Long Lashings Poems
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Blessed union indeed
Chalk up another one
Another year of tolerated misery
Are you really considering
Suffering like this to perpetuity
For the rest of your life
Never anything nice to say
Bickering and ing whatever the cause
Using harsh words to tear each other down
Life is so short and true mates so scarce
Can you not focus on the things that do work
Instead of constantly arguing
Over every petty issues
I win You lose
The bitter chant of victory
Is it not plain to see
No one ever wins in your game
It’s pathetic, cruel and inhumane
Tongue lashings
Out come the daggers
Who would believe
You’ve been married forty years
Take a couple steps back
It’s not too late to
Start respecting one another
Well, good luck
At least try to survive
Until your next anniversary
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Chopsueycide; They’re gathering for the feast this time; last time it was a roasting.
Chopsueycide; An acquired taste that’s guaranteed to raise temperatures, but not pulses.
Chopsueycide; Added ginger will certainly blow your head off, and the last breath of garlic will keep them away for sure. Onions will make them cry their eyes out but adding carrots will not make anyone see any better.
Chopsueycide; They'll ensure the scissors used to cut up tendon like vermin-celli down to bite size, stay sharp, like the butchers’ knives that sliced through body parts and backbone.
Chopsueycide; Their words blunt and thug, like a mallet pulverising carcasses, now simmering and stewing in dark soy sauce.
Chopsueycide; Topped off by: lashings of humble pie, garroted cream whippings, garnished with sour grapes and the air’s suffocated by the stench of sweet unsuccessfulness.
Chopsueycide; A popular dish, best served cold.
Form:
There is a certain comfort that comes to me
every spring, from perennials I planted years ago, that still pop up, beneath dark soil.
I often wonder how in the world they survived the harshness of winter and his unforgiving and relentless frozen lashings, year after year.
It makes me think about my own survival as a young girl. Buried beneath my tender exterior, I also found a way to comfort and warm myself beneath the unforgiving cold and darkness.
I was just a child bride when the harshness of winters
lashed into me, frozen punishments that were warrantless, relentless and unforgiving. But, like a perennial I always found the strength to survive and bloom bigger and stronger every spring.
Maybe that is why today, my garden is full of hostas, lavender, cora bells and black eyed susans. Yes, there is a certain wanting that comes to me every year, beneath dark clouds of winter.
Freedom
A dream he never allowed himself to hope
He couldn't have his heart broken
Not when it belonged to his black woman
Not when it carried his emotions
Not when it carried the love that kept him mobile
'You're free'
A prospect of a new life
One he had hoped to share with his beautiful wife
But
Nothing in life comes for free
That freedom meant leaving the one thing that kept him alive
The woman who gave him reason to live
The woman who's life to him was more important than his
The woman he would spend the rest of his life with
His decision to stay was instant
No thought. No question.
He would not leave his wife
The thought of a life filled with pain
Couldn't compare to a life without her
He would become an insane man
And for that he wouldn't complain
About the whips and chains
If it meant him and his wife stayed in the same place
A world without her
Was a life not worth living at all
And so he would endure years of torture
If it meant he could be with his happiness
Because a life without her wouldn't even be a life It would be hell
He knew the consequences this would entail
He knew his life on the plantation wouldn't be easy
But nothing ever worth having is
He would take a thousand lashings for her
If it meant he could stare In her big beautiful brown eyes
He would bear the weight of both of their label
If it meant her soft hands would go unharmed
From the harsh conditions of a slaves life
He would sacrifice his body in order to save hers
He loved her more than the fear of torture
So yes he would stay
And no he would never regret it
It Seemed Like a Good Idea
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
That’s the problem, it always seems
like a good idea – at the time. Like
touching the bench wearing the
WET PAINT sign. First wives are
sometimes like that, and I imagine
they feel the same way about
first husbands. Some of these
mis-deeds we called adventures.
Probably because we survived
them without damage to our
image, ego, or dumb ass. Others,
oh yeah, there were others,
that still live in infamy in the
muggings that take place on
Memory Lane. Then there are
those that reside in the vault,
too personal, or embarrassing,
to allow close scrutiny. I think
we call those “issues”, as in, he
has a few issues. Many of these
indiscretions allegedly helped
to form our character, stiffen
our backbone, make a man or
a woman out of us. Most of them
were self inflicted lashes on our
own backs, screams heard only
in the silence of our solitude.
And yet, we still have issues,
still reach out to test that
freshly painted bench to spite
the WET PAINT sign, open our
mouths and put our feet in
only to repent in retrospective
lashings. Perhaps the sign on
the bench should read:
SEEMS LIKE A GOOD IDEA, HUH.
John G. Lawless
8/13/2014
Looking at these photos, from not that long ago
I couldn’t help but wonder, where did that person go
The images so full of life and smiles upon that face
When I looked into that mirror, I saw instead disgrace
Not that I wasn’t proud, of what I’d seen or done
I carried people’s burdens and fought for anyone
But somewhere on that pathway, I let this anger in
likely from a wound, while clashing swords with sin
darkness took its pound of flesh, in the absence of all light
only a faded voice left whispering, what was truly right
the screams of all the broken, often washed that voice away
that’s when I would lash out, and want the world to pay
The storms eventually passed by, as they always do
It’s then I found myself, standing face to face with you
Lashings like a hurricane, mood swings like the waves
Instead of breaking through the wall, I hid deeper in the cave
I found a spark that lingered, and fanned it to a flame
The fire it burned those lies away and stripped me of the shame
Never had I given up, I just took some time to rest
it took me at my lowest point, to rebuild into my best
I glance now at that photograph and see from where I’ve come
Except now I see the victories, I see how much was won
the whispering voice now yells at me, there’s a story left to tell
I can show you where I tripped up, I know now where I fell
Pulled together
by a magnetic avoidance of loneliness,
fueled by an insatiable ardor
to evade a shortage of love.
