she was terrified of knives
had been fearful of them since she was a child
her children laughed about it
“We never had a steak knife in our home.
We had to cut a side of beef with a butter spoon.”
When October crept near, her fright pranced on overdrive
Her nightmares were not repeated, but we all knew
they had something to do with blood, gore, death and knives
I was a fairly new neighbor, and even I knew about it
Because this was a small town
The things people knew about each other made my hair stand on end.
I had never lived in a place like this; I was a metropolitan chit.
She asked if she could come see me.
“I hear that you clean knives,” she said.
I was astonished, astounded, and intrigued.
“I can, I do, and I might,” I told her.
The knife she showed me had flesh, blood and red hair on it.
The same color hair as her missing husband.
I pretended not to notice and cleaned it as she stared.
Silk Smiles, Silent Knives
I gave my time, I gave my name,
I hid the cracks, I took the blame.
I stoked their fires, I kept the light,
I bled my nights to feed their fight.
They smiled in silk, they smiled in lies,
They painted truths with poisoned dyes.
Their colours bled; their masks unrolled,
They bought my trust and sold my soul.
I kept my pace, I kept my place,
I stood the long, unpaid embrace.
They learned my steps, they learned my track,
Then found my back and drove the jack.
The blade was theirs, I never knew,
The hand I trusted cut me through.
~Fizza Bukhari
.
it happen'd last year
i were nervous
y
you
remember
"yes
now go to sleep"
"edvard"
eve
I feel their knife in my mouth,
As they carve out my tounge.
I feel all of the words I dare not say,
Stain my lips alongside the blood.
I look into their eyes and smile,
Knowing I could never truly hate them.
No matter how they silence me,
Or bruise me with my words.
Because my type of sickness has no boundaries.
They beat me, break me, and cut me,
But no.
I will always come back.
Like a sinner to a chapel,
I will come back with my palms up.
Asking for blessings,
But knowing I will get struck down, once again.
I am their's to break. I always have been.
Their blood runs in my very veins.
And no matter how many times I let it ooze out,
It's what makes me live.
I am indebted to them.
Forced to live in the shakes they forge,
Out of the hate they don't know reaches
My ears.
I am exactly what they hate.
What they fear.
I am what they fight against.
But I will never tell them.
I will always stay silent.
my tounge carved out.
I can't feel the pain.
I'm already in pain from their words.
But I stand there smiling,
In a pool of my own blood,
As they are ignorant, not knowing,
I am the thing they fear most.
The kitchen knives sing sweetly in their block,
each blade a promise, silver-sharp and clean.
I slice the onions. How the housewives mock.
The cutting board bears every daily shock—
potatoes, carrots, flesh that’s never seen.
The kitchen knives sing sweetly in their block.
My mother wound her life around the clock,
her hands performing tasks both sharp and mean.
I slice the onions. How the housewives mock.
The gleaming steel, the drawer I dare not unlock,
these edges know what I have never been.
The kitchen knives sing sweetly in their block.
Each dinner calls for blood, demands I stock
the table with my hours, carved and keen.
I slice the onions. How the housewives mock.
The blade that feeds can also cut and shock—
this double life, this edge between, between.
The kitchen knives sing sweetly in their block.
I slice the onions. How the housewives mock.
These knives cut so deep it hurts
Please God remove these knives and heal the wounds
The first stab come from malnourishment
Then another jab kicked out at 15
Before I know what I’m slashed with another knife sh*tty ass living arrangement
The Devil last and says I’m not still not done with you
So another stabs me the knife of being raped twice
God stands before me the devil says I’ve already started the reversal process The knife of malnourishment I’ve turned into a rose of being thankful
The knife of being kicked out 15 I will turn into rules of learning about yourself
The knife of sh*tty ass living arrangement I have turned into a rose of having a stable home
The knife of rape but I have shown her the beauty of being true to herself
So go ahead devil but she is indestructible and beautiful like the time and she is
hunger for love is the worst temptation,
a bitter, yearning persuasion.
many get it so easily, so sweet,
but i know sugar’s only for the weak.
love for me stings in aching grief,
with a metallic aftertaste beneath.
me, i taste the blood on my tongue
and not for a moment i wish it’d go numb.
so i learn, with each bite, to like the pain,
to savor the sorrow in every chain.
