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Best Poems Written by David Glines

Below are the all-time best David Glines poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | David Glines Poem

Prolong the Inevitable Pt. Iii

"give this,
one blood stained
word scrawled
on a stretch of
swine flesh.
call it "soul"
& sacrifice the known
to see it become
whole for one
fainting second
& shown
the surface undone,
completed in its
ever revolving
cycle towards
the center."
& he'll stand
& stretch & close
his briefcase
& he'll turn around
to go & you'll swear
that you saw the
light for just
one second.

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a Reading

“the eyes of my eyes opened” as
the door when she came in, late
and embarrassed, click of a
shutter into “the ear of my ear” a
whispered ‘hi’ for a greeting
at the meeting, a reading.
she might be beautiful, had I
my glasses, seeing nothing
of a face or a flower, boughing to
sunlight, bowing to heaven
I see inward had I my glasses
I’d hear a thought that over
me wrought a heaven-bent word or
something more absurd.
“Abso-lute-ly & pos-i-tive-ly”
dead in the large-room
prison-with-a-view, had I
my glasses, everything’s new
in its monotony, “under me you so quite new”
I knew the world kicks up its dirt in my
I would have seen the lies, the dirt, the
heaven-bent word, her (quite new), had I
my glasses.

Details | David Glines Poem

Magdalen

one last glearyeyed look
towards the clouded-sky,
and the legs trapped beneath her shook
loose the one thought she'd always denied.
she would watch his hand sweep
& cradle her neck, saying goodnight,
her eyes would follow and keep
watching his fading form, long out of sight.
his paintings always held something she loved,
black roses, swirling van gogh clouds,
overgrown gardens, virgin mothers in shrouds
at the foot of ashwood rosaries.
she a catholic, he the eucharist,
her acrylic oil dreams knew nothing of this tryst.
the way this magdalene posed for her last
portrait made her last painted tear,
her last skyward gaze immortal, or past,
divinity, or near.

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A-Mused At 5:37 Pm Pst

flits on fairy green wings
sits atop my river of dreams
sings & enchants me
tearing torn flesh from my seams
feeding this flood
a unique pattern to rhythm
a blood-fed schism
quenched
by low breaths in the lightess morning

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Astral

Six-Petaled Rose
Crossed legs beneath oak tree.
Omniscient repose.

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Between the Lines

the darkness crowds the pit the void the connective tissue so
tenebrous so fluid the glimpses the moments of eternity
focusing on the center everywhere the circumference is nowhere
there is no relative space or conjunctive time the hallway
the staircase circles spirals infinite rotations the wheel
and WHOA! prepare for the worst crying laughing
learning dying reacting subtracting the fluid the membrane
so tenebrous so fluid the glimpses the moments of eternity
inside the circumference we're all the center the influx the pit the void

Details | David Glines Poem

Yellow Dress

if i woke up from
on the kitchen table
and saw her standing
there at the fridge
pouring tomato juice
into her bloody mouth,
wearing nothing
but that yellow dress
she cut in half
last halloween after walking
to the river where she
said the most beautiful things
about dancing with the moon
right before throwing up
something black & fleshy-pink
on the rock where i was sitting,
& we walked back to eat
a fried egg standing
next to the stove where
she would light her cigarettes
swigging shady ladys, silently
listening to my developing dissatisfaction
& some sort of lingering love,
if she was here right now,
staring blankly at flies buzzing,
i wouldn't be surprised,
even if it has been three years since she died.

Details | David Glines Poem

Advocate

thoughts quickly spinning,
devil in my ear grinning,
forgot all again.

Details | David Glines Poem

Almost a Poem

i just want to sit around,
drinking, sniffing things, scratching
myself, getting high.
just watching my pen
fill up a page.

do whatever it takes
to become a 'writer.'
a 'poet.'

something i admire, but
never really aspire to.

i just don't think i'd fit in.

they write poems about insignificant
relations and parallels to the
most trite of insights.

so here it is.
my poem about nothing.

about Pyrrhus and his futile
fight against tyranny,
how krebs will never fit in
either.
we've both survived a war
that's killed us.
'another victory like that
and we're done for'
'for Hecuba!' but
who is either to any of us
that we should keep
burning their name,
a revolutionary backfire,
Orc consumed in his
own final livid flame.
even your own wings cannot soar
so high past the wax-melting maze
of the sky, past this
palace of wisdom.
the house shifting finding
for you another pit,
with clouds round rolling
the mighty choose to reside,
hidden in their labyrinth,
behind their podiums, judicatures
& wooden caricatures of humanity-
writing poems about nothing,
terrorizing imagination &
out-lawing sanity.

will you be my Valentine on that day?
we'll be spurning christ's terrene body
watching the whole demon-built-world
descend as our flesh melts away.
let this mortal loss gain immortality.
let them puzzle over this for
centuries never fitting the edge
pieces together, if they do,
make room they'll be muzzled
& burning too, our doom
obstructed by Crass Casualty
dicing Time into eternal mansions
once this beast called man is surpassed
and the illusions are masked
in the mirror of life imitating art
imitating wilde paradoxes,
such a poetic heterodox.

Details | David Glines Poem

Morbidly Romantic

then give me your heart-
i'll keep it safe,
i have one empty glass bowl
or tupperware if you prefer,
like my soul i'll feed it
indecision & spite,
& pain, whatever else this world might,
i'll try in vain to supress
happiness & hope
& shame, then i'll scream at god's
undoing of all my work
when there's no one else
to blame.