"clinched" poems
These hands that have held you as a wild child in a dream are the same hands that throb to choke you and muffle your screams.
These hands which guided and guarded you down those stretches of hospital halls are now the hands that push you down to fall.
These hands once caressed the jagged, pink, scar where your heart used to lay become the hands that wish to tear it away.
These hand that made sure you fell asleep through all that pain now are the hands that would cut themselves to beat out your brain.
These hands that used to pray for you like a ***** ready to be ****** are clinched in two fist now ready to make the first throw.
These hands that ached for you, fed you, and tried so ******* hard are just the hands of memories now deep tissue scars.
... These hands.. Would have killed anyone, in dirt and cold blood.. Are now the only hands holding back the rage of my flood.
.. These hands, they still work for you. Even if you're no longer here with me..... These hands, they're still here, waiting... One day.. You'll see.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC
I was your balloon,
You had me so high.
My head overflated, filled to max capacity.
You couldn't have possibly known just how you made me feel.
My neck attached to a string clinched tight in the center of your hand.
Then all of sudden.
Pop.
You couldn't possibly have known how bad that hurt
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 3:04 PM UTC
Harsh light falls on my fearful face
She stop thumped against my heart
Gliding night on crinkled tights
She worked and quirked her way in to me
Shoulders clinched as she spun her drift
She stomped trod on my soul
Set aloft in the ***** air
My eyes slopped their tears
Wet down her hair as she clenched
Lips dragged drug down my neck
Lamp lit light flung down and low
Fearful thoughts because I’ll crawl back
Fearsome thoughts as she works again.
cc1210
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 2:37 PM UTC
Once I had a friend
and soulmate,
we were dreamin’
we could fly away
with the wind;
but knowing
wings are for angels,
we stood transfixed
beneath the light
a sky full of stars
hanging onto a dream
we clutched so tightly,
perched high
on the edge
of the world,
wondering how far
and how high
the great wide open
sky blue skies
abide
believing the power
of kept promises ―
you said you’d forever
catch me if I fall ―
letting go of the fears,
blindfolded hope
clinched so deeply,
hanging onto
a wing and a prayer
I guess I wanted it
far too much
reaching out
like a thirsty fool
grasping for a mirage ―
teetering on the brink
unspoken love,
a vast unknown
threshold beyond
wings
with eyes wide open
throwing caution afar ―
in a leap of faith
I reached ― out of reach
into the mystic wind ―
believing in dreams,
in destiny's tease:
I’d learn to fly
before I hit
the ground
but now I’m perpetually
free fallin’
I see the empty space
all around me pass
a fleeting lifetime lost ―
still you’re nowhere
to be found ―
and I remember
what’s been forgotten:
how far down
rock bottom befalls
when your spinning
round and round
like dust eddies
in a fog bank
lost in the wind .
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 7:21 PM UTC
'Twas Christmas again and the tree was up with tinsel all around.
But by the weird behavior of my cat, there was tinsel where it shouldn't be found.
She was dragging her **** across the floor in a most peculiar way.
Like something was wrong or she had an itch or needed hemorrhoid cream right away.
I caught the cat because I knew this behavior was not right.
So I lifted her tail and, just as I thought, beheld a terrible sight.
A little piece of tinsel stuck right, well you know where.
I then knew I had a task to do that I would not do on a dare.
I held the kitty in my arm and went and found a glove.
And prepared to do what must be done but definitely not out of love.
The kitty's strange behavior was more than I could allow.
Dragging her **** across the floor like a tractor drags a plow.
So with kitty in my arm and her tail in my hand,
I grabbed the piece of tinsel and pulled gently on the strand.
I tried to be careful so the tinsel would not break.
But when I pulled, her little **** clinched."Oh for goodness sake!"
It was quite a sight to see, this twisted tug-of-war.
I think that I am winning! Here comes a little more!
After half an hour, the battle, I finally won.
