Best Insisting Poems
At first you were understanding
and patient,
so polite and gentle,
encouraging me to express my emotions.
But then you became obsessive and jealous.
Forcing me to shut up into obedience.
Now I think I should be silent,
because it's difficult to hide black eyes,
with the soreness of split lips.
Wounds heal, but scars remain.
If I died today,
would you even notice?
Maybe it will be you who puts me in a box.
Maybe I spoke too loud, drank too much wine,
didn't make dinner on time,
before the dishes crashed to the ground.
Then the verbal curses,
'B**ch, idiot, fu***ing whore.'
Sting like acid in my eyes.
Have I become your punching bag?
Maybe I should dress differently
not wear that red lipstick.
If I had not answered back,
you would not have raised your hands.
I would not be suffocating, drowning in the air.
But you just mock my cries,
ignore these screams,
so I only cry in the shower.
I think, I can't take this anymore,
I should run through that door,
people keep asking about the bruises,
but I keep making excuses.
But where would I go,
what about the children,
what about the shame?
Then you start to cry,
with a million apologies,
saying it's the stress,
the traumatic childhood -
that you love me,
swearing not to do it again,
insisting to start with a new slate.
The pain peels off a little.
There is a temporary harmony in the air.
Slowly the swelling eases.
I become a slave to your sweet words,
although the sex feels like rape.
I'm on edge, looking over my shoulder,
careful not to pull the trigger,
unleashing the terror of your rage.
Once I felt safe, now I only feel afraid.
Your hands that hurt me only make me shiver...
Wondering when you will lose control again.
Silent One
19 October 2021
I have this thing called ADHD
The H isn’t silent, I’ll help you to see
Ever since I was small, it’s lived inside me
It affects who I was, am and will be
Most people know, the layer on top
A tid bit of knowledge before the facts stop
Evaluating their lives, they tend to conclude
From the limited facts, they must have it too
But I need to speak up, I yearn to be heard
This isn’t a fad, or something I’ve learned
But rather, a voice, indecisive and quick
Listing my options, insisting, I pick
It never shuts up and will never be pleased
Off my terror and panic, it greedily feeds
Trembling with jitters, it fears the unknown
I lock in my choice, but it never moves on
Attached to my ear, I gave it a name
This relentless voice is none other than shame
Guilt and short comings, smeared in my face
A constant reminder, I’m not fit to race
The H stands for hyper, when in fact, I am tired
It refers to my brain and the way it is wired
I fidget when seated and excuse myself often
I come across rude, but my shoes must be walked in
I desperately try to absorb, process and act
I work hard to be average and display enough tact
But a fairly small task becomes a tricky ordeal
My response is to panic. It’s an everyday drill
It’s mental exhaustion, causing physical fatigue
I’m smart, but I’m slow. No patience to read
I’m resentful and sad. It seems so unfair
But these are my shoes and my shoes I must wear
1.
Uninvited you come, oh Erato*, you muse of poetry, the
Majority of the times,
Knocking at my soul’s door at any given moment
Insisting on letting you in, your message to deliver
Disregarding at what state my soul is and if she could
With your request, comply
2.
Oh, Muse of poetry, when with my soul’s inspiration
You are flirting all the time
Whispering in her ears words of wisdom, coming
From your divine essence
My soul, mesmerized, tries the words of wisdom,
Lingering in her depths, again to remember**
3.
A difficult task it is; indeed, I admit,
For the language of heavens that my soul, once
Knew very well, now she has forgotten**
Because of her association with her mortal body
For that reason, oh divine muse,
Be patient with her and give her just
A little more time
4.
The time that my soul needs, divine muse, to learn
Or rather to remember
How to talk and to express herself in writing the way
You would like:
In accordance with the universe’s harmony and
Its eternal laws
5.
When this blessed hour comes, my soul able
Would be, poems to compose
But
Her writings, her creations, and her poetic epics,
The work of you would be, oh muse,
No credit would, my soul, claim
For
She knows very well that only an instrument she is,
Oh muse, into your godly embrace,
Just to be used according to your desire
Because only you, oh muse of poetry, know
How
The universe’s poetic language should be used
And how, in verse, it has to be
Delivered!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
30 SEPTEMBER 2014
* Erato, one of the nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne (memory ).
She is the Muse of lyric poetry, love poetry, and marriage songs.
** Socrates, Greek philosopher 469-399, believed that the soul knows the truth but because of her association with the body, after her incarnation, she forgets therefore what we call learning is, in reality, a process of remembering as it is indicated also by the name of Erato’s mother, Mnemosyne, (memory).
A poet should always follow Erato’s instructions that come in the form of inspiration, in order to reach the desired result. This is because Erato’s knowledge is unadulterated for it is divine!
Like the pompous pied piper leading the way,
chirping his tune of a dawning new day,
frustrations were championed, oh how we followed,
the ego stuffed shirt of a suit cold and hollow.
From the top of the hill, he showed us the view,
convincing our eyes it was harshly askew.
Nearing the cliffs as if caught in a spell,
he fed us like lambs from his poisonous well.
