Scolded Poems

if time can echo

'What does the ticking of a melting clock sound like?'—overheard in Dalí
_______________________


A clock made from ice
lies on sun-scolded tiles—

the ticks go
slower,
           steadier,
                        harder—
as the pool of water
grows,
           wakes,
                      devours—

The ticks become a pounding 
beat
as the clock melts 
into throbbing muscles
From timeless to time—
From time to flowing blood—

When forms collapse into echoes...
that’s when the carol ends.

Pope Leo XIV

I love you! 
I’m so happy you scolded Pres. Trump
Also mentioned
You’re ashamed to be called American
 
That is so good!
You even compared him with Jesus Christ
That is so good!
For me you’re the best Pope

after surgery

After the surgery

I was flat on my back and not
allowed to move, an assistant  nurse came to feed me
A stern-looking woman older than the others
soup she fed me; open your mouth wide, she said
I did her, eyes softened, and she became motherly
scolded me gently when spilling soup on the nib
When I didn`t want any more soup, she said I had to
to eat it all
I felt drawn to her as a baby to his mother 
it was a beautiful moment; she tucked me in
I fell asleep.
Then it was morning, I was allowed to sit up and
later stood up. looked out the window, a football pitch
the players’ red and yellow shirts, it looked like mating
ritual, the one who scored the most goals
gets the sexiest girl, that`s ok, but I got to be a baby
and remember it.

The Enough is Enough

In my haze dividing 
I clown my hysteria inviting 
A will to finish this degrading 
Life of fawning. 

Abandoned by rape
Of a virgin in wanting
Now this life is a canvas 
Of abandonment 
And consoling.

Into hell I cast all wishes and desires
And petty arguments of
Gifted minds in drunken stupor. 
I glide on failing and bathing in fire.. 

On tonight's global gift
I am debunked and scolded
For not falling in line
With this destiny distorted.

No junk in my veins, 
No pop to my verbiage 
Forever now grounded
In rules of the Owner. 

I vow and repent 
For this final agreement 
That ripped through my decision 
To try and offer a help I can't muster.

Playtime

It is not but a tiny ball of yarn I say as I roll it around in my hand then throw it away.  The littlest furball sees it and squalls a hiss which made her mother even twitch. She pounced and rolled and bounced and scolded that teeny tiny ball of yarn until she molded it upon her four paws. Down on her back it was a balancing act which then brought a smile to my face in fact. Oh my goodness the cuteness and the pureness addresses each part of my heart.  Her eyes alight as her brother jumps in or on if you will.  Within a moment it is a torrent of hisses and scratches which the ball of yarn matches by somehow staying together. As the claws turn to paws each lies on their and pauses if only to draw more air. Then again it ensues two frisky kitties on the loose as the ball they did choose for theirs.

Shifting Gears

Daffodils were bobbing,
I never thought to ask why?
January was the coldest -
dreams don't care
and the yellow trumpets
were almost speaking
and I almost listening.

However, sex got through
this bucolic view,
the daffs turned
into a belly dancer
I once admired in Luxor.

Now I am being scolded
by a demi-god with goat horns
on his curly head. It's not happy
with my expansive outlook.

I need a fifth gear in a dream car,
a vehicle roomy enough
for both a bed of daffodils
and a rather plumb Egyptian lady.

The goat guy can take a hike.

the morning

The morning

Wake me up at six, I have an appointment 
with a doctor at nine
At six, at six, at six, went into my head 
I could not sleep
At four, I got up and drank a glass of wine 
hoped this would lull my brain and get some
sleep
The wine worked well, I woke up at eight
It's too late for the doctor now. a need a bath
with that, she went back to bed
She slept to the forenoon and scolded me 
once upon a time, she had been a stewardess
wore a nice uniform, I have the photo,
but she was not an actress and could not
hide her relief for breaking the appointment

Waste

Don't waste my time
don't waste my life
scream the kid 
from inside
locked in a room
when they wants to be outside
being scolded
for being a child...

Hours and hours
away from home 
away from the place
where they belong
mom is not there
to come to calm
the pain of being hurt
and feeling alone...

Don't waste my time 
don't waste my life 
scream the kid
nobody minds
the training s/he can't scape
the world is blind 
and nothing will change
until we open our eyes.

