"backhands" poems
As a kid, my best days had a trip to the park
in summer,
when Mother had time after work
and it didn't get dark so fast
we rode bikes on the paths between broken glass,
watched for stray dogs
(and avoided the grass)
once we saw two men strolling, holding hands
and Mother said not to stare,
"They must be Europeans - they do things like that"
her best friend was Mrs. Cohen-Around-The-Corner
they could cluck across our rough fence out back
or toss apples to one another
were there an apple tree nearby
(but there wasn't)
so they used the telephone instead
the woman, she once told me,
"would just die"
if her only son ever brought home
"a shiksa"
I laughed at the word,
because it sounded sounded funny and ethnic
(Mrs. Cohen taught English)
she let her boy back-talk,
even express profanity
in graffiti on a bedroom door
with black permanent marker
(it could always be repainted later, she explained)
mine met reason with
quick backhands or glowering looks;
once even washed my mouth out
with soap
so I nodded in agreement
I revisited the old neighborhood,
to the teacher long retired;
showed wallet photos
and discussed our health
(hers mostly),
hearing accounts of the son away
years at kibbutz,
too busy to call regularly
or make any grandchildren yet
I didn't mention the trip to the park
which was neater than I remember
the kids played tag
(on the grass!)
until a skinned knee needed a kiss;
where I'm certain I'd seen him, now balding,
the kid from around the corner,
holding hands with a European
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
She had a gleaming knack for rejection
Her trails were wrought with misery and tearful eyes
They always tried for a touchdown to her interception
Babe just loved staring suitors into a despised demise
Break-ups over texts, phone calls, shakes and French fries
Nail polish streaked on cheeks from vicious backhands
They were markings of a fool leaning on wobbly one-night stands
Left happily bowing to Madame Heartbreak’s demands
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
At least the coffee's hot and understands me
unlike today that just backhands me,
Is it too early for a glass of wine?
My life gets stuck on tic tac toe
a no win, no win, no point to go
on, but
I go on because
I'm an awkward cuss.
I saw the universe come to a stop,
but it started up again
( explain that one Brian *** )
Should I, should I not have another
from the coffee ***
I'm watching clouds break up
a bit like lovers do,
slowly disentangling,
to
be alone
to be at home
with oneself.
I need to, want to, got to,
soon.
Let's celebrate
underneath those arches
where our dreams
dreamed with the
Moon.
Friday clicks the switch
Rik says,
" Robinson, You're such a ***** "
I
mention jam
which is what I feel I'm in.
but
It'll pass, immortalised or
turn to gas
either way
Friday
is here until midnight.
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
I'll call you out politely,
Our friendship can withstand.
The criticisms helpful,
Not complimented backhands.
We'll open up the eyes of,
Each other, and the world.
We'll walk the truthspeak, aiding,
Through tangled, loving curls.
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 8:51 PM UTC
BLACK & BLUE
are the colors that
you turn to
like the others that
he once knew
when he met you
and let loose
where you find
he is not so
nice a guy
truth or dare
it's a lie
every time
he'll apologize
promising
he will not
do it again
till he raises his
angry hand
low on promise
high on demand
still, you stay
with no plans to
run away
but will you
survive the day
his fits of rage
who's to say
where he leaves you
with no clue
every time he
backhands you
will you even
make it through
the next round of
pity you
BLACK & BLUE
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 10:02 AM UTC
He brought out all my scars, with backhands and ill tempered beers.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 10:15 AM UTC
i. the wind carries within it little knives, little grains, which sting when they strike my face. they strike my face and I am creating that momentum. i don't stop swinging.
ii. the two of us are here again and we aren't talking, but it's a camaraderie that lies among this pause. passing each other always a second too late; it's not grief I feel looking at your back, but it's something.
iii. I am standing far away. the wind blows cigarette smoke back into my face and it stings my eyes. the bit of moisture that leaks from within me is cloudy instead of clear.
iv. there's a padlock on the gate today and we stare at each other, dumb. the world may continue to move on around us but that second wherein the path we were taking suddenly became too over run with **** and branches to walk upon, to even crawl through, sticks us to the ground like a flytrap.
v. the lump in my throat keeps getting bigger. I ask you to feel it; swallowing with your fingers against my throat. it's probably nothing. but I'll be sorry regardless.
vi. the two of us - back to back. when the wind backhands one, the other flinches in time.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 6:01 PM UTC
You could cut me open
I wouldn't give a ****
I'd do it over again to you
And then I'd hold your hands
We clash, we fight,
we misunderstand
You make me want to ****
that boy in my band
for hurting you so
when he held your hand
at least he's not coming to
the party we're to plan
to celebrate eachother,
the life that we've spanned.
Sometimes I see you
and I just can't stand
to even be near you
because you're a strand
of sunlight at least
little bit of heaven here on land
It's too much for me
too much to withstand
that sassy little face
serving verbal backhands
to anyone who crosses you,
and you're high in demand
but that doesn't matter cause
you're my best frand <3
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 8:37 AM UTC