Best Reproachful Poems
For Timothy Lee
Eyes meet over sips of morning coffee;
warmth travels thru both my body and heart
while you couch-settle around and near me.
I value sharing a perfect day’s start.
I enjoy each fun, twosome adventure;
hands clutched in the dark, entering a park
where night skies speak no reproachful censor.
We swing, slide, laugh – our own romantic lark.
Home, a safe, private nest, our lives’ own stage,
is my best, favorite, real life place.
I relish all your couple, loving ways,
and my own happy, mirrored on your face.
Wrapping me secure within your warm skin
each night before giving way to our sleep,
is a blessed delight with my spirit’s twin.
I cherish the close embrace your arms keep.
Pleasure is us, standing strong together,
growing blessings, beliefs and faith as one,
knowing we each make the other better
and our love will be until time is done.
Inner self renowned free; owned only by me in the thicket of the woods which is ticket to the
goods. Lovely dew drop, tear drop worries obliterated by the sun. Rings true that I don't
know what I've won but myself-- tiny, big, larger than life- Not! Famous to none; infamous to
one-- maybe! That old tree that never moves but to stalemate then check. Mark it off-- I'm
done! Approval, Approval, Approval! Stamp me authentically me. Nature calls no one as we
call it often. Rings true, I believe. Natural self looks like Apollo and Daphne in the minds eye
of keen perception. Distorted fragments of soapstone in my artist's mind recalls and carves
and older self. Rewind now, back to babyhood; not yet out of the woods of my sheltered life.
Sheltered life, comfortable; Sheltered strife, uncomfortable; Shelters galore, displaced
woman. Never to become morbidly serious about reality-- I'm an Aspen now in a darkened
mood detached adhered to my silverish, thirtyish leaves, leaving one silver-gray split hair on
the memory of the past which is still not true to self-- now in present life is hopeful and not
reproachful!
Did the creator(s) of his chemicals
wreck his chemicals ?
Or did he recklessly
wreck them on his own ?
He stormed almost violently
through the evening, half an hour after dark,
scowling and barking at enemies unseen;
he seemed to be peculiarly caught
between reproachful suburban streetlamps,
always half a pace ahead of and behind
the previous and the next.
He marched almost violently
through the midday, cool and bright;
his scowl and bark were armed
with a lead pipe to secure
his next square metre of temporary space,
and even the speeding traffic
could not deny his belligerent passage.
He sat almost violently
in the cold, grey defeat of early morning,
scowl and bark, as always, I think,
and the bricks and cars and shopfront windows
may have quivered or laughed,
I haven't had time to ask them,
not that they'd be bothered with me.
The uniforms were calm, unflappable,
his bark and scowl remained fearless as ever,
but became oddly innocuous,
they knew each other by now.
He may be smart enough and unsound enough
to understand that a dark, familiar cell
is a place to go
when you have no place to go;
or it may be simpler or more complex,
he may be smart enough and unsound enough
to not know the difference at all.
It's Friday, late afternoon,
and I have no idea
where he'll be tonight.
24th August 2018
He heard the car and came running,
Jumped and whirled in the air,
Barking his happiness!
Dad lifted her down in her yellow-flowered
Camisole and high heeled shoes.
The dog dropped,
His hind quarters hunched down,
Body sprung parallel to the ground,
Ears laid back, hackles raised.
He'll get used to you, Dad said,
Tapping him with his foot.
But he didn't. She was afraid.
Big black shepherd, watching stalking.
The dog lay there with the chain
Stretched out, eyes riveted
On the back door of the house.
She didn't like it. What if he gets loose
When you're not here?
I can't even go to the garden
Without his eyes on my back!
Dad put a piece of meat in her hand.
The black nose ever so slightly withdrew.
-Eat it, growled Dad, and he did
With a long slow tongue,
Looking up from under reproachful brows.
But it was spoiled.
Dad couldn't stand it that
The dog wouldn't mind.
