Bones Poems - Poems about Bones

Inspired by Bob Dylan's "Mississippi" I was the backbone of your dream— ribs shaped into beams, my blood seeping slow, cementing your tower’s base. You promised a sky of stars, a rise beyond all shadows— but I was just a ghost etched in your blueprint, a whisper beneath your tower. We built forever on lies, stacking stones on my shoulders— I was your ground, your silent sacrifice, the...

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Physicists may say, 'Random is not truly random, it only appears to be,' but another theory goes, (according to me) 'Not so when playing games of chance,' (and I have done the sums) for this experiment logic states, 'The odds in favour are 5 to 1.' As I spy with my little eye, seeing spots and counting dots on a regular die, (these don't go to 11) the...

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Naked are the bones so hallow crowned around my soul Give heed unto the wounds Ive sewn I'll mend me back to whole Though broken I'll remain to pave the path that is my sound My roots undone thine will be one hallowed by thy ground Victory unspoken I'm forever bound to never Bones bare and shown yet never known My chaos is forever...

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A few articulate with humor and grief, others are hinged so that ears can hear each other. Many bones are scaffolds for vision, prayer and procreation. One hollow bone hums in the throat, it channels the smoky saxophones of consciousness. When death comes to nibble holes into breastplates and ramparts an osseous honeycomb of memory forms caves, cavities for disembodied thoughts. Mind, of course, has always had its own...

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I wish I worked in an office. Maybe I’m a pile of bones. No one knows where the bones came from. He told me to give him the note at the cave entrance. There might be nothing. Or maybe I’ll get trapped forever. Like a spider in that cave. But spiders don’t care about friends and family....

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I took the punches paying price of my convictions like a withered rose my pieces all over this froze can't resist and can't let you go I come back even when you bleed my bones...

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Plastic pink flamingos often placed in the front yard to replace the candles of a birthday cake. I wonder how old the neighborhood skeleton is… —by Poet Bare Bones Yard skeleton fell over - first day. The bones just collapsed - hip..hip..hurray! Flamingoes took flight from yard - out of sight. It’s April second,...

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Red Shirt: TOS A casting extra No choice on shirt color Hired for one episode Studio did’nt want to pay them long term New planet to explore Beam down with phasers set to kill Alien life form attacks No chance to get off a shot Bones declares “He’s dead Jim!” A red shirt met their final frontier ...

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On my bones, insecurity was carved with a chisel, deep and merciless, And on my skin, you tattooed doubt, like an artist of shadow and suffering, Your steps left imprints on my soul, like paths lost in the mist, You injected fear into my spine, a bitter venom coursing through my veins. You stabbed—stabbed—stabbed my heart until I bled...

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The snow lies sleeping in the shadows Crisp greens bursting through Unfocused, my eyes blur the world and suddenly there is a spattering of colorful dots Peeking from the earth as it stretches and yawns. Wake up Mother Nature! Up, up lazy bones! Revive with a warm rain shower Break your fast on Autumn leftovers that Winter has preserved...

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Here comes the North Wind Blowing the mountain of bones Suddenly bones moving like whirlwind Bone to bone connected its parts To form a human skeleton standing Throng of them standing in front of the Prophet Standing, lifeless skeleton many of them Came the voice in heaven saying Can these bones live or not The Prophet says, come and say my Lord Then came the...

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Older chatbots, just like people, show signs of cognitive impairment, failing on several important metrics in a test normally used on humans. ~Drew Turney, Live Science, 02/16/2025 old AI as demented as I enter into the abyss ...

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Old men cry a lot, sigh a lot, write too much poetry. Their bones are words that scaffold an undying love of all the sorrows that they would die for again and again, and they do though they smile as they die to them, for the past brings no regrets, just generations of children and poetry, just enough poetry, just enough smiles. ...

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Butterflies~ scarred and stained, breathe within a glass cocoon spun with black-widow silk and smoke, waving weary wings in the midst of nothingness, c h a i n e d with bleeding petals from a garden of grief, caught in gossamer greed, that feeds insidious seeds to this chrysalis heart, weeping in seething silence, as the world cares not to heed tunes of trauma, ricocheting through flutes of patience, oblivious to...

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