Such a disaster
self-tanning cream
the pride of looking sporty
the mirror pulls face
deep philosophy
the poet is in deep water
saved by çow tide
one type of success
when work brings happiness
and not endless doubts
the loser is a man
who knows he is incompetent
yet accuses other
the news I read
has been the same for 50 years
war and filmstars
i nominate green
foul
the referee didn't hear me
the opponent accuses me of the same
he therefore,
can -
no longer -
use my extension
in fact i'm not using it either
i'm off home to
throw cue balls
at
the
moon
He’s a Sunday Morning Christian
Sitting prominently in his pew,
On the other six days of the week
He exploits folk like me and you.
From his position of privilege,
Where he’s never known any need,
He accuses the low paid worker
Of striking out of avarice and greed,
Thinks there’s something wrong
With their concept of work.
Instead of being grateful
They only whinge and shirk.
The service being over and
His contribution being made,
His conscience newly clear,
His lip service being paid,
He puts away his Christianity
Until this time next week
To continues his exploitation
Of the sad the poor the weak.
Suddenly it’s next Sunday,
Another eventful week gone,
This Sunday morning Christian
Puts his Sunday morning suit on.
The Blackness And The Hard Labor Of The Housemaid
Store up the spasms of the low rims of busy suns
trudging work tills the upheaval of ragged soil
and what of shadow hours, sweat and hard toil
does indifferent soil its gasping unholy vomit spill
she folds the clothes and then she falls asleep.
Trudge the hours and crack the unwilling stones
as her shadow walks into bars of uneven ethereal mists
the dark red rouge smears in round about shy patterns
she wonders, where does brown dung of yesterday hide
She slaves as a worker, her tired muscles cramp
her mind drifts and then it accuses her of nothingness
today is for work, tomorrow the mice may play
her work is as ancient days a drifting into noon
she is bent as a scornful indifferent boothill
as she finally stops, yes stops, to dare to go to sleep.
Robert J. Lindley, Verse
June 2nd 1972
Note: My new girlfriend's mother is a housemaid. Works 6 days week about 12 hour a day/
I have written the ultimate love song
it was the braggadocio cad, Sir Edward
He thinks his words are golden laced with silver
Some of us yawn, I may have giggled
He plays his song for us, which is no surprise.
It is amazingly tender, romantic and well-written.
You did not write that! Accuses his sister.
Sibling rivalry is in full swing, so we scatter.
Her husband accuses, “Why did you abandon me?” She replies,
“I’ve been with you every day. I’m crushed by your cruel lies!”
“Just bodily with me. You’re distant, no longer trying to connect!”
Kudos to spouses who are THERE in every respect.
They’re wise, knowing love might not survive neglect.
February 21, 2023
written for the A Forms and Words Challenge Poetry Contest Placed 3rd
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
April 4, 2023
entered in Line Gauthier's Bite Size no. 61 contest
extreme the hand snatch the cup
I will collect pride
very good morning my injured limbs
my sons
remember that time only disasters?
but everything in the flesh achieves healing
and already my defeats knew before:
the audacity of courage ignores
who will soon wear shame
she shrinks she hermit gets shy
spreads the sour scent of runaways
quarter to six I woke up
coffee how many sips did i take before i knew?
our trifle insignificance
on the outside it's just a skinny shell
in the middle nerve pulsate membrane
and in the core where it weighs tons
act the gargoyle
that accuses us of being nothing,
my injured limbs,
my sons
The sheriff had a visitor who growled like thunder,
a rabid dog, teeth bared trying to tear him asunder.
She howled that he'd attacked a member of her pack
Saying Mark was the aggressor and giving him flack.
She told him he'd listened to those who are wrong
then called him a troll, singing that same old song.
He replied to her comments, showing no disrespect
but her defense of that yobbo is hogwash that I reject.
She accused the sheriff of robbing PS of a great poet.
But all the real troll offered was trouble. We know it.