He kicked it and it trailed after him,
But still froze when the woman came outside.
He just couldn't give it up.
They had to shoot the dog.
The yellow and brown and red leaves
Were falling and sticking together
On the path into the woods.
A light drizzle added to the metallic shine.
They walked along the slippery surface,
The two of them,
With the rifle and the spade.
The dog jogged on ahead,
Looking back over his shoulder,
Smiling at the routine he is familiar with.
It only takes a minute
Once you reach the back fence.
You have to do it fast if you're going to.
You can talk out-loud afterward,
Explaining while you dig him in.
That way he doesn't have to see it.
The ground is not yet frozen.
Dad smooths it over and already
Leaves begin to drift across the bare soil.
Deliberately, one by one,
He places his feet on the returning path,
Looking up through the sketches
Of black tree limbs against the sky.
He feels stiff and sore.
Leaning the gun against the grain bin,
He pulls down a bottle
From the low rafter overhead.
A couple of swigs before he goes inside.
This is not the story they told me.
The dog's name was Rex.
Dad pointed to an old photograph
In the box of old photographs.
-Good ol' Rex, he said.
Sluggish suppurating symbol of disgust,
Dragged wailing into a reproachful life
Child of wrath and sloth and lust
All she will ever know is
Strife
Curdled flesh clings to a brittle scaffold
Pebbled orbs recline in sunken hollows
Starving slavering mouth unfolds
Engulfs the world and then it
Swallows
Gawky appendages waver against a cruel ill wind
A map of veins slides beneath brittle wrists
Starfish fingers strain to hold at bay
An onslaught of constant demoralizing
Dismay
Ugliness lies etched in every curve and line
Defiling the beauty that might have been
Ashamed and fearful of her own reflection
She skulks in soothing shadow hoping to remain
Unseen
Fat girl.
There she stood, waiting for the number 4 bus,
(She needs a size thirteen at least)
Wearing the clothes that only skinny girls can get away with
(they get away with murder)
Seams taut and strained
by puddles of flesh eager to burst forth
(She can feel the heat that eminates from reproachful eyes,
trying to melt away her fat)
Chameleon
trying to blend in with a culture that thinks a size two is healthy
(what value does a number really have anyways?)
Every ounce of female flesh a threat to masculinity,
while every bulging paunch and sagging jowl
is a tribute to their male divinity
(one more beer and steak with the guys
makes a nice offering)
While his wife kneels, next to the toilet on the bathroom floor
weeping over the remains of half a mangled bagel
(Sacrilege! Blasphemy!
Don't you know that carbs are an abomination to the goddess Versace?)
Fat girl.
Your back is so sore from stooping down to that level
(Stand up straight!)
You don't need to take that bus
when you can just keep on walking
Late sunlight,
Mellow and smooth
Touches the placid afternoon
With fire sparkled warmth
A glow of white wine
On the shadow cooled breeze
A velvet scent
Of royal petunias
Drifts from among
Yellow and white
Reaching for the last
Etchings of sun,
Silky on grass,
Brittle on leaves
A heavy sun
Bows before
Reproachful night
Written 1976. Reposted 13/10/2017
Early poem as is.
oh, Madam Francis, I stand flabbergasted!,
when I glance upon your shadow, gray,
I thought beauty for sure ever lasted,
but now I'm enveloped with dismay.
The ocean waves would shamelessly recede,
an ardent attempt at flattery, I suppose,
man after man would attempt to succeed,
but now look at you, a sad, wilted rose.
Kings would transform into commoners,
just to see you pace along Martin's Lane,
beggars and hobos would transfigure,
just to receive a smile from this lovely dame.
But look at you now, a disgruntled old maid,
a dissatisfied hag, the chaff of grain,
did a single soul not run to your aid?
did a hapless finagler leave you insane?
whilst venturing in such reproachful thoughts,
I suddenly notice a man walk past,
Madam Francis, no longer distraught
with a sigh of relief, chants "Finally, at last!"
oh, Madam Francis, I stand flabbergasted!,
when I glance upon your shadow, gray,
I thought beauty for sure ever lasted,
but now I'm sure, it will always stay.
