Best Begrudgingly Poems
Once upon a time open windows, painted crimson, sealed shut
Words dancing in the bayside breeze blow aimlessly on by
Brilliant nighttime stars, holding a thousand wishes, no longer shine
A mirthless moon begrudgingly sits silently in the solemn sky
Another guardian angel loses her wings and cries
Crickets playing nightly treats, gone on a fishing trip
Too far away, even for the trained ear, to be heard
Twelve o'clock but the church bells are not ringing
Muddle through silence hearing every unsaid word
Even the clock on the wall has a song less bird
Quietly close my tear-filled eyes, a life in rewind
Lost, not a thought, no echoes in an empty mind
08/27/2015
I saw a man stark naked there unexpectedly,
who in his masculine fashion, though not apprehensively,
went gliding (or was he striding?)
down the center of the hall.
He did not glimpse me at all
as my gut called out, What gall!
So brazen, so reckless this peculiar entity
appearing as if from nowhere to step in front of me,
not elegant or slim as I’m fond of men to be;
but neither corpulent nor stocky -that cocky buck he
with a smooth protruding rump, rather like a girl’s,
yet by his gait betokened “straight” with nary a frill unfurled.
Frozen to the floor, gawking all the while,
I tried to surmise what could prompt in one
such imprudent, impudent style.
Was he merely meandering in some somnambulism state
as his simple sex is wont to do even while awake?
Or maybe this curious man had behind his head an eye
from which, though facing forward, did enable him to spy
the stupefied stranger staring at his rounded bare behind.
For he seemed to be parading his rear assets just for me,
which I deemed, as I beheld them, excelled in simplicity!
Though nothing was exceptional, I smiled begrudgingly
at a finely curved back with firm legs attached
in resplendent nudity!
11/11/16 for the Naked Contest of Anthony Slausen
I bought him a mate,
a pretty bird.
He sat there, sullen,
nary a word.
He wasn't polite,
he would not share.
So she pushed him off his swing
and she sat there.
He pushed her back,
no gentleman, he.
She plunked down beside him
most begrudgingly.
So the swing they share,
not because of affection.
It's the best seat in the house
by unanimous election.
He glares at her,
she glares at him.
My hopes of baby budgies
are now somewhat slim.
This pill that make me sleep and takes away my dreams.
It keeps my thoughts and leaves me disesteemed.
Who doth have these rights,
To take away my starry nights?
When the morning wakes it is just about certain,
Hopes are lost as I draw back my curtain.
Just one pill that reels
My reflections it always steals.
I procrastinate and take it purposely late.
Avoidance cannot protect me from fate.
It mocks me each time,
I hear the bells on the clock chime.
Begrudgingly, I swallow the damn' tablet down,
Then sullenly slip into my nightgown.
"Do not go to sleep,"
I ruminate, "These are my sheep!"
Cuckoo Dancers
Discarded dusty beer bottle lying dormant on the tracks
Commuters await their carriage
Adorned in business like macks
Trees sway in gentle breeze
Capable of more tension,
Performing their shedding of leaves
Far too many to mention.
Pigeon jumps on pigeon
Mating season for all to see,
Another squirrel scurries across the tracks,
Across leaves and debris.
Solitary heron surveys the scene,
The dance of the platform,
The cuckoo dancers ensue.
Discarded shower gel lies half empty on the tracks,
How this could have got there, no one can tell
One person steps forward to check for his train,
Another steps back with woeful refrain
This pattern continues to emphasise my point,
Stemming from this anxiety a new dance I anoint.
Discarded crisp packet bounces gently across the tracks
Reminding me very much of a man on the moon,
Station clock shows the train arrival is now late,
Man grunts, swings his brolly...he is clearly irate.
Discarded cigarette pack fades gradually on the tracks
Whilst woman fixes make up, man kills time by playing with his phone,
Amazes me how people just can't leave them alone!
Man lights his cigarette in a reluctant fashion,
His car has broken down and he hates public transport with a fervent passion.
A multitude of people are gathered here today,
Business attire the name of the day
A brief case, a brolly, a black bowler hat,
And in some extreme cases
A flasher mack and a comedy 'tache!
Suddenly in the distance
A growing light appears,
A communal silent sigh of relief
As the train begrudgingly nears
Man stubs out his cigarette
As the train makes its approach,
In anticipation of his selection of coach.
