Best Wielder Poems
I am a creature like others, taking for granted each breath,
making mistakes, some no amount of contrition can erase
which makes my faults no less dismal than death.
Unless by the mercy of my Creator, I am to be forgiven.
Perhaps I can best define myself as God's spark as a poet.
I am a wanderer when I write of where I've been
and in tales of woe when long ago I buried myself in sin.
I am on display revealing why I lost my wings in dreams
and why I've wept for love that faded like moon beams.
There's a timeless spiritual energy in penning such things.
I am the voice of my heart, embracing its inner goodness,
allowing it to heal through bleeding when it suffers,
and to beat like timpani drums with happiness.
Within me, poetry denies bearing a name.
It's akin to having unquestionable faith in God,
knowing His words have the power to soothe my soul.
His blessing is ever a righteous honor that I would laud.
I am the wielder of a pen. Poems die at my hands,
eyes cry for Sonnets, and every abandoned verse.
Guilt, the emotion flowing inside of me, and...
the way I feel when I fall asleep before ending a prayer.
There are parts of my flawed humanity that need repair
and the reason I fear He will not forgive my trespasses.
Do the words I toss away feel as imperfect
as I think I am in my Father's eyes?
I am the Shrew, untamed, the one who bore witness
to the sun's heartache for loving the moon.
I compose words in a magical language that tell
that life can be lived eternally in lines of script
instead of being thrown into the infernal pit of hell
or decaying in a sepulcher crypt.
I am a sword, fighting battles that should've never been.
What worth are spoils to victors if none are left standing?
With my pen I am a crack in the mirror of vanity,
or perhaps the vein of insanity that I try to keep hidden.
I am hope, trying to break the thread of reality.
I am me, trying to transcend space and time in poetry.
Feed me ink and I will write. Give me parchment and
I will fill sheafs with what emanates from inside of me
for I am a poet of love and light and poetry is my clothing.
But know that without poetry I will be found loathing.
If it's taken away from me, then bare naked I will be.
Categories:
wielder, emotions, god, how i
Form:
Free verse
I am lost
I can feel no presence
I know of no human or animal that has a measure of significance alike mine
I have a teacher
A teller of all there is to be known of the world
She has bestowed upon me the gifts of a magi
I have sailed deep oceans with noblemen and written great works with worldly scholars
All of this I owe to her, my "teacher"
But through all her wisdom I have heard or seen of no such creature
The one of whose value is as mine
I looked upon the oracle and many great libraries with scriptures overflowing
I still have read or seen of no such monster
I've heard witches speak ancient incantations
and I have sung songs with the sirens
Out of the monsters and spirits that came none of which had a significance as is mine
Upon my dreariness and woeful thought came the final place
A painting of life and death
A tale of heaven and hell at war
The purity of truth blackened by man
I saw upon them a thing of which is mine
Not upon the dead who will be missed
Nor the skeletons carrying away the dead, the ones with purpose
Not even of the severed limbs and broken bones discarded at random in the field of chaos and confusion
No, I saw my equal upon the shadows
A black being darker than silence
A causer of mischief and misfortune
A wielder of pain and sorrow
My equal is hated by all for all he has done
My equal is upon the wicked and the damned sadly he is to dumb to care
My equal of such tresspasses is a demon
My equal is a man who dressed in black kills and dies and is born again through his ashes of filth
He sees his crimes
It is because of this he wept upon his hands
His hands
The hands stained my children's blood and scared by the scratches of the innocent
But I was wrong
I am not equal to a demon, for these are not the acts of a demon but of man
That is my equal
My equal is man
My sins are everlasting
My transgressions are in stone
Man is the cause for the failure of men
Man is the cause for the failure of many!
