Stapled Poems

Ligature of Language

They say “gentle” before “man”
as if softness must be stapled
to power to make it palatable.
As if the fist, once gloved, is no longer a fist.

They say “strong” before “woman”
as if endurance must be embroidered
onto flesh to make it forgivable.
As if the cleft, once crowned, is no longer a cleft.

Adjectives are corsets-
the ligature of language,
cinching identity until it fits,
the silhouette of acceptability.
A strangulation ritual
masquerading as grammar.

Let the noun speak- naked.

Prescribed Celebration

(yes, I'm serious)

Three minutes.

That’s how long it took
to name a swarming mess:
A self-appointed poet
with rogue chemicals sizzling in her nerves.
The diagnosis long and fancy—
bitter but addictive 
on my tongue,
like the gin I’ve grown fluent in.
(Is that why his voice was slurred?)

                         “…The patient flinches
                         at the morning rains in May.
                         Her ink contradicts herself…
                         …and her thoughts betray.”

                         “…Well, this is why.” He pointed at my brain.

I sighed and rest
my head against the chilly wall
painted a welcoming shade of yellow.
The nurse lit branded candles:
they reserve lavender
for calming the stormier souls—
but I blow out the flame
with laughters drumming in my rib cage—

All this time,
I’ve been stuck
in debates on who’s to blame
But finally—finally,

Printed on stapled prescription bags—
a long, fancy name.
Now we can toast 
with tablets in paper cups—
Here’s to 
finding an enemy that's not me.

The Velum of Clouds

For all the planning
and learned preparation
poetry remains part
mystery

a write only dimly solvable

a poet wisely advised to
proudly accept 
all credits, while adhering failures 
to sacrificial muses, 

the lambs should 
be accustomed by now
to writers’ confiscations
and slanders

our best definition:
poetry~ likened to love -- 

fond works

pinned to the heart 

stapled to the velum 

of high flying clouds~

hopefully

ascending

for safe keeping

and reunion

Fake Anatomy

your silhouette
bleeds 
a background 
of tears
inside me and
flowing out 
of me the
pain of ages
held in rages
my soul in cages

your hand-print
touch-less
yet pushes me 
to the
breaking point
like stapled glass
no true fix
for the pieces
you've left me in
broken child
meek and mild
none the wild

your empty boot
doc martens
though maybe 
endlessly 
crushes me
my will ground
under such
an empty 
sole as you
what shall I do
but wait
for 
the other boot
to drop
imprint lies
self despise
no big surprise

why can't I see
you are 
what I have 
built you to be
an empty form
an ink-less print
a weightless step
all kept alive by me
fake anatomy

©SamHarty

Songs of Nature COS No 12: AABB

Occasions a sign as moonglade o'er lake.
Hears lay the sleeper in brevities wake,
retold roses red and violets blue,
yet best in scarlet as would maroon too
and lavender is said truer than blue
ice hue bit tepid or too cool don't you.
Adage, midst I, some pleasant sensation,
that sharply parches vivid ribbons in
from a morning mist, where I sail lightly,
plucked anon afloat, raving aimlessly.
Skims a peacock sky, fans its righteous hue,
ducks stapled in a pond, quacks voices clue,
A seized mind, I'll best keep a forward thought,
I know last night's storm. What? Oh, I forgot.

Under the Influence

I don’t know why I’m with her still
She’s a craving I just can’t kill,
She’s a habit I just can’t kick,
I’m an addict – she makes me sick

She burns like “China White” cut wrong,
Harsh as schwag from an unwashed bong.
As bitter as the cheapest beer,
As gentle as pure Everclear.

Her voice rings in my shroom-filled head
She is the meth comedown I dread.
She’s Oxy, fentanyl and crack,
The monkey stapled to my back.

The dragon I chased; she chases me –
The best thing I could do is flee.
But where could I in my hell go
That she, my drug, would not follow?

Unredacted Redactions

Then came the checkers of the facts
Patting themselves on the backs
Moccasin minds that leave no tracks
Piling up rumors in stapled stacks.

It matters not whether pro or con
They all sing a slightly twisted song
A mantra that makes the right seem wrong
Or at least filtered through an inhaled bong.

They’ve all been trained to speak with one voice
Forgetting that that is giving up choice
And chanting is naught but a lot of noise
To drown out the roar of the “preachers” Rolls-Royce.

So study the graphs, the charts, unredacted
And lean to the side to which you’re attracted
But remember the “facts” can all be retracted
With the heavy dark lines of those who attacked it.


John G. Lawless
©7/24/2022

Free Love Take Some

Proclaimed the poster 
stapled to the side of the old barn, 
its bold, bright colors in stark contrast 
to the faded paint of the cladding.

The tear-off tabs 
hanging below the poster, 
each with a bright pink heart upon it, 
flutter in the hot desert wind.

Some had already been taken, 
leaving empty gaps, 
like missing piano keys, 
a tune 
never to be played again.


Love
G - Give me a new poem- any form - Poetry Contest Placed 3rd
Sponsored by: Constance La France  
Date wrote: 1st March 2022

Britches 2

“Britches” 2
Written: by Miracle man
July 12, 2021

 His younger years are slowly becoming blurred,
some think he’s matured into a “tough old bird”.
He’s been sewed up, stapled, wired, and glued,
due to thirty five scars that he has accrued.

