Best Hindsight Poems
Is it easy to look back on the trauma of past
It’s like taking the knife out my back
It cuts going both ways creating path
Oh but we cried oh but we laughed
Little girls playing with dolls in the basement
Unaware of monsters and dangers that cement
The innocence taken and breaking me within
He was in his teens I was about 6 and again
I thought like a child of his suggestion to play
Never did occur to me to be cautious afraid
Never had I heard of the red word rape
And if I did the meaning would escape
Gender roles were set in stone you know
He was the man of the house we played so
I was the wife he could strike or hold
Oh I didn’t know I didn’t know I didn’t know
That he was taking advantage of me
That I was not to blame and I did bleed
He put his thang deep inside of me
But this pain was not my destiny
Looking back in the cracked mirror of past
I’d learn to live despite terrible looking glass
What good can come from rape of a child
Poetry and music and a furious curious smile
It happened that I may break the curse
Write about it and create healing words
For others who experience similar pain
My haunted trauma would become healing rain
Couldn’t understand then the why me
If not you then who dear should it be
You were a gift broken into pieces
But like Tiffany glass art unique and
Blessed to have such a fierce strength
That you can relive it again with pen
Painting a portrait of passion and grace
Not breaking like porcelain stronger in faith
Looking back now I believe it destiny
To make me sensitive and set me free
From the usual childhood of fantasy
I’m a survivor teaching rape 101 to Queens
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the bridge isn't stone.
not iron latticework humming with trains.
not even that splintered wood plank
across the creek just beyond my childhood home.
It's quieter~
a slant of afternoon sun catching dust motes
in the attic of my mind.
I climb the stairs~
why did I say that?
why didn't I go?
if only...
each step groans with the weight of *what if*~
the handrail feels slick with polished regret.
halfway across, I pause.
below, the river churns with versions of myself:
the one who stayed,
the one who left too soon,
the one clutching certainty like a fraying rope.
the far shore gleams clear, impossibly calm.
I know what waits there~
wisdom, smooth as river stone.
but the bridge only goes one way.
I can't carry today's shoes back to yesterday's mud.
can't shout warnings through the thickening fog
of memory.
so I stand, breathing the damp air
of almost-understanding.
I watch the current swirl the past into patterns
that almost make sense.
Almost.
the bridge remains aching and empty
leading only to the place where I finally see
the shape of the hole my choices left behind.
Hank was a maker of stilts
and sold stunning quilts.
Trade was a success
but caused folks duress
when workers on stilts wore kilts.
He stands on the corner each afternoon
holding his sign as the traffic proceeds;
hoping on hope someone will stop real soon
to share their wealth and to help with his needs.
While standing there he thinks back on his life
and the choices he made along the way.
Had he stayed in school there might be less strife;
maybe he wouldn’t have to stand here today.
But many years ago he made that choice
to drop out of school at the age of sixteen;
now in his feeble mind he hears a voice
telling him that choice wasn’t very keen.
If our lives a do-over would permit,
it’s sure that all of us would benefit.
Afghan, around shoulders,
crocheted winter-white.
Mama’s getting older.
Love her in hindsight.
Quiet, pretty, charming —
wise with snowflake hair.
Little sisters arming
her with loving care.
Forgives couple’s absence,*
our shamed shoulders bent.
Mama’s hearthstone immense,
with violet scent.
Grumpy, petty couple
has no right to frown.
Mama’s silver supple
knees, deserve a crown.
1/11/2018
Joseph May’s 88 syllables
*line is 6 syllables not 5 (error on howmanysyllables)
FICTION
Once I shared a long hidden secret with the one,
I thought was my friend, through and through.
But little did I think it would hit back on me
Like a boomerang, breaking my heart.
She betrayed my trust with my reputation at stake.
Within days, it became a juicy gossip,
A fodder for many to ruminate and cud.
What was ‘whispered in the ear was shouted from roof tops’!
Behind my back, many used it against me.
With them, my secret became a sharp tool.
They used it at will to cut and bruise me.
I lost my sleep and reacted brashly.
It became a wound that began festering.
I longed for a release from my pent- up wrath.
I wondered if I could glue up the broken shards,
And become whole again, my former self.
It took a long time, to come out of the resentment.
But with the passing of time, the pain began to fade
And the heart once broken slowly started to mend
Not to have a repeat, decided to set my boundaries marked.
That bitter experience taught me some vital lessons,
Which I won't ever forget in life.
My hindsight told me that I should change,
In some areas where I am most vulnerable.
Learned the hard way to be more cautious
To guard my secrets and never spill the beans!
Also not to venture to be all open before others.
Never again shall I struggle to fit in
With a loose tongue, in any company
Just to entertain others with frivolous talks!
I am also careful not to rashly blurt out my feelings.
How I wish to become more prudent and discerning
In choosing friends and trusting them!
I also resolve to always keep my calm,
Even when I know my words are misinterpreted.
Looking back on all that has happened in life,
I don't think I have many regrets.
