Best Welts Poems
And when my body tires of me
I lie beneath a chestnut tree,
rolling among the broken burrs
where solid sleep rarely occurs
Waking up is the toughest part
when I've never slept to start.
I fear no place except the bed;
where pillows weigh upon my head
Memory foam gives no assistance;
insomnia thrives on resistance
It waits til eyes are almost closed,
never unconscious, then reloads
'Neath the tree is more appealing
than tracing welts upon my ceiling;
each one reflects a calloused lie,
the burrs tattooed on my naked eye
drilling dread into tomorrow night,
a future where there's no respite
This bed has worn me to the bone,
or have I worn its frame alone?
No dreams arrive; the lucid stays,
a consciousness that only strays
far from the tree l'm primed to be-
or not to be, ‘mid autumn debris.
# # #
I’m tired of the chestnut tree’s shade ~
being gentler than the bed I’ve made
I try to see
back before
to who Eddy once was
just barely before when
the bending began
Eddy was after all
a cute child
wide eyed
hugging kissing and kind
Somehow horrible happened
It tricked and trapped his mind
Loud shouting screaming sounds
parents preaching pain
through domestic degradation
careless communication
fraught with frustration
Pass the potatoes please
then spilled milk smacking sensation
belt welts broken eggs no bacon
Get up go clean up
never ever interrupt
battles brief and abrupt
ranting and raving
mom misbehaving
Eddy helpless and in need of saving
experiencing what no child should be braving
Learning man lessons
before he started shaving
He can't depend on dear dad
who pretends perfection
in his ship shape barber shop
where his jolly joking rarely stops
Important friends doctors and cops
humorous happy back slaps
Eddy feels hidden looks and subtle attacks
Shoe shine simple
comic book quick
When the shop closes
Tearful Eddy gets another licking
At two times five even Eddy starts kicking
his hurt turns into fists swinging
runaway day trip escaping
Then away he starts staying
getting into trouble time
not enough praying
rules that need breaking
Who he'll become
there's little mistaking
what he wants he happily starts taking
He can't shake the mistakes
Travels life fast with worn brakes
Tears turn into lakes
He has and has caused
many heart breaks
Sometimes past prisons
Are to hard to escape
I think of my daddy
dear Eddy
and my soul shakes
Sometimes time ticks
Other times it just takes!
Inspired by a comment made by John Hamilton after he read my
poem "between the words of my father".
My Entry for S. Grace's "Mental Illness Contest."
Another tirade of drunken anger
Brought to life by the uninvited Stranger
I lay trembling, still, ever so quiet
In a corner, hidden beneath a blanket
Biting down hard on bleeding lips
I knew it wasn't to be over yet
The blistering sting whipped our skin
A silence of screams heard only within
Upon our flesh of scarlet welts
Carved by the Stranger's thin leather belt
Cold cloudy skies, a mother's black eyes
No friends allowed in while we'd panic and run
He stumbled and cursed, threatening to get his gun
To live with the Stranger's drunken rage
Was like living in hell while trapped in a cage
Karen Anglesey 2003
6th Place Win in Nathan's "In To The Deep" contest 07/09/13
Tongues of solar flare writhe in combat kiss
—flame-throwers unleashed
iron words h a m m e r e d in fire
ferrous words melt-morph into heart-welts
once under skin
hear the fevered air burn with cheers;
c a c k l e s of c r a c k l e s and h -i -s -s -s
bellies of tears full of fire; fire feeds on gasoline tears
fire-eaters’ —bellies full of flames
turn inside-out; fire-breathers shape-shift
from love doves to squawk hawks
bonfire of marital bliss consumed by wildfire
desolation burns holes in lacy i n* t i* m a* c y
ashes
fall
from
s o l o
cigarettes
. . . nuclear winter in summer
t h r o a t s of songbirds c h a r r e d
. . . silence
follows blaring —w h o o s h— of serpent fire
purification in cremation of all OratiOn sound
liability and liberation
animate to dissipate in snaky smoke of HeLL-wraiths
apathy clouds form they rain on red heat
smother a smolder mother a cease fire
ember-ice; scalds freezes t–h–a–w–s
whets flesh — and wets fire extinguished flower bed
ashes laid down
—passion’s quiet confetti paves a path—
w. a. i. t. s
— s l e e p w a l k s
… d r e a m s
Belt in hand
Red of face
Eyes bulging into space
The children scatter every place
His temper is in full bloom
They know they will pay for it soon
Tiny hands and tear stained faces
They silently pray from their hiding places
"Someone, anyone, please come and protect them" they plead
"For if not soon they will bleed"
The father rises and calls to each one
And so it has begun
Tenatively each steps forward
Knowing their fate
With a sadistic gleam in his eye
The belt finds it's mark
On soft skin, it leaves it's stark welts
Tears flowing fast
Live rivers in spring
The terrified kids can do nothing
On and on he punishes them
Until they lay like broken toys
They lie so still
But he continues to enforce his will
There is no help
No reprieve
And worst of all
This isn't the end
Tomorrow it all begins again!
