You do not know
of who I am
and yet you brush me broadly.
These shoes I wear
and all I've seen
to wit,
has helped to shape me.
Presumptive you
without a clue
your arrogance astounding!
I do not care,
your thought's are skewed
distorting who I might be.
This brush you use
accusingly,
bristled with ignorance.
Just who I am
or choose to be
your brush
does not define me!
i found it skulking
in a pile of broken poems
it glared at me accusingly
as if demanding that i read it
the more i read
the worse it got
i knew what I had to do
i had to edit
i had to edit the hell out of it
maybe with a sledgehammer
or an axe
relentlessly I persevered
chiseling out any trace
of punctuation and commonsense
the words were dying of exhaustion
by the time I got done with it
now i thought
now at last it is not the worst i ever wrote
but much more like
the second worst
I finished moving into my residential college as a storm began
- fat raindrops, as big as coconuts, falling from a black and fouling sky.
These northerners were acting like a "tropical storm" (Henri) was a big deal.
“Surely New England gets storms?” I ask, from behind my mask.
“What about NOR_Easters?” I say, like a meteorologist.
“Those are different.” I’m told, with no other explanation.
“Did you bring this storm from the “SOUTH?” I’m asked, accusingly.
*(This was after I told them about coming from one ”bulldog-college-town” to another.)*
“Yes.” I reply, “It was in my luggage.”
A silly question but they have a point - the storm feels like it’s involved and fulfilling some obligation to dramatize my college move-in story.
“Time to quarantine!” I’m informed - “Yep, can’t WAIT!” I lie.
One disaster at a time.
I watch you slowly sink
taking longer than expected.
I imagined Ophelia
flowers drifting over you
floating in the dark water.
Reality is more sordid
and yet still sensual;
your breasts now visible
outlined by the wet fabric
of the dress.
That dress.
The Glastonbury dress;
the dress you wore for him.
Your vacant eyes stare accusingly
as if you didn't have it coming:
Whore.
I stand staring into the water.
Battling the light, fighting past shadow.
Fleeting images skate along glass.
Uncertainty, doubt, nothing is plain.
Curious orange, glinted, then gone.
Rippled concentration, I frown.
Birds fly through a crocodile cloud,
then disappear into the grass.
A dragon-fly conducts a detailed inspection.
Pond-weed beckons, come closer...come closer...
Dark depths hide many mysteries.
A giggle blown on the breeze,
I smile.
Death, bloated, stares up accusingly.
A pond-skater pauses to read the nursery logo.
Another comes to confirm.
Crocodile jaws close over their meeting.
Apple-blossom, blue sky, black tyre-swing.
Nature's reality painted on glass.
A raindrop explodes on the surface.
Another, another, a battleground of ripples.
Distorted images echo my thoughts.
I stand.
I stare.
I drown.
She can hear a candy wrapper being opened a mile away.
She races home, and tears through her dog door,
Stares at us accusingly, gets on our laps, to smell our breaths.
We always save her a piece.
She has fallen into heaven, my girlfriend laughs.
Not really, as we are no angels, but we love her,
And would probably put our lives in harms way to save her
from the murderers and thieves she warns us about hourly.
We live in the country, and Sophie dog despises a truck on the road.
When one goes by, which is rarely, she bares her teeth, and
wails as if the murderers and thieves are about to steal her candy.
She guards us daily, whether we like it or not.
We have no doubt she would throw herself in front of truck
to save us, and we feel exactly the same way about her.
RHYTHM OF TIME
7 15 pointers race accusingly. Crawl out of bed.
Hurry to bus 8 00. Tulips open imperceptibly in the sun.
Bus creeps through gridlock. Pointers spin in a blur.
Elevator stops at every floor. Wristwatch approaches light speed.
Begin morning mail-call late. Priority action urgent.
Chronometer drags till 12 30. Lunch hour.
Greased lightning hands sweep face. 1 30 arrives breathless.
Pointers develop rigor mortis till 5 30. End of day.
.................................................
*Everyone knows the feeeling that time drags or speeds up
depending on your mood.
Six of them stare at me accusingly
unblinking, motionless, all in a line,
their silence since their sentence came to be
bears witness to them, victims of a crime.
