There was a loud explosion, followed by shouts of glee
The rat-a-tat-tat of gunshot, was suddenly surrounding me
It was much to my horror that my husband bought the game
And to watch my boys playing it, nearly drove me insane.
They blew things up, they shot at them, and they loved every shot
“But it will warp their minds” I said, my husband said “It will not.”
He promised he would sit with them, but that’s cos he wanted to play
And he said he could drum into them that it is just a game that day.
I peered round the doorway, I watched him guide them through
They cheered, and laughed at gruesome bits, my husband cringed a bit too
But as they grew they learned, but I know this is not true of all
Mine are both big wimps, and even husband on seeing blood will fall.
They cannot stand needles, a paper cut makes them cry
They cannot watch the news, when there is death and destruction awry
So in all honesty I don’t agree with violence in video games at all
But I think it’s up to the parents to make the final call.
Children in days of old, shot each other with a home made stick gun
They made swords out of anything, and always fought to the death in fun.
Play has changed they are safer inside, the trouble now I think this is it
Is when they are left to their own devices and the videos are used just to baby-sit.
Copyright © Mandy Tams The Golden Girl | Year Posted 2013
Unarmed I stood against the beast
Defending what was mine
The theft of my guileless innocence
His most cruel, remorseless crime
Fighting slings and arrows
Words that cut me to the quick
Lifting thin arms in resistance
To his heavy, brutish fists
Sorrow comes in darkness
Arrives without an invite
The moon stares dully at me
No magic will save me tonight
Measured unforgiving blows
He chose where each would land
Dark purple bruises gave away
Where my body had been slammed
With my knack for weak excuses
“I tripped and fell down again”
He sneered that they’re “just love taps”
While I played a game called ‘pretend’
Naked in my bed
Protecting a child yet unborn
Came another beating
From this cur who’d earned my scorn
What cannot be seen in shadows
Can suffocate one’s will
When I reclaimed my spirit
I crawled out of the mouth of hell
Ages have come to pass since then
The fiend at last routed from my life
I’m no longer frightened
Of just being someone’s wife
Copyright © Tess Norton | Year Posted 2014
So much emphasis is placed today on the role of the wife
She is to be pure, pristine, just, hardworking
She is to imbibe all who surround her with faith
She needs to be able to know everything without ever asking
She is to be the woman behind her husband
The one who would make of him a gem
To be a wife, is surely a complicated state
Acted out badly, one can even be a contraband!
But what of the duties of a man,
Is he as important as the woman
To be a husband requires one only to work and bring money
To care not whether the home is, without him, in harmony
Husbands are in heaven whose wives scold not
Husbands have rights, rights to use words of spite
Rights to beat, rights to abuse
Rights even to cheat, to hurt and bruise
When the woman speaks out, or scolds such a man
She becomes something seen by some as a legend
Seen by others as un-womanly
Whatever, she knows how to protect herself through her duty
What of those men whose wives scold not
Should they be brought back to the pot
To be cooked and simmered
To be brought to the right path
Feminists, equal rights, equal opportunities
Women's places no more being in the kitchen
Husbands, change your mentalities
We, women, we are frail and easily broken!
Copyright © Anoucheka Gangabissoon | Year Posted 2014
I forgot to set the parking brake.
So now my wife's car is in the lake.
You're looking at a man who can never catch a break.
My wife kicked my ass just because I made a mistake.
She broke my left leg and I'm having to use a crutch.
I don't blame her for being mad but coming at me with a chainsaw is a bit too much.
(This is a fictional poem)
Copyright © randy johnson | Year Posted 2015
The way to go out:
Shot by a jealous husband
At ninety years old!
Copyright © Mark J. Halliday | Year Posted 2014
Unreported Violence in Vilamoura
The couple was nicely suntanned, but the woman had
a black eye, he was very courteous to her tried to hold
her hand, but she didn´t want to and his face reddened
angrily, so she let him hold her hand. Both were nicely
dressed on their way to a restaurant; no doubt when
meeting friends a droll story would be told how she got
that eye. Polite laughter. Men would believe the story,
women would exchange glances because in the eyes of
the hapless woman they saw the truth. They would find
out- women talk- when they went to the ladies to
powder their noses. The unlucky one would beg them
not to say a word. “ He loves me, but has a bad temper;
and when I nag him he slaps me, it is really my fault for
not understanding him better. He was so sorry for giving
me a black eye last night that he cried, promised not to
hit me anymore.”
Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2012
I do not know?
Pink spreads and swells,
the ink you imprinted on paper.
The writing will annoy you
So you’ll erase it, or at least
But gods of colour are capricious,
it’ll move, but refuse to go.
You can be stubborn too.
Neither will lose
until I do.
Copyright © Nikita Singal | Year Posted 2015