Long Backhand Poems
Long Backhand Poems. Below are the most popular long Backhand by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Backhand poems by poem length and keyword.
African-American and abusive, my late step-dad
was a reverse racist:
an army sergeant; a Vietnam vet; and, a backhand,
face-hitting sadist.
I once bemoaned that I was a white child
(as if it were my fault!?)
and that he was black and resentful of me.
So, once in reckless revolt
against his ongoing abuse,
I rebelled under my breath
and uttered the "n" word at him
(so he beat me nearly to death).
Bruised, I never uttered that word again;
then mom and he divorced
as I grew older (which freed us at last!):
now unrivaled (with no remorse),
I suddenly was the man of the house; and life
for us seemed less stormy.
For the first time in years we lived without abuse;
and, at last, we were a family.
Then I got religion and met God;
and gave myself to Christ.
It was the best thing I ever did!
Born again, I thus was sufficed.
So the scars of my step-dad's abuse which
for years I had repressed
began to heal and disappear; and so I became
less and less oppressed.
Now old, my erstwhile step-dad developed
advanced swelling of the lung;
I had not forgiven him yet (back when
I was still angry and young).
Not yet able to forgive him for the abuse that
made our lives so unbearably grim,
I nevertheless still realized that the weight
of still having hatred for him
was far worse than my pain. I recognized
that in life we all transgress
and come short of God's glory: so, moved by
His grace and forgiveness,
I made the right choice to forgive him;
for me a daily, ongoing process,
I at last began to let go of the anger
and truly begin to move past the mess
that was my step-dad's legacy to me. Also, I
began to forgive God;
for He was not to blame for him (whose own
father, too, did not spare the rod).
Still, tho' I had chosen to forgive (him) and let go,
he was unmoved and unchanged as ever:
but I, however, realized that what truly mattered
was that forgiveness set me free forever!
When at last he died, I had already completely
let go (so that he was forgiven).
Now I can only ask of God whether my step-dad
was changed from his glimpse of heaven?
As the sun sets
and the twilight comes out,
as the birds and squrriels are no where in sight.
As the whores and pimps sit on street corners,
waiting for street lights to turn from green to red.
As cadillacs stop and roll their windows down.
I can her the faint cry deep in the darkness,
of dirty gutters and dark, dead end alleyways,
I hear the faint tears fall and hit concrete pavement.
I feel the faint cries of whores,
I hear the sound of backhand hitting face
and brused tissue and broken noses are everywhere.
And the somber tears fall onto pillow cases,
and white motel bedsheets run red with blood
and cheap Italian wine.
And you can her the poet over the radio,
reading his own work for the one millionth time
and you can hear his soul slowly wanting to die.
He drowns himself in smoke and alcohol
the whore takes her pay, or spends a night in a jail cell,
the pimp nowhere to be found,
with a shiny blade stuck deep in his gut.
And the somber tears fall gently on the concrete pavement,
the floors of a jail cell,
tears on the pillow case and tears on a lonesome stage.
Tears never present, but are seen by many,
pain aches and pain takes away,
and I pour one more drink for the whore.
She takes me away,
and I caught her salty, somber tear,
and she crawled into my warm embrace.
I was the one who stuck the blade in the gut of that pimp,
who broke her nose and made her bleed,
with a cowardess and souless backhand.
I walk into the moonlight,
hearing the somber tears all around me,
crash violently to the concrete pavement.
The Earth rumbles and erupts with these tears,
that are shead for fellow Men, and Women and Children,
but we all look at ourselves and smile.
Happy we don't pay rent,
happy we don't have cancer,
happy we aren't six feet under;
But we still all cry,
Why?
Somber tears all fall in one big wave
crashing violently on the concrete pavement.
Now the red light turns green,
and the traffic moves along,
the whore is still at her corner,
the pimp still with the blade in his gut.
Every poem you write, a universe (and just your creation)
Yet somehow I’m free there to follow my dreams
And this freedom you give (child of imagination)
Reflected back to you by my mirror of being,
Thunder flashing in canyons of our conjoined lives.
How simple it is to love one you believe loves you,
But such love is a straw basket whose unrefined strength
Only retards the loss of life’s blood from the trembling corpse
Already near death, ecstatically skewered with cupid’s arrows,
Its coarse weave simply tinted red by life it can’t contain.
My loving you is not about assigning numbers to your beauty
Or assessing our progeny’s probable health
In the mysterious but fearful symmetry of your smile.
Not about money you’ll earn in time that spares me
The stress of being a sole provider without backup,
Nor can it be discerned in how fast you run the mile,
Or the quality of your game changing backhand shots,
Or lobs passing over the heads of your competitors,
One can tell that they know they are beaten,
But remain mystified as to just how it happened.
I know we will still love each other when we are old.
Your unending purpose, the gift that keeps giving,
My love’s not a welcoming basket of fruit, jam and nuts.
Loving you is the acceptance of your full potential,
Into the universe that is my space and time.
Knowing love’s yours… not a prayer to Mars!