Discarded Autumn leaf floating lazily across the tracks,
The platform is now empty
Awaiting its latest cuckoo dance!
Copyright
S Rose
The eddy pulls hard against my torso
panic rises and surfaces, my vsion starts to zigzag
I swim harder in the strong currents of confusion
How did my life become a battle
My father once seemed to love all his children
Now where is the love?
We have to be the dictator to prevent suicide/murder
Begrudgingly he submits to the will of the family
Unforgiving, ungrateful, rebellious
time has the last laugh, my son shouts
I hate you, I never loved you, you are so mean!!
My father shouts, you don't love me, you just want my stuff
You are so selfish!
Tears fall....A heart breaks!
Will this trial end?
Mother says, my daughter has not been to see me in so long, I want to see my baby.
Mom I am here, I was here yesterday! I brought you food! don't you remember?
Life cycles around the eddy, swirls and swirls with no end...
Oh how sweet warmth would gently fade
cast shadows on the games we played.
Dusk's chatter-patter playing hide and seek
under streetlight curfew lamps
unspoken call to home.
Wild laughter of the “last tag” challenge
beneath soft yellow-windowed eyes
days dirt relinquished begrudgingly
precursor of soft goodnight sighs.
Darkness closing in
sleep blanketing life’s moments
eyes pursuing dreams.
Chasing childhood's Holy Grail
through the canyons of slumber.
©4/20/2018
submitted to – It’s All About Four – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Broken Wings
It's not personal, it's business,
says the guy overcharging you.
Knowing you'll begrudgingly pay:
they keep squeezing until you're broke.
You cringe inside each time you hear:
it's not personal, it's business.
And yet, partial payments increase
the amount owed on their ledger.
With no job, you live off food banks
and grift on the street for your rent.
It's not personal, it's business;
doesn't help when your hydro gets cut.
Society's a heartless beast;
that chews up souls and spits them out.
And as life beats you down, you hear
it's not personal, it's business.
The Shoshone bargain their horses like apathetic bankers,
what we all have in common is constant starvation
and near death stumbles, several times this month our pack animals
have slipped and fallen on this treacherous route,
in the Bitterroot Passes there is virtually no game for food
and everyone is broken in some private way,
September snowfall is beginning to seize this rocky world
now the trail's knobs, broken timbers and deadfalls are even more sabotaging,
all we have are weapons, tradegoods and clothing, and a whole lotta wet cold,
we're outta food provisions, and the whiskey has been gone since Fort Mandan,
sometimes the men catch small fish in the creeks and grab hold of grouse,
Sacagawea sulks no more than any of us when frustration and pain bite
she's real tough, and sexy in strain
she has been scrounging edible roots for us,
thank goodness she wanted to come with us to the edge of the world,
begrudgingly we kill and cook a colt, the meat is good and vital
but in so doing costs us so much,
11 days since the Bitterroot risk, marching 160 miles through this mountain crucible,
and finally an open, low flat pasture where game and efficiency can be gained,
we are not going to die in this stone necropolis,
I feel a kinship to the Carthaginian General Hannibal
who succeeded 2, 000 years ago leading an army through the Roman Alps,
although we have no elephants, but we do have a young Republic on our backs,
J.A.B.
How foolish am I?!?
YEARS beyond our sad end.
Multiple relationships past the
Joy of all that we shared and were,
I doubt I even (fleetingly) enter your mind,
Let alone time the cadence of your heart to mine,
Or polish the gold memories in your pocket, as I do.
What an absurdly pathetic and commiserative fool I am!!
I still find myself, on more occasions than I hate to (begrudgingly)
Admit, not only pining away in the night about how the sad moonbeams
Through my window connect me to you in some odd, existential sort of way,
Or sitting on the beach at the ocean, casually writing little messages in
The sand that you'll never, ever see, but ALSO writing you poems!
And songs! And even Letters and emails that I'll never send,
Though I spend FAR too long making sure they're JUST
RIGHT. What the hell is wrong with me?? It's been
A decade-and-a-half since you so lovingly
"Dear John"-ed me on my birthday,
(Our kids nearby so I wouldn't
Make a scene - I wouldn't
Have ANYway) ...
