Brusque Poems

the piano tuner

The piano tuner

there used to be a greengrocer on the ground floor
except for potatoes, there was not much call for 
another vegetable, the shop closed a piano tuner rented
the space and partly white-washed the windows
he didn't like to be seen by passers-by 
I sat on the gate into our yard pretending to be a cowboy 
when he asked me to help him in the shop, yes, I was glad 
to help got boring being a cowboy
He sat me on a piano stool, opened up my fly, began
playing with my innocent , with his right hand he
wanked himself, I was too petrified in fear I didn't
run away; when he ejaculated, he dried himself with a hanky
in his pocket and, in a brusque manner, told me to leave
Outside, it took me a while to realize this man was a pig
but I was too ashamed to tell anyone and instead went
up to our flat opened a book by Robert Louis Stevenson
and began reading about islands and bright light

The Gulf

To visit the Gulf of America,
In case you get the notion,
You might fly over what’s now called
The Mar-a-Lago Ocean.

Be sure to click your seatbelt,
For when using this portation,
(The “trans” has been removed)
You’ll pass a bright red once-great nation.

Get your brand-new passports ready
For the agents are quite brusque
And you might just get deported
To a planet now named Musk.

What once was Mars is filled with
Crowds of migrants (oh, such noise!),
Lining up to use the bathrooms
Clearly labeled Girls or Boys.

There’s a huge arena filled with
Those with polio or mumps,
For there are no more vaccines,
Which Junior argued were for chumps.

While back on earth, the military
(Minus gays and gals)
Is patrolling Mar-a-Gaza,
Filled with Donald’s kiss-ass pals.

And in Congress, the Republicans,
With joyfulness, cavort,
Knowing that, no matter what,
They’ll have the backing of the Court.

For those of us remaining,
We can mutually mope
Or reclaim the Gulf of Mexico,
With just a thread of hope.

Elon Musk

Elon Musk:
many people say he is brash and brusque;
and, to be honest, he kinda gives me the creeps
when I think about some of the company he keeps.

honest Harold

Harold was all bluff and guff
brusque and rough
his words sometimes pinched cheeks too hard
with his honest plain Tennessee talk
Some thought he was rude
he had no filter
he was abrupt
but not corrupt
a few of us appreciated his honesty

In Marked Territory

The ruler of his kingdom
He designates the lines
The pieces that belong to him
His subjects and their lives 

He rules with domination
His disciples are but fools
This powerful head of state 
Oversees and overrules 

His commanding reign of tyranny
A symptom of his fear
That the truth of his own worthiness 
Seep through his brusque veneer 

Deep within marked territory 
A little boy survives
A little boy who measures worth
On the ability to rule lives

strawberry autumn

plump red strawberries
the kind we knew last red dusk
when time inched by brusque

garnet stars flash on
scarlet leaves and cardinals
mars phenomenal

crimson dragonflies
when fruitful days are going
true colors showing

Blamed and Shamed

 “When you’re blamed and shamed for something you didn’t do, 
remember the one who looks out for you, He knows the truth”
Long ago when I was in junior school
I was made to look a ludicrous fool
A note was passed around, from desk to desk
Guess who got the blame when it came to rest.

It was me of course, teacher called me out
I got the blame for handing the note out
The culprit never owned up, he or she
And no one at all came forward for me.

The note said that so and so loved someone 
The names on the note from mind have long gone 
Deep down I knew that teacher disliked me
It was how she spoke to me nastily.

Too shy to say what I needed to say
On that horrid embarrassing school day
Not one classmate spoke up in my defence
The instigator had no penitence.

That teacher picked on me for any thing
She didn't care how much her brusque words could sting
So I was tarnished with the blame and shame
If only I had that time back again.

Teachers are sure to be fully aware
Some pupils are in need of tender care
Living their lives already traumatised 
Needing love and not to be stigmatised.

Rain Came

A Summer rain came,
heads ducked,
hoods, hats and umbrellas
transformed into helmets.
all walked hunched below raindrops,
all looked only at the ground.

One little girl, dark hair flowing,
looked up,
loving the rain on her face,
lips and eyes smiling,
she skipped and jumped,
in the puddles
just because she could.

Just because he could,
a man's brusque hand
dragged her away,
from her play.

A thin mouth scold's her,
the child's head droops,
a simple joy
dimming in her eyes.

Undone

He's left me. I'm coming undone -
like linen on a spinning wheel
much in need of still being spun.
Half-cloth, I'm feeling unreal.

In need of completion, I'm lost.
He's left me. I'm coming undone.
as if to brusque winds I've been tossed.
i seek a sweet breeze. There are none.

His touch, like the warmth of the sun,
is gone. Only blackness i see.
He's left me. I'm coming undone.
Dark waters are swallowing me.

He gave me no cause for mistrust.
Vibrant was i when we'd begun.
But now I am turning to dust.
He’s left me. I’m coming undone.

Sir Gawain

With the might of nine men
And with his head full of red hair
His brusque fashion and his acumen
He carved his place at the King's fair

There was only one other
To whom he looked with honor
Always by his side, facing danger
Their rhythm together was a marvel

The fate's fickle motions
Caused an abrupt end to their notions
Power of friendship wasn't able
To prevent the tragedy's closure

Braying like an injured animal
He searched his injury's satisfaction
Facing his brothers' annihilator
He continued relentlessly even in failure

The Lewd Dude

There was a man who searched for the oasis
But was lacking in the social graces
He’d splash on some musk
But then acted brusque
By looking for love in all the thong places

Cascading Seasons

Guaranteed to make us smile-
our new Spring comes every year;
its magic brings a warmer, brighter Sun- 
as snow begins to melt and seedlings sprout
their fresh green leaves with blossoms to unfold.
Later, Summer takes Spring's reign-
her brush paints scenes verdant green,
and blossoms open wide in colors splashed
against lush lawns, while all the sprawling trees-
their branches filled with leaves, embrace blue skies.
Summer soon starts long goodbyes
while the Fall's brisk days come through
to chill the plants as leaves will fade and dry
from deep, dark green- to orange, red, and gold.
Weeks pass, and thoughts are turned to harvest time.
To crown year-end, Winter comes-
brusque, strong winds sweep Fall's debris
to blur the bleak, bare trees and ashen grass.
But, snow repaints these scenes with pure delight;
grand shawls of white safeguard our sleeping Spring.
Seasons cascade, one by one;
merge, adjust- complete one year!

When Doves Cry

Cooling off in falling months, approaching dusk.
Coordinated chill and quilting of snow, brusque.
Cooking lots of soup, beating down dough,
as the wind whoops on a weeping willow.

The sky blue sheets aired out on the clothesline.
Coordinates of beauty in her decline.
Cooties shots on the medical menu…sigh.
Cooperation of dirge, the woe-filled cry.

Co-occurence of life and absence of fog
on the handheld mirror, down by the bog.
Cookout of fried boughs and its vestment.
This particular parish was not a good investment.

Autumn’s turning down the soil - leaves
storm in turmoil, slowing down what it believes.
The coos of despair…her ring rolls off finger.
Her dreams of love no longer linger.

Cool when Autumn clashes with Winter
and the clash of letters are placed by printer.
The clouds are snow white, they get the scoop.
Doves cry and hover - eyes droop.

Two Ravens

Two ravens in the summer dusk
Were, back and forth, debating
From two phone poles, loud and brusque
They kept deliberating

When one gave their rebuttal
The other answered back
But far be it from the kettle
To call the raven black

And while I stood observing
They looked at me askance
A creature undeserving
Of a simple sideways glance

On this one thing they did agree
Those two birds of a feather
And, mocking all humanity
They flew away together.

Under Wraps

The waiter: short, surly and brusque;
in the air, hung a slight scent of musk.
Natasha’s Cantina:
with Masa Harina,
crime’s perfection, wrapped in a cornhusk.

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I promise I won't do another tamale

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