Short Emaciated Poems

Holding in her arms 
A Starving child 
His frail emaciated body 
Bloated with hunger, 
Indicts a world of greed.


                 W.A CHOLT. Copyright Fergal O Reilly. 2018.     15/10/18...

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new misogynistic hatred
springs forth from the altar
worship my deity
breathe the chemical imbalance
and choke on my godhead
you, who are meager
you, who are my servants
you emaciated addicts...

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Embark in unknown depth
Explored incessantly
Emanates frequency
Emaciated live
Experience a hole
Extinguished with the love
Emanated from soul










For Pleiades E Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Kim Merryman
Seventh Place
September 18, 2016...

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Listen to poem:

I feel sorry for the plants
stuck in a glass bowl garden,
just as I'm sad to see a goldfish
locked up in a bowl, jailed.
For vivarium is just an aquarium
a pen for living things locked up,
encapsulated, emaciated, ghastly devastated.
The beauty lies in the empty bowl of glass
please set it free!
Just listen to Dale Chihuly!...

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Accepting my costumed friends dare, I cautiously pushed through the weeds to the unlit dilapidate porch.  Before I could knock, the door creaked open.

"Come     on in.

      We've              been wait-        ing for            

you."       Croaked the emaciated little girl with the basso profundo voice.

Something pushed me from behind ......

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My soul emaciated, starved since birth
  A cold ebony soul  that has no worth
Love, feelings, emotion, nothing but words
Lasso of Hell pulls me with the unsaved herds

God had a purpose for this blackened  Soul
He started with  His Grace, to cleanse my Soul
A Purification that made me whole, a Redeemed SOUL
GOD'S LIGHT surrounds me : Thank-YOU GOD for I am Whole...

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Emaciated escape from hellion holes
Inefficacious inhabitants starving souls
Ferociously futile restless resistance
Penal petrifaction within their existence

Flaming forests in a haunting haze
Dancing demons within their blaze
Drowning death a voiceless view
The cadaverous condemned bid adieu.



Jan.16.2017
CONTEST 264 any form, any topic max of 8 lines 
Sponsored by: Brian Strand...

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I am but a living corpse,
Emaciated and flogged horse.

See no light at the end of the tunnel,
Seek poetry as a channel to funnel.

Slogging all my life for everyone but me,
Such a painful responsibility you see.

Lady luck even refuses to give an appointment,
Lament do I in deep disappointment.

Death is not a solution,
Don't let cowardice get from me ammunition.

Need to look deep within,
Need to find silence in the din....

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The 
vinyl 
flew 
in 
circles,
Revellers' 
minds 
spinning 
into 
an 
overdose 
of 
insanity,
Toes 
twitchy,
Itching 
to 
exhaust 
body 
and 
soul,
Flesh 
willing,
Spirit 
emaciated,
Jockey's 
mind 
determined 
to 
sustain 
his 
intentions,
Whistles 
tearing 
roof 
as 
they 
endeavoured
To 
pierce 
the 
womb 
of 
a 
pregnant 
sky,
Tears 
doubled,
Trebled,
A 
heavy 
pose!
Silence....

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her skeletal finger on her porcelain face
outlines her anguished song of grace
summoning the demon in her soul
a merciless pledge of self control
her body hangs on the ledge of death
pushing for one last poignant breath
knowing through her muffled cries
the only part she needs has died
and through her fragile silhouette
she moans through harsh and piercing sweats
but even as her flawed tears flow
ultimate beauty is never bestowed...

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Bone-tired?
Your muscles get tired, actually
Well, perhaps it's the fascia
the connective tissue sheath
mainly collagen
beneath the skin
attaching or separating 
the muscles

Chilled to the bone?
Not likely, fellow
unless you are emaciated
due to illness or famine or such
Otherwise, your bones
are probably still
body temperature, 98.6F

I imagine by now that
you've a bone to pick with me
Go ahead.  I dare you to try that....

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The Curse of Seclusion
The emaciated dog so lonely it sought company 
by looking into a puddle. Afar glittering street light 
 It had been there seeking food and shelter, but had
been chased away even, by those who had lapdogs. 
 It heard step, an old man walking slowly bent down 
opened a paper bag and fed the cure bread crumbs. 
The dog thought “apparently he thinks I´m a duck,
that´s ok, I´m so hungry and lonely it will have to do.”...

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I saw a photograph of a hand
in a museum
thin and emaciated 
It does not matter whose hand was this
a blackman, a white, or a colored
A male or a female......

It was an active hand of a factory worker
might be a hand of undernurished African refugee
or a hand of an AIDS victim....

It was a fisted raised hand 
with a slogan in a procession
for human rights.....

It was the cut hand of doctor Che Guevara
sacrificed for the latin American people.........

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She’s a flower of burned dirt
with pale and bony legs 
- her emaciated thighs 
etched with scars.

She’s been cutting to the music
of an inner, minatory choir
- a song of spite-filled sorrow
and perpetual farewell.

Christmas in the shadows
the hopeless hollow-days
in the kind of barren places
where our savior made his way. 

The angels mark your passing
and they understand your pain
- when the roll is called in heaven
seraphim will speak her name....

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She stood upon the dock
A gloved hand cupped her mouth
To catch the sobs and tears
Her other gloved hand
Still waving with a white hanky
As the ship slipped out of view
One of the last to leave
Young and pregnant 
Yet a veteran of 
Grief and hardship

She stood upon the dock
Her eyes searching
The returning
The walking
The maimed
The emaciated
The shell shocked
A gloved hand held that 
Of their son
She was one of the last
To leave
Cradling their son...

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In my armor instead he wore
Now lays dead, my friend of honor
Petroclus, Oh! The grief I bear
Cannot be wiped away like tears.
Long will I suffer his demise;
Lost forever, our mortal ties.
***************************
My lifelong friend lies before me
His emaciated body
Dressed in his “Best Mans” tuxedo
He wore so many years ago 
as my best man in our wedding
bearing our golden wedding rings.
 Oh! This human weakness: sorrow
What claim you, all my tomorrows?...

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As I go...
As I stride past the bridge with a twenty litre jerrican on my hand
I dream of tomorrow where hard soil will be like sand
Where in my dreams we have enough
Where in my dreams soft is never rough
I speed away; not to anger mama
Then when am rich I'll live in Alabama
Ojo, forget the pains, softly says the river
But my thoughts doubt my spirit and my body shivers
As I walk back to our manyatta
I know one day my emaciated bones will grow fatter
ONLY TOMORROW.......

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Just unbound, the death rate.
Red roses had no qualms. Numbers,
unapologetic, they die or commit suicide.
Death had no tombs. One by one they
cross the stream, sinking half, floating half
in a cynic system, heedless, emaciated,
eyes looking beyond, cavernous.

They kiss the doors, will not comeback,
pilgrims of grapes or hemlock, dead on the toes
of rehearsals, dried milk in breasts and pounding
of metaphors. The mankind stripped of songs
drifting from one forest to another.


SATISH VERMA...

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Don’t you scold,
She is not bold,
The weakest sentiment,
She cannot contain!

A fresh rosy colour--
Of emaciated cheeks,
Contrasting rings somber,
Besieging the sunken eyes,



Her limbs slender,
Akin to a moon beam tender,
Complexion pallid,
Gaze languid,

The stature stunted,
The chest movements restricted,
Imperceptible fever,
With occasional shiver,

The ‘delicate’ personality,
Described by the laity!
Well! She is certainly frail,
Alas! Medically, a plaintive tale!...

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