into the trees and heave
into the mud, into the leaves
strings of spittle-sick,
my thoughts strung out,
reality spun out.
From stinking, pulped leaves I retrieve
crushed coral earrings,
ground-grimy knickers,
my white court shoes
that whitely scream the 90s,
the scattered tatters of essays -
white, like fallen feathers, sunk in the sludge,
muddied, the red-inked words bloodied.
I gather them together.
Gather myself.
I go
forward into my future, stained from pain
and tainted touch, the smears of fear, self-disgust.
And oozing slime-soft into my ears
the mire of incongruous apology: I'm sorry
don't tell anyone - I won't.
I don't.
The First Texian Macabre Arena Ballad (The extended free-fallen edition)
In another life, is where I first saw your face!
One summer afternoon, lying wounded next to the dead
Unopened gun powder, mass destruction, a land of disgrace
A blood thirst battlefield is where I first saw your face
The sound of war, hidden behind bleeding hands
Crawlers, render their lives giving grace
Jaws of steel, broken, embracing, warm feelings
Summer rain, lungs filled with blood, one last post
Glorious by numbers, screaming blades
Gemstone in touch with the Holy Ghost
Soldiers come in a little close
Crawling, missing limbs,
Twisted nightmare with no ending
Macabre reminder, retracing the aroma of eternal life
Secrets buried like a treasure under walls of sudden death
Revolutionary tears found on a rusted Bowie knife
Lanterns, crackling against the dying wind
Dirt piles of crushed windpipes -- sudden death
Rummage like garbage, the dead Texian
A Falling Alamo Star, taking one last twinkle upon the sky
Forgotten Patriots, I can't remember the names
Written on walls, I can't remember the names
A folktale arena is where I first saw your face
Fairness of stuttered surrender slicing through iron brace
Crawling, with the hunger to live, a clean finish with grace
Exposing, scars needing mother's hands, mothers face
Across infested meadows, the aroma of burning skin
Distant, before Texas and her annexation,
Gruesome, before I lived, Texas and her mortal sin
I pledge, my love, the honor, a legion, I'm a full blown Texian
To Every Forgotten Texian Patriot----- We Win!
By: PD
Screaming at the Sky
Mothers screaming mournfully at a deaf sky
holding their heads helplessly as they cry
pitiful tears for innocent, defenseless children slaughtered
in fatal cross fires, deadly drug wars
drive-by shootings, and cases of mistaken identity
on blood-splattered streets, senseless endless violence; but
who really gives a damn, only grief-stricken
mothers screaming mournfully at a deaf sky.
(Form – Enjambment posted as Verse – 8 lines with 7 words in each line.
The 1st line and the 8th line are the same)
10-21-2014
Contest: 8 Lines 7 words ~ First and Last Line Must be the Same
Sponsor: Rick Parise
Placement: 2nd
```Pirate Bay the Haiku```
pirates fierce and mean
drowning fish, sea to sea
parrots on their butt
```Polly Wants A Cracker```
bloodthirst & brutal
Quartermaster Gone Wild
dirty wings on deck
```Sea World Adventure```
ship crew goes on strike
sailing the Caribbean
wooden leg splashing
~*~
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…
Atrocious affliction trembles voices of anguish
Brewing vile horror in death of tomorrow
Fearing for the newborn, women, and children
For yesterday’s massacre killed her husband
And the war-torn town screamed in agony
Wrapped in rags of shattered hopes,
Quivering hearts of disassembled valor
Incapable to assuage a hapless mother’s sorrow.
A lone crow caws atop heaps of rubble
Amplifying appetency for affinity of life,
Abjuring the blood thirsty hiding in disguise
To rob any remnants of civility and pride
From dismantled lives, walking shoeless,
Upon splintered glass littered in broken paths
When pigeons too left the desolate grounds.
Dreams once auspicious acquiesce to nightmares
Within awry silence of a burning dawn
As the allure of a new day inconsolably cries
When her only surviving child dies in her arms.
Divinity won’t absolve them of despicable sins,
That echo from playgrounds, shuttered bakery shops,
And the shrieks of families mingling in market
Where aroma of fresh bread once permeated air
And warmth of hot tea glasses greeted the day.
Wary footsteps march slowly to the other side:
It’s a bit safer there where a wedding is planned--
They don’t yet know, the young groom has died,
In a senseless war lost in poverty of thoughts.