Inside my birthday
Card, at that ... my damn
BIRTHDAY card!! Gotta say,
That was pretty freakin' cold, and I
Would never have pegged you to be so
Heartless. I thought I knew you - thought I knew
You better than anyone, so many deep, dark secrets
We shared, or discovered - but it seems you hid that brutal
Side away from me, and saved it for that last, keen, cutting farewell.
The joke was on me, (and I sometimes imagine you laughing at the whole
Cold birthday card "Dear John" thing with your friends ... "Oh, you should've
SEEN his face - turned a hundred shades, then white! But what could he
SAY?!? It was a birthday party, for chrissakes!! Oh, my god what a
Hilarious joke!!") ... Yeah, that really was a stroke of icy cold
Breakup genius, I must admit. I wonder if it was your
Idea, or if one of your treasured friends or family
Came up with it? Doesn't matter now, does
It? And it doesn't matter that I still
Care. And it doesn't matter
That I waste time ...
Perfectly good time,
Writing poems for
Someone who's a
Ghost ... things is,
I'M the goddam
Ghost ... a sad,
Sorry apparition,
Slowly but surely
Disapparating into
Nothingness, and
Happy to do so, to
Carry this damn pain
To my sacred oblivion ...
Ache—
Let it sink
Deep
With quiet and unfathomable rage, every word shown
Black ink, black intent,
Yeah, she was done
The black nail polish on her nails chipping
Stupid, cheap crap…
The color black burned through her soul,
Giving her slight satisfaction in her furious state of mind
Always angry
Always sad, and hollow
She wanted desperately to get back at the wretch
Because of him, she wished she never existed
Lying there cold,
Stark-naked on the bathroom floor…
Standing outside the chipped, wooden door
He wanted more
Waiting to feel her flesh upon his own
The demon…
The monster…
You’ve heard the tale
It’s nothing new
Hearing him breath heavily,
Listening, his ears pounding with his heart
A beast awaiting his prey
Cornering her, despairing her
Nose pouring forth snot and blood
He had hit her very hard,
And there was surely more to come
But she had to resist the monster.
She just had to
Glancing at the boarded window in agony and despair,
No one would ever know and there was no one to tell
He’s a good man…
It’s her who’s the bad one
God is mad at her…not him
It’s always that way
Her fists slammed on her desk
After it all, he was coming back for her
She kept telling herself he was going to forget
He was going to leave her alone,
But he soon would be back for more,
Just like the old days
He didn’t give a damn about the ache she endures every day of her miserable life
In a frenzied fury,
She tore up the paper with the short poem on it
He would never feel the ache…
It would never seep through his marrow
Her phone rang loudly, startling her
She let it ring three times and then begrudgingly answered it.
“What?” She spat, clenching her teeth in irritation.
“It’s Mr. Rickman. We are ready to see you in.”
She gulped. The time was upon her. “Now?”
“Yes, of course. Everything’s going to be alright”
She hung up the phone.
She put on her darkest of shirts
She slipped on her black, studded sweater and her spiked collar
Black boots
Black gloves without the fingers
Black skinny jeans
She wanted EVERYTHING to be black today.
The Marvel of the Peak
There is a disconnect, a denial perhaps,
of the years endured. A separation of
the mind and body, a landlord/tenant
disagreement regarding the use of the
facilities in question. The physical plant
functions well enough, and the tenant,
well, he thinks not at all of the age, the
wear and tear, the creaking staircase,
the rattling, banging pipes. And so the
mind commands the body to go forth,
to push the limits of its worn and tender
joints, to subtly master fate, to surrender
only begrudgingly, to hold life to its name,
and live. Age has not taken my dreams,
nor shall I submit my vision to the
dimming light, nor release my hold
for lack of tighter grip. I will demand
of mind and body that they serve the
spirit that we are and carry high the
banner that is life, the passion that
is love. I will not squander the gift on
a sofa. I will bear the twinge of time’s
torment, adjust to altered gait and
slow ascent, yet still move upward,
ever upward, thrilling always at
the marvel of the peak.
John G. Lawless
After the storm, my brother
(all gangly knees and elbows)
bore the brunt of its ferocious aftermath.
Every day after school
I watched his wiry biceps bulge a little
as his handsaw scritched against the tree
which had fallen diagonally across our front yard.
I witnessed the violence of metal on wood,
the violence of The King of the Mountain’s smirk
as he too watched, his greedy eyes
taking in my brother’s razor sharp collar bone,
with jaw set in furious concentration.
