Long Begrudgingly Poems
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Ache—
Let it sink
Deep
With quiet and unfathomable rage, every word shown
Black ink, black intent,
Yeah, she was done
The black nail polish on her nails chipping
Stupid, cheap crap…
The color black burned through her soul,
Giving her slight satisfaction in her furious state of mind
Always angry
Always sad, and hollow
She wanted desperately to get back at the wretch
Because of him, she wished she never existed
Lying there cold,
Stark-naked on the bathroom floor…
Standing outside the chipped, wooden door
He wanted more
Waiting to feel her flesh upon his own
The demon…
The monster…
You’ve heard the tale
It’s nothing new
Hearing him breath heavily,
Listening, his ears pounding with his heart
A beast awaiting his prey
Cornering her, despairing her
Nose pouring forth snot and blood
He had hit her very hard,
And there was surely more to come
But she had to resist the monster.
She just had to
Glancing at the boarded window in agony and despair,
No one would ever know and there was no one to tell
He’s a good man…
It’s her who’s the bad one
God is mad at her…not him
It’s always that way
Her fists slammed on her desk
After it all, he was coming back for her
She kept telling herself he was going to forget
He was going to leave her alone,
But he soon would be back for more,
Just like the old days
He didn’t give a damn about the ache she endures every day of her miserable life
In a frenzied fury,
She tore up the paper with the short poem on it
He would never feel the ache…
It would never seep through his marrow
Her phone rang loudly, startling her
She let it ring three times and then begrudgingly answered it.
“What?” She spat, clenching her teeth in irritation.
“It’s Mr. Rickman. We are ready to see you in.”
She gulped. The time was upon her. “Now?”
“Yes, of course. Everything’s going to be alright”
She hung up the phone.
She put on her darkest of shirts
She slipped on her black, studded sweater and her spiked collar
Black boots
Black gloves without the fingers
Black skinny jeans
She wanted EVERYTHING to be black today.
From the depths to the shore,
From birth to death,
There is always something more.
More hopes,
More desires—
We are never satisfied, neither at the start nor at the end.
The rules of boundaries are often scattered,
Our breath is bound to life,
Our breath is bound to love.
There is a struggle for success
In the jungle of desires.
It is neither so near nor so far;
Knowing this, we continue on the stepping stones, striving for joy, reaching for the sky.
In the race of rats,
We continuously scramble for God’s grace.
By tasting different flavors and playing various games,
When we finally lose,
Crossing the endless circle,
When we begrudgingly taste the aging of dreams,
We come to understand: the true struggle lies in expressing emotions, claiming our rights, and overcoming evils.
Overall, and at last,
True freedom rests at the feet of God.
________________________________________
Moses, the Australian Cattle Dog,
Entered our lives in October 2018,
Saved from an Amish puppy mill.
Our daughter’s surprise was not well-received;
A puppy was not in the picture.
Begrudgingly, little Moses settled in.
A few accidents left Grandpa grumbling under his breath.
Full of energy and, some days, quite yappy,
I was smitten by this little fur ball.
His lively coat was the color of blue speckled.
He quickly became the little prince of the house.
I had never understood the love humans had for their pets,
Until this little fellow made his way into my heart.
His antics had us laughing and applauding most days.
He grew quickly and moved away
When our daughter bought her first home.
I visited often, bringing him stuffed animals.
Some lasted a few weeks,
But most were chewed and strewn about within hours.
His first Christmas found him dressed in pajamas.
Little booties and a coat followed.
Full of energy, he loved to fetch a stick.
Running, walking, and jumping—
That was Moses living his best life.
Moses no longer lives in our area,
But he will always have a place in my heart.
Thank you for five years of being
one of the best,
most playful, and loving dogs.
How foolish am I?!?
YEARS beyond our sad end.
Multiple relationships past the
Joy of all that we shared and were,
I doubt I even (fleetingly) enter your mind,
Let alone time the cadence of your heart to mine,
Or polish the gold memories in your pocket, as I do.
What an absurdly pathetic and commiserative fool I am!!
I still find myself, on more occasions than I hate to (begrudgingly)
Admit, not only pining away in the night about how the sad moonbeams
Through my window connect me to you in some odd, existential sort of way,
Or sitting on the beach at the ocean, casually writing little messages in
The sand that you'll never, ever see, but ALSO writing you poems!
And songs! And even Letters and emails that I'll never send,
Though I spend FAR too long making sure they're JUST
RIGHT. What the hell is wrong with me?? It's been
A decade-and-a-half since you so lovingly
"Dear John"-ed me on my birthday,
(Our kids nearby so I wouldn't
Make a scene - I wouldn't
Have ANYway) ...
Inside my birthday
Card, at that ... my damn
BIRTHDAY card!! Gotta say,
That was pretty freakin' cold, and I
Would never have pegged you to be so
Heartless. I thought I knew you - thought I knew
You better than anyone, so many deep, dark secrets
We shared, or discovered - but it seems you hid that brutal
Side away from me, and saved it for that last, keen, cutting farewell.
The joke was on me, (and I sometimes imagine you laughing at the whole
Cold birthday card "Dear John" thing with your friends ... "Oh, you should've
SEEN his face - turned a hundred shades, then white! But what could he
SAY?!? It was a birthday party, for chrissakes!! Oh, my god what a
Hilarious joke!!") ... Yeah, that really was a stroke of icy cold
Breakup genius, I must admit. I wonder if it was your
Idea, or if one of your treasured friends or family
Came up with it? Doesn't matter now, does
It? And it doesn't matter that I still
Care. And it doesn't matter
That I waste time ...
