"thumbprint" poems
They will tell you
All poetry has been written
There is nothing new
Under the moon
But let me tell you
They don’t know you
You are as unique
As the DNA that exists
Within your frame
The ripples on your thumbprint
No one ever had the same.
Listen...
You have something to say
Say it proudly
Say it boldly
Never let them scold you.
Never let them make you go away.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 11:31 AM UTC
Malcom was fed 16 bullets because of his. A slug kissed the jaw of King Jr. and silenced him forever. Gandhi shriveled like snakeskin. Joan of Arc became Joan of Ash- so you can understand why Melle Mel was jittery scribbling it all down, on a napkin, at Lucy's Noodle Shop in Harlem. Sweat poured into his green tea. He thought Jesus hanging from the dull wood. Heard about the poet Lorca under an olive tree, shot in the back. Everyone has felt this way through, he thought, never could he have imagined what would happen when he pressed his thumbprint into vinyl. Hip-Hop was still a tadpole. The DJ had just learned to scratch a record and make sounds no ear had never conjugated. How was he to know Tupac and Biggie would follow his lead and get plugged with lead? So he wrote it down, in big curling letters, emphatic: DON'T PUSH ME
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 4:42 PM UTC
I used to stand in awe and watch Grandma making biscuits.
She’d take her wooden bowl, then dip the floor and sift it.
As snowy flour would drift to form a mound of just so much;
She’d form a crater lake of buttermilk and shortening with her loving touch.
She would smile and watch our faces as she squeezed the flour to goop
And transform the mess she made into dough that she would scoop.
A pinch she’d take and make a ball to flatten in her palm.
Then with her thumb she’d press it down, so gently and so calm.
With care she next would take the dough and place it on a pan;
A thumb print etched in dough as she continued with her plan,
To place the pats side by side until the pan was filled
By perfect rows all laid out with hands so quick and skilled.
That cozy pan she placed into an oven warmed just right
And closed the door to seal them in and cook them out of sight.
In timely care she’d pull them free, delicious golden browns
Setting fresh hot biscuits on the table, to banish morning frowns.
Now I stand in awe and think of all the biscuits she has made,
Of all the time her thumb has pressed, as her heart has prayed.
Life finds us now, her children, in life’s wooden bowls
And we feel her loving touch as she leaves her thumbprint on our souls.
For Grandma Mary Grace Kindley Davis
On the occasion of her 105th birthday, February 9, 2007
Presented to her at her Birthday Party the next day.
©2007 Michael S. Davis
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
You sad fool. My dear, old friend
How I find myself waiting for you again.
Your eyes drive into mine, with brights on,
and you leave palpable words hanging in the air with the writings by your teeth,
without a mouth to open, just jaw clenched, no recognition of existence,
And your hands are soldering irons cooled clenched until clashing into my air
Touching time, and instantaneously heating space, as an element
Reaching Avogadro's number, ten to twenty-third
Holes appear between us.
I remember when we used to laugh
And mostly at each other,
but not as we do now.
There was no malice.
One day maybe there will be solace.
"You act as though I'm a nice guy"
So it's true you like to objectify
The object (oh, the irony) of your affection
Which is anything that cares to mention
How creative was your invention
It was not my intention to
Organize a fluidity to the scrutiny
And the staged mutiny of what was a foundation.
For it's not representative to your thumbprint.
I feel no organization here. You have ordered chaos.
Francisco,
Bring up your lights.
Just remember that you look best at night, when the moon is carved into the sky
and your real intentions revealed.
Where you sit upon that pale desk
And wrap your knuckles against the floor,
Stab with a quill the pools you leave behind,
to write your ***** recollection,
Just remember you look best when your tears catch this starlight.
Francisco, bring up your ****** lights.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 12:02 AM UTC
There is nothing quite like a Caramel Apple Thumbprint Scone
I bought two tonight, one for the road and one for home.
Sometimes I buy one for me and one for Mum,
Didn’t bother to tell her I ate them both…every… last… crumb.
Tonight on my way home I decide to buy a baker’s dozen
The trouble with that is I ate six and got an upset stomach
Now here I sit upon this throne, tootin’ and thinking all alone
That there’s nothing like a Caramel Apple Thumbprint Scone….hic!
