Short Bittered Poems

he only once
saw his father

cry

on edge
in an easy chair
put mussed head in calloused hands
quaking
broke

a wooden rule
by luck
shouted bad black mad

and he bittered...

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I am but a single shuddering whisper trapped beneath the shroud,

a lingering fluttering flicker of self indulgent doubt.

I am but a small one, an itty bitty insignificant flake of dust,

among the sunlight.

A little soft, though not soft spoken,

a little daft, a wee bit broken,

much too hardened, yet, too young

to be outspoken 

instead of “spoken for” or

“in love.”

I am but a girl, spirit frayed and bittered hag

softly and constantly being reborn....

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