Tugged Poems

PATTERN BALDNESS

PATTERN BALDNESS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stu the squirrel looked in the mirror with a fright.
“Oh no! My fur’s vanishing! What a horrible sight.”
     What’s become of my ‘furdo?'
      Maybe fur I can put on with glue.
OOPS! That doesn’t look right! Dastardly plight!”

He tugged at his thinning tufts with despair,
"Is this really the fate I must bear?
    Squirrel pattern baldness,” they say,
    “Runs deep in my crew’s way,
But I’d rather have fluffy brown hair!"

So Stu bought himself a furry, brown cap
But alas, looked as if he was wearing burlap.
    Discarded it with a single motion  
    Giving up his silly notions.
Smiling, he admitted, “I’m still a charming chap.”

Mind Vs Heart

Poem of the day 



My heart and brain, a constant fight,
A war within, day and endless night.
Emotions rage, like a stormy sea,
While logic whispers, "Think clearly."

Love and reason, in discordant sway,
My heart beats strong, while my brain says "wait".
Feelings flood, like a tidal wave,
While facts and reason, my passion try to save.

In this battle, I'm torn apart,
Tugged by emotions, and logic's heavy heart.
What I feel, versus what I know,
A conflict that rages, as my soul says "go".

My heart says "follow", my brain says "pause",
A struggle that wears me, like a worn-out cause.
I'm caught between, what feels right,
And what's logical, in the dark of night.

But perhaps, in this battle's grace,
Lies a balance, a harmonious space.
Where my heart & brain are in sync what a magical place.
where love and logic are in perfect harmony instead it's just a battlefield with emotions laid to waist

The Funhouse Mirror's Truth

The Funhouse Mirror's Truth

The air was sweet with cotton candy, bright and pink, 
a whirlwind of laughter before I could even think.
My little brother's eyes were wide with pure delight,
My twin sister's hand was wrapped so very tight.
My mother's gentle smile, my father's hand in line,
all in a world I could no longer call mine.
We rode the elephant, a slow and gentle sway,
through the carnival chaos, on that summer's day.

But past the spinning lights and painted stalls,
I saw him watching, a face behind the walls.
A jagged grin, a tear of painted blue,
his eyes locked on me, no matter what we'd do.
I tugged my mother's sleeve, "Look there!" I tried to say,
But she just smiled and looked another way.

My brother's cheer, my sister's joyful cries, 
sounded so distant, beneath the painted skies. 
We won a prize, a stuffed bear, fat and round.
but I felt no joy, no solace could be found.
Because in the reflection of the funhouse glass,
I saw him standing, a shadowy, silent mass.
And in that moment, all the fun fell out of me,
A private terror only I could see.

The Backlight of Equality

On the day of the Lord the human shall fear,
A terrifying god whom will Christians duly Peer,
The dead shall live again - the Christian tear,
A monopolising Christianity that cannot hear.

With, or without, all people are flatly, truly loved,
Without malice or tub, to jingle coyly ungloved, 
Whatever the decade, decision, rubbed, tugged,
A transcendental god shall ring these beloved.

Talking clouds blown by earth’s graphic might,
Pose for the distant, scathed by a distinct light:
Enemies rise n’ fall as if tugging the dark night,
Offsetting the juggernaut of the ready birthrite.

A thought for people, bound, wet in eye-glare, 
Principles, claims and chains won’t be the fare;
Nothing will work except behaviour and blare,
To suggest an ascent coloured by another wear.

All people are of inherent and fully equal worth,
God dies again for the decliner’s identity of birth,
Inside - not as proactive, with his mobile hearth,
A blacklist deceives those fleeing their childbirth. 

Dominique Webb

From Dusk Till Dawn

An isolating darkness looms:
A numb yet tingled skin;
And residues of twilight's gloom,
As walls unseen close in.

This place feels sharp, yet vague and stale;
The clash stirs strife within.
My fingers click and spread—a snap!
So faint—I fear I'm dead.

Insipid airs invade my lungs:
The voices haunt my ears;
Adrift in dreamlike black, undone,
Alone, still lacking fear.

Commanded, guided, commandeered
My soul is tugged then shoved;
My anger swells, for loss so sheer,
No helm, no sense, bereft.

To think, therefore to be—I blare!
The real is mine to snatch;
I’ll walk into the tunnel’s flare,
My exit door unlatched.

Sit A While

Hours nibble at a low back strain.
Tenuous strings were tugged
lifting water bottles.

You wonder how fragile you are,
how vulnerable to those red tides
that bend your iron like plasticine,
turn you into a crooked question mark.

Sit a while old man,
sip tasteless water from a warm plastic bottle,
imagine racing upwards
leaping from mountain top to mountain top,
get high on being low.

You've earned every dull ache,
time to ruefully admit
that there never has been
such a thing
as a 'dull' ache.

TOUCH OF NOCTURNAL VELVET

A cascade, shimmering, of rivulets that undulate,
Metaphor thalassic, richly blending at the pate.
Each silhouette of vitality, speaking with gentle weight,
On shoulders resting, an adornment, delicate.

Where inky depths meet sun-kissed golden thread,
Fair skin and russet lips, a harmony well-bred.
On sloping lids, where emerald hues are spread,
Completing thus, a visage subtly, richly said.

Every filament, a void of deepest night,
Pupils widen, mirroring its stark, endless plight.
Heartstrings tugged by fur of shadowed fall,
Where a blue throb pulses, binding all.

