Long Sternum Poems
Long Sternum Poems. Below are the most popular long Sternum by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sternum poems by poem length and keyword.
dust-wearing-wind carries a feeble cry in its palm,
settles it near ears that can no longer hear.
Cries arise from hollows of your hungry face,
a pulpit of high cheeks bones— in sharp relief
to sunken skin-scape sallow and paper thin—
a preacher on the harrows of hunger.
Vulture keeps a still, silent vigil,
a patient witness to your starvation,
comrade and adversary
in a fight for your last breath and beat.
Your loyal companion, a symbol of death
where drones rain with flames on tents of refugees
and sky splitting missiles make shrapnel of the sun,
where dragon fire artillery shoots the moon
and shreds stars till they fate-fall
like the last nightjars from nocturne skies.
Dear child of war,
alone with nothing in your belly but a stone,
rib bones a famine cage,
thoracic fingers squeeze your soul.
Your heart a hostage,
flutters like a lost moth against your sternum.
I long to hold you and feed you
honey made from a million wild flowers
uncrushed beneath metal plates of tank treads.
I yearn to bathe you of collapsed concrete dust
cleanse you of your mother’s blood, her
rattle-boned, battle-owned, maternal body wrapped
over yours as they fed her Kalashnikov lead.
My faraway ache for your plight pales
against your tiny body’s black-rose-throes,
a pawn to thorns of soldiers
grown on rocket-torn-boot-worn streets.
War-zone fig trees bear no fruit,
hibiscus buds die as hornets knit nests into shrubs,
tomorrow but a diseased wheat field laid to waste.
Dear child of war,
deliverance will come when pall-bearer winds
carry your cries elsewhere…
I.
He lives inside me,
not sleeping—just leaning
against the dark rafters of my chest.
A moss-backed troll
I call him Atlas, though he looks
more like the rock in his garden—
He keeps a room beside the heart—
spare bed, mildew in the corners,
but the sheets stay stiff with cold.
He’s always stationed
between the valves and the ribs,
elbows locked against my sternum,
holding the cage from inside.
In case the heart kicks hard enough
to shatter her way out.
He doesn’t smile, doesn’t blink—
just tightens his grip
when she dreams of rose fields
beyond the ribs
Too dangerous. He’d mutter,
Not worth the risks
The heart stamps, her veins scream,
her tears flood the lungs breathless—
Old Atlas sighs—
his breath a wisp of forest green smoke
But when she grew tired and
gave up for the night
his pebble eyes soften
toward the silence she left behind
II.
We share a pot of tea
Me and Atlas, after the heart went to sleep
—He still keeps a hand on the bones
“Why don’t you let go for a while?” I ask
His pebble eyes soften as steam rises
A boulder can survive the fall,
but she’s made of glass with hairline cracks
“A fall?” I ask after offering biscuits
He takes one and tosses it out, we watch
the shortbread rolls down, the road uncharted
They say the fall is there, at the end of the road
“They?” the golden sweet disappear into the mist
The ones before me, their warnings
came stirring in the wind
“They could be mistaken,”
the warm buttery crust melts into my throat
“Beyond the unknown could be a field of roses.”
Old Atlas sips tea, then shakes his unwieldy head
The moss on his body rustles—
a hushed but heavy sigh
The hand that strikes is first the hand that holds,
a resplendent trap wrapped taut around my neck.
The copper taste of split skin coats my tounge like gold,
this red froth of iron: a beautiful wreck.
You choke the ragged screams inside my lungs,
then drag my lifeless body from the grave.
At night, I hum the violent anthems you have sung,
bleeding my own pale carcass to mirror all you gave.
The bare floorboards drink the fallen raven and swollen bruise,
as calloused fingers dig beneath my flesh.
But there is no part of me I would not lose,
to keep us tangled in this scarlet thresh.
You pry my sternum open at the seam,
and tear the dripping organs from my chest.
I offer up no prayer, no penitent scream -
for to endure this form of devotion, I am blessed.
You are a brutal god, whom I adore,
a violin verse between venom and Venus.
Hurt me, then hurt me once more,
leaving only my broken soul lying between us.
