"overstretched" poems
miles mean nothing to a heart that is pure
words penned in grace, sent to ether
give heartease to the overstretched
sowing stiches of understanding
in tapestry threadbare
little suns and stars
shining bright in love and hope
from face unseen and adirondack chair
gives strength to one down, from down under
allows grief, the words needed the abilty to care
for these simple gifts, no payment required
from the heart open to care...
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 10:09 AM UTC
It was so many months ago,
On the feast of the deceased,
Jack-o-lanterns' gleaming glow,
Soul tormented by savage beast.
Overworked and overstretched,
On cold nights, with howling wolves,
Loneliness had scratched and etched;
Pride been trampled by heavy hooves.
Agony ached through my body,
Poisoning mind and spirit's heart.
Workmanship's been so shoddy,
Every day was a hard start.
And so I thought, 'Why am I here?'
'Nobody cares or even thinks of me,'
'Only torment strikes mine ear,'
'Better to shut up and dare not plea.'
So they checked me out of school,
Bunch of suits forced me to hospital,
Examined by creeps while on the stool;
Why was everyone so hostile?
That night, I tried to fall asleep,
Poison and toxins flying 'round,
Cruel cameras watching me weep,
Whatever happiness had been drowned.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
Forlorn,
I sit and mourn
What could have been,
From the boundary, trying not to be seen.
Misanthropic.
A tiny nick
Has snuffed out my life,
Success always resting on the edge of a knife.
Melancholy,
I sit here pondering, sorry.
Should be out there fighting.
Every strike sounding like lighting.
Company,
I rushed too hurriedly,
Spurned our honour
And became connon fodder,
Because I got the plan wrong,
Sung the wrong song,
Overstretched,
Regret etched
Across my face,
Death dressed in lace,
Struggling on a sticky wicket,
I guess that is just cricket.
Aug 21, 2023
Aug 21, 2023 at 11:00 AM UTC
I overstretched my arms into September,
you watched my limbs break off on the first day of November.
I counted the days until everything would come back together,
I ran out of fingers to count with.
I coughed up enough gun powder to finally go back,
knocked on your door,
dropped myself straight on the porch in front of me.
I rang the doorbell until my fingertip started to bleed.
Your neighbors are telling me to stop grieving over someone
who still has a pulse, but I can't stop looking at our pictures
like a finalized headstone after the engraver asks,
"Is everything spelled correctly?"
I'd tell him he carved in the wrong date of death,
that's not the day you left, you never left.
You're going to answer the door,
everything can come back together again.
I won't have to count the days anymore.
I'm still right here.
I know I'm here because the storm drain hasn't moved me yet.
It hasn't taken my head and shoved me under your debris,
because I haven't let it.
I spent so long trying to figure out where it hurts,
and wound up right here.
This is where it hurts,
I'm not on your porch, my fingertip breaking,
I'm laying right next to you,
your arm draped over my shoulder,
your groggy voice in my ear.
This is where it hurts,
This is where everything fell apart.
This is where everything will come back together.
Everything will come back together again.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 10:39 AM UTC
Your outgrown shadow still follows you faithfully, with due silence; you still stand hesitantly, putting one foot after the other, pondering over the paraphernalia of your wasteful, shipwrecked life, because the ethereal telephone voice has frozen into a silence; the mill wheels of Time are slowly grinding you down, just like anyone else who was not lazy to scrape up some chestnuts for himself first.
Between stifled reproaches, you still excuse yourself with your childish naivety, you. what haven't you done for this, or for that vile, nothing promise. Confrontation is in many cases unavoidable; not only in the showcase of exhibitionist superficiality - but rather in the depths of spiritual immersion, because it reflects the grotesque-nonsense Present.
The unspoken truth grows inside you, consumed, which you deliberately keep to yourself so that you won't be fired or advised to leave one day. - Inside, it would have been better if you had lined yourself with patience, so that you could have faced the petty weaknesses of others more boldly. You are standing in front of gates locked with a hammer-heavy key, but you have already passed forty years, and you can no longer turn back at will to change what you thought could be changed; because you tremble inside like overstretched strings, and you are rather just naively and childishly ashamed of yourself, you cannot protest, since the permanent, corrosive dark river of bitterness flows through your overworked veins.
And no matter how firmly you stand on the foundations of your selfish protest that you believed to be stable, you remain alone, so that you don't have to deny yourself endlessly again!
Sep 21, 2025
Sep 21, 2025 at 12:32 AM UTC
Is there anything moving in the redemptive descent? Discover the exfoliated tears on the retinal lines of broken eyes with compassionate regret! As the smaller beetles glide apart, a hesitant giant-foot tramples on them by chance! The given, idyllic anthill can hardly receive regular travelers and contemplatives back into its bustling community! In the gaping lap of depths - only they can know - undivided Dreams graze!
The blood-boiling instinct-greed of visceral possession is only the exception! - From the micro-world below, where can murderous virtue be measured by certain methods? - The chattering company of loosely swinging golden boys and chirping kittens has never seduced; there, many people blamed emotional ammunition for luring exploited defenseless people and believing! Are the reports left to themselves simply because Someone always betrays them with words?
Deliberate yawns in deep dark gaps, however, cannot dissolve; the redemptive gaze of self-forgotten serenities can no longer be forced on the other! Greed became an indestructible umbilical cord: as many gains as possible in the jingling pockets of compromisers; but even the only comedians of Judas who are now giving themselves up are all sneezing or lurking! Secret doors open to everyone, only the secrets can be kept by the Spirit alone!
