Long Bloodstain Poems
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“Blood in the sacred Valley”- Blood on us
We came as tourists, hearts so wide,
With sandalwood and faith as guide;
To Pahalgam, where rivers sing,
We brought no sword, we wore no ring.
Just saffron threads and folded hands,
A hope to touch our sacred lands;
But prayers were drowned by bullets’ cry,
And mountains watched our children die.
They struck from shadows, masked in hate,
As if our birth could seal our fate;
In name of God they claim, they kill,
But what God drinks from blood that spills?
The chadar fell, the bangles broke,
The incense died beneath the smoke;
And silence swallowed all our names,
But not the memory, nor the flames.
O brothers lost in sacred land,
Your ashes mix with Kashmir’s sand.
But from that dust, we rise and say,
You did not fall in vain that day.
O children lost, O mothers torn,
O sacred blood, unjustly borne;
You were not weak, you were betrayed,
By silence, while the heavens swayed.
But grief is not a chain, it’s flame,
And fire remembers every name;
We carry sorrow in our eyes,
But in our hearts, the phoenix flies.
This pain won’t pass, nor should it rest,
For justice lives within the chest;
Each tear a blade, each breath a vow,
You struck us then, we rise up now.
We are not stone, we break, we burn,
But still we rise, and still return;
For every soul they tried to take,
Ten thousand more shall now awake.
Kashmir, you cradle both our pain,
And courage drawn from each bloodstain;
We grieve, we rage, we will not bend,
This fire within will never end.
Written Apr 23, 2025
© Dr Upma A. Sharma
Deeply touched by massacre of innocent Hindus in Pahalgam valley in Kashmir on apr 22, 2025 by Muslim terrorists
The Stalker
She sat quietly in her cottage house
I tried to be silent, not to rouse
She was who she was, serene and my darkest luscious dream
Her heart may be broken, her desires were my theme
A princess from the Celtic isles
I had no words, only wishes
Why if she’d have asked Id have done even the dishes
I followed her heart, soon she shall know
I will disappear like the wind, or ask her to throw
Holding hearts of the ancients in Aix en Provence
I entered her room, like a thousand years before
With a fire burning brightly in my skies
I hold in my hand, my heart, that beats and cries
She saw the depth of the sadness in me eyes
Sword of the Celt, in the river of Loire
I knew her as a girl in a dream long ago
A ghost whom I buried and forever let go
Wasn’t sure she would sense it was me
Running away for love, longing to be set free
Would she long for me now? Would she open her heart?
Darling, with a kiss a new life we shall chart
The battle cry of a lovers pain, drowned with bloodstain
===
A princess from the Celtic isles
Holding hearts of the ancients in Aix en Provence
Sword of the Celt, in the river of Loire
The battle cry of a lovers pain, drowned with bloodstain
The room goes cold and dark
My wife stands over me
The bloodstain leaves the telling mark
Oh why, oh why, could I never see
I truly loved her so
Deep inside I was broken
If only she could know
How the demon was woken
I was just little a boy
My father towering tall
For every scattered toy
His heavy hand would fall
When I became a man
I found a loving wife
And taught her with a firm hand
A woman's place in life
With every strike I threw
The boy inside would cry
But what was I to do
I never questioned why
As the blood pooled round me
And I heard her sobbing cries
Was my love so hard to see
As I slowly closed my eyes
Never would I beat my child
The way that he beat me
His mighty fists swung wild
On a little boy of three
I beat my loving wife
Now here my life does fade
I pray oh Lord, a good life
To her and my unborn babe
My life slowly ebbs away
I take her hand in mine
Words of love I cannot say
I hope she'll know in time
With every bottle that I drank
The boy in me would drown
Deeper and deeper the pain sank
Till the memory could not be found
I had turned into my father
A weak and hate filled man
Tormented by anger
A sad and weary man
Drink could not remove the pain
Now, as life flowed out of me
Pooling in a crimson stain
I knew that she had set me free
Acres and acres of barren land.
The dried tumbleweeds roll across the open field,
their roots dry and uprooted.
