Sinew Poems

We Wrote Each Other in Blood

We licked ink from our open wrists,
a contract signed in salt and longing.
Our syllables stitched into sinew,
each verse a gash we chose.

You crawled inside my name,
built a cathedral from my echo.
I slept in your apology,
a pillow soaked with dreams that died in the cradle.

What is marriage if not mutual decay?
We baptized ourselves in entropy.
In every moan, a gospel;
in every silence, a dirge.

We made a sonnet of ruin,
willingly,
gladly,
dying syllables on each other’s tongues.

For Comparison Competition

Happy Mother’s Day!
Hooray, should I say?
Nay! ‘Tis naught but disarray you fool

I dodge ducks – their beluga-toned feathers at least– 
and the platinum pillows from whence they came
Whizzing by like my long four years of fame,
Eggs of pikachu hue, toast of darkest sinew

Oh no, I must go
She’s as happy as a blobfishy
How was I to know
Her special day was two months ago?

The Treasure

To live in abundance and magnify your fortune you must DIVINELY work for it. The far measures of where man will go for an instant magnitude relentlessly disqualifies the thoughts of having abundant control over their own hearts with love and forgiveness. And in addition, the practice of satisfying skin compared to a clean heart, mind, and sinew is thoughtfully illogical. So in result, men must find true value worth more than gold. The treasure that rings so loud but a number undoubtedly and purposefully ignore. For the true measures of the world is written in the best history book known to mankind. The book that shares how to live. The book that shares how to obtain in a righteous way. The book that speaks of the dead and the only ONE to have walked the earth, and as well risen. Therefore, in an always profound and crucial manner it is the responsibility of this world to read, study, practice, pray, and liberate our hearts to The Truth and only Way of Light as we breathe his presented gift of life.

Progress flows like a river of light through time

Progress flows like a river of light through time,
transforming the old man into a shadow of smoke,
a titan of sinew fading into the mist of memory,
replaced by an avatar of contemporary gentleness.
This one, sculpted from new desires and norms,
carries the days like a dream of vegan colors,
where meat is just a myth told by extinguished fires,
and wine, a relic of victories from long ago.
He, who neither smokes nor drinks, yet infuses his soul
with essences that seduce his senses in a dance of change,
in a world where ecology becomes a green religion,
and dogs are companions through the gardens of eternity.
Progress sings to a society that hides its shadows
beneath the mask of the blue light of vibrating screens,
sublimating evil into electric-hearted benefits,
where civilization is born from glandular dreams.
In this world, every person is an island of dreams,
a pawn on the board of a game with changing rules,
where progress is a new garment for old desires,
and the flow of consciousness is a wave of carried melancholy.

The Composer

I am 1,248 songs of complicated rhythm. Prose and verses tell a story of my decisions…my indecision. I am skin shaped, in 42 different shades of foolery, a life lover doing my best to avoid an other, but they seem to be everywhere these days. Crawling out from under rocks, or latent in my twisted fantasies. I think I may be terminal with delusional romantacy. A proverbial symphony strung together with sinew and longing. Discordant chords bending into melody when I blink too long or laugh too hard at the wrong moment. 
 
I can admit, I have been the composer of songs that I was never meant to play.  Still, I finger at the keys, an untuned melody stretched thin across the vastness of possibility, a quiet rebellion whispered in 3am silences, telling truths I didn’t ask to know, but I can’t help but pick up on the tone. I am every note you thought I missed, the calloused fingertips of my mistakes, still strumming, still singing. Harmony may elude me, but the melody is mine to claim. Yes, I am 1,248 songs of messy humanity, and I’ll rewrite the chorus as many times as it takes to finally hear it in my own voice.

Nature of the beast

Enjoy the hunt.
Savour the kill.
Sinew and bone.
Blood let to spill.
Such little flesh.
Least have your fill.
Was not to live.
Only the thrill.

These woods are mine.
I stalk this place.
Of twisted mind.
Outwitting pace.
Driven to hide.
Drunken on chase.
You think me lost.
Drawn to your trace.

Skin my cover.
As be yours soon.
Beguiling trickster.
Lyre or loon.
Quick to tire.
In heat of noon.
Your final darkness.
Night without moon.

Pluck out the heart.
Remove the arrow.
Destroy the cortical.
Suck out the marrow.
With victims broad.
And focus narrow.
Resume the hunt.
Intent to harrow.

Let the Words of My Mouth

Let the words of my mouth have backbone
Buoyed by the sinew of thoughtless thoughts
May they be freely formed and fashioned
On the smooth surface of an unyielding anvil

Hammered in the heat of passion’s angst
Molded in the flame of sightless vision
Nurtured by the touch of unfelt hands
Polished in the innocence of love’s longings

For how else will they be my words
If stolen, reshaped, reworked, weakly rekindled
Would I not be but a chirping echo
Scratching at a stained-glass soul

Would that my words and meditations 
Be the reflection of my heart’s belief
Set free within the moments calm
To stir a gently passing breeze

Emo Appetizer

Ill burn you,

To the ground.

Let the vapors gasp in empty airs around you,
And suck into themselves until nothing is left to drip across these acres of empty soil.

I'll tear you from the very skin aching for leave from the sinew drenched upon your bones.

Frequencies of follicles, a fallacy facade. 

Faking.

F'd you into the floor.

