Best Dully Poems
Looking through the broken mirror of time,
I visit times and places from the past.
To have loved never should have been a crime;
Yet, somehow I was always thought of last.
The fragments grow smaller as time moves on,
And seven years of bad luck holds on tight.
My mind becomes increasingly withdrawn,
As I'm caught in this never-ending fight.
The mirror dully glistens through the years,
And the splintered pieces crumble away.
The eyes of those forgotten fill with tears,
As they remember being led astray.
What harms us most are words left unspoken;
Which leaves the mirror shattered and broken.
© 2019
The day’s eyes closing bidding goodnight
Stroking the skies bitter reddish copper
Wind arrested folklore settling low
Lit only by the soft blushing of candlelight
My final stanza is penned for me
The bounty of my lifetime in toil
Strewn wearily about yet I am gratified
Back to the beginning at last I’m beckoned
The wonder of life sweetly consecrated
Eons of drudgery sit pure upon my crest
The symphony strings echoing dully
Life’s eminence now infinitely darkened
Those earthbound lament over me
Their salty sacrifices fall a blessing
The attribute of living sits grimly
Yielding with each burdened exhale, venerated
I fight ahead awaiting those whispers
A final focused moment of noble dignity
Delaying but an instant to express…before
My spirit answers back in perpetual silence
A blank screen faces a writer
Intimidating
All that open space
What are the writer's odds?
A blank face stares dully at the psychiatrist
Unwavering, unblinking
Unengaged, uncomprehending
Where does the psychiatrist even begin?
A child looks vacantly at an empty plate
Listless, disinterested
No expectation of food on it
Not today, not tomorrow
I stole her away…
That was no innocent child
She was full of wisdom I would never attain,
That not even a martyr of a thousand years could ever dream of
I stole her away….
Because she was never mine
Just as my wife was never mine,
That child was never mine
I can still see the look of confusion in my wife’s eyes
That baby knew everything within that stare
She knew everything and more
She knew more than was physically possible,
In her little time on earth
So I stole her away…
I kept her from growing…
I keep her…in here!!!
She listens to my lies
Though somehow she sees right through them
She finds truth in the ugly…the damned…
With surpassing intelligence
The truth has many eyes, many ears
The truth need only taste once
Then it has to hit and run
The taxi driver knocked me out,
But before I was hit,
He saw the loose shell in my arms
He saw that she was not looking at anyone
He saw a stupid, innocent child
She was looking at the ceiling,
Fascinated by its insignificance
She didn’t cry out,
No matter how hard I thrashed
One second I missed that terrible stranger
But the memory has seared into me a hate that will never fade…
She didn’t move at all
I woke up and was childless. I lost everything, I dully knew. Sometimes I am haunted by the baby’s gaze…but she is not looking at me. She is looking at everyone else—all of those who I have hurt and ruined, all of those I have yet to know.
The sad thing is, I never imagine my child looking down from sky paradise…I always picture her as I last saw her…looking up.
Naked
Unarmed I stood against the beast
Defending what was mine
The theft of my guileless innocence
His most cruel, remorseless crime
Fighting slings and arrows
Words that cut me to the quick
Lifting thin arms in resistance
To his heavy, brutish fists
Sorrow comes in darkness
Arrives without an invite
The moon stares dully at me
No magic will save me tonight
Measured unforgiving blows
He chose where each would land
Dark purple bruises gave away
Where my body had been slammed
With my knack for weak excuses
“I tripped and fell down again”
He sneered that they’re “just love taps”
While I played a game called ‘pretend’
Naked in my bed
Protecting a child yet unborn
Came another beating
From this cur who’d earned my scorn
What cannot be seen in shadows
Can suffocate one’s will
When I reclaimed my spirit
I crawled out of the mouth of hell
Ages have come to pass since then
The fiend at last routed from my life
I’m no longer frightened
Of just being someone’s wife
Clare's hands were clasped upon her lap,
upon her crown, a veiled black lace hat.
A shattered calm she wore;
that took on strength
self-steadied after several drinks
If one dared look closer, to penetrate -
then one would see through the black veil's lace,
and reveal a woman, blank of face,
that long ago had left this place.
Clasped hands
on which shine a
diamond ring
lustre lost,
as do those things
that shine, then dull.
A lover's token
which she pushed and pulled.
Parades of people floated past
condolences said and sent
as people slowly came and went.
Clare remained
with hands still clasped upon her lap
diamond dully staring back.