The doggie's heckling prickled me like a thorn or a spur
I won't miss that cowardly 'deleter,' that cocky old cur.
She can defend her crud bud any way she chooses,
but he will always be the one many of us accuses
of bullying, for each time he returns he reeks of ill will.
Hope we've seen the last of him and his snippety quill.
Poor, addled Colin Kapernick
Once a coveted NFL draft pick
Made $43 million in pro football, yet finds it all unsavory
Victimized! ~ Accuses team owners of slavery
Political poems, political belief.
Either one side or the other.
War rages on with no relief.
Do we have to attack another?
A double standard applies,
in regards to political views.
When did beliefs, become lies?
What happened to the right to choose?
Our past president, brutalized everyday.
His supporters were maligned.
Don't attack the current president that way.
You may find yourself reassigned.
One party accuses the other party,
of corruption and misdeeds.
Their agenda thought dirty,
for the contempt it breeds.
Who is right, who is wrong?
We don't know, just think we do.
Our opinions can be strong,
but consider another's point of view.
Expressing what you believe in,
is what poetry is all about.
Not an avenue to begin,
using verse to scream and shout.
Man excuses himself
By accusing others
Hurting others tremendously
And building a wall isolating them
Wrapping himself with prolonged hatred
That hurts him eternally
Man excuses himself
By accusing the surroundings too
Spoiling them innocently
And hurting himself without knowledge
Suffering from the pressures and pollutions
Accumulated by himself
In his own cursed surroundoings
Is my mind an accident of the metaphysical,
of fragile pain, uncertain life or follies of desires?
Abstractions attract me like flies to honey,
vacillating theories seems to me like a refuge,
trying to grab air where only vacuum exists.
The creativity in me rebels as my mind accuses
my heart of the mediocrity of my serendipitous poems
that often flow from splinted quills of my bureau.
I strive to write a grand mythical masterpiece
but know my heart will never release its pent up lore.
It's really a demise of thought, a flare that never storms,
diverting my soul from random, useful conceptions
to microscopic flaws and nebulous products of imagination
and flounder on more mundane affairs that blight the spirit.
Strive as I wish, I can write no more….for now.
Broken Wing
Poignant letter torn by the force of a hand in anger
Accuses and it wounds unfounded fraudulent emotions
Shadow in fragments crying with neither sound nor motion
Yearn to extinguish the paroxysm of enmity and retribution
Love mend broken wing then gently soar to overpower
A harbinger of ravaging heartaches and misfortunes
Penned: 07/12/2016
5:20 a.m.
West palm Beach
Florida USA
In the year of 1967 I was a freshman
In high school in a small Midwest Iowa town.
Before teachers cared about bullying
and goofy stuff like kids’ feelings
We were not allowed to have them anyway back then
The gym teacher was snippy and mean.
Pinched nose, hair teased and sprayed
With enough hairspray to choke us all to death
She had beady eyes. I do not recall the color.
Never happy, snippy usually.
Cindy and Susie were always the basketball captains.
They were the giraffes of our class.
They chose us one at a time from a line.
My twin and I and our friend Debbie were always the last to be picked.
When they got to us, they always had a huge argument about who had to take us.
“You can have them!”
“No, you take them.”
If we had gone home
whining about it, our
parents would have laughed.
These days, if a child accuses another child of looking at her wrong,
Mommy, Daddy and Grandma come up, packing loaded pistols.
the Irony meter gasket
is blown again and again
with every statement
of our chaos president
and his endless surrogates
promoting the latest Presidential
on spot guidance by our great leader
that must be true
because our dear leader
says it is so
The President accuses his democratic rival
of being senile and needs to be in home
and will be run by his radical left allies
and the right wing media
echoes the presidential absurd comments
refusing to acknowledge
that the president himself
is rapidly fading into dementia
and his radical right cronies
are looting the government
driving out expertise
even in the midst of pandemic
Oh yeah the irony meters
are blowing gaskets
every single day
Related Poems