In the vortex of a maelstrom, I was rudely thrown
drowning in turbulent waters for an error I bemoan,
a blunder of loving someone who chose to whittle
away at my heart until it became fragile and brittle
Bereft beyond the point of caring if I lived or died
My eyes were scarlet, burning from tears I'd cried
But they became transfixed, immutable on a fire stoked
for my normally tenuous demeanor had been provoked
I was a genteel lady, who demurely acquiesced to love
but it was time for me to throw down the gauntlet glove
I was chaffed by what had been just an interlude for him,
an escapade, a mere dalliance, a rascally romantic whim
I drew a rough sketch; in likeness of my vagabond swain
an abstract portrait, in Picasso's style, the face of my bane
Black eyes were hollow, blind orbs that would never see
that his trifling peccadillo tryst was a brutal betrayal to me
The painting was delivered as twelve bells pealed midnight
I watched as he unwrapped it, but carefully kept out of sight
A formidable opponent I had become to his knavish ways
In the moonlight his face turned pale; his eyes were glazed
DISAPPEARANCE
Light baptised my forsaken body
red whirling a glimmering ocean
Perseidon’s crystalline tears
drip-dropped into mine
manifesting oyster shells
Odysseus smiled blinking
compassion from diamond
rays of Arcturus
embalming my shoulders
with his terrible travels
Silent my soulmate disappeared
crawling onto an opposite bank
into fields of chaffed wheat
towards abyss black
She moulted into grains of rice
or maybe a ladybird’s swoon
floating between Venus wings
seeking her paintbrushes
cleaned and singing
I sought strawberry
yogurt
What else could
sorrow do ?
©GhairoDanielsPoetry
&Song2013
My friend and I were skating in a rink.
He said, "Can we play a different sport?"
It was fun, but my friend tended to sink.
"Of course," I said, he smiled for my support.
He asked again, "Where else can we play sport?"
We played basketball, crowd around us chaffed.
My friend is a midget, that's why he gaffed.
O brother, they closed the brothel!
Beer and barmaid breath is closed.
Banter with corsets and silk stockings
withheld - the downy frown of ‘stache.
The itch of a cattle drive — the rawhide
chaffed and fettered,
all the while driven by unholy sex.
O brother, a frightful fight broke out
like measles planted from head to toe.
when you fantasized her soft skin,
her tongue lash —all those miles and miles -
the special one you call Maisy,
but boards like bandaids hammered
into place. No neon sign to contemplate.
You bring yourself back home, poor soul,
to your hot and bothered bride. There
you find the ride you’d forgotten.
You smile surprised. Only problem is
she makes you bathe and shave,
won’t allow you that chew or that beer.
O brother, they closed the brothel!
2/23/2021
Contest: They Closed the Brothel
Sponsor: Kai Neumann
LET ME GET THROUGH THE DAY
Let me get through the day… oh yeah… oh yeah…
by letting my mind go astray… oh yeah …oh yeah…
since I cannot go out and play
and feel my freedom taken away… oh … oh...
Feeling down with no headway
Feeling the blues, I cannot even downplay… oh …oh…
How I wish I can hide away… oh yeah… oh yeah…
from these constraints to obey… oh yeah… oh yeah…
NOTE: Here we go again with the lock down
Here I am feeling chaffed again...
Need to cheer myself up... with this poem/song
You can sing this with John Lennon's
''Whatever Gets You Through The Night"
I'm an avid fan of his and we share the
same birthday along with his son, Sean
and a couple of my friends .....
His face is scruffy and he smiles,
Trevor has been gone a while
He’s been reported missing for days,
I peer and longingly anxiously to play.
Tears drain down swollen chaffed cheeks,
Lying in my bed there is no relief.
His face was smug and warm but he coyly smiled,
Trevor has stolen his freedom awhile
One day my Trevor may weep as I do,
For he loved freely over hills and was lost,
I dream at this computer alone and must cry,
Missing Trevor, my cherished lost guy.
the gun shoots
runners off
one step two step
running with the stride like no other
it passes the 10k mark
my mind is daft
my body chaffed and burnt
at 13 miles and I get a second wind
I am indulging in what I do
fatigue is not an option,
20th mile I'm sore and wreaked
with my conscience I endure
finally, I can see the finish
I cross the line and collapse
that's me sorted
my time here is done
Hungry taste of wanderlust,
Roams within this flesh,
Can’t stop now, have to go on—
I haven’t seen it yet.
Where I stop next, I don’t know
Can’t even make a prediction,
Just something new before my eyes
Sating this addiction.
Homes I knew and left behind,
Were only in my mind,
The spirit chaffed, burned to leave
The body bided time.
Don’t know if they live or breath,
The family I once had,
Lovers, children, fade away
I was never a great dad.
Can’t say why I wander on,
What I think I’ll find,
After twenty years I’ve seen it all,
But can’t leave this behind.
Another truck-stop diner here,
Another waitress in bed,
Tomorrow she’ll be far behind,
To her I will be dead.
I remember when this was fresh,
All that was on my mind,
When I was young and knew it all,
And had nothing but time.
The youth is gone by the wayside,
But the impulse still remains,
A forty-something wanderer,
With nothing to his name.
My feet they ache, my back is strained
My reason cries to stop,
Why is it that the drives me on?
Why can I not block,
The urge to go ‘round the next bend,
To trudge on through the cold,
I rue the day God gave to me,
This cursed vagabond soul.
Spirit Passing
Even in the bitter of the darkest winter
When our hearts feel cold as river stones,
And our tears are but ice fields,
When we feel certain that sweet summer winds
Will never visit our chaffed souls again,
We must remember, and always know,
That beneath even the coldest, deep frozen snow,
Sweet summer grass still lays green,
And spring flowers wait to grow.
And this dormant frozen season will pass.
So it is with the passing of souls.
One cannot live until another has gone.
Our hearts feel frozen and life stands still.
But the warm spirit of that passing soul
Will be the warm summer winds
That will melt our winter hearts,
And our melted tears will give life
To the spring flowers bloom.
Her yellowed eyes weren't blinking,
despite so very many crawling flies,
seen to be covering her stilled face,
nor did she hear the fearful cries,
of the many other children around her,
as they all lay weak and forlorn,
and we all knew that many more voices,
would be stilled before the new day's dawn.
Those swollen bellies of oedema, cruelly deceive the eye,
malnourished as they are, yet still so very rotund,
a mean trick upon those who have so little protein,
their stick thin legs and arms lying limp and moribund.
Meanwhile back in our big cities, the bins bulge too,
with waste food that would have saved lives in the right place,
and people are dying with obesely swollen bellies and chaffed thighs,
would they not have wished they had instead, fed some distant face?
Maybe in the future, will we learn to balance all we do,
and let all the world know we are but one human race,
ready to spend less on the baubles that the ad men push so hard,
as a new day's dawn for all would be a gift of grace...
©Rhumour
November 4th 2010
Edited September 2nd 2012
Is it just that I seize the throe of your peer's pluck?
I, your most faithful servant come calmly into
your womb of beauty, only to be chaffed by the lack
of it's current.
Is it I, that makes the flower wither?
I have broken such before,
under heavy moons I thought
not worth the weight of ponder.
My young heart, defeated by its own selfishness.
Will your anger be my penance for the sins
of nights spent without what I have been so
certain was to be my salvation?
Hell is surely your fury,
for nothing has ever been
as arduous as the slip of
our comfort.
And yet, I cannot let it fall, not this.
Not us.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
after years of hardened days..
and weary night's...
my hands are chaffed and sore...
the water runs straight thro my aching bones..
this goldrush seemed a easy game..
then yesterday i hit the mother lode...
today i'm looking down in awe...
in my hands my golden ore...
ostentatious..
not a chance...
you are the real mccoy..
not fools gold...
a solid heart of gold...
your glittering in my eyes..
into a sun soaked honeycombed sky..
your a rush fresh from the river...
the changing of the season...
crashing headlong into my life..
my hibernation's ended..
more nuggets gather in my pan..
I can't believe my fortune...
there glittering, sparkling..
shinning bright...
their dancing in the light...
I see a future growing..
horizons glowing...
my thought's are now your mine..
and I am yours..
we should not waste this chance.............
Harsh! The asphalt sac circumscribes my spirit
drowning the spectacle of sapphire ambiance
That whirls a blue crush over my suntanned face,
whose temples are rippling with shimmering grin
And ,merry bustling the spontaneous chills smothering
my qua-spirits yet spray a fiery furnace of detesting
Scandinavian epidermal whimpering over my incongruous
antics with the talismanic chemist ritualistically rebirthing
my vexed spirit chaffed away with enduring rejection of
a taciturn corps that writhed aggravatingly for it dresses
a being that is obvious of a race,say human identity....
A chill wind blows..
Cutting thro our bones...
We shake and quiver....
Even huskies stand and shiver....
We huddle in the corners...
Our heads are cold..
Freezing cold...
My thumbs are turning red...
Our feet are numb...
Are they dead?....
That chill wind blows...
showers us with stiffness...
Our heads and bodies..
Useless....
Freezing standing still...
No will...........
That cold will kill....
Our teeth are chattering...
Rattling...
My nose is turning blue...
Our cheeks are reddened..
Looking sore...
Lips are soft no more...
So chaffed and blistered..
So very..
very sore...
The iceman comes and strips
us to the bone....
So chilled.....
That numbing coldness...
You are no friend of mine...
So nice of you to mention
from your lofty Bully Pulpit
the bravery and sacrifice
of honor driven men.
Spewing verbose platitudes
that smell of self inclusion,
when pack straps, boots, and pistol belts
have never chaffed your skin.
The microphone before you there
will magnify your ego;
with bold, practiced inflection
you'll dispense your puffery.
Styled and dyed, your hair was
never sweat or helmet flattened,
your suit is by Brooks Brothers
and your tie is by committee.
You segregate your audience
and know them before speaking,
a patriot for veterans,
fear monger for the weak.
Quote the bible for the clergy;
they want to hear you pray,
and praise the second amendment
when you address the N. R. A.
Tell the minions "God will guide you,"
keep in step the righteous;
and rants against "entitlements"
plays well in wealthy homes.
Your conjured Muslim bogey men
sell billion dollar bombers;
while at the local high school
there's a bake sale to buy books.
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