Best Backhand Poems
Irish accents quake my female southland.
Males 'neath Newsboy Caps stimulate dreamland.
Irish yearns may want touch,
Did not seek to feel such.
Ireland trips could stimulate mate's backhand.
For the Haven’s advancement,
the Elite may extend a courteous backhand,
or a fist wrapped with opinion
that some may mistake for abuse.
Dante’s girl fell from her steeple
head first into a cauldron of pride,
now her feeble corpse twitches
trying to vomit the blackest pitch grey.
Stains her soldier’s dress blues
duty has him answer the bench’s call.
Gaveled verdicts now deleted,
appeals one site’s ambitions.
Often found in a library,
their little boy plays with
his toy box full of straw men
and overused emoticons.
Each breath billows the forge,
black smoke void of The Father,
they beat a gift’s beauty into a weapon,
the cutting edge of the Deceiver’s con.
pain ...
the blood of her pen
a harlequin's hope ...
the thrum in her breast and being
no quarter given the issue of her barren womb
she looked back one last time
on the darkened house ...
things and thoughts and threadbare attentions
the labor of her love ... the love of her labor
that structure that had meant everything ...
now, but a cold castle ...
a lifetime of sacrifice and dedication ... and fear
perspectives meant for panic
placed pointedly at her fair feet
with threats and a well-timed backhand
(she gently poked the bruise on her cheek ... her reality)
children were the bond, the cement, the guarantee
but it had been a feigned promise only
his intent was ever the opposite
she saw that now ... clearly
the ruin no longer mattered
the lies, the humiliation, the endless attempts
to be the 'good wife' at all costs
mattered not ... not anymore ...
her eyes left the rear-view mirror in a silent pledge
never again ...
NOW was all she cared about
now, and the dream ...
of tomorrow.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Completely New 13, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
African-American and abusive, my late step-dad
was a reverse racist:
an army sergeant; a Vietnam vet; and, a backhand,
face-hitting sadist.
I once bemoaned that I was a white child
(as if it were my fault!?)
and that he was black and resentful of me.
So, once in reckless revolt
against his ongoing abuse,
I rebelled under my breath
and uttered the "n" word at him
(so he beat me nearly to death).
Bruised, I never uttered that word again;
then mom and he divorced
as I grew older (which freed us at last!):
now unrivaled (with no remorse),
I suddenly was the man of the house; and life
for us seemed less stormy.
For the first time in years we lived without abuse;
and, at last, we were a family.
Then I got religion and met God;
and gave myself to Christ.
It was the best thing I ever did!
Born again, I thus was sufficed.
So the scars of my step-dad's abuse which
for years I had repressed
began to heal and disappear; and so I became
less and less oppressed.
Now old, my erstwhile step-dad developed
advanced swelling of the lung;
I had not forgiven him yet (back when
I was still angry and young).
Not yet able to forgive him for the abuse that
made our lives so unbearably grim,
I nevertheless still realized that the weight
of still having hatred for him
was far worse than my pain. I recognized
that in life we all transgress
and come short of God's glory: so, moved by
His grace and forgiveness,
I made the right choice to forgive him;
for me a daily, ongoing process,
I at last began to let go of the anger
and truly begin to move past the mess
that was my step-dad's legacy to me. Also, I
began to forgive God;
for He was not to blame for him (whose own
father, too, did not spare the rod).
Still, tho' I had chosen to forgive (him) and let go,
he was unmoved and unchanged as ever:
but I, however, realized that what truly mattered
was that forgiveness set me free forever!
When at last he died, I had already completely
let go (so that he was forgiven).
Now I can only ask of God whether my step-dad
was changed from his glimpse of heaven?
I want to lead you to safety like Harriet Tubman,
While we are on our way,
I want to stop traffic like Garrett Morgan,
Before we get there,
I want to right all wrongs like Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall,
While we are here I want to ensure that our minds and spirits are in the
right place and then we will get our hearts pumping like Dr. Daniel Hale Williams,
So that we can run through fields of gold like Jesse and Wilma,
And dance to the beat of a thousand drums like Katherine
Dunham and Josephine Baker,
I want to be the first up to bat like Jackie and Hank,
I want to resound through your ears and your memory bank,
Like Mahalia, Marion and Billie,
I want to fight battles like Muhammad and Joe,
I want to take a stand so that others may sit in comfort,
Like Ida and Rosa,
I want to give of my time, life, heart, mind, body and soul so that future generations
won't have to sit in the dark and sit on the sidelines like
Martin and Malcolm,
I want to soar through the bluest of skies like the
courageous Tuskegee airmen and Dr. Mae Jemison,
I want to be the first beauty you recognize like Vanessa Williams,
I want to undermine and backhand stereotypes like Althea, Venus
and Serena Williams,
I want to paint broad presidential brush strokes of the
the First Lady and her beau with hues of justice like Simmie
I want to act like kings and queens like Harry,
Sidney, Lena and Cicely,
I want to live on through the pages of your memory,
Like Maya, Zora, Lorraine, Langston and James,
can't you see?
