I wrote a poem that alleges
that I left her a little too rough around the edges,
and would I kindly try to rewrite.
So, all night long, I added and deleted,
moved around and repeated,
till she finally said, "Yeah, that feels just about right."
Their rough around the edges rounded messages
are smoother than piano keys
Dreams are open doors we walk through into a
place that's off the hinges
Inside is where pictures are developed from the
film no one sees
We're on the cusp of other worlds as we scale the
living minds mental fringes
Internally we're living free, but the outside is full
of chains
I dream of a world that's all inclusive where all doors
are free of any keys
Picture a place where you design everything that's
placed inside the frame
One door just leads to another one in a world where
everyone can see
In my dreams everything is me & every house could
be my home
We're all just visions of another self being seen on
other screens
I'm dreaming of a world full of myself so everything
could be my clone
Our lives are gifts of the imagination within a subtle
waking dream
My words might sound to some strange, or my rhymes maybe rough around the edges
I only write what I can arrange, I don’t need to stand on any bridges
sometimes I am not in my right state of mind, all my thoughts are scattered along the ridges
But other times I glow bright like a star, or piece of art, in its fringes
no matter how hard you try, you can’t please people even if your words are riches
What your heart tells you is always right, so don't ignore your pain and look at the stitches
Continue to write what’s on your mind and don’t stop as long as you’re writing hand itches
Saleh Ben Saleh
In one dark corner they met
It was a meeting they both will never regret
For the ceiling a little rough around the edges
was a shelter for the wall
And the wall was the support for the ceiling and all
Their endearment for each other was not without gains
for out of it came sunshine filled window panes
The ceiling buffeted the blows of the elements of life
While the wall stood the strain with joy
and sorrow of every day strife
shape up said the circle to the square
you’re a bit rough around the edges
far too closed in for comfort and joy
I can’t help it I’m all full of angles
right ones and wrong perspectives
constant rectangular doom so to speak
look at me I am a ring of fire and passion
diametrically sound complete at the centre
rounded and packed with infinite promise
you’ve no beginning unaware of the start
state you’re a wheel in perpetual motion
while I am grounded and sure of myself
no such thing for you are rigid and static
unsure where you’re going if moving at all
condemned to inflexible and taut stiffness
and so they squabbled from angry premises
valid arguments and debatable conclusions
righteous and unbending in their opposition
until an ellipse and parallelogram came along
change needs shifting paradigms under pressure
the square opened and jumped into the circle
anchored tangents perimeter and firm compromise
let us please wed our disadvantages and strength
no contradiction but complementing each other
Pythagoras meets Sisyphus and they applaud
27th November 2020
In a stupor of alcohol and bitterness,
each day dragging out through the dense lens of alcoholic fury.
The days ran from days to months to eons, time travel on a toast.
With no pen available and no thought to ensnare,
the eddies of the cesspool that once was a gorge of wildlife
tore at the torched alcohol induced paralysis.
Days in a haze of detox, 3 years since my last sober breath.
It started with a book “Women Who Run With the Wolves”. *
With each page I could see my soul consumed by danger.
Then striding out boldly to a new sphere.
As the interior landscape became littered with phrases of hope,
of fear, of all things natural.
Swirling like dust devils across a dessert.
rough around the edges.
I picked up a pen one day
And the stories flowed, crashing down upon the page
as if a swollen wound was cut to drain.
And what poured out was hope and love and all the goodness
missing from my three-year hiatus from the page.
You say I need a makeover,
that I'm not the man I could be
You say I'm too rough around the edges,
a little smoothing out would polish me
To you, I'm too straight ghetto;
I got the right mind,
just tilted a little wrong
Instead of saying: "I'm leaving,"
I say, "I be gone"
So let the makeover begin,
but I don't know what
will be different when it end
Will my family recognize me,
will I need a new set of friends?
A bad vibe is arising,
trepidation is setting in
Now I'm willing to make this sacrifice
to satisfy your insecurity
But once the makeover is done,
will you still like what you see?
In due time, no doubt you'll learn
this one immutable reality:
You can take me out of the ghetto,
but you can't take the ghetto out of me
Although you may refine my speech,
to talk in a proper Elizabethan tone
I will always remain ghetto,
straight ghetto to the bone
I will tell it like it is,
I will only come strong
I will always remain ghetto,
straight ghetto to the bone
A tribute to my beloved brother Joseph
Art like Monet
It is like an alternate reality
Soft, vivid full of pureness
Unlike harsh reality
Raw and rough around the edges
Hustling for the next desire
Monet simply lies there
In its purest form
Of Watercolor Aesthetics
The waves of the water he paints
Immerses my eyes with clouds of subtle feeling
A feeling that is smoother than reality
Captured in a stroke
The paint on the grand easel
Monet
Loud, rowdy, coarse,
a bit rough around the edges,
more likely to say “Shut Up!”
than “Quiet Please.”
