Unstitched Poems | Examples

Abyss Above the Vale

High in the Eyrie, stone cold and stark,
Where stars peer in and walls leave a mark,
The sky is a floor and the wind is a blade,
And the edge is a whisper where brave men fade.

The stone is slanted, the door left wide,
So night may beckon and pride may slide.
Here justice hangs by a falcon’s cry,
In a cell where the floor meets the open sky.

But gaze too long at the void below,
Where clouds swirl soft and shadows grow,
And Nietzsche’s warning starts to sear—
The abyss above begins to leer.

It sees you crumble, stripped and bare,
A soul unstitched by frost and air.
What stares from down may dwell within,
And pull you out with quiet sin.

So watch your thoughts and hold your breath—
For the sky may sentence more than death.
In silence vast and justice thin,
The fall begins not out—but in.

Boundaries

The man in front of me is a broken one,
and my fingers are drowning in dripping glue,
in cement,
in something meant to hold things
To hold him
To hold myself and others together.
Yet he binds himself
with puppet strings, scotch tape,
and the wet breath of drugs.
Batting at my outstretched
Hands 
Dodging the warmth of a true touch, 
He flinches.
He bleeds- visibly 
and he screams from a
starlight-lost, daydream-blinded face 
that I am wrong.
He shoves daggers into my seams,
prying at my wounds.
Burning red and pulsing in purple bruise
Image of a warrior
turned blue.
while leaking he bursts open. 
Pain seeping into my sobbing mouth 
From his unstitched scars
So easy to tear. 
He rips with his own hands 
At the both of us
When he does not cover his ears and turn his back 
To cradle in a seething silence 
Clutching with razor blade hands 
the child,
The pained,
Chained, caged pet he swallows with every breath as if I cannot 
See the lump in his throat 
Or feel the kicking in his chest. 
But I am a mountain,
capped in the blood of a hundred storms,
and I will not cave.

Two Hundred Thousand Feet

One first flight, Columbia’s name.
Seven souls aboard, bound for fame.

Six days, then ten, experiments thrive,
Eighty hearts of science, dreams alive.

Sixteen days, the Earth they skim,
Reentry calls—light fades dim.

Tick-tick, hiss-hiss, crack-crack—a sound,
A breach unseen, the heat unwound.

1.67 pounds, a foam unseen,
Pierced the wing, unstitched the dream.

40 miles high, the flames collide,
Mach eighteen, as heat did stride.

Mach fifteen—a fiery scream,
The air ignites, the fragile seams.

Seven names, carved deep in space,
Their sacrifice, a lasting grace.

At 9:00 a.m., a nation cried,
29 months, the fleet must bide.

Tick-tick, sigh-sigh, hush-hush—we wait.
Columbia’s legacy will navigate.

Eighty dreams and the minds they fed,
We honor the fallen, their voices not dead.

Threadbare

thin moon hangs in the blurring light
when the red tape of work ends 
day's end
before darkness darts onto idling pillows

a too slight shine to navigate the strain of living
wounds unstitched
like a heart unhealing from over-crowded transgressions
a feel that's too familiar 
nestled in the treads of tired
where we can't always control the skidding

crescent moon
dangling, unsettled in the sky
                                  shrunk in a sparseness of graying
pinched edges from a light threadbare
unable to lift toil from labor's bones
haggling for some salvation

Motherly Love

Tik tok goes the clock
With each set of time
Her energetic vibrant being
turns frail
She who i'll never call by her name

In retrospect,she raged
Against this decadent diabolical world
She raged to give her bairns the best  of life,
The tenderness of her infinite love
In equal measure we give our allegiance

Albeit in absence of economic strength
We never went to sleep  with growling tummies
Neither did we walked bare and unstitched
And the coldest of the nights went by unperceived

Even in her  recurrent nostalgia phase
I still see her
The sailor who weathered the storms for me
The soldier who fought my unseen battles
The angel that brougt tranquility within in the dead of the night

In all eternal divine
Through her brisk and lethargic life
I hold her in my warm embrace
My fourth god
My begetter.

Lost My Tooth

I am a pick pocket


Unstitched pocket empty house
Plan to go for a date
Rain is high crash umbrella
Stale food is not in My life
I suvre with love to her
I have two pockets one is empty
Another I found my self that demands of her High like rocket booster a smile I hide My tooth in My pocket and called pick pocket.



