Best Talk About Poems
When metaphors play 'hide and seek,'
my shield is a veil nurturing premature petals.
Yet there are some words that become poems,
to help those who care to read
to interpret the alchemist mystery,
personifying personal alliterative angst.
The heart ponders...
What will abandon me first,
my trusted muse? Who reveals my truth
or my wallflower soul, which prevents
butterfly breaths - breathing their last sigh?
What am I,
but a pomegranate pebble,
oppressed by stones -
in a man's world, feeling like a boy.
Once, I planted two seeds with ultimate care,
but they no longer bloom for my atonement.
Yet, I still care for them from a distance,
soaking their roots with drops of blood.
Once, I found love,
so I formed into a bridge,
protecting her from raging torrents,
but I could not live up to expectations,
as turbulent waves crashed against my chest.
Now I'm crumbling.
Sometimes, I'm left alone upon an unknown path,
with only cloudy horizons above - but I keep wandering.
Hoping to be found.
Slowly, I lose a part of me,
but I'm inexperienced in
trying to be who you want me to be.
I'm tired from being devalued.
Maybe, I'm worthless,
simply useless, some what careless,
so throw your spears -
I no longer feel.
I won't tell.
I'll remain silent,
but my poetry will forever echo.
Simple Musing
An example for my current contest.
(I couldn't talk about it so I wrote a poem)
Predator
Heartbreak comes in many ways.
The first one will haunt me for all my days.
My every nightmare and dream has your face
to ignite my screams, my heart beat haste.
Time won't heal this shattered trust,
the lies you told of the future “us”.
You used your power and prominence,
used the pulpit as your lance.
You claim God's voice was your own,
“His” words from your lips like honeycomb.
Sweet to the ear, a seductive flow,
still just a child, I didn't know.
Just like a sick soap opera or Lifetime movie, you set your sights, began to groom me.
I feel so foolish and naive looking back …
at seventeen, innocent, easy to attack.
Like the lame and young ones trailing the herd, predators take the straying,easy kill first.
How patient you were, lying in wait.
You took careful steps as if I might escape. Sneaking up on me in plain sight
until your touch, familiar, I didn't fight. Spinning this elaborate fantasy, our destiny. Ordained by God, you made me believe.
Then you struck, like the viper you were,
after years of a patient petting, persistent purr. A velvet vice, an auspicious anchor,
held me captive in false love’s languor.
Then the poisonous venom began its work, you used me in ways that only hurt.
I was a willing, if deceived, participant…
so in love, no evil intent.
Then some wisdom from above,
in the form of family and out of love.
The truth so evident with blinders off,
some won't believe me, will only scoff.
Five years of his amorous attentions,
with promises of forever never failing to mention.
The patina of youth and vicious game of prey, his sick desires for me, began to fade.
You found a limping, more vulnerable gazelle, and knowing this my family tells.
Although I find it hard to trust,
my faith in God is deeper and thus,
He's used this pain to help me find
peace and truth, leaving the past behind.
For my faith is no longer in any man,
and gratefully, never will be again.
Justice on this earth is not guaranteed…
but from his wicked spell I am freed!
I can hear grandma’s voice now,
“she’s such a beautiful little girl…”
What was it about me that gave him attraction?
Only a sick old man could find sexual satisfaction-
Six years old was I when my innocence was stolen,
my essence once whole, then left in sheer fractions.
He was the prodigal man, the boy made of golden.
I can hear grandma’s voice now,
“what happened to my sweet granddaughter?”
From where did he learn such pleasurable abuse?
He was a monster at best, dense and obtuse-
I’ll never forget the first time he pinned me down,
I was so little and weak as I tried to refuse,
in solitude I wept, forever wearing a frown.
I can hear grandma’s voice now,
“she used to be such a good little girl…”
I turned nine and still held onto this harm in silence,
too young to realize the effects of his violence-
I was wounded on the inside and outside had scars,
turning into a sassy girl full of disrespect and defiance.
He would finish with me then go smoke his cigar.
I can hear grandma’s voice now,
“oh you rude girl, my son would never do that!”
She never listened to me as I carried this cross,
and losing my grandma became my greatest loss-
She turned her back on me, I never saw her again,
she used to love me, was my absolute best friend.
His harm broke us, and our relationship paid the cost.
I can hear my grandma say on her deathbed,
“sweet girl, I’m so sorry…for I too was a victim”
Why would she avoid my pain from his pleasure?
I guess she was threatened by him beyond measure-
Oh, I wish I could rip off his hands and throw them away,
my life should’ve been a gift, an undamaged treasure.
Now I live with the guilt and shame every single day.
I can hear the Lord say,
“my sweet child, forgiveness is the key,
rest assured in darkness hold onto me-
When your fear takes a turn for the worse,
I pray only My light you shall see,
always hold My hand and put Me first.
Let's talk about it contest
August 1, 2017
we're in a cafe and he's unsure if he can
finish his slice of CAKE, one of those
fondant numbers and so we've made an arrangement
which will allow me to consume half of it
but then, "dad, i actually think i can finish it."
i get a message from a friend asking how are the kids today
i reply like what i make of the french revolution;
it's too early to tell
Dear uncle, what can I say at the twilight of my life
about the things you did to me
About a time of my youth when I could barely talk,
let alone write poetry
We were family so I was told
as they gave away my bedroom
and accommodated you and your entire family
Backbone and boundaries words yet to be tasted
on a little girls silent muted lips...
I slept on a broken cot in the living room
with my cousin Nina
while you got to sleep in my soft bed.
I was the offspring of your wife's brother,
did that not mean anything to you ?
You pressed your old lips on hers
told her she tasted good
you made her weep
and cry, run away
and hide
Silent secrets festered
between you and I
You, an immigrant pedophile
who knew not the meaning of family
nor decency ...
Dear uncle,
You pressed my young lips with your salty ones
taking my innocence while mom lay on a hospital bed
miles away from home.
My other body guard, father and hero
was busy in the cellar,
funneling sweet wine to serve your bitter belly.
I tried to tell mom ages later beneath outstretched stars
but she said God spared her the knowledge
for she couldn't have handled the knowing, back then
as if it was all about her and not me.
Too bad God didn't spare that little girl uncle,
was she not worth it ? heh
At twelve years of age I picked up a pen
and I wrote about what I couldn't speak of
yes, I became a poet thanks to you !
I turned to verse like a hungry beast
with her tongue cut out.
As you lie in your grave,
do you remember the child in me?
do you recall the warm baths
you were denied access to ?
Thank God mom came home
and you and your entire family moved out
Do you remember that stone face girl with
the sepulcher mouth that said
that spoke with her eyes only, " keep out "
Do you remember me, Uncle G ?
Let's talk about money, honey
That sour flower, that power to devour
The corrupt disruption of consumption
Let's face the disgrace of that gilded tower
Let's concede when greed exceeds need
That green paper's vapor, that seductive speed
The addict's cruel fall into possession depression
The coin rules all, as the greater dictator
For this unjust trust, thank the banks
Who cajole your soul, in exchange for coal.
10/04/18
School didn’t teach me about human behaviour
if I had known the basics it would have been my saviour.
How could I anticipate those so different to myself
prepared to make the lowly moves that I would not have dealt
who don’t know honest competition
attacking from stealthy positions
branding negativity
on everyone they ever see
against a person unaware
talked about when they ain’t there
a rumour lie or story where
their reps destroyed out of thin air
The slanderously unarmed soul
who has no talent if truth be told
delivering tales that unfold
of someone bad of someone cold
feeding minds a narrative
some gossip to be parroted
of he or she and what they did
to make you judge the way they live
and while the people sit and listen
there is one thing they are missing
the person talking in their vision
seeing them for whom they isn’t
because liars talk they have to lie
they say it first do you know why?
To get it out ahead of time
they plant events into the mind
while truth has no such motivation
it’s dealing with the situation
not trying to win over the nation
like liars do in desperation.