Touting sweet taste of his truth well embittered,
ignoring the signs of nonsensical twitter,
rot with the smell of the nations decay,
we drank from his cup of a water so gray.
Watching and waiting for gifts of his gruel,
the masses assured we were not made a fool,
his promise of greatness was all we could see,
with great expectations of how it would be.
There's no turning back once we swore the man in,
believing bright futures were soon to begin,
blinding frustration gave evil its day
for the pompous pied piper to lead us astray.
He led us to thinking, all driven by fear,
then gave his directives so cryptically clear,
stripping the values by which we would stand
before the American dream had been banned.
Addicted to all the attention and glory,
swiftly he moved to remain the top story,
insisting on walls made of concrete and steel
built by the anger and hate we should feel.
Then some were shaken, disrupting his spell
and found he was stealing our Liberty Bell.
The fog began lifting and soon we would see
the piper exposed as the fraud he would be.
Time has a way, proven over again,
of playing its imminent part.
The shedding of light upon every mans soul,
exposing his darkness of heart.
No longer seduced by the piping we hear,
choosing to see through the veil,
Democracy once again fights to survive,
let us all pray we prevail!
-Jeannie Cronin
Wandering through the crystalline mists,
is truly a revelation.
Dreamers merely dream,
but seers roam misty, dark realms,
to find the truths, which others would hide.
The swirling fog forms;
takes its sweet time.
I seek clarification;
Fog only hints, at life’s coming storms.
Some have died, for their gift;
slaughtered by those who can’t or won’t
try to understand;
insisting that,
they must be of service to others.
It’s no comfort to know events,
Before they occur, but
God gives gifts.
Prognostication is one of the
Best and worst gifts.
The god within,
will not be silent;
inner knowledge is the wheel,
that steers us to safety.
A prognosticator channels the map,
for those who cannot see.
they lurk in corners, safe and dark
until they decide to growl and bark
then point an ugly old crooked finger
spittle drooling on the chin, they linger
arguing any point for arguments sake
no sense do they ever seem to make
they pretend to be a master know-it-all
a braying donkey left too long in its stall
always insisting to have the last word
looking like fools, they are quite absurd
these egotistic imbeciles act quite spastic
the pretenders who are all made of plastic
Poetry will not keep you warm
Not like a cat nestled between legs
But, it hunts down manic thoughts
Gnashes the static till the mind gives
Chases a thought till claws are bloody
Keeps you drenched in sweat
Yes, she mews for attention
Till its cries grate every nerve
Till I feed it words & want
Poetry keeps me squirming
Caught in a net skimming a deluge
Waiting for words to be hauled
The big catch ever escaping
Keeps me checking the line
Insisting I jump into cold waters
Foolishly like Ahab chasing a tail
Sadness is my white whale
Mad with promises holey
Poetry is a leaky bucket
Catching the rain of words
Within depression's storm
Coming like a cat with a pail
Impossible and torrential
Ensnaring me for an hour
Keeps me back for seconds
Promising an easy catch
Cold and slippery
NATURE FINDS ITS WAY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The crack in the sidewalk,
a stubborn line against the grey,
filled with green.
Not invited, not planned, just a seed,
carried on wind, finding purchase,
insisting on life.
A dandelion, maybe, or something tougher,
something that knows concrete yields,
e
v
e
n
t
u
a
l
l
y.
Think of that small rebellion
when the path ahead
feels like stone.
Remember the persistent green,
the quiet strength
that cracks the surface.
Nature finds its way.
You will too.
The Leprechaun.
.
Run, run, run as fast as you can...
I'm still gonna get you, my little green man...
I grabbed on to the gold buckle on his waist...
I held him down, with no time to waste...
I tied The Leprechaun to a hollow tree,
Broke off a branch and poked him on the knees.
I kept on poking him with a stick.
I kept nagging him to reveal his magic trick.
This little shamrock kid would not break.
He kept insisting THE LEPRECHAUN legend was fake.
This little odd dwarf kept lying about his mythical pot of gold.
I kept repeating all the stories I've been told..
Nagging him and nagging him~ FOR HIS POT OF GOLD!
He lied, about the fables, telling me his gold does not exist...
The Leprechaun refused to hear the clover list...
****
It's been 7 days!
And, still he won't give up, what's at the end of the rainbow.
Tickling his little Eskimo toes,
Running feathers underneath his nose.
"Look you little green treasure troll, I've captured you, and demand the gold!"
"You won't get me with your tricks!"
"So don't even try to outwit me with your silly MAGIC!"
I suppose his silver-tongue, will have to do,
And the little gold buckles on his shoe.
I got tired of trying to make him see, my point of view.
I got a better deal and trade for a monkey at the zoo.
Now the lions are enjoying a Pot of Leprechaun Stew.
After All!
Nothing I did, made him unfold.
All I wanted was his pot of gold!
by;pd
When I am gone, and from this world have flown,
I would admonish you to not forget
That I have loved and cherished you, my own,
And even after death shall love you yet.
But I’ve no wish to burden you with pain—
Not for one month, one day, one second’s time—
Insisting you remember would be vain,
And causing you such grief, a selfish crime.
