Handled Poems | Examples

I can assure you

I can assure you

Had a dream while sitting at the edge
of a hole where they had removed a stone
and the mold was soft to the touch
that I had died, but also said to myself that
Were I dead, I wouldn't be able to dream
I have growth on the side, which looks innocent
like the one I had surgery on, the new one
is on my back and tends to be ignored
I must see a doctor again before the ulcer
sprouts a green plant that has a red rose
that needs to be handled, not by a gardener
The hole had turned into a newly dug grave
I didn't care for this dream, wished it would
I assured my frightened self that I was not
dead, and the self said I will believe that if
You wake me up at eight

Revisionist Fairy Tale

She came to a peaceful, shimmering pond
and took out her pearl-handled witches wand.
"Make me beautiful as the swan who slides  
on your calm surface as she smoothly glides."
Since that day, at toll booths she doesn't pay, 
and, at intersections, gets the right of way.

Manual for a Pallbearer

There is no manual
on how to become a pallbearer
you are chosen
you are just chosen 
you become the chosen on.

To be a proficient pallbearer
You need a sleepy stride
like somebody who's coming down from a high
You'll need a strong copper handled grip
because you don't want to let down the one
who's carried you for so long...
and you must have a stoic face-like a snake
no tears allowed on the deep green grass of the Everlast
you must be stoic for the crowd
save the tears for them

There's no training manual
on how to become a
pallbearer.
No resume needed
You are just chosen.

not dead yet

if it were up to me
i wouldn't be here.

i would have left
a long time ago.

but others expect things of me.
things that i have to do.

and so i do them.
and i'm not dead yet.

from the minute we are born,
we are treated like clay.

carefully handled, 
molded by the hands
of each person we come
in contact with.

so i'm sorry that i can't
undo the dents and imperfections
but they aren't my fault.

blame the girls who made me feel
useless.

blame the guys who made me feel
unlovable.

blame the teachers who made me feel like a 
failure.

but i'm not dead yet.

i keep pushing, persevering,
praying.

praying that someone will see the
strain in my smile.

the way my leg shakes
under the desk.

the way i pick at my fingernail beds
the way i pull out my hair
the way i hold the knife to my skin.

i pray.
and i pray.

no one ever helps.
no one ever comes.
but i'm not dead yet.

and you can thank me for that.

The Circadian Shadow

Let the brief time be cast away,
Let the movable thread be loosely handled,
Let the shadow be cast on you,
Let the water flow over the distant edges.

But when you know you’ll never get the wanderer back,
Even as you cast him off,
When you tally the drifters,
They’re all misplaced and undone.

The Moirai will let him go,
Because, you know,
You only need him when the lights are burning low,
And sympathy wears veils no daylight wants to show.

His shadow is turning into a gyre,
Spin after spin;
Wearing lonesome attire,
Only his body is the circling machine.

His dreams come slow,
But they go so fast.
Perhaps they were never his,
Just echoes in the gyre’s turning shadow.

Pomegranates aren’t messy

pomegranates aren’t messy. 
there quite a few
who don’t have a clue 
of how to handle the delicate fruit 
so it doesn’t spew

They take one look 
And determine its some type of crook 
don’t even take a moment 
To observe its unique tidiness
 
They take a spoon 
And don’t wait to gut it 
To make it messy 
And leave it until it’s uncleanly
they don’t take the time 
Out of their lives 
To hold it steady 
And make sure it’s ready 

They take and take 
The red color staining their fingers 
They wipe it on a towel, maybe a few 
Going on with their day 
Still not having a clue
 
Pomegranates aren’t messy 
your poetry just sucks 
Because if you take
What one offers 
You’ll see it’s unique tidiness
 
One it rewards to those who 
Don’t rush
And take the time out of their lives 
To hold it relentlessly 
So no, pomegranate aren’t messy 
They just need to be handled gently.

girl hate

girl hate back
backwords she can't gavel
above her the beast
hateful of beauty in arrival
to learn the day 
to burn the way
opened eye must, alone
become a sacrifice
not to a throne she bevels
his edge lower and unaware
the liberty of private war
she alas will declare
this and thou
is how we leave the tombs
handled over too many ways
and consumed
succumb to my fate
walk towards the water
be not less, be not with me

Con-spire brands, and despair'

It burns real sore..Much despair is tendered.' Like it or not? Like could your soul be up-ended?
Its under the fence.? Beyond those pales.' It whispers there are screams; and epic fails.'
An example of the ducking stool.? No matter your standing ( the labelling tools?) Are blunt
And  forcefully handled. Too...' ad-nauseum Rules.. dunk dunk dunk.' We observe the thunk,? And
Timbreless'ness  second guess..Or ten thousand more 'artificial input un-topical' man are
These doughnuts RAW.!! I guess chocolate is their vanilla? Who nightmared this up? In a
Tangle of interdiction.' At an insanity hub.? Ekow.' and how! my summation in the main, I think.? I guess.
They are out.' Yet never free.' There just seems to be no gain? Is this just like 'twister?' From those
Who have an allergy to deeper games' such as chess.? Or bridge? Or poker.? Or any thing that.. Tries your wits.' ENOUGH.! Of such boring format." With choice straightjacket? Or chocolate
Suit.?

