Best Wounded Poems
deep wounds that leave scars
one moment much more must flow -
shadows from the soul
her tears in silence
the strong arms that held her up -
in the thoughts and deeds
please do not grieve more
and afterwards remember -
pearls of morning’s dew
05.08.2015 A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Her brush strokes sorrow upon her canvas,
as oils drip with sadness.
He captures images of silent spirits,
drifting in blackness.
In her black and white world,
her fingers weep with grief stricken strings.
He inks poems cleansing his eyes,
metaphors veil words his heart sings.
In darkness their cries are like wolves,
madly howling at the moon.
They follow the stars, till light kills their dreams,
hopes burst like a balloon.
Morning flowers bring no joy,
all they see is a garden full of weeds.
Storms bring melancholic melodies,
it's too cold to plant new seeds.
A blank canvas, an empty page,
yearn for the return of the muse.
Dusty piano, closed camera,
have no motive to amuse.
When an artist's world lacks colour,
absence means a premature end.
Wounded souls view life with closed minds,
slaying their soul's creative friend.
Silent One
Simple Musing
29 September 2019
Prayer For Her, This Wounded Heart Healed
Please keep this dream in my lost life
remove painful sting and life filled with strife
Let her dance and sing another sweet tune
as I hold her under this, merciful God's moon.
An excerpt from: "As I Hold Her Under This, Merciful God's Moon"
(written 7/26/2015)
For- Your Best Poem #2 contest, sponsor Shadow Hamilton
Now Submitted for contest: July 19, 2019
Contest: Arbitrium Divisa 3
Sponsor: Gregory R Barden
Like an ebony rose in a province
of ivory and golden flowers,
you poisoned each peaceful petal
with your senseless scent of death.
You were never just another floret.
Was I a fool to sow your seed in
hope your roots would grow strong,
portraying saffron scarlet hues with
an emerald stalk flourishing with
verdant leaves in serene sapphire skies.
When winds blew too boorishly,
I held your supple sepal with bamboo hands,
so your sunshine spirit would not perish
to toxic storms from organic forces.
I was willingly the earth to your foundations,
but your breaths became too bitter,
stinging in selfish stubborn sympathies,
as wild weeds strangled your stalk.
We could have nourished nectar with
hungry insects in need of nurture,
but your grudge left behind
broken bridges with a trail of
crumbling caterpillars seeking wings.
Cuts from your thorns remain,
ingrained as internal inflictions,
but still I plant bulbs to bloom.
To create an oasis of graceful charm,
where blossoms of compassion
softly soothe petals of pardon
in a garden of a wounded soul.
Forgiveness is a heavenly light.
A radiant beacon illuminating
through a canopy of trees,
eradicating shadows of hatred you
left behind like excessive weeds.
A melody of redemption whispers in
harmonious refrains breaking chains
of regret with burdensome pains.
To let go is like maturing buds
releasing the grip of timeless hate,
as my meadows are a symbol of a
divine mantra only welcoming peace.
A wounded sigh, an expression evincing the pain of hurt,
A bawl in solitude, turbulence of inner emptiness stirs,
When emotions clamor, simmering in angst of regrets,
When mute demeanor, of injured breath, wistfully frets.
Soul desperately aches for a special someone to talk to,
Someone who understands the language of quietude,
Someone who can soothe the trauma, of life gone askew,
Someone who brings to fore, hope of tomorrow anew.
Laments of past echo, moaning upon meadows of life,
Reverberating in heartbreak of grief, bereft of promise,
To rehabilitate devastation of savage emotional storms,
As covenants, deemed eternal, hesitate in broken vows.
Wounded hearts now trace moments of love, sadly lost,
When loneliness dwells in nightmares of past forlorn,
When the abandoned pledges of forever, callously mock,
As muffled wail recalls, life of joy and love, that once was.
Sorrows now seek solace, yearning compassionate voice
To soothe tides of heartbreak, agitating lonesome mind,
As hopes of morrow rekindle in womb of promising night,
When smile-endearing, subjugates cry of wounded sigh.
The Black Hills wept for Thee
East of the Black Hills of South Dakota,
On the Pine Ridge Reservation,
Live a proud tribe of Oglala Lakota,
Part of the Great Sioux Nation.
On saddled chargers rode half the Regiment,
of the Seventh Cavalry.
A tune they played on behalf of the GarryOwen,
was such a sight to see.
While climbing through Prickly pines, they spied,
near the summit of Porcupine Butte.
Spotted Elk with Hunkpapa Lakota tribe,
the chief of the Minneconjou.
Five miles West through the cold day they walked,
the Lakota and soldiers of the Seventh,
Where Wounded Knee creek's icy waters balked,
between hell and heaven.
The Colonel ordered all of the tribe's rifles confiscated,
while the braves danced the ghost dance.
For rumor had spread of a new religion, long awaited,
that would turn the tide of chance.
Then suddenly came the report of rifles fired,
as the women and children fled to a ravine.
