A Scissor Cut Into The Sky
There is a scissor cut into the sky
And I wonder who had cut the sky with a scissor
But I don't think Good would damage his home called sky
Also I don't believe that the saints would dammage the sky with a scissors
Because they would be punished right away by God
So it has to be the devil who cut the sky with the scissor
Because he wants to make God mad
poem by Aldo Kraas
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A Scissor's Story
there was once a boy
who is afraid of scissors
and the scissors keep on
threatening him,
until one day when the boy
gained strength to face
that scissor and
he tied it with a string
on his neck and
paraded it on the streets
of the town
his thumb was cut
and blood dripped along the
path
towards his self-gained
freedom
and then he laughed
as the scissor gets too sharp
for the pleasure of
his neck
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I bind long Blackwood poles
I bind long Blackwood poles
with a blue pair of pliers and binding wire
between green palisades
and cut it with a old pruning scissor
into the right lengths
and wear a blue bull cap,
but the sun
burns the hell out of me
and every now and then
there’s coffee and water
and a friend’s pruning scissor
that I get from my sweetheart.
I work into the night
and she calls
and ask me
to stop working
and my neck and shoulders
and back and hands are sore
and my face is burnt red
by the sun,
but my sweetheart
is very happy
about how the fence looks.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Scissor Man
Snipping, snipping, snipping goes the scissor man
Putting end to evil doers games
Snipping, snipping, snipping goes the scissor man
Maybe you are in his book of names
Maybe you are in his book of names
So be kind and helpful to your mother
Just think twice before you try and steal
When he cuts with sticky silver snippers
You may find the wounds will never heal
All self made bad boys
If you refuse to believe he exist
You won't be frightened when you find out
You're on his list
You're on his list
You're on his list
So be good and never poison people
Just think twice before the deed is done
When you wake up guilty in the morning
You may find important pieces gone
song performed by by Primus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Scissor Man
Snipping, snipping, snipping goes the scissor man,
Putting end to evil doers games.
Snipping, snipping, snipping goes the scissor man,
Maybe you are in his book of names.
Maybe you are in his book of names.
So be kind and helpful to your mother,
Just think twice before you try and steal.
When he cuts with sticky silver snippers,
You may find that some wounds never heal.
All self made bad boys,
If you refuse to believe he exist,
You wont be frightened when you find out,
Youre on his list.
Youre on his list.
Youre on his list.
So be good and never poison people,
Just think twice before the deed is done.
When you wake up guilty in the morning,
You may find important pieces gone.
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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About The Scissor
yes there was this scissor
on the window
one night looking at the moon
asking if
somewhere it can cut
the darkness
and allow so much light
to pass through
the covered walls
the bats flew feeding on
some rotten star-apples
the moon as usual sitting on the pond
seeing its reflection
undisturbed by the ripples of the fish
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Useless
the scissor trims
taking only what is necessary
for the design
the excess becomes
useless, thrown
away
and those which
are meant to stay
stay, and become
a part of
a new landscape
flowers
and leaves
and stones
in her own kind
of tapestry
and those who
are thrown away
shall keep the
faith of
next time
nothing diminishes
the importance later
of what she deems
as useless
that night
she thinks that something
is missing
yes, the grass.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Decisions
just like a spur of the moment
a rose petal may fall and
wilt
a wind blows it
in one breath
one goes out
one gets in
to freedom to prison
in one bang of a gavel
one’s property
lost is another man’s
gain
in an instant cut of a scissor
one dies
another lives
promises are broken
in split seconds
in a little empty
space
I also change
Either I or you
Shall take
This courage
One closes a door
Another one opens it
In the wink of an eye
One falls another one
rises
Nature makes
Decisions for us,
Sadly enough, others
if we just stand and wait
and look stupid, numb.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The dark beauty
The dark love,
Grieving my darkness,
The red meat
And the blood of my sadness,
Carving in the sand
Its shadow,
The scissor,
Lurking in grass
Its soft violence
For the kinetic buds
And the returning sap through the
Needles eyes
Of the tree,
The wayward yearning
To share the string waves
Of starting, stopping
And restarting,
Forever kinetic,
Two feelings meeting
For becoming then one,
Like words entwining
To give life unto that is itself.
