Sutures Poems | Examples

Silent Scream

Contest : Oxymoron
Sponsored by : Nette Onclaud
Date : September 3, 2025


Your congealed charm sprays spring colors, 
folded buds of my heart unfurl.
You drift far transfixed in my sky
that falls floating with my life’s shards, 
pain rhythm sutures broken heart whole.
I hear silent scream of flower
cry for old sunrise in new dawn,
see you turn dew pearls on petals.

Broken Promises

Broken Promises are the labour pains 
that birth the words “I’m Sorry”.

Good intentions don’t ring the cash register.

Nor do they heal the wounds
that sutures have only temporarily closed.

Reflections of the Past, Visions of the Future

When I think of all the things my mother taught me 
and all the things my father said 
I am really glad that some things,     
went by the wayside  
while other things aren't dead !

As I recall my mother bold and headstrong 
the way she coached me until the very end 
I also recall my father's words of caution 
and the way he raised me,    
with just one single smile.   

Reflections of the Past * Visions of the Future

Mom and dad both taught me how to live  
As I hold onto sutures of yesterday's once was   
I unravel truths about myself, 
each time I stop, think and pause.

Sad Monster

I dreamed I lost you.

The pain was so real that 
I still feel the dried blood
from the sweet sutures 
you used to make a man of 
me. 

You domesticated my soul.

Sutures

Lightning sutures me
not leaving a single scar;
My smile starts to glow;

To myself I say,
‘Everything will be alright.’
Such a clear cut sign;

Natural cymbals
back up my internal source;
A shove towards peace;

Rebuilt but still tough,
the Sun’s bright after hard rain;
Sound renegade survivor;

Deep down hope keeps us alive,
right into storms we nosedive.

move-in

We moved back into the residence yesterday - we were jubilant - and had a slumb-over last night, to celebrate our reunification. We woke up joyous, on the right side of the same bed (slumb-over), and we’ve been bouncing off the walls ever since.

We’re in the ‘settling in’ phase, restocking our Keurigs, getting our same-’ol furniture in the same-’ol places, picking up our books. In this liminal space, between sugarplums and sutures, our shrinking free-time will sag with increasing weight. Even last night’s normally fabulous martinis began to taste metallically laced with formaldehyde.

Once we’re settled in, our leisure will begin to have the tight, mangled fit of a borrowed jacket. “We’ve got to gear up.” Lisa said, just this morning and even as I type this, my eyes are flitting between my dog-eared copy of Gray's Anatomy and the mcat prep hub.

Classes start in 5 days. Free days burn bright, but disappear in a blink. Time is a precious coin.
.
.
*slumb-over = slumber party

Battered

Toils and brawls hit hard herebelow 
Till poetry and its bliss are forgotten;
Till the joys of rhyme totter battered 
By thrusts of a world foul and rotten. 

But when the last of blows 
The versifier's nose all wet
Has left in crimson sutures, 
This quill shall scribble yet.

Eight Words

Contest:  Eight Words				Sponsor: Emile Pinet		6-16-23
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eight Words

WISTFUL FEELINGS,
 An expression of MELANCHOLY DEPRESSION,
Wake in winsome gloom of a GLOOMY sheath
Cluttered with roving remnants 
 Of GRIM recollections
That SHROUD an anguished woundedness
In WITHDRAWN silence
To bind my sores with loneliness,
With isolation’s balm,
Untouchable.

My world gone topsy-turvy
Turns to the melody of living sonatas
 In chiming morningtide psalms
  And eventide’s bell songs
To leave behind the bondage
Of this shattered shell,
 This tattered cocoon of silken sutures.

Beyond the pensive dreamscape
This realm of gloom fades,
Screeches back into midnight’s stronghold,
 Forgotten in azure morning shadows,
When resplendent neon pinions
Unfold kaleidoscopic
Into giddy, gliding joy.

Night Tour

Then there is the night
with its backstreets of characters,
masked, intractable, unwilling 
to leave the comfort of their
lifelong haunts. They call out
then turn away in fear
of being known.