Plea in Our Eyes

in your eyes, there's a plea
as if they're in search of something warm and sweet
the look that you gave me sparked something
something very dangerous that needs to be handled with care and free
free of insecurities for it to bloom
bloom in the best shade of blue

my plea is to hold you dearly and close
never letting go of your hand and let it freeze
in november's cold when it's snowing outside the window
i'll build something with snow and let you laugh at me
my plea is to forever hold you close
and peace will never leave our door

From The Parthenon to Paris

Let me tell you of a journey- from The Parthenon to Paris
in the springtime - of which real year, no one knew
Riding on an ostrich guided by a gilded leather bridle
traveling back roads dressed in mysterious disguises
using signals only ostrich riders do.
 
The endurance of the ostrich was as equally surprising as
the smoothness of its gallop on the road.
It needed very little in the way of daily edibles
while the softness of its feathers made a very comfy saddle.
 
Now an ostrich made an eerie sight in swaying fields of daffodils.
Its three-pronged feet so admirable for climbing alpine hills.
It handled every mountain as well as any Hannibal
with eyes adept to guide a sleepy rider while he slept.
 
The gallop into Paris was singularly memorable –
No wildly cheering crowds of proud Parisians-no-one knew- 
No showers of cherry blossoms sprinkled from the Eiffel Tower
in  praise or  celebration of this epic ostrich rider.
 
What evidence is there, then? What  memory endures
Perhaps a photograph or witness tells the tale
If the novelty is forgotten and the mists of time have passed

Could fields of daffodils remember or perhaps the Cherry blossoms?

Especially Sweet and Cold

Dark, black, midnight in my cup.
Cream is light, especially sweet.

Hot, warm, rekindle Winter’s mug.
Bitter chill, biting, nipping at heels.

“Baby it’s cold outside” teeny trees.
Tenderness handled in warm grip.

The pour fell into the cold-temp cup.
Warmth filled every space, then

my lips, my tongue, inside cheeks;
fills cherry mountains below eyes.

A caffeinated prescript aft’ “ahh,”
and Boston brown “molasses” bread.

America’s on a limousine roll
with presidential flags waving.

Transfer of power, balancing -
perhaps we can all be friends, again.

Pieces of my heart

I am so grateful that I got the experience of being a mom
the total love and affection for a small being
who you get to love, nurture, and keep alive

Time passes, though, and both of my boys grew into adults
I still love them as much as ever,
but our relationships have changed, as they should

While they make their way as young adults, I get to sit back 
and watch, pray, and support them as I can
Do I always get it right? NOT at all!  But it comes from my heart.

As each of them strived to make their mark on the world,
one of my sons experienced addiiction.  It has been a heart breaking 
journey for the whole family.  I pray for him constantly.

It has been very hard to receive scorn and anger from my oldest 
son on how I have handled his brother's addiction.  Apparently,
I have done nothing right and how dare I reach out for his support?

Families are a wonderful place to find love and acceptance
however, it is also a place to find very deep hurt because
those closest to you can hurt you the deepest.

Soul tie

soul tie soul tie, that 7 letter word, a blessing sent from heaven, something so heard, invisibly listened to, individuals secretly put as 2, a soul tie makes one, one soul and one heart, a soul love another even when the souls are apart, until death finishes time, until the soul tie unwinds, but your souls are tied, and the tears you cried, because the relationship felt tangled, but with a soul tie it’s all handled, it’s only tangled because of the distance, you hold on to the tie, because everyday you miss it, when your not with your other half, one thing doesn’t sound the same and it’s your laugh, as you watch from afar, you realise the person you are, you can’t laugh the same, and no one is to blame, your heart behind your body, is connected to somebody else, I’ve experienced that for myself, I was never told, it was just there to hold, hold onto so tight, to think about it at night, and as the soul tie crossed my mind, you did too, because I wouldn’t want to experience a soul tie with anyone but you,

Whispers of Forever

From the moment our paths intertwined,
It felt as if the universe sighed in relief,
As though every star had waited patiently,
For your light to cross into my orbit.

In your presence, my heart beats softer,
Not out of weakness, but in reverence,
To the beauty that exists in your smile,
And the kindness you carry so effortlessly.

Your eyes hold a language I am learning,
One of warmth, depth, and wonder.
Each glance pulls me deeper,
Into a world I never knew I craved.

It may be soon to give these words wings,
To name what blooms so fiercely inside me.
But know, with every unspoken syllable,
They linger in the air between us,
Softer than a breath, stronger than a promise.

You hold my heart—
Not as a fragile thing to be handled,
But as the core of who I am,
A gift freely given, without condition,
To the one who makes it beat anew.

If the future is a song yet unwritten,
I hope your melody fills every note.
For now, let these words wrap around you,
A quiet echo of all you mean to me,
And all you will ever mean.

When flowers speak

Covered in flowers, she comes to me,
Day and night in vain drowning the night,
Colorful as bright the purest light,
Giving peace within, sets me free.

No matter how the weather, it will shine,
No matter how the flowers grow,
No matter how fierce the winds may blow,
No matter how the stars shall align.


The way it is, is the way it shall be,
Handled with care and love from above,
And all shall bend, humbled at the knee.

When the sun sets and reigns from above,
Flowers, animals, sky and stars remind,
All is a memoir of peace divine.

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