Best Smugly 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
As the
story
goes...
A
pesky
fly,
came buzzing by
to rest and munch
and eat his lunch
and have some fun
on the hound dog's
nose.
The old dog
snoozed
without a clue
in the noontime heat
of the August
sun.
He
napped
awhile
by piles of leaves
in dappled shade
of the apple tree,
where an apple fell
and the flies said "yum"
and the bees would hum
and the dog would yawn.
That lazy bone
won't fetch a stick,
or scratch his neck
or care a lick
about a neighbor's cat,...
That ornery
brat
will prance around,
will tease and taunt
the weary hound,
who naps so sound
on
this
dog- day
afternoon.
Hound has no pep
to take a step
to chase
or race
that snooty
cat,
who
smugly rubs
against his back,
and sticks her nose
up to his snout,
and
sticks up her tail
sashays about.
He hardly cares
that she is there.
She preens and cleans
her own black spots,
She stares at him
he stares right back,
with one eye open,
one eye shut
He'll stretch a bit
and scratch a lot
but it's too
hot
to
chase
that
cat...
Don't
bat
your
eyes..
it's
not a lie.
So
what
do
you
think
of
that?
_________________________________
A flickering spark between you and me–
grating of steel on steel and I shall flee!
When my opinion is not valued, and my way not chosen,
I feel my blood hot—then becoming frozen.
Flee from conflict, flee from differences;
Flee from everything when comes hindrances!
I will live in my box, so shallow and cold,
and avoid every burden and shake off every load;
so here I sit smugly and never grow,
rooted as a weed—never fruit to show!
The Punching Bag - Through the Eyes of a Child
Each day the pattern was the same,
for all Dad’s shortcomings, my Mom got the blame.
WHACK! He cursed her for all his lost dreams…
WHACK! For missed opportunities, and failed schemes.
WHACK! Dad would hit his punching bag again,
to release all his pent-up frustration and pain.
When he felt inadequate and couldn’t cope with life,
he resorted to battering Mom, his “beloved” wife.
Of course, it was always her fault that things were bad;
so he made her suffer for all the troubles he had.
Inflicting her with insults, black-eyes, concussions, and cuts,
he claimed that she deserved them because she was like all sluts.
Craftily he played on her bully-enforced meekness,
getting down on his knees to beg for her forgiveness.
Moods swinging like a pendulum from night to day,
his promises were empty - he would never change his vile ways.
Predictably, he continued to torment her as he pleased,
degrading and abusing her…he never ceased.
He figured low self-esteem would prevent Mom from leaving;
and that she was a nobody, he really had her believing.
He was oh so convinced that needed audacity she lacked,
to ever think of opposing him, or of fighting him back.
Besides, with no family around, no job, and no dough,
he smugly concluded that she had no place else to go.
God knows she was weary of existing in this hell on earth;
and I was tired of seeing her endure all that unbearable hurt.
I had had enough of being terrified by that despicable monster,
who had ruined her and made our lives an utter disaster.
After convincing Mom that inevitably I’d suffer the same fate,
one night, we finally escaped to a shelter before it was too late.
*** Note: Thank God, nothing like this ever happened to me. But this piece is dedicated to those many women and their children who are victims of domestic violence.
08-31-2015
Contest: Through the Eyes of a Child
Sponsor:
Placement: 2nd
Huddled in Burton's doorway, head down,
the windblown rain at almost forty five degrees
soaking me from the knees downwards.
Reflecting on the paving, the red, amber and green
from the traffic lights heralded a wave of white from passing headlights,
like theatre curtains opening.
And centre stage stood I.
The clock at Samuel's jeweller said nine seventeen.
I thought I blended in well- the tailor's dummies in the windows
either side of me, equally well dressed, stared vacantly
into a dark alien world. I envied them.
They were dry.
And not waiting on a first date.
A quick glance up.
The clock said nine seventeen.
They say that time slows down when you're idle, or impatient,
and I was starting to bow to this unproven scientific truth.
Two pretty girls strode past beneath a mangled umbrella,
one briefly threw a smile my way, almost lost in a giggle.
I counted my twentieth chorus of red, amber and green.
It was nine seventeen.
She said she'd be here for nine. I looked at my watch.
Ten O'clock.
The bells of the Guildhall and the Cathedral smugly agreed,
H. Samuel had been lying all along.
The rain had stopped. I stepped out into the throng of couples,
dressed in my singleness, as the girls with the broken umbrella,
now discarded, approached.
No giggles- she gave the same smile, but her eyes knew my plight,
then she shrugged.
I found a bar and sat in damp trousers with a beer, and watched the big screen
to take my mind off a wasted evening.
The rugby was just finishing.
God does have a sense of humour,
England beating France-
Seventeen points to nine.
25th June 2018
For contest 'nine seventeen', sponsor John Lawless
The walker prevails without his brimmed hat,
skirting whirling dervish of hungry gnats
which seek to explore each orifice bare -
to sample the blood from here and from there,
as discerning vintner sups from each vat.
Tackling a gradient sure to task fat
the rambler struggles, with scowl for farm cat
which extended stretch and yawn smugly shares.
The walker prevails.
Somehow, surroundings seem terribly flat -
land less a life-force than foot-worn doormat.
Even the birds have no energy spare;
in the heat of this day, fox ignores hare.
Yet, like strong tail-ender last in to bat,
the walker prevails.
A wretched, willful man was I--
So smugly proud of things I'd done.
Reckless me, I flew too high--
Like Icarus, too near the sun.
I placed my trust in my own hands--
These weak and mortal, trembling things.
In arrogance, I sought to fly,
But, only wax secured my wings.
Then, at the zenith of my flight
I reached my orbit’s apogee.
My feeble, wax wings fell away,
And, in flames, I crashed into the sea.
No longer do I trust my strength
My way, no longer is my goal
I humbly place my confidence
In the mighty Keeper of my soul.
We had a garden gnome named Griselda
the bane of our small bungalow
she was nasty and mean, at times quite obscene
the worst that you ever could know!
Her garden mate, Gregor, had feared her
but one day he mustered the nerve
with all of our backing, to send the girl packing
with cleverness, cunning and verve.
But she was vindictive by nature
and wouldn't let 'bygones' be gone
if it took all her years, she would stir up our fears
her plans were all plotted and drawn.
She waited 'til we'd quite forgotten
her villainous, vile, evil reign
then with fierce aggression, she took bold possession
of our lovely, dear, docile domain.
She poisoned the pansies and lilies
and shredded the sweet climbing vines
she disturbed my repose, when she broke the windows
with a shriek that sent chills up my spine.
She tore down my front porch swing
shattering the flowerpots and planters
mad wreckage in her wake, as she sought all to break
taking off to the back at a canter.
I squared off to defend my back garden
grabbed whatever I thought I might wield
at first, on my guard, as I entered the yard
I found she was hardly concealed...
And 'though she seemed alone in the garden
I soon found that I was mistaken
for, succinctly put- I was bound head to foot
and carried off, unhurt but shaken.
Griselda had built quite an army
it seems, in her time far away
for gremlins and trolls, from the caves to the knolls
were under her terrible sway.
They answered her orders directly
and smugly, she smiled and she smirked
a gleam in her eyes as she planned my demise
as her minions continued to work...
Heaving in stones from the quarry
they were piling them higher and higher
and my strength gave away as to my dismay
I saw they were building a pyre!
But Gregor'd escaped all their notice
as he'd hid 'neath the back garden shed
and despite his wee size, he would prove her demise
at his bellow, her company fled.
He used a cheap trick, an enchantment
that he bought from an old witch named Rue
and it seemed there were thousands (as far as the eye scanned)
of Gregors that came into view!
Her face was distorted with terror
and she promised that she'd stay away
and off like a blip- she jumped on a ship
and sailed to somewhere near Bombay.
No snow can ever fall without your memory
punishing and pushing me into a dark reverie.
Watching snow fall, I see your face, feel your touch
and fade into a tangled web of sensory rush
until I am bleak like snow when turned to mush.
Snow of bright, gleaming thick layers
reminds me of me when still truth spared.
Then, when snow browns with man’s grime,
I feel my heart bruises sharply combine.
Making love in a remote cabin should not
have happened, only the fire was not a lie.
Your deceiving words of love’s design
were words I believed as I gave my all to you.
By fire, I submitted, pliant and fully subdued.
As we lay entwined in love’s aftermath
you stabbed me with words that attacked.
As the fire cracked, my heart burned black.
You spoke of your wife, your still married life,
and confessed lying to get me in the sack.
Smugly, you shared a hope I was okay with that.
I could not speak, I felt only emotional smacks.
Fire was the only sound when you fell asleep
and a rage grew in me much to raw to keep.
How strange to watch myself from outside myself,
to see myself rendered into anger tremors
as I rolled you into the fire’s splendor.
I heard your screams muffled in fire’s temper
until you were reduced to ash and embers.
Born in the breath of woodsmoke and fire,
I learned early to love the art of falling.
Leaves tumble like poorly kept secrets,
trees strip down without shame -
modesty’s for summer, after all.
October hums with rebellion:
bonfires blaze, sunsets bleed,
and the wind, cheeky as ever,
slips its cold fingers into every undone button.
History rattles here -
200 years since Waterloo fell quiet,
suffragette echoes stomping in boots,
a reminder that not all noise is noise.
It’s a trickster wrapped in amber light,
half beauty, half bite,
where endings feel like beginnings
and ghosts pretend they’re just passing through.
They whisper, “You’re braver than the fall.”
And with each year, I’ve learned to ask,
Will I rise, no matter how hard I fall?
Can I burn and still remain whole?
These are the quiet prayers I carry -
for strength to keep standing when the world turns cold,
for light in the darkest corners,
and for the courage to blaze,
unashamed of the fire I carry.
Stitched from October’s fabric a
half twilight, half ember -
I walk between the brittle and the burning,
the quiet and the wild,
a child of autumn,
still falling,
still smugly aflame.
( A bit of drama in the garden last week)
The seed was scattered, and not long to wait,
a Blackbird was the first upon the scene,
moments later followed by its mate,
I could tell the former wasn't really keen.
It chased the female off across the grass,
a sharing bird it definitely was not,
Pigeons arrived, they couldn't let this pass
and started quickly gobbling up the lot.
Until a Magpie swooped upon the crowd
from left to right it jinked, chased them away,
to dine with such a bird was not allowed,
it smugly strutted, having won the day.
Just then, a blur of feathers from above
as bravely wading in on the attack,
unlikely was this foe, a Collared Dove
surprisingly, it drove the Magpie back.
Harassing the Magpie 'till it was gone,
leaving the field of battle with a squawk,
The combats all concluded, now just one-
but one was enough for the Sparrowhawk.
Do you want to have a baby?
I'll give you a definite maybe.
Babies can cry and scream so loud.
Three in one house can make a small crowd.
I hope I'm not clearly misunderstood,
just unsure I'm ready for fatherhood.
You and I may be old jalopies,
but we suffice - original copies.
We could be relaxing on the grass,
not changing diapers of liquid gas.
Wait, it's time for you to cop a plea
in what seems a tragic comedy.
I never knew, when I started kissing,
your birth control pills had been found missing.
It seems that your little pill pack
has been fully empty - pills, it does lack,
and it's an open secret on the block
that I've become a laughingstock,
and I suppose you're thinking, honey,
that this is seriously funny.
Nine months later, she said smugly,
it can't be yours, you're pretty ugly.
The man in the elevator standing there.
His chiselled face, blue eyes, dark hair, very handsome.
Holding breath, as lustful eyes have spied him
Just who is that striking man within reach?
I’m sure he knows, what affect he has on women.
How could he not? Tall, so good looking, well dressed,
And I bet he is ever so nice to talk to.
Smiling, as he watches his own reflection
God I am gorgeous; he thinks to himself.
As the elevator door slowly opens
Adjusts his stance, picking up his briefcase
He smugly takes one last reflective glance.
smugly standing atop
his pinnacle of conceit,
his false bravado masks his deceit.
he dared alone
to be the ruler of the firmament.
his swollen pride, he donned
like an armor
in a bright afternoon sun
and mocked shadows under his feet.
he's convinced himself
he's the conqueror
of all battles he fought.
his grand illusion complete,
or so he thought; seasons change
and towers constructed in air
cannot stand winter's fury.
gale force winds
strip his crass arrogance naked -
no diadem could spare him
from a looming storm
his manufactured glee eroded
by a cold harsh reality.
his ego disrobed
as he realized
how small of a man he is;
cut down to size
as he watched his empire crumble.
no longer who he once was,
but grateful for the stillness
it created.
The grocery store becomes a maze
the moment I walk in~
a senior-sized obstacle course
I never signed up for.
The top shelves taunt me first,
stacked with everything I actually need.
I stretch, I rise on tiptoe,
I perform a small, wobbly ballet~
only to watch the cereal box
remain smugly out of reach.
Then come the bottom shelves,
where the soda cartons lurk.
I squat like a cautious archaeologist,
praying my knees won’t file a complaint.
I tug at the twelve-pack~
it tugs back.
We negotiate.
Eventually, I win,
but only by calling it a team lift
between me and the Holy Spirit.
Carts whiz by like racecars,
children dart like squirrels,
and I weave through the aisles
with the grace of a retired gymnast
who misplaced her balance in 1998.
But somehow, I make it~
past the shelves, past the soda,
past the checkout line that moves
with the speed of continental drift.
And when I finally reach my car,
I feel triumphant.
Victorious.
Practically athletic.
Who needs a gym membership
when the grocery store
offers a full-body workout
and a spiritual lesson
in patience, perseverance,
and laughing at myself
every single time.