Jessica

What Oz has to Say about a Lie

lazy lips in tangle with A I
breathing secrets
I wonder why

why not
organize your thoughts, o scatterbrain
don’t be
a brain full of hay

eventual outcome -
the crows will pick your brain
s$it for brains

forgive my insane outburst
but the storm’s a-coming

a storm of flying monkeys
a witch to boot

the only way to beat the rap
is to hammer home
don’t

you ain’t fool’n no one
you’re a fool yourself

the witch has turned over
the hourglass
none of Dorothy’s friends
are clamouring to save you

they are not in pieces
but at rest
they’re courage
came when doing the right thing

jumping through glass, falling asleep
the witch had fear and poison on her side
but Dorothy was good and kind

she scolded the wrong, bucketed the witch
exposed the lie behind the curtain
then the runaway went back home

home sweet home
where the poet’s heart
brains and courage
reside

An Autumn Angel

I went for a walk through the woods, like I do each Fall;
for it's a sensual treat at this time of year.
And I came across a grove of ancient oak trees,
shedding amber, yellow, and golden leaves;
gilding the ground, like scattered nuggets of gold.

The air smelt of Autumn, an earthy-sweet musk;
cool, crisp, and invigorating.
A chattering chipmunk scolded me incessantly:
as I neared a knurled stump, it was guarding;
loudly chastising me for invading its space.

The ground crunched and crackled under my feet,
as I walked on a bedding of filigreed leaves;
resembling a golden fleece.
As brisk breezes rippled through swaying treetops:
their bare branches rattled like skeleton bones. 

Indulging my inner child, I fashioned an Autumn Angel;
spreading and swiping my arms and legs, 
I sculpted an Angel out of leaves instead of snow.
And I lay there awhile smiling, soaking in Nature's magnificence;
immersed in the grandeur and beauty of Fall.

The Toothpick and the Elephant

    Silly little toothpick
      the elephant scolded
    You cannot marry me
      For our ears do not match
                   Can’t you see…  

    No, I can’t, snapped the toothpick
      I’m as blind as a twig
    But we could be platonic lovers
      Don’t you agree… 

    No I don’t, roared the elephant
      his tusks twirling round
    And with that, the toothpick hurled him
      tusks and all to the ground

    You might think to yourself
      This story has no moral
    But the point's indubitably immortal:
      With a blind toothpick never quarrel

Prance

     My sister has a long blue dress,
     Mother made mine too,
     And told us not to make a mess!

     Keep our hands neatly folded,
     Don't prance or scamper about,
     Neither of us wanted to be scolded!

     Then Santa and MS. Claus came.
     On a sparkling winter boat.
     It was too much for us! No joke!
  
     First our knees began to jump,
     Then our feet started to pump,
     Both of us landed in a lump!

     Tumbling, rolling down hill,
     It was too late!
     We couldn't stay still!

     Over and over, we ran up the hill,
     Dropped to our knees,
     And tumbled down still!

     Now our blue dresses are muddy and green,
     I think our mother is going to scream!

Another fine mess

Oliver often scolded Hardy, on a point of which he was
Never tardy.!
They had to have 'their daily fix' if not hourly? They were like two cats on
Hot bricks!
Their made up mayhem, garnered them gold, it was their milk and honey
A hit; 'they sold.'
Rich and famous, through their tears and quarrels, old Hardys kicks Stanley, made into Laurels!
The crowds, they grew' they travelled far! They lodged at the 'Chine hotel'
They fooled round its bar!
Yet did they take that 'new years swim?' As daybreak comes' as the waves
Roll in !
That hearty English breakfast, taken soon after.' Would sure have got Them ready; to raise some rafters.!!

SCHOOL

Laughs, chatters here and there
When the teacher is seemed to be nowhere
Eating together and sharing lunch
Sometimes in between class, having a good munch

Smiling and cracking jokes
And getting scolded in front of our folks
And then enters exams when everything seemed alright
Putting on most of the students' faces a look of fright

The person who gets the highest score
Not by studying extra but by having interest more
Feel sad for that one ward
Who even after getting good marks gets scolded hard

But one day we will have to separate
To take our career gate
I know it will be too emotional to take
But that is a decision we must make

We might have those little fights
But now we cannot do anything to set it right
So, let's leave those things back and free
And let’s continue our beautiful friendship journey

Even though we might not meet ever
I will have your memories with me forever

           
                                                               -	B. Charan

Those Women

They were vibrant women, 
whose voices vibrated in the vicinity. 
Their squabbles were X-rated. 
Profanity pirouetted nude in their expressions. 
They fought for the rights, 
though with obscene tongues. 
Their ways were bitter 
but beneficial like neem. 
Even their glances could burn away 
some virulent teen trends. 
They were spunky, 
kept snakehead-vigil on their surroundings.

For livelihood, 
they gathered black oysters resembling them.

There were precious harvest songs
in their mind-albums. 

As the sea, 
they too had a serene face. 

Their romance wasn’t a red rose blooming,
but a buffalo ploughing the field,
leaving behind clods of ecstasy.

They caned and scolded their children,
who grew strong in mind and body.

Now noxious things thrive 
in the silence left by them.


First published in Native Skin, and then reprinted in The Literary Hatchet

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