Posted by Haley Melton at 3:37 AM
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Categories:
wielder, age, anger, angst, art,
Form:
Crown of Sonnets
This poem covers the greatest story ever told
Greater than all the kings and all their gold
This story will bring about deep reflection
Starting with the Immaculate Conception
Of all the stories this is the greatest of all
A complex child born in a simple stall
Quickly the news covered the land
A virgin would be Gods right hand
Inside of her womb a God to a son
Imagine this story has just begun
Everyone knew this child was born to design
Just open your heart and look for the sign
Harrod was driven by fear of not being so great
The first-born son was Harrods fate
Jesus escaped the King and awaited the call
To become the greatest glory of all
This is my master this is our Lord
He is the wielder and we are the sword
He chose his disciples of simple men
Hear tell one was straight out of the pen
The Pharisees called on Pilot the king
At the end he said, “I wash my hands of this thing”
I wonder if when Pilot stepped up to the gate
Jesus washed his hands to seal Pilots fate
Or if he opened his arms to welcome him in
Forgiving Pilot of all of his sins
We took our Lord then nailed him to the cross
As far as humanity that was our greatest loss
But through all the loss just look at the gain
Bought by our Lord through sacrifice and pain
Over 2000 years after this child was born
He came to the prison to make my heart warm
Gave me a gift then our Lord set me free
I reckon the rest would be up to me
As you dress up the tree and hang up the lights
Think of the story of our Lords plight
Categories:
wielder, child, devotion, faith, forgiveness,
Form:
Couplet
It's shadowed in darkness, growling like a hound
Creeping about, whispering as it slithers around
Begging for attention, for it desires to be found
Silence is loud when its echoes continually resound
Behold, it comes masked, disguised in these places
Preying on the gullible ones with innocent faces
Cajoling as a lover would to gain their good graces
Offering false humility with arms of frigid embraces
Silence cries out with a stench breath for adoration
Quietly seducing the naive with phrases of flirtation
Long ago, spawned to be the wielder of denigration
Contrived as a stealth mute, soused on pride's libation
Writes with ink splotches, dripped from a toxic tongue
Its poetry is deceiving, lyrics not meant to be sung
In darkness, it leaks toxins with the scent of dung
Disguised as a pacifist, but its bile words are flung
Silence, speak what you should be wanting to say
then fade back into the shadows where you often play
Your acrimony doesn't fool the many you did betray
Sheath your querulous pen, for it leads people astray
Categories:
wielder, dark, perspective,
Form:
Monorhyme
A wayward heart in the wild,
Trying to wield the knife of hope.
Hope for one thing; hope for one friend
The only way to guard her heart
The only way when others have failed
With each fail, adds a slice to her heart
Some are shallow; some are deep
But all are painful, on her soul
For a moment, things were right, things were won
But the tables turned as,
The wielded became the wielder
The cuts on her soul became cuts on her flesh
Some are deep; some are shallow
At first, the knife only tasted some tiny beads of blood
But as time grew, the knife soon feasted
As white flesh turns red
Crimson drops run down the blade
Hope shatters into shards
Those shards embed into flesh
Joining the sliver with the white and red
A friend gained is a friend soon lost
The hunter becomes the hunted
Categories:
wielder, 12th grade, anxiety, dark,
Form:
Free verse
as my pen positions itself
between my fingers and pillows itself on my hand…
…I know not why I write and still I’ve got to take this poem for a ride….
Thoughts spew inside my head – too
fast to articulate. Too deep to defend. Ticking like a badly timed bomb
infused with a faulty timer – I reach for the pen…
words align themselves as I walk Through the clutches of Pre-validation. My mind
is appeased – my will is at ease…until the stumbler opens his mouth:
“Poetry” he whispers and I’m thrown
Into the vapors of Validation wondering, perhaps, maybe? Could it be
that without will I have created that which could be termed
as poetry? The jury is out: the naysayers and the critics;
the conservatives and realists;
friends and foes –
torturing my mind, stroking my ego, making my blood boil,
soothing my heart…
tears I cannot cry…smiles they can not see…
anger spills out; indifference sets in;
I wring my mind and
pack my poem
slowly I embark on the
Wrought past Post-validation.
Baby steps in forming words I love. Twisting the poem in forms I’ve
learnt. Dressing it in different styles, shortening it, elongating it;
Snip, snap, cut, bandage –
Rhythm no rhythm. Basking in formless form.
Counting and discounting syllables
But still it’s not enough.
What’s the use of words if they don’t effect?
Diving into The plunge I reign in the words – the leader of my chariot-
My poem succumbs to my will.
Wielding, exposing, slicing, dicing, building, destroying, encouraging,
condemning
the poem breathes – a life of its own.