Dark clouds flushing the wound.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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The barbar down the lane
Most time as much a scissor talk
Call for long legs and hair walk
A thing that happens all the time
To every pocket that has least a dim
The man change a hair one
With smile and happiness morning in line
A hair enters and 'voom' disappears
The man inside with hair on repairs
Our barbar down the lane
Is a man with no shame
My hair I dedicate to him
And mine is down with all vim
The everday I wish to enter
And embrass the comb in my hair
This then I know it him
The barbar down the lane
poem by Henry Nii Ayi Cobblah
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Dancing Divas
They face the audience
Undaunted
Pirouetting into a whirlwind of
Beautiful sound
Floating feather-like
Into the air
Returning with a dawdling pace
To the auds' oak deck
Scissor splits
Send the crowd into a teeth grinding frenzy
As the multitude front their seats in awe
They are dolls for a night
Luminous colors of burnt orange and fire-flamed red
Remind me of
JFK's eternal flame
They climax ornately
To the grateful flock
As they beam with glory
Into the night
They danced
poem by Matt Mondschein
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Carry Emotion Away In Packages
it is not enough artist to suffer mentally
it is not enough artist to suffer physically
painter must sell all his her paintings to feed a soul
musician must sell rhythms life swelling to feed a soul
actor must act character slices audience entices to feed a soul
carry emotion away in packages make up powder scissor refrain
hear morning in voice rhythm challenge winning in work sweat strain
climb mountain moments to heaven felt in artistic inspired domain
poem by Terence George Craddock
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There They Sail Silently Sail/Tiho Brode Tiho Brode
Censured song offs of the paper ships
Cut into the masts like shadows
In a scissor cut the word has been cut
One word which called many names
With paper notes among two fingers
Windy mornings were spread
The wind knows what has been written
The paper ships knew nothing
Except to sail
To silently sail
Tiho brode tiho brode
Cenzurisano otpjevi papirnih brodova
U jedra izrezani ko sjene
Rezom makaza otkinuta
Jedna riječ je dozivala mnoga imena
Prstohvatom ceduljica
Posuta jutra vjetrovita
Vjetar zna šta je na njima pisalo
Papirni brodovi nisu znali ništa
Sem da brode
Sem da tiho brode
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Shattered Glass
The volume in agony, designed by the hands of darkness - Forms the ice around my heart, soul surrounded without a sound - Caged by bone to be protected, by age, our end is selected - What i lack in life is fear, do you water your eyes everyday with tears - You stare across a field to watch the birds nest in a tree, i see a chair - You look at the branches, i noose my neck, to be roped, i have had my chances - I walk the path, ontop of shattered glass - My prints are left behind on your field, blood stains are painted on the grass - Sellected by a paper shield, scissor reflected
poem by Unic Cjonr
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Seasonal Priorities
Effortlessly a desire erects
a monument. One flaw
demolishes the image. Stones,
ugly grass & a solitary tree
make the landscape.
Hundreds of seeds go back
to the earth’s womb, never
to sprout. Heartbroken
I stand in the middle
of life, crumbling alone.
How can we change?
A splash of green
ingests a scissor,
that is not enough. A parallel tragedy
strikes. Sun and flowers
are gone, seeking a truth,
not yet conceived. A timeless
fire burns in the temple,
uncovering the heat,
edging towards us.
Freedom from long falls comes,
bit by bit in degrees.
Suffering remains the same.
We immortalize our smears.
The absolute truth
suddenly becomes a lie.