I held a little trophy that I extracted from her ***
So if you come to my house at Christmas time next year,
A tree you'll see with ***** and lights and no tinsel anywhere.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 8:09 AM UTC
*You arrived suddenly in my tangerine bliss
with my heart clinched in your fist
you touched me... and the dance started
with a gape of spontaneous combustion
you swirled me around the dance floor
dancing cheek to cheek....*
we skipped the light fandango
fox trotting and waltzing to the beat of tango
the big band broke into a swing
while the love light shone as a crystal disco ball
jitterbug jive and a reet beet
dance macabre and so light on our feet
*You lead me by the hand bodies musing
all the while... you lead me out by my hand
and made way into the galaxy for our feet
as we danced like fine wine...becoming intoxicated
by its beauty~ you danced me into Shangri-La
with my eyes wide and full of imagination
we danced through tangled forests of light*
like Fred and Ginger
tiptoeing upon the backs of stars
dipping into galaxies and twirling on quasars
i hold your hand as you pirouette
upon the moons of a mystic world
as our romantic lambada is unfurled
forbidden planets and forbidden dance
the secrets of whirlwind romance
*we were like Phoenix that had risen
dancing into the morning dew and nectarine
and I kissed you as the tangerines fell
from the sky~ dazed with a trial of stars
and then oh yes then.... I pronounced myself
as yours....as we escaped to paradise
dancing all the while.....cheek to cheek
as you gave me the Tangerine Kiss.....*
tangerine kisses, tangerine dreams
sipped of the nectar of the gods
the fruit of creation in the form of love
a blessing from goddess, earth and above
we dance the steps of swoon and lean
and sweet nuances of tangerine
with every blessing in between
*I felt a kiss upon my frozen cheeks
a clear promise of all our tomorrows
as I sleep with love within our hearts
your sweet tangerine kisses and dreams
are part of our creation... straight from above
My heart is dancing and dreaming
with you always a blessing from God.*
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
I have a rubber band ball snapping apart in the inside of my heart
And in my mouth, hitting clinched teeth
Being full of screams
Their vibrations tumble down
And I can feel each and every sound
They pull on my veins
And play them like guitar strings
They tingle the scars
Each one lighting up like stars
They ring like church bells
The sound unavoidable
They sing a lullaby
‘Scream and cry, scream and cry
Don’t you want to die
It’s not easy to say goodbye
Isn’t that why you lie?
Break the ties
Muffle your cries
Turn all of your screams to sighs
The anxiety will be over
It’s just a lullaby'
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
The wheel clinched tight
Fingers numb and white
Hyperventilating
Counting to ten
Anxieties curse
Mind, a devine quality
Over....
Thinking
A flash of death as her passengers lay lifeless
Death
She pictures faces
A ****** mess
Stillness
Everyone sits singing and unblemished
A true definition of mangled point of view
A routine her mind has provided
Someone else hits the petal accelerating
She is familiar with picturing the world dying
She is now stamped with, "I'm part of the ****** up society"
Stay clear
She is endearing
The tea cup world believes she is dangerous
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 12:16 AM UTC
I’m wrapped in a netherworld
between fear and urgent turmoil
a shady region of late twilight
on the edge of dreadful night
what to do with the light.
Like the nightingale whose song
brings pausing, sadness, and hope,
blinking in a landscape of plains and slope
sadness of a creative life’s ending
a blending of sand and the hand of God.
My gut clinched in a tempest
rowing unknowing for shining sky.
Jul 4, 2022
Jul 4, 2022 at 6:31 PM UTC
One morning, Howard was deciding what he was going to cook for today's lunch. Howard was not the worlds best cook, he mainly enjoyed buying ready meals to eat, Fishermans Pie was his dearest. But today was to be different; a change; he would make something from scratch. He decided that Carbonara met his fancy, so he got up from his wearing sofa, and made his way to the half filled book cabinet. 'How to make Pasta', the book read. It was a result for Howard. He clinched his hands on the closed book, and bought it into the front room.Howard opened the book to the contents and turned to page 21, 'Carbonara Chicken Special'. Howard firstly read the ingrediants needed, then popped to the local convinience store to fetch the things he needed. When he eventually started the meal, he was on task and ready to go. So he prepared the sauce, and the pasta, and the chicken. Then put it in the oven, a fourty-five minute wait.Howard was knackered by this time and thought he'd have a quick lye down..."BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP"!!!!!!!!!!!!! This incredibly loud noise was coming from the smoke alarm, startaling Howard! He rushed to the kitchen to discover masses of smoke dominating the room. Howard glanced up at the the clock to discover that he had been sleeping for over an hour. The pasta was ruined and had to be thrown away.Howard was starving though. So he went over to the freezer, grabbed a microwave fishermans pie, and heated it up. As he sat down to eat the meal, he thought to himself; ' Well I gave it a go, one step closer eh'. Then digged into his seafood.