True friendship is rare
It’s one in a million
A mirror image, a twinning
Mutual acknowledgement
In knowing
She’s the one
Who pays attention
Listens with intention
Can read your thoughts
Before you think them
With whom you share
Truth
Respect
Consideration
Humour
Joy
Pain
Love
No conditions
Sometimes critical
Even reproachful
But always understanding
Who keeps you in line
Before you cross it
To the point of no return
Who puts you before herself
Because that’s just who she is
One in a million
A needle in a haystack
To be treasured forever
That friend is you to me
And me to you
Torrents of melancholy brine cascade from leaden skies;
Mirroring the salty streams of tears that seep from my sapphire eyes;
Folded limbs of bruised porcelain reach out to feel the patter of the rain;
Each stinging drop a tiny shard of ancient liquid pain;
Muddied pools form on a thirsty earth that drinks and drinks and drinks;
My own parched heart does nothing but watches, waits, and sinks, sinks, sinks…
With the monsoon comes a stultifying death of putrefaction to leaf and bough;
Matching the decay that stirs the topsoil of my soul like the blade of a rusty plough;
Snails drag their curlicue shells through promising forests of lush mossy growth;
Just as slow my sighing breaths sift through my lips uttering silent bitter oaths;
The monsoon season is a blessing to the earth and a curse to a trapped soul;
Bound by adolescent selfishness I think only of myself not of the whole;
Forgetting the urgent thirst of the ground for water I curse the curtaining rain;
Staring mutinously into the gloomy grey day with my face pressed against a cold window
pane;
Rain, rain, I murmur through reproachful lips, go away;
And please I entreat you -- return again some other day…
When I was young, I had these dolls, in various guise and shapes,
The first was been the simplest; in it no single garment
or any ornament embedded, but only made of clay and heights four inches,
“Imperfect doll!” I exclaimed and clothed the doll in scarlet dress.
The second doll was only made of scarves of woolen rags in many color set and
tone,
“Imperfect doll!” I exclaimed again, and dangled some trinkets on its neck.
My third doll was more ornate and made of wood, which was slightly rough,
But its face and clothes were not alike from me; but of Japanese in a kimono
with a sash of obi around its tiny waist and wooden sandals on its feet,
“Imperfect doll!” I said, and furnished it with gesso.
Then my fourth doll was made of ivory, and clothed in simple bulk skin,
“Imperfect doll!” I said, and adorned its clothes with lace.
And my last doll was made of bisque from Germany:
fair-haired and fair skinned, until I noticed, some hairpiece fell as I untangled,
“Imperfect doll!” I exclaimed, and put a bonnet on its head.
And then I grew and see much of the world; more than my dolls, more than
myself;
Like a woman I met, who’s very fond of costly suits and polish gems
only to make cover of her unwanted aspects,
“Pity!” I said, “she hides her imperfection!”
Then this bachelor who’s tired and aged, but still aspires for lofty aims,
“Alas!” I said “he’s blinded much of his imperfection!”
And to this lady I knew, who’s young and fair but lost a man she dear,
and grieves to him excessively, with no more time to stare and glad to other
things,
“Alas!” I said” she mourns too much her imperfection!”
And for poor man I knew, complaining day and night to his misfortune,
“Alas!” I said, “he hasn’t done a thing to his imperfection!”
And to this dying man of severe illness, reproachful to his fate,
“Poor man”, I said, “he ought to know that death is not an imperfection.”
And lastly, when I meet someone who grief or find no peace and happiness,
“Alas!” I’ll say, “you ought to see that life is made of many imperfections!”
When I was young, I had these dolls, in various guise and shapes,
The first was been the simplest; in it no single garment
or any ornament embedded, but only made of clay and heights four inches,
“Imperfect doll!” I exclaimed and clothed the doll in scarlet dress.
