Best Brusque Poems
"September, beautiful month of my birth, is nigh, but I cannot feel glad."
September, drifting in with glow of moon,
you stifle Summer’s ardor. . . and she grieves.
In guise of fire, the Fall comes all too soon.
Your breath grows cool. You’ll blow and loosen leaves.
The hills and woodlands will reflect new hues.
You stifle Summer’s ardor. . . and she grieves.
In Autumn’s chill, the colors are a ruse!
You're passing on, and trees are set ablaze.
The hills and woodlands then reflect new hues.
Though warmth may linger through your final days,
old Sun is waning, yet he still seems strong!
You're passing on, and trees are set ablaze.
September, you’re a melancholy song.
Though time be short, you paint a brilliant dusk!
Old sun is waning, yet he still seems strong.
October looms. . . Your ending will be brusque.
September, drifting in with glow of moon,
though time be short, you paint a brilliant dusk.
In guise of fire, the Fall comes all too soon.
8/29/11
for the '2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 7' Poetry Contest of Mark Toney
Cooling off in falling months, approaching dusk.
Coordinated chill and quilting of snow, brusque.
Cooking lots of soup, beating down dough,
as the wind whoops on a weeping willow.
The sky blue sheets aired out on the clothesline.
Coordinates of beauty in her decline.
Cooties shots on the medical menu…sigh.
Cooperation of dirge, the woe-filled cry.
Co-occurence of life and absence of fog
on the handheld mirror, down by the bog.
Cookout of fried boughs and its vestment.
This particular parish was not a good investment.
Autumn’s turning down the soil - leaves
storm in turmoil, slowing down what it believes.
The coos of despair…her ring rolls off finger.
Her dreams of love no longer linger.
Cool when Autumn clashes with Winter
and the clash of letters are placed by printer.
The clouds are snow white, they get the scoop.
Doves cry and hover - eyes droop.
Two ravens in the summer dusk
Were, back and forth, debating
From two phone poles, loud and brusque
They kept deliberating
When one gave their rebuttal
The other answered back
But far be it from the kettle
To call the raven black
And while I stood observing
They looked at me askance
A creature undeserving
Of a simple sideways glance
On this one thing they did agree
Those two birds of a feather
And, mocking all humanity
They flew away together.
He's left me. I'm coming undone -
like linen on a spinning wheel
much in need of still being spun.
Half-cloth, I'm feeling unreal.
In need of completion, I'm lost.
He's left me. I'm coming undone.
as if to brusque winds I've been tossed.
i seek a sweet breeze. There are none.
His touch, like the warmth of the sun,
is gone. Only blackness i see.
He's left me. I'm coming undone.
Dark waters are swallowing me.
He gave me no cause for mistrust.
Vibrant was i when we'd begun.
But now I am turning to dust.
He’s left me. I’m coming undone.
plump red strawberries
the kind we knew last red dusk
when time inched by brusque
garnet stars flash on
scarlet leaves and cardinals
mars phenomenal
crimson dragonflies
when fruitful days are going
true colors showing
On a ledge, in trace of paths—
To incandescent tunnels, away from illusive digression.
Voices fade overhead into narrowing echoes of screams,
Amid the mild descent of depression.
I drown in shadows to escape
The mean pressure of society and peers combined;
A judgment of guilt and inequity
That seldom needs to be redefined.
Provocative words—full of rage and fury—
Flow, meandering through my pale ochre imaginations,
Like drizzles on a brusque morning serene,
Abrupt, with no opposing confrontations.
My body sways from side to side as I walk—
Perhaps my heavy heart weighs me down;
Hollow, with no aims to pin down
Failure’s momentum building beneath my feet.
Love keeps me crawling through shadows,
Leaving behind dreams I can never fulfill;
Yet out of the cave, the world opens wide—
A pool of light invades the dark around.
I hope my ascending calls for divine inspiration,
Brewing love, for in it I believe;
For I climb sable stairs to recuperate
Under burgundy solar flares where ambitions breathe.
So give me a rope, that I may ascend
A bit further, to see what lies beyond the Rhine—
Perhaps my chain of broken dreams
Rearranged in velvet swirls that entwine.
An adolescent dawn, an adult noon,
an elderly twilight, an ageless dusk…
I wonder why in the decreasing Moon
I love you love when I am a bit brusque
with you. Your acquiescence, your retreat,
your sweet participation in the crime
against morality tempts me to treat
you like you do deserve: to pick up rhyme
with your obedience, to find the most
salacious likeness which is not enough
to properly describe your innermost
enigma of the lust. Oh, how I love
your shameless bareness, your exposed moles
and the increasing Moon when we swap roles.
