Short Piecing Poems

that crazy old quilt
she was piecing together
just before the stroke


Dave Austin...

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Soft whispered

Piecing cries

Laughter haunting the darkest nights

Candles flicker

Glasses brake

Heart filled cry

The Phantom Lullaby has begun...

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Reflection of self
Habitual brooding
Defines how one felt
And aids self improving

Inward dissection
Puzzle piecing
Every direction
Knowledge increasing

Data collecting
Soul observation 
Pattern connecting
Self education...

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History is replete
with examples of the incomplete.
Which is why we have historians –
or should they be called restorians?

Theirs is the patient art
of piecing history back together,
what men and time put apart,
with results not much better.
...

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Let's take these pins and needles

That we're always sitting on

And sew up this relationship

Before it goes completely wrong

Piecing it all together

These used lives, tattered and torn

We'll make a quilt from wanting hearts

Into something beautiful...

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I came upon a 
blood smeared road
Of flesh and skin 
and crushed bone
I collected the vision 
of what it could be 
Piecing together 
deaths mystery
The town appeared 
shovel in hand
Scraped the remains 
threw down sand 
I said a simple prayer
For the bloodstained smear
...

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Piecing it together
for a second time
the result was not the same

The years had altered
the way each piece fit
a strange familiar game

Instinct overwriting
what memory lost
the picture starts to clear

My past and future
now conjoined
—as moments reappear

(The New Room: March, 2022)...

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Fountain of light
Showering on some
Small white lilies
Creating smiles
In the orange sky
Leaving eyes
To sparkle upon
The smiles of her
Tender heart
Opening In the
Light
Of the glowing
Fountain
Piecing together
Love, beyond
The farthest stars
Forever held deep
In her ring finger

Russell Sivey...

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Blaring words without letters,
the piecing screams of silence,
her face a waterfall of tears,
anger reaching for its own throat,
looks punching through dry walls.
The roots of rage
pumping bile into dead buds...

just a bad dream, only a dream,
but why do I beat my chest,
and beg for absolution?...

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Drumming along to the ancient song 
Painting images 
On the throng of something great 
Trying not to negate 
The all too familiar feeling of destiny, of fate 
Picking flower petals apart 
Piecing them together in a tapestry of art 
Watching a rainbow appear in the sky 
Watching myself disintegrate into the prism ....

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A misbelief
breaks into rags.
Still I dream of some gods
on black pages

piecing together the words
of light.   The rains come
in the  cage of tears,
voicelessly.

Striated muscles of splintered faith
go to cramps birthing 
the avatar
without a mother.

I will pick up now
nothingness
from the bounty of silence,
of a stunning question.



Satish Verma...

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Ask in Faith, never wavering.
No distrust, never stumbling; standing tall.
Be not bewildered, no worries, no fears.
Give it to HIM, no more thoughts, my worries are silence.
Believe in HIS Words; Everlasting.
Piecing your heart; like a sword; His mighty Tongue speaks.
I listen, I ask in Faith;
l lay my mournful heart, to rest in HIM.
Faith; overpowering; never wavering....

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And I see your back dragging the luggage.
That is all that is left.
Sitting with the ashes
You surrendered and won.
I see your white hat and the sun.
I had to see you in your glory
The parade was over before you could enjoy.
Ticker tape as those puzzles you loved.
You were brilliant.
Piecing each colored paper.
Only you could see and the clock ticking
And your not here....

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Sir –
Late in the noon as usual
Came the vergers with the sharp bells
(Prof, a roused lad saw not the Vicar)
Announcing another blessed excursion;

Of course, Sir –
The endemic hubbub
Reigned in the nest
To be vacated in a hurry;

And the piecing bells
Hinted of the swords in the rafter
Plunged in full poise by pig-watcher
(Prof, a roused lad saw the inscription)
‘Flee, meet the siren at midnight else!’...

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The harp can be heard, blending with the rain
Angelic tunes reach a shattered broken heart
Soothing every teardrop of treacherous pain
Piecing together facts that made it fall apart

Joy surpasses all the swirling pangs of hurt
Miraculous healing shines through the gray
As raindrops now trickle and the skies flirt
The sun comes out smiling, ready to play

6/13/18

*Entry for Angels in the rain Contest.  Sponsor:  Vermillion Scythe....

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Daylight is wide-eyed, it glares
like an angry samurai.
We are pinned down
naked to the piecing sun.
It's all too exposing -
the heat flays and burns.
A violent light fries sunscreens,
drills through sunhats
while we blink under gritty lids.
The humidity drains,
we slouch, crouch,
strain out our words.
Its’ a dry dog time
where doggedly nothing wags.
We dream of cooling winds,
of those days
when a salty sweat did not
dry-out our lolling tongues....

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The mysterious mist in the morning
Sky left us unspoken
The swirling of the air
Left the strokes of a thousand men.
Each one more delicate than the next.
All we ask for is a  single touch of this mystery 
to get us  a little bit closer in the debacle
Piecing it together to find the big picture.
Close your eyes and think...
What is the picture you behold?
Perhaps your deepest desires
Or even your secrets  
That have not yet come to surface.
What do you see?...

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As Time unwinds with a cup of tea
Sipping fragrant steam of centuries
No rush to fluff the flattened sea

In the key of wind's piano notes
Strumming with hummingbirds' low float
And the whale's alto undercoat

Piecing a jigsaw silhouette
Of mountain sky, as eons set
Painting a desert river wet

Her comet's glittered ribbons trace
Over Orion's luminous face
Dappled in blue's infinite base

Goblets of stars conjure up
A millennia, as tiny
As a teacup.

...

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The falcons glide out of my heart,
Sipping my last crimson water and indigo tears.
Soar to the empty world, very ravenous,
They yearn to taste the fiery heat of skies.

The falcons dance their Tango.
Flapping wings in joy, fliting with the woeful soil,
Never know when to end;
Hymns of winter, audible as they sing.

The falcons, on holy ground,
Piecing eyes through the curtain to greet the angels.
Their blazing eyes glitter navy blue,
Their souls, serene, a cold sea....

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The waters of Lethe the tattooists ink
Tracing over memory
Replacing with fear of unknowable 
To have forgotten
On the dead breath of terror
Recognition sparse
Piecing together a different picture
That may indeed be the truth
For what is felt 
May crush what was known
Bathe in the waters, consume
Wash away not memory but
Residual fear
Distrust
Knowledge of never knowing
Don't soothe me, I should be wide awake
On the tattooists chair
Leave me a note on my arm
"Trust no-one"...

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