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 4:37 AM UTC
prepared for any kind of fight; rifle, helmet, knife, even glaring teeth
she comes at me like I'm a hive of bees
but who can blame her, after all, who's really adequately prepared to handle me
she only cuts shallow and jabs, never stabs for the heart
unlike me, she won't **** unsuited to play that part
she's a survivor, she heals, I'm a comet in it's one bright radiance before breaking apart
anxiety makes you shudder like a dump truck coming down a bumpy street
depression dictates who you call, when you work, what you eat
if you're not bipolar then i'm afraid the three of us will probably never meet
punching clinched fists through doors is a cheap circus trick
but taking out the anger is dangerous without something to hit
because it pours it up, tries to drink itself down, and drowns everything around it
my remorse stiffens me in bed next to her sleepless I wear the darkness, rigamortis and black suit
I feel my poison wilt her, bend her stems, dull her colors, shrink her roots
i have burned all the wood in her pile just getting started a fire the size of my selfish pursuits
carrying sandbags roped onto me one parent and sibling at a time
dragging the chains of days barely survived still hooked into my skin like the other memories of their kind
I stall her pace, hold her back, make her trudge uphill, I make her climb
but her undaunting patience somehow persists in her, in me: still, calm waters sublime
She comes at me like I'm a hive of bees prepared for any king of fight
only wanting to save me, to heal me, to give sleep back to my nights
bread for it, I show teeth and cut for blood and she continues to be the definition of grace in my life
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 1:12 PM UTC
While sitting in a booth, an hour before work, I try to write poetry. But the click, click, click of the cash register distracts the musings jammed into my already clustered brain. And as I try to spill words onto this page, a you child spills her soda, the tawny liquid cascades the patterns of her too-tight T-shirt and falls to the floor ~~ the floor I will mop and mop over again, as sticky footprints retrace the night's events. And the man, a cigar dangling from the sepia corner of his tightly clinched mouth, growls the angered growl of a wounded bear, bearing all to me and the child who hides behind her mother's saffron sundress. And in the child's shame, she raises two, too-large coca cola eyes to meet mine, and then lowers them as a tear trails the shadows of her sanguine face.
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 6:55 PM UTC
I lay upon cold steel, blinding lights loom
above my head. I hear my brain
confirm 'minor surgery' and then you
enter the room, scalpel in hand, aimed
at my chest. Not there! my mind screams,
then I feel the burn of ripped flesh;
a repugnant stench fills the room, a familiar smell,
the sickening, salty odor of blood.
Bones and cartilage moan as the scalpel shreds
with swift precision, one target in mind:
a fist-sized beating ***** Extraction.
I raise my head from frosted steel
in time to see your deed: ****** fingers,
clinched into claws, dive into the open cavity,
gouge holes into either side and wrench
the tiny ***** from its cave.
You hold it high above your head, a trophy;
crimson drips down your arm, soaks
a white sleeve like spilt wine on lace; you open
a glass jar, formaldehyde mixes with drops of blood
as the ***** plunges into your solution
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 11:36 AM UTC
These are not the times
for poetry…
For lofty prose or
roses budding in
warm sunlight
to gently perfume
the wind with
a delicate reminder
of tenderness.
These are the days of
****** knuckles;
chipped teeth.
The days of beating the truth from strangers,
then strangling that truth
with a piece of garden hose.
The bad days, the ugly days
when poets take up fighting and
fighters take to ******
The goddammitfuckyou days.
Welcome to the clinched fist.
Beautiful things must be whispered.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
It was lust we were building.
Moving in the dark, all elbows and ankles.
Found each other’s lips, leaned in for a kiss,
the first of what would be countless that night.
Your mouth tasted of strawberries and wine.
On the stereo, our favourite song.
You said ‘I love this song’,
peering out the window at an opposite building,
one hand clinched around a glass swollen with wine.
We still wore our socks, cuddling our ankles,
and we kept them on throughout the night.
In my head, replaying each previous kiss.
We’d never wanted to kiss
like this before - as soon as one song
ended we did it again, the night
oozing like a wound into early morning, the building,
our bodies alight with desire, ankles
knocking between sips of wine.
We soon finished off that bottle of wine.
Drained my glass of red, placed a kiss
on your shoulder, shuffling my feet, my ankles
into a more cosy position as a new song
kicked in, swirled into the building,
a hot breeze of music disturbing the night.
I didn’t want it to be just one night.
There was more to discover and plenty more wine,
every word we spoke echoing through the building.
I could savour your smile with every kiss,
loved your freckles, the daisy tattoo near your ankles.
It felt like writing our own story, the lyrics to a song.
But you didn’t want to hear our song.
At the end of the night
you went cold. I wrapped my arms round my ankles.
I felt sure you’d gone off me. Maybe it was the wine.
My lips were anesthetised from every kiss -
when I asked what was wrong, you said 'get out this building.'
Something had changed; I didn’t know what. Night dissolved into day. We stopped listening to Kiss.
Your lipstick stains the colour of wine on my neck. Was it the final time I’d see your naked ankles?