All had gone, as had he,
as Clare fell to her knees
face pale and pasty white
searching for that brilliant light
that never came.
Clare stumbled out into the night
guided by vodka and
lace veiled sight
alone again; Clare cried insane
until a large sum of money came
as did twice before
when on her finger
shone a diamond ring -
lustre lost - as do those things
that shine, then dull
that push, then pull
In her closet, near the back
waits a favorite
veiled black lace hat
Egg on Easter,
no one who is sane can begin to believe that there is nothing or Christ, just nothing?
The world is in a mess, dare anyone deny that this is the truth, this is the test.
Wherever we look factions and fractions give us the tautological certainly that where
humans are humanity runs away fast and far away as violence has the night and day.
In our general election pompous political arithmetic seguing into statistics that dully flows through our disunited kingdom as rhetoric is rare as demagogy blares out Simple Simon answers, or pride in prejudice as Christ's sacrifice is of no avail and all religion is tainted by the few fearing they are the unreasonable while philosophy is cant not Kant.
Our a silly selfishness seguing into great greed and awful envy that got us all in the world into the Great Recession that slowly, uncertainly is dying, but is so more real for many than the Resurrection of Jesus Christ's yet, yet still, people of all sorts are touched even momentarily by Easter as others go to church even though scorned by those who know it all and indifferences of the everyday world even on Easter Sunday, this most risky high of high days.
I was once misfortuned with being called a tool
by a man who believed I was most often the fool.
By a soul who only ever acted on his own behalf
I was told that I'm often used, simply do the math.
I played along with his insult as it was meant to be
by showing mock indignation at this thing he said to me.
I gave him then a ponderous look, and then I dully said...
"yes, but am I a useful tool? or am I broken then instead?"
He huffed and gave me a look, "you know what I meant"
Responded I, "I bet I'm new. not broken, worn or bent!"
He ignored me for the moment, his annoyance was clear.
"maybe I'm a cracker for nuts! A bottle opener for beer!?"
"Or yes! a wrench used for nuts, bolts, pipe fittings or more..."
He glared at my next words, "hopefully not from a dollar store"
I nudged him then, smiled some, "oh don't get all mud stuck"
"Hey! what if I'm chains or a tow-rope.. pull you out with any luck."
In his impatience, he yelled, "STOP!" He was looking rather mad.
I left it alone, got tight lipped, but oh what fun I just had.
Stop myself? "Ha!" I blurted then "I'm wily in my crafts"
"If I'm a tool then so are you, I'm using you for laughs"
One lopes through
his dense tree occupied domain,
thinly dappled,dispersed stripes
gleaming,
dully on a soft fur coat,
tongue lolling lazily in and out of
a pearl toothed mouth
Another careens widely across
her vivid fields green fields
wind flapping back
watchful ears,
screeching to a stop to
sniff and
hone in on the scent
of a shivering quarry,
jet black fur shining in
blazing light
the last scampers neatly on
swift toes through
his unknown vine-tangled trails ,
ever exploring the lands
beyond his own vast territory,
unveiling whatever remains
covert to his curios mind
My dogs seem out of place
in my backyard
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.
Suspended . . . tormented, in a mind so distant
I arrive at the said destination with a sigh. . .
What I expect is mortifying
What lies ahead still remains a meddlesome mystery
The air is thin—the water droplets seem. . . warm
But I feel a coldness when they hit my skin
The skin that only once touched your hand. . . . .
It is comforting when surrounded by shadow
To feel the soft embrace of long-yearned rain
It is dully consoling to know I am Alone. . .
Chemical reactions are made in instances
Each second of despair heightened by the electrical pulses
Going mad when the waters clash
And the feelings of comfort are gone yet again
The thoughts that used to hold me up
Have collapsed from under me
And Alone is felt in a new shade…darker than the shadow of comfort
The tears replace the rain. . .
Boiling the skin on my face to redden and shame
The burn provides little distraction to despair
Knowing the one I love will never be here. . .
Even now I envy those who can speak…
Who scoff and spit—and whine, groveling in grit
Those who can see and clearly feel their enemy
How they spiritually dispose of their peer
Through lack of understanding and jeer
I would much easier embrace my darkest enemy,
Than be with the one I love
I would much rather abuse myself
Than lay a finger on the precious one who wrongs me
Because you have abandoned all thought of me. . .
Through your life and innocence,
You have harmed me—wronged me. . .
You were mistaken. . . .I can never understand you
Because I have never truly seen you
At times I can almost feel you. . .
But all I feel is pain
All I feel is the burning rain. . .
