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Best Poems Written by Daniel Handschuh

Below are the all-time best Daniel Handschuh poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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A Prayer

As lilies are arrayed,
So might an angel
Bestowed upon me
May delightfully be.
That her wings will
Be softer than silk
In my calloused and
Undeserving hands.
That her beauty may
Bloom as a field of
Sweetly scented flowers.
As a rose that wilts not, 
So shall the gentleness
Of her loving embrace
Be forever felt upon
My beating chest.
As the fluffiness of
White hydrangeas,
Pedestaled, enthroned
In a palace of gold,
So shall my queen—
Elegant, wondrous—
Be loved.

Copyright © Daniel Handschuh | Year Posted 2017

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Something, I Suppose

Let me read you something,
Something I discovered.
I found it in the attic,
Or possibly the cellar;
Although it may have been
In the cluttered basement.
I dug holes in the ground—
It may have been there,
Like a time capsule
Or buried pirate's treasure.
A bottle washed ashore—
Perhaps the piece which
I must read was there.
In any original place,
It holds words of utmost
Importance to all.
So let me read you something,
Something I discovered.
Oh, but literacy is learned,
Not an inherent talent,
So, I do lament,
I have forgotten what it says.

Copyright © Daniel Handschuh | Year Posted 2017

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I Found Myself

I found myself
Wandering across
A dreamscape
That was not my own;
And wondering
About the many
Dreamscapes of
The wanderers,
Suddenly seeing
That I was wandering
The dreamscape of
The wonderers of
The wanderers
That still wonder;—
A dreamscape
All my own and
Still not mine.

I found myself
Moseying with
The meanderers;
Found we were
Bound by an
Identical path,
One of us being
Leisurely, the
Other clueless.
Me, moseying,
Smelled the rose
Of the meanderer,
Who, meandering,
Saw me moseying
And assumed
I simply walked
Slowly; he also
Failed to see
That he held
A flower in his
Unmindful hand.

I found myself
Amongst the
Questioning their
Why wandering
Them apparently
Was pleasing.
And they cursed
Me, declaring,
"What can a
"Know about
So I found myself
Amongst the
The somnambulists
Over us
Heads, demanding
We succumb
To the greater
Mindful power.

I found myself
Graveled by
The grovelers—
Irritated by
The peasants.
The grovelers,
They grovel for
Me not to be
Graveled at
Their mistakes.
Yet the mistake
Is the groveling
At the graveled;
And how graveled
At the grovelers
I am. It is a circular
The grovelers
Shall die in
The dungeons
Of the graveled,
Trapped in

Copyright © Daniel Handschuh | Year Posted 2017

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Salt and Pepper Shakers

There's this break room—
Where I work, of course—
That holds three microwaves,
one refrigerator, a stove,
and two vending machines.
All cannot be younger than
Five years at the earliest.
This break room is tiled
But rather dirty despite
Monthly scrubbing and mopping.
I and my coworkers—
Most Guatemalans and
Salvadorans, but there is a
Single Mexican—eat here,
Our bags of chips, fruits,
microwavable nonperishables—;
A couple of ladies 
Cook tortillas upon the stovetop.
The chairs are either plastic
Or metal, but, bizarrely,
There's a comfy-looking
Cushioned seat and even
A varnished, wooden swivel.
The makeup is makeshift,
This break room. And,
Along one of the sills of
The big windows at the far
End, are empty glass salt
And pepper shakers. The
Salt shaker's glass design
Features vertical lines,
The ridges comfortable in
Your hand. The pepper shaker
Carries horizontal lines.
They've been there since I
First began work, never
Holding any spices themselves.