From the heights the thunder of cannon, now inspired,
close quarter fighting and lead, now convened.
Who knows where Providence went,
on that cold December morning.
Both guilty and innocent, now spent,
lay dead with little warning.
Bodies of the fallen now sprawled across the snowy plains,
with faces frozen in a moment of violence.
One mass grave with all, is all that remains,
of tears and laughter forever silenced.
In the days that followed medals were pinned to chests,
who proclaimed victoriously.
Though God only knows why, ignoble and divest,
life taken in vain, ingloriously.
In the shadow of the land of Sitting Bull,
was now told the tragic story.
Passed down from Mother to Daughter were recounted,
days of lost glory.
“Let us put our minds together to see what life we can make for our children.”
-Sitting Bull
A wounded star
f e l l
to Earth on the night he left.
It grew too heavy with wishes made by my heart being bereft.
A twinkling star shattered into pieces of a million bits or more
when my deluge of requests weakened its fiery core.
Wishing upon heavenly bodies is what we dreamers do.
I hope this one forgave me when it bid the night adieu.
How painful it must have been to fade as a shining star,
plunging to its death from the weight of my scars.
Glistening light darkened when its points were b r o k e n,
chiseled away by caustic words, bitterly spoken.
Would if I could, gather all the little pieces in my hand
and mold them into a new star upon love's command.
Until I find a way, in fragments the shards will remain,
a Heavenly body now fallen because of love's disdain.
Once emblazoned as fire, it was a diamond drifting across the sky.
I will be forever guilt-ridden with sorrow, knowing I caused it to die.
* * * * * * * * *
September 21, 2016
All The Little Pieces Contest sponsored by Broken Wings
Come and gone like small twister
like the cloud of debris he’s left.
Echoes of Charlie Brown’s buddy Pigpen
blow through the cobwebs in memory.
Left over coffee cups replacing
Transformers still dumped in the attic.
Reams of knarley skateboards, wheel-less,
lay in piles like so much unburnable refuse.
The obligatory hugs and peck, over and done
the never paid chauffeur collapses…
Ah, to have him always near,
So, each kiss was not quite so dear.
The last fair maid on parade has wandered across
the home front, wondering about her predecessor,
still tacked with magnets to the fridge,
still part of my heart and his…
Sons…they say, do not cause such angst.
Couldn’t prove it by this mother.
This maternal blimp of unused helium
was not permitted a girl child.
One did come and fleetingly leave before formed.
We’ll never know the sweetness of her.
Let the image of his manly self disperse, this son..
into the mist as his Father’s has…
to be remembered again, only in times of need, his need,
for to do anything else, would be to rub salt
in an open wound.
Poet: D. Guzzi
*the day after Christmas
It’s like a room you sweep and can never get all the dirt out.
Like an important message you can never understand, no matter how loud they shout.
It’s like life that repeats itself over and over again,
When it’s wounded there is no cure.
So why would you want to see it through to the end.
Like a scar you can barely see but you know that it’s there.
Like the memories you forgot yet scared to search elsewhere.
Some say it heals in time, I say no, for it never leaves the mind.
We yearn for happiness and rob ourselves blind,
you compromise and displease yourself to give a peace of mind,
and the moment something arises they neglect all the signs.
It’s like a race you start and can never complete.
It’s like walking into fire but you can’t even see it.
Everyone has a different story or a different blend,
but when something is broken, how can it be mend again?
I should’ve seen that you were trouble right from the start.
I’ve learned so many lessons. Like never to mess with a broken heart,
A future that bares the past requires much more than faith.
A heart that was once broken is fragile and is easier to break.
Knees under your chin,
clasped tight
Sitting on you bed,
slowly rocking
This long night,
your mind in a spin
Sitting on your bed,
awake instead
What am I?
Where do I go?
Ready to fly
Nowhere so
Wounded heart,
wants to run
The things he had done
Right from the start
Hurtful things
That are untrue
Piercing stings
These acts you do
Wounded heart
Wants to run
The things he had done
Right from the start
This numbing pain
This negativity
Has come back to haunt me again
Killing all creativity
Bruises and pain
Walked in to the door again
Hate and spite
Try all he might
His promises to me
Now so hollow
This is not what I imagined to be
My heart so wanted to follow
Wounded heart
Wants to run
The things he had done
Right from the start
Bruises heal
But not what I feel
I am stronger now,
deep inside
I know how
He can bruise my heart
Not my spirit
I can go
Where he cannot follow
This is where I start
Wounded heart,
can run
This new start
You see...................
You are free
The rule of sanctity is a veil to hide the blow.
Love doves in the air, fading into the sky.
Thoughts are mixed stiff oasis and flow.
Hypnotic wizardry that's being spread away.
Love doves in the air, fading into the sky,
Magic using Alpha Centauri's moon sight.
Hypnotic wizardry that's being spread away,
Gasping the frigid breath of the frozen light.
Magic using Alpha Centauri's moon sight,
Mischievous haze covers the ghastly realm.
Gasping the frigid breath of the frozen light,
Eternal afterglows echo a motion rhythm.
