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Best Poems Written by Maura Mcgregor

Below are the all-time best Maura Mcgregor poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Maura Mcgregor Poem

The Kind of Hand To Hold

It’d be nice to have the kind of hand to hold
that is there when you’re sick,
your stomach buckling up into your knees.
The kind of hand to hold that says, “God Bless you!”,
when you sneeze.
The kind of hand to hold when you’re weary,
and the travels of the day have left you
better off dead.
The kind of hand to hold when you’re dizzy
drunk,
and everything is escaping your head.
The kind of hand to hold that grasps your face
whenever it is you cry.
The kind of hand to hold that will stroke your 
hair when you damage your fragile pride.
The kind of hand that in the fourth month of a 
difficult pregnancy, will gently rub your feet.
The kind of hand to hold that you’ll never
want to let go once you meet. 
That’s the kind of hand I’d like one day to know.
That’s the kind of hand I’ve always wanted to hold.

Details | Maura Mcgregor Poem

Chew

I'll cut you into little pieces, 
push you down underground. 
I'll let maggots feast on you, 
just to see broken flesh. 

I'm glad you understand my twisted self, 
and you take part of my daily bread. 
I'm going to hang you from 
the highest star in the heavens, 
burning your laughter from your lungs.

I'd be joyful, emotionless, 
wreckage not even God Himself can undo. 
Underground the maggots chew and chew, 
hey girl there I see you.

Details | Maura Mcgregor Poem

Cade Poulous

You could’ve talked to me
You could’ve said anything.
You could’ve whispered.
You could stand outside yourself
and yell down the barrel of my gun,
and I wouldn’t blink.
You can sing your favorite
song over and over,
or receipt your favorite movie quote.
You could make gurgling noises with your
throat.
You could’ve leaned on me,
when your knees were buckled
and your sleep was distant.
You could’ve breathed on me,
when you were feeling behind
and no one looked you in your eyes.
You could’ve talked to me,
when your whispers were sobs,
and no one seemed to care.
I would’ve,
I could’ve, 
I should’ve been there.

Details | Maura Mcgregor Poem

Cut Out the Pretty

I could cut out the pretty. 
I'd dig my knife into your side 
and scrape with all of my might. 
You won't be so beautiful to me in the morning, 
when your eyes are hanging out their sides. 
The church bells will start ringing, 
warning me I have no reason or rhyme. 
I'll press my blade upon your smile, 
just to make it seem, 
that you're not so knowingly wonderful all the time. 
I'll crack the skin that looks like spun silk, 
bruising with my jagged edge, 
the lines where your brows lift and playfully fall. 
I could cut out the pretty. 
I should cut out the pretty. 
I'd be justified in to cut out the pretty. 
I'm not sure I'd want to cut it all.

Details | Maura Mcgregor Poem

Making It Up To You

I'll spend years making it up to you.
Each passing day I will pray a little longer
and hope a little more.
I can wipe my sadness off my arm and hold it
in a bag by the door --
if you'd agree to just pick it up and drop it off at the cleaners.
Then I know for sure it's over and we're just beginning
to get to the end of whatever the hell happened
and whatever the hell we'd been.
I can press my face up against the glass and 
hit the window with my fists
and be part of you again.
Just to feel anything 'cuz nothing would take away
this empty void I have lurking inside the broken part of me.
I would ask again for help and please beg you to just wait.
Wait for the time I'm ready and strong with 
everything brushing past me and all my leaves gone.
Wait 'til I'm just alone and scared like a child
and breathing shallow like a fish out of water 
causing you to see my pain.
It's written all over my neck and my back,
down to my middle toe on the left foot.
I just wanted you to know that I never said 
no.
I never said I was telling the truth.
I never said I was sorry, and that's something I'd never do.
Each day was a lesson and each lesson was learned.
Sometimes it doesn't hurt as much to let myself feel the burn.
We're not able to spend this time reflecting.
I'll spend years making it up to you.