Is it too much to envy overstretched reciprocity? You’re forced to wear the shower spikes of mutual compromises on purpose if you want something more out of life!
Mar 31, 2021
Mar 31, 2021 at 3:18 AM UTC
It's pull and push,
It's hard to predict what I want in this moment
It's always a stretch,
my mind is overstretched
Playing this game.
Jun 26, 2023
Jun 26, 2023 at 12:03 PM UTC
*Hair, head, neck, shoulders
Emerging out the window from the
Back seat of a car whizzing
Down a Mountain she fell in love with
Before knowing what love was
One arm overstretched and out as if she was
hugging the eroded Giants that towered over aged valleys
Just then a gust blows so strongly that
She sways a little, almost as if
The mountain winds were hugging her back
(She likes to think they were)
Hair billowing and whipping around;
A tumultuous halo
An unknown flutter in the Hollow
Of the centre of her chest expands
While she feels like she has shrunk
Or maybe has just realised How big the world is;
The feeling grows; Delighted, ecstatic and erratic
She shouts in her exploding happiness
Shouts the flutter from her belly
up her throat and out to the world
She makes love to the giant moss wearing rocks
Later, she sticks her head back in
(Like a touch-me-not flower shrinks back inside)
And leans back on the headrest, panting happily, eyes sparkling
And just looks in wonder as the mountains
keep on unfolding themselves to her
the car keeps going on and on and on.*
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 2:26 PM UTC
They spew forth ***** and bitter bile
As they spin their deceitful web of lies
The common man to take and hold
Their seat to win by ways not bold
Not for us do they want political power
Not for us do they want better
But rather a name up high in lights
Though we be the ones who work and fight
We who as a nation once held heads high
We the ones who once would fight and die
To keep our nation proud and free
A nation once born of democracy
Perhaps 'tis that I'm just growing old
And must conform or so I'm told
Adapt to the ways of this modern life
Of food banks for the poor, overstretched national health
The nearest hospital now over 30 miles away
Along a road over crowded both night and day
Far enough away so that people die
Because the ambulances can't get through
Our land overburdened by immigrants
And an infrastructure that can no longer cope
And so the people now must suffer
The lies and deceit of those we empower
To serve our will
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 7:38 AM UTC
/*freedom of speech is a misnomer compound for: "understsnding" the english sense of humour... your granny has alzheimer's... so... um... where's the slothful ha ha? ah... overstretched the mark... oh well... to late... too zone 2, too Wanstead... and a bit of ******** in between, too.*
western society believes
in a freedom of speech,
as long as it has the upperhand
on telling a joke...
but even in England,
American "jokes"
are deemed as crass artefacts
of rekindling
the revitalisation of
frontier break-necks...
have your freedom of speech
England...
but in all honesty...
i simply can't digest your sense
of humour as easily as you might
think i might...
well... perfect ratio;
for every great eureka
there's an even greater: oops.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC
shrivelled smokers hands
skin overstretched bones
so many someone counted
and I count on fingers-
literally and in so many ways
touched by so many others
centuries of hands all moving
pointing out the stars
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
The truth is
I don’t feel strong
I feel weak
Dehydrated
Anxious
I woke at 3am covered in sweat
5am again
Got up at 6
Worrying about the day ahead
Tiny things
Simple things
That seem way beyond me
She cannot bear my weakness
I cannot bear her indifference
I watch with envy
Travelers boarding the train
I imagine their successful lives
Whilst denigrating my own
Asking, can I ever ever ever be happy?
I travel to a place I don’t want to go to
But there is no place
I do want to go
Last night I said I was overstretched in all areas
And yet here I am still
Fighting for myself
Fighting for...
What?
More of the same?
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 1:58 PM UTC
A letter to Rona
It was the best of times, it was indeed the worst of times.
Rona, You take our breath away …… and livelihood too and here we were thinking, you were just the flu. You are here, you are there, you are everywhere, yet seriously, Rona why don’t you just disappear..
You lurk in crevices and all sorts of spaces and even in my favourite places. You’re well travelled, exploring the world, effecting every creed, religion, with no stone unturned.
You’ve taken loved ones, friends and strangers too, you’re not biased, we’ve been told by the WHO. You’ve exhausted our systems and national health, they are overstretched, what a blow we’ve been dealth.
Some are out of jobs and kids are home schooling …could this be any more gruelling?
Everyone is paranoid when they feel their throat a tingling and still it's hard for some to maintain 'social distancing'.
Now Rona, you’re a foe who's time is coming to an end, although you're teaching us lessons, while we pray for the curve to bend. We’re at home, some with families and animals too, and we can listen to the birds tweet twooo..
And remember this we are the human race, we will turn this around, your effect we’ll erase.
We’re coming together in all different ways, helping the ill, the poor and the frail.
Our singing resonates through streets old and new, we are all in this together, we will definitely pull through.
We are clapping for our champions, who are working all hours. Please God, help them with your super powers.
We are entertaining ourselves, at home and on the net, our spirit is relentless, we will succeed with the right mindset.
Just remember, our scientists are busy figuring you out, so we can one day again, get out and about. And our healers are channeling God’s powerful energy, so this will one day be but a distant memory.
While we pray, I thought I’d write this poem, so please let’s all remember to #STAYHOME
Helena Hyde
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 12:21 PM UTC