I took a mental photograph of the building as I left, though I’ve forgotten it since. But not yet our song.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 4:27 PM UTC
cinderella looked out of a tiny window covered with steele bars. the sun brightly shining through, the sky a beautiful pinkish purple. she wondered if she would ever feel the warmth of the sunlight again as she touched the window. she looked down at what used to be a gorgeous blue gown, now tattered and toarn. she touched the fabric softly remembering how her eyes shined when she first saw it. & the struggle that ruined it. her eyes began to swell up with tears. ¨i cant take this much more¨ she thought. ¨i wont...¨ she decided, her sad eyes and broken heart now filled with rage and hostility. her shaking hands now clinched in fists. ¨i will be just as mad, limitless, and unhumane as he is. i will be decieving, cold and cruel. and i won't feel anything about it. ill treat him like a doormat instead of a person just like he treated me. the only difference will be that i will not allow him to live.¨
¨we will see who is dim witted.¨
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
i.
Into twlight, Shadow's of monster's, men's piercing sight's
As they stareth at mine queen, dog's, hopeful dreamer's, dream's;
Tis, cometh to find out these verily aren't men, they were aloviti being's, their breath was poisonous as an asp, teeth as glass.
ii.
Tis these brute's couldst not be killed by arrow, nor gun's, unless silver and gold were used; They brought a thunderstorm and hail over me and mine beloved's head, they clinched their lip's, their nail's ripped through the roaring of the darkness around instead.
iii.
Mine Earl Jane Nagley held me closely, as tis these barbarian's were untamed and ghostly; I pulled out mine secret hidden choice, An Aesculapian snake to giveth a bang taste to these to these unholy ale's, I used that silver and gold to cut off their tail's.
iv.
Whilst the thunderstorm's and hail dissolved into thin air
Mine reyna and queen hugged me and screamed, cheerfully;
She saidst to me she loved me, tis now she was free, from pain and from anguish, I saved her again from the devil's advantage.
©Brandon Nagley
©Earl jane Nagley dedication ( filipino rose)
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
she is an asylum,
her walls drip blackness
writing every word
that neglected
to slip past her
teeth,
she sleeps on
piss-stained spring
mattresses as the
clod tiles bite
at her heels,
hair and skin hide
beneath her fingernails
as palms are twinged,
the padded walls
whisper screams
of coercion; wrists
bound by silence and
tightened by insanity.
to bedposts
rusted,
her hands retired on
ridged thighs
hugging her
goosebumps with
convulsions of agitation.
her mind
scratches melodies of an
insomniac,
the flickering lights choke
her vision and blind her speech.
a room of contradictions
irregulating regularities
intoxicating sobriety
hallucinating reality,
the muffled screams
that weave through
the fibres of the
pillow clinched tightly
in her lap harmonize
algorithms that pull
each padded wall
towards her howling
being — centrefold the room,
as the walls hug her body
she awakes and paints
antonyms to
perpetual despondency
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 4:53 PM UTC
rapture from my wrist
cold steel clinched in tight fists
not now, but maybe if it slips, if it slips
why can't i touch your lips? Whisper,maybe dance,
with a twist, with a twist
maybe a chance, maybe a kiss,
but for what, for this?
would i wreck it, all ive missed
for you? maybe once.
but not tonight, not with a tryst.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
Aim well, aim true
A refurbished face,
From a cry and hue
A bottled song just for You
From a stretch of tissues
From inches of a grin
Oh hark the heralds
Extra! Extra!
For Dobbie is free from the ******* of sin!
That's all I can stands, and I stands no more!
Mis-sized forearms can cause a little Thor!
A clean slate and a comma,
A rid of blight
I won't strap-out without a fight
On a zero to none I could still stand a chance
Place your bets on the duel of a pure heart and bad romance
1-2-1-1, 1-2 to 2
Pure heart hits turned the black birds into blue
Jab-straight-hook-straight!
Straight!-straight!-straight!
For bad romance it was always never than late
In arms a-clinched,
In needs of each other's cleave
Oh but stand up for the Greatest Warrior who ever lived
This habituated mantle only craves for;
A clean slate and a comma,
A rid of blight
I won't strap-out without a fight
On a zero to none I could still stand a chance
Place your bets on the duel of a pure heart and bad romance
Alas, after the bout the canvass had its slain
His subtle dance, a downpour and in vain
Raise your arm on bell's a-cue
The winner of this match; it's up to you
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
Flying high there is a cry
U all wanted me 2 die
It's something u cannot try
2 get me in a deadman's suit and tie.
I'm really unconscious
When I'm astral travelling space
I'm flying never dying
When I've hit the high state.
The sensation of the travel
Is hitting the nerve
I don't want 2 go back
Because I'm high as a bird.