A Black and White Picture

A little girl coming out of a Woolworth store.
An eye in my mind begins to clothe its sight
with a past image.

She has pink ribbons in her hair
and a blue dress,
maybe she had just come from church.
Little black child
being tugged quickly through
a disapproving, white-skinned crowd.

It is not wrong
to think of poets as painters.
We offer pictures
that can be in the now -
yet also out of time.

Today I pick up an artist's brush,
it's not my brush
for I can only finger paint
with digital ink - yet,

I complete an instant of time,
make it a portrait,
one found only yesterday
in an old photograph
tucked into a well-worn bible.

A bigot could have written this poem,
people change with the times,
and I?

I have just painted
what a racist once saw
that's all.

Echoes of the silent shore

The skies teased me
By thrusting me on a silent shore
Filled with petals of red roses
Fragranced so deliciously
That in their hue
All I could hear was love's banter
As he played and tugged at my cold composure

The skies teased me
In that the shore was empty
Other than me
There was not a soul there
Not even the love for whom my heart pined

And when I shouted out his name to the vast ocean
Hoping that somehow the waves will reach him
And cool his whims down
I only met with echoes of my own voice
Which produced a hauntingly eerie ethos!

I waited for the echoes to be over
Hoping that when they would be no more
Love would come to me, on a raft
And grab me, pull me close to drown me
In the whirlpool of his passionate desires
But the shore remained empty and silent
As if waiting for me to call out his name
So as to become alive, echoing my heart's longing!

Resolute, I chose to sit and wait
In silence, enjoying the sight of lapping waves
As if I were submerged in a meditative trance
Knowing that the skies always show the end of the tunnel
For those who believe in them!

That's Wrong

The scuffling duo sparred in the park
Their screams and shouts so very marked
A bag was clutched in the woman's hand
A man had grabbed it while he harangued

"Let go!" He shrilled and tugged it more
"Tis mine, not yours!" The woman swore
The strap tore his hand, he released his grip
The woman fell back in one mighty trip

Another spoke out with voice strong and stern
"It belongs to her, so it must be returned."
The other placated the poor fallen lass
He showed her the bag with gold coloured hasp

The woman leapt up, grabbed the bag and was gone
"It belonged to my wife." Said the man all forlorn
"Oh I'm sorry." Said the other, watching her go
Laughing and jeering, bag firmly in tow

She headed toward a blue, murky pond
The path, alongside, was slippy beyond
Now her footing was lost to the slime and the mud
As she sallied forth into furthermore sludge

The man strode swiftly to view her demise
With a duck on her head holding its prize
The little red bag was firm in its beak
So the man took it back and the duck said quack quack.

humanity

A force tugged against the chest 
Paths unrevocably intertwined 
My heart exists beyond its cage 
and beyond this tiny lifetime
The law of universal graviton 
Gives no advice or information 
On how to cut the red string of fate 
On how to process a unrequited destiny 
On how love without the loss
Of a destiny pre decided 
Unsolvable and unwanted

She's

She's a two edge sword,
who wheels profound believes;
Thus, sashays with Viking's valor 
and intuitive ease.
She's been known 
to bend, near break,
to shade discarded leaves;
From harsh-scolding droughts
or debar's frost-bite freeze.

She's 
no puppet-master
and certainly, 
ain't angst's puppet, hung;
Who submissive,
cowardly questions, 
bows then scurrys 
when her strings
are tugged.

She's that avid eagle
with freedom's rein to soar.
Her nest, 
it never tethers,
with knowledge's thirst, 
explores.
The world, it's her oyster,
with every venture, 
craves to conquer more.

Legend of BIG MAMA

From way down in "Bama"
Stirring echoes of Big Mama

A thunderous storm that brewed from the Deep South
Each word could be felt when it left her mouth

With her immense presence, showmanship, and confidence 
She would capture the hearts and minds of her audience 

She stood tall, shoulder to shoulder amongst the sultans of Blues 
She didn't have to pretend or put on 'cause she stood comfortably in her shoes

A woman, a beautiful black woman oozing with creativity and soul
In her kitchen, she took lemons and made pitcher after pitcher of sweet lemonade that she always served cold


Oh, Big Mama you brought that good medicine to the soul when you sang
You bellowed melodies that reached up and tugged on them heartstrangs

Oh, Big Mama I see ya' cookin' with your horn, too
Blowin',  just blowin' so beautifully like only a few

You were so good that some felt a need to copy you and steal your money
Shameful shadowy expressions of a "Hound Dog" depraved  music industry

Never to be replicated or duplicated 
One of one, you were, but still, you're often imitated 

From way down in "Bama"
Still goes stirring echoes of Big Mama

Alton, Mo

surrounded by trees
a trailer lies in decay
the front door tugged by the wind
a home left behind 
littered with animal waste 
shadows seep from doors ajar

Vision

She took her own neck
into her own hands
and tugged and howled silently.
Have I seen this before?

Am I watching a film
or hearing a dream?
No scream, or invisible, inaudible
scheme performed by my head?

Can they see my movements as I copy;
hear, with their eyes, my screech?
Will that silent whinge or yammer teach them
to know me? Or am I, am I?

So strange to see that neck
taken into her hands
as she howls silently!
Has she done this before, as my vision seems to tell?


(4 Oct 2024)

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