Do you remember going to Bald Head Island? Must have been 13 years ago now. Well, I finally went back & the wind off the ocean was working overtime. It was blowing in streams, kicking the dunes around like paper. When I stood up out of my chair, I caught the stream square in my sternum. It pushed me back 2 inches, 2 feet
10 feet,
10 years–when time still hadn’t ground the pink and yellow seashells down into brown sand. When you were still alive.
It took me a moment to realize where I was. I couldn’t see my chair anymore, couldn’t see the waves. I took one step forward then another, 2 feet forward, 10 feet,
10 years.
and I looked up through the breeze, into the setting sun and caught a glimpse of you smiling. It was nice to see you again, even if it was just for a moment.
...He turned back to see all four of his gang
staring at him, in anger and shock.
“That boy was worth thousands,”seethed out mad Bret,
his hand shifting towards his rifle stock.
Chester pull his gun in a blur of speed,
sent two slugs into the nearest forehead,
the bandit went down, but the others drew,
the air crackling with muzzle flashes and lead.
Chester hit another, straight in the heart,
then felt something bite deep into his side,
he stumbled backwards, then fired again,
his shot hit home and another man died.
Then Bret’s rifle roared, shattering his shin,
he collapsed down to the group in a heap,
but he still had his Colt, two bullets left,
aimed upwards and let fly with a screech.
Two shots hit Bret right in the sternum,
soon too he collapsed down to the dirt,
both men bleeding heavy, both wounds mortal,
they faced their last minutes on this earth.
Bret choked through blood, croaked out a rough,”Why?
I though this gang meant everything to you?”
Chester coughed,”Yes, that is what I thought,
but that boy you seized was my nephew.”
Bret never said anything ever again,
Chester slumped back, and looked up at cold stars,
praying that Ronald still sprinted away,
that his horse had kept pace long and hard…
A whole day passed, then the Marshall came out,
with a posse, Ronald, and Tim Miller,
they looked at the scene, shook their heads slowly,
said,”A fine final scene for these killers.”
But Tim found his brother, his face at peace,
hoisted the body higher up on his horse,
the other men grumbled, but Tim would not
let his kin be brought in for a reward.
He had heard everything Ronald has told,
and though his brother down dark paths had roamed,
he’d shown he hadn’t lost everything good,
and would rest quietly beneath a stone.
Back on the ranch he carved into granite
so all that who might ride by it would know,
‘Here lies Chester Miller, who lived a rough life,
but in the end managed to die a hero.’
EYE and Heart rambling pounding after death!
kissing bruised valves of mind
breaking ribs and sternum
into the ghost-kiss of afterlife!
aaaaaah!
Love grows a coat of fur, lips thicken
for the everlasting kiss! Like crepuscular,
hiding under the table -- cannot bear to be
seen. Born from an aborted fetus -- crumens beneath
its beautiful eyes! Secrete waxy tears, senseless boredom eating
away within its four-chambered stomach barely
taking sustenance it crawls away!
Everyone refuses to feed her -- lips and hands
smell as semen and cigarettes; god's cock hardening to woody bone for the anger
of his fallen angels! Hey! Go away! Go away!
Autumn rut. The hidden gallons of evil passion
tips back it's majestic crown -- Christ with hands
nailed up, bellowing to Heaven!
the condom falls and again a new universe is born.
Again. And again.
:: 11.12.2020 ::
In mania, the body unbinds itself.
The skeleton’s dense marrow becomes hollow,
an avian adjustment. It is accelerated evolution.
Fluttering and floating in a slew of thoughts
like nervous wind chime chatter.
My brother blew in through the rattling gate
accompanied by October’s cruelest gale.
Eyes unwillingly wide, levered by a crowbar
his hazel doorways ripped from their hinges.
He ran fervently through the streets of West Chester
with lungs coated with cannabis and amphetamines
until there was blood beneath his toenails, dripping out
just like Jesus’ wine weeping out from his searing limbs.