And I think to myself Oh please who am I to be the wielder of such potency?
I call it back.
Taking a stroll along the beach, I reminisce of things past;
The things I’ve done; the things I’ve not done;
The rot in the world; the love
that begs to be heard…
The thoughts start swirling in my mind.
….
My steps take me back to the beginning…
as my pen positions itself
between my fingers and pillows itself on my hand…
…I know not why I write and still I’ve got to take this poem for a ride….
For: Boomerrang Contest sponsor: Michael J. Falotico
Categories:
wielder, on writing and words,
Form:
Free verse
shadowed in darkness, sniffing as a hound
creeping about without releasing a sound
begging to be noticed, wanting to be found
silence is too loud when its echoes resound
behold, it comes creeping to known places
among those of us who wear innocent faces
cajoling in soft whispers to gain good graces
offering false humility and fridgid embraces
silence cries with stale breath for adoration
quietly seducing with phrases of flirtation
spawned to be the wielder of denigration
a stealth mute, soused on pride's libation
ink splotches fingered from hushed tongue
will never be songs aptly written to be sung
in silence it leaks acid and toxins are sprung
disguised as a friend but what lies it's flung
SPEAK the truth you have neglected to say
then return to shadows where you oft play
your silence has not fooled those you betray
sheath your vile dagger then be on your way
Categories:
wielder, silence,
Form:
Monorhyme
Simple Pleasures
© Ben Burton 4-7-2015
Remember when
In the heat of summer
Daddy would come home
And bark the delightful order
"Put on your bathing suits"
While he hooked up the hose pipe
To the front yard spigot
Streaking into your bedroom
Getting naked, giggling, nervous
Stumbling all about the hardwood
Trying to get your foot
Into the leg hole
Laughing at your ineptitude
Then, finally, wising up
Sitting on the bed
To finish the job
From outside, a yell
"Better get a move on
We don't have all day"
A rush of excitement
Running to the front door and
Stopping to gaze
At the coiled, green serpent
Spraying goose-bumps water
That you dread
And want as bad as anything
Slowly, descending the steps
Eyes locked on the hose-slinger
Who seems not to notice
As he mist-sprays a shrub
Then darting, defiantly, across the lawn
And coming to a halt
Bone dry, but for a few beads of sweat
"I'm too fast for you, Daddy"
Silence from the weapon wielder
Seemingly oblivious to your presence
Another sprint, a sudden turn
The full force of a blast to your torso
Evoking a scream
Of agony and exhilaration
Lasting but twenty minutes
Of a July afternoon
Yet, creating
An irrevocable childhood memory
Life's simple pleasures
Still the best
Categories:
wielder, childhood, fun, memory,
Form:
Free verse
Knowing the knowledge of man is like testing the wielder man,
growing and gripping from grass that causes a liquor of liquid.
••••
To those who love plant,
will tell the benefit of the incubant everywhere in the farm,
having a rotating mind to wind up a standing fan.
••••
The sick will pick the dreak,
living the falling leaves to in astray in a mouldy train.
Having a believe in the shabby shrine.
••••
Creating the hole for the whole,
commanding the seal to steal,
jumping from horse to host.
Making a sign like a hobby human.
