Best Should Have Known Better Poems
IV
A soul was broken to make room
For dusty halls and labyrinths.
A gossamer, nylon bed-sheet shroud
Enwraps the remnants of that mind.
And no excuses can be made;
This disease does not justify that one.
I do not sleep deeply, I do not wake easily,
I dream of cities built on sand,
Next to the swelling sea.
Oh, they should have lasted.
Why should they fall?
I dream of timber horses,
Brought between those city walls.
We should have known; we should have known better.
III
But, I am not an honest mystic;
Beware what you ask of me.
I will show truths within the liar's tapestry.
But, you will not believe; no, you cannot believe.
II
I howled for my motherland
When the mutiny began.
I heard the cry of treason; heard the cry and ran.
I saw blood be spilled,
Some of it my own, then
Felt the rest boil, that this could happen in my home.
I saw the battle through, until the very end,
Then wished the traitors pardoned,
Because they were my friends.
I
I cannot tell the difference
Between the sleeping and the dead,
So, I will dole out blankets, and keep the kettle on.
The streets are cracked and dirty,
And they all appear the same:
Shattered glass and roofing tacks
Where I place my bare and weary feet.
I don't want to go on.
But, I must rebuild; I must rebuild.
I have no grass to lay,
The trees and flowers will not grow,
So, I shall use nothing, but mortar, brick, and stone.
It's not the same; it is not the same,
But, I shall call it home.
By morning, I could feel the first hints of warm air,
Relieved I took my bath and dressed for work.
There was no music in the block of flats,
But in my head rumbled a hundred old time songs
That tantalized me into a stupor of great expectancy.
Down stairs, near the elevator, was an old woman.
I was shocked to see her on a wheelchair, eyes vacant.
The landlord smiled at me and told me not to worry.
Seems Angelique was to be taken to some rest home.
Her mother just wanted to see that the upstairs
Apartment was in perfect state for the living.
Disappointed at the name I left for work later for my groceries.
Back home I concocted some pasta and cooked the sauce,
Opened my favourite bottle of red wine to drown my sorrows.
Silence reigned supreme and I felt rather annoyed.
So I betook myself to sleep hoping at least to dream.
The phone rang and a dulcet voice asked for me.
She had arrived late and had got nothing prepared for her meal.
Could I take something good for her to eat?
So I put on my track suit and with little or no enthusiasm
Went upstairs with some pasta left over and some wine.
That would be enough I thought, but the mother
Was old enough and should have known better.
Mother? The girl that opened the door was young enough.
A nymph that beckoned me in, in the warm atmosphere,
Balsamic perfume that inundated the cosy apartment,
Low magic music swirled and vibrated everywhere.
My name is Angel she tenderly smiled, shall we dance?
I felt the warmth of her; felt her arms and the dance began.
It did not take long to become lost in her euphoric bliss.
And our lips met, again and again as our hearts beat as one……….
You want to know the end?
We lived happily ever after…….
As all fairy tales should…..
The meadow has come alive with sight and sound
As I go through the gate, I hear buzzing all around,
The bees are busy working on milkweed flower
Waist-high daylilies and coral honeysuckles tower,
Enticing a few hummingbirds into the crowded field
I snap a piece of sassafras which is carefully peeled,
Soon I see three cottontails on the path up ahead
About the same time, a cardinal flashing by, all red,
I hear the call of a tanager and a mourning dove
Today, there is so much here in the meadow to love.
The narrow pathway is overgrowing with wild carrot
Originally blown over here from a nearby cattle lot
Breezes are stirring up the gnats and dragonflies,
And I keep wiping floating pollen out of my eyes.
As I expected the mother deer has weaned her fawn
I’m surprised to see her here so long after the dawn,
The afternoon sun beating down is now aggressive
I should have known better, it’s becoming oppressive.
I’ll head toward home, foregoing a walk to the river
A sunstroke is threatening; I have begun to shiver.