Perfectly good time,
Writing poems for
Someone who's a
Ghost ... things is,
I'M the goddam
Ghost ... a sad,
Sorry apparition,
Slowly but surely
Disapparating into
Nothingness, and
Happy to do so, to
Carry this damn pain
To my sacred oblivion ...
He likes being barefoot and looks sorta dumb
but girls all over think he is handsome
His group has an army of loyal fans
their popularity seems to only expand
He can dance and sing and even rap
but his favorite hobby is taking a nap
His hair can be any color under the sun
his acting skills are called awesome
He has many celebrity friends
and his group members begrudgingly like him
Their music all over the world proclaim
it seems each day they get more fame
I'm not really a fan of BTS
It's for a friend I'm writing this
Her little Tae Tae, Kim Tae-hyung
she knows it's him the moon he hung
He worked so hard to earn his fun
Not bad for a poor farmer's son
I saw a man stark naked there unexpectedly,
who in his masculine fashion, though not apprehensively,
went gliding (or was he striding?)
down the center of the hall.
He did not glimpse me at all
as my gut called out, What gall!
So brazen, so reckless this peculiar entity
appearing as if from nowhere to step in front of me,
not elegant or slim as I’m fond of men to be;
but neither corpulent nor stocky -that cocky buck he
with a smooth protruding rump, rather like a girl’s,
yet by his gait betokened “straight” with nary a frill unfurled.
Frozen to the floor, gawking all the while,
I tried to surmise what could prompt in one
such imprudent, impudent style.
Was he merely meandering in some somnambulism state
as his simple sex is wont to do even while awake?
Or maybe this curious man had behind his head an eye
from which, though facing forward, did enable him to spy
the stupefied stranger staring at his rounded bare behind.
For he seemed to be parading his rear assets just for me,
which I deemed, as I beheld them, excelled in simplicity!
Though nothing was exceptional, I smiled begrudgingly
at a finely curved back with firm legs attached
in resplendent nudity!
11/11/16 for the Naked Contest of Anthony Slausen
That damn weekly times (circa 1900),
Afternoonified with Gigglemugs
sending me off my chump
Editors Half-rats, Not up to dick,
the meater.
Genderfied, I am
A woman of incredible script,
stylograph committed,
deemed a whooperup,
yet her prose is
umble-cum-stumble.
The longing expressed
through the lovers eye
poked-up the meater,
who Batty fanged my dyke
with his footle
His "Enthuzimuzzy"
was unwarranted
and the mutton shunters were called
Collie shangles erupted
yet concede he did
overcome with blue devils
He purchased my script
published it last page
like a Skilamalink
I cared and did not
for published I was
weekly times circa 1900
I bested the ragger
Rough translation - deceived
that damn weekly times editors
all snobbery and fake smiles
sent me crazy
The editors drunk, and unwell
he's a coward
I am a woman
a writer, a poet
committed to my craft
deemed inferior
yet my writings are
thoroughly understood
The topic in question
a female lovers romance
embarrassed the coward
who thoroughly thrashed my lover
with his nonsense
Ohh the insulting "enthusiasm"
was not necessary
the police I did call
heated arguments won the battle
and he apologised - albeit begrudgingly
His saddened state,
as he was forced
to take my manuscript
and publish it in the back
like some dirty secret.
Last page was bothersome
yet published I was
in the weekly times no doubt,
as I defeated that trouble making editor
Time speeds up as it slips away:
years seem like months and weeks, a day.
And though the stars still shine at night
in this world of hyperbole
and alternate reality:
it's hard to tell what's wrong and right.
I lost my innocence of youth:
when lies superseded the truth.
For, as a child, to calm my fright,
I'm told of God and Santa Claus;
but both stories are full of flaws:
and broken wings can't achieve flight.
Time speeds up as it slips away:
there is never enough for play.
My eyes have dimmed in my twilight:
and I begrudgingly agree
that I now need glasses to see:
if I wish to retain my sight.
I've learned that you don't need a sleuth
to figure out truth from untruth:
and yet, I view life through hindsight
reliving Yesterday's applause.
I often wish I could press pause;
delete mistakes, and overwrite.
And though few will read what I say,
I'll still post poems that I write;
in hopes that they'll be read someday.
My father is a diamond in the rough
in that sometimes he would pull
a handful of golf balls from a trash bag in the garage
and hit them into the forest from the field behind our house
on a Friday evening when he had nothing better to do
And now when we go walking, occasionally
when the light hits just so
we stumble across an unwilling time capsule
in the form of a moss-covered golf ball
And remembering one man’s carefree days
we begrudgingly pick it out of the duff
only to deposit back in the garage stash
that hasn’t been touched in a while
May 27, 2023 A Diamond of Time Poetry Contest, Sponsor Julia Ward
She’s up at dawn binoculars raised
Surveying lawns like crimes unfazed
A rogue petunia out of line
She files a claim by 8:09
A car she doesn’t recognize
Becomes a case she must analyze
Stolen she mutters pacing slow
She’s texting the board before they know
If someone grills past quiet time
She drafts a message crisp and primed
Attachments timestamps photos too
Her self-proclaimed duty through and through
She’s judge and jury of the street
A self-appointed rules elite
No porch too cluttered hedge too tall
No harmless fun too small to stall
The neighbors begrudgingly grit their teeth
When she reports a wreath beneath
The approved specs for seasonal décor
They’ve learned to keep an eye on their door
Not a board member but eager to enforce
She guards the HOA’s covenant with a nosy force
A watchdog? Maybe A pest? Perhaps
Forever wasting her days setting petty traps