Long Blindfolded Poems
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"Puzzle Stomped"
Pieces scattered
placed on a table
with boundaries
between
the incarcerated margins
there are strict conditions
Time drips
its wet connection
each piece a stair fitted
imperfectly
perfect
towards upwards
new mirror reflection
a cracked heart piercing
the tear with savage dedication
behind her veil
the known Morpheus assails
her compromised senses
holding her captured
behind the external view
eyes blindfolded
the blue sashes now let loose
opening green windows to
free the redressed vicissitudes
to undress the crisp breeze of her
monk chanting wake
a new phantom arrives caressing secrets
gambled on a fresh Delius
composing his unfinished symphony
he’s looking for her singular notes
Somewhere,
he stands behind her
sharp as a needle,
cutting tall poppy
each step she takes
towards her freedom gate
In his hands he cups
the hidden
missing piece
The sewing of pages
she continues to bind
in her sleep
along a strong spine
turning and folding stories
uncommon ne'er sublime
their spelt magic
grows majestically spoilt
seeded from a sweet perfume
conducting intoxicating notes
stories flying black-winged
off all the slippery knaves
and wax-sealed pages
like ebony feathers
mummerating starlings
turn into suffocating
dream stealing
king crows smiling maces
She the Smythsewer
laying tenuous imprints
for a new road home
He the myth Beyond
shakes the game board
peace in pieces, a long forgotten song
the chance card thrown
the blanket of romance
thundering over a stormy mind grows
patch worked with glassed-in
jarred ghost bees, the old
puzzle of a story stomped on
He places his feet
firmly between hers
closing in on time
Beyond takes her hand
And sensually whispers
along all her fairest fears
sweeping all pieces off her
tattered story board
fallen irretrievable
forgotten
left lacking
on the harsh floor
Cum dederit
dilectis suis somnum,
Ecce haereditas
to the tune of fate
there is so much more
the words are sewn and sung
the child in time fled
long gone, as if all was pure fantasy
destiny arrives supernaturally too soon
Time for a new story
He says darkly
and swiftly closes
Past’s door.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
I was cursed with ink
intoxicating blank canvases
with toxic scribbles,
releasing twisted tales
of suppressed troubles.
I was a forsaken ebony rose
in satan's grasp,
kneeling on ungodly needs
in a gothic fortress
of woeful odes,
surrounded by black knights
and colorless blossoms,
searching for legitimate sestinas
and versatile villanelles
to ignite my quill to bleed
without semantic barriers.
Swaying like a pendulant,
on the edge between
light and darkness,
resembling midnight's
black ice queen,
I thirsted for a
universal prophecy.
A poet who would engrave
perennial verses upon my
discoloured healing heart.
To paint antique stones,
during sunless days
in a moonless kingdom.
A calligraphic catharsis,
adorning the sincere crown
of an imperial ivory king,
whose angelic voice
glitters like gems,
soothing insensitive beating drums
within my pondering pensive mind.
A majestic master of his quill,
reviving poetic intimacy,
fusing his musings
deep inside untouched chambers
with an unscratched itch,
of my undanced fandango.
F a t e has a way for
versifiers to assimilate.
From the first drop
of his couplet,
he had my tongue
rhyming to the rhythm
of his unspoken lyrics.
Now, I am a slave to
what I have become.
Handcuffed and blindfolded
by preserved petals
between perfumed pages
written from the tip of his
magical wand like fingers.
I am weaving crystal quartz
words in witching hours,
whilst he pours dulcet musings
incensed in white sage
over my rustic bronze silhouette,
as I am his willing mistress:
a submissive subservient pawn
to his silent slavery.
Throned in intricately carved
prose and poetry,
where monochrome strokes
of thin lines no longer perish.
There’s no need for a sorcerer
when his sentimental sonnets
are an addictive elixir.
I am deliriously comatose
and chained in piercingly
euphoric sagas of his saccharine soul.
Even Lilith seized the moment
to behold what belonged to her
In the name of infatuated love.
So this is me, stealing
scented seeds
sown along parallel paradigms
of his rightful Parnassian paradise,
d r o w n i n g in
metaphorical monograms,
leaving memoirs of a poetess~
seething glitters and gold
reborn from the depths of
a savior that saved
me from burnt chapters
of darkest oblivion.