Written July 16, 2022
I was in the middle of creating when I realized how gloomy everything was turning. I was placing mean words on the paper. I had started with the word inspiration…..so how had this happened? I stared in horror at my words, which had turned dark and angry.
Apparently I had spent too much time in my tomb this weekend – blinds shut, dog on lap, two fourteen hour days of sheer darkness, lit only by unhappy fast moving TV people – detectives, solving murder after murder. A steady diet of UGH.
Have you taken a peek at your children and grandchildren’s video games? I have. They are not much better than what I had done to myself this weekend. But they are younger, and I should have known better. All this yellow tape and meanness to humanity is not good for this garden-loving grandma.
I can only imagine children’s bleak hopelessness on Monday after a steady diet of swear words and killing on the weekends. Has anyone who is an adult played Fortnight? The most popular killing video game and free to your children? I can barely function today after my weekend, and I am supposedly a grownup.
Take a peek at what your children are doing. And help them, and then come to my house, tear down my blinds and break my TV okay?
Your shoulders are broad and strong,
Like you’ve been carrying boxes of experience,
Like you should have known better.
You block my way and–A signal
for me to move–you shrug
Shoulders lifting half an inch
To that pinpoint of a moment
When your voice echoes in my mind,
So familiar like so many others,
“Step aside, woman, this is how the world works.”
The safety of obedience is enticing.
I could move for you, I thought.
I could choose to do that.
So easy. One step to the right. So easy.
But she–has already moved for you.
A woman–has had to move her body
To make space for you in the warmth of her womb,
Your mother, built space
Within her, stretching, contracting, expanding,
Exhausting the air from her lungs so you could
fill yours.
So much has already been moved for you.
How dare you ask for more space?
How dare you ask more of any woman?
As I stand here, unmoving,
What do you see?
I have been called a muse, an angel,
The rising sun, a delicate flower, the summer
breeze;
I am a never-ending source of metaphor.
But what do you see?
Do you see an aggressive stereotype of a
feminist?
Do you see a stubborn little girl?
Do you see an inferior creature meant only to submit?
Will you ever see a warrior–
Who deals in blood,
And bleeds an ocean–
Grotesque and beautiful?
I have no armour.
I do not need an armour.
I barely scream at the pain of broken bones
As I push another you into the world.
I am–a woman.
And as that, I will stand still.
Standing on a tower, more than three hundred feet
She was watching a movie of her life,
in her head, as tears fall, and she tries to smile
She spread her arms like wings
Tears still falling, but she wants to fly
She closes her eyes, and held her head
high
Should have known better, her expectations too high
She's someone with two legs but can't stand on her feet
She may have been breathing, but she did not have life
She's undead blend with living, greet them with a fake smile.
And at night when she breaks, she would grasp for her wings
She forgot she was human, and therefore cannot fly.
How she wanted to fly!
More than thousand feet high
Never walk on her feet
And explore her whole life
Maybe then she could smile
She would look for those wings
She'd been hoping for wings
For she wanted to fly
She wanted to be happy, like she's on sugar high
Like someone lift her up, and swept her off of her feet
How she long for it! She wanted that her whole life
She just wanted to be happy, she just wanted to smile.
But it takes all her strength, just to muster one smile
For all that's left was a set of broken wings
Never better than angels, even worse than a fly.
Always falls at the bottom, and no chance to get high
Always stuck on the ground, with her two broken feet
She was tired of these things, she was tired of this life
There was no one out there who cares for her life
But she tried to be strong, while she wear a fake smile
She cried out for help, but they pulled out her wings
Screaming "Girl, you are human, and therefore cannot fly!"
She know it herself, but is it bad to aim high?
"I will show them," she says, as she ran on her feet
Life, now hanging on a tower, more than three hundred feet
She wears a real smile while she stood way up high
Spread her arms just like wings, took off--- and fly.
In the bitterest of the cold polar north shadows of illusions dwell,
Reflections of light on ice, maybe so or is there more to these
Optical delusions, the natives say creatures hide amongst these
Rocky snow covered hills, and they call forth the power of the
Alpine peaks for protection!