Thirty years since Mrs Meckin
Said "Sian, who are y' markin'?"
on the hockey field
Wind chillin'
Legs freezin'
Knuckles reddenin'
Clutchin' the rubber handle of my Mum's
old hockey stick
Always third from last to be chosen for The Team
"No, not again, please don't let it happen again"
So humiliatin'
Bro always gets in
"Don't worry, Sian. Music's your thing"
So, moving house again with three kids
Out of London, away from the smog,
the stress, the jumbled up head
To the house with the gate.
A gate at the end of the garden
Through
To the Tennis Club
Narnia
The Secret Garden
A Whole New World
Of Head Space, blue sky, breeze and humour
Leave the worry of how the kids are doin'
The washin'
The cookin'
The state the house's in
The husband not returnin'
Til gone midnight on the cancelled train
Standin' in a huddle by the club house
Nervous laugh and a "How do you do?"
No wimbledon tennis whites
Just the baggy top to cover the downward sag of
Three labours, excess Chardonnary and taramosolata dip
Ball straight up to endless blue
Oh coach, "how DO you DO?!"
Ladies swooning
Chopper grip ready
Backhand, volley, rally, smash
Dash
For the ball
Which is just in
A new beginnin'
Form:
Throw it, roll it,
Bounce it, pass it
Dribble it, bobble it
Kick it, toss it, miss it
Pitch it, hurl it
Heave it, sling it
Fastball, slider
Sinker, knuckler, curve
Underhand, sidearm
Overhand, 3/4 arm
Whiffle ball, tennis ball
Forehand, backhand, serve
Baseball, basketball
Football, volleyball
Golf ball, tennis ball
Hardball, softball, swerve
Matters not what sport you do
Or what result's deserved
Just go out and do your best
And play the game with verve
"Random Acts of Kindness"
you send the devil
his reassurances
of forgiveness
through love
the blindness
corresponded
some generous
catharsis
in a moment
of delusion
the sticky web
nullified
words sent
words received
morse code
S.O.S.
S.O.S.
S.O.S.
beats
the pierced heart
the invisible bleed
next level love
the shining haze
bars raised
backhand played
fast on the court
roll called
the masked ball
those present
all masked
the flying monkeys
love-all;
two devils
abscond with all
that matters most
what follows
is not
what we are
taught
kindness,
a random act
a walk
to George’s Heights
the sun shines
not a cloud in sight
blue sky adorns
release,
never arrives
easily,
there is always
the cost, when
the morning star
is torn and falls
grounded
Home
homeless,
lost
a reason for everything
the purpose a mystery
that too, the loss
random acts of kindness
the cost,
the loss
two sides
of a coin
tossed
gravity,
pulls in
anchored words
the heart interred
the card reversed
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"no more
will my green sea
go turn
a deeper blue"
TEN MINUTES THAT DIDN’T SHAKE THE WORLD
They seemed to talk only in metaphor or simile
And in what they call stream-of-consciousness -
These two young women in the café overheard yesterday -
About something boring to the point of unconsciousness;
And a small athlete called Richard something-or-other
Although they referred to him colloquially as Little Dick.
Maybe he was a friend-with-problems of their mother:
They spoke of age, alcohol, hormones, and bad technique.
Literary comparisons about throwing a raw sausage into a train tunnel backhand;
Jokes about stifling a yawn, making it look like open-mouth osculation;
Counting ceiling tiles in rhythm: ninety seven, ninety eight, ninety nine, change hands;
Oxymoron, bathos and pathos were all used in their discussion.
Diversions (like trying to recall the cost in the grocery store of small shrimp,
Or wondering if your contact lens has slipped or are you just sleepy-tired )
Didn’t help. They said Dick’s performance was badly timed and as well as rather limp
(Must remember to have the car’s weak battery charged before it’s retired.)
His sport may have been with aircraft in flight
But his free-fall diving ended when he pulled his string too soon,
She said, like a New Year’s rocket launched before midnight ,
He opened his champagne bottle at 8 am, before the speech at noon.
Perhaps a racehorse was involved, but as far as I could gather ,
A very small racehorse which burst away from the start line too early
And arrived at the first fence in a lather
And, she said, that’s not designed to make my toes curly.
They obviously found his performance confusing
And indeed, by all accounts rather supine.
However, his efforts seem to have been amusing
And at least it gave the girls literary opportunities to shine
When the rainy gloomy day
From the gray clouds weaves the arch,
When the heaven of lead acid in the silence
Floating to us vast object,
When the foliage discolor,
And the cries of birds can be heard barely,
And thousands of hums seas
Denunciations from the heavens stronger,
When the winds are changing rules,
And hit the backhand in the discord,
And the air, woven from the the needles,
Sparks all over the blackness,
Suddenly a flash split the day in two,
And the lightning sparkle the bridge,
Connecting the heavenly home and the ground,
Showing the miracle of burning fire.
As the sun sets
and the twilight comes out,
as the birds and squrriels are no where in sight.
As the whores and pimps sit on street corners,
waiting for street lights to turn from green to red.