Her wings are sharp and rusty
Her might is all a musty
Tears of rust she cries
As another soul dies
Someone minding their buisness
Not in a gang just walking the street
Going home after work to make ends meet
But they met with the angel of death
One quick stab they took their last breath
A breath that could have been saved
But in peer pressure the person caved
And took the soul of young one
This time a child
Someone so meek and mild
Timid like a cat
They wouldn't give it all that
They was a child of 5
A chance to be so alive
Who else has to go
Before the law is changed we can't say so
So say no to knives
Unless you need them in your cutlery lives
Say no to peer pressure
Get keir starmer to read this poem
And how for many it hits home
Keir starmer we are done
No knives
Save lives
Her wings are sharp and rusty
Her might is all a musty
Tears of rust she cries
As another soul dies
Someone minding their buisness
Not in a gang just walking the street
Going home after work to make ends meet
But they met with the angel of death
One quick stab they took their last breath
A breath that could have been saved
But in peer pressure the person caved
And took the soul of young one
This time a child
Someone so meek and mild
Timid like a cat
They wouldn't give it all that
They was a child of 5
A chance to be so alive
Who else has to go
Before the law is changed we can't say so
So say no to knives
Unless you need them in your cutlery lives
Say no to peer pressure
Get keir starmer to read this poem
And how for many it hits home
Keir starmer we are done
No knives
Save lives
My mother’s words cut deeper than knives.
They slash me and live deep inside my skin.
Tr’velling to my heart, they eat me alive.
Negative remarks radiate within.
“I could just murder you right now, you witch.”
I keep telling mys’lf I don’t believe her,
But the more she talks, the less i can r’sist.
They mult’ply and take over limb by limb,
With every word my spark withers away.
My spark vanished and my self esteem follows,
Tears welling, spilling down my cheeks, astray.
As the words eat at me, my inside hollows.
The words, they’re sharp, with razor-like teeth
They won’t leave my skin, they just lurk beneath.
On those long days
when it was too hot to ride
or run, a boy would find
an island of cool beneath
a tree and sit there
with his pocket knife
to whittle away time
and a piece of wood.
A good blade could shape
the hull of a model boat
or thinly peel an apple
or carve a name clean
into the smooth bark
of a spotted gum.
There was a world to make
with a pocket knife,
mine a pearl handled beauty
with two folding blades,
short and long.
It was beyond the mind
to think it a weapon, only
a treasured possession
of pure utility, a tool
for hands to bring forth
a creation or to cut free
a form from its binding.
Finally,
years saw its blades become
blunt and spend less time
in my pocket, more languishing
at the bottom of a drawer.
It's still preserved with
a nostalgic reverence.
Nowadays, whittling
has become a lost art for boys,
pocket knives tarnished
by a new age and drafted
for duty in the service
of fear. On those long days
when it is too hot
to do anything much,
hands still crave to carve
things that substitute
for a piece of wood,
twitching away
in the cramped solitude
of an air-conditioned self.
steel pointed angel made of knives
epitome of juxtaposition
shiny, beautiful, glitzy, welcoming
also crass, sharp, frightening, dangerous
what mind thought to build her?
she shows both sides of every woman
scary really
Twinge of feelings stir in my bosom
every time your eyes meet mine
reminding me of the scars of our walk
leaving trails of bitterness within
How I wish to show you
how deep your knives cut through my soul
yet you only end up seeing
how much can my heart bleed for yours
Demons go around the world all night,
They do their deals with humans from far away,
This is why demons aren't scary,
It's the things at daytime that are.
A spindling spider falls down from the sky,
On it's web of mesmerising blood-stained knives,
Everyone is scared, phobias acting up,
'why go down?' it says
'when hell is both down and up!'
It grabs a victim,
They scream and shout,
The darkened knives twisting around,
Stabs into their back,
Their brain and heart,
Lifted to the sky, on one of those knives.
'Humanity is broken! None are good!
There are spaces on my web,
For all my food!'
It laughs and grabs all in it's path
Death and murder taken to heart,
But then one is immune,
Glowing bright gold,
'What are you? Move you fool!'
They chuckle and laugh and grab the spider,
"I'm happy." they state, "motivation fuels the fire"
They banish the spider, back up to hell,
The web disappears, a desolate well.
Survivors come out from their places of fear,
Stare at the person, ask him how he did what he did,
"Just tell the thoughts, there is nothing to fear."
THRUST AND SLASH
A sword in a scabbard, hung from the belt
For the Teutonic Knights, it costs much geld
Heated and tempered but it does not melt
Most blades are l straight and double sided
Easy to draw as the long blade is guided
To the old Eastern mind, such is derided
The Moorish influence is in Toledo still
With a special steel that is designed to kill
For fancier guardsmen it would fit the bill
A cutlass is curved with cupped brass guard
Designed for slashing when stabbing is hard
But need sharpening if the edge is marred
Knives however, like most daggers, are hid
An arm for a lady to grip, and quietly slid
Ready for determined action, as many did
Some thin to a point, as a poignard will do
But there are other places to find them too
As for a Scot in a sock, that’s a Skean Dhu
'2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 19' entry, 03 Nov 2022. Sponsor=Mark Toney
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