While memory can help one to endure,
Distressing recollection can be worse;
Remembering, in some, effects a cure--
In others it’s essentially a curse.
Thus knowing this, my love, I won’t resent
Forgetting me, so long as you’re content.
October 2, 2019
Please note: though the second line includes what appears to be that old grammatical bugbear, a split infinitive, I could argue that the word "not" is not a modifier, but part of a compound verb "to not forget", ie. to remember; also, its position makes it not only a stressed syllable but also much more emphatic.
It stood a while, alone, the perfect phrase
Entire and beautiful upon the stage
As lovely as two words could ever be
‘Till came the muse, the ancient ***** of days
Demanding blood and ink upon the page
Insisting passion and complexity
And sacrifice, and violent hymns of praise
Her hunger and her ardour to assuage
In wild defiance of simplicity
The poet quaked in terror, and betrayed
His words to slake her raw and awesome rage
In her cold hands they cried for company
© Gail Foster 13th December 2016
For Silent One's - Mamma Poetry Contest
Where is the love, Mamma?
Through broken Louvre blinds, you're ever watching
Rosary beads clicking prayers on repeat mode, uttering
Your plethora of Faith keeps me steadily striving
Though, frustrated when peace will be arriving.
Under cover of the midnight moon, hookers seducing
Shady men with illicit wares aggressively peddling
Of changing our situation, I'm forever idealizing.
Enduring every day's trauma, just surviving.
Seeking direction from above, when is enough enough?
Tell me, Mamma ~ Where is the love?
Collective immorality still existing.
A ticking clock morality meekly resisting
Corruption, greed, and deceit still abounding
This life where goodness seems to be drowning.
A depraved degradation of insanity still insisting,
Death, broken hearts, crime persisting
In the chaos, qualms never ceasing.
lawlessness above the muck and mire rising
At the kerbside, a holy man piously preaching
Should I turn my cheek, still beseeching
Amidst their plundering and their leeching?
NO !!
Enough is Enough ~ Where is the Love?
Beyond-repair abhorrence, I'm escaping.
Fervently, I'm hoping and praying.
Please God, Mamma, be safe while I'm gone
I'll be back for you before long
In the eerie darkness, emotions imploding
Sirens blaring, with the sound of guns exploding
My shallow breath quickening, turning back with throat thickening
All the while, I'm screaming
Where is the love?
Back through this hellhole, I'm rapidly racing
All through the panic, still hoping and praying
Please God, Mamma ~ Be Safe, Be Safe, Be Safe
Neon blue-red lights flickering and flashing.
Through my open front door, I'm madly dashing.
Looming through the haze, I hear them saying.
'Sorry, Miss, yet another random shooting
Your Mamma just got caught in the cross-firing.'
The last thing I hear is my own voice crying.
MAMMA ~ THERE IS NO LOVE! THERE IS NO LOVE!
Her mind is taking her
On a roller coaster ride
That goes against the tide
It crashes deep and wide.
She raises her emotions
Her voice fills up the air
She has a lost, blank stare
Her logic isn't there.
Incessant is her tongue
Insisting she is right
A down and dirty fight
She speaks with all her might.
Determined are her eyes
To get just what she wants
She yells out verbal taunts
The force can truly haunt.
If only she would seek
And listen to the cries
Of wisdom from on High
Her soul won't crash and die.
2015
It can’t be art
Spun in a windstorm of caustic insisting
Plastered like mud on the walls of Pompeii
Frescos of joy before charcoal was misting
Writing in ash, catastrophic display
Poetic spittle once cast to the broken
Scribbled in diction now smeared in the rain
So many follow yet nothing is spoken
Below these skies with the cherry red stain
There in the distance a magpie is flying
Scavenging wings while you shout from the ground
Screaming a truth midst the unending lying
Circling nightmares of places you’re bound
Can it be art if it’s not as remembered
Past of the days when you pissed in the snow
Spelling your name as your mother was watching
Turning in shame as if she didn’t know
Damning Picasso for changing direction
How can a nose sit so far from the face
Pollock’s spilled paint way beyond your detection
Charging a gallery, demanding your space
Photo laced albums of cellophane pages
Developed by hand in a room with no light
Look at these kids and their digital stages
Feigning creative, it just isn’t right
Does this explain every tactical action
While you count blocks as if streets don’t exist
Pulling a woodpecker’s tail to get traction
Hiding the reason you just can’t resist
You say that art can be all that we’re thinking
Then in the same breath you say it’s not true
Often we wonder if you have been drinking
Make up your mind, it’s the least you can do
You are all artists, yes you who are reading
Writing your words that you put on display
Spilling your heart while emotions are bleeding
It breaks my heart when I hear someone say
It can’t be art, all those losers are dreaming
Seeing and clicking and sending and such
Downloaded images, videos streaming
When the truth is, you are just out of touch
Insisting one might was well be dead
Feasting upon dark emotional words
This is how the young have been led
Magnetic this compass for the birds
Signal sent be that of infrared
Drawing them all in by the herds
This be part of their pseudoscience
By misusing the cognitive science