As cadillacs stop and roll their windows down.
I can her the faint cry deep in the darkness,
of dirty gutters and dark, dead end alleyways,
I hear the faint tears fall and hit concrete pavement.
I feel the faint cries of whores,
I hear the sound of backhand hitting face
and brused tissue and broken noses are everywhere.
And the somber tears fall onto pillow cases,
and white motel bedsheets run red with blood
and cheap Italian wine.
And you can her the poet over the radio,
reading his own work for the one millionth time
and you can hear his soul slowly wanting to die.
He drowns himself in smoke and alcohol
the whore takes her pay, or spends a night in a jail cell,
the pimp nowhere to be found,
with a shiny blade stuck deep in his gut.
And the somber tears fall gently on the concrete pavement,
the floors of a jail cell,
tears on the pillow case and tears on a lonesome stage.
Tears never present, but are seen by many,
pain aches and pain takes away,
and I pour one more drink for the whore.
She takes me away,
and I caught her salty, somber tear,
and she crawled into my warm embrace.
I was the one who stuck the blade in the gut of that pimp,
who broke her nose and made her bleed,
with a cowardess and souless backhand.
I walk into the moonlight,
hearing the somber tears all around me,
crash violently to the concrete pavement.
The Earth rumbles and erupts with these tears,
that are shead for fellow Men, and Women and Children,
but we all look at ourselves and smile.
Happy we don't pay rent,
happy we don't have cancer,
happy we aren't six feet under;
But we still all cry,
Why?
Somber tears all fall in one big wave
crashing violently on the concrete pavement.
Now the red light turns green,
and the traffic moves along,
the whore is still at her corner,
the pimp still with the blade in his gut.
Muhammad Butler
Joker's poem
There's the mighty joker
We wondering if he ever played poker
But only supplies a bad body odor
But the fact remains his a filthy flirter.
Wondering if his jokes are taking him somewhere
But the bottom line is that he doesn't care
Weather or not he his been compared with someone
There he is fighting batman
But now on the backhand
Simply judge because he lives in a thresh can.
Blank, another blank confession
Is it really a confession?
This cop has a hint of doubt in his eyes
It’s not hard to tell
I’ve seen this expression in the face of my friends
I guess I’ve never really been the type to be figured out
Not since my father… (Sigh) what of my father…
Forget I said anything
Mike, more like dink ha-ha
I only joke; he’s a good friend of mine though it’s only been a short time
I’ve tried to keep him out of harm’s way along with his sister, Marie
But the more I try to protect them
The more I condemn them to pain, condemn them to suffer
At the hands of their emotions
At the backhand of a drug dealer who never really knew how to defend himself
Cause now he receives the work of a slave
First, under his father’s watch and now under his brother’s
But I admit, they both should share a prison cell like they shared meth
They poisoned a potential girlfriend, the dear sister of my good friend
Something I could never forgive but don’t forgive me
Just have pity on me
I’m not a common criminal, just an uncommon vigilante
I’ve been on the run for years
Escaping my past only because I can still feel the sting of hurt
Feel the sting of my past constantly haunting me
Everywhere I go; it’s the same old story…
I wonder how many people have I hurt
I wonder how many lives have I improved
I wonder how many people miss me
I wonder how many people are trying to contact me…
I wonder…I wonder if my father is alright
Starting with the toss up
I’ve made an unforced error
I’ve only gone and followed through
Squeezed the jissom out the old fella
New balls (and pants) please – love all
I think your ace
With a backhand that’s made for passing
On top of a lovely forehand
With a lovely high toss that’s absolutely smashing
Sure you moan and groan
But I love the racquet you make
Lets have another rally
Are you sure you’re not courting
I’ve a changing room free
If you fancy finishing me off
With a serve and volley after
Usually I make love to my pad with words and my pen craves me
Well this is Jason Voorhees combined with slim shady
I'm carving my words on the page with a Machete that Jason used for killing
I stencil around a hockey mask, and rhyme inside of it as I'm truth spilling
They want me to dress it up, in hopes I don't say anything too revealing
Well you can sit and cry while I speak my mind, I'm happy to be the new Villain
I'm the Bipolar psychotic mad man
Going against me is a bad plan
Give me the world, and that's what I'll hand back
But so many have let me down, they deserve a backhand
I kill my rhymes and turn my poetry into a Massacre
I'm driving on the road to recovery and don't need a passenger
I'll switch it up for the ladies and talk about kissing their necks like I'm Dracula
But I'm just having fun with crazy rhymes here, I'm not trying to make it soppy and Drake it
But If everybody loves Raymond, and Everybody hates Chris
I guess I must be in between
Because Men hate, But I'm in women's dreams
"I can't believe he said that" let's judge him so hard
I've learned to smile because a lot of females love my broke heart
Bipolar mixed with anxiety and depression I'm finally getting the madness working
Life changes shape more often than Kylie Jenner when she visits her plastic surgeon
"Oh my god, what's this nonsense he's writing, he's definitely not a poet",
I don't know what I was thinking when I wrote this