He grinned broadly from the corner
a percussive serrated smile,
cadaverous lips displaying
a rakish scarecrow style.
His emaciated figure chattered
suspended precariously from a hook;
I was completely startled
by his penetrating look.
His wink was disconcerting,
those vacant eyes held wide;
I wouldn’t call him cheeky
though he displayed a gangly pride.
One arm extended slightly
as if inviting my embrace;
it might feel a little morbid
held against that hollow face.
Gothic trends might call him charming
though his apparel seems unique,
one would only see it hanging
in a nudist colony boutique.
One dance was all he wanted
waltzing the orthopedic floor,
that physician’s skeletal dummy
I just couldn’t make myself ignore.
July 31, 2026
Skeletons Poetry Contest
Seth Pina, Sponsor
An ancient, desiccated
pharaoh awakened within
the subterranean labyrinth
of his limestone sepulcher,
Tattered, resin- soaked
bandages unfurled like
skeletal fingers from his
withered, emaciated frame.
A hollow, sarcophagus- born
shriek echoed through the
claustrophobic, dust- choked
corridors of the tomb.
Intruders trembled as the
reanimated monarch
exhaled a foul, millennial
breath of decay.
The curse of the scarab-
engraved scarification
manifested, binding the
tomb- raiders in paralyzed
terror.
His empty, shadowed
sockets burned with a
malevolent, incandescent
hunger for vengeance.
Grizzled, mummified hands
reached out to drag the
trespassers into the stygian
darkness.
The heavy stone sarcophagus
lid slammed shut, sealing their
horrific, suffocating fate.
Now, fresh blood seeped
through the ancient linen,
feeding the eternal, undead
king.
The labyrinth reclaimed its
silence, guarding the pharaoh's
newly fortified, immortal slumber.
The sun mounts over crumpled roofs and streets,
Beats from machetes and trombones disconcerts the air,
Brides and husbands-to-be bosa nova where joy and gossip meet.
Little ones run run past stalls,their joy sharp as knives,
Grandmas share gossip,drinking Joko Tea in chirped mugs.
While dear uncles sway,remembering old wasted lives
Smog billows from grills where meat roasts and fry,
Fires burn,mixing ululations and cheer,
Even the emaciated township dog pauses,ears to the sky.
Hubands-to-be jive,hats tilted,praising feats of might;
Ladies-in waiting in skirts that sparkle under sun.
Every furtive glance a nod and a story of delight.
As night comes,lanterns flicker in houses and alleys;
Music is tender,hearts stay buoyed and awake-
In hoboland love and joy endure amidst the pain.
Summer and a dog
Pure sunlight on a forever blue sky
beaches full of laughing people and
Happy Holiday, by Cliff Richard
Out of the sun glare came a cur
an emaciated dog that had walked
and walked for many miles to reach
a goal, finding the way home
Under a bush, it collapsed, and I gave her
water, found food for her, yes, She
probably she had been looking for
her babies, they had taken away
It was all too late, she had died, it's
Untold suffering had come to an end
Wrapped her in a plastic bag and left
her by the bin
The sun was blood-orange the day
had ended, deep shadows we could
see again, the sun had been blinding
To ponder or not to ponder - that is the question.
Is it a waste of my precious seconds, minutes, hours
To dwell on the questions that plague my mind?
I spend my waking and waning hours mulling and considering,
Crashing waves of question marks and possibilities
Dance around in my mind's eye, quelling the beast of sleep.
A skeptical girl's dream is a paranoid's nightmare.
The mind wanders the winding path, ways blockaded by the
immaturity of age's eye. Paths extend,
arms outstretched, sclera comes into view. I enter the land
of darkness and trivial trifles, numbers rapidly rising.
To observe then look away - oh what a gift.
The fluttering, juvenile gaze upon life offers a plethora of privileges.
A jovial demeanor, an emaciated ego, a blithe smile -
charities that are given to the majority.
The plights that plague me are mere afterthoughts
in the meandering mind of the thoughtless. Idealizing,
reading, puzzling reserve themselves for the
fragmented, slightly distorted. And now I must
ponder, what the slightly distorted
save themselves from.
Gaza
The baby
Wrapped in a blanket
Looks at the camera
Emaciated face
Large eyes
Incomprehensively
Looks at me
I lower my gaze
Who is going to
Switch off
The killing machine
This harvester of
Of death
Not yet, not yet
looking
worse for wear
at the mercy
of winter's harsh elements.
a stray dog,
sad of eyes,
clothed in all black
to match her mood.
emaciated and weather-beaten;
a labrador retriever
with her tail
tucked behind her hind legs
softly whimpering
shivering.
oh, you poor thing...
how far is your home?
scared
untrusting
of strangers;
perennially running
from rescue.
with a looped leash,
I approach, again....
she takes a step back
I come closer...closer....closer...
she turns
and sprints away.