Selected by the swift sound of hand to shoulder blade,
The bells upon their ankles sounded like seven trumpets
to me. I had been a chosen sheep among the Shepherd’s flock.
Lead me my Pharisees, I wish to see feel the glee in following
the Lamb within me.
The weight of my new necklace, crudely crafted of twine and timber,
swayed in a schism'd rhythm between my shins
bruises born from my steadfast faith. For I have never fasted
Before, all there was in my Ziploc bag was a single raw egg,
Two slices of wonderbread, three matches with no book.
I heard fireflies bounce in the air between my ears,
I could not see, you see I was blindfolded, but I felt no fear.
The marching sounds stopped, balsam trees surrounded me
and the rest of the chosen tribe.
Night befell the evening, the stars jumped and danced for me
For the Lord thy God in the midst of thee is mighty, His strength
flowed like the river Jordan in my veins. I had no chains.
Never had I felt grace like this before.
We awoke with gnats in our nose, centipedes between our toes
We arose, and our trials we must undergo.
Silence is the sound of our worship, broken by the
wood bashing between our bitten legs.
The kindling was wet, the bread was stale,
forging for food in the raspberry bushes, hunger flashed
in front of my eager eyes.
Memorize second Corinthians, some stories
I no longer care to remember. I felt the splinters
in my shins, the twine singed the hairs of my neck.
The breeze swung between the leaves and sung chants
that worshiped the King amongst kings.
The counselor crept out of the brush, and with
immense embarrassment I flushed
any of the chances of becoming one of the chosen few.
I could not immerse myself within the verses.
His eyes struck disappointment deep into my gut,
his knife drawn I knew I was cut.
The log crashed to the ground like lightning, the
twine left my skin red and raw. It felt like the
sting of a thousand roses thrust upon my nape.
My cross was no longer mine to bear, it was the end
I didn’t care.
I didn’t care.
I didn’t care.
I descended from the shining hill, back to
the cabins and basketball nets. I had failed.
There is a creek I will never wade, never cross,
I drowned in my disdain, my faith may be lost.
Another camper, another kid, lost in the flock
of the Shepherd’s failed kin.
Every morning, I steal longing glances at the most spellbinding creature I have ever cast my two eyes upon,
Her skin is pale and lifeless, wearing a peculiar looking amulet draped across her neck,
I cannot help myself to stare, as she engulfs her lunch meat in only a few vicious bites like some sort of evil spawn,
Whenever I cross her path, I feel like a deer in headlights; turning into a nervous wreck.
Her alluring features of dark hazel eyes and fire truck red lips call to me from across the office,
At the call of my name, I scamper towards my desire like a cowardly pup,
My heart begins to pound out of my chest, her pointed ears perk up and I remain cautious,
With music to my ears she exclaims, “You are my date to the Halloween office party tonight,’ I just thought I would give you the heads-up.”
With long black finger nails, she carves her address into the palm of my hand,
I glance down at the blood oozing out of my fresh wounds and she playfully smirks,
With a sloppy lick from her magnificent tongue the wound seals and I am ready to give her a wedding band,
The fiery hot blood I feel thrashing around in my veins every time I touch her, feels like exploding fireworks.
That night, I arrive at the address that may potentially scar my soft tender flesh,
Before I can knock, a clawed hand grips me tight lugging me into the front hall,
I am immediately blindfolded and I hear her deep growl, “My dear, I just need a moment to refresh.”
The room is cool and damp, I scurry to remove the blindfold to become aware of my surroundings above all.
Unfortunately to my defeat, I hear the jingle and sharp pull back of chains restraining me to the stone wall,
The warm breath and droplets of fallen drool on the back of my neck make me shriek,
Not a soul can hear the disgraceful, desperate cries and pleas I begin to call,
Now I know why people say to never date your monster of a co-worker, as she kisses my cheek.
I flail and bash my arms and legs trying to desperately swing and knock her off her feet,
I feel her filthy nails ripping into my chest,
In a soft growl she mentions something about my blood being sweet,
With a deafening howl the horrid situation puts my body to rest.
