#stumps - Hello Poetry

Soul in shreds — fire trembling in my hands, Heartbeat redlining, chest begins to seize, Miracle descends from nightly strands, Star has fallen from its orbit to my palms. Blinding light was searing through my sight, Hands are burning — yet I hold the flame, I believed that star of ancient night Would inspire me and give my soul a name. Darkness now — a blind and handless man, White light of the world is lost to time, Cradling my stumps as best I can, Flogged by fate, instead of rivers of rhyme.

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May 13

May 13, 2026 at 11:56 PM UTC

mupohob666

The Price of Stars

Soul in shreds — fire trembling in my hands, Heartbeat redlining, chest begins to seize, Miracle descends from nightly strands, Star has fallen from its orbit to my palms. Blinding light was searing through my sight, Hands are burning — yet I hold the flame, I believed that star of ancient night Would inspire me and give my soul a name. Darkness now — a blind and handless man, White light of the world is lost to time, Cradling my stumps as best I can, Flogged by fate, instead of rivers of rhyme.

12

I am lying flat on the bed, a nurse is rubbing my leg stumps, her hands are smooth, fingers skillful. Another nurse is beside me; I can hear their conversation between each other. She died in the night, the nurse nearby says, terrible wounds, didn't think she would survive. I think of Jean and how she had just gone off after our row yesterday. Her children were dead at the scene; the house took a direct hit in last night's blitz, the nurse nearby says. It is tragic children being killed like that, the nurse rubbing my leg stumps says. I stare at the area of their voices as if I could see, but I see nothing, darkness where voices come from. My hands lie dormant by my sides. It is oddly sensual this rubbing, painful but sensual, as if the mixture of pain and rubbing combined to make it seem sensual. I remember Clive touching me the last time, his hands moving between my legs and kissing my feet and even now I sense his kisses. The last time we made love. There between me he lay. Then, he was gone and died at Dunkirk. The reality shocks me and I move, Steady , Grace, steady, am I hurting you? the nurse says, holding my leg stumps. No, I say, no just a memory. She rubs again, the sensuality fighting with the pain.

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Feb 15, 2016

Feb 15, 2016 at 2:55 AM UTC

TerryCollett

FIGHTING WITH THE PAIN 1940.

I am lying flat on the bed, a nurse is rubbing my leg stumps, her hands are smooth, fingers skillful. Another nurse is beside me; I can hear their conversation between each other. She died in the night, the nurse nearby says, terrible wounds, didn't think she would survive. I think of Jean and how she had just gone off after our row yesterday. Her children were dead at the scene; the house took a direct hit in last night's blitz, the nurse nearby says. It is tragic children being killed like that, the nurse rubbing my leg stumps says. I stare at the area of their voices as if I could see, but I see nothing, darkness where voices come from. My hands lie dormant by my sides. It is oddly sensual this rubbing, painful but sensual, as if the mixture of pain and rubbing combined to make it seem sensual. I remember Clive touching me the last time, his hands moving between my legs and kissing my feet and even now I sense his kisses. The last time we made love. There between me he lay. Then, he was gone and died at Dunkirk. The reality shocks me and I move, Steady , Grace, steady, am I hurting you? the nurse says, holding my leg stumps. No, I say, no just a memory. She rubs again, the sensuality fighting with the pain.

67

Trees are in love with humanity. they reach out to kiss our heads with the tips of their browning leaves while we like a vengeful lover first kiss back with words and then cut them down with blades but someday we too will be cut from life and our concrete jungles will fade into dust only stumps remain.

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Aug 10, 2015

Aug 10, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC

terrabita

a love-hate relationship

Trees are in love with humanity. they reach out to kiss our heads with the tips of their browning leaves while we like a vengeful lover first kiss back with words and then cut them down with blades but someday we too will be cut from life and our concrete jungles will fade into dust only stumps remain.

11

As one who's born in England There is something I don't know Exactly what is "cricket" ? Please tell me so I'll go Both teams dress in white The bowler doesn't bowl He doesn't bend his arm to throw I don't understand the goal The ball goes out it scores six runs But it must go in the air The ball rolls out it scores four more Is this really fair? The games can last for days and days But what confuses me Is that every game at four o'clock The players stop for tea A game is called a test But is every test a game some may last for just one day The length is not the same There's a throw they call a googly I know what that means I got hit there playing hockey It ***** your breath so you can't scream There's wickets and there's bails mid slips, and those silly stumps I'm sure that if it confuses me What does it do to umps? The biggest question that I have Besides, what's a sticky wicket? Is of all the players on the field Which one of them's the cricket?

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Mar 19, 2013

Mar 19, 2013 at 11:47 AM UTC

roger-turner

Cricket

As one who's born in England There is something I don't know Exactly what is "cricket" ? Please tell me so I'll go Both teams dress in white The bowler doesn't bowl He doesn't bend his arm to throw I don't understand the goal The ball goes out it scores six runs But it must go in the air The ball rolls out it scores four more Is this really fair? The games can last for days and days But what confuses me Is that every game at four o'clock The players stop for tea A game is called a test But is every test a game some may last for just one day The length is not the same There's a throw they call a googly I know what that means I got hit there playing hockey It ***** your breath so you can't scream There's wickets and there's bails mid slips, and those silly stumps I'm sure that if it confuses me What does it do to umps? The biggest question that I have Besides, what's a sticky wicket? Is of all the players on the field Which one of them's the cricket?

32

There is not much more than lunch of your poor soul's gut. That which has hidden your chase, Be it the same flurry you face, or the chaste, widowed band of loons Supplicate snail-movements, while wading through the stiff lagoon. Everything must, while the fissures grow grumpy. While the dust settles inwards and the cracks fill with stuffing. The particle stands stiff, while each nursery cries. A pitter-patter of rain drops lurch the birds forwards towards flight. Say the gumption to roost was the dork lit and idling, Each abortion towards space, kept the rocket from flying, Like the cannonball sneering, or the whistle of men The trial and tribulations of the miserly pens. If be swore the moors, concrete beds shuffle the snores. Unlike any trumpet of nose notes or horns. How each curious grumbler failed the ewe of his flock. Lil' crock lodgers counting sleep of each lot. Who can practice commands, width that makes up a strake In the morning the weir-men quaff each tea of their tastes. Then comes to the rind, the hands each guided by eyes. Stumps the bard of his nightshade in imported glass vials. Show whomever the pleasure, the happy hell once began Because under each gambit is the king of a lamb.

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Apr 26, 2014

Apr 26, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC

martin-narrod

Notes on a Lamb

There is not much more than lunch of your poor soul's gut. That which has hidden your chase, Be it the same flurry you face, or the chaste, widowed band of loons Supplicate snail-movements, while wading through the stiff lagoon. Everything must, while the fissures grow grumpy. While the dust settles inwards and the cracks fill with stuffing. The particle stands stiff, while each nursery cries. A pitter-patter of rain drops lurch the birds forwards towards flight. Say the gumption to roost was the dork lit and idling, Each abortion towards space, kept the rocket from flying, Like the cannonball sneering, or the whistle of men The trial and tribulations of the miserly pens. If be swore the moors, concrete beds shuffle the snores. Unlike any trumpet of nose notes or horns. How each curious grumbler failed the ewe of his flock. Lil' crock lodgers counting sleep of each lot. Who can practice commands, width that makes up a strake In the morning the weir-men quaff each tea of their tastes. Then comes to the rind, the hands each guided by eyes. Stumps the bard of his nightshade in imported glass vials. Show whomever the pleasure, the happy hell once began Because under each gambit is the king of a lamb.

21