When you look at me what do you see
Can you see the land that I descend from, where we were once Kings and Queens.
Can you see my forefather’s journey, across, tear tarnished seas
Can you count the lives that were lost, as they sailed to tyranny?
When you look at me what do you see
Do you see my families torn apart, Bought and sold into slavery.
Can you see the blood stained legacy? Do you feel the travesty
Can you hear my grandmothers cries, as her children was separated
Can you see her raped, beaten, and chained, can you imagine the degradation?
When you look at me what do you see
Do you see, my grandfathers whipped and, bond, swinging from trees?
Can you see a race in bondage? Can you feel the cruelty ?
Can you envision the scars, welts, and wounds; the pure agony.
Do you feel the oppression of a people? The undoubted tragedy
When you look at me, what do you see
Can you see the ones that came before, that struggled to be free
Can you see the fight for freedom, respect and equality
Do you understand the sacrifices, their strength and resiliency
When you look at me, what I want you to see
Is the manifestation of my ancestors’ dreams
See the pride of a heritage which lives within me.
I had found solace in my quill
Because therein could be expressed
That tragedy which gave me chills.
The pen and ink gave me some rest—
Because therein could be expressed
The cold emotion that I felt.
The pen and ink gave me some rest
From my own soul's distress and welts.
The cold emotion that I felt,
Discoloring my mind's debris
From my own soul's distress and welts—
For only sadness could I see.
Discoloring my mind's debris,
The ocean tossed and turned on me.
For only sadness could I see
And then I found you set me free.
The ocean tossed and turned on me
Yet you had taken me to land
And then I found you set me free;
We played like children in the sand.
Yet you had taken me to land;
You rescued me from sure demise.
We played like children in the sand;
You showed me that you were so wise.
You rescued me from sure demise—
That tragedy which gave me chills.
You showed me that you were so wise;
I had found solace in my quill.
She flushes and drops bright eyes
to hide my image...
I cup her face and drown it.
[me]
She breathes hesitantly, mouth
Pressed and obstinate...
I gather her corners up.
[drawing that smile again]
She welts tearlines onto the
Pale perfection: skin...
I wet my thumbs, agonized.
[her sorrow breaks]
She sleeps, curls framing movement
And serenity...
I weave myself into both.
[touching the ends of eternity]
The story is about a boy and his dad,
The father struck the boy every time he was bad.
It started when he was five, he was your average child,
His father screamed at him, to take away his smile.
The did not have friends, no sisters and no brothers,
His father first hit him, when he lost his mother.
You would know how he felt, if you saw his welts,
His father meant business, when he took off his belt.
The boy always dreamed, he could escape someday,
But when he looked at his father, he only saw one way.
The father would get drunk, play with his gun,
Then load the pistol, and aim it at his son.
Then take away his toys, hit him in the face,
Leave the place and disappear without a trace.
The father needed sympathy, so the child was used,
He thought of his mother, every time he was abused.