This imposed punishment was meant to goad my brother,
meant to tempt him to rage
so that the next time the stepdad slugged him
he would feel justified, holy even.
Kneeling on scratchy couch to watch
I scrunched my shoulders,
Folding into myself like an accordion,
gathering myself up to make of me something smaller;
I pressed my knees together
wrapping my arms around them
and lowered my head,
waiting for the sky to rain trees
with swollen trunks, and branches thrust downward
as if warding off a sickening impact with earth.
My brother, it seems,
must be punished for the crime of
his existence;
for this the stepdad’s eyes shone bright,
bright as the heavy duty flashlights
he begrudgingly loaned my brother
so he could work far into the night.
His eyes fairly burned with lust—
The lust of sadism’s glee.
I saw him lick his lips;
You’d have thought he’d conjured up this
Columbus Day Storm all by himself
for the sole purpose
of proving to my brother
that he had no right
to co-exist with him in the same universe.
I watched until my eyes burned
and my head ached dully
and my brother, sweating and chilled,
laid down his saw
swiped his arm across his forehead,
and straightening up, met my wary gaze
with the scoured look
of shame whittled down into hatred,
sawn away into stumpy pieces like an old tree trunk.
After the storm my brother cleaned up nature’s wrath.
He stood a little taller and his eyes, when they met his abuser’s,
burned unflinching.
After the storm we feigned memory loss
Pretended that nothing had shifted in our family dynamic.
We sat down to meals silent and repressed and picked up our forks
as if the stepdad hadn’t just won a major battle,
as if my brother’s days in that household were not numbered.
Begrudgingly I grab my raincoat rolling my eyes back sighing, not again
Now SHE, she jumps up and down acting like she just won the lottery.
Slipping on rubber boots I ask, you really want to walk in this rain?
She stares at me as if saying, move it I don’t have all day.
Opening the front door the strong wind sprays rain into my face
I grab my zipper pulling it up as high as I can get it.
My loud cries were drowned out by the wind of course
As my saggy aging chin got in the way of zips journey to the top.
Wondering which direction we should go this time out
I am dragged quickly to the right for some reason only she knows
Before long I am pulled under the first tree, a wind gust comes up
Dumping water on me as if this were the ice bucket challenge.
Now if the neighbours are wondering where my umbrella is
Yesterday it tried taking me on an outer space mission.
It was one of those super heavy duty cost a fortune type
Built so well, instead of collapsing you just fly.
When I decided she had enough opportunities for release
It becomes my turn to do the pulling and I’m all in.
She slowly came still kicking grass wildly behind her,
Sending little patches of grass flying on the neighbour’s lawn. Ops.
Entering my house I am happy to shed a few pounds of soaked laundry
I dry her off as well as possible then she shakes and soaks the front hall.
Pondering the fresh air and exercise I just received I sit back in my chair
Happy and contented, praying she can hold it till the rain finally stops.
For ye whom wonder, yes I had baggies with me.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
09.11.2014
For Contest Rainy Days
4th
Leonora Galinta
That damn weekly times (circa 1900),
Afternoonified with Gigglemugs
sending me off my chump
Editors Half-rats, Not up to dick,
the meater.
Genderfied, I am
A woman of incredible script,
stylograph committed,
deemed a whooperup,
yet her prose is
umble-cum-stumble.
The longing expressed
through the lovers eye
poked-up the meater,
who Batty fanged my dyke
with his footle
His "Enthuzimuzzy"
was unwarranted
and the mutton shunters were called
Collie shangles erupted
yet concede he did
overcome with blue devils
He purchased my script
published it last page
like a Skilamalink
I cared and did not
for published I was
weekly times circa 1900
I bested the ragger
Rough translation - deceived
that damn weekly times editors
all snobbery and fake smiles
sent me crazy
The editors drunk, and unwell
he's a coward
I am a woman
a writer, a poet
committed to my craft
deemed inferior
yet my writings are
thoroughly understood
The topic in question
a female lovers romance
embarrassed the coward
who thoroughly thrashed my lover
with his nonsense
Ohh the insulting "enthusiasm"
was not necessary
the police I did call
heated arguments won the battle
and he apologised - albeit begrudgingly
His saddened state,
as he was forced
to take my manuscript
and publish it in the back
like some dirty secret.
Last page was bothersome
yet published I was
in the weekly times no doubt,
as I defeated that trouble making editor