Jeans, well worn,
faded by harsh winds,
and searing sun.
face to match.
The “gods?”
diabolical match makers.
Soft spoken, silky smooth,
edges buffed,
hushed a room
on entering.
Tailored,
off the rack,
draped on artistic
magnificence,
smiling……that…
smile.
©3/21/2018
submitted too – Burlap and Satin – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Anthony Slausen
I drank you in
Whiskey no chaser
Rough around the edges
Smooth enough to keep me wanting more
I was drunk on your smile
Kisses tipping me in to no mans land
Everything was hazy but you
I don't remember the night
I just remember your hands and
Laughter that bubbled like champagne
Bitterness is a black pool of bad poison
And when it liquifies it saturates once warm and loving hearts
Leaving them ice cold,ill and frozen
Whoever it has chosen they chose bitterness first
It is more awful than anger with it's slow soul corrosion...
Like a creeping mad curse
It's voice speaks the next verse leaving it's listener feeling justified but still jaded and jagged
Like a sour off key symphony of souls...shattered spirits too rough around the edges...too raw and too ragged
Truth tellers can tag it...still it's victims claim it's a virtue and never a vice
Take a word of advice!
Get rid of that garbage before your days turn darker and your sad life soon decays
Give it to God! Get on your knees and pray
You say I need a makeover,
that I'm not the man I could be
You say I'm too rough around the edges,
a little smoothing out would polish me
To you, I'm too straight ghetto;
I got the right mind,
just tilted a little wrong
Instead of saying I'm leaving,
I say I be gone
So let the makeover begin,
but I don't know what
will be different when it end
Will my family recognize me,
will I need a new set of friends?
A bad vibe is arising,
trepidation is setting in
Now I'm willing to make this sacrifice
to satisfy your insecurity
But once the makeover is done,
will you still like what you see
In due time no doubt you'll learn
this one immutable reality:
You can take me out of the ghetto,
but you can't take the ghetto out of me
Although you may refine my speech
to talk in a proper Elizabethan tone,
I will always remain ghetto,
straight ghetto to the bone
I will tell it like it is,
I will only come strong
I will always remain ghetto,
straight ghetto to the bone
A tribute to my beloved brother Joseph
Who am I Lord
That you are mindful of me
A tiny drop of rain
In a wide expansive sea
What could I ever give
That you could ever need
Who am I Lord
That you are mindful of me
Who am I Lord
That you should bless this wretched man
In all the scope of time
I'm but one single grain of sand
After all I've put you through
You still take me as I am
Who am I Lord
That you should bless this wretched man
Who am I Lord
That I would ever deserve
All the mercy poured out on me
In the power of your spoken word
Why did you choose these ears
To be the ones to have heard
Who am I Lord
That I would ever deserve
Who am I Lord
That you could want this heart of mine
It's so rough around the edges
It's been hurt so many times
I know that if I give it to you
It will be forever thine
Who am I Lord
That you could want this heart of mine
It is only by the blood of Christ
That I know exactly who I am
And only by that precious blood
Do I now have the power to stand
The power in your blood poured out
To justify this sinful man
It is only by the blood of Christ
That I know exactly who I am
“Have you ever done this type of work before”?
“they’re sheep – I’m a sheep dog – are you serious?”
“Are you aware we have a dress code?”
“no way am I wearing a dress.”
“You will be interacting with our clientele daily”
“and to be kind --- you are a bit rough around the edges.”
“Have you seen your clientele up close?”
“I only wear my hair like this to fit in.”
“And there is the security clearance issue.”
“Security Clearance!!! If I can fit under the same fences
that they fit under…..that’s my security clearance.”
“So we’ll offer you the standard contract.”
“Twenty four hours a day, seven days a week,
fifty two weeks a year.”
“Hey, hey, I’m a sheep dog not their mother!!”
“DID YOU JUST LICK YOURSELF???”
“GET OFF THE FURNITURE!!!”
“Why did I ever take this Bo Peep contract??”
John G. Lawless
6/23/2015
The water's getting wild, rough around the edges.
And yet so peaceful underneath, the overlaying surface.
With the rugged colored water, and the storm starts a brewing;
the wildest fish are only caught, when the darest of them all,
start the search, before nightfall.
Through the tunnel the forest calls;
the owls tune with the howls, and the mice with the coons.
The rain pours from the clouds, starving for the attention,
the skies don't give them. And when the thunder starts his growling,
you know it's time to run in fear. For it's fear itself that should be scared.
The skies fill of blackness, you know it's getting closer.
The time to start living, is the time, least wanted.
7-13-12
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