Knowing love’s yours is my heart given fair,
And seeing that love rests on path that you follow,
Well that, and the blush that soft comes to cheek hollow…
Slowly, lips teasing, as I kiss you there.
Where is the proof love is written in stars?
Where is the certainty Church knows the way?
The genius of love is in truth above sorrow,
In loving the woman that you are tomorrow,
Just like I love the child you are today.
Brian Johnston
August 15, 2014
TEN MINUTES THAT DIDN’T SHAKE THE WORLD
They seemed to talk only in metaphor or simile
And in what they call stream-of-consciousness -
These two young women in the café overheard yesterday -
About something boring to the point of unconsciousness;
And a small athlete called Richard something-or-other
Although they referred to him colloquially as Little Dick.
Maybe he was a friend-with-problems of their mother:
They spoke of age, alcohol, hormones, and bad technique.
Literary comparisons about throwing a raw sausage into a train tunnel backhand;
Jokes about stifling a yawn, making it look like open-mouth osculation;
Counting ceiling tiles in rhythm: ninety seven, ninety eight, ninety nine, change hands;
Oxymoron, bathos and pathos were all used in their discussion.
Diversions (like trying to recall the cost in the grocery store of small shrimp,
Or wondering if your contact lens has slipped or are you just sleepy-tired )
Didn’t help. They said Dick’s performance was badly timed and as well as rather limp
(Must remember to have the car’s weak battery charged before it’s retired.)
His sport may have been with aircraft in flight
But his free-fall diving ended when he pulled his string too soon,
She said, like a New Year’s rocket launched before midnight ,
He opened his champagne bottle at 8 am, before the speech at noon.
Perhaps a racehorse was involved, but as far as I could gather ,
A very small racehorse which burst away from the start line too early
And arrived at the first fence in a lather
And, she said, that’s not designed to make my toes curly.
They obviously found his performance confusing
And indeed, by all accounts rather supine.
However, his efforts seem to have been amusing
And at least it gave the girls literary opportunities to shine
Every time I pick up a pen
I think failure.
I think
addicted to a blade
shackled to a bottle
captivated by little pills
that hold my sanity in their capsules,
but today I want to write
strength.
I want to write
beautiful.
I want to write
Go ahead and try me again.
God made me more than a conqueror.
Because if dependence upon a blade
makes me weak,
I wonder
how I ever had the strength
to get up off my knees
at the age of five
when all I wanted to do
was lay down and die.
I’m writing courage
because even though he defiled my body
I survived.
I’m sick of writing
how much I hate what I’ve become
sick of blaming myself
for the abominations
that you and I performed.
I forget…
was it me or was it you?
Did I poison your youth, too?
Did I carve regret into your skin
when you were just a little kid?
Regardless,
today I carve perfection
because that’s what shows in my reflection.
I’ll trade you shoes
but won’t trade scars
because most are written on my heart
and not for one second
do you deserve to have
what brought me through this pain.
I hope the piece you stole from me
dances on your grave.
It must have been those bottles
that ruined me, right?
Not those visits I received so many times
during the night?
But if finding escape through a drink
makes me distorted,
I wonder
how I ever managed to turn
perverted kisses
into defiance
and taboo touches
into faith
that one day,
not I, but God,
would condemn you to your fate.
I’m writing forgive
so I can look at you and know
that I am the better man.
I’m writing confidence
so the next one of you that comes along
will be meeting my backhand.
The Apple of His Eyes
reflected in the pond, the fruit
held precious in the lady’s hand.
polished by mistake; the loot
gathered with a serpentine backhand.
the limbs of oz took hold, as
the man held out his unwise hand.
the cleaved, in juicy bite pizazz,
forsook their love, served up bland.
reflected in the mirror, the duo’s tears
shattered their perfect life, untouched.
day after day, the wrinkles rage; fears
of losing one another; their hearts’ clutched.
discovery of their nakedness, a shock.
they tried to cover up with leaves of fig;
not good enough. Like a bomb, time’s ticktock.
God slaughtered, clothed them with a sacrifice, not a sprig.
apple looked so luscious, and to have knowledge
seemed so precious; Adam and Eve drew a curtain
between themselves and the Creator (his foreknowledge).
Every other fruit, not denied; with a bite death was certain.
Indeed, their eyes were opened, to shame, shamelessly.
Terror of the darkness, made their pupils expand.
But they couldn’t take paradise back. Carelessly
they acted recklessly, now all generations in bad land.
Oh, but the LOVE of GOD, all seeds are the apple
of His eyes. We don’t understand the suffering.
Whys in abundance, feeling sorry for ourselves chapel.
All along a plan - of scourge, betrayal, and crucified buffering.
To justify, to mediate, to keep us from the Father’s wrath,
the Son of Man, descended from heaven; a babe in flesh.
Look at the bronze snake on the tree, the sign, His path.
Healing symbolized, realized by the final sacrifice thresh.
