Long Bruise Poems
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Written: November 19, 2023
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Beyond the ethereal hues, reigns peace,
Incongruous with intrinsic ease.
Noshing desire tugs at the core fibers of my soul,
Wear tiredness bruise, frailty, and out-of-control.
The twinges of awe distort and narrow,
Dazzling me with its emerald harrow.
Crushing the sunlight rays that spread,
Oozing a cruel throb of dryness in my head.
The emptiness hosts sight and sound,
The truth is revealed by my idle ground.
Controversy seeps through my arteries,
Providing a safe haven for my mysteries.
Salt penetrates the skin's surface,
Water waves form in pools as they face.
Sharing the mind wonderful disarray,
So utterly, I'll be in anguish all day!
Life is blasted against the glass akin to sand,
Time is marked by simple, quiet steps stand.
What remains is a barely flickering light,
That is a velvety smear spackled in the sight.
Purple envelope
sealed with dried red grape secrets
folded with ferments
hidden like wine in a cask—
waiting to expunge its words
Purple grape-skins torn
the bruises dark, stinking with hate
postponed and withheld—
seething, fermenting inside,
to pop when eyes are uncorked
Fingers hesitate—
lingering on paper's seam
as if it might bleed
mauve ink, staining memories
with bitter taste of tannin
Who dares to open
the violet-purple skins
threaded like tendrils
curled poised to strike the reader—
staining lips and tongues blood-red
The envelope waits
as a bruise waits for pressure—
purple concealing
the truth of what lies within
with promise and a warning
in a cursed invitation.
Fish flesh ceiling marinades evening in mandarin
Paprika streaks Alaskan sky, an exploded pumpkin
Garish stretch marks bruise tumid buttocks
Jack-o'-lantern flicker silhouettes summits
Door open draught steers me over masts, a compass
North chill Turmeric tingle bitterness burns sun jus
Snuffs frail wick candle into cavern skull sockets
Frigid fuselage discarded from flamboyant firey rocket
Hulls doubled on calm harbour curl fetal forget me not
Petal precious postcard sends rocking sleep to yachts
Resistant pristine peaks poke holes blood gush painful
Ski slid accident on apex restores pale flesh to angel
Pressed panes mist to witness her wings in awe, glory!
Nest of pick up sticks prickle, due dusk warns me
Crept shadows of chalets' thatched porches protect
Navy as battle ships torn apart, needle inks inject
Untold brutal tales of wives battered.
World all over, violated wedding vows,
in merciless kicks, her screams drowse.
Black-eyed Cindrella, dreams all shattered.
Injured love hurts... in horrific nightmare.
Red petals pumelled in dark blood clots.
"Where to go? ",.. endures silent thoughts.
Despair of booze reeks, why life so unfair?
The thrown plate of food.. hurled in his fist
She keeps saving son from the hard slap.
Will there ever be.. an escape from the trap?
Give him another chance,..how can she resist?
Gagged mouth break ribs, heart beats in fear
He will beat her again, knows the wounded wife.
Legs shake, as he threatens a kitchen knife.
Broken things gathered, silence dries her tear
Mildewed minds... in violent homely terror
Scars of bruise all hidden, so well inside a veil
A helpless slave in pain, insecure and frail.
A Taliban is in reign.., can we not rescue her?
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Domestic Violence on women by husbands has been recognized by WHO as a global problem leading to death and injury of millions of women.
Globally, as many as 38% of murders of women are committed by a male intimate partner.Global estimates published by WHO indicate that about 1 in 3 (35%) of women worldwide have experienced either physical and/or sexual intimate partner violence.
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stephen pennell sponsored Contest
Protest poem : A poem with a message
Dated 9th February 2019
My heart burns low
My mind churns aglow
My soul burns high
My spirits fly and die
My desire is so grief-stricken and beautiful
My love’s fire burns on in my lonesome soul
Home is life to the flesh of my bewildered bosom
Alone is strife — guitar strings begin to strum
Woeful and guilty of what lies ahead
Strange things go through my head
Dread hangs me with a lowly noose
Instead, it leaves me with a bruise
I am, I am, I am
God’s long-lost lamb
I am a broken dam
Angrier than a ram
I am, I am, I am
His child, but lost in sham
I am an unspoken word unheard of in this land of you-will-eventually-understand
I am an absurd bird in the sand…I am a band without instruments — so out of hand
I am stronger than I realize and I’m glad I made a stand
To stay by your side, holding on to Your right hand
Of course, who can claim to be my lover
Eternally wedded to him I am, in the form of a prayer
That is you, only you, powerful Lord
Revered you shall be as long as I can breathe your word!