I'm floating around
Can u see my mist
The colour of the rainbow
And my clinched fists.
I'm astral travelling 2 a place u wish 2 be
A place where I'm flying and always free.
A place where no man is dead
Leaving the body when I'm asleep in bed.
(c)
Tommy K
Davy C Green
17-01-2007
Psychotic Goblins
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 8:33 AM UTC
I would like to sit in an open field with you and scream at the top of our lungs
until ever word that's ever knotted in my throat comes pouring out of my mouth and dripping from my lips like blood
I would like to scream for every plea for help you've ever held inside and cry for every tear your heart refuses to release
Scream with me until we've clinched our fists so tight that every blood vessel made of nightmares untold will burst into a pool of secrets
Until our bones are wrapped in layers of nostalgic thoughts
and my spine coated in leaves closer to death than I believe I am
Though blood may be the poison watching each word fall from your heart immerses my soul like crimson relief
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 7:05 PM UTC
Welcome to suspense
Thought provoking horror
Invoking the mystic art of story telling
Compelling tales weave in and out of a curious yet terrified mind
Stimulated senses, feeling dread, body tenses, psychologically on edge
Eyes widen, teeth clinched as the next scene unfolds
Security blanket wrapped inside tight fist closed
You travel into the unknown; you want to know what's there,
that is why you are here to experience the unseen
The strange and obscene
This is the emotion of mystery; pondering what the outcome will be
The fate of our beloved hero or heroine has already been determined by the grand puppet master
Ladies and Gents the Director of these wonderfully constructed ill-fated events presents the conclusion
that blows the mind, jerks the tears, and chills the spine
You have just become a victim of a maetro's imagination, "to provide the audience with beneficial shocks"
Just having a little fun with this one
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 6:01 AM UTC
*I can't tell you how it feels to be discriminated against
but I know how powerless feels.*
I watched as a man was hit until he was badly bloodied.
I wanted to shout stop hitting him but
my mother covered my mouth with her hand.
Did not know why my dad stood there
clinched fist and very angry but silent.
Man collapsed on the ground he looked unconscious.
Ni - a's breathing heard a southern voice say.
Man was kicked and the bullies walked away
proud of themselves.
Ni - a got taught a lesson!
Saw spit on the ground from the one who spoke.
They walked past us.
Dad had a angry look I never saw before.
Bleeding man lay on the floor
his family came and took him away.
Dad took my mom's hand.
Mom took mine and we left the area fast.
In the car mom and dad said nothing.
We got home and they explained it to me.
Happened in the early 70's years after M. L. King was shot.
My dad said nothing because
he didn't want mom and me beat after
her was beat bloodied like the man we saw.
I'm a grown as man and know why he stood
there powerless saying nothing.
They would have ganged up on my dad
and beat him until he was nearly dead.
I would have been beaten and taunted.
My mom would have been stripped naked
and ***** with me and dad made to watch.
White women had no rights and got treated
like second class citizens.
Southern whites ignored civil rights movement
and still lived under Jim Crow Laws.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 8:08 AM UTC
I am happy to join with you today in what will go down as
the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.
There was a story of a King
who lead the Great March on Washington, with an army of over 300,000 civil soldiers.
600,000 irises fixated
3,000,000 fingers either spread to invite applause or clinched to offer rebellion.
What was he thinking?
That this dream, this illustrious and renowned dream,
Would submit itself to be injected into the veins and muscles of this body we call America.
No, that is not. No, it cannot be.
Why would any king, let alone this one, allow us to believe
that this nation can live up to the true meaning of its creed,
while the reality spits blood into our faces
with the news coverage of black faces destroyed by black guns.
Are we still dreaming?
Bullets dribble on the pavement like a basketball,
spreading through the hollows of their tips,
knowing that there is no reason as to why
they are being propelled into the bodies of the innocent.
Death creeps on corners like words leaving the roofs of our mouths,
we roar and we rage about the lies of the beautiful reason,
so we spread our shoulders like faith
to lift us off our nimble feet, because our wings are to tired to carry us up.
Five decades have passed, and we are nowhere near that mountaintop.
Because this mountain is impossible, right?
No way can we let freedom ring across this nation,
because we solve arguments the way we solve tactical warfare.
We've turned his dream and made it into our nightmare,
We took his words of action and turned them into questionable ones,
so while some of us may question and criticize how far we've come after fifty years,
others turn the other way, supporting the idea that we're at a post-racist era.
How did we get here? How do we get there? Are we going anywhere at all?
It's easy to see this as a dream,
because we can always change the channel and find something else to watch.
But fifty years is long enough for this coma. It's time to wake up.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC