Best Sides Poems
Even as a child of God -
when it came right down to it
she stood firmly on her child’s side -
not God’s
.. and damn
how I envied that..
my friend
much to my dismay
chose a parent
as a closest confidant
breaking all laws of teenage angst
and going against
all preconceived
conceptions, norms and nature
I watched as they walked
a harrowed path together
mom being there for child —
smugly snuggly hammocked
in her emotional safety net
.. and damn
how I envied that..
I walked my path alone
because my mother
would have chosen
God’s side...
.. and damn
how I now envy that..
Susan Ashley
September 9, 2018
~ Ninth Place ~
Contest: Truth Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anthony Slausin
The look of pity on the saleswoman's face said it all
my paint spattered clothing, however the jeans fit
just didn't have that panache, chic pizazz, tongue hanging
inspiration for desire a young woman out to have.
The car dealer took one look at me, led me to the far
corner of the lot, showed me the used hot rods
the beater four doors, the budget cutters like I'd rode
but I wanted glossy black, silver hood ornament, brand new.
Paint is supposed to sit on top of your nails, but underneath
is advantageous when compared to oil, to muck, to dirty guts
so I was a step on the ladder of the working man,
I could even afford to buy hose, which I still don't wear.
There's something to be said for the over glasses, safety
glasses look, white paper coat, something comical
one supposes, but the purple overalls worn for skiing
which suddenly I could afford, made me my nephews joke.
At times I waited for a date who preferred the bar
called and said maybe later, because passion rumbled
between us when we kissed but I didn't want a flit,
disease, broken promise, I wanted to be embraced
Cozy now, body motion are promises and content
passion is beyond me, the bar on the patio in back
the hand I always hold a missing app that answers
more lonely than any mistaken wish that he'd be the one.
Stars, too, I climbed to them in my dream, climbed
the Space Needle and found my self with no safety net
I always avoided those climbs the dreams more nightmare
even though I do what I am told, to reach, to soar.
Sometimes now I wear black on gold dresses which fit
to the nth inch, so I can barely sit, hold champagne
to watch golden bubbles float against the elegant
white linen against starry night event, that's rich, success.
Dump it gladly for a romp on the beach, the missing
something like threads through a woven maze,
like an angel's hope. When I dump it all and seek
there's grace lying on the shores between the rocks
a pooled place where deer come to lick minerals,
boulders come unglued and sail down river
and think, maybe I could do that. Maybe I could
unglue all the expectations and rearrange the world.
Many have told me it's all about "me"
every time I hear that I want to flee
let's talk it over
don't act like a rover
I always like to make it about we.
What can I say to you about "myself"
I feel you put me on a bookshelf
hearing your many words
you speak like a bird
I must always be true to thyself.
Now we have me, myself, and "I"
can you see it through my eye
there are three in one
guess it is all done
asking why I must always try.
There are two sides to every story,
And the whole thing is not often heard;
For people are wont most often,
To take sides and embellish the words.
They choose to support their favorites,
Causing one to bear all the blame,
Taking great sport in the sparring,
And scarring the other's good name.
No matter the cause of the rukus,
The emotional scars and the pain.
No matter the truth or right and wrong,
They see it all as a good game.
It brings to their lives some excitement,
A break in monotony.
Oft taking interest away from themselves,
And their own autonomy.
Don't take to heart the stories you hear,
Second hand information at best.
Don't listen to tales from wagging tongues,
Attempting to feather their nest.
Just keep to yourself whatever you know,
Adding no fuel to the fire;
And you will have friends wherever you go,
By simply not raising their ire.
I will send my Love thru timeless space
No other emotion shall take its place
And as it lands on the many moons
You will see explosions of their crusted dunes
I shall send it to the vivacious Venus
As she prays nothing comes between us
But some will fall on the warring Mars
As he erupts with rage and leaves love scars
And if it should fall on the planet Jupiter
All will be absorbed by its custodian Lucifer
There are many sides from this heavenly view
Hopefully my Love will make its way to you
Two sides to Love two sides to live
One will receive and the other shall give.
March.04.2016 ^WW^
My lifetime friend, I feel so odd.
I'm not insured for acts of God.
Everything, it seems, is lost or gone.
I can't feel the ground I stand upon.
Today, we oldsters sat down to look
inside your yellow paged scrapbook.
I saw a picture and letter there.
I was frozen and could only stare.
You, I'm sure, didn't want me to see
the familiar face that gazed at me.
Of course, it was my only wife,
the only true love of my life.
Love's sad lesson learned in one day,
I'll see myself to the door, okay?
I thought stories had two sides, you see,
but triangles all have three.
In my eyes love has four sides..
Each one is strong and stands on its own..
One side is that butterfly that dances in your stomach..
Turn it over and the picture is of a crushed broken heart..
The third side shows the mystery and uncertainty of chances..
And the fourth side is where I am now, with a women who
each day smiles at me and still brings those butterflies..
Don't run from love or try to chase it down..
Listen closely because it's all around..
I’m in a psychology class and as part of it we filled out several, detailed, personality evaluations. They said these were helpful in forming a psychological profile of the freshmen classes each year and of particular interest were these COVID years.
The professor said she’d be available, before finals, to review them with us if we were interested - and I volunteered. So in our review we’re going over my results and she says: “Your trauma history could produce this constellation of wit, wiriness and attachment-anxiety.”
I flinch, irritably, thinking, my “trauma history?” What, “trauma history?” Wondering if - maybe the professor was looking at the wrong paper?
She read my reaction and the consternation on my face, started flipping through the papers, and said, “According to the history you submitted, your father was killed when you were seven and you were hospitalized for...”
“OMG” I thought, blanking out what she was saying, “How could I have forgotten THAT?” Even for a moment. Then I sag with this oppressive, blanket-like wave of guilt at having put the crash so far out of my mind.
“The dismissal of childhood trauma is quite normal,” she said, putting her hand on my arm, “You have to put trauma out of your everyday thoughts - to get on with your life.” She assured me. “It’s quite normal.”
How many blind sides do I have? I wondered
MY ADDED VERSUS:
Bows on solemn flower blooms
and scented layers of flared perfume
flow down rows of headstones and tombs.
I've looked at death that way.
But now I tend to ask God why
people visit and freshly cry.
We all know when loved ones die
they rise on His stairway.
I've looked at death from both sides now
from heart to soul and creased my brow.
It's cemeteries I recall.
I really don't know death at all.
Babes and Moms know love far beyond
the reasons seasoning their bond.
Loving a child is blessing dawned.
I've looked at fair that way.
But I live with maternal pain.
My childhood baby dreams met stain.
Now I'm thunder in my son's rain.
Won't give my sadness sway.
I've looked at fair from both sides now
from deep held faith and still somehow
it's his special needs I recall.
I really don't know fair at all.
She stands there in knickers,
A cap on her head,
Looking tomboyish, truant and tough
And a cigarette dangles
From unsmiling lips
To warn all she’s not taking their guff.
It’s a sepia snapshot,
The 20’s, I’d guess,
The photographer long in his grave,
But the girl is my grandmother
Though I’ll admit
It’s an image she’d choose not to save.
All the years that I knew her,
So quiet and prim,
Don’t quite match with the face in the frame.
That’s the reason I treasure
This photo of old,
‘Cause both Jennys were one and the same.
Truth is the singing spark
within your soul and the
compassionate veins
of the porcelain moon,
composing lullabies
like an arcane talisman,
when words are mere
daggers to the heart
that aches for an
empathetic empyrean.
I’ve written tales with tortured ink
in silence beneath starless skies,
when the music of life fades
into salt-soaked sands,
drenched in monotonous beads
of obsidian mists,
listening to the golden grains
in the wishing well,
whisper poetic verses
of unwritten reality,
for, between erased lines
of every story,
there are three sides~
one that would illuminate
the flame of a raging rose,
while the sun before the pouring petals
reignites the cosmic candle
burning amidst liquid darkness.
But what if the rest
of what is left in this story
isn’t for you to read?
Perhaps, in hushed stillness,
when birds breathe
there in the breeze that
carries the chorus of
a nocturnal nightingale,
you shall find
languid lyrics I’ve buried
in the deep blue abyss
where coldness floats.
So let these unsung letters
weave confetti dreamcatchers,
ringing tunes of twinkling twilight
when loneliness cloaks
the periwinkle pillow
where you hide your
piercing pendulum,
in riveting restlessness,
as mismatched metaphors
within misinterpreted dialogues
remain mere white noise,
and my love would linger
like sakura streaks
caressing your silhouette
in secret, while every page
of the novel
translates the sincerity
of romance~
forsaken,
yet
not
forgotten….
What do you see,
(I am the mirrors reflection)
when you look at me?
(I am nothing but fantasy or fiction)
That little girl
(I am cracked in the middle)
with a baby's curl
(left an unsolved riddle)
innocent and meek,
(barely alive)
with soft words to speak.
(trying to survive.)
Or do you see the mask
(Pieces threaten to fall)
I use to carry out this task
(fragments of my world, big and small.)
its full of smiles that are fake
(Catch one and bleed away;)
and a voice that threatens to break
(suffer from memories of yesterday).
Death was dreaded.
Rehearsed.
Experienced.
Dreaded more.
Being told,
Silence.
Empty.
Frozen.
Death.
The day arrived.
Surreal.
Nothing.
The bond was broken,
The memories ended,
There was grey nothing.
Silence.
Silence.
For me:
Shock,
Nuisances,
Sadness.
For her:
Beauty,
Peace,
Rest.
Two sides of death.
In memory of my mother
Two Sides to every Story
by Bob Moore
What we can and what we can’t
what we will, and what we won’t
what we should, and what we shouldn’t
what we do and what we don’t
What we did and what we didn’t
these things are part of life
what we decide to do or not
it still can cause us strife
Two sides to each decision
split seconds to decide
if we believe there’s something wrong
do we jump in, or let it ride
It’s not always easy
we can’t all be that strong
to do what we believe is right
or stay where we belong
Sometimes it’s our opinion
of the way that things should be
but two sides to every story
who says the one who’s right is me
Friends
Trustable, Kind
Caring, Sharing, Staying
Teachers, Well-Wishers…..Mockers, Taunters
Blaming, Cursing, Glaring
Despicable, Jealous
Enemies