Then daddy would hug him, which made him feel confused,
He thought if daddy really loves me, then why am I bruised.
Seven years passed by, the father started to feel shame,
The boy got in trouble, the father knew he was to blame.
He knew he was responsible for all the boys pain,
So he quit his violent ways, he tried to make a change.
The boy was now twelve, he had few friends,
He was getting into things, his father could not comprehend.
The boy used drugs and alcohol to mend his broken heart,
He was only happy when he and his father were apart.
The father prayed, he could take his boys pain away,
He knew that eventually , the child was going to stray.
He tried everything in his power , to get the boy some help,
He could not help but feel , that he did it to himself..
The boy cared about nothing, he was always depressed,
His past was the reason, he was so stressed.
The father gave up, felt he had tried his best,
Then one night as he slept, the boy shot him in the chest.
So remember the next time, you go to raise a fist,
Things can come back to haunt you, karma does exist.
Truth is truth and pain is pain both are burdens felt
Scars of darkness carried since a young child
Yesterday's gone
And yet it stays
Haunting screams of childhood from leather razor strap
That cut the flesh in burning welts of red
Beaten battered body lays in a heap
A terror-filled mind with its cold disdain
In my empty nights so silent
My soul releases all its tears
As I look back
When trust was lost
6/24/18 contest Fragmented Verse
sponsor Broken Wings-Dear Heart
I try day in and day out to escape this hell
Im living a life not mine and nothing you can do can help
You can say “I feel for you, I can only imagine what you're going through,” and well…
Every time I hear that I feel more enclosed in this cell.
Do you know what it's like to feel like a turtle in someone else's shell?
There's no word to describe the things I've felt.
I hurt and the cause is my own fist giving me welts.
How do I save myself from myself?
That's a rhetorical, nothing can; not even wealth
You say things are jokes as they are ripping my skin off my scalp and going straight at my mental health.
I don't want seen, I just want to be able to get by with stealth
But im seen
God cant you just go away with that snarky tone
You look down on me like a king on a throne
After the things that I've shown
Id think you'd have known
That the skins covering my body doesn't even belong on my bones.
Its like im taking skin from the bank and calling it a lone
No matter what i tell myself ill always feel like a drone
Im wires and components put together to create something you can see as your own.
The only person i can relate to is Sisyphus pushing the stone
I hear these people telling me I've grown
But I still see myself as the scared lost boy who couldn't feel comfort in their own home.
There's no escape of this hell, no savior for this earth, no sisyphus for this stone, no hair for this comb, No garden for this gnome, no parts for this drone, no king for this throne.
I am
Alone.
(song lyrics)
Verse 1:
Now I can’t go fishin’, ‘cuz ya’ sold my rod and reel
Can’t go snow-racin’, ‘cuz ya’ sold my snowmobile
And I got flaws - that’s for sure - and sometimes run amuck
But the final straw that I can’t take: Ya’ sold my pickup truck
Chorus:
You can burn the house, shoot my dog and stomp my ol’ guitar
But when you sold my pickup truck, well, Honey, ya’ went too far
Verse 2:
I didn’t care when ya’ bought that stuff on TV’s QVC
Or ‘cause ya’ always thought of me as your private Money Tree
Or catalog-orderin’ ever’thing from within ol’ Sears Roebuck
But I’ll be danged if I’ll sit still since ya’ sold my pickup truck!
Chorus:
You can burn the house, shoot my dog and stomp my ol’ guitar
But when you sold my pickup truck, well, Honey, ya’ went too far
Verse 3:
So I went and saw a gypsy gal, and a curse on you imposed
To put sand in your chewin' gum and runners in your panty hose
And all your clothes and accessories to never, ever match
And chiggers in your bed sheets - so you’ll always have to scratch!
Chorus:
You can burn the house, shoot my dog and stomp my ol’ guitar
But when you sold my pickup truck, well, Honey, ya’ went too far
Verse 4:
I seen ya’ last Saturday night at Bubba’s Bar and Grill
The image of you in stripes and checks remains within me still
And them red chigger welts upon your nose and face
Tells me that the gypsy curse is workin’ ever’ place!