Guaranteed to make us smile-
our new Spring comes every year;
its magic brings a warmer, brighter Sun-
as snow begins to melt and seedlings sprout
their fresh green leaves with blossoms to unfold.
Later, Summer takes Spring's reign-
her brush paints scenes verdant green,
and blossoms open wide in colors splashed
against lush lawns, while all the sprawling trees-
their branches filled with leaves, embrace blue skies.
Summer soon starts long goodbyes
while the Fall's brisk days come through
to chill the plants as leaves will fade and dry
from deep, dark green- to orange, red, and gold.
Weeks pass, and thoughts are turned to harvest time.
To crown year-end, Winter comes-
brusque, strong winds sweep Fall's debris
to blur the bleak, bare trees and ashen grass.
But, snow repaints these scenes with pure delight;
grand shawls of white safeguard our sleeping Spring.
Seasons cascade, one by one;
merge, adjust- complete one year!
Queen in our eyes!
Goddess in our hearts.
Alleviated fears, shaped behaviors,
Built careers, educated a nation,
Sang hymnals through the moments slowly.
She learned to live and love,
Unperturbed by failure, unruffled by haste,
Rising in the midnight glory,
Unbounded by time, undimmed by hope.
She sang dirges in ceremonies,
Boxed by pain, razed with tears,
Called on God in heaven,
Pushed by problems unleashed by dreams.
To wipe our tears and mend our fails,
Charred by life’s harsh realities,
Unbroken by woes, strengthened in invocations,
Into our stubborn adolescent years,
Through hectic times and sickbed comforts.
I reminisce her brief scolding,
Refusing to go to school for no reason,
And all the exquisite wares I broke —
Can’t fathom the pain I caused her.
But she never gave up on me,
Not he, not her, not us.
Even those who laid upon her lap,
A neighborhood mum circumventing the hemisphere
With her selfless deeds.
Spreading euphoria here and there,
With little that she had, her love unrelenting,
For the ones she nurtured beneath her feet,
With a partner she adored since day one.
She smiles, and there is hope,
Of small beginnings and grand endings.
In her voice, comfort and peace,
I will forever be grateful for a mother like you.
So thank you for words uttered,
For actions and inactions,
For love unconditional,
Even in anger, even in pain.
Thank you for souls well nurtured,
The spanks so brusque, the food, the gifts,
Thank you for care unending,
May God bless you always.
Thank you for a life well lived;
In your footsteps we follow suit.
I wake up in the morning, eat my bran and germ,
You know I'm pretty hungry, since I'm a pachyderm.
I have to write a poem, will hold the pencil with my trunk,
Better read up on style, courtesy of White and Strunk.
The poem, it must be just right, not too long nor brusque,
Yes that's right - you got it - then something about a tusk.
I may be big as writers go, but I'm smaller than a whale,
Away, pesky illiterate fly, I'll swish you with my tale.
Such a perfect morning, with tea so hot and sweet,
My poem will be playful, my prose light on its feet.
I've just one sheet of paper, but no worries, mate, no fears,
I'll pick up my trusty ink pen, and write upon my ears.
Once,
About ten minutes ago in the year
2006 or
2549, depending upon which avatar or
Messiah is consulted, I
Tumbled out of my bed to the
Untranslatable
Predawn
Cackle of
Frantic voices
Descending.
So, with urgency
Rarely experienced since the
Evacuation of my spirit
From the Land of
Possession Addiction, I was called to summon previously
Unknown prowess
Chancing traffic choked streets
Of Nakhorn (used to mean “New City” 700 years ago but not sure now)
Chiang Mai.
So there I was
Aboard my mostly pint-sized for a European descendent Kawasaki 112,
Red-blooded American head
Protruding
turret-like out of an
Undersized helmet that,
If nothing else,
Officially pronounced me foreign
Blazing a jutted path around
Decrepit trishaws,
Ubiquitously red baht busses and,
Not the least, a motorcycle with a sidecar bandaged to its
Aching side just in time to witness a
Spit-shined just out of the wrapper BMW
Brusque aside a
Sardine packed dump truck
Loaded,
Not with dirt, but five dollar a day
Laborers.