Written: October 15, 2019
Submitted on 1/22/2023 to:
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 25 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Placed 1st: Crazy A’s poetry contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Required words in the order included in this poem:
Atrocious, anguish, assuage, appetency, auspicious,
awry, allure, absolve
Placed 3rd: Strand choice poetry contest by Brian Strand
Strangers are attacking me;
ruthless men seek my life—
men without regard for God. Selah
Psalm 54:3
GOD SEES THE COURAGEOUS AT WORK
Wild-eyed disregard for God —
The mocking tone, the spittoon.
The leering eyes —
they’re tiger’s eyes.
They plop near the weights —
the courageous snakes, and
throw balls of cannon smoke.
They hope that we will choke.
The courageous throw acid
in a virgin’s angelic face.
The courageous pounds their rusted
nails into fragile wrists and ankle saints —
these innocents whose haloed guardian’s
see the illuminated face of almighty God.
The courageous divide fetus parts,
roll them like dice, put them on display.
The courageous pillage, rape and sodomize
thinking if there’s a God, he will see it as sport.
They drink deeply the heart blood and soul
but none can escape the Ancient of Days.
Life is a pit, a mere hole for the courageous
to drown. They’ve looked for a fiery dragon
And he’s been found, awaiting the demise
of as many curs-ed petals he can find.
Selah…
if only for a moment the dead blinked,
the light of day might have saved their hide.
The brokenhearted will feast at the King’s table.
with no need to fear when evil is deceased.
9/24/2019
Dark heart
Onyx bruises
Madd lover
Entrapment fooling
Swollen lips
Teal tears
Indigo ears
Crying years
Violet prayers
In shelters
Only light
Love weathered
Emerald eyes
Need sleep
Courageous flight
Embracing peace
Nobody knows what goes on behind this hotel door
‘Mr Smith’ isn’t with his wife of that I’m pretty sure!
He’s with his mistress Sue, they are having an affair
But he is a cheating love rat and he doesn’t really care
A barrage of fists is flying at number twenty-two
Sally covers her bruises, what else can she do
Her man is a bully and hits where nobody can see
She’s got no one to turn too otherwise she would flee
Harry is all alone since his dear wife has died
He’s desperately lonely but filled with such pride
His family only live on the other side of the city
But are so busy with their lives, isn’t that a pity
Post builds up in his letter box, there’s milk left at his door
Neighbours think they’ve seen him but they aren’t really sure
The police arrive; break down his door and Harry’s lying dead
He’d fallen down the stairs; dried blood lay round his head
Peter is an alcoholic and he suffers from depression
He has bouts of violence, he’s known for his aggression
Since his wife walked out on him he’s attempted suicide
His life has gone downhill since he lost his lovely bride
Little Sally wants to hide when she sees Phil the baby sitter
He makes her do ‘things’ with him, if she won’t he says he’ll hit her
She’s subjected to sexual abuse that no child should endure
But her parent’s are oblivious when they walk out that door
Nobody really knows what goes on behind closed doors
I wonder would you divulge what happens behind yours?
Doors Contest
Sponsored by Richard Lamoureux
03~23~17
At first you were understanding
and patient,
so polite and gentle,
encouraging me to express my emotions.
But then you became obsessive and jealous.
Forcing me to shut up into obedience.
Now I think I should be silent,
because it's difficult to hide black eyes,
with the soreness of split lips.
Wounds heal, but scars remain.
If I died today,
would you even notice?
Maybe it will be you who puts me in a box.
Maybe I spoke too loud, drank too much wine,
didn't make dinner on time,
before the dishes crashed to the ground.
Then the verbal curses,
'B**ch, idiot, fu***ing whore.'
Sting like acid in my eyes.
Have I become your punching bag?
Maybe I should dress differently
not wear that red lipstick.
If I had not answered back,
you would not have raised your hands.
I would not be suffocating, drowning in the air.
But you just mock my cries,
ignore these screams,
so I only cry in the shower.
I think, I can't take this anymore,
I should run through that door,
people keep asking about the bruises,
but I keep making excuses.
But where would I go,
what about the children,
what about the shame?
Then you start to cry,
with a million apologies,
saying it's the stress,
the traumatic childhood -
that you love me,
swearing not to do it again,
insisting to start with a new slate.
The pain peels off a little.
There is a temporary harmony in the air.
