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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.

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Professionalism

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.

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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
Sleepwalking
Amongst the
Somnambulists,
Questioning their
Dreamscapes,
Why wandering
Them apparently
Was pleasing.
And they cursed
Me, declaring,
"What can a
"Sleepwalker
"Know about
"Somnambulism?"
So I found myself
Sleepwalking
Amongst the
Somnambulists,
The somnambulists
somnambulating
Over us
Sleepwalkers'
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
Conversation—
The grovelers
Shall die in
The dungeons
Of the graveled,
Trapped in
Perpetuation.

Details | Daniel Handschuh Poem

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.

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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.

Details | Daniel Handschuh Poem

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.

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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
Forever.

Who is she?

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

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."

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Bethlehem

Bed.
Bedlam.
Bethlehem.
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.

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Spices and Things

I would give you my advices
If they weren't overpowered with spices
And things. Believe me, I hold
No control over these bold
Statements I make, nor the clever
Phrases and quips. I have never
Told a story of my own imagination—
No, 'tis the work of some abomination
Running amok in our sad homes.
They carry foreign, mysterious tomes
Filled with ghastly images and 
Recipes for the witches' gnarly hands:
Indeed, a witch would benefit from
These outlandish ingredients, some
So abhorrent I dare not say their
Names aloud. But alas, they are,
At the same time, wonderful items—
Spices and things—bizarre and exciting:
They provide a necessary embellishment
To the newly made unintelligent—
We call them newborns, for they eat all,
So why not tell a story for them all,
About dragons and knights and the blood
Of the hopelessly valiant in the mud
Where their decaying corpses lie.
Spices and things—to show the fly
That is shooed away by the fairy
So that she may revive him and be merry.
And all the world's a miser, but who
Must know? We promise you will never know. 
Drink this, or eat that—it is delicious.
None of it at all is remotely malicious.
It is soul-cleansing and stomach-filling,
Bad only for the vision you're killing,
For who must know? It is not needed.
Take root in the head I have seeded,
O Truth, so flexible, so malleable,
But not in the least detrimental.
Truth likes spices and things, she does.
Boys and girls, you and I, she loves,
She feeds us, clothes us, kills us
On the day we are called, the Day of Lust,
When we fight for our afterlives,
Be it Heaven, or Hell. It is a beehive
Of swirling angels and demons 
That vie for our trust—daughters and sons,
The parents care not, for Truth doe say,
With much spices and things, that away,
Up high or far below, both are right,
Because both are eternal; both are a light.

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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?
Please!

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?