All this and more
Just moments before
Mounting the silted Ping and
Stampeding city gates, I glimpsed
Censored Snippets of TV reports blurting something unintelligible like
“Bangkok coup”,
“Corruption”,
“A King”
And
Somewhere,
Quite uncensored, of a not so pleased
Laozi,
Lotus splayed in
Meditation
Kneading the Eastern soil one
Daoist grain at a time,
Before ancient city walls
Rose up,
Monolithic in my path.
And then the recall that
Centuries before,
Burmese raiders
Resplendent in warrior garb
Plundered the palace and soul
Of the kingdom Thai before stealthily
Creeping back to their lairs,
Buddha-fat with riches.
That leaves the Siamese of 1935
And me, to wonder
Where is freedom
When we travel so far
Pell mell and
Peril, only to discover
In a fleeting brief moment the road to
Iniquity marked, rather
Erroneously, with the signpost to
Promises?
Up on the hill I found my joy
on grass of green and gold
I would roll down when a young boy
for I was fast and bold.
Oh how we'd play from dawn to dusk
in torn pants and bare feet
The day a thrill when winds were brusque
yes we were colts so fleet.
We ate the small fruits in the grass
sweet ones red and blue
Oh yes the joys found as time passed
were there for most of you.
Up on those hills who was to know
that time would fly so fast.
That life would bind our bare foot soul
and days so swift would pass.
Searing love does not fade
It simply lies in wait in hollow partitions
Prone to sudden gusts
of breathlessness
These come in waves
Some driving brusque prickles
Others curling unhinged senses
into further disorder
Yet others stirring a cruel blend of
cupidity
and reason
The waves prompt a light-headed
introspection
About confidence in a fractured shell
About love with no one to tell
They commit to change
But winds carry a familiar scent
Songs are about us
And she’s in every silhouette
The scent and songs
swirl around the hollow partition like dreams
Walls are tested
to the point of rapture
And still,
there is no one to tell
Memories merge with the scent and songs
Crafting a cogent immunity to time
Our past is fused
Changing seasons bear credence
to the tenet of hope
But tomorrow hangs on meanings
crammed into last words
Laughter ceases
And searing love seeks deliverance…
But
there is no one to tell
FOR A MOMENT
Your cry isn’t loud enough for the world to hear
So wipe your tears.
Even your so called ‘friends and companions’ are turning deaf ears
Wipe your tears and look up to the hills, from there comes your help
Tears come from sorrow’s hole
Tears will continue to flow until you control your whole
Dilute your sorrow’s hole with joy,
And effervescence of smile will frizzle your tears
Don’t pamper that hurt inside, lest, it will linger
Letting go of is the best panacea
Embrace life’s vicissitude, and make peace with your past
Until there’s no tomorrow, fortunes are in life’s queue
For as mischance exists in life’s cast,
So is great chance.
Life can deny you of breakfast, but that breakfast may not be worth comparing with your brunch.
As you crunch, your life realizes that you can wait for tomorrow’s breakfast even if it denies you supper.
Sometimes, life makes you feel Charlie,
Especially when life gives you a malignant glare,
At a moment when you are in a state of ‘devil-may-care’
You are compelled to say cheerio to the world
Because life is using a brusque tone
But when you chance upon successes, you bury that decision
That’s life
Don’t escalate that hurt or pain when life confronts you
It’s just a fortune recess
Embolden your spirit and wait for the resume of success.
#sanguine, sangfroid, pertinacious#..That’s what you ought be……
Amid the glacial hills of central Maine
There stood forsaken, gray, an ancient farm,
Which always filled us with a vague alarm.
Atop the humpback ridge of a moraine,
Abandoned now, for centuries it stood,
Defying time, and ice, and hurricanes.
Its windows now were yellowed, cloudy panes,
Its weathered clapboards, bleached unpainted wood.
We’d see its silhouette against the dusk:
Its gambrel roof was reared against the skies
With dormers like two staring, evil eyes—
Unyielding in their aspect, heartless, brusque,
Perhaps a touch of malice in their glare.
And though untenanted for many years,
It never failed to stimulate our fears,
Because the house seemed gleefully aware.
But was it haunted? So we all assumed.
Yet still each May we’d watch as swifts would nest
And use the eaves and dormers for their rest;
And in its dooryard fragrant lilacs bloomed.
February 16, 2019
Enclosed Rhyme Poetry Contest
Emile Pinet, Sponsor