there's power in
the word of Our Lord
sharper than
a double-edged sword
there's power in the word of God
acute like a surgeon's scalpel
It cuts through all doubt
concisely grapples
It can penetrate souls, spirits,
joints and marrow
temper thoughts, measure hearts
keep us on the straight and narrow
there's power in the word of God
acute like a surgeon's scalpel
cuts through all doubt
concisely grapples
the power in the word of God
reveals what and who we are
the good, the bad, the ugly
our wounds our scars
reforms, transforms
never breaks
precise, concise
makes no mistakes
there's power in the anointed word of God
let it shape your actions, permeate your heart
there's power in the word of God
acute like a surgeon's scalpel
cuts through all doubt
concisely grapples
It's alive. It's active
sharper than a double-edged sword
for there's power in the word
that comes from our Lord
The scalpel left a jagged split,
And heavy silver staples but
To bind the edges of the skin,
And lock the sudden ache
within.
Yet through that raw and ruined
seam,
The scar became a pane of
glass,
A rusted lantern in the dark,
The wound took fire from the
spark,
Transforming what was torn and
blind,
Into lens to look behind.
there's power in
the word of Our Lord
sharper than
a double-edged sword
there's power in the word of God
acute like a surgeon's scalpel
It cuts through all doubt
concisely grapples
It can penetrate souls, spirits,
joints and marrow
temper thoughts, measure hearts
keep us on the straight and narrow
there's power in the word of God
acute like a surgeon's scalpel
cuts through all doubt
concisely grapples
the power in the word of God
reveals what and who we are
the good, the bad, the ugly
our wounds our scars
reforms, transforms
never breaks
precise, concise
makes no mistakes
there's power in the anointed word of God
let it shape your actions, permeate your heart
there's power in the word of God
acute like a surgeon's scalpel
cuts through all doubt
concisely grapples
It's alive. It's active
sharper than a double-edged sword
for there's power in the word
that comes from our Lord
Blue people around a table—
gloves, nets, gowns, everything is blue.
He was just waiting for a call,
Maybe his life was hung up too?
They removed his glorious crown,
a crown placed on his head his birth.
The cold scalpel moved its way down,
skipping everything from the dirt.
It found something full of the soul,
Almonds! they saw sorrow, cried out.
It was never your fault at all.
It's never wrong to be cowards.
A bird locked in a nested cage,
Cries, cries, cries! The veins cried out blood!
Flowers bloom from a ripped out page,
It never hurts when it's at dawn.
A glance, a touch, a cut to thrive,
All they could see were broken strings,
But they didn't know how to tie.
Maybe they should leave it as is?
Fly high, my innocent white dove.
Stitches close what we could've been,
but for now, please remove your gloves.
The time of death: 4:59.
You can have my corpse and my worms,
Oh but what did you do that for?
A writer walks into a room with his heart in his hands~
not bleeding, not broken, but folded neatly,
like origami gently placed in in a drawer.
He lays it on the desk.
The editor’s fingers
are scissors, a scalpel, a rusted letter opener.
She does not ask permission.
Somewhere, a printer goes offline.
Somewhere, a coffee cup stains a rejection slip.
The man watches his heart unfold under her gaze,
each crease a line she might cut.
When she speaks, her voice is a papercut~
quick, precise, almost painless.
Not this, she says,
but maybe next time.
He leaves with his heart refolded,
smaller now,
but still beating.
It’s about Iran, once again
I’m not pro-war or for bloodshed
Destruction for and many dead
When nations stop, expend resource
And hands are forced without recourse
A war is bad for all involved
Men lost while problem’s being solved
Angst, fright, despair - they all reign
While bombs come down like a rain
But war is tool, when talk’s no more
The threat is huge, command is “draw”
The fiend is bold, defiant, brash
And your existence he wants trashed
Been’ vicious to its own folks
While spreading carnage like a smoke
You can’t sit idle and ignore
Once done, they will be at your door
Like-minded scum gets to rejoice
They all gang up, you know the boys
To push, to conquer and assault
Can’t let this happen, else our fault
We may be wrong, we may be right
But do what’s proper, get to fight
And may the History be judge
Whoever wants may hold a grudge
Aim for the nukes to rule the world?
Fast-spreading cancer is unfurled
Then war is scalpel, use or die
The answer to the question “why?”
March 3, 2026
Shattered
They grabbed my heart forcefully
ripping my aorta
The scalpel reaches to the sternum
Cutting 8 inches
The start of a bleeding heart
Secrets flooding my house
As I become tempted to borrow
That paring knife
Used to punish the pain
A mercy calling
I took a joy ride driving from Las Vegas NV
Going to Salt Lake City in one shot
I drove and drove
Trying to decide what I was going to do
Live or die
Now I live to tell
In our darkest hours
Expression in the medium of artistry
Words painting the blank Canvas
Of our life until called to come home.
Her tears will quiet as time heals
Oh, dear Jesus, but how this feels!
Her conscious makes quiet appeals
But she must silence her soul
Forgiveness can’t make her whole
When she made this hard decision
Allowing them their incision
Felt like life’s vilest collision
Abortion is only a word
God’s voice, she had not heard
Feelings to face, heartache to bare
Recalling when she’d not a care
But now she lives on a prayer
What has become of her heart?