I won't give up,
I'll do my best...
to help bring you in...
from the cold.
In the unpretentious backyard
Of my house— not a home,
Bloomed a bird's nest
Concealed concernedly
In the benevolent branches
Of the dear aged tremulous tree.
When I noticed the nest nearly,
House felt like a home dearly,
I noticed the humble hatching
Of the birds—
Life lustrously levitating
Out of a shattering shell
Of an emaciated egg.
How gentle squeaks
Filled the surroundings
Slowly and sincerely,
My heart hissing
Gratitude for great glory.
Now, they are a week old,
Surely, soon, they will fill
Their wings with their
First flight
From my backyard
Amply, they'll be gone long
And I'll still be a basic bard
While they'll be reaching
The racing clouds.
I know not the name,
I know not their kind,
I tried searching,
But I couldn't find
The name of the birds
That are taking shelter
And bedazzling
My rudimentary backyard.
How artistically
Nature wonderfully works—
Blooming and dying,
Escalations and sorrows,
Falling and flying,
Yesterdays and morrows.
DEPRIVED OF YOUR LOVE
Can I be deprived of your love
If indeed, it ever was truly that
Well, what ever it was, it’s gone
Now, hardly worth dwelling on
Feelings look emaciated, not fat
What’s the use of just one glove
Now you may see me just shrug
Looking like I never really cared
But my heart is only my concern
As deep inside, I still feel it burn
With love, how have others fared
Taken for granted, looking smug
Tell me, just how should I react
By seeking sympathy everywhere
So, don’t be feeling sorry for me
A soul feels what eyes do not see
But all in sharp focus, very aware
Your love’s gone and that’s a fact
In the seventies lipsticks were beige, blah and nude
Dull, usually colorless and odorless, not to be rude.
Bright reds of the forties and fifties were passe’, out.
The lightest of peaches could be applied to a pout.
Women were expected to be straight up and down.
Twiggy at twenty, twenty, twenty, was paraded around.
Rubenesque chesty women were considered way out of bound.
Emaciated starving young models were the talk of the town.
A state of tension and fear.
Forests are much more than trees.
Nature experiences on a wild night,
with strange discoveries
without scientific explanations.
Cold gust hisses between the trees,
even though there is no wind.
A pack of emaciated wolves, barely alive,
with bloody iron teeth.
Whispering shadows collapse,
the rocks have crumbled in the gorge.
A terrible scream reverberates in the void,
overpowered by negative charisma.
Wild galloping ghost horses,
with linen veils on their heads.
Red eye balls light up, as emergency flares.
Uncontrollable shaking,
the night filled me with dread.
Emaciated test-tube mutations
Raised apart in pristine distillations
Conceived in dexedrine celebrations
and the crazed, ecstatic inhalations
of the professor’s choicest pheromones
Right-angled, inverted, and star-spangled
Drained and dangled till their nerves were jangled
Nearly psychedelically strangled
Quantumly, at a distance, entangled
On celestially balanced microphones
Their unproven kaleidoscope harmonics
Haywire mk-ultra histrionics
Phosphoric rhapsodical symphonics
And their backward time-lapse polyphonics
Transcribed on interstellar xylophones
For homunculus scintillations
Splintered, syncopated oscillations
And desperate mute gesticulations
No one beats those galactic sensations
Our own mad-twin Splitzmodic Vibratones
In pods, pale and emaciated-
muscles atrophied,
their eyes behind thick goggles
deflecting stroboscopic lights-
they sit for hours with empty smiles.
Each human in a private pod
lost in grounded bliss:
every want and need, fulfilled
by technological AI wonders;
instant information and amusement.
Touch of a button simulation
to other places via virtual reality-
the world unto themselves;
lives filled with at-whim commands;
their necessities- delivered by drones.
A bleak view- future existence;
lone humans in gray sunless pods.
Traveling to unknown places-
eyes blinded from reality
heading for grim, robotic essence.
Accepting my costumed friends dare, I cautiously pushed through the weeds to the unlit dilapidate porch. Before I could knock, the door creaked open.
"Come on in.
We've been wait- ing for
you." Croaked the emaciated little girl with the basso profundo voice.
Something pushed me from behind ...
What do you see in my emaciated emerald eyes?
Idealism or someone lost in love and hatred
Birds eat my meat thrown on the clean floor
A death sentence has passed on my sick neck
Don't grind your teeth as you walk on my rotting body
My blood has become fertilizer for the roads of the raging seas
The breeze plays with our scattered hearts, then the calm of the nights
And your turbulent feelings as material for my disordered heart
The fingers of the gods are pointing at my brain, lying on the table
And the devils enjoy the smell of my guts in the bathtub
And there you see my hopes floating like a pure beast
where am I?
Why do you see me and embrace my soul after all that?
Your eardrum is dull, let's blow it
Or blew my heart after you research its place in the "home"
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