Pay attention to the person talking not who they talk about
speak to the one they talk of and be sure to hear them out
the one who plays the hero plays the victim without doubt
they make others look negative in all they say and shout
Pay attention to the person talking not who they talk about
How dark the night, when the end came
and love vanished in a voiceless turbulent moment
when eyes pulled away, leaving a vacuum
as pain and sorrow blackened the skin of my heart
Allowing tears to fall and reverberate
in the recesses of my soul
with a thunderous throbbing depression
that sullied my world
leaving ragged roots of despair
that gorged themselves
on the passion of my soul's soil
Where footprints led to the open gate
where strings of unknown reasons
played on my heart
like the sound of a sad violin
calling my soul, seeking a melody of understanding
in a night of upheaval
that rushed toward me with melancholy tones
of misery
stripping away the joy of love
leaving a black sackcloth of ashes
that was plowed into my dead garden
of love
revealing crushed furrows of turbulent ground
where the roots of love once grew
and is now an empty windblown field
drenched in darkness, where nothing lives
but my grief-stricken memories of love
Things might just turn out alright...
Long as we own the ability to see through political "solutions" and recognize
propaganda.
Things might not be so bad...
With so many people waking up to see that following is not the only way.
AND
Ideology can be toxic.
Why not take back your mind, at such a dark turning point?
Or not, but do what it is that you need to do,
besides simply obey,
give up and say,
"Why have a brain when I can have ideology?
If in your gut, you know organized religion is a business
that is an insult to the gift of human free thinking...
DON'T BE GUILTED INTO DOING IT,
or become self selected for gullibility.
Things may still go sour if we...
adopt a religion that fits our lifestyle,
and suddenly,
BAM! We've got all the answers,
just refer to the catechisms,
to seek and destroy, and banish to hell, the non-believers.
Call them names if they do not convert to your way of living,
your way of thinking,
your way of happiness.
Refer to them as lowly atheists, Exibit A: "Who not to be."
But atheist, don't you dare whisper a bad word of the "good book",
written for man,
written by man,
or rather by invisible god,
no one has physically met.
I Say,
If you feel god is real, and
You love and need religion,
Do it Fluid like a Stonehenge Druid!
Have faith and walk with the Lord!
Please, please, do not judge those who do not choose to think as you do.
There are better things in life than arguing
politics and religion,
the two grandest forms of division in the world!
And there are two things you never talk about at work,
Religion and Politics.
----------------------------------------------good thing we aren't at work:)
Don’t Talk About It—Write About It
As a writer and a poet, sometimes people ask me how I
do, what I do, every day as I research themes and topics
for poems or prose works that I want to write about and
develop for potential publication in the future.
The “how I do” and the “what I do” with regard to my
everyday writing on any given theme or group of themes
are predicated on the active notion that I don’t, as a rule,
talk idly about people, topics or themes per se, rather I go
ahead and focus exactly on a certain theme or subject of
interest, and then I begin to write about it.
What’s the magic formula for doing all of this research
and active committed work associated with professional
writing? The answer can be summarized in two words:
Hard Work! If one is not willing to engage and to put the
effort and work into any certain writing endeavor, a true
quality writing product won’t be the result.
I write because I enjoy writing very much. Poetry is the
one literary undertaking that I like to do the most. I find
often that writing poetry has helped me to focus, and then
to write on given ideas, topics or themes more succinctly.
When a person sees a book of poetry that has, for example,
200 poems listed in it, just think of each poem, in essence,
as its very own story.
Concerning the infamous “Writer’s Block” syndrome, all
I can say is that a writer or any aspiring writer just needs
to keep working away at their various writing efforts and
never give up. Having the requisite skills and talent to be
an effective and interesting writer, poet, or novelist are a
given. Yet, one also needs a high degree of raw moxie and
a measure of commitment and steadfastness too, in order
to see any writing venture or product to its end point, and
especially toward eventual publication.
My final closing thought concerning the writing of poetry
and prose, and any other literary endeavors, in general, is:
Don’t Talk About It—Write About It!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
December 31, 2018 (Narrative)
Love is a very popular subject here on the Soup
It's the basis of much joy and happiness
Without love, we carry on with everyday tasks
Missing that someone to share our ups and downs
To revel and share in the good times
And to comfort each other in times of strife
Methinks that describes love very well
I've been very lucky in love
Most people end up loving one person all their lives
I've been fortunate to love two
My first wife Linda sadly passed away from breast cancer
At the very young age of fifty-nine
My present wife Cathie and I have been married
For thirteen years... how fortunate can one man be
My life has been a series of happy events
Believe me, I am definitely one of the lucky ones!
© Jack Ellison 2014
Schizo got my white man knowin’
What papa felt like bein’ black.
Mania got me actin’
like a strawberry
fiendin’ fo’ crack.
Got OCD and I cain’t get my hands clean
Passin’ out on my carpet
Because I’m high off my bleach
Spider crawlin’ past my head makin’ me
Panic
Anxiety attack ragin’ on and now I’m frantic
Nothin’ left but suicide to get rid of this pain
But, if I kill myself I’ll bring reproach on my God’s Name
Can’t even preach
What example do I show?
When people look at me
They have to ask
What could she possibly know?
Tired of the fight
But, I know if I let go…
I’ll never stop-
The curse of bipolar is that I’ll over-do everything
Wind up on skid row
Without a pen-ny
And some type of venereal disease
From having so many lovers
and Probably a bunch of kids
With none of them wanting sick crazy me for a mother
So I lock myself in my bedroom
And become a hermit
Write hate love poems on my laptop
And pretend I have wit
Dream of contact
But, have to refuse to be touched
Because even one look from a man is simply too much
And I’m out of control
I am only normal
I just want to make love
Sick of great sex
I just want to make love
I’m Crazy and Lonely for Love
CAN I DIE TONIGHT?
?
Andrea, brilliant, discerning in judgment, very original, and count on moral support.
10/6/2016
LET’S TALK ABOUT YOUR BUM
Let’s talk about your bum,
If you open it they will come.
Stand up to the big guys,
Pack a punch,
The quicker-picker-upper;
One for everyone.
Let’s talk about your bum.
Who wants a cold one?
The further you go the more
interesting it gets.
Give 110%.
Clean, dry, fresh, always,
Now that’s better;
There when you really need it.
Ride hard or go home.
We make cleaning cleaner,
The world’s your playground.
Let’s talk about your bum,
It’s amazing what you’re capable of,
You can do more,
Make more happen.
You can do anything,
Let’s do this,
It does a body good,
Notoriously good.
Let’s talk about your bum.
Why not grab some?
When you’re here you’re almost there.
It’s go time!
You’re richer than you think.
Let’s talk about your bum.
We are farmers, bum-da-dum
ba-bum-bum-bum.
We’re not comfortable until you are,
* NOTE: I cannot (and will not) take credit for any of the lines in this poem, they are all taglines from TV commercials; you probably recognized some of them. My only creative contribution was the order in which they appear. I hope you laugh at the absurdity as I did writing it.
Hard work and success go together,
As a human being, we are recognized with awards and honors,
But there are many creatures in the world,
Those who work very hard, never recognized, but achieve their goals.
The ants, with their tiny bodies and mighty strength,
Toil tirelessly, hoping they will never lose,
They carry burdens, marching in a line,
Their unwavering spirit, a divine inspiration.
The bees, gather nectar, a task they willingly bear,
Their hard work is not in vain, those who try never lose,
They build their hive with precision and care,
Their unity and diligence, a lesson we can share.
And amidst the forest, the mighty beavers reside,
Building dams and homes with unwavering pride.
Their hard work and perseverance, a testament true,
That with determination, there's nothing we can't do.
Failure is a challenge, accept it,
See what is missing and improve it,
Unless you succeed, give up your peaceful sleep,
Don’t run away from the battlefield of struggle,
There is no glory without doing something,
Those who try never lose.