She's done sitting back
and taking his abuse:
the physical,
the verbal,
the mental
the psychological;
Today is the day it all stops, period.
Oh, you better believe it....
She's done putting up
with all his gaslighting.
It's not all her in head.
She's been done wrong.
She's done being caged in
by fear of standing up
for herself.
She's done
with this-too-shall-pass dismissals.
She's done keeping quiet
so she creates no ripples.
She's done believing
her voice holds no weight.
She's done!
She's done!
She's done!
Stick a fork in her, she's through.
Yep, enough is enough!
He will be held accountable.
She's taking back
her POWER,
at last.
Cricket in the 70s was great
When the future was up to a World Series fate
And Rod Marsh was one of Kerry Packer’s men
To get better paid was their demand
When the Chappells, Doug Walters, Lenny Pascoe and friends
Returned to cricket properly with fulfilled demands
We saw Thommo and Lillee bowling down
With Rod Marsh crouching where the cherry was bound
In the record books there are 343 dismissals
Athletic catches to the bowlers missiles
The greatest number were catches made
With the crowd roaring and farewells to batsmen were bade
The record books show bowled Lillee caught Marsh
As the usual dismissal in an attack quite harsh
But now he is one for the ages in our memories grand
Forever in his baggy green with a beer in hand.
© Paul Warren Poetry
i wish
i could be a bird
owlish in my dismissals
giving chase to not one fleeting memory
while turning my gaze ahead
eyes and focus fixed
wings extended wide
winds lapping
upon my soaring spirit
a greater freedom remains elusively unknown
the time of your life —
is a lifetime spent within every moment
O' the fallen snow;
Mixed within temperatures bow;
They themselves shall enter in;
Deep amidst there is winter grins;
And unless they agree to submit;
From water to land commit
Ravagers all from breast to breast;
Tease the animals and forest birds that make nest;
Keepers sort polar ashes;
Horizontal glare dismissals clashes;
Brief ado present Ques;
Amidst the tulip flowers dew;
2/7/20
For STRAND no 670, any form, any theme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
what scarlet
names or named
dreams come to me
arrows passing flight
letters passing words
kisses directing hits
hits me again
moonbeams
slang
my
brutal
remaining stains
no stains
only white
washed clouds
fluffing down
spiralling
period
effect
lasso
mine
my
mind
these dazes
of love
above me
shove me
beyond
combat zones
letter ing dismissals
thermal zones
frozen thistles
thorn me in love
scalding
mutt harlot
what
scarlet
?
what scarlet
How oft must the Seemingly Blind witness the act of Pathetically Hidden Fascinations,
Seemingly Stolen Stares and, lest not forget,
the Ever-Quick Dismissals of Spilt Emotions with the onset of Guilt.
Surely the Blind would Blush for the facade leaves much to be...
No! Of course there is no room for Desire here! It is currently pursuing its own Lust.
The Seemingly-Blind left with the Gift of Front-Row-Seating.
Tiresome it is...
So very weary the Seemingly Blind Soul,
the Unpleasantness of Human-Nature thrust upon it…
so Heavy to bear.
How Bitter the taste of your Sweetly-Stained-Cruelty.
How Grief-Stricken the Silenced-Cries of Seemingly-Blind-Souls echo through your Cold, Dismissive and Annoyed… “love”...?
Self-Denial might be rife within you, but know this:
My Love Languishes within this Dismissive, Reward-Based love…
Your Passively Silent Torture…
Your… “love”…?
In dismissals we live,
In rejections we thrive
Life is not for the naïve
Failures are meant to revive;
To make you learn fast
So one day,
Glory would Arrive…
Don’t falter or Run away
When they put thorns in your way
When they push you aside
For one day,
Remember,
Glory would Arrive…
Why drown your heart?
Why expecting your demise?
Within tornadoes
And storms,
Didn’t you survive?
So one day,
Remember
Glory would Arrive
It was, perhaps, the perfect place to watch
the storm roll into the eastern boundaries.
Too far inland to be submerged, the swatch
of land was close enough for the fierce breeze.
Come night, the sky had already darkened
to black, hours before, and bright flashes
illuminated the landscape. Pretend
Lightening, there was no sound of crashes.
Cracks of limbs were muted by sheer whistles,
feral screams that echoed between buildings.
Inside, some TVs scrolled school dismissals
as more reflected candlelight bearings.
I observed the hurricane in delight;
honored to witness a peculiar sight.