Seated on the highest altar of my heart
Forever you shall be the ladies' sweetheart
Even if the guys will want their friendship's part
My lover forever you shall be in your tender heart
Feelings are profuse,
You have been my only muse
Lighting up at all times my fuse
Tending all the times to my bruise
Blissful are those seated near the Lord
Guiding them he is, always away from discord
Pray, altruist Lord, Love me endlessly
I am yours incessantly, claims my harmony
Placed 6th in the contest Endless Love;Gail Doyle
She is eighteen and tattoos are the latest rage." I'd like a tattoo please" she asks. I see a young girl in a messy ponytail and wonder if she'll pick something gaudy, then I will have to oblige.
The boldness of youth
can appear so uncouth
yet reveal so much truth.
"I want a tattoo of a winter vine. One that won't fade with time" As the machine begins to “buzz” the armature bar hits the coil and I begin to work. Stretched on her upper arm I notice the discoloration of skin, a slow petering bruise.
Eyes color of snake
she is all heartache
I take a break...
"Why did you choose a vine?" I ask, as the coil tattoo gun soothes her ears. "Last memory of my mom is from a trip to the winery. She told me the sap sinks into the roots and the vine falls asleep until the next year.
the tendril climbs
this is her time
not mine
From her handbag, fifty old crumpled dollar bills. " How much do I owe?" she asks. I say " No charge." She smiles and then leaves, as if on cue...
The evening stars were gone, replaced
by a spreading, ominous purple bruise of cloud.
When the wind rose, in sudden violent
crisscrossing gusts, everything went into motion.
White cabanas shook, like staked swans
flapping to fly, lavender bushes thrashed
their thorny arms as if in panic, umbrella pines
creaked and writhed like tethered balloons.
Lightning lit the winding, stony stairs, like ornamental
neon lights, as we’d run up the path from the beach.
Shockwaves of thunder accompanied the flashes
- there was no lag - the storm was there and upon us.
We were laughing and screaming, like children
chased through a dark Halloween funhouse.
The first, fat drops of rain popped behind us,
like a giant’s, arrhythmic, snapping fingers.
As we reached the open, French, louvered doors,
that led from our suite down to the shoreline,
we body-slammed them against the tempest.
And braced them fully closed with our backs, as if to vilify the
natural courses of wind and rain with an animal will to break in.
The lashing monsoon heralded our urgent, stormy union.
We were like the storm - insistent, wild and untamed.
All was revealed on that flashing, tempestuous night
as need, euphoria and lightning lit the naked night
.
.
A song for this:
Walk Between Raindrops by Donald Fagen
Hurricane Waters by Citizen Cope
All beings have purpose—
even the moth that beats itself bloody
against the porch light,
even the man who sleeps in his truck
with the windows cracked to breath fresh air.
Only the good shall know the good light,
but they know it the hard way—
through the bruise of loving,
through the weight of staying,
through the work of choosing mercy
when rage would be easier.
Anything evil knows only death and the dark,
the narrow rooms of itself,
the echo of its own footsteps,
the hunger that no meal ever fills.
Everyone deserves a loving family—
a place where their name is spoken
the way bread is broken,
where their body is not a burden,
where their tears are not an embarrassment,
where their fear is not laughed at.
Can you look in the mirror and not turn away,
not from the scar,
not from the soft place,
not from the child you still are,
standing there asking
to be held?
Can a tree shade the bush full of green leaves,
can a tree full of fruit bend low enough
to feed the ones who cannot climb?
Yes—if it remembers it was once a seed,
if it remembers the dark soil,
the waiting,
the thirst,
the long reach toward light.
All beings have purpose.
Some are meant to grow tall.
Some are meant to bear fruit.
Some are meant to teach us
how to survive the night
and still believe in morning.
i am an old man
when i look in the mirror
i don’t see me
a resemblance of my past
but know things aren’t
always what they seem
my skin is wrinkled and thin
i bruise easily
though not emotionally
my arms have spots not freckles
my sight and views are
becoming blurred and vague
choices made in my younger daze
left gaps between
my teeth and memory
i’m guarded about
revealing either one
the soles of my shoes flare
making it easier
to take things in stride
i have arch supports
so as not to be caught flat footed
the Cloud has
nothing to do with
information storage
but more the cause of
hide and seek with the
the sun and the past
i talk to myself
trying to get a consensus
to show i’m not crazy
the conversation
usually ends in a stalemate
and nobody wins
when i retired
everyday became Saturday
i start and finish
everything and nothing today
yesterday is gone
and tomorrow comes to quickly
when i look in the mirror
i see the lines i drew
in the sand and in my life
a resemblance of a past
maybe things are
what they appear to be
after all, i am an old man