Scabbed Poems | Examples

Another Dawn

Then whistling strands went silent 
And cries bled out the ground 
Hushed over earthen weeping 
And golden fields were drowned. 

In tears of quiet, silence
Sounds out the nothing drum
Beats thrums of peaceful sleepers
A voiceless, ashen hum. 

Tears of quiet dried to rust
Lit up by morning glow
Picked off, a surface crust
The under-flesh to show

Un-scabbed earth with silver vines
Unearthed new ground rubbed raw
To house embedded saplings 
And see another dawn.

Self Expression

I wish I could untie my tongue --
find courage, strength to shine
light upon those least illumined
recesses still hidden from public
view, shielded and scabbed over
like festering raw wounds...must I
accept that there will never be a time
when, freely, I can express my "me"--
that one among those other "me"s
I've not displayed?  Depending upon
circumstances-- places and the hour --
perhaps I may set out at least a tiny
kernel of myself -- but I will never
ever tell,  and can never be expected 
to expose to this world's cold
unwelcoming climate my failing,
fragile, damaged -- pitiful -- but 
still barely beating bloody heart.
.

MANKIND

Silence be bright. Do not be like a dull pine needle that cannot pierce the heart.
Nor like the calmness of the river before a storm. Be full of rage at the deafness and blindness of Mankind. The quiet ignorance that dares not speak, see, nor cry when hatred penetrates the wounds. The scars of prejudices have scabbed three times over. That it is the renascence of time becoming old than anew attorning the passage of war to destroy all.

Stained

Love’s scars, such exquisite markings;
Branded with a faded fine line stain,
you’ve taken me taken my heart;

Handle it gingerly this fragile heart 
it has become tender with markings;
Such emotion is known to stain;

Scabbed imprint of that bloody stain 
embellishes so splintered a  heart;
Always distracted by those markings;

Red ink markings stain your heart.

The Common Poet

I have conversed with the common man
in warm and well-worn pubs.
I have been a ribald, and a leery lout,
a seducer of barmaids.
I have been common,
the way a city pidgin is common,
its scabbed claws a common sight,
slipping in and out of poorly lit doors.
Poets are born poor, poorly treated,
and poorly thought of.
The wealthy used to be poets,
but their intelligence
was pawned and loaned to them
by the winking, wicked streets.
They made daffodils out of dog,
many swooned,
but the common people,
we spat out their perfumed souls
for they were distasteful,
much more so
than the knowing fools I talk to
in the most common of pubs.

Flow State

It’s hard to describe the feeling 
of capturing that spark;
The zing there are no words for 
that thing that makes you write;

I get inspired by creating, 
I’m awestruck by a new definition;
The flow state is addicting,
delivering me to zen;

It’s a soft touch on scabbed skin 
healing better than a band aid;
The emotional ointment 
that gets my voice flowing again;

I get inspired by creating,
 awestruck by a new definition;

It’s a new school spin on a classic,
something never done before;
The groundbreaking revolutionary 
that leaves you renewed and inspired;

That flow state is addicting;

It’s everything around you 
that controls your pulse deep within;
Indie songs, art, simple moments,
they inspire creation;

Blue flames and fresh seeds;
Innovation leaves me awestruck 
delivering me to zen.

Bones

Bones
jagged,
scabbed up skin;
But oh that fire;
Diamond in the rough;
Faded tattoos 
bloody smile 
simply 
shine.

The Moreton Bay Fig

It still stands,
old wounds scabbed in gum,
the moreton bay fig 
that I climbed as a child
and stabbed
to harvest 
the white bleed
of its hurt.

High in its branches
I cut my initials
in the soft bark
to claim the highest climb.
It was the tallest tree
in my childhood.

A lifetime on
it arches its shade
over of the waste 
from a building site.
A barbed wire fence 
keeps children out.

I look up 
into its wide reach
and wonder 
if it still remembers me
now that my initials 
have healed
to a scarred anonymity.

Winter Contemplations

Ripples of vibrant streams stagnate
Songs of flapping birds relocate
Forest rustles hibernate

Skeletal trees shake, underdressed
Mushy, scabbed apples numbly rest
Brisk, harsh breezes pierce life's chest

Pruned trees develop healing scars
Skies of pewter, stone, and smudged chars
Meet to contemplate the stars

Sorrow and indifference blend
A crocus and daylight ascend
~The beginning of death's end

1/21/2021

Purgatory 1

Purgatory I

	Perhaps it's where I sit right now
	With sins just conjured from the past,
	Decisions made, though not in haste,
	Ideals  I thought would maybe last.