September 25, 2018
Scary or Spooky poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
6th Place
The food was indeed, Greek.
My first Greek Frappe!
A most divine, heavenly treat.
Gods must have created this.
So far beyond good!
In gigantic glasses,with ice chips.
It was as good as an Ouzo on the rocks!
The Festival on Saturday was terribly
overcrowded,
I wanted to leave,before it started.
Fashion in the USA,no kidding has truly
grown retarded!
I like seeing men as men, not dressed as
obese 13 year old boys, sporting baseball
caps.
And the beauty of women?
Tossed away like toys, now women
only dress as boys?
My years are catching up with me,
I must hearedtdly admit.
I wanted to run from an American
culture that is so far from fashion
phenomenally adrift!
Like buffalo we were overcome with
the most fashionably unfit.
I sat with my daughter drinking a
Frappe.
And my only thought was how soon
and how fast we could get away!
I lost my appetite to eat with American
bisons!
With god-ugly toes jutting out of
cheap, plastic flip-flops.
Fat leaping out of obnoxious holes on
jeans of 300 pound women?
Ah, kill me now and let me go to
heaven!
I lost my appetite to eat midst this
hellish plethora of dirty feet.
And hair from hell to top off this
ungodly, human feat.
Then came beautiful girls, their
arms skewed with tattoos so ugly.
My desire to escape hit me much
more than suddenly.
I did have a Pastitsio, that was
yummy!
Just had to keep my eyes off the
volcanic, bulging tummies.
Thank goodness there were not
many children there!
Their mothers, the size of German
tanks would have squashed them
into instant mummies!
I did buy an icon of Christos and
Panayiota holding her child
Both in a carved wooden case.
Now this brought a smile to my
face!
And a turquoise evil-eye bracelet
with crystals, to ward off any
future toe and bison disgrace!
Greek bread we brought to take
home.
I swore up and down to never
leave my home, to roam.
Greek cookies, Kourabiedes,
and Greek bread, seemed to
calm my confused head.
Perhaps, going on a Saturday
was the worst possible choice.
Maybe I can go blindfolded next
year and hush my voice?
Or not go at all?
Still have PTSD, after what I
always previously I experienced
as a yearly treat.
It once was like going to a ball!
September 10, 2029
The attendees were not Greeks.
Form:
In the twilight hum of broken cities,
where glass teeth bite the smog-choked sky,
I walked—a stranger to my own time—
past dreams rusted in neon haze.
"This is the kingdom we made,"
whispered the wind through hollow streets,
"not with love, but with longing unfulfilled."
---
I. The Circle of Shattered Masks
Faces gleamed in fractured mirrors—
perfect, painted, pixel-deep.
Beneath the glass:
eyes dull as drought,
lips sewn with threads of trend.
They dance to rhythms of curated lives,
each step a scroll,
each breath a borrowed dream.
Here walk the hollow, the desperate to be seen,
trapped between reflection and reality.
---
II. The Market of Broken Promises
Silver tongues shout from golden towers,
selling futures already stolen.
Coins drip with sweat and sorrow—
the cost of hope traded for hunger.
A merchant, crowned with digital thorns,
whispers: "Buy immortality. Cheap today."
But the ground beneath him crumbles
into oceans rising, hungering for land.
"All wealth returns to the dust,"
carved on collapsing walls.
---
III. The Garden of Artificial Eden
Steel roots twist from concrete soil;
trees bloom with screens instead of leaves.
A woman made of glass sits beneath them,
her fingers tapping prayers into code.
"We built paradise," she sighs,
"but forgot the soul."
Silicon flowers flicker,
their light too cold to warm.
---
IV. The Chamber of the Last Oracles
Silent prophets, blindfolded, sit in rows,
wired to endless streams of data.
Their lips part, but only static spills—
truth drowned in the noise of the network.
"Is this wisdom?" I asked.
But my guide traced a circle in the dust
where answers should have been.
---
V. The Hollow Throne
At the journey’s end—a throne of ash,
raised high on promises unkept.
No king, no queen—only a crown
resting on emptiness.
