Long Gossiped Poems
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I never whispered or screamed it out loud,
But somehow, I think we both knew.
Some words are too soft for sound,
And some men too shy to spell—
So I kept quiet, and loved you in my heart instead.
I’d see you pass by my auntie’s shop,
And I would look away—afraid inside.
She spoke so kindly of you;
She said you were rural and rare—
The kind of woman who lives in small moments.
I went abroad to study,
And met many foreign ladies—wild and calm—
But none could warm my colder days.
That December when I returned,
I wished you’d smile and say, “It’s been so long,”
But neither you, nor those soft words, ever came along.
You married well; Adhieu gossiped.
Men and women ate to their fill that afternoon.
You were very happy—I heard the news.
Yet still, my imaginings grew stronger,
As I sat by, hoping for an unhappy marriage—
But the lone bench reminded me they were only hopes.
Five years have come, and five years have gone.
Life has moved on, as life must do.
You have had children, and all the love you ever wanted.
Each time I hear how well your marriage is,
My head turns a hair grayer—
Yet your eyes still hold the only light I ever knew.
We never made vows; you never said you loved me.
There was no promise that someday it would be mutual.
It was a love that had quietly flown in my heart,
And ended somewhere where the Nile turns.
My great-aunt, Ada, said to me;
you’re like your father used to be;
I never knew quite what she meant
or cared, I had a life unspent.
Her sister, Mary, gave me books
which I devoured like cakes she cooks;
both were born Victorian girls
their high church collars, necks of pearls
whose tut-tuts shaped my father’s core;
gossiped my mother was a whore;
in which, sadly, there was some truth
notably after red vermouth
or Babycham and brandy wine;
the show of stocking tops a sign.
My grandma Hanna was the third
of sisters, with some values shared
before year ninety sixty nine,
who knew the truth, and broke the line;
encouraged me to go to sea;
not shelter in the morbid lee.
We used to Communicate, Brainstorm, Debate
but I find you've been quiet and distant, of late.
Just what aren't you Saying? What is the good Word?
To find out, I eavesdropped and here's all that I heard:
You Cheered from the couch for your favorite team,
then Boo-ed twice as loud when they ran out of steam.
You Uttered a curse word with nary a thought,
then you Muttered "I'm sorry" to those in earshot.
You Ordered a drink and took more than a sip,
then Explained to the waiter why there'd be no tip.
You Growled at the dog thinking he'd comprehend,
then you Howled when he bit you, cuz it was pretend.
You Broke the news gently when grandmother died
and Offered condolence when some of us cried.
You Whispered a prayer right before the big game,
then Ranted when they won, cuz they did the same.
You Offered to take the kids out for the day
then Recanted when you found out you'd have to pay.
You Requested a raise and when Boss Man said no,
you Suggested that hell was a place he could go.
You Gossiped about the new guy at the gym,
but Denied it when you were confronted by him.
You have Uttered and Muttered and Whispered and Lied.
You've Lamented, Suggested, Proclaimed and Denied.
You'll talk anyone's ear off with babbling glee,
so I ask - is there something you want to Tell ME?
================
Current Contest: Screwed V
Original Contest: Is There Something You Want to Tell Me
07/05/2015
You are the dusk that masquerades as first light.
In the stillness of descending twilight,
your spellbinder's expectorant
opens the passageways of the feeble,
weevles like a gloworm
in dark fertile soil.
Whispers of memories that never were,
in a soft lament,
in a lofty raimant.
I am lost in the shadows of yesterday's song,
longing for a love that once belonged.
In risky fantasy,
I play your suspect invitation,
as a night thief with an accordion,
iron lung.
Too powerfully drawn am I,
unable to resist your decisions-
Wringing me dry.
Shift of weightlessness density,
snap-twang, propensity-thick and numb.
If I had just one last guess,
I am the cotton and you are the laudanum.
Why am I the salivary gland and the gum.
The wavering field of rye that a beast
tramples on.
Invisible chains they bind my words,
like a palsy stricken tongue,
grasping my chords with ghastly cords,
poetic enslavement,
thoughtfully borne divided by
my pasts sum.