I want to lead you to safety like Harriet Tubman,
While we are on our way,
I want to stop traffic like Garrett Morgan,
Before we get there,
I want to right all wrongs like Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall,
While we are here I want to ensure that our minds and spirits are in the
right place and then we will get our hearts pumping like Dr. Daniel Hale Williams,
So that we can run through fields of gold like Jesse and Wilma,
And dance to the beat of a thousand drums like Katherine
Dunham and Josephine Baker,
I want to be the first up to bat like Jackie and Hank,
I want to resound through your ears and your memory bank,
Like Mahalia, Marion and Billie,
I want to fight battles like Muhammad and Joe,
I want to take a stand so that others may sit in comfort,
Like Ida and Rosa,
I want to give of my time, life, heart, mind, body and soul so that future generations
won't have to sit in the dark and sit on the sidelines like
Martin and Malcolm,
I want to soar through the bluest of skies like the
courageous Tuskegee airmen and Dr. Mae Jemison,
I want to be the first beauty you recognize like Vanessa Williams,
I want to undermine and backhand stereotypes like Althea, Venus
and Serena Williams,
I want to paint broad presidential brush strokes of the
the First Lady and her beau with hues of justice like Simmie
I want to act like kings and queens like Harry,
Sidney, Lena and Cicely,
I want to live on through the pages of your memory,
Like Maya, Zora, Lorraine, Langston and James,
can't you see?
I guess she wasn’t good enough for that little man.
When my parents were having words,
my father would give my mother the back of his hand.
But it’s not with her husband my mother wanted to fight.
She knew, he was listening to his mother
who always thought she was right?
I guess she wasn’t good enough for that little man.
But I don’t know, backhanding my mother
may not have been part of my grandmother plan.
But what happen the next time,
made me my mother’s number one fan.
Now I was too young to witness this.
My mother told me about its years later.
She even showed me the clipping from the newspaper.
She was ironing his shirts for work one day
and they were having words their same old way.
He turned to backhand her like he would usually do.
But she grabbed his hand before he could follow through.
She... Ironed a wrinkle on his shoulder
and another one on his chest,
manage to get his mid-section as he hollered and professed.
He tried to get away, but stumbled and fell.
It’s a good thing he found religion, because he sure caught hell.
The police were called, and a newspaper reporter made it there too.
She explained to them both, in defending herself.
She did what a woman in her position had to do.
I had to kick his behined and his ego too!
oh, and he’s going to need some help removing my shoe.
I changed my husband’s attitude with an iron,
He is not a man! No husband of mine!
And that’s why I put my foot where the sun doesn’t shine.
Blank, another blank confession
Is it really a confession?
This cop has a hint of doubt in his eyes
It’s not hard to tell
I’ve seen this expression in the face of my friends
I guess I’ve never really been the type to be figured out
Not since my father… (Sigh) what of my father…
Forget I said anything
Mike, more like dink ha-ha
I only joke; he’s a good friend of mine though it’s only been a short time
I’ve tried to keep him out of harm’s way along with his sister, Marie
But the more I try to protect them
The more I condemn them to pain, condemn them to suffer
At the hands of their emotions
At the backhand of a drug dealer who never really knew how to defend himself
Cause now he receives the work of a slave
First, under his father’s watch and now under his brother’s
But I admit, they both should share a prison cell like they shared meth
They poisoned a potential girlfriend, the dear sister of my good friend
Something I could never forgive but don’t forgive me
Just have pity on me
I’m not a common criminal, just an uncommon vigilante
I’ve been on the run for years
Escaping my past only because I can still feel the sting of hurt
Feel the sting of my past constantly haunting me
Everywhere I go; it’s the same old story…
I wonder how many people have I hurt
I wonder how many lives have I improved
I wonder how many people miss me
I wonder how many people are trying to contact me…
I wonder…I wonder if my father is alright
Usually I make love to my pad with words and my pen craves me
Well this is Jason Voorhees combined with slim shady
I'm carving my words on the page with a Machete that Jason used for killing
I stencil around a hockey mask, and rhyme inside of it as I'm truth spilling
They want me to dress it up, in hopes I don't say anything too revealing
Well you can sit and cry while I speak my mind, I'm happy to be the new Villain
I'm the Bipolar psychotic mad man
Going against me is a bad plan
Give me the world, and that's what I'll hand back
But so many have let me down, they deserve a backhand
I kill my rhymes and turn my poetry into a Massacre
I'm driving on the road to recovery and don't need a passenger
I'll switch it up for the ladies and talk about kissing their necks like I'm Dracula
But I'm just having fun with crazy rhymes here, I'm not trying to make it soppy and Drake it
But If everybody loves Raymond, and Everybody hates Chris
I guess I must be in between
Because Men hate, But I'm in women's dreams
"I can't believe he said that" let's judge him so hard
I've learned to smile because a lot of females love my broke heart
Bipolar mixed with anxiety and depression I'm finally getting the madness working
Life changes shape more often than Kylie Jenner when she visits her plastic surgeon
"Oh my god, what's this nonsense he's writing, he's definitely not a poet",
I don't know what I was thinking when I wrote this