All my experiences, good or bad have been signposts,
That led me to where I am and who I am today.
Still there are some things I wish I hadn’t said at all.
I regret not spending more time
with you. I thought...
you were winning the battle
Having To Fight
Cancer
In This Thing Called Life
Is Insane
And So It Begins
The Long Goodbye
Funeral Arrangements
A Gentle Soul, soon to depart
Any Day Now
Gone to...
Heaven
A Good Day To Cry
a Raging Ocean
My Path Of Sorrow
Grief
Weeping
Blue
Days
My Cold Acceptance of...
Death's Cold Hand
20 Titles From 20 Friends Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Richard Lamoureux (Winner: 4th Place)
Date written and submitted: 07/22/2019
20 Poem Titles Used:
01. Having To Fight (Anoucheka Gangabisson)
02. Cancer (Jan Allison)
03. In This Thing Called Life (Dear Heart)
04. Insane (Vijay Pandit)
05. And So It Begins (Nette Oncloud)
06. The Long Goodbye (Gregory R. Barden)
07. Funeral Arrangements (Line Gauthier)
08. A Gentle Soul (Lu Loo)
09. Any Day Now (John Anderson)
10. Gone (Laura Leiser)
11. Heaven (Connie Marcum Wong)
12. A Good Day To Cry (Emile Pinet)
13. Raging Ocean (Nayda Ivette Negron)
14. Path Of Sorrow (Silent One)
15. Grief (Susan Ashley)
16. Weeping (Richard Lamoureux)
17. Blue (Andrea Dietrich)
18. Days (Susan Gentry)
19. My Cold Acceptance (Frederic Parker)
20. Death's Cold Hand (Sandra Haight)
Hindsight
you are watching someone all too familiar
hovering anxiously above and apart
a shadow puppet
bound to neither be seen nor heard
again you sigh and shake your head
they stumble down the wrong path
unhurried though running offensively late
how many times must you wince
as they pluck poison berries
and wash them down with tainted water?
as they lose themselves
amongst dense bracken
chasing mirages of shimmering falsehood?
your lofty position proves advantageous
panoramic views for miles
surveying hidden shortcuts
pitfalls peppered with sharp spikes
to break bones and tear flesh
charming strangers with arms outstretched
and naught but ill intentions...
you scream until your throat bleeds black
you wring your hands and cry of frustration
as they stagger toward a cliffs sharp edge
to plummet and shatter like porcelain
for they do not hear you
they can not hear you
and veiled by tears
now you yourself
are flying blind
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I reached into the river of my mind,
palm upturned like a beggar,
and pulled out~
not a coin, but a rusted key
that fit no lock I owned.
What was I thinking?
Perhaps the same thought
that turns a moth to flame~
not light, but burning.
The arithmetic of longing
always carries forward a remainder.
What was I thinking?
Maybe it was the way the train
whispered destinations
I’d never reach,
or how the moon, that night,
hung like an unpaid bill.
What was I thinking?
The answer curled at the edges,
a photograph left in rain~
half desire, half shadow,
all of it dissolving
into the ink of hindsight.
i could have done more
AP: 3rd place 2020
She wanders round home
In the winter of her life -
Her ruby cheeks glow
In the mirror of regret
Chanting her shoulds, coulds and woulds.
We see each other
Just to say goodbye
Life could be better, but easily worse.
Sometimes I feel blessed; other times cursed.
As I get older, I look back and see—
Life’s mostly better when you are with me
Together we’re like…
Chips and salsa, with some cilantro inside (Kinda spicy).
Yeah, like chips and salsa, with guacamole one the side (Kinda feisty).
We go together, obviously. I hope, forever, that you’ll stay with me.
We’re like chips and salsa, jalapenos on the side.
Sometimes we argue, but don’t really fight.
I know you love me, so it’s all right.
You know I love you, so it’s plain to see
Life’s clearly better when you are with me
Together we’re like…
Chips and salsa, with some cilantro inside (Kinda spicy).
Yeah, like chips and salsa, with guacamole one the side (Kinda feisty).
We go together, obviously. I hope, forever, that you’ll stay with me.
We’re like chips and salsa, jalapenos on the side.
I’m movin’ forward, but keep lookin’ back.
Anything missing? Anything lack.
With hindsight vision, I look back and see--
Life’s always better when you are with me.
Together we’re like…
Chips and salsa, with some cilantro inside (Kinda spicy).
Yeah, like chips and salsa, with guacamole one the side (Kinda feisty).
We go together, obviously. I hope, forever, that you’ll stay with me.
We’re like chips and salsa, jalapenos on the side.
History repeating itself.
Michael Tor
He thought to himself
If I could go back, I’d tell
No one, not even the police, that I’d
Driven by and shot him with ease,
Silence, would be my clutch, so
I wouldn’t be judged
Guilty, nor lambasted like that, by
Hypocrites in mass, for killing a
Toddler thug, with candy bar drugs