Copyright © Daniel Handschuh | Year Posted 2017

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This is professionalism!
Something on the brink, 
You could say,
Of existentialism.
It's nonnegotiable,
This business of price
And dice
And "rightful" wives,
No. It's immovable.
The roulette spins, 
The Russians drink,
And a bullet escapes
An unfortunate skull—
The brains of a brainiac—
The brainiac,
Always the maniac,
The one without
Any brain whatsoever.
And we sing forever
About rosies and rings
And things called posies,
Falling and fallen bodies—
This is professionalism!
It holds no friends, 
Nor boundaries or
Walls or streets.
Stock goes not
Negatively toward
Professionalism because
Professionalism is
Undeniable and untraceable!
The road less traveled
Is the entrepreneur's road,
A road of love and sex
And microagressions
Being spit from the mouths
of the travelers,
Because he's an adventurer,
A trooper, a keeper,
But his own man.
He'll take a hand,
An arm, a couple legs,
Two new eyes, a head,
And take a new man,
Because that's professionalism—
Political magnetism:
The East collides with
The West to monopolize
Dares and obsessions
While North perpetually
wonders why it always
Finds its way South.
What is class but a
Hierarchy of officials?
Professionalism holds
No such thing.

Copyright © Daniel Handschuh | Year Posted 2017

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Chronic traumatic encephalopathy:
Something with football and clandestine
Conferences, like political campaigns.
Suicides just outside the bride's bridal shower,
Because of a concussion?
Numerous concussions? In London?
Perhaps it was rugby.
Poor groom, with blood across his tuxedo.
Poor bride, reeling at the sight.
This is Bethlehem, home of the hurt, the dead, and the insane.
Beds that are bedridden in a bedlam of Bethlehem.
There are no people. Only emptied guns across rotten sheets and old clothes.
It is not abandoned. It is simply uncared for.

Copyright © Daniel Handschuh | Year Posted 2017

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Untitled Poem VII

I have not ceased—
I have not.
The things of the past
Do not rot, do not decay,
But I have not ceased—
I have not.

Once the pitchfork's prongs
Did so deafeningly twang,
I shriveled and cowered,
And found myself prancing
With the headless chickens.

Beneath the naysayer's feet
Are six cockroaches:
One for good luck,
One to ward spirits,
One to find holy favor,
One to initiate a curse,
One for venting,
One for simple disgust;
And the massacre was denied.

I stopped,
Trapped in translation,
A transparent body in an opaque cage;
Bleeding profusely on a sterilized table,
Compromising the hygiene of this place
And questioning my helpless wounds.
Please, where is the salt?
The bitterness to cleanse me?
Pain before numbness before death?

He blinded me with a sound,
With the violent beat of drums
The size of islands,
Jarring my excitable pupils

Who is she?

Then came a day of mourning:
On the morning of a day
Of mourning
Of a day,

Belief is philosophy.

An idea was conceived,
Was found to be nonsensical,
And standardization transformed
Into an inert totalitarianism,
But who are we to rebelliously be
The pompous leaders of nonconformity?
We write poems
That influence books
That influence manifestos
That influence wars
That influence consciences
That influence bodies
That influence wars
That influence wars
And wars
And wars
And dullness
And brokenness.

Why do we detest exhibitionism
But complain about kept secrets?

When the first snowflake fell,
She was a star of beauty,
And lauded by many,
For she was unique and unmatchable.
The Satan cursed his creation
For being whiter than the pure,
And she melted, never to return.

And then she said,
"Hell spoke to me to say,
"'My little girl, come hither,'
"And I went and was felt
"For insecurities,
"And they were removed from me.
"I was like the waterfalls
"And tingly with bees beneath my skin."

Copyright © Daniel Handschuh | Year Posted 2017

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The Clock Tower

The clockwork has rusted 
Into a stiff modern art statue,
Painted by nature, loathed by the
Masses, and loved by the few.
The gears scream in a failed revival;
The hands quiver, stuck on four and nine.
The Roman numerals no longer
Glister in the night; the bell tolls not.

The sun is frozen in the evening sky;
The moon is lost below the horizon.
The clouds do not change form,
And the snowflakes have stopped their descent.
Humanity carries out its errands,
Unbeknownst to cosmic complications
And the wars that are suddenly infinite:
For the day has now refused to end
And ignorant minds are trapped
In a broken time continuum.
Rages are unconquerable.
Lives are unbreakable,
And some are forever gone.

The birds migrate over impeccably
Calm waters, searching for lands
That are just ahead, but never appear.
Likewise, the sailors are eluded
By the lands, and, sadly, by the fishes.
Yet how can they know of their troubles?
How can they know of something more?
That they are perpetually enclosed?

