Surgically Poems | Examples

The Hospital Cat

The surgeon
had successfully removed his libido
and fed it to the hospital cat.

Corridors became whispering tubes
for I.V. drip pushing wanderers,
their pale bottoms peering out
like beluga whales through the cracks
of gaping gowns.

He dreamed often,
the drugs swiped his mind,
he was a screen, that with flickering ease
erased and replaced his life
with crazily narrated electric poetry,
a hypersonic buzz
that pretzelled his thoughts.

A nurse appeared to him between
the sensual waves that spayed across
his surgically mauled mortality.

She was erotically enhanced,
her trance-dance of sexuality
poured into his flaccid organs
like a shot of ice-cold Taquilla.

Once she spoke to him - just once.
Her words were umber honey
between his parted lips.

He struggled to understand.

Clarity came upon him -
"You're my libido."

He had forgotten about the cat!

She purred softly
as she adjusted his pillows.

The Manual Clunk

My typewriter
was not a good typewriter,
its keys were weighty,
you had to use brain muscle to work it,
nobody wanted it.

My son unpacked a home computer.
I stood by and watched
as all the electronics were laid out on the floor
and surgically knitted together.

I knew then
that I would be consistently out of touch,
and possibly would remain
stuck in an obsolete year
trying to catch up
from the rear of the field.

I wrote my first poem
on that clickity-clack manual machine,
then a dozen more,
all of them were heavy handed,
yet that hefty labor
made me think
I was crafting something worthwhile.

Later, I was enslaved to a computer keyboard,
chained as I was to its subsonic urgings
I could tell
the world was speeding away
faster than I could write.

When my kind of poet dies,
he is immediately ed,
for all his contemporary poems
turn into digital wormholes
that suck him into an unknown grave.

The young look to dead poets for wisdom -
truth is,
that those ham-fisted plodders
have long ago
turned into chunky typewriters
that nobody wants.

My Truths

If I rely on myself for truth, I waste my time,
for who am I, certainly not the Creator. —by poet
  
                        My truths are bubbly and smile
            as light shines from my eyes and lips.
Like a blossom unfolding through the ages, after my spirit
was regenerated, through boundless weather, I hearken to God’s word.
                        My truth is found in careful study, each scripture verse.
God’s sword is sharp, surgically removes my sin and shame,
scolds me, builds me up, points the way to paradise.
      In family and friends, I look for what is real,
        stand back if I must to size up,
                        not for judgment, just for clarity.
My truth is found in peace and calm, humility, strife.
            Experience rounds out my truths, for I’ve seen miracles happen.
      I rely on Christ to brave
                        through the darkest night; and colors; and poetry.

Mother

she has the wrath of a god but the mind of a human 
the steel grip of an eagle, but she’s painfully weak 
i shake like a leaf 
since whatever she’s doing 
makes me scared to the bone, i can’t even speak 

whenever she screams, the silence that follows 
deafens me more than her voice 
don’t prick your finger, thread in a needle 
none of us are here by choice 

her stare burns my skin; it’s shabby and marred 
the scars on my knees are surgically  placed 
i’ll keep it together
my face stays unscarred 
but i look like my father; she says it’s a waste

Enhancements

There are surgeries for bigger boobs
And bigger butts, as well
As implants meant for males to thus
Enhance their size and swell.

An article that I just read
(New Yorker Magazine)
Described such a procedure
And the problems often seen.

Why someone’d choose to surgically
Enlarge, for ego‘s sake,
A body part that functions
Seems, to me, a huge mistake.

Symbolically Speaking

Cat's eyes glow in concrete
their wings are orange and green
best seen in low light conditions.

Organ pipes are often integral
with large holy edifices,
yet they foot-pedal like any unicycle;
some can be surgically removed.

Man must drink to live,
but by law
women get the first glass of wine.

People who mix together
become odd,
a world of odd things
spins on the tip of a needle,
a fine point
that is said to thread a seamless sameness;

these symbolic needle-workings
are also too diaphanous to be seen
by the naked skin.

Taking Off My Demon Shoes

Firstly the alligator belt has to go.
The highly polished pearl handled pistol
should not be on my slim hips 
in a kindergarten.
I’m swearing of sugar and rum.
Blue suede shoes were never that cool anyway,
I have left several pairs at the back of a thrift shop
with a five dollar bill.
Wearing shades in February is not working for me anymore.
I’ve taken off the tassels of my dude cowboy shirt.
I have moved into Ohio
filling every available space with my yellowing soul;
have filed my fangs down to the size of gummy bears.
We (my huge prosthetic breasts and I),
have joined a Pentecostal church
and now babble eloquently in an angelic tongue
only fully known to rabid squirrels.
Constant prayer has turned my **** eruptions
into pure helium
and am now gainfully employed blowing up party balloons 
in a local Dollar Store.
When the good Lord calls me I will be found
balancing precariously on the head of a pin
at last fully masked and surgically prepared for 
my heavenly colonoscopy.

Sharks

Swift, agile predators, 
sharks patrol coral reefs
swimming silently and
stealthily among the
shadows, they pursue prey,
surgically culling
sick and or injured fish.


