Short Knuckled Poems
Short Knuckled Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Knuckled by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Knuckled by length and keyword.
she wasn't
even wearing
gloves just simply
bare knuckled
inertiad me
but my head
was bobbing
so physically
i asked her to
enter the ring
hit my face
again and
again because
i'm punch
drunk
in
love
Form:
Fallen leaves knuckled
below eddies float again
along the slick street.
Rain withers with gray
asphalt rising. Curbs cement
leggy puddle spills.
Sunlit raindrops stop
hissing at guttural moans
tickling us for laughs.
November Jazz
lead gale trumpets
high
effing sharp
blast leaves shaky
beat-nodding
trees
bare knuckled--
heads swaying--
moan
nippy
whirling
fingers
tap a cool
l o n g note
segueing
into December Blues
slowly,
her knuckled cracked eons
into buckets
of whitewashed lies
and her sigh elongated
into dainty icicles
that hung around
her neck
like a noose
which slowly sliced open
Pandora's box
of poetry and she, cried,
sonnets in the winter
With your sudden guise
giving Shirley poppies seeds away
To Welford for the snowdrops
in mid February
a hushed garden
with done, knuckled buddleia
rose hips nipped
no surplus food for the birds
Spring like weather
down the South
no snow to contend
I spied them through our fence.
They sparred with knuckled fist,
a father with unruly buck
beside back door for violent ruck
that stag was bound to win.
Young eyes that saw that vile display
did not forget that horrid day,
and now know just how close
that same scene could have been.
She longs to do well she wants to do what's right
To rock all those that hurt in her insignificant lap
Holding to Hope in white knuckled fists so tight
Yet learning to bend with the wind and not snap
Maybe all she needs is for someone anyone to clap
I did not see them wither
they fell between the light,
falling back into a darkening sun
The blooms have slipped sideways
the way dust does
when not tied down.
I did not see their passing,
I only saw the knuckled joints,
of dry stems.
I smelt burnt offerings
arranged into bouquets
for long dead brides.
The flowers have died back,
back into a darkening sun.
I did not see them wither
they fell between the light.
The blooms have slipped sideways
the way dead things do
when not tied down.
I did not see their passing,
I only saw the knuckled joints
of the dry stems
opening desiccated florets,
a last unraveling
of the no longer there.
I'll be a monkey's knuckle,
Then maybe he'll be my uncle.
His aunt ate lice, ain't that nice!
I'll be the tallest tree I can find.
I'll be shade for those, be kind.
I'll be a lemon bush, crush
My tomatoes, don't you rush!
Slowly simmer me into sauce.
I'll be supper, you be the boss.
Then bossy I will be, in my tree -
Playing with my knuckled monkey.
Fearing the haze of ending
this body does not behave now.
Puppet show was over.
Punch – drunk we move
amidst the psychopaths, who were
foraging the aroma from armpits.
Loincloths hanging on the strings to strangle
the pigeons.
Everything moves with precision.
Sex on the mind.
The master wants the untouched flesh,
quietly without any sound.
SATISH VERMA
Form:
Fine if not
I did
It spoketh into mine own bloody ears
Mate
Bo
Blood E
Smoking timbers in the hatch
Touchdown
Says he
With the wise head
And the big ol balls
Jewish smile
Racist!
White well-meaning and poor taste of sense
Brilliant!
I heard it
The knuckled pause
The smoke and mirrors
I heard the tutelary
I looked up and grinned
With semen falling in volleys
Oh God
What has become
Of me
.
i'll punch you with uh phuk'n
boom
to your jaw
BAAHM
to your lungz
punch punch
uh phuk'n
bare knuckled
(((PUNCH)))
not like sum
MMA thugz
nope
like 'my thud'
MAN
all up in your
now
Mangled
'Month'
He walks toward me, old, shabby and crooked,
yet there’s a pliancy of new mown-hay in him.
A peppery hound follows.
Now and again the dog slows and flops,
its muddy eyes question marks.
He calls to it -
the dog struggles up from a knuckled stiffness,
a skewbald tail wags.
I capture them both in an intake of breath.
We have all been traipsing,
but these two are at ease with their path,
while I have yet to find one.
The destiny of my parents
was to be ignored by a vaguely dismantled child.
The youth grew, his mind so dispersed,
that he hardly saw them anymore.
How can you tell,
when your filial emotions
are all stuck in a knuckled first?
Years passed, parents passed,
time passed and the child,
became an old man.
Only then did he see again,
a mother doing her best,
a father doing what he could,
and a child that never cared,
until now.
A strange autumn this,
with its tight closed fists,
its lynched, hollow fruitfulness.
Ashen drapes shroud
listless maples, a sky
reluctant to color its face.
We are knuckled inwards.
A pestilence has worn out
the pith of those who survive.
We enter this wintry furnace
refined, steeled, and buckled
with a somber endurance
and we will come through
just as autumn does, renewing
the earth with its fiber and sorrows.
Listen to poem:
All Hammer, No Nail
There he goes, the bare-knuckled fist monster,
Brandished around, like his personal weapon,
He rounds the bend, and his gang follows after,
There he goes, the bare-knuckled fist monster,
Turned, took a stand, he stopped, a bit flustered,
Seems you're not afraid, so nothing will happen,
There he goes, the bare-knuckled fist monster,
Brandished around, like his personal weapon.
2019 May 13
Everlasting vicious circle Breaks
Up again,
Only to slip into the dark.
I wait for hands to pick me up,
White-knuckled and holding on,
Until I finally fall in
The circle never breaks.
Steady for a second,
Then the floor gives way.
Gripping tight until my palms ache,
Up again.
Off balance, but not alone.
Someone pulls me from the shadows
and plants my feet on solid ground.
I hold on, eyes toward the light,
breaking the circle to become my hope
Meandering tassels of jet black hair
Undressing the small of her back
Leaving traces of honeydew
Emotions flow
Like liquid hot magma
Dancing viscosity
Lips smolder with white-hot anticipation
Enveloped by the night
Hearts racing
Miles traveled in a moment
Earthly constraints left
Drifting in and out of consciousness
Starry far out galaxies explored
White-knuckled embrace
Heavy breathing…
Descending from heights
Eyes lock
Serenity found
A numbing wind is gusting
Newspapers dance with wrappers
Grey skies mute reflections
In a thousand facets
Of an Olympic jewel
Dull and lifeless
Dark and silent
Sitting empty
Misery walks in the streets
Blue knuckled homeless
Pull closed their ragged coats
Against the chilling daggers
Of poverty's icy breath
Shuffling past an empty promise
Their desperate eyes
Stare with longing
And cry in need
Written for Contest: "Empty Apartment"
Sponsored by Matt Caliri
Fingertips etched and wrapped,
white knuckled, yet steadfast -
the journey never finished because
...there is no destination
except the next brick or perhaps
EGO?
What then, when there are no more
"electives"?
"Alexander wept, because there were
no more worlds to conquer".
So thus, the tendrils, naked and burdened,
circle back,
their vines and blossoms celebrated,
while the sacrificed - those who cling and die
go unnoticed...