Pointless for me to offer a defence,
I swear I had no hand in their demise,
my only part I played to bear them hence,
the last person to gaze into those eyes.
Their lives cut short with others in a throng,
no calls for mercy, screams of fear or pain,
not punishment, for they had done no wrong,
a necessary loss for mankind's gain.
I know that it will be a while till when
I eat some sardines from a tin again.
Hibernating from the spring until Autumn,
who knows where, maybe under garden heaps,
now triggered as December snowflakes come,
the single glove now rouses from it's sleep.
On pavements fingers point accusingly
or maybe show places where one might slip,
one looked liked it was going to pounce on me
and hold my throat in some icy death grip.
I know it's self propelled, that I can prove,
I've gone past one and left it on the ground,
yet later walking back it's surely moved
up on a wall, near where it had been found.
On a fence post, one finger in the air
a gesture showing that it doesn't care.
Across a dreadful field I walked,
Where bodies lay All torn and bent,
Their eyeless gaze stared back at me,
It seemed, I thought, accusingly.
I rushed out of the cemetery
And looking back neat rows of graves
Was all that I could see,
And all the souls that therein lie,
Were calm at rest under an azure sky.
I cannot conceive what happened there,
But what I saw in that brief time,
Was real to me, for they were there,
A cry of anguish, they wished to share?
In flanders fields the rows of white,
Testify to that first great fight,
It was the war to end all war’s,
But the killing won’t stop, whatever the cause.
A frozen winter’s chill hangs in the air
Icy landscape under a cold clear blue sky
Frosty branches point skyward accusingly.
The cold brittle air catches in the throat
As if it is about to break in two as
Winter casts its frigid cape all around.
The golden leaves of autumn are now brown,
Crumpled underfoot, or turn to wet mush
Beneath the bare trees standing like sentinels.
What can break the spell of winters grasp?
What magic can turn the season around?
Or is it better now to hibernate?
As frosty air rises over the lakes,
February is such a cruel sad month,
The heart of winter, yet a prologue to Spring.
In memory of Sylvia Plath 1932 – 11 Feb 1963
Today I tried to write a happy poem
but halfway through
it started to cry
and when I asked it what was wrong
it cut it's eyes at me and told me
that I knew exactly what was wrong
so I stopped writing it
because I didn't like it's tone
or the way it cut it's eyes at me
as if it was accusing me of something
So I closed my journal and put it on the shelf
and went outside to watch the wind blow
through the rows of corn from my front stoop
after a few minutes I began to imagine the clouds
drifting by without a care in the world
then after awhile even the clouds began to look sad and droopy
but at least they didn't cut their eyes accusingly
as if I had something to do with it
your finger pointed
so accusingly at me
rush to make judgment
facts unknown, verdict guilty
proved you wrong, sweet victory
One winter evening things played heavily my mind did I had courage to face these sad reminders,
Staring into a blazing fire I saw many things I saw mostly sad things hardly any happy memories,
Dream faces from shadows look accusingly it breaks my heart to be reminded how little I ever did,
Hypnotized into another world I dared to think of some of my blackest thoughts rods of pain hurt me,
Sitting in my chair cut off from the world sparks crack bringing me back to my bleak cold misery,
Ghosts cross the threshold of my memories using a hidden doorway very deep within my sad heart,
Drawing the heavy black curtains together shut out the twilight gloom to sit cut off from everything
Shut out the darkness as night descends it frightens me and reminds me of my nasty selfishness
Then I close the heavy doors and lock them tightly then it's silence the fire my conscience and me
Do I dare to have a rendezvous with long gone absent friends do I dare to let go and feel any emotions.
Or do I carry on with my wasted life leaving a footprint of disappointment and failure not ever caring.
In the dark abyss that is my mind
Amongst the spider webs I find
A distorted being of some kind
Covered with thoughts that are sublime
He’s wearing a cloak of mystery
Having gotten lost in history
He stares and blinks and laughs at me
Pointing a finger accusingly
His lips are moving; I hear not a word
The thoughts he thinks are quite absurd
His reasoning is somewhat blurred
Then he flies away like a wounded bird
And yet I know he influences thought
Inside my poems many of them are caught
He may think his rants are all for naught
But some lessons learned are those he taught
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