Slowly the swelling eases.
I become a slave to your sweet words,
although the sex feels like rape.
I'm on edge, looking over my shoulder,
careful not to pull the trigger,
unleashing the terror of your rage.
Once I felt safe, now I only feel afraid.
Your hands that hurt me only make me shiver...
Wondering when you will lose control again.
Silent One
19 October 2021
I remember when . . .
kids fought at school.
At worst, they’d end up with a bloody nose.
But kids today get bullied publicly
and ridiculed on You Tube videos.
I remember when . . .
folks’ arguments
took place and few of us were “in the know.”
Today, though, we see idiots galore
that cuss and brawl on Jerry Springer's show.
I remember when. . .
brutality
was televised when kids were tucked in bed.
Now your child need only type the word
and see a victim get shot in the head.
I remember when. . .
we had a war,
but it was “cold” and seemed to be maintained.
Today the terror is at your own mall.
We’ve lost - in spite of all that we have gained.
Moonless Nights over South Sudan
heartless Moon, don’t tell me
that you weren’t looking
when soulless soldiers dragged me
from my mama’s terrified arms
in our village in Rubkona County
I know you covered your ears
so you wouldn’t hear
my screams piercing the fetid air
as those butchers dropped their pants
repeatedly ripping my body and soul apart
and I saw you cover your eyes
so blinded that you wouldn’t see
the stark horror reflected in my own eyes
the hot tears scorching my cheeks
sobbing for childhood forever lost
oh Mother Moon, Mother Moon
please cover your face
behind billowy black clouds
so that you can’t see
your daughter’s dejected, dead eyes
cowardly Moon, I forgive you
even after you turned your back on me
filling my days only with your dark side
as I sink deeper into a black hole
with no hope to guide me safely home
but helpless Moon, how can I blame you?
for you’re only a mere observer
powerless to defend me
feeling guilty for abandoning
your innocent children
Moon, you’ve witnessed it all before
the torn and bleeding
the tortured and maimed
all tied tightly to weeping trees
reeking of despair and pain
Moon, will you soon forget
my body dripping with bloody shame?
will anyone even remember me?
am I no one…with no name?
will you, Moon, mourn for me?
like you Moon, I am already ancient
over a millennium it seems
yearning for freedom…
waiting for death…
and I’m only twelve years old
Note: This piece is dedicated to all the women and young girls who have been abducted, raped, and/or killed in the secret rape camps in South Sudan over the past two years. According to a human rights investigator, many of them are held indefinitely, tied up with hundreds of other women in these camps and used as sex slaves. Those women who escape from the sex camps are the lucky ones.
09-29-2015
Contest: Must be Read
Sponsor: Silent One
Placement: 3rd
Among,
The towering mountains
Of
menacing fanaticism
And
In the midst of the shadows
Of
Constant fear
Agonizing humanity,
Desperately,
Is crawling in search of
The
Trail of understanding,
Praying:
That it would lead her
Onto
The valley of God-loving peace
Where
The people of the world,
Respecting the beliefs of others,
In harmony, would live,
Glorifying God’s wisdom that has saved them
From falling
Into
The ravines of voracious hate
Where Man's annihilation
Impatiently awaits!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
10 JANUARY 2015
*
Female sexuality
Fanatically robbed
Fraught with violation
Forever left in shame.
Folds of indignity
Forceful invasiveness
Fulfilling love denied.
-------------------------------------------
*I feel very strongly about this topic.
Have been meaning to bring it up.
This Pleiades is short but meaningful.
--------------------------------------------
Contest: Any Poem#29
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A.
Placing: 2nd
Abuses hurled and Alcohol gurgled,
In the vortex of confusion
And blurred vision.
Intoxicated pleasure from surreal leisure.
Fooled senses and numbed conscience.
Wiped existence of love and kindness cuffed.
Lashed at the one he once loved.
Cringed and clung to her faint faith.
She and her cursed fate.
Exploding paroxysm of hate.
Her whipped ivory skin and bleeding lips,
Eyes with teary tinge,
Has the harvest moon singed.
Stillness of the night, pierced
By memories of bitterness-sodden years.
"Hurt me not", she trembled with fear,
"let me live for my girl, dear".
The cries colored skies crimson.
Just one reason--Her little girl.
As her daughter stared
With flaming locks and eyes that flared.
By Angom Amy (15)