With love all
Jagdish bajantri

Silver Threads

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oLCHXfkGOIw

Perhaps if we were to take apart grief as we unravel life  
one single moment unstitched pulled out of time 
we'd begin to see that death is only a silent passage 
and we need not bear the loss alone,    
The memories of our coverlet years of love
will drive us home *  
Perchance, mayhap, we can take it by the hand like a seer,  
"we were born to exist and disappear"  said the Mysticeer   
and I for one believe that death is the encoding of life;  
The silver threads of Mercy are weaved inside God's blanket 
big enough to warm each widow, grieving parent, and child 
As long as we love well, while we are still here,  
death cannot take away our loved ones, nor their time on earth. 
In Love And Light, Your Mystic Rose

New Blood

My Poem still an open wound,
  unstitched by edits snare

Running free on a endless page
  —new blood for all to share

(James River Writers Conference: October, 2016)

My Heart To Chime

Poor in stock yet rich in spirit,
  my clock does bow and sway

In rags and tatters all unstitched,
  with joy do I still pray

My flesh is weak, my home now burnt
   just embers to remind

Within this trouble and burning ash,
   on the hour
     —my heart still chimes

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015) 
     ‘From The Book Of Prayers’

Acceptance

Your name comes to my lips
when I kiss and reach bliss
yet you have naught to do with it

This unconscious rememberance is recognition of how
I hold on tight while letting go
like a snake
hanging head dangling down from the bough
bearing it all
bending from the weight of the fruit

I gave too much
like the branch
I break
like a piggy bank smashed
with a hammer made of kisses
the hiss

All that mattered was how much you could get
So tough
it was
to wake up
The light
dawning through seams sewn so carefully together
and so easily unstitched when stretched

It's not a glitch
I come unhinged
More of you falls out each time
I leave
more of you behind
Letting in that light in his eyes
shining into mine

I learned to face my lies
Your name
comes to my lips like a proof of life
We live and died once, or twice
Pay the endless price

to try again with a hand that holds
the needle and pulls
the thread
requires me to remember how I bled

Rebirth

When you fall at your lowest depth you must begin to find the path
Find Your way out of the crumbled ruins of life
Digging deep within ones self is a hard climb
Tragedy, doubt, refraining to reconcile the immortality
A crawling tied bound to the destiny you form
You've bled from the insurrection
If you fail over and over
You start over again and again and again
This is the rebirth
Will you remain a broken voice without heart
Self-loathing in the corner of self pity
Your eyes slammed shut hiding from the depression
Screaming it should have been better then this
Can you anticipate what's inside
A brutal mouth waiting to be unstitched
Mastering the reality of persuasion
Against those who have nothing to show in the end
Stand to catch the glimpse of the eternal shine
If you fail over and over
You start over again and again and again
This is the rebirth
Reach to be the closest to your own divine
Killing off inferior thoughts
Be indisputable in a life of insufferable hands
No longer denying yourself

My Heart Still Chimes

Poor in stock but rich in spirit,
  my clock does bow and sway

In rags and tatters all unstitched,
  with joy do I still pray

My flesh is weak, my home now burnt
   just embers to remind

That within this trouble and burning ash,
   on the hour
    —my heart still chimes

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)

New Blood

My Poem still an open wound,
  unstitched by edits snare

Running free on a salted page,
—new blood for all to share

(James River Writers Conference: October, 2016)

For All To Share

The Question I Posed ….

If your Poem is still 
  an open wound

And you stitch it tight
  with editing

How…
  will it ever bleed free?

(James River Writer’s Conference: October, 2016) 


The Actual Poem ….


          For All To Share

My Poem still an open wound,
  unstitched by edits snare

Running free on a salted page,
—new blood for all to share

(James River Writers Conference: October, 2016)

Yearning of a Lonely Road

The melody of the silent wind spoke
to the lonely road towards the twilight hour.
Cute footsteps of the moonbeam 
thrilled the seashore besides the divine power.


Sweet giggle of the heartbeat of the waves
embroidered the fashion coat of all unstitched dreams
some are designers, some are ethnics 
Like the road separated by sea and streams .


Its been a long time,nobody passed by this path !
Whenever the road glimpses a falling star,
By closing her grey eyes ,
she yearns for her most awaiting dearest passenger....!

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