And below, the corridors
of the underground winding through 
sleepless hours, 
the constant echo of footsteps 
and voices punctured
by announcements of departures
to nameless places. Images cast
on grimey walls passing in haste,
doors slamed shut.

Nothing sutures together, 
consciousness becomes fragments 
glimpsed on screens, 
splintered sounds,
words finding no meaning.
And having brought you here
what can I offer you
but the pricked chill 
of an anesthetic
being eased into a vein, 
the oblivion of dreamless sleep,
then daybreak bleeding through
the stuck lid of an eye,
the first thin incision of hope.

Painted Scissors

I just want to be me, free to exist,
rest knowing everything inside is seen;
The somber parts also need to be kissed,
if it's love then there is no in between;

Really, can't I simply be who I am? 
Tired of only being half a vision;
Start to feel better in this skin then bam!
Intrusive thoughts offer no solution;

Snipping at whatever doesn't suit you
little did you know it always grows back;
What's bitter will bleed bona fide and true;
It's a vibe when you linger in the black;

Cutting into me I don't need sutures,
do not conform me with painted scissors.

Weaver

Weave away, Weaver, weave on
The many layers of our lives
Your nimble fingers weave upon –
Thread the rubric of our hours
Into days and weeks and years
With your persistent weaving power

Lace into the fabric melodies
That raise the songs we know
In warm uplifted harmonies
Which lift in graceful, soulful flight
On wings of breathless escapades
The finest feathers of delight

And weave the summer, weave the fall
In realms of wondrous light
To illustrate the world enthralled
– The breath of sunshine in the air
– The energy of earth and sky
– The flower burning with a flair!

Oh, Weaver! With your finest yarns
Weave a little stitch in time
That doesn’t do us any harm
But spins a story so sublime
We cannot bear the tale to end
And leave our folded wings behind –

And once it’s woven, woven tight
Sew the beating badge – now still –
Upon the gown in sutures white
That it may join the sparks of light
On chariots with golden wheels
Flashing by – one for each life

Scapular Burning

What are we but relics
of time gone by

Where painful encounters
stay undenied

The wounds may scar over
but never heal

As memory is martyred
its blood congealed

New skin tries to cover
what sutures can’t hide

Each moment recovered
a falsehood decried

With strength built on pillars
of fortunes disdain

From deep in the shadows
—our essence remains

(Dreamsleep: January, 2023)

Projections of the Past

I now see every perspective of how it was.
But there is no denying I learned long before
How to love someone despite both of our flaws.
Lessons learned thru all that made me "feel" more.

The past becomes cosmic echoes of the futures
In which we were always meant to meet each other.
The present shows how I am crafting the sutures
Of an embroidered scroll of stories of times we were together.

There are characters who I project onto, what we used to be,
Seemingly silly shows soothing my soul,
Showing me how to move on gracefully,
But sometimes I find myself feeling so unwhole.

Then suddenly there were those vivid dreams, 
In which I found myself deeply longing 
For that someone who I know is more than what he seems,
The one who always leaves me wanting.

Ukraine

The sutures to the future are fast fraying
the ties that bind are knot by not untying
In bombed-out churches, the faithful are praying.

In makeshift camps, orphan children are crying
as night terrors fill dreams, which no child should know
the ties that bind are knot by naught untying.

No conscience tempers the occupying foe
yet though battered, resistance united stands
while enemy's rations and spirit grow low.

United all rise to defend sovereign land
hold steadfast against this Russian invasion
and though battered, resistance united stands,

With free nations' support and cooperation,
the Ukraine may emerge to a victorious day
and hold fast against Russian annexation.

As the sutures to the future cease fraying
in rebuilt churches, the faithful are praying.
With free nations' support and cooperation,
the Ukraine shall long remain a free nation.

Spun Poetry

SPUN POETRY
gossamer-soft
   breathtakingly
glossy
never threadbare
colossal
   reasonant

a sense of
    atonement
in tapestry
   fragments
stiched as one
sacrosanct
in
visible sutures
of passing
relentlessness

THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived

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