Categories:
wielder, 3rd grade,
Form:
Diamante
In depth and breadth of shadows, it prowls around
always flowing, wafting on air, ne'er making a sound
It exists in dejection and rejection, and always found
in silence, too loud when its raucous echoes resound
No deafening roar of blaring thunder comes with fear
It's audible only in a mind, but muzzled to each ear
Manifested in visions, without guttural words to hear
The threat it poses in a reverie wears an implicit jeer
Solitude exhales a stale breath with eager anticipation
Quietly seducing our trust with mendacious flirtation
Spawned to be the covert wielder of our denigration
A stealth mute, besotted on doubt as a form of libation
"Take heed, people!" It screams at us without a tongue
In song the tune is hummed; the lyrics never to be sung
Anguish, leaking acid in which toxins are cleverly sprung
Disguised as a protagonist, paranoia's qualms are flung
It watches without eyes, trying to keep us in disarray
An ever lingering specter, hovering wherever we play
In reticent whispers, how deftly it schemes to betray
A taunting voice without curses, a message to convey
Categories:
wielder, fear,
Form:
Monorhyme
hieroglyphics would have been more appealing
in epitomizing a backward spin to the ancient scenes
the heart of a glorious dynasty to have existed
a time machine of reviving words will do the trick
and pay tribute to the famed mammies
of the land that hath meaning to the word civilization
great colossal deities ushering us into the antiquities
of a man as famous as to be villained in gewish tales
footsteps trailing to his heightened heels
majestically beaming in a flock of maidens
a lengthy beard, the sovereignty of the wielder
awaiting the slaughter of a mighty emperor
another victim has fallen into the hands
of a beast that's conquered kingdoms of old
the king of the jungle stood no chance
against a dynasty as great as the Nile
held by hung-men his pale eyes cry
to the blue skies that fathered the green plains
worldly acclaimed for beastly migration
first came Samson in followed pharaoh
to boast of having slain a mighty cat,
vast seas from the splendor- lit savannahs
the gates close and we drift back into our time
call it a glance into ancient civilization
Categories:
wielder, adventure, africa,
Form:
I am a pen-wielder
A word bender
Making sense
Off assumed nonsense
Passing timeless messages
With few words
Causing my pen with ease
To bleed my thoughts.
Categories:
wielder, me, poetess, poetry, poets,
Form:
Couplet
peals the bell of sweetest sweet romance,
Where Mystic Rose begins to memorise the dance,
where love was sweetest ever known,
where passion was mesmerised and overthrown,
by the mystic wielder of the lance,
suggestive in its very overtone...
Don
Categories:
wielder, adventure,
Form:
Ballad
Voices in my head are babbling everything vicious.
I can't take it anymore, Life has been a tyrant to us for so many years.
Time to let loose and not let the super reign over us with his fears.
Yay, daddy! I wanna go to the park! I've never been there before!
Not a problem, my dear, we shall go to the park...
Huffing and puffing, Lil Sally hears her very first victim.
Who be the unlucky fella, we're gonna call him Tim.
Sadly, he ain't got a clue what's coming at him.
I plunged Lil Sally right through the side of his sternum.
Daddy, daddy!
Hearing his screams makes my atoms jump like rabbits!
Looking at the gushing blood makes my mind go rabid!
Feeling his blood splatter makes my heartbeat rapid!
Smelling the fragrance of his blood makes me wanna taste it!
Tasting his adolescent blood makes my stomach lust for more of it!
My sweet little boy, don't resist your beautiful death, embrace it!
Your mummy and daddy would've loved to see how magnificent it is!
One stab, two stabs, three stabs, blast it, I'm just gonna slice and dice you in half!
Look at my fine cutting, just like my daddy, a transcending psychopath!
Oh sharp little baby, won’t you take a breather for a minute?
No, daddy, I want to savor every delicious droplet!
Alright baby, enough talking, how bout I grab you that bloodthirsty shiny goblet?
Notes
This verse (adapted from one of my WIP rap) is made as an outlet for me to vent my frustration so I'm sorry if it in anyway disgusts, offends or even scares you. But if you're interested, the poem is about a personified machete named Lil Sally and the wielder, or "Daddy", who is a psychopath that could no longer deal with life's problems and also considers Lil Sally to be his life companion, and their experience with their first cold-blooded murder of a young boy.
Categories:
wielder, boy, crazy, dark, evil,
Form:
Free verse
Agony is nigh ever-present in humanity.
It is the nefarious antagonist that unabashedly lurks in the shadows;
And With detestable malice, it strikes with a hellish wrath.
This abhorrent lash is the unintentional crafter of heroism.
It inadvertently forges a shield that encompasses willpower;
And from it, absolute fortitude inhabits its beholder.
To wield this hallowed bulwark, an adamantine resolve is vital.
For the wielder is bequeathed with the insignia of gallantry;
And with this newly reaped brand, one must also retain humility.
Inevitably, the herculean task of attaining leadership takes its toll.
It Will, unfortunately, weigh on the heart of its heritor incessantly;
Despite this, its proprietor must remain vigilant and compassionate.
Categories:
wielder, courage, emotions, inspirational, pain,
Form:
Free verse