A bully found within—
always the one wronged,
going to great lengths
to communicate your offence
at things so trivial.
You are the ironic
definition of the humdudgeon!
Almost obsolete in the dictionary
and modern use.
When you were needed most,
you were gone.
When she believes I've done wrong
it's the same old dance and song
no words are sung or said
then she simply sulks instead
so once again it looks as tho'
I'm in her bad books and graces
yet without all her chattering
with neither reason nor rhyme
the silence is disquietingly shattering
and can last for quite some time
but to show me where my place is
it's not long before she puts on
one of her Easter Island statue faces
If your best mate loves a dud,
Bite your tongue — spit the blood;
Truth may feel like noble rot,
But that's the lot that you've got.
Can’t stand your best friend’s other half?
Then practice your best polite stage-laugh;
For love has traps beneath sweet flowers,
And sulks have lasting corrosive powers.
Just roll your eyes, with subtle disdain,
Meet one-by-one when you meet again;
Keep the jokes in coat of armor's chain,
Lest your friendship starts to wane.
You thought, this crush will surely fluff,
Your friendship was built of stronger stuff.
You've tried all sorts of biff and bluff—
But turns it out your silly sass was not enough.
So grit your teeth, send sighs into the air,
With a perfect vacant and distant stare;
To the grim and glum, just give a nod and hum,
Let your soul settle gently, slack and numb.
For while honesty may feel divine,
Tact’s the shovel needed in this mine;
Say just what seems so nice, then look away—
To live in peace to savor one more day.
The wind off the cold North Atlantic ocean
smells of piquant seawater on its breath,
agreeably pungent, brackish and moist.
The legendary Nor'easter off Newfoundland,
the bane of so, so many ships at sea,
is not a breeze with a soft, caressing hand.
It kicks and knocks and slaps and whacks and thwacks,
pummels and punches, pinches and pushes.
The stolid, sturdy imperturbable island
sits there and puts up with the abuses.
The northeasterly wind is very resentful
of its odiferous reputation.
At night, it simmers and seethes and smolders,
writhes and trembles, weeps and whines, stirs and sulks.
But, like the song says, the wind and sea smells
are "perfume to my soul". I stand alone on shore
and listen to the ocean's roar, wind's woosh,
and my mind decompresses, destresses;
this is my peace, my serenity.
I am home.
People are different in so many ways
That naming them never would cease to amaze
And though you could try ‘til the end of your days,
You’d never be able to do it.
From what they might wear to what they believe,
Their life style choices and what they achieve,
The places they live and ideas they conceive,
An outsider couldn’t intuit.
Religions (or lack of), political choices,
Silent and inward or raising their voices,
How and for what someone sulks or rejoices,
Each get judged by the way people view it.
That, I guess, is the rub, for when we don’t agree
With the actions of others to any degree,
There’ll be sadness or anger, for I guarantee
Most just don’t even try to subdue it.
GHOSTED
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I've been ghosted!” cried Sly the Squirrel,
His tail drooped in a pitiful whirl.
"Sent her acorns ‘neath the moon,
But she just vanished—way too soon!"
Now he sulks where the oak branches curl.
His love note was inscribed on a leaf,
Full of passion (and slight disbelief).
But that sleek, hazel-eyed dame
Never answered his claim—
Just left Sly to his nut-gathering grief.
He'd rehearsed by the creek's mossy stones,
Polished claws and arranged shiny cones.
Yet her nest stayed quite bare,
Not a whisker stirred there...
Emotional eater is he, nibbling acorns in sorrow—alone.
Held captive and caged
in a tin shed,
an old steam train sulks
in its own stillness, a relic
from another age.
Its skin is cold and hard
and has the smell
of vintage grease.
The fire that once blazed
in its belly has withered
to a coating of black soot
stuck to the bottom
of a furnace box,
the steamy snort
from its nostrils, silenced
to a dewy drip. The huge
wheels that were pumped
by furious pistons
have come to a halt
and now are welded
to rails by rust.
Admirers lovingly pat
its iron carcass. The poisons
it spewed out clogging the lungs
of a generation have dissipated
in memory, its breath now
sweetened by a forgiving
nostalgia, the veneer
of a more innocent past.
Somewhere,
stuck on a siding,
its brutish beauty
still sits panting in the damp
of an autumn afternoon,
immune from time,
absolved of guilt.
This invisible being has come
alive inside my mind
She roams freely
thoughts and me entwined
Tossing and turning
she puts me into a bind
Looking for things that she can find
I’ll give her this, she’s behind
my poetry, this mastermind
She refuses to lift a finger
And often springs to mind
And at times she’s certainly not too kind
She has feelings which she often ties
around my neck like a noose
And takes offence, if I don’t think
And sulks when I refuse
I dare not falter, she has a short fuse!
