Long Bludgeoned Poems
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The candles are extinguished today and the crucifix covered in black
for the One whos life was once bludgeoned with ignorance and greed
As He readied for heaven, he took each heavy Pontus whack
for sake of a world that could not accept nor believe, His Holy Creed
Some repented while others shouted profanities and ignored His tears
as He carried the Cross towards His final resting place, He slowly wept
the sky, grueling dark unbending, did not shed the rain nor smear
while His laced up sandals walked the sand without God's intercept
"But If I, With The Finger Of God," He once implied before he died
but this was not to be, for the Son of God belonged to man's transfix
He walked through throngs and herds as he closed the great divide
they watched, as clustered Halos grew around His bloodied Crucifix
But If I, With The Finger Of God could wipe away His pain
be more then just a writer recalling His death with ink and quill
The world would be changed as I know it, and He would Reign
Yes He is the One who died but also, the One they could not kill.
Charlotte was never really enamoured with her mother.
So, when the news that she had been bludgeoned 17 times with a baseball bat didn't really faze her.
Charlotte was never enamoured with her father.
So, when the news that he had fallen 20 stories from his high rise flat still in his wheelchair didn't really faze her.
Charlotte was never really enamoured with her brother.
So, when the news that he had been run over 23 times by his own car, didn’t really faze her.
Charlotte was never really enamoured with her sister.
So, when the news came through that she had been electrocuted in her bath, it didn’t really faze her.
Charlotte was really fazed when she found out her parents had left all their money to the local cat sanctuary.
Charlotte actually liked cats.
Charlotte was never really enamoured with the cat sanctuary owner.
So, the news that she had been tortured to death didn’t really faze her.
Charlotte definitely wasn't enamoured by the Judge, who jailed her for a hundred years, calling her the devil incarnate.
This fazed her profoundly.
Charlotte escaped from jail six months later.
The Judge was slightly stunned when the gavel hit his head.
Ninety-nine hits later, one for every year she would have served, Charlotte reminded the Judge, smashing his head to a pulp.
This didn’t really faze Charlotte.
Charlotte is still at large, and after an intensive police search state wide, is still on the run.
Charlotte will be back at some stage, I’m sure.
People seem enamoured by her.
Don't transfix me with a gaze that shakes
my complacency and threatens to resurrect
feelings I let die--actually bludgeoned to death—
eons ago.
Don't speak to me in that seductive tone,
reminding me that I am flesh, not a well-oiled
machine. Don't touch me with demanding hands
that seek the warmth and fulfillment I can't,
or won't, provide.
A final warning:
If you must try to summon forth a dead or
dormant thing, do so not simply for the challenge
of conquest.
Awakened things must be nurtured.
Posted October 16, 2017
October 29, 2018, entered in Julia Ward's contest--Favorite Free Verse
from October or November 2017
Entered in Brian Strand's Contest
It was never her choice,
to be into the red gallows.
Body sold in the witching hour,
forsaking her hemorrhaged soul,
she moves on.
Twitching in pain,
trembling limbs,
scars of yesterday’s lust,
squashing the very being out of her,
yet she bounces back in the morning.
A wife and a mother,
her own choice,
her only aberration,
falling in love with a man,
who placed her under the red light,
with harrowing nights.
Just for the livelihood of her family,
which her man should have given,
she sold herself every day.
The lusty eyes,
that could have grazed upon the innocent,
she cools that lust off,
at the cost of her nights.
Today she is at crossroads,
her man being bludgeoned to death.
She ran from one hospital to another,
with her mate writhing in pain.
God – speed said few of her clan,
from the crimson gallows.
Succumbed he did,
with the setting sun.
Disowned by society,
and now by protectors of law too,
She stood there perplexed.
Benumbing silence engulfed her,
She held two arms tight,
better or worse life would enfold,
unaware, unperturbed she stood there,
a defying silence,
chilling the soul.
It was not her choice,
to be pushed into the red gallows,
now with two innocent souls,
walking along by her side,
On these roads!
@Chitra Arun
May 2022
Hungary 1956
The innocent flowers peered gingerly
Through the stench in the iron pavement
Hesitating, then stretching the petals greedily
To drink of the sunlight of Possibility...
Czechoslovakia 1968
Beaming, grinning, grown men giddy with laughter
Liberty unleashed! Gone Repression's manacles
Now marching, shouting, swelling to a gale force
Unstoppable, sweeping aside all resistance in her path...