And the wind whispered again:
"This is how the reign ends,"
"Not with a cry of power, but with silence reclaimed."
---
Epilogue: Between Light and Shadow
So the world turns in quiet descent,
from gold to ash, from dream to dust.
For in this twilight of longing and loss,
the hollow inherit the earth:
Not with fire, not with flood—
but with the slow fading of light
and the soft sigh of things undone.
Ballet of Death
As trumpets prepare emotions
This sordid art knows well
My hooves stomp impatiently
Raising clouds of dust
Enshrouding my entrance
With shouts and whistles
A crowd's tense moments
Engulf this gladiator's arena
Demanding courage and blood
Far away
The grassy hills
Of his Ganaderias estate
Stands my sire
Now out to pasture
Erect and proud
Amidst sadness retirement brings
Once close to arena fame
Determined better as stud
He raises his head
The air has changed
He knows the scent of fear
The distance it can travel
He scrapes the ground
The matador awaits the pageantry
I shoulder my pen bars
Holding back muscled power
Energy primed for destruction
My challenger readies his cape
I squint at the sun through dusty air
A beast's freedom that might have been
Were not this
My first time
Most likely
My last time
Such brutal grandeur awaits
Stage one Banderilleros
Astride proud mounts
Parading to applause
Preparing to tempt my will
Their colorful presence
To test my vision
The picadors await stage two
Armed with lance
Saddled atop padded and blindfolded steeds
Ready to break my will
What will their first piercing feel like?
Will my neck be numb for the rest
Or will it but set afire my zeal to live?
Banderilleros anticipate stage three
Their barbed banderillas
Flag-like with colored local papers
Held ready to weaken my neck further
My loins tremble with hope
Knowing my destiny is to charge
Expend my energy
Then... trample my own blood
As the magnificent matador and I
Perform our finite ballet
This dance of death
My enclosure's bolt is about to be lifted
Soon
Very soon
The matador's flourishing cape
Its crimson and gold tricks of ecstasy
Will swirl about and around
The stoic-faced tempter
Suddenly grinning with anticipation
While soiling himself
The piercing will come
I'll not allow pain any glory
I will drool
Defecate
Urinate
My legs will buckle
The sword now in my neck
The nerves failing my brain
Blood loss weakening my heart
Suffering passing quickly
I'll at last experience
Man's insane pleasure
My fallen passion
Bathed in blood
Dragged away by rope and horse
So many hours
So many training capes
So many horses taunting me
So many chances to fail into freedom
Chances to be respected
Like my father
Faithful father
I will miss you
No-one knows precisely when the rivalry began;
thirty-two the legend goes; eighteen or nineteen?
It's not clear, nor can it be confirmed.
Apart from once in fifty-nine
For reasons lost in time;
The Fresno Fuzzy Socks
And The Chattahoochee Crocs
Have squared off in heated competition
every year.
The rules; written on a napkin
from the Rutabaga New Cafe,
and framed by Fred the Frame
are simple:
Meet once a year on Labor Day
A team of five (ladies now allowed)
Last years winner host, at their expense;
the loser chooses the new challenge,
with no repeats allowed.
Once volleyball, dodgeball, baseball
And almost anything else you can do
with a ball, bat, feet, head, and arms
Had been exhausted;
The challenges became, let's say;
somewhat bizarre.
In the heat of twenty-nineteen
Snowball fighting was, surprisingly
won by home team, Crocs.
The Fuzzy Socks not anticipating
The commandeering of Carluccio's
Ice truck for the event - nothing in the rules!
The following year the 'Socks
won blindfolded pitch and putt
but by default; when Anna May
Knocked out Birdie Blaire - sliced ball!
Sycnchonised swimming in seventy-three
That was a hoot and nearly came to blows.
A new rule was added,
sorry, not mentioned earlier:
No competitions that require a judgment call!
More work for Fred the Frame.
The events were friendly; usually!
Oh, there was the cheating scandal
when Crocs; accused of entering a ringer;
Big Red Jock McTavish
in the toothpick tossing challenge
had to provide ID and quickly.
Thank you, Photoshop and Kinkos.