The quiet cotton field where slavery once beckoned,
the sounds of voices chanting,
the saloon where the taps flowed like blood through their veins,
the missuses with long skirts and huge hats—
a young miss sitting on the knee of some foolhardy lass.
The sheriff across the way,
a hand on his hip, meaning business.
The smell of warm bread lingers in the air from the bakery,
the blacksmith, hammer in hand,
striking the hot iron on the wood stove.
Memories of ancestors and fool’s gold remain in the dark.
The fine line that was drawn is still visible in the sand,
along with the bloodstain, now a faint shade of pink,
telling a story of the law against the outlaws.
The onslaught that ensued had turned the town into a war zone,
makeshift graves and wooden crosses everywhere,
a place where man no longer exists.
A battle of wills with no surrenders,
the legacy now silence,
marked in stones scribbled in red.
Years of neglect; now it feels like a ghost town,
the empty years and the signs that are left are part of the history.
In the distance, the sound of life; there’s the silhouette of a horse and buggy.
Inside, a little family—the new settlers.
The father jumps down at the line in the sand.
A boy of six, with dirty suspenders, squeals with delight
as his father, with sweat running down his face,
hammers the sign in the ground.
The hope of a new beginning is felt in the air.
You hear the faint sound of a baby crying,
the mother shushing
as she reads the simple wording:
In Marked Territory
1889
Population: 9
I had some terrible dark times in life,
my soul stabbed with a sharp knife;
in a sad, dismal place,
with no staircase.
I was just lost,
my soul frost.
I was tattered but I still had heart,
my kindness never did depart;
I still had compassion,
and writing passion;
that saved me,
set me free.
I am able to write about my pain,
and I pen words that bloodstain;
I just started life again,
strength is my gain.
And so I write,
ink on white.
_____________________
December 21, 2017
Poetry/Rhyme/Ink on White
Copyright Protected, ID 17- 867-832-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Best Rhyming Poem of 2017
sponsor, John Hamilton
Fifth Place
Aw shucks, I did sustain
moderately serious injury
series of unfortunate events
ludicrous and quite insane,
yours truly did previously explain
while crouching (think
Tony as papier mâché Tiger),
aye fell backward, where sharp
desktop corner didst train
ground zero right side rib cage domain
punched thru L.L. Bean Autumn jacket
zapped, tattooed, lacerated... bloodstain
proof positive bow tocks sing
arrowing, fletching, notching,
piercing, searing targeting ... pain
prestidigitation went awry
courtesy "fake" legerdemain,
yours truly incapacitated plain
vanilla and simple
found me mortally slain,
more tortuous than spelunking thru
eye of needle size tunnel,
no bigger than sand grain,
and/or trumpeted by suzerain
arrogant, boastful, contemptuous...
arid, barren, cerebrally desolate brain,
a definitive liability,
(not just from Ukraine
stormy din yelled brouhaha), profane
but..., I wholeheartedly ascertain,
the commander in chief
an absolute zero inane
purpose twittering acrimonious, disdain
calamitous, egregious, gangrenous..., arcane
rumbustious, venomous,
zealous... carte blanche
bigoted, misogynistic, racist..., inhumane
blathering, excoriating, insulting...
seeding, planting, muckraking... dogbane
demanding obeisance till
henchmen verstehen
unwittingly declaring himself
jejune bloodhound August huss
preening, primping, proofing
orange-blond mane
more attentive to applying
gray matter to strain
Midas coated self
important fiery propane
verbal quid pro quo
explosions inevitably spray'n,
nothing but antisemitism, barbarism,
demagoguery, hatred...
diatribes roiling the masses
til rabid rantings attain
intolerant decibel threshold
usurping totalitarian refrain.
So it turns out we were cooked on slow burner until now and
the new mutant catches us by fire -- doctors must be going
through catechism drill, we 're bred to their natural trust.
Ah venomous serpent, wretch you, we shall one day build a
monument for the millions you swallowed up with words, lost to a
lunatic virus, the demon of our day that swung us to disaster, gone
is the splendor of healthy living, farewell, farewell. We must throw ourselves
a thousand shades of light, a mantle stiff with eagle talons that sink in the skin
of the innocent. The bloodstain laurels of a stalemate until the vaccine works it magic and the hour comes rasping to our hopes, not the temper tantrums of a mutating virus locked in its horizon. I greatly fear, regardless of the vaccine, the rising heat in its kitchen!