A myth which balooned
our minds. But brutal
sunlight has seasonal priorities.
poem by Satish Verma
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[03] Grief
When the kites fly in the sky
Like lovely tall ladies
A dark cloud extends
To the north-west horizon
Unseen aroma of pollen
Still spreads desire like magician
Exists like happiness
Without length width or height
But grief cuts heart
With a silent scissor
As soft like marmalade
As sour as tamarind
Is the grief final
As the death
For one and all
For living and non-livings
Poem 07
Book 'Affluent Love- The Silent Killer' February 2012
Copyright Writer
Adarsha Publishers, Dhaka, Bangladesh
ISBN 978-984-8875-33-9
poem by Ashraful Musaddeq
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A Voice Lays Hanging On A Pole
like a tattered piece of
loin cloth
a voice lays hanging on a pole
beside a
grassy path
it speaks
and i listen
it speaks about its loneliness
its being tattered
it is a torn voice haunted by
a scissor
the thread of mystery runs
wanting still
till nighttime to find the naked
eye
of the needle
pines beside the hill
stand by
like strangers staring
upon the dead body
of a boy
overrun by a ten wheeler
truck
tragic! yes, tragic is the
silence
more tragic is the indifference
that simply walks away
unnoticed even by the invisibility of the
soul of
the wind
chimes.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Lonely Self
The search for sense amidst life’s solitude
Has topsy-turvy turned beliefs for years.
Is happiness goal sought, or flight from fears,
Sensed as years’ tears, insensitive, intrude?
Life jokes at our expense, all feel pursued
Or haunted by time passed where chimes’ arrears
No substitute may pay when Death appears.
Experience must always be renewed.
Links into future tense we seem when viewed,
Yet each bud’s snipped by Time’s sharp scissor shears.
Soon all returns to naught. Night swiftly smears
Experiments ephemeral yet crude.
Let who would trace indelible here ink
For second thoughts upon life’s sonnet think...
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Photograph Of You In B & W
i keep it in one of the pages of my
favorite book, a love story that is never
finished, i keep on reading it till the
wee hours, like a dream cut from the sound
of the heavy rain, cats and dogs,
i keep it there and kiss it all night long
and when i sleep i place it on top of my chest
my heart beating like a drum to a dream:
making love with you is a routine and i
have not heard about my heart complaining
about a deprivation, no more, no more,
there is this phenomenon of being fed-up,
routine that makes a familiarity and arrives
at the conclusion of forgiving and forgetting.
i look at old letters. Your picture in b & w
the photograph of you looks like an old stamp
of a letter that i have no plan sending to you
anymore. Got these tired hands. this scissor
this matchstick, this trash can, and the final
solution. This is the end of pain.
The dispositive portion. No costs.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Amherst Spring Day
Spring whispers float
Upon a faint delicate breeze
Carrying with it the scent
Of Lavender through Oak tree's
The bay window 'tis open a wee crack
Enough for gentle noises
Of Spring
To echo back
I hear the rat-a-tat of the squirrel
Munching upon his pecan
And the scissor tail bird talking
Welcoming in the new dawn
The Mockingbird's melody
Carrying it's own sweet tune
Such a brillant showcase of
The Springtime at high noon
The flowers and their buds are nimble
And tall
Just waiting to showcase themselves
Since mere bulbs
Last fall
Ah and the town of Amherst
Seems a wee bit heaven sent
For all the enchanting signs
Perhaps our savior's intent
As the eve progresses
And the sky up above shows
Diamonds as it glows
Ah 'tis God's presence
It simply just overflows
poem by Theodora Onken
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I Still Keep For You
I remain on our corner,
Where the moon is hung as you left it,
Where the light pools down as if on
A stage, turning the neighborhood blue
With the somber possibility;
I am still here,
Holding my gift for you,
My eyes beholding the last image of
You, how you moved like an ibex
Grazing with beautiful legs
Across our teenage suburbia
How your attention lit upon me
For no more than two weeks and
We made loving play on those old hunting
Grounds of Latin class, before new
Men startled you into their forests
Where kings saw you bathe with the
Dryad Galaphile, in the emerald tinctures
Where your legs scissor with the sadness
Of crocodiles
How you dried off and walked towards me,
Naked and without reason kissed me long
And deep, like something very old
Remembering childhood
Only to lit off again, like a beautiful insect
Resting for a moment on me
For the briefest moment in the shortest life.
See how I wait for you still
In the neighborhood down the street from
Our high school, in the old hunting grounds,
This sad light cast down upon the space
Next to me
I still keep for you.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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