Mutually splintered souls searching
for a place to embed and
implement a façade which conceals
mutilated minds.
Spurious attempts to disarm
the timebomb which is his mouth.
Futile efforts to escape
a mental cage
inflicting frightening fingerprints
on a shatter-able soul.
Cautionary writings on the walls
of his guise,
demanding subservient devotion.
Loud lashings from his slick tongue,
contradicting confessions of love and hate,
whilst ransacking an insubordinate mouth,
by extorting an opening through
quivering lips.
Transient,
insincere apologies
fall on deaf ears,
between briny tears plunging
down an anguished face,
debunking the reverie
that this is how love
is meant to taste.
A dismaying omen
predicting the dawn
of the end,
disguised as a single round, white dose
of insentience
aggressively shoved down
through tortured glottal wails.
Convulsive crying gives way
to comatose disposition,
displayed on a cold cement altar -
a sacrificial lamb laid out
for torturous vindication
of his deprived need
to strip of honor,
by forcibly desecrating
incontestable,
incapacitated remains.
An ungainly desperate last resort -
running with lead-like legs from a known enemy.
Flashes of head- lights and white painted lines,
don’t hinder a final attempt
at liberation or eternal rest.
Flashes of cold, dim swells of pain,
preferred,
over the clinging clutches of oppressive
maniacal hands,
lunging at the opportunity to subdue.
A harsh awakening -
in his lair.
A morning after like no other.
Hues of black and blue on
pale, dehydrated dermal layers,
serve as confirmation
of an undeniable recollection
of hair-raising anamnesis.
Painful retrospection
inciting an unrelenting
concluding confrontation -
never again
the victim will I be.
A final song to sing
Life is getting hard
Not a thing you can do
Day dreaming
Thinking of what tomorrow may bring you
One more song to sing
Voice of an asylum forager
Choice to become a cultural voyager
Pictures are taken
But perfection is split and edited
I move mountains if I could
But that state of mind is not understood
The price you pay
For having a small paradise in hell
Like loving a widower
An Achilles with a sense of compassion
Minus the expense and lashings
Was going to sell my bed to pay rent
Some of us appreciate the absence of zero
But no one truly admires a fictional hero
If all A is B and all B is C
but doesn’t equal something
Then C is the unsound value of nothing
An outcast because I have a sense of morals
A list of things to do, plural
Only in triumph
Will you find a cure for your fall
Hitting walls in my mind
Did you forget you were human
Brush your hair away from your eyes
For god doesn’t cry
Poets getting scarce
I’m starting to paint
Portraits of where you are
I’m beginning to faint
Repent
Ask your lord for help
No Mercy
He’s not listening to you
Enjoy your final breath
Are you worthy
The worlds a fast place
But you’re in no hurry
I’m alone
No tomorrow
To reach for
And I miss you
With Careful Spoons
Your perfume essence speaks of lazy afternoons under sage trees.
You kissed my bent neck with a pointed snake of sweet saliva eyes.
Now we are twisting inside my slow tilted bedroom with creep shoes.
Your gray short skirt shows slender legs flashing firm nylon divots.
Panties white and tight beckon my touch amidst the soft furniture.
Lips gesticulating now with puckered tentacles made of sugared spit.
Taloned fingers with pink polished probings find the noble charge.
Music-playing minestrone tasters come to dance with careful spoons.
Why have you lead me into this frothing dream web of lilac spume?
We kiss now with mind-rushing lip lashings glued to the secret night.
We delve now with our bending statuary into the new morning light.
The day begins as the sun rises up
Like a big orange ball from the sea
It’s the bluest sky that has ever been seen
So pack up your bags, don’t forget the sun cream
For the seaside is calling us loud and clear
As we make our way down
As we make our way here
The children arrive with their buckets and spades
Their parents arrive with their Chardonnays
They carry a towel in case they get wet
A blanket to sit on, sun shades to protect
With lashings of sun cream and sun hats to wear
There is so much to carry, will they ever get there
The children arrive and throw off their clothes
And run to the sea to paddle
They scream with delight
When they get their toes wet
But they don’t feel the cold
Well at least - not just yet
Their mums and dads lay out the food
Upon the rug – laid on the sand
Calling their children they shout out loud
“Will you come here and give us a hand?”
But their request falls upon deaf ears
As the children have fun in the water
Oh dear, will it all end up in tears
When the children don’t do what they oughta
As they swim and jump, making castles in the sands
Holding yummy pork pies in their sandy little hands
Drinking homemade lemonade
With an ice cream to follow
They begin to feel hot
As they sick up the lot
On this Sunday by the sea
They’ll feel better tomorrow
Time to go home now, so gather them up
Children all tired and grumpy
As parents sweet-talk them, whilst heading for home
The children are whining and whinging instead
So kiss them goodnight and send them to bed
At last there is peace
The children are sleeping
The sea air has knocked them for six
So now is the time
For a nice glass of wine
With some olives and crunchy bread sticks
Reflecting upon their day at the beach
So lucky to be within easy reach
And able to visit and able to spend
Sunday by the sea - on this glorious weekend
Written in Summer 2018
Contest Strand Select T
Sponsor Brian Strand
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