Chorus:
You can burn the house, shoot my dog and stomp my ol’ guitar
But when you sold my pickup truck, well, Honey, ya’ went too far
Two solid rocks stand tall and firm
With a sunset soon around the bend
Upper sky the bluest of rays
Being between two rocks, sun displays
Grey and blue stone welts in the sky
Where pink clouds bond with the water dry
Yellow near the surface, eye-line
Sunset begins with a wry divine
Open the space, I see the end
Below is the feel of heartfelt lend
Red and gold enfold together
Nothing is better than this weather
Russell Sivey
Put on a happy face
when I release taut fingers
from your pallid cheeks.
Promises and empty lies
are sported clichés
that spoil a silenced vocabulary.
A quieted understanding we've
vocally committed to;
barks a matted-jackal’s constitution -
perceiving morose consequences
of blind subservience.
Put on a happy face
and fetch me dinner.
Ever flickering nuances,
once ignited a Brigadooned morning sunrise -
where woolen-blackened comforters
backlit our sordid differences.
Now, our prom attire has been burned.
The carnations, the orchids - have perished.
The beguine hasn’t begun.
It has ended.
Finalized and fortunately forgotten.
A pale orchid-colored icepack,
for your left eye,
would match your handbag and shoes
quite nicely.
Put on a happy face
and lint-guard the
disheveled derelict.
Forever falling forward, we've suddenly landed.
No need for saline solution anymore;
I cry when I hap hazardously laugh.
A silenced vocabulary realized the words
tryst and trust was separated by one letter;
why or you…or me, for that matter
completes the unfinished symphony.
The disenchanted beguine
floats into a tear-filled
Cinderella dank nightfall –
as I stare into the cornea of a
brittled pink carnation.
My hand, like a fringed strop,
needs to remove the strains of
a “Mea-Culpa” leitmotif and flog
the iniquities of one’s self.
Put on a happy face, goddamnit
and tell me
why you’re gone!
Toasted marshmallows is a perfume
created for misguided Girls Scouts.
Fervent mongrels who refrain from selling
photo-pressed carnations and
poisonous orchids - dumbly courtsey
when idiotic
adolescent daydreams prevail upon
the blatantly obvious.
Thirteen stitches
and a numerous array
of callous welts
reprised our endless beguine.
Passion is said to perish in embers.
One last charcoal
for us
to eye and envy.
A burnt carnation.
A scarred, trembling orchid.
The smoldering remains we'll inhale -
when this lost and lonely
soldier removes the
smudged greasepaint from
his broken fingertips and eyelashes
to painfully and pitifully
put on a happy face
just for you.
I am not all happiness.
I am not as bitter as your smile
and I have no lips to make me sense -
to curve around my name and give
me more depth than the air,
than the dust I rise from
like the moon, night after night
chasing sunlight across the sky.
I am the antediluvian scrap of flesh
in the corner of my grandfather's eye.
When he laughs, I feel myself folding
with him into my own skin,
into the held-breath slip of sky
I inhabit, into this
airless gap of eternity
where we live solemn together,
my body like an accordion and
his skin crinkling with all
the mirth of his years seasoned
with every war he encountered
and the salt that scarred welts
into his corneas
time and time again.
He touches my face, and I purple with the bruises
the sun inflicted on the flaking-parchment
knowledge of his skin.
We are love.
We are birthday-cake candles
half blown out before
the wish has time to develop.
We are hand-in-hand soldiers
and accidental splotches of red,
blood on lovers' lips.
We are a pattern woven through history,
sporadic and relentless
and beautific in inevitability.
And so we smile for each other,
secretive and mournful and gloriously
wise,
and we laugh at words that
have yet to materialize.
**For my Grandpa Clyde... your stories always made me sad and happy at the same time. I
longed for adventure like yours, and I ached for the pain you had to go through, and I loved
and love you very much. I hope you never feel lonely again.