Where is the oil to ease the metallic pains
Of the beautiful, gothic clock tower?
How will she breathe once more?
How will she sing to the cities?
The bells shall toll no more.

Copyright © Daniel Handschuh | Year Posted 2017

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The Great Apology

I am sincerely sorry.
I destroyed your Ferrari.
I spent all your money
On drugs and whiskey
And wrong lottery tickets.
Those things are wicked.

I am sincerely sorry.
I lied unendingly to you.
I left a scuff on your shoe.
I know it was new.
And little were made; just a few.
I didn't feed your dog.
He's motionless, like a log.
Your cat disappeared.
He's gone forever, I fear.
I know he was my responsibility.
I tried best to my abilities
To find your beloved cat.
I only found a dead rat.

I am sincerely sorry.
I lit your house on fire.
It made my fears soar higher.
The situation was very dire.
I tore your military jacket
And lost your ancestor's locket.
NASA's recent exploding rocket
Was my distraction, excuse.
That's why the cat got loose.
Your child went missing.
I was furiously searching.
I only ended up wishing.
She's my personal Houdini.
She poofed while I went weewee
In that old dirty potty.

I am sincerely sorry.
I wasted all the toilet paper.
It was a prank on your neighbor.
The toilet is clogged.
Te bathroom is waterlogged
Because it all overflowed.
It was a sight to behold.
While I was pooping and cleaning
The phone started ringing.
It was a ransom for the child.
The price was crazy, wild.
But wasted was the money,
On lottery tickets
That are wicked.
And drugs and whiskey.
"The money is unavailable,"
I said, sounding believable.
"Then you don't get your kid."
"It's okay, I don't like Sid."

I am sincerely sorry.
This is my great apology.
Please forgive me.
I'm struggling, you see.

Copyright © Daniel Handschuh | Year Posted 2017

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With Which I Cry Myself to Sleep at Night

What, a child? Whose?
My child? My child?
Oh, a sweet voice it is,
Hers—mine and yours.
But—no, where is she?
I cannot see, where is she?
Please, can you not hear
My screaming thoughts?
I cannot speak, where is she?

What is it she?
No, but someone older,
Someone mature.
How your voice is as honey,
And your scent! As morning dew
Upon delicate blades of grass.
What, yes, I listen.
I am listening!
Speak louder, I try to hear!
No, do not leave!
I must know you!
I do know you!

What, a child? Whose?
My child? My child?
Oh, so soft, so pretty,
Your voice, my dear,
As the gentle elder of before.
May I feel your soft hands?
Please, may I?
But I cannot move,
May I touch her?
Where is she?
Is she there?
I hear, where is she?
No, but why does she cry?
Why shed tears?
May I wipe them,
Please, may I wipe them?

I sleep, I wake, but sightless I am.
I sleep, I wake, but motionless I am.
Know that I am listening!
Know that I hear cries!
Know that I have a love!

What, what?
What, a child? Whose?
My child? My child?
Who is Madelyn?
My child? My child...?
Oh, but you are the honeyed voice,
Whom I have an affection for,
And your whispers greatly comfort.
No, but your voice is marred
And incoherent.
Why do you cry?
Indeed, I hear your words.
Please, do not cry.
Please. Keep speaking.
Your words are soothing to me.
No! Do not leave!

What, a child? My child?
Whose child?
Her sweet voice cries,
She is distraught,
And the lovely elder's as well.
What? You are mine?
And I am yours?
Yes, yes! I am yours,
And you are mine!
You are love, sweet, sweet love,
And happiness, and joy,
But do not cry!
Please, let me wipe your tears,
Shed them no more.
Your sadness makes me
Want to cry with you, 
But I cannot summon tears,
And I cannot take yours away.

What, a child? Whose?
My child? My child?
May I see her? May I touch her?
May I feel the warm embrace
Of the older voice?
May I see them?
May I cry with them?
May I have them?
Can they be mine?
May I share my love?
May I see my child?
Please, may I see my child?

Copyright © Daniel Handschuh | Year Posted 2017