These mountainous summits of elevation known as the
Thundering mountains, many men have gone missing here,
Without explanation or reason, without any evidences trace
Ever being found, as if just vaporizing within the alpine mists?
But legends say by the tribal chieftains, they were taken by the
Snow beasts the Yeti’s, the abominable demons for
Trespassing on their sacred icy lands!
These outlander's whom should have known better,
Warned were they not, to climb at this inaccessible remote
Elevations for this is the forbidden territory belonging to
The creatures of the rocks!
Many men go there and are swallowed whole by the mighty
Avalanches, called forth by the screaming howling of the
Mountain guardians, weaving through these ice and spray
Waves as if they were made of winter wisps’ of air, the creatures
Take these hikers, or skiers unware, than devour
Them later at their leisure’s pleasure afterwards!
These avalanche waves have another name given to
Them eons ago, the claws of the tiger, sweeping
Within their mighty claws, everything living or none,
Beneath their talons of devastation!
But what if there were more to this myths story,
What if these two legends were working together?
In a tandems precisions epic motion, beast and
Mountains, both struggling to survive, against
The onslaught of humanities approach!
Endurances basic instinct of survival, natural law
Prevails, that only the strongest of the species is allowed
To continue, but what if these two natural raw forces
Combine, to do whatever it takes to achieve
This final climatic extraction, brawn concurring
Intelligence, or maybe it’s the other way
Around!
In this wilderness only the whispering winds
Knows the answers to these questions of inquiry,
And there left unheard by the deafening ears of
Progress and mankind until it is too late!
But the native people know, and warn them
To stay away for this land belongs to the Yeti’s
And the mountain protect them beneath the
Claws of the white tiger, the mighty avalanche!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
My overcast mood broods. In a mental melee
across my mind’s skies, as far as the eyes can see,
maddened crowds of electrically charged thought-clouds prey
seized negative space surrounding the heart of me.
Across my mind’s skies as far as the eyes can see
brain-storms rise in cumulonimbus angst, roaming
seized negative space surrounding the heart of me
with flashing lightning jags. I seethe in my gloaming.
Brain-storms rise in cumulonimbus angst - roaming.
Blowing the chastised chasms of my blackened mind
with flashing lightning jags - I seethe in my gloaming
under dark emotions thundering and squall-lined.
Blowing the chastised chasms of my blackened mind,
‘I-should-have-known-better’ flared-up winds are fuming
under dark emotions thundering and squall-lined
seeking to shred your justifications looming.
I should have known better! Flared-up winds are fuming...
Maddened crowds of electrically charged thought-clouds prey
seeking to shred your justifications. Looming,
my overcast mood broods in a mental melee.
Susan Ashley
April 14, 2018
Rough desperate cowgirl Etta,
Really should have known better,
When she finally got a boyfriend
She quickly branded his rear end,
He surely did live to regret her.
I sent you a love letter
Poured out my heart to you,
But I should have known better,
You laughed...and said adieu!
------------------------------------
I love the smell of fresh cut wood. Did you know that? I bet you didn’t know.
Why would you?
You never asked.
Wooden hearts dangling over a baby’s bassinet.
Be not hard like my wooden heart, chipped as a cedar output.
Wood is an insulator right?
Keeping it in like the charge of some electrical outlet cover.
Innocuous scriptures.
A vamp, that shouldn’t have, should have known better.
You should have asked me all my favorites.
I love the smell of wood, for wooden hearts cannot be broken.
Merely splintered and sawed of one’s own, free disposition and handiwork.
Let’s carve another organ.
One that can’t do anything but be whole.
Lucky wood.
Poetry is jagged and true, an inconspicuous fopa.
That’s not it.
I want to write a poem that is capturing.
One in which I can dice the words as may entice if not displease.
Here goes…
Alphabet poems are sometimes called, “a,b,c” poems.
But that is incorrect because a.b.c. poems only have 25 words in them.
Commonly, that mistake is made because the lines are written in alphabetical order.