Each one of these markings has a story to tell,
One gives an account of hearing death bell’s knell.
His days are prolonged, oft leaving him stressing,
and he still looks to God for undeserved blessing.

To him, life has mirrored, some unsolved riddle,
morning thoughts are fixed on the “cross in the middle”.
He has a firm persuasion of what lies ahead,
and focuses on the cross where Jesus’ blood was shed.

Padded Life

Torn up mattresses stapled to the walls
deafen the sounds of the screaming.
I’m talking, talking to the man
with no ears, when I look,
he’s not really there at all.
Coming at me with outstretched
arms he squeezes me to death
like a half-starved boa, then
 I wake up, alone.  

In a lonely room with 
pillows taped to the walls
and only a tiny window in
the door to see a fleeting
glimpse of the man in charge.
Coming at me with outstretched
arms he claws and bites, bleeding
me out onto their clean white
floor, then I wake up, alone.

Padded walls and padded floors
keep me from harm inside
the world he has created.  Tough
to live with people out to get
you.  Friends think you’re
kidding, neighbors think
you’re delusional, but here I
lie on the floor, slowly dying,
all alone.

Time Passages

"Time is the thief you cannot banish."

                                   Phyllis McGinley, Writer,  1905 - 1978

Time Passages

I drift midst some pleasant sensation~~from a morning mist,
that promptly parches within glowing ribbons~~where I sail lightly,
plucked anon afloat~~as my ramblings proceed aimlessly,

Presently skims a peacock sky~~fans out its righteous hue,
variously, ducks stapled in a pond~~quacks influences life,
views by ark's parts a motion~~equal to my emotions,

Channeling alterations that affect~~evolved futures,
preceptions are produced clearer~~like a hallway complete of doors,
whenever one is opened~~ventures varied responses,

I noted from moment to moment~~evoked fused answers,
harmonious so far~~whilst I perpetuate forward in thoughts,
mindful about yesterday's storm~~all in all, time will tell.

2020 November 13
*3rd Place*
Writing Challenge - Quote Inspired
~~Constance La France

Not So Euphoric

Not So Euphoric
Written: by Miracle Man Tom
1-24-2020

Feeling euphoric,
Was being healthy and happy. 
But as time wears on,
I’m easily agitated and snappy.

Some days I feel,
I’ve been through a meat grinder.
I wear thirty-two scars,
Which are a constant reminder.

I’ve been sutured, stapled,
And sometimes even glued.
Each scar tells it’s story,
Of a time as they accrued.

Sometimes I’m caught thinking,
That I’m one tough old bird.
But God in my life,
 Makes that thinking absurd.

True, life has seen me,
Face many a tough test.
But despite all this,
While undeserving, I’m blessed.

Through all of life’s issues,
I’ve showered God with praise.
For making an old dog able,
To survive some tough days.

Conquering Pain

Conquering Pain
(Through Mental Toughness)
Written: by Miracle Man
10-9-2019
I try not acknowledging that nemesis pain,
I view pain as a temporary irritation.
I won’t surrender, letting it become my bane,
Unless brought on by some ablation.

Any lacerations, I’ve always viewed as minor,
Whether stapled, sutured, glued or such.
Though some have produced a dandy shiner,
I’m not accident prone nor am I a soft touch.

From a seven hour stay in the ER I Just came, 
For my eleventh sew, staple job on my head alone.
Each scar tells a story that’s never the same,
My twenty six scars began long before grown.

If hospital administered on an irregular basis,
Pills become my crutch for temporary relief.
I find pain a frame of mind in most cases,
And I avoid the road that might lead to grief.

I’ve seen a lot of days and some have been rough,
And a few of them has brought some scorch. 
But if your like a Pit Bull who thinks he’s tough,
You won’t let fear keep you tied to the porch.

Thursday Humour

OPENED IN ERROR.

A man had bad news about his mother
Had loads to drink one after another
But later on that night
Was seen happy and bright 
Said that letter was meant for my brother.

ANGUS.

An old sailor by the name of Angus
Fell in love and married an octopus 
They had a son James
Who won gold at games
Found having six arms in sport was a plus.

OLD NICK.

The horned devil had set himself one goal
To collect from those who had a dark soul
He was on to a winner 
Saw mankind a great sinner
Said hells fires will need a lot more coal.

OLD WOMAN.

There was an old woman from Nantucket
Had no teeth so her food she would suck it
But one day she choked
On meat that was smoked
And sadly that's how she kicked the bucket.

NELLY.

There once was a young girl called Big Nelly
When she walked by she shook like a jelly
Was told to lose weight
Before its too late
So doctor's have now stapled her belly.

Perfoline

She perfumes herself with gasoline
then hands the world a piece of flint
to bring us out of that cold darkness 
that we brand tranquility and happiness 
but the explosions-the burning of flesh
the release of spirit is never quite enough.
She knew the truths long before she was born
before pretty bows were stapled to her head
before the chastity belt was nailed to her mind
but we'll never get it right-right?

We put gasoline in our cars and mowers
snap the heads off a thousand flowers
to make our lawns dance and smile pretty...
Mindlessly taking the color from breathing. 
she perfumes herself with gasoline
then hands the world a piece flint.

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