Rosehips- tea soaked gingerly-
your spell lingers on SOS morose telepathy
morse code, telegraphed, telegaphed
to see your confident smile mockingly know,
peering into the eyes before expected wind-up
and mesmerizing blow.
Your fluiro-essences spores inliquidity,
wetness of morganite,
juices leeched,
leaving me in my parasitic derangement,
unable and unwilling to fight-
familiar arrangement.
Your jaded facet to sparkle
as a trophy against the light.
That which you neon flash to be.
From, for, to, too spun,
I am a sugar crop to make into candy
that you drool upon the lips,
as I drink you in
electroponic abomination splice of caine
and Hawaiian Punched Drunkenness.
Hey Kool aid, break through my walls
and offer your solution.
Stain my lips.
A fermented wavelength I will become,
dialing your frequency,
of restless dream,
silence of my soul's dark night,
moonlight beamer ride of twists and turns.
Some people never learn,
me being that one,
you being my classroom distraction
passing notes of gossiped ink of juicy gossamer,
till you are commanded to "release
this dumb- one, who knows not of lessons,
of touching what burns".
The sparrows praised the morning sun,
He hugged the forest in his warm- outreached arms
The sun cascaded and grazed his fingers through every crisp leaf,
Over every sleepy tenant- illuminating their curiosity for each other
And the breeze laughed- happy to be alive
She laughed as she ruffed every tree,
All now fully dressed
She cackled down from the clouds and into every burrow
The family of trees just stood by watching the neighborhood awaken
Cousins rubbing elbows- Fathers shading their sproutlings
Creaking in quiet protest to the construction worker woodpeckers
Just happy at the turn of the weather
And the early blooming lilies gossiped to themselves
About the underdressed daisies
And the breeze disturbing their groomed leaves
And how the sun was too hot so early
The sky watching them all rejoicing,
For she wasn't alone anymore,
Left with bleeding ears from the squirrels complaints of the cold
Landlord to to all she welcomed them back to her care
In bloom was it all, and all was in bloom
March 1, 2023
In bloom poetry contest
Joseph May
Summertime, a wonderful time full of nostalgic teenage memories
I spent many weekends with my best friend Tina at Bear Pond Park
Memories of packing our swimsuits, towels, music and bagged lunches
And We always brought our spending money for the snack shack
We chewed grape bubble gum in the car and gossiped on the way
It was a fun time and I always looked forward to those special days
At the park, we swam, worked on our tans and went on the slides
Laughing, flirting with the boys while racing down the rainbow rides
In the late afternoon We had our deep dish ice cream sundaes
Memories of my tongue tickled by the tartness of the strawberries,
while soothed by frozen vanilla custard with layers of whipped cream
We ate at the picnic table while sweet dribbles landed on our swimsuits
We had to wait a while before we could go back and swim in the lake
We went back to the rainbow slides, laughing and chewing bubble gum
Our swimsuits dotted with ice cream and berry stains, soon to be washed away
We had one last afternoon swim, our suits washed clean until the next weekend.
6/26/22
Contest: Ice Cream Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Julia Ward
N/A Judged 7/15/22
In the outskirts, where whispers weave through the wind,
there stands a farmhouse, its timbers groaning with secrets,
a silhouette etched against the horizon’s fading light.
Once, it was alive, pulsing with the beat of day-to-day,
but now, it’s shrouded in a cloak of solitude,
walls lined with the echoes of laughter long gone,
rooms filled with the heavy air of stories untold.
The woman who lived there, a mystery, a shadow,
wandered its halls like a ghost, her presence barely felt
but in the gentle ivory caress of piano keys
that floated through the night, a sorrowful symphony
played to an audience of moon and stars.
Folks in town, they gossiped, cruel jests hidden behind closed doors,
labeling her a recluse, a witch, a specter of the past,
never understanding the weight of loneliness she carried,
a burden that bent her shoulders and dulled her eyes.
She found peace in her music, notes rising and falling,
like the breaths she drew, deep and resonant,
a language only she and the night could comprehend.