6.6.2021
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Contest: The poet’s hands are tied
They win not by victory o'er their enemies,
for their enemies are invincible, yet they fight:
aging can be resisted, hemmed in for a time,
but its rolling is relentless, thinning the skin,
shrinking the brain, thickening the arteries....
They are partisans, the victorious old,
fighting, alone, a relentless guerilla war
against one enemy, Old Age, who takes
everyone prisoner, if they wait long enough,
while the other foe, their last enemy,
takes no prisoners at all....
And this final and most heartless enemy?
Death always wins, there are no exceptions,
but the victorious old give it no joy--
some even smile at Mr. Death, the light in
their eyes still burning as their souls sense
the oncoming freedom, the smell of Heaven--
and Death, never happy, sulks away....
Winter sulks, dying slow in stark stillness
while chiffon hues shyly peek into sight
a lace of buds bloom, banishing chillness
as resurrection of colors delight.
Can you hear trees laugh as new leaves spring forth?
See fields of wildflowers wake up and smile?
Can you bask in sweet scents wafting o'er north?
Feel newness of life, a world without guile?
As earth's heartbeat quickens, living things grow
cows calve, fledglings hatch, rabbits multiply
a bountiful journey of ebb and flow
after tremulous start, spring soars through the sky.
Nature's dulcet sounds pulsate through the day
spring's glorious chorus in grand display.
Written on 3/4/2019
One who is full
of himself,
as fragile as crystal ball
on a shelf,
who sulks in resentful
vain defense
against the slightest
imagined offense,
and shines or dims
or shatters
depending on the tricks
of flatterers.
My
muse has
just vanished
have you seen her?
She’s so darn fickle
one minute she’s active
and a torrent of words flow
then turns moody and won’t conform,
retreating into herself, she sulks
like a temperamental teenager
Writing Challenge 2- April 2019- Its All About 10 - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart
4/25/19
Wednesday, February 21, 2018
Ramzan Karim, Darjeeling.
+91-85096549585
A sudden jolt
This is a tale about a cluster of hopes and burgeoning despair
Tossing and toasting flinging blankets
Wiping rolling down tears with his sleeve
Countless hours flew by this wakeful stormy night
She has been ill lying in hospital for days and days
Dying or still has few more breaths
Brings her sweet face before his eyes
Ever caring, faithful, innocent and simple
The tenderness and warmth of her hug
He always began his day
With greeting of her sweet smile and a hot bed tea
Her hands always busy tiding his household
Without a grumble or gripe
Shared his grief and sorrow as if her own
Shouldered braved the fate’s storm
Today lying in her bed helpless ignored
Withdrawn and far from the warmth of his embrace
Parting still without remorse or guilt ;
He frowns, sulks, struggles juggling his mind
Perspiring, breathing heavily
For days he is dreaming
Waiting for that eventual day
Will that pretty girl with dashing personality, he met in the mall?
Accepts his proposition after She is dead ?
In the path of sundust
multicolored dancing particles
he sits, sulks, mutters,
dust gathers on his wheels
The daylight taunts him
beyond the glass defense
pulling on his emotions
as the heat sneers sarcastically
One finger is reaching
rubs the bright colors of
his motionless wheels in
projected frustration
When a gray cloud wanders by,
a momentary distraction
His mind bends in assorted directions
while thoughts turn to winter
He wishes magic wand dreams
snow men sitting on sleds
legs, willpower propelled
long-haired, giggling faeries
The cold wind whips about his skin
as he bundles up, not for warmth, but comfort
His blanket brings the snow to him,
soft fabric drifts caressing memories
He weaves dreams of comfort
of love and friendship
racing rainbow wheels warp speed
being carried by loved ones
And even though the sun has now returned
he still smiles from his room
Because he knows there will be other clouds,
returning him to the happy moments
***
July 26, 2017
Copyright © Chris Green and Darren White
Kitty charms
sweetest gift
in your arms
Fluffy fur
twinkling eyes
mews and purr
Hide and seek
'neath the couch
gold eyes peak
Chases wand
bats the toy
quick respond
Paws squirm neath
the closed door
priceless feat
Climbs the drapes
scolded down
runs escapes
Under chair
hides and sulks
with blank stare
Hears some noise
food in bowl
smells the joys
With meow
runs to eat
happy now
Nighttime treat
sleeps on bed
warms your feet
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