As he entered into the home of our distant childhood,
his back burned from the warm wrath of penitent leather
the self-flagellation, the begging for the flames of Purgatory
To appease the eyes of a looming Lord
his fate-sealing gaze hidden in twilight’s comforting veil
He says he holds a guilt beyond human comprehension,
that he is an evil person. I tell him we are just flawed people.
After a decade of intentful detachment, my brother cracks open
his ribcage as it blooms like a flower from his sternum.
He says there is a sickness in his soul, and that I will
never truly know him.
My mother and father have had heads made of granite
since he has come home. There are heavy eyes shadowed with
bags made of storm clouds. They have prayed with their
clergy. They have contacted multiple attorneys.
My sibling is a storm that has wrought ruin, but
he can heal. His violent storm might sow a beautiful season
The warmth of his first real smile will bring upon renaissance,
and as the tears and snot seep into the soil of my shoulder
our cheeks may grow a vibrant emerald moss.
Before the rain fell and the sky's rainbow set the scenery,
I had a day that will never cease my mind.
The center of my core fell into a creek by the cottage
and drifted down slowly into rigid waters.
All of your affection dwindled like a soft Spring snowflake..
-melting...melting...melting-
Winter willows weep for the loss of its warmth, and I
weep for the loss of your affection.
Considering your disregard, my loneliness was expected.
Now, a part of me seems to be missing...
a part of you.
Our light bulb went dim, and our white turned grey, all
within one hour of time.
Perceptions of consequences decided upon your actions
left my warmth arrested by your cold.
How will I live without you?
My tenderness is dripping slowly
into soft memories we shared.
Half of my heart is yours...
half of my heart is lost.
You've searched for your puzzle pieces,
and I thought I was the one who would make you whole.
All I was to you was a mess you had to clean up.
Underneath the picture lays a broken mirror.
So broken the broom slid right through it with ease.
You left me with such ease..
Seven years of misery and distress to come.
Women are supposed to love wholeheartedly,
and partners are supposed to reflect like prisms
radiating into...
their lovers soul.
Behind my sternum and between my ribs,
my heart has almost been emptied.
Oh, how I regret letting you borrow my essence;
my internal bosom God gifted to me
thinking it was all yours.
My tenderness is dripping slowly
into soft memories we shared.
Half of my heart is yours...
half of my heart is lost.
Date Written: December 29, 2015
(Unfortunately, the alignment goes haywire when viewed through mobile)
My\ I /Heart
@ @oooooo\ I /ooooo@ @
@The great power\I/house that@@@
@stores up blood, thumping incessantly@@
@@ in rising rhythm. The most vital organ @@
@@in me. The great fulcrum that works day@@
@ and night. It being fragile with delicate@@@
@@ tissues, incarcerated in the strong fortress@
@@of sternum and ribs. It keeps working@@@
@@ day and night sans leisure. If it goes@@
@on strike, all our life will come to a@@@
@stop. It is a magic casket. It keeps@@
@beating- lub-dub, lub- dub @@
@sure, to my ears, such a@@
@@ sweet music@@@
@ooooooooo@
@ooo@
My Heart-
The great Powerhouse that stores up blood,
thumping incessantly in rising rhythm
The most vital organ in me.
The great fulcrum that works day and night
It being fragile with delicate tissues, incarcerated,
in the strong fortress of sternum and ribs.
It keeps working all through, sans rest.
If it goes on strike, our life will come to a stop.
It is a magic casket. It keeps beating-
lub-dub, lub-dub, sure, to my ears
Such a sweet music.
They with masks and scalpels
rewatch
the seconds I was given without consent.
My breath hitches
as warnings stillborn in my throat.
At this moment,
I am but
a body
opened
for overdue answers no one asked for.
A poet’s gift lies in the voice of Truth.
No—
A poet's gift is to lie,
constantly,
in lavender-gray syllables
threaded through with near-Truth—
The answer to unvoiced questions,
clipped out with tweezers,
a scorched coil—
my vocal cord.
I, a third-party haze—
rewatch
the moments I lived through like
faint breaths
fogging an oxygen mask.
My lies will be forgiven,
when they split open my sternum,
and find Truth still beating—
They’ll know,
late Truth cuts deeper than scalpel.