K.E. Carman
2017
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 5:10 PM UTC
an octagon tent
wide enough that chucking rollies
to the sand made impossible
sprawled layers
you turned to quote Dali
told me how pale blue washed with lucy
shimmered skyline into dimension
acryllic-smeared sass drips canvas
into murmurs circling dilation
dimethyltryptamine stains
painting dreams on my eyelids
with flowerbrushes and silk,
mushroom dust gathers in discarded hues
on your pallet, where the colors of your irises
dry into a nebula of night-blooming jasmine
the scent of how you move when you sleep
and sleeping is never so sweet
as dancing through lucidity
with you as my sheets.
and i've traced your thumbprint so often
i'm sure if it were stretched around a marble
like buffalo skin on spirit-caller drums,
a globe would be seen
in which Greenland is finally proportionate--
the map on my wall always bothers you,
but I do too, and everyone does,
urging me under the geography
etched into the sea of your surface
by the crucible of your purpose
and working me into
empty behind your right
below the 22
between i'ching
and the forty two names of god
clasping your fore in silver
copper wound around my finger
hamstrings woven like wire
kambaba jasper, two to share
you hang Tibetan tektites
to elevate space
meteorite fragments
lodged in your helix,
stardust blood,
mandala sand from your mother,
and our tendons wrappe
by dexterous carpals
make such a pretty pendant
of my heart,
for synesthesia mistakes not
and my addiction to the pen has eased
for you breathe murals
and syllables never could
match brushtrokes of carbon dioxide.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
Cumulonimbus smudged over sunlight
with dolphin grey
thumbprint
No clouds here, just 10 million
orange midnight suns
we're talking late
'til heavy eyelids drag us groundward.
This city seeps and trickles down
to sleep in groundwater
wet-haired, waking, throbbing sunrise
cased in eyes half-closed.
At most, we hoped.
At best, we strove.
At worst, we overworked ambitions
wanting, waiting, watching closely 'til
5 ticks until alarms.
At least we slept awhile...
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 2:13 AM UTC
I poured out every thought upon the page,
Filling it up with all the rage and anger,
That you have instilled inside me.
My pen literally quivered,
As I held it in my sweaty hand,
Yet the words flowed swiftly,
As venomous as any snake,
And almost as deadly.
As I poured the last of the wine into my glass,
I reviewed my handiwork.
Three pages of anger.
Three pages of hurt.
An expression of all you’ve done to me,
As best as I possibly could.
I carefully folded the letter,
And stuffed it in the envelope.
And with quivering pen,
I wrote out your address.
It was late, and I’d post it in the morning.
I went off to bed that night.
The next day I spent quietly around the house.
It was cold outside,
And it was warm by the fire.
In the afternoon,
I opened another bottle of wine.
I sat pensively for some time,
Just watching the flames dance
Upon the logs in the fireplace.
Amidst the crackling of the timbers,
I picked up the envelope.
I stare down at your name upon it.
I take another sip of wine,
And remove the letter.
As I begin to read it again,
I am reminded of everything you’ve ever done.
All the hurt you’ve caused,
To myself and my family,
Comes back again over three pages.
My blood starts to boil again,
And my palms start to sweat.
There is a damp thumbprint on the page,
And the edges of the letter are damp and frayed,
From holding it tightly in my hands.
I lean back in my chair.
I know I am not ready to forgive.
I don’t know that I ever will be.
And God knows I will never forget.
In fact, I hope you rot in Hell,
And if I could deliver you there myself,
Lord knows, I would.
But, I can never stoop to your level.
I can never stoop to your level.
I sit for some time just watching the fire.
In a while, I pick up the letter,
And walk over to the fireplace.
I toss it upon the flames.
I sit back down and sip my wine.
And as I watch the letter burn,
The sparks crackling,
And the black soot fall upon the logs,
I know I can never stoop to your level,
But, there’s a part of me that says to myself,
“God, I wish that letter were you.”
11-07-11.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 1:41 AM UTC
i slept all night in a cigarette box
had dreams of whiskey
and liver rot
and i woke up in an awkward spot.
i was mashed up against
my last desperate cigarette;
i was clinging to it for warmth
and i crushed it with the weight
of my heart.
i couldn't see anything,
but i found you in my thumbprint
you were so precious & tiny
and i kissed you gently.
that's when we decided to quit smoking together.