I envy those around you. . .
Like the madman straight out of prison
I even envy your opposers
In truth, I obsess over the thought
Of Alone:
The definition of “Without You”
. . .
Without you here,
I arrive at no destination
What lies ahead is only despair
The rain I feel . . . are tears—
Comforts that never last
And all that used to hold me up
Is merely a heart-broken collapse. . .
I never wished to cling onto your nonexistence. . .
Believe me—
All I ever wanted. . .
Was a thought
A. . .chemical reaction if you will
A simple “I am here for you”. . .
Without you, Alone, I confess,
Sometimes one can only dream
Such sunlight shining down on me. . . .
No clouds above, like dungaree,
hung dully, shielding everyone
from beaming grins of Mr. Sun,
who graces us with bonhomie!
Some folks might seek a shady tree
or others go inside to be
less hot, but I’m not one to shun
such sunlight.
Although there is no guarantee
that gloom will not eventually
descend to spoil my friend Sun’s fun,
before his brilliant show is done,
I'll stay here in my revelry.
Such sunlight!
26/2/2012
By Sashi Prabhu (zeauoxian)
Contest: treasure trove
Austerely laid my eyes firmly on my garden far side
Tattered page piles, from my attic treasure trove, littered outside.
I picked up a dog eared page of the days of sitting together,
In this garden, cuddling and smooching in cold weather.
On such a glorious winter day, I scribbled on this page love notes,
A long time ago, by the way, in double quotes
Nostalgic now the dismal, Melancholy tenors that fill in,
Memories of “au revoir”, replete my poignant heart to its brim.
A wind now blows this dog eared page & it flies by the old gum tree
Dully chase it with some rage &as I see the page, begin to read all about me……………..
For the last two lines, the paper is vacant void & bare,
Heart’s healed wounds to open with quinine drenched text I would not dare.
Dylan Carston was a well-off young man,
thanks to a large and health trust fund,
his father was a true Wall Street ace
and had been quite generous to his sons.
Dylan had set himself up in Miami
after years spent getting his MBA,
he did consulting four days every week,
the other three he did like to play.
He’d partied with friends at all the bars,
and had his share of hot one-night stands,
not yet had he thought of a wife and kids,
he was enjoying the life of a young man.
One Saturday as he walked down the beach
to get exercise and breath the sea air,
he stumbled upon a frantic woman
calling for him to go over there.
As he drew near he saw down in the sand
a young woman who’s face had gone blue,
he could see no lifeguard near where they were,
but fortunately he knew what to do.
He found no pulse when he listened close,
and placed two hands high on her left breast,
with hard compression he began CPR,
pumping furiously at her chest.
Every so often he placed his mouth on hers
and forced oxygen deep into her lungs,
the other woman ran off to find more help
while Dylan continued the rhythmic pump.
Finally after three desperate minutes
a gurgled rasp echoed up from her throat,
life returned to her, the blue fading out,
though her eyes still knew not where to go.
Moments later he heard the rush of feat,
the lifeguard and the woman had returned,
Dylan gestured to where the girl lay,
“I brought her back, now I think it’s your turn.”
The lifeguard thanked him for taking action,
then knelt down slowly at the victim’s side,
ambulances came, reports were fill out,
when Dylan left three hours had gone by.
He felt good about saving the woman’s life,
it was a moment he would not forget,
congratulations came in, on top of that
the lifeguards sent him a certificate.
Three weeks went by and Dylan returned to
the safe routines of the everyday world,
and bit by bit his thoughts turned away
from the near death of that helpless girl.
So it was with a great deal of surprise
when a process server told him these words:
“Dylan Carston, you’re being sued for assault,
you can consider yourself dully served.”
Dylan’s mind whirled at the accusation,
he had no idea how this could be true?
Had some ex regretted their time and cried ‘rape,’
were they evil enough to go down that route?
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
In the silence of snow
The great towers of silver
Dully reach skyward, glow
Languish on the darkening
Horizon like winter storms
Silent spires rise into a sky, darkly
Were sharp thorns of branches sway
As shades pass like angry swarms
Haunting ghostly streets
Blanketed, by pure white snow
Only marked by singular cars passing
Lonely is a figure, drifting in and out, to and fro
It struggles in a blizzard of silence
Freezing fingers of slicing wind, blow
In its black cloak of ice it watches,
Loss in the city of aftermath
A figure pushes on, full of wrath, loss n sorrow
Looking for a place in the silence of snow
Something longs for rest n warmth of the known