What’s become of the soft part?
Without telling anyone, she chose
She’s feeling like everyone knows
So cold inside – has her heart froze?
Wondering about the life…
One she ended, such grave strife!
Abortion - a choice, but why?
These feelings, oh, she wants to die
If only her heart would not cry!
A choice, yes – but you know
Inside her, babe’s blood did flow
Be strong, they said – could she know
Beneath the scalpel, life (love) did grow!
If only fate could allow me death ,
I could forever be grateful,
If only destiny would cut me loose ,
I wouldn't wonder again.
If only death was a stone throw away ,
I could pay a visit without turmoil,
If only I had known ,
I would have never existed!
I dance with flames ,
I sing with claims,
So big you become a venture ,
A truth sorted beyond reach .
Come to me gentle love ,
Come to dear hope ,
Kiss me not so long ,
Death I wish for ,you are my sunshine.
If only tears would let me see ,
If only guilt would let me act ,
If only the past would let me live ,
I would be with you dear death .
Tell me a soothing warning,
Shout at me a command to follow ,
I can't leave kissing ashes without that fire ,
Burn away the tiring joy .
Is it not tears I look forward to ?
Death,is it not the burning I long for ?
Is it not the curse I want ?
Take pride in my torture,
My body is a template ,
A canvas written with a bleeding scalpel,
Kill me but let me fall onto your hands .
Dr. Kay Scarpetta,
Does wonders with a scalpel and also with sharp cheddar.
A medical examiner depicted in Cornwell's book,
She is much preferred as a gourmet cook!
Dr. Kay Scarpetta is the main character who is a medical examiner in Patricia Cornwell's books.
I don’t mind the breaking,
The anxiety that blooms when I feel hope,
It reminds me of what I’ve lost,
And how I haven’t learned to cope.
But it reminds me that to break with such precision, a surgeons scalpel to my chest.
That I know how to love people,
Even when they don’t treat me the best.
Me and my stop watch heart, collect debts
Lovers, trinkets, all the things that feel like home,
And I lose them all at once, when they decide to let me go.
When my minds need for reassurance turns into something I should just know.
Or the way that I light up turns into a subtle glow.
When the depression hits a switch is flipped and im a danger to myself,
Accountabilities an accusation let’s ignore talks about mental health.
In the cool, white
fluorescent light
a scalpel rasps, whispering,
insisting on detail.
A chisel flicks,
deft and sure,
snicking, razing,
in the clean steam
of icebreath.
Formless, frosty
bulbous ice
has pattern
punched into it.
An awl starts clattering,
keen steel stabbing
shards of crystal free
to shower down
as glassy shrapnel.
Ruth Amid the Corn
takes form,
growing
as matter falls away.
Final flurries of fussing,
flowers wreathed around,
and the beauty is inched
into the fug
of the banquet,
sweating.
Ruth weeps unseen,
pristine for now,
but already warming.
Charcoaled by the flickered USG light,
Crocheting living diaries of rose-glazen silk.
Colossal musings bloom through whispered stillness,
Doppler drifts its waves across sea-green marmoris.
A radiological quest through the wisteria of thought—
The sincere scalpel surrenders, a vow stitched in veins.
Cocooned beneath the autumn leaves,
Carrying the MRI of faraway stars.
Sowing scanned seeds in the ebony chambers,
Remember me when it rains on the petals of purgatory.
Dr j marion sims
The 'so-called' father of gynecology
Built of the lie of ethics
Built from harvested black bodies
No permission, just 'science'
An excuse just to abuse black women -
Treated as 'experiments'
To him we were never human beings
Just a new toy to play with
No anaesthesia, just pain
His work wasn't revolutionary - it was just inhumane
Does he really deserve the honour of being labelled as a 'father' -
When behind closed doors he abused his 'children' who gave him that name
Pushed them out of the door
Then slammed it in their face
No thank you, no gratitude, no rewards
Just a lifetime of scars and trauma
Treated like a disgrace
Treated the enslaved as if they weren't apart of the human race
They didn't just invade our lands -
They colonised our bodies
Dissected us like a scientific study
No consent, no permission
Just a scalpel to cut our skin
Not even out of curiosity
Just to beat the 'competition'
He was known as the father of gynecology
But in reality -
Many of us will see him as the father of stolen autonomy
Treating our bodies like property
Studying us as if he were learning archaeology
The Battlefield of Survival
There is nothing that brings out our fragility
to surface like surgery, dreams one has of
success is laid bare under the well-lit light
of an operating table
First time I had one of those growths removed
was seventy-five years ago by our doctor
wearing a three-piece suit with a blue tie
My memory of him is that of a man who
had a cigarette in one hand and a scalpel
on the other hand, during the proceedings
he spoke to my mother about the weather
That was inclement, and the Labor Party
He and my mother were communists
For a long time, I had to take blood tests
which I didn't mind, his waiting room was
full of magazines and newspapers
There is nothing to read in waiting rooms
anymore, apparently, it is unhygienic
Not that it mattered, one has phones
The surgeon and his assistant spoke
pleasantly to each other about their work
at hand, I just happen to be there
After the operation, I was led into a room
to rest and dress, no, there was no kind
nurse serving tea
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.