together we burst out of the box
and i found a fresh cigarette on the
filthy pavement
that's when we decided to quit smoking tomorrow.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 8:57 PM UTC
The face is the soul's thumbprint,
the shape of character belying all lies;
subtle, compelling, and telling geometry:
face, the equation of I.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
Black leather elf boots
Leggings
Cheetah print mini-skirt
Suede short coat
Too long in the sleeves
Someone's sweater with
A hole under the arm
One thumbprint sized bruise on my neck
Make-up frozen, clumped in the night air
Within my cone of oasis
From the halogen above
My breath mingles with the
Bile colored light
Smelling like Newports and tooth decay
I hug my self for warmth and
Shuffle foot to foot
Comforted only by the
Bulge in my boots
Representing the last few hours work
I clutch my purse tight
My toolbox
Not hammers or wrenches but
Tools of my trade
Baby wipes, sanitizer, tampons, and condoms
I hear a car slowing
Harsh redness of brake lights
Bloodies the vacant buildings
I lean toward the
Lowered window wondering
Will I continue to
Be the predator or
Fall tonight as prey
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
artists of flesh
wielding shades of exertion
splashing on canvas sheets
bright through closed eyes
I'm your thumbprint expressionist
mattress impressionist
bristles for taste buds make
broad strokes the emphasis
aptly utensil
fills focal to edges
though tipping the easel
conception seems effortless
brilliantly tincture
accentuates fervor
while crescent depressions
raise apogee further
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
your thumbprint wore
off of my top left rib
and there was a hole
there
hole there
hole there
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 2:44 AM UTC
I hardly journey there anymore.
Those ruins are far and distant,
Far and distant, and black and grey.
Relics are moon rocks in the frozen landscape.
The grand façade of the pantheon has
Crumbled into sand. I could crush it all into
Dust beneath my heel.
The mind itself is an eye, a camera obscura,
Lit not by the moon—
That old pinged marble—
Over whose surface I skim in my tiny submarine.
The lunar scene fills my vision,
Film noir.
I spy the cold garden. In the heart of it
Gleams the litter of my chicken bones.
My cowardice the wicked reminder,
Consequence of the role I performed
For the impassive audience. I underwent
A sea change in the theatre of their minds.
On some other plane
Holy voyeurs peer through spyglass,
Seeking to undress the celestial paramour.
Such delicious vacancy—
**** statue in an arena of eyes,
Gristle picked clean by vultures.
The air is ****** dry. Cold stars
Abound in the black sky.
Smeared ink the lingering impression,
Smudged thumbprint.
Nov 15, 2019
Nov 15, 2019 at 8:32 PM UTC
thank the humid place between my legs
for being the only ***** of mine not to take it personally
perhaps because we are so safe and secure
you would have to unfold me, trim the weeds around
this secret, secret house
somewhat abandoned
and no longer the host of such hopscotch games
because once your round thumbprint made me so sore
I do not forget the care you took to separate petals
like eyelashes caught on a dangerous rim
but now it is for defense, such a mechanism
something to prevent intruders, beggars, from barging in
these lips, an alarm system
oh, I do hate to make you leave
but my ****** is the only ***** I have that does not take
everything personally
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
a pale pink vin rosé,
just a hint of a blushing pastel,
Domaine Ott, a French emigre,
an early afternoon chilled thriller,
the summer drink of the choix,
for us, symbol of summer
so cold
stippled beads of moisture
form on the outside,
your thumbprint
indents this exterior landscape,
marking territory as if you were
a first time explorer,
leaving behind your personal flag
to make sure everybody knows,
you were here first...
this of course,
but the icing on the cake
in the domain of the moment,
when perfect is the rule,
and the existence of life's objections,
all overruled
just us, the guests gone,
watching a living seascape channel
providing a endless parade of entertaining
sails, kayaker, kite paddlers on the wings of colored silk
and then peace,
peace of nothing, a summer silent drink
that warms the essence
the sun still high just enough,
cumulus interference refracts its rays,
but to insure the perfection of this
domain of the moment,
the breeze pretends it's human,
caressing you everywhere, even there...
you do not deny these blessings,
gratitude is great and never forgotten,
for you believe this can happen again,
a view, a voyage, a resting place in
the domain of the moment...
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
*The universe is unnamed.
Time keeps forgetting his birthday.
Wind, fire, water, stars--
Shaped in our favor.
But when I love you,
You are a curve in a thumbprint.
