On the day of the Lord the human shall fear,
A terrifying god whom will Christians duly Peer,
The dead shall live again - the Christian tear,
A monopolising Christianity that cannot hear.
With, or without, all people are flatly, truly loved,
Without malice or tub, to jingle coyly ungloved,
Whatever the decade, decision, rubbed, tugged,
A transcendental god shall ring these beloved.
Talking clouds blown by earth’s graphic might,
Pose for the distant, scathed by a distinct light:
Enemies rise n’ fall as if tugging the dark night,
Offsetting the juggernaut of the ready birthrite.
A thought for people, bound, wet in eye-glare,
Principles, claims and chains won’t be the fare;
Nothing will work except behaviour and blare,
To suggest an ascent coloured by another wear.
All people are of inherent and fully equal worth,
God dies again for the decliner’s identity of birth,
Inside - not as proactive, with his mobile hearth,
A blacklist deceives those fleeing their childbirth.
Dominique Webb
Written: March 22, 2025, for contest sponsored by Craig Cornish
***********************
In the heart of my kitchen spices exude their aromatic allure
a harmonic blend of flavors coddiwomples mute grief. . .
cimmerian saudade in emeritus pickles, a nostalgic taste
longing for a whiff of jasmine s p e c k s. . .
the acridity of blue cheese, the poignancy of bygone days. . .
lavender aromas snip from vessels of proclivity
hidden under an ominous cloud of r e m o r s e
on par with brimstone-soaked steam,
harmony strives to alleviate concealed pain
pleading palms to purge passed-over prose
as seclusion seeps still as a slow-spreading sickness…
Scathed by sadness solitude simmers silently,
In this mixture, marvelous magic manifests for mending
spicy ambrosial nuances partake in a gracious w a l t z
pain intermingling with delight
a buffet embellished with dishes of acrid herbs,
the core character intertwines with previous fails
textures and fragrances intertwine
to create a tapestry rich in pain and d e l i g h t,
harmonizing sadness and joy in life's tangled web.
Damaged
A fragile beauty, with scars that shine like stars, her soul entwined in thorns, yet her spirit glows with love"s sweet fire. Her eyes hold whispers of forgotten dreams, tears etched on porcelain skin, a heart once broken, now mended with a strength unspoken. And so, she stands, her head held high, through wounded, she refuses to die. For in the depths of her pain, she finds a reason to continue, to heal to love again. With hope in her voice, she sings a melody of resilience, her song echoes across the landscape, reminding us all that even in darkness, there is light waiting to be found. ( A Beauty Scathed But Not Broken )
Celestial potions brewed in sinister stars
Like life lessons learned in deep and dark scars
They that cut us deep make us brave
They take away our fears of grave
Our best friends may lie deep in our biggest foes
Though, at first, make us tremble from head to toes
No great warrior was not scathed in a bloody war
Through wound that our greatness echoes afar
And if great stars before us will fall
To try to kill the courage in our call
The celestial potion will brew in our heart
The flame of hope we carried from the start
For, wounds from sharp blades may run deep
But the sharp pain keeps us from deep sleep
3
Line inspiration poetry contest
3rd place
A face with the bitterest frown,
For long years expecting a crown;
Now in prickly sweat bathed
And A Tongue is scathed …
It’s really an awful spectacle,
Facing no challenge, no obstacle,
As reported by his mirror
Doing so without error;
Ability he’s got and Agility
And all his life no infirmity.
So, why is he, Chief Favor
Facing Monarchical Disfavor;
For long years living for a crown
And it’s public knowledge in a far-off town?
Late,
the morning glories rise
passionate, royal, magenta blooms trumpeting,
helloes and goodbyes;
novice neophytes falling
into lavender blush dream states
succumbing to a mellowed change in weather
cooler days awakened by pale aging sunlight
soft, restless breezes
in the trees shedding leaves;
twilight for the foliage
a lurid golden year half-light dulcet dawns,
scarlet carmine sunsets, waning,
whispering not shouting
carnelian nights humming a lullaby,
serene, euphonious,
clouded eyes struggling to remain awake
buddings small and petite,
placid emollients of day;
shaded out of scathed hunter greens
falling to lemon camboge
limed colored oranges,
harvest time citrus afterbites
commencement to vermillion bleedings
September full blood moon phasings,
in crisp kaleidoscope etchings
of a well-painted palette
sepia rusettes, auburn,
ambered melancholia disturbances;
sanguine shortened days,
arboreal sleep, brittle and dry
les Feuilles Mortes.
Mystic Rose contest of Hello September
9/17/21
Your loving heart has turned to ice
Frigid and fickle
Selfish and self-indulgent
The window to its soul no longer recognized
Your once-healing journey has been surrendered
Frozen and forgotten
Recklessly abandoned
A path no longer trodden by brave footsteps
Without regard, I am ousted by your cold shoulder
Scathed in disrespect
Rude in retort
Words typed are harsh, stinging like frostbite
A stranger offers, and blindly, you accept
Curiosity wins over therapy
My rank takes a sub-zero plunge
Deep, arctic waters drown me
In your cold-hearted trap, I lie lifeless
September 30, 2020
@katladyt_
Somewhere between your hollow sight,
I danced in the sparks. And only
in your peripheral sight, will
I become an apparition
of our solemn song and it's rite.