	The deeds of others took their toll
	When friendships ties were cast aside,
	Scars still scabbed and festering,
	For how they cheated, how they lied.

	From their deceit I learned just how
	To build a wall around my heart,
	So hiding feelings charred and black
	That smoulder as they fall apart.

	A lonely soul with eyes that watch
	The world behind a thin veneer
	Reflecting time that passed me by
	Whilst bygone feelings reappear.

	Damned whichever way I turn
	For solace, maybe peace of mind,
	The future waits in disarray
	Pursued by remnants left behind.

	I shoulder blame as best I can
	It helps to ease the constant pain,
	But even so it will not change
	The turmoil here inside my brain.

In My Head

Shattered glass around my feet
Fog against sliding glass doors
Murky shapes moving all around
Like half formed thoughts
Congregating outside
Peering inside
With glowing scarlet eyes
Scabbed hands upon the glass
Blood drizzles in streaks
With a start I realize
Blood runs ankle deep
Clouding my nostrils
I puke and the smell is putrid
And when I open my eyes
I'm falling from the Heavens
Towers are mere pinpricks
The sun shimmers
I behold the curvature of earth
Bells ring in my mind
And I'm standing on the ledge
Of a magnificent cliff
Overlooking the raging sea
I see myself falling
So I jump from the ledge
Squeezing my eyes shut
And when my eyes open
I'm all alone in my room

Butterfly Whispers

The golden sun of yesterday
played out in fields of gold 
inside the tarping memory of father, handling LIFE   
the joyful whistles that he fluted pruned alongside vines 
and mothers pumping heart of song lauding in 
loud and STRONG  
No treason yet no aging bridge no tented hope   
just morning glories,
a baby breath away from here 
and  all the sunlight we'd afford 
inside a little yard of sweet explore, 

I see, 

the lonely eyes of a young girl longing for a friend 
a hand held jar for fireflies or butterflies in toe 
Pebbles rolled beneath unpaved paths as 
dear together raw as butterflies we scabbed our knees  
with swivel, in the morning breeze
Like BUTTERFLIES preluding dawn with shiant colors bold,   
the summer sun of yesterday played out in fields of gold;  

Inside my hiding place a youthful carefree life 
still lingers in my heart's enfold, 
without the memory, of growing old.    

Jan 19, 2019
Sponsor: Emile Pinet 
Contest: Free Verse Style Only

Cry Mercy

Cry Mercy

Her pack of pain upon her back, old mother
struggles to make her way uphill on the street.
Sometimes when the pain is an exquisite knife,
she cannot feel her scabbed and swollen feet.

The burden of her sorrow is etched on her
beautiful, pale and kindly old face.
Confusion wraps around her as she walks,
sticky, and clinging as a web of lace.

She sees the sunlight angels, young and purified
as they skitter along like leaves in the wind.
She knows she must be strong enough 
to carry through life her burdens - and never bend.

No one sees her. She is the invisible woman
denied by the frightened world of  beauty and youth.
That pirouette like ballerinas keeping time to sad,
unheard music that sings lies instead of truth.

Let them preen in their savage splendor,
and wallow in the deceit that keeps them going.
It’s the worn carcasses, like withered seed pods
that carry the desperate task of knowing…

Knowing there’s no hiding place
to run to when the reaper makes his call.
He laughs aloud at our foolishness,
knowing he’s going to destroy us all.

Dare Ye Dare Ye

Dare ye!  Dare ye!


Dare ye unlock the tomb
release the musty words of fear
unleash the vitriol of anger
upon the rusted lockset

Freedom does not free one
from the mind’s dungeon
nor sweeten the stench
of clutched bitterness

Dare ye step away
deny the bindings power
to entrap us as we flee
the burden of being free

Scars are not the price we pay
only reminders of its sting
scabbed testament to a will
that would not bend

Dare ye breathe
the breath of who we are
leave behind the shadow
of what we had become

Shed tears that cleanse
blurred opaque vision
smile through the pain
of joy’s remembrance?


©John G. Lawless
4/5/2017

Schoolyard

A spindly girl one far-off year
With both knees scabbed and flouncing skirt,
She kicked the ball and ran to first
And I felt glad to watch her sprint
Or catch her smile, just hear her laugh,
And when she neared, my heart, it raced,
My throat went tight and head grew light,
My first true clue that life’s pursuit
Is winning love and female grace.

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