When I love you, I am me.*
© 2014 J.S.P.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
its cold
winters thumbprint
has pressed
tree branches
toward the earth
ice is everywhere
it is no surprise
that the pendulum ride
of the seasons
gathers so much
of human conversation
its effects on us
offers so much to discuss
about ourselves
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 9:46 AM UTC
I'm a swirl
of crimson
paint
a lipstick
smear
a curling,
twisting,
writhing
sedated print
in hues
of violet-red
I'm in love,
my darling
and I want to
write
X's,
O's,
on every
empty surface
who will give me
just a moment to tell
them of my
love...
weave a stamp
of my kiss,
my crooked
thumbprint
on every lonely
facade
where you have
felt alone
and scared
and like love was
not designed for you.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
“Just like sparrows,
You'll never see one dead.
Must be millions of them,
but you'll hardly ever see one dead.”
What happens to them?
“They get over it.”
Over what?
“Over being there.”
They simply lie with stale fear
reaking from their skins,
for death cannot heal them.
Slowly, they let go of
each others fingers
and sink, numb,
into that thick silence.
They drown there.
A thousand soffacating creatures,
choking in a bombed-out town.
All the candles in their churches are out,
and death is a bone that stammers.
And suddenly,
they are guiltier than hell.
History counts every smudging thumbprint.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 7:12 AM UTC
This isn't the time for a blueprint,
there's no time for a sketch,
a rough draft,
a note,
pushing off into waters untraveled,
my soul is my sail,
my body my boat.
The only map that I need is my thumbprint,
the only compass I need is my heart,
no one said this journey was simple,
I learn nothing from just sitting still,
I must start.
So I glide on the wings of my eternal voice,
and I soar knowing well I may fail,
but I don't need any net to catch me,
I have seen both sides of the shadowy veil...
And I will greet this world with dust on my feet,
and I will sing at the top of my voice,
nothing can stop me from finding myself,
nothing can save me
this God-given choice.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 7:04 PM UTC
I held the smallest fragments
of what had once been my dear friend
in my hand.
Never had I held the cremated remains
of another human being.
I found it to be rather benign, physically.
Mentally though,
I imagined that I found it distasteful,
but not really all that much.
My mind softened the scenario further.
I imagined that I was holding in my palm,
what was once my poet-friend’s thumb.
Now, I had this ethereal thumb
to further, fashionably so,
guide my own pens or pencils across pages
yet to be written,
upon verses as yet unknown.
I took great solace in that thought.
David William Thomas’ thumbprint
is on these pages,
smearing,
ever so gently,
the ink that lays across the face
of this simple piece
of my own soul.
We spiraled what remained of our kindred
across the open spaces
of a modest Missouri wood
as the moon rose above;
the woodpeckers,
the coyotes heedless of our intrusion.
Gates locked against us,
we circumvented their blockade
in the names of sage-smoke and brotherhood,
of mentors and men bent on Buddhist
benevolent remembrance.
We set fire to kindling,
remembered our fallen friend
in a way that he,
above all others,
would have appreciated the most.
In a place called Sunbridge,
a path of passage to a greater plane of being,
poets held sway over all but nature.
Our altars were The Earth,
our robes,
vestments of denim, canvas, and leather
were holy.
Even the invading Conservation Agent
deserved less than the truth,
because he was inherently ignorant
to this event’s significance
in our collective lives at the time.
So,
lies and half-truths were served;
we escaped unscathed.
The lilacs knew,
but remained silent.
Only the tiger spoke.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications 2019
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 1:48 AM UTC
Take life for an escalator
Go both through its ups
and downs
Ride it like on an elevator
Expect both smiles and
frowns.
Take life for a suspense
novel
you and I unaware what
the next day will hold
Meditate and muse, or
this book of life just
peruse
Pore over it to watch
life's mysteries unfold.
Take life for the open sea
But pray drown not
yourself in it
lest you lose sight of
God's shore
and thereby lose all
spiritual wit.
Take life for a candle
let its glow illumine
others too
and in each and every of
its flicker
Try finding a hint or clue
Each soul's life unique as
mazes of one's
thumbprint
And usually for many
life's quite an uphill battle
At times sweet as
molasses, at times bitter
as mint
and life's roller coaster
may shake you like a rattle.
Life tis like the rise and
fall of notes
Consoling to find people
in the same boats
Ah on life you can find a
zillion quotes.
Thus ponder over your
life and reflect
how good you've been
to it
and not just how it's
been treating you
Veer around the pit, and
keep your path lit
for darkness of the soul
is for you unfit.
Take it in its stride even if it's a bittersweet life
Downhill's a joy ride, uphill has to be strife
Jan 9, 2021
Jan 9, 2021 at 12:33 PM UTC