Mischievous haze covers the ghastly realm.
Within the confines of the death's garden.
Eternal afterglows echo a motion rhythm.
Souls are aching and seek truth certain.
Within the confines of the death's garden,
Pain spills from the heart as a yearning drops.
Souls are aching and seek truth certain,
Stain soil with red as souls gather and hope
Pain spills from the heart as a yearning drops,
Thoughts are mixed stiff oasis and flow.
Stain soil with red as souls gather and hope,
The rule of sanctity is a veil to hide the blow.
Written: May 18, 2022
POTD of May 20, 2022
Pantoum - Old or New Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May
In sepia foliage's of falsified fantasies,
cursed by haunting hornets stinging
with honeyed painted lies,
her mind was like a matriarch of metaphors.
An inflorescent seed buried in darkness,
with a somnolent spirit rustling in onyx nostalgia.
Too afraid to spread her fragile feathers,
she lay upon a bed of black rose petals,
veiled underneath dark raven phases,
hidden behind the silence of lunar secrets,
Her soul slept like grieving ghosts of galactic graves,
repeatedly releasing wounded sighs.
Not all florets flourish
with the mercy of rainwater,
only nourishing hands can create
an aesthetic pastel carnival of confetti,
like lilac lavender snowflakes of smoky love.
Some spicy spirits are like
the marigold locket of liquid,
glowing like turmeric hues
in tamarind tinted skies of oblivion,
clearing diaphanous dewdrops
of a grainy hourglass,
spreading vintage violet wishes
in bluish epiphany skies,
disintegrating a montage
burnt to nefarious ashes,
raising amaranth pink petals
of heartfelt empathy.
There is a magic in midnight reigns,
as dawn retreats, dusk births a saviour knight,
altering twilight's twinkling tunnel
of kismet stars perfumed with sins.
Moonlight spreads a subtle silk scent
when fears fall like cosmic dust,
soothing a scarred moon soul and stars in slumber.
Not all flowers need a gardener to grow,
but all seedsmen sow to bloom an ivory aurora,
through the obscurity of ebony eyes.
Sometimes, its the simple touch of fingertips,
that lays the perfect foundations,
for a sunflower to embellish in gold.
Love is blind, deaf, dumb and stupid.
I blame it all on the imp called Cupid.
No warning shot fired over my head
His arrow struck and brought me dread.
The poisoned point of that lethal dart
Was the reason love grew inside my heart.
The toxin traveled within my veins
And held me with the strength of chains.
Love spread as quickly as a wildfire,
In heated flames of uncontrolled desire.
It left behind a heart he had torched,
Bleeding, torn and badly scorched.
I refuse to rhapsodize that love is grand
it can be washed away like words in sand.
Only a romantic fool will ever believe
Love brings only joy and no reason to grieve.
Of sad songs and tears, I've had my fill.
They've left me cold as winter's chill.
I now sleep alone in my half empty bed.
It's the price to pay when love is dead.
No longer reason for me to linger.
He'd removed the ring from his finger.
Without hope that he'd want to put it back,
Our marriage was shrouded in funeral black.
From the precipice edge I began to fall,
As high as a towering castle wall.
In fear, I trembled ever further down
Into a moat of tears, I fell and drowned.
Heart-wrenching, my decision to walk away,
But I could no longer risk my life to stay.
No words of regret would I have written
If by Cupid's arrow I'd not been smitten.
How different would be my thoughts
If he'd not taken aim at my lonely heart.
A reflective moment of bereaving.
A remembrance of love's deceiving.
Would I have wished I'd not been shot
And wounded by love? No, I think not.
Even though it's all come to an end,
My bleeding heart has begun to mend.
What good is there to live with regret?
Or in wishing that we'd never met?
What once was love is now in the past.
Cupid's potions don't always last.
Sometimes love brings too much pain
With more to lose than there is to gain.
Time has passed without a pause
And broke the hold of Cupid's cause.
I've taken away the hunter's quiver
Before another shot can be delivered.
Another love to tear me apart ~
Another arrow to pierce my heart.
....................................................
2-18-16
The Heart That Bleeds: Forever Malta
For the torn,
for the meek.
Toward the storm,
toward the beast.
For the scorned,
for the weak.
Wounded warriors,
for the free.
In the dirt,
make my bed.
Firefight,
overhead.
Live on hope,
consume hate.
Rusted spoon,
rusted plate.
On this stage,
in my role.
Home one day,
never whole.
For this goal,
in the name.
Different soul,
though the same.
Take my life,
use it well.
Build your heaven,
on my hell.
Don't you cry,
I'll always be.
Wounded warrior,
for the free.
You stand on "Wounded Thunder's” hallowed ground.
He boomed such boastful tales that fearless chief!
There was no brave as clever to be found
until he met the source of all his grief.
There came a one who all his tricks would tell,
and this is where he made his greatest blunder.
The minx so bold who knew him all too well
he married, . . . . and her name was "Stealing Thunder."