(Pleiades)


03/18/2022


In Search Of Prey Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May

Surgical Strikes

Stars blink out;
another dawn triumphs over a defeated night.
The wounded and dead hidden by time zones.
Echoes of a brief brutality, too far off
to rattle backyard grills and beer cans.
Let us lift up our hearts in song
to drown out the drone
of arrowing smart bombs,
for we have taught our ears to un-hear.
the distant dead, their surgically dismembered voices
just sparrows chirping upon pleasant lawns,
We forget to regret the weakening wink
of their semaphore signals,
and no nocturnal flames dare pierce or mar
our pillowed and peaceful rest.

Thanks

I
Some days we thank Creator God, and Spirit
naturally
Some days we think of Originator with limits
critically
Some of us thank the Universe, good fortune - Grace -
surgically
"Some of this I achieved on my own," and often,
"I am a self-made man." Genius Stupidity

II
The eyes opened and I saw light  (this morning):Thank Thee Jesus
The legs past 60 years walked to the lounge: Thank you LORD
There are people in my life, and this cell phone life: Praise God too!
What made here is not from God's good earth? Gold but dirt and earth
I shall seek Thee to thank, daily, so help me Father, Son, Holy Spirit

Surgical Strike

The stars wink out over suburbia
another dawn has won over
a distant night.
The defeated and dead as always,
hidden between time zones,
a brief brutality too far away,
and not enough to smear backyards
and beer barns.

Upon my morning walk
I lift up my heart in song.
A soft breeze
drowns out the drone
of smart death,
the quieted blood of the gone,
leaving only
surgically dismembered voices
lilting sweetly
in this summer air,

If I look to the East
maybe a bird or two will arrive
bearing seeds of survival,
for now the pinpointed and targeted
tread no trace
thread no words.

After more nightly raids,
after the nocturnal flames,
the collateral and damaged
come to dream with us,
they come as the misplaced
and as our muted morning guests –

fortunately, we have
many soft and spare pillows.

Scars Are the Path To the Soul

Scars are the Path to the Soul 

Here is a road of tears,
miles and miles of memories
appearing on a sunny shadow,
moving through your being with a 
slow pain as scars are the 
path to the soul
surgically.

The roadmap of an old worn
trail to pointless passion
leaves traces of smells and scents
meaning some kind of love
was here and now gone and scars
are the path to the soul
of real truth
idealistically

An unrequited mark of loss
makes a deep impression on the breast
a cut like a scalpel slice
laying bare insides, bleeding
as reused scars are the path to 
the soul
unfortunately.

A core of consciousness found
by the visions of horrors known
allows verbal passage along the way
to the heart
exposing most generously
tender romantic regards knowing each
and every scar and its path to the soul
longingly.


10/1/18

Verses of Metaphors II 
Laura Loo, Sponsor  1st place

REMEMBERING WHAT YOU WANT TO FORGET
Kim Rodrigues, Sponsor    NA

Deer Rest Glasgow

Another dreary journey down deaths highway
The daily life of cursed work
Outside Glasgows fair kiss
The free tv shows views as cars driven by the undead squeeze past
The grubby bus window that no one seems to use
All heads in prayer to the constructed deity
Creators of a binary god
My eyes survey a barren space of kermit green
and mud filled divots 
And as if positioned by a godlike hand
A family of dearest deer 
unspoiled and prohuman glisten from sunlights kiss 
A miracle not that a wonderful moment in
a day of unlived life
But as we pass another moment holds hand with the moment before
A boy surgically attatched to his phone and headphones
Catches sight of deer a frolic
And unopposed and unreserved a smile lit his face
And the bones that slowly kill me
loosen for a breath
And a scottish poet finds inpiration and a warmth inside his chest

Done Trying

I stand by my heart
Never alone again 
Shadows stop where the sun starts
Some chapters are worth reading again 
I’ve reflected and tried to apologize 
Yet those offended insist to hold a grudge
Over the moon with the need to ostracize 
Rubbing salt in an old wound
They need time
Gift it
They need space 
Advance in the opposite direction 
Should they decide to stay gone
Accept it as emotional relief
You’re who you are because of YOUR tests
 Surgically remove thoughts of feeling incomplete

Holistic Mind Wipe

It’s the purest form of mind wipe known thus far,
erases all mental defective stigmas
Especially that stubborn frontier viral strain
Individualism is a fretting disease ...
thinking you can do without the government,
	citizen, please!
You have be real sick to think like this,
but fortunately, your friendly government got the fix:
Holistic mind wipe
for the low, low price of $199.99
So surgically quick,
you’ll be home before dinnertime
The Holistic method is the safest procedure
known thus far
Any strains of authoritarian rebellion 
		will have been genetically stripped away
A docile populace is now here to stay,
they just go along with 
	whatever the government say
Offering no resistance at all,
they’re loyal federated citizens who made the call
Now it’s your turn 
		... it's your duty, unsanctioned citizen,
to make that call
Go get that government seal of approval
Sign up for the next appointment to receive: 
The Holistic mind wipe ... all pure, no gripe
for the low, low price of $199.99
It’s so medically cheap, that this offer of
stealing from the government should be a crime

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