The farmhouse, with its peeling paint and creaking floors,
stood as a testament to her existence,
its decay mirroring the abandonment she felt,
doors no longer opening to welcome guests,
windows looking out with a yearning for the world.
Inside, the piano waited, its keys now silent,
dust gathering like a blanket, a comfort in the stillness,
each particle a memory, a moment frozen in time.
And so, the house remains, a relic of loneliness,
a monument to the misunderstood,
its story floating with the wind, carried through the fields,
a melody played on the strings of time,
eternal, echoing, alone.
I'm not a girl,
I never played with barbie dolls,
went head over heels for boys.
I never went to houses for sleepovers,
started rumors, gossiped.
No, none of that.
I never bullied people,
got into fights,
cared about my hair.
I'm not a girl at all.
I'm not a boy,
even though I play in mud,
wrestle with my friends.
I never played Fortnite for fun,
say idiotic things to the girls,
cuss at my teachers.
No, none of that.
I never wore the same clothes twice,
cared about what cologne I used,
played with bugs.
I'm not a boy at all.
I'm non-Bianary,
I play in mud,
watch anime,
low blow my friends,
dated girls,
wrote in a diary.
Yes, I have done all of this.
I wear lip gloss,
never lipstick,
didn't care about pimples.
I'm my own kind.
They/Them.
Someone moved the rock
And the village’s Gypsies were in shock
Hearing it was a progressive move
They sat at the bar wondering if this could be proved
What was being blocked by this rock?
A question was asked
Each enjoying happy hour magic in their flask
Apparently inside the cavern
The Gypsies gossiped at the tavern
Someone had died
And placed him inside
Were there riches lay to rest with all his mortuary stitches?
After a few more rounds
They decided to go and see what could be found
Leaving the tavern they went to the cavern
When they arrived
With the goal to peek inside to see the person who died
The rock moved back
Nothing was open not even a crack
Someone must have tried
To seal up what was inside
Boy was this a mystery
Worthy of a place in the Gypsy’s history
A moving rock that put the Gypsies in shock
Someone inside the cavern down the street from the tavern
Upon returning to the reserved stools
They said through their drools
“This was weird”
“And was worthy of a toast with a their favorite beer”
Here we put the story to rest
Knowing rocks don’t move unless
There is going to be something to confess
Now take another shot of that Gypsy brew
Giving a celebratory respect to a spirit who now can be deemed true
Below on the fragmented black pavement
in their burning heat of ignorance and fear
Only their voices could reach the roses now
Outside of the room where for years nothing grew
In the air of poisonous men and women whose venom would kill a cactus
Now two thorny bushes were given a second chance to live seated in the above
Two ancient roses taken off the chest of the Earth near someone else’s abandoned beloved
On the broken asphalt road that ran under the window sill
infantile grandmothers gossiped in loud voices among themselves
Or prattled with analphabetic infants who seemed indifferent to their dead gibberish
Little wild things growing up more fruitless and savage than the threatening weeds
Once invading the flowers, little empty people far more dead inside than the roses were
Far drier and more infected, crackling with their enjoyed violence
More dead than the bones of the graveyard ossarium.
But from only water and sunshine and care the roses regained life
Now watered and clipped and fed, dry crusts on baked earthen pots rinsed off
They almost at once began to bloom sitting on the ledge over a black broken road
Only the enemy voices from that place below could reach the roses now.
But roses have no ears to hear nor tongues to speak.
Soon the holes and emptiness of all the “vuoti” of neglect were filled in
And the burned leaves and petals were replaced by new lush growth bathed in light
Little bits and pieces of inner stunning magic and magnificence peeping out
annihilation of all the past burning, forgiving their close escape from death
all negligence and abuse were now forgotten. Their beauty was saved and restored
And they gave thanksgiving and praise in silence
And they were safe for a time now perhaps.
But the fragility of beauty would exist always on that ever-present precarious edge
Of devastation and annihilation requiring constant vigilance and love
For beauty stands on the threshold to Divinity and God and God has many enemies
But through beauty we are renewed and aligned to the mind and will of God.