The second doll was only made of scarves of woolen rags in many color set and
tone,
“Imperfect doll!” I exclaimed again, and dangled some trinkets on its neck.
My third doll was more ornate and made of wood, which was slightly rough,
But its face and clothes were not alike from me; but of Japanese in a kimono
with a sash of obi around its tiny waist and wooden sandals on its feet,
“Imperfect doll!” I said, and furnished it with gesso.
Then my fourth doll was made of ivory, and clothed in simple bulk skin,
“Imperfect doll!” I said, and adorned its clothes with lace.
And my last doll was made of bisque from Germany:
fair-haired and fair skinned, until I noticed, some hairpiece fell as I untangled,
“Imperfect doll!” I exclaimed, and put a bonnet on its head.
And then I grew and see much of the world; more than my dolls, more than
myself;
Like a woman I met, who’s very fond of costly suits and polish gems
only to make cover of her unwanted aspects,
“Pity!” I said, “she hides her imperfection!”
Then this bachelor who’s tired and aged, but still aspires for lofty aims,
“Alas!” I said “he’s blinded much of his imperfection!”
And to this lady I knew, who’s young and fair but lost a man she dear,
and grieves to him excessively, with no more time to stare and glad to other
things,
“Alas!” I said” she mourns too much her imperfection!”
And for poor man I knew, complaining day and night to his misfortune,
“Alas!” I said, “he hasn’t done a thing to his imperfection!”
And to this dying man of severe illness, reproachful to his fate,
“Poor man”, I said, “he ought to know that death is not an imperfection.”
And lastly, when I meet someone who grief or find no peace and happiness,
“Alas!” I’ll say, “you ought to see that life is made of many imperfections!”
INVASION OF DREAMLAND
How is it that you still invade my dreams and stir up such feelings of desire?
Motives reproachful for me you had yet subconsciously suppressed you are'nt
Not a thought for you during waking hours is given yet my dreams you haunt by
your presence
Yearnings for you exist even if only on subliminal levels
One AM I turn in my sleep and the dream rushes to memory as vivid as reality
I am a slave to this pen and pad no sleep will be attained if these events go
unrecorded
Truly blessed I am for this gift of creativity; grateful am I for my ability to express
even my darkest emotions beautifully
Off to the land where no lies can be told...
Off to the land where one’s deepest wants are expressed...
Pride and shy hold no existence here...
Focus on the most wanted desires before landing there and maybe, just maybe,
you will experience them
Welcome to dreamland...
Written By Shivon Mejias
Silence breaks from atop the ancient Oak
I discern his small waiting shadow
Where others glimpse only spired branches
Tossing against the cerulean skyline
Sharp eyes of obsidian depths
Follow my intent of movement
Talon perched within the canopy
Simply waiting for me to move
The raven beseeches my name
His call weighing ever heavier
A solitary patron of the impending
I am he and he exists within me
Lending flight upon black razored wings
I exist in the purest of freedoms
For that which only he confers
Never passing judgment on my passions
Or reproachful of my actions
Silence breaks from atop the ancient Oak
A silhouette that is the absence within…
it was not so much that it was pulled back
but that the release was a push
a spool of thread falling from the table
the gentle undulation of fiber through the air
that was the way you threw the rock
we both watched its journey
the graceful way it twisted through space.
the stone was weightless
the shriek of the window was painfully reproachful
the rock did not care and neither did we
for a breathless moment the rock was part of the glass
neither inside or out
then the glass exploded out like birds from a cage
glittering shards flew like deadly snow, like vengeful stars.
and the rock flew above all it as if it would never hit the ground
for a moment, we too believed the rock would sail on forever
it did not
the bitter earth grew jealous and the rock began its reluctant descent
there was a thought that the rock would destroy the earth beneath it on impact.
the rock hit the grass with a soft thump