Happy Endings
...When, bludgeoned by cement-faced tanks
Petals ducking inward, collapsing
Pistils and stamens suffocating
Vanished smiles annihilated
Choked on oxygen-depleted
Placards of Freedom unbetrothed...
...All the flowers died...
...All the people withered...
...Crushed -- oh-so --Happily --ever --after
So much has been left
in ruins by last night's storm -
shredded leaves,
amputated branches,
proud, ancient trees toppled,
uprooted and ripped
from their height.
The sad remains
of a bird’s nest laying
clumped in broken
egg shells, new life
now no more than strands
of gooey lint.
The mind winces
at the waste,
the loss of order, beauty
bludgeoned to a pulp.
This is the dark side
of creation, the endless
cycle of destruction
and rebirth. Reason stalls
before the fact.
Just think, massive stars
were blown apart
for the stuff to make
you and me - consciousness
was born out of the womb
of a cosmic catastrophe.
A solitary kernel for lack of succoring nurture aggrieved
From sun's warm caresses seasonally bereaved
With wind's chilling strides constantly plucked, heaved
Lying on fallowed ground whose cloak now desleaved
With frigid mantle over frostbitten spine weaved
Nutrient-rich pores of their cultivating provender relieved
As brittle husk to its fibrous moorings tightly cleaved
So coarse grains to earthen crevices, pockets sheathed
Dormant, but from bludgeoned shell will not secede
Nor Summer's bountiful harvest deed
A sparse, unfurnished bed temporarily bequeathed
Until providentially-rendered elements have new life breathed
Still yet, creator hath numbered all and due rations perceived
Until Spring's availing tides have Winter's corroded channels reprieved
And life's, generating tenants from their frozen prisons freed
*Image of The 27 Club by Wiki.
Enclosed Rhyme Sonnet: The 27 Club
A painted desert from a simple stone,
Act sans, singer storms, own closeted world,
Head o'er heels life strung noose tied to be whirled,
A dispersal sorts of the world well known.
Up versus downscale, winner takes it all,
a marginal few knew, a world of shock,
cycle bludgeoned to a paradox,
'tis headlines for papers always printed small.
Number two is "new," seven "beginnings."
struggles one's outreach midst angels that call,
sorry wrong number as one lost cause fall,
home runs to strikeouts, no extra innings,
Twenty-seven club, dying to get in,
If membership's denied, just keep smilin'.
2022 August 27
*3rd Place*
the 27 club
~~Anthony Biaanco: Judged 2022 September 27
"Nobody ever forgets where he buried the hatchet."
Kin Hubbard
How many times must I feel the pain
of your bludgeoned weapon?
The hatchet you often throw at my back
causing a hurt so deeply profound that
it buries itself all the way to my heart
wounding me to the depth of my soul.
If you've forgotten where you left
that blade, just look into my eyes
and you'll find it in each tear I've cried.
They've become rapids in a salty river.
Follow them and you'll find its burial place.
It's there, embedded in the frown I wear.
The one you see when you laugh at me.
The one your hand throws when I speak.
My smiles disappeared long ago...
when I became a target for your weapon.
You know exactly where your hatchet lies.
But you won't look me in the eye
to retrieve it, will you?
Coward, that's what you are.
October 17, 2020
Quotable Poetry Contest
Regina McIntosh~Sponsor
Dark and sweltering This is my den.
Sky above is clear, stars are in my reach.
Many they are like sand on the beach.
When I leap and they will be mine?
Stretch the neck to peak above the brim.
No obstructions or barriers in my way.
Leap I will, this is my day.
Down goes my neck from the blow.
Where is this force derived?
Let me be, to reach and leap.
Let me be for my walls are not steep.
Can't I break free?
Gathering my strength I attempt to fly.
I will leap high in the sky and feel.
In my mind my goals are set like steel.
What is that agonizing tug at my hind?
My tail pinned by a weight: Back I fall.
My eyes see they stepping on the tuft of my tail.
Lamenting, "do not go for you cannot sail".
Who is it that can hold me back?
Pushing, prying, turning I must break free.
Surrounded no more I jump high.
Again my head is hit, I can only sigh.
Why do You let him beat at me?
Curling up I can sleep, safe and warm.
I can see them but I cannot touch them.
I cannot touch them, yet I am forced to see them.
Bludgeoned from above: Detained from below
I am war, aren't I?