By now my feet are too scathed.
I fall to my knees, going
and enduring. My singing,
has now dissolved to humming.
Before you sensed we would part,
I created and placed swords
in my heart. From omens I
birthed out of my very soul.
I sealed our own fate, by mistake.
Within the genesis of my
psyche, slumbers an essence of
creation. Who lingers at heart.
Maybe the wind blows to search for lost clouds
Maybe the stars shine to hunt for the sun
Maybe we laugh to gasp in some air
To let our soul dance blissful and bare
Maybe the waves come looking for lost fish
Maybe smoke rises to search for the wood
Maybe we cry to let out our plight
To heal our souls scathed, scarred and knifed
Maybe the grass sways to wave at the grasshoppers
Maybe the spider weaves to show off its skills
Maybe we kiss to say that we'll miss
To let them know we always want them near
Looking through old posts and being reminded of the despair I was feeling a few years ago...
Posts about suicide
Posts about self harm
Posts about never feeling worthy
Posts about not wanting to be alive.
It hurts to be reminded of the pain I was feeling.
In the depths of my depression and self-loathing;
Thoughts of escaping the abyss were my only companion.
The ache remembering all of my negative thoughts and swirling darkness inside my mind.
If I could go back I would tell you to hold on;
Don’t think about the bridge, or put down that knife.
It will not take the pain away.
I would tell you that you make it;
Scathed and scarred, but very much alive.
I would tell you that you find love;
A love that will aid the healing.
But most of all I would tell you;
You are worthy. You are loved. You are fearless. And one day you will know that this enough.
Mine ne'er to be, yet mine always;
Laura, spirit of dawn. Darkest night
Cannot hide thee nor obscure thy rays.
Though Black Death hath by his temporal right
Claimed thee, dost thou, my love , indwell this heart.
Though Charon's hammer this clay vessel break,
The winds ne 'er scathed by Time's envenomed dart
Shall of its pure content aye possession take
And spread abroad thy fragrance to all Man,
Fill the valleys and linger o'er the seas.
'Tis not my part all future times to scan,
But thankfully to muse by pastures, groves and leas,
Await thy returning, nightly count the hours
"Till I rejoice with singing birds and flowers."
My feelings are in express
Of the unfathomed inside myself
I find that I am in pain
Of a friendless battle alone
Lost I seem to wander
Going from one spot to another
But I am not emotionless
I just am in painful spouts
Feeling alone can hurt more
Than anything else, a wound
That carries much more salt
Than it does a cool gentleness
Hot stabbing pain enters me
From all corners of my heart
For alone I am in this life
And no one to care about me
But even more than that
No one that I can care about
This emptiness grown more
Each day it rips me apart
Till I feel the gapingness of it
And nothingness abounds inside
This hollow soul rests scathed
And bothered by the endless
Rattles of this unfriendly Earth
Battling the demons of my past
As well at the loss of future hope
That I may find somewhere a friend…
Russell Sivey
There will be no torn howl
to shriek into the ears of conscience
no ripping breath of hearts demented
the sacrificial embryo
will pass, unrepentant
Gather you all to the desperate font
come hither for the assassins scrutiny
in lamentation binds your children
to bring them in such apathy
to the excesses of purgatory
Be scathed and damned for such choices
it was thy own impeached soul
who bartered usance for all their futures
then slit the throat of all their voices
and then sold them for today
Traitors stitch the wounds of innocence
With an excuse
Music leaps from open windows,
gliding down steamy summer rays.
The notes have loud mouths, shouting
out bold, rude barbs of reality.
Hip-hop, rap, heavy metal, all crash...
clanging onto the pavement below, then
flip-flop like a wounded bird.
Dancers trip the light fantastic,
cyclonic feet never stumbling,
shuffling along chalk-marred sidewalks.
Words jumbled in banging heads-
buds in scathed ears, burning hissed tunes
bouncing off graffiti bombed walls.
Pungent fog from strange smoke
crawls out of long black cars with
rears jacked up, rolling down scarred streets,
bouncing up and down with a bad rhythm
from a sad. raucous concert, jerking like
a drunk chicken strutting and kissing the ground.
Pig-tailed girls jump rope, chanting the
"lady with the alligator purse," paying no
attention to strangers staggering by with
lecherous eyes and brown bags holding secrets.
Young boys play stick hockey on cracked walks,
teething on puberty and swearing like crude sailors.
The old woman watches from a top step,
hoping someday the broken bottles will cut
through the chains and lead to a better life.
It wasn't difficult
to learn the history
of you,
to wipe away the
foreign imprints
of other souls,
and misplaced fingertips
on the geography
of your body.
The hard part was
allowing my hands
to fall,
learning to
unweave my fingers
from yours,
and stop the awful
ticking
seconds
of remembering
you.
I managed to walk away,
slightly scathed,
still able to smile.
But,
I still write the poems.
I never learned how to stop
writing you into the pages.
What was once my escape
only pushes me
in remembering us,
making me realize
that your absence
was never truly
real.
And now you sleep
under a blanket of bombs,
learning the art
of tourniquets
and bloodshed.
And I'm still here,
trying to
figure out how to
forget you.
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