(This piece is dedicated to those innocent youths gunned down inside institutes of learning, by guns improperly regulated, and utilized by cold, heartless entities who committed these crimes without an iota of guilt or remorse. It is also a bold criticism to those lawmakers who are just as frigid and have done nothing about it and are more concerned about political contributions going to their coffers).
Clarity Of Purpose
Adolescents prodding elders for elucidations responded to evasively
Probing Machiavellian faces heralding scathing biases superciliously
Hindered and challenged fiercely resisting like the endangered tiger
Opposing mortal greed searching for answers revitalizing will power
Bullets impale youths with weapons running rampant on the streets
Second amendment used as shield whilst corpses bloodstain sheets
Talking heads blatantly blamed mental disorder as the sole offender
While the fragmented system of law abandons to uphold a defender
Mired in the abyss of ambiguity noble objectives negates doomsday
Induced by human instincts defying monsters lurking along the way
The mind ponders are they worth venerating if they conceal disgust
Clarity of purpose stained with wicked machination morph into dust
Written:
02-05-2018
Galveston Cruise Terminal
Texas, USA
Our story began behind bars with the broken,
Displaying our armor with truths left unspoken.
Through the gates each day, our counselor hats on,
Where pain wore a face, and hope felt long gone.
You, with your wisdom and counselor’s grace,
Me, burnt out but still showing my face.
We stitched up souls with words and care,
In a world where few even knew we were there.
"Eight and the gate" rang like a drum in our chest,
Till we traded our keys for a long-needed rest.
No longer confined, our world opened wide,
With pups at our heels and friends by our side.
Bella, a farting cutie with sass to spare,
Jack Dangles—cutest dude anywhere,
Ollie, judging all with a skeptical eye,
And mine, loyal, wild, barking at the sky.
We measured our days in tail wags and sparks,
And found light in our dogs when the world turned dark.
You’re my news anchor, my human rant,
My “yes you can” when I swear I can’t.
We share stories and snacks and fried calamari,
And laugh till we wheeze like a nursing home party.
You’re blue as the sky, I’m red underneath,
But we cry the same tears from sorrow and grief.
We talk of the world—no judgment, no shame,
Different opinions, but hearts just the same.
You bring the fire, and I bring the “me,
”?You rage at the news with raw clarity.
(You really should join that Trump-haters squad—
They’d give you a mic and a standing applaud.)
When the world gets too heavy, we know what to do—
Dogs, snacks, the news, and a cry or two.
You’ve saved me from drowning more than you know,
With sarcasm, love, and that fierce Jewish glow.
You check in with care that never feels fleeting—
Usually starting with, “Hey… what you eating?”
You’re braver than you’ll ever admit,
Still fighting each day with your sharp, clever wit.
You ache in the places that scream in the night,
But you rise. You stay. You still fight.
I’m twelve percent Jewish, I love to remind—
Which explains why I cry and complain all the time.
You yell “Borscht!”—I say, “What’s that mean
”You sigh, “Oh hush, just eat something green.”
You’re my friend beyond what words can explain—
Through doctor reports and every bloodstain.
If life’s a long walk with no real map,
I’m glad it’s with you—nap by nap.
We’re still here. We’re still us.
Still wrapped in dog fur, still raising a fuss,
Partners in crime—chaos, a must.
I was scolding you
You were a 4-year-old
sitting in a big chair
at the dining room table
hunched over your copybook
the pencil in your hand
held straight, halting, looking lost
as you dragged the tip across the page
that has turned into a minefield
because one more misstep
another dot out of place
would set off a new explosion
projectiles masquerading as words
from the mouth of the preoccupied father
sitting next to you
not wanting to be sitting next to you
begrudging the time
Then I saw it
onto a blank spot on the page
a solitary teardrop lands
as if in slow motion
splatters
spreads
a translucent bloodstain on gauze
I don’t know if you remember it.
I certainly do.
Will.