Short Winced Poems

Entering the room
I saw too late
The colour of the air
I winced in pain
I didn't know
I was walking on glass...

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I have read:- Half  set of genes
Kids borrowed from the father side.
Of  sudden news I badly winced.
Just half a wits  passed to my child!...

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Paper Skin

I touched
my skin
and winced
in pain.

Stinging
Throbbing
Bruising
Aching

You tore
my soul
to shreds
again.

Slashing
Ripping
Splitting
Clawing
Scratching

A wild
creature
would do
far less
damage.

7.12.2016...

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Wacky Willie whittled while whistling weirdly
Widow Winnie winced at Willie's wacky whistling-
And wrecked Willie's weird wooden whittled whistle.......


Woefull winded grandchildren whooped with delight...
If you havent guessed..lol ...for the Tongue Twister contest......

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She winced as the blade pierced her skin
Not at the sight brown white red
Nor the pain sharp as a baby's scream in the night
But at thoughts boiling over like a pot on the stove
Feelings that seem as endless as a rainbow
So separated 
Now alone trying to separate herself piece by piece...

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A summer wind came barging in
    to block two winter storms
  I just blew in, she chirped
    to keep you big boys warm

  The storms ramped up
    soon temperatures dropped
  The summer wind winced
    her initiative flopped  

  Back home the wind flew
    to sunny, tropical climes
  'Twas the last time she'd venture
    to block icy cool rhymes...

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___ ___
                    —  —  —  — —
                girl tied to rail tracks 
             vicious horrendous attack 
           train comes her bones crack 
         a scream echoes from the back 
        we all winced ~ cinema’s packed 



Murder in the tunnel contest 30/01/21
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Tanka, syllable counter PS 5-7-5-7-7....

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Smelling the clothes rinsed,
Easily he winced
Then, freed a waiting sigh
For the ones not dry …

Now, quite The Helpless-Tired,
He shall have a launderer hired
The Heart he needs that of A Lion
To The Settled Ones iron …

Clothes keep waiting to be washed,
Even asking that this be rushed
But in reply a face is just flushed,
Because Tap Water still gushed....

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I do not know what lies ahead
The path is cloaked in mystery
A thick fog clouds my weary head
The future spells uncertainty

I craned my neck to get a glimpse
A glimpse of the foggy future
In agony, I sighed and winced
Some things in life can't be insured

I do not know what lies ahead
But God knows every mystery
On Christ, I rest my weary head
To Him, there's no uncertainty...

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I felt so sorry for my friend Rodger
Who’d developed a lump by his todger
When he turned up for his scan
It wasn’t done by a man
The photographer was his new lodger 

How he winced when he saw the machine
Roger thought it looked so cruel and mean
His balls gripped in a vice
Did not feel very nice ...
He was thankful his boxers were clean!

1st February 2017...

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Madge, do you sometimes sit down and hear
The songs that winced across your fence, do
Think of the desert place our childhood grew up
Drinking those songs like anesthesia, old
Things now, but lasting more brightly to bring
A sense of distance from the lost, and a sense
Longing for the past, a sense of wanting things
To last, and the past to try again some part
While from away the haunting song teases the heart...

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We were; yes we were!
Brewed for this day.
Innured a yoked thicket.
Offing but at the nose tip
Till we had a stomach full

Receiving more, yet, we keep.
The bitter-tasting dark fluid.
Which settles in our veins.
Blurring our sight
And quaking our feet.

Our feet? Thorned for irrigation
Of blood and sweat.
The flower rejoiced; we winced.
Perseverance replaced our view
As Eldorado floods our sight....

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If I come back another time I want to be a hammer I told my mother.
She rolled her eyes. She thought I was being ridiculous. 
She could not fathom any better life than our life.
We held up houses, we held up bridges, we held up buildings.
There is nothing more admirable than being a nail, she said.
I noticed she winced as the hammer was pounding her into a bridge.
But she did not scream.  
Nails never scream....

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Love is not love that never looked
within itself and questioned all,
curled up like a zygote in a ball,
throbbed, sobbed and shook.

(Or went on a binge at a nearby mall,
then would not cook.)

Love is not love that never winced,
then smiled, convinced
that soar’s the prerequisite of fall.

When all
its wounds and scars have been saline-rinsed,
where does Love find the wherewithal
to try again,
endeavor, when

all that it knows
is: O, because!...

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