Despite a clear definition of the Abecedarian form, even I continued to say, “a,b,c”
Everyone makes mistakes, but I always try to be so careful, sometimes overly so.
Forgetting is easy, but after writing this poem, I am hoping I will remember.
Generally speaking, perhaps many poets don’t care one way or the other.
However for me, I seem to be obsessed with continuing to learn and remember.
Instinctively, I know that words said matter more than what the form is called.
Just like the essence of a person is more important than their name(s)
Kindhearted souls express opinions, forgive mistakes, and share knowledge.
Laugh if you like. Laugh if you will. Go ahead. Laugh. LAUGH. LAUGH!!!
My feelings will not be hurt one little bit. No, I will not dwell on my mistake.
Never have I worked so hard to help myself remember a definition.
Over and over, I have made the same mistake in the past; it is time to stop!
Perhaps, I am rationalizing so I won’t feel so bad about my mistake.
Quality a.b.c. poems, after all, can be more difficult than Abecedarian poems.
Rationalizing poetic forms, does not make any poem better or right.
Sometimes, you have to just suck it up and admit that a mistake was made.
Today is that painful day for me. Abecedarian poems are NOT a.b.c. poems.
Underneath this chatter lies an embarrassed poet I should have known better.
Verily, verily, I say unto myself and others, “Get over it, already!”
When everything is said and done, no on gives a flip!
Xena might IF she were a real live woman who wrote strong poetry.
Yet she is mythological, created by the imagination of humankind.
Zip it up is what I’ll do, now. I have reached the letter z. LOL
By Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
12/27/2016
A HELL DATE
Like an order from the military junta
He swerved the steering off our route
I was surprised... not really scared
It was four days after my birthday
Where are we going?
What's happening? tell me
We are going to a Fast Food... ok, that's it
Ok, then, the General has spoken
Any word from his mouth is a decree
For we are in a military junta
Was ordered not to pick expensive menu
As I glance through the menu list
I asked what he wanted ... nothing!!! he answered
Just hurry up, I've got things to do
I could barely eat my cheap menu pick
He looks at me irritatingly...as if I am worthless
My cutleries fell off my hand severally
Must I eat this so called food
It was one hell of a date... to compensate for my birth date
Hurriedly like maid and Boss, we left the place
It all ran through my mind?
What was this for?
Did I force you to take me out on a belated date?
I felt reduced to nothing as I wish I vomit the food
I should have known better... worst off in all
I felt like a nuisance on a date
As I wish there wasn't a date in the first instance
All kinds of date I mean... birth date or hell date
AST
1.55am
15/04/2015
Conjure from a true life story
1.
I should have listened.
Alas, I was lost in the crowd.
You may not have said that you loved me,
there was never a reason for it to be said aloud.
2.
I should have known better.
I kept pushing you away.
Your patience was tested,
till we each went,
on our own separate way.
3.
Now the years have vanished.
I am grey and older.
I may not miss you all that much,
yet each day seems colder.
4.
Time has not eased anything.
Yet I have no reasons for regret.
Days come and go as always,
but somehow I am unable to forget.
5.
So forgive me if you can.
Not an easy task given my past.
Though I may be unable to absolve myself,
the void I feel is permanent,
my loss shall forever last.
In a two-door
gold-colored 1973
Ford Maverick with
a black vinyl top,
49 Christmases ago,
In the winter of 1973,
from Chicago, we headed south.
My wife's brother was getting married
on Christmas day, and I was a member of
the wedding party. We were a bit fearless
and young. It was very cold, and we were very
bold. But we really should have known better.
Less than a hundred miles out, the wet and the
cold turned to ice, and the road became slippery.
As I attempted to weather the Icy Road, my stubbornness
quickly manifested itself, but not for long. The weather won.
Young and bold, but we were not foolish and ignorant.
We canceled our plans and spent Christmas with older
friends in the area. It was a different but safe Christmas.
Many Christmases ago, we learned to respect the weather.
My wife and I were gifted One Icy Christmas with a precious
memory, which now hangs on the tree of our hearts.
113022PS