Worm charming in sixty-three went to the Fuzzy Socks
Who won again in sixty-four; Toe wrestling,
and sixty-five for Cellphone tossing - bad call.
The Crocs finally broke their winning streak,
when Aldon Ardy; who won Cherry pit spitting,
became a local hero and invented
Aldons pitless cherry pies!
Embarrassments for both abound;
the Crocs lost Rolling in the Grits
and Fuzzy Socks the raisin flicking.
Yet still, they meet each and every year
passing the challenge on
to kids and grandkids too
The Fresno Fuzzy Socks
and The Chatahoochie Crocs.
fuzzy socks and crocs Poetry Contest; honorable mention.
Sponsored by: Francine Roberts
Date wrote: 15-June-2021
Clasping the bed linen
The old woman gasped for breath
And pleaded air to enter into her nostrils
She beseeched before the heavens
To pump back health into her
She sensed the fear of her heart
Embroiled in a war between life and death
The subtle heat of the case
Could be sensed in the air
The courtroom remained silent
Except for the two lawyers who broke the silence
The accused looked at the Lady Justice
Like her even truth was blindfolded
He was innocent and only he knew it
The politics in the state found no scapegoat
Better than him
He was sure he’d be announced guilty
For a crime never committed
Entangled in truth and Lie
He beseeched the heavens to save him
The right leg walked left
And, the left one seeked right
The right hand danced in the air
Whilst the left one caught a cheap beer bottle
With drowsiness robbing his senses
He walked across the crowded road
The drunkard’s carelessness
Threw the people into tantrums
It seemed, as if death pitied him
And halted every time he came closer
To a moving car or motorcycle
Tangled in the web of addiction
He forgot the world everytime
The nectar trickled through his throat
Just like a dry land revives after rain
His tongue revived when the ambrosia flowed on it
The unwanted hand touched her
She stared at a shadow approaching
Towards her in the room
She was forced into prostitution
It brought her money
Enough to feed the members of her family
Torn between dignity and shame
She found no way out
With the decline in the day
The sun reached its resting spot
The cough of the old woman calmed
The court was adjourned and he returned home on bail
The drunkard wobbled back home
The young woman made her way back to home
The four were found sleeping under the same roof
Amidst the four walls that surrounded them
Neither of them had the strength
To admit their day went on well
Yesterday remained the same
Today was the same monotonous one
While future promised no hope of change
Sleep lovingly enwrapped them
And provided them a temporary escape
From their harsh realities
~A Poem That Took A Week Or More To Write~
Scars Left Behind.
Scarred since birth born with a congenital deforming cleft lip
abandoned unacceptable by nobody I don't belong to your
universe I don't belong to be a guest in your domiciles as I am
avoided I don't belong to share a sunrise as I am blindfolded
I don't belong to your beauty parlor as I look repugnant
I don't belong to participate to a party as I am nameless
I don't belong to be present at a birth of a new born banned
to come closer to the mother.
Scars at birth.
My solitude drove me to flee towards one site the lighthouse
stand alone far away far maybe my voice might be heard
begging to be saved from the sufferings on this earth as my
anguish has no end.
My soul will only triumph while waiting for the sun of love
the moon of light the stars that shine I will wait,wait to pick
up the echo of the passing vessels listen to the whisper of
the winds getting windier watch the dark waters drifting off
flowing away blown back towards the shore a farewell leaving
me alone.
Scars till I die
Who shall I belong to? I have no friends its so obscure outside
there is so much stillness around me afraid alone aware of my
shadows disappearance I called for anybody`s support to facilitate
my survival alleviate my pain nobody came I need to rest and allow
my soul to escape who will? who can? who wants to rescue me?
I am tired I was left behind scarred without a mother or father
nor brother or sister I tried but could not save myself.
My soul drifting as I could not belong to someone watch over me
love me feed me talk to me look at me even scarred run with me
when I am old to the harbor before the ship sails but I flawed I had
no strength nobody heard a word everybody ignored me.
Help Me
The ship sailed leaving without my soul because none came to
liberate me I am still homeless and scarred.
Help me to forget help me to survive can anybody do that?
Please.
Therese Bacha
June 26 2013