Foment you in flames until remnants are but memories, blistering in dust particles, hovered in sunbeams, hanging through naked windowpanes, planked perpendicular against wooden floors, never to be seen again until memory chances you in a whim.

Awoken

~Awoken~

Dawn'd 'Pon Me Due Epiphany...
Mine War~Ravaged Heart, 'Tis Fine'ly Set Free!
Tho' Still Care I Hold Fast, For All Of This Earth...
I Must Give Way Th' Labor, That Now Has Begun Mine Rebirth!
Indignation Of Mine Past, Now Dissolved 'Way Devoid...
So From Now On 'Ny Negative, I Most Surely Must Avoid!
If Seeing Th' SON, Doesn't Shine 'Pon Thy Intention...
Rest Assured Thou Shalt Pay Forward, For ALL Thy Nefarious Inventions!
Mercy I've Been Granted, As Well Covered By Grace...
Protected By Full Armor, 'Ven An Mere Chink There's No Trace!
Living Dead Mine Whole Life, Psyche & Sinew Snapped 'Til Broken...
'TWAS 'TIL OUR'N MASTER, T'WARD ME WITH AN SHOUT SPOKE;

~AWOKEN!!!!!!~

By: Randall ('~A~') Martin

Edge of Truth

Truth cuts deeper
than the surgeon’s blade—
no clean incision,
no practiced hand stitching the wound shut.

Instead, it comes jagged,
its edge raw and rusted,
ripping through sinew and marrow,
leaving us undone,
exposed,
bleeding in the silence
of what we thought we knew.

It does not ask permission.
It does not wait for us to be ready.
Truth falls, sudden and relentless,
like a guillotine at dawn,
its shadow looming
long before the strike.

And when it lands,
what remains?
Fragments.
A hand groping for what isn’t there.
A face fractured
in shards of broken glass.
The sound of a name
we cannot speak without trembling.

The wound truth leaves
does not heal,
not in the way we hope.
It marks us, alters us.
Scar tissue forms,
thick and unyielding,
mapping what was lost,
what was torn away,
and what we still carry.

Truth does not soothe.
It offers no comfort.
It stands,
stark and unrelenting,
pressing its weight
into the hollow spaces
where lies once lived.

And yet—
within the ache of its clarity,
something begins.
Slowly. Painfully.
We rise,
not unbroken,
but whole in a way
we hadn’t known before.
Not untouched,
but real.

The Circle

A sea shanty to skip to,
an Irish jig hot footing
on clogging stones
heels and knees
chasing swinging hands,
jazz jiving just for fun.
Don't do much
of any of that stuff now,
unless I sleep,
then I jump into a circle dance -
rewind, age, sinew and limb,
recall again
that there is always a Spring,
in late December.

Twisted Pine

Formed from the sinew
Of the twisted pine
That bends to the wind
On the mountainside
In the summer glare
And the winter snows
Where the temper flares
Where the temper cools –

And in strength you grew
In twists and knots
On the alpine edge
Of a thousand rocks - 
Sound of limb and lung
And of sturdy foot
For your Mother Earth 
Where you cling barefoot
With a grip the worth
Of your granite birth
Your twisted root 
And your taproot thirst –

Untitled No 28

I don’t know how to swim,
but I can swim well
Ask me to teach you how to solve
a problem, and I am stumped
but tell me to move a mountain
and I will push it out of your way
I can do so much more
than I can explain
I feel so much more
than my words can express
and my body knows
my muscles know
every aching sinew knows
how to do so many things
ride bikes
shoot guns
arm wrestle
thumb wrestle
climb mountains
push, pull, squat, and stretch
but if you asked me how
I wouldn’t know how to tell you.
You would think having so many words
would make it easier!
but it makes it worse.
What if I can’t explain how I’m feeling
in English 
so I think what’s the Russian word for that?
only I know deep in my brain
I should be using the French word
which I also can’t remember,
but only because Spanish doesn’t have
the word for it, 
and I don’t speak German 
So imagine - 
everyone around me drowning,
me, for the first time, swimming,
but I can’t help anyone
because I don’t even know
a stroke.

A Preamble Ramble

Before we play, let's preamble with the entree,
Enjoy the soft shoe shuffle, before the souffle.
Dancing tipsy, on tippy-toes, to belay and delay the mainstay.
It's a wily whisper of words, a teaser to savor in foreplay.

To amble and gamble, to begin with the starters on show,
Unscrambles the egg, but won’t scramble the glow.
For it's only a tongue-tip foretaste, a wink to what's next.
A fling ding unfettered, a sinew stretch, before things get complex.

It's like players who tune their strings, before starting to play.
It's like scene-setters setting the stage for ballet.
It's a warm-up, a rehearsal, a try-out, to get things right.
Before the curtains call up, ready to go on opening night.

Renewal

I close my eyes
to imagine all the dreams
we've yet to fulfill.

My heart races,
longing to draw you near
and talk about every sinew
of a life to be shared.

Passion is restirred, restored,
reenergized, rekindled, revived.
And zest is renewed.

Daring to expand beyond horizons,
we spread our wings wide
to set sail, to chase more sunsets.

Life around the corner
promises, surprises.
Sometimes happy, sometimes sad.

Let's make the most of time.
Create memories.
Hold 'forever' in our heart!



AP: 3rd place 2025

• Short Sinew Poems
• Famous Sinew Poems
• Best Sinew Poems
• Read Sinew Poems
• Long Sinew Poems
• Sinew Quotes