"brashly" poems
She hates that she is a woman
The putrefying weakness perceived in the curves of her body
The naivete shown in her blues
With the unintentional flutter of butterfly lashes
That refuse to meet the glances of those that pass by
The fear-- Of what?
That stereotypes are true?
She doesn't even know
And it sickens her.
She sickens herself.
She hates that she is white
The blandest vanilla
The marble statue
Somehow revered
Worshiped
Privileged
But simultaneously overlooked
Boring
Unimportant
The Caucasian mongrel
In light of the fact that her People
Have no proud history
Which she can name herself heir to
She hates that she is middle class
Not poor enough to struggle
Not rich enough to be free
Just situated dully in the middle
A footnote in the statistic
That they tell her she must use
To identify herself
She hates that her belief system
Has to be called by a name
That she has to choose
To be a part of a group
As part of her "identity"
And she is not allowed
To stand by her own integrity
She hates that she is American
The pudgy, loud-mouthed, laterally-speaking nation
The brashly jumps into conflict
Guns blazing
As its political system decays
In the stench of its overwhelming debt and corruption
But in truth
She hates
That they force her
To whittle her essence down
Into Gender, Race, Class, Religion, and Nationality
A vomit-inducing statistic
As if there was nothing more to her
Than the facts surrounding her existence
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
Everything with us seems perfectly entwined,
Like Lego locking together,
It just fits like we should know but don't,
Is this another life lesson I wonder,
You are actually perfection on a plate,
All my wishes confirmed for my eye's to feast,
You listen, converse, laugh, speak sense,
Your like my concious more innocent,
When alone in my thoughts I know,
I fell in love along the way,
I'm evaporated by your honesty,
Our souls melt into the Ether,
Alien yet familiar fears dwell,
A fool for love and lust,
Heart brashly on sleeve,
Afraid I'll chemically combust,
I cant see your thoughts either,
Are you just honeymooning this new behaviour,
Don't misread that I'm wanting it fast,
My heart prays to God It will last,
All I need is something more concrete,
I cant sweep this away just for encase,
Every waking moment I long to embrace,
In you my love knew we would meet,
But for now we go with the flow,
Fear you will bin me for another,
All helplessly in love and lost,
I'm almost certain my heart'll pay the cost,
We lock just like Lego blessed from above,
Humanoid Lego a gift of true love.
© Susan Michelle Baker
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
Sword brashly drawn from scabbard
Gilded blade with a lucent polish lathered
Burnished to reflect the availing light on each side gathered
Conversely deflecting the pious streams pharisaically blathered
Weapon-grade mind steeled to cut through the broad discourse
Sharp point piercing each tangled, silken strand; puncturing each uncorroborated source
Serrated edges slashing through the syntactical pulp so coarse
Double-edged blade mincing then scoring lexicon that generational divide did divorce
Vaunted crest advertising noble intentions
Brittle helmet to repel callous, vain repetitions
Dense breast plate to ensnare all heartless pretensions
Luminescent shield to deflect all trite inventions
Aug 6, 2011
Aug 6, 2011 at 2:42 PM UTC
When complexities increase in number,
brashly jerking me from slumber,
When dilemma stares me in the face,
dragging me into the modern rat race,
I simply ask myself, what would Holmes do?
When there is a downpour of worries all at once,
forcing me to gaffe about and act like a dunce,
When diabolical questions pop up now and then,
making me ponder how and when,
I ask myself,what would Jeeves do?
If only Mr. Holmes were to be my guide,
and the inimitable Jeeves were by my side,
My remotest feelings to them I'd confide,
without having them rebuke or chide,
because Holmes and Jeeves would know what to do.
While Holmes would take the bull by its horns,
Jeeves would provide against obstacles and thorns,
Holmes would know what to say,
Jeeves would put in a tactful way,
because Holmes and Jeeves would know what to do.
So, when headaches and woes come in fleets,
I go in my mind to those London streets,
I consult them with a problem or two,
Because Holmes and Jeeves know exactly what to do.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 6:09 AM UTC
Maximal tactics, i'm moving diagonal
fast attack, mad like a rabid animal
I can scramble em and eat em up like a cannibal
silence of the lambs, you can call me hannibal
factual master of blasting the practical
grammatical fractions that act like a manual
brashly cast and I smash like a radical
glad to put a badass on a lasting sabbatical
I hit with a fist and it's fit for the mystical
put **** in the britches of the illiterate pitiful
I get physical on the brittle when condition is critical
on a mission to finish putting rips in the typical
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
*The bright star of my life has dimmed
And casts in shade the years before,
When hope and love and longing brimmed
My youthful cup, but now no more.
Where is the time, those heady days
I courted brashly, blind and bold,
And squandered in so many ways
Without a thought of growing old.
Where have you gone my perfect youth
That once my heart and soul defined,
For now I face a dreadful truth,
Less days to come than left behind.*
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
I cried these dirges brashly,
After these long nights
While my skin cracks;
Irrigating it with my dry tears
By the desperate harmattan;
My cries are a rustling of leaves under a sun
That never fades- washing my face in strict rays
Its attendance is long overstayed;
Resting on my absent mind
I sit outside in the world’s
Quick-witted; criticizing eyes
Weeping proudly without a rush of blinking tears;
This everyday world isn’t my beloved home to own-
A shelter neglecting to cover my nakedness
I sit outside in the world’s
Quick-witted; criticizing eyes
With a tiny cloth left damp, sodden and weary
By the stretched tears flowing down my bare *******
The world quickly suckles on my grief –
Biting, pulling, and scarring them by their buds
calling it all fair by its, “Budding remarks”
With the goalmouth of getting itself full up;
Never nursing the agony.
Oh, how my heart hurts!
Jul 4, 2024
Jul 4, 2024 at 2:22 PM UTC
To open this box...
I'd more than like to know
What monsters it houses, what
Mossy, overgrown flora it grows.
Whether 'not it will
Blast me with fair, cleansing light, like
A sunrise through a painted window, or
Plunge me
Into dark waters
And run my eyes o'er with
Soaking ash and floating filament -
It's my weakness,
It calls me by a fond nickname, like
A too good friend after too long,
It knows me,
Knows I can't displace the
Imprints once they are etched
In my head
I have to uncover the rock the wrong way,
I have to
Lift it up towards me, brashly, impulsively,
And risk
The nervous snake
Right into my chest
That burning feeling,
Crackling in my breastbone,
Sets a flame and
Sends me back yet again
Scurrying into another lush, cool sanctuary
Somewhere in these woods, my temple,
In my center,
In my core.
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 2:35 PM UTC
The dragon asked me brashly
*** are you doing here?"
I threw it the evil eye
and finished up my beer
The goblins in the corner
talking in hushed tones
doing some ***** deal
not using their I-phones
The elven waitress
is giving me the look
I'll talk to her later
another number for my book
The wizards and witches
don't hang around too long
they'd rather be at home
toking, from their bongs
The unicorn is frisky
buying Pegasus some drinks
she smiles and whinny's sexily
giving him a wink
It's just a job I do
a private type of ****
reporting on the play
of some guy's wife, or chick
I'm a fantasy P.I.
the kind you dream about
don't question when or why
**** let me take you out
please? :D
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 11:31 AM UTC
The storm, it is not passing by quickly
But the children are asleep in their beds
Should we awaken them all, so brashly,
or leave them at ease, to slumber instead?
The winds, beginning to knock at the door,
getting stronger and stronger each minute
They start to rattle; the boards on the floor
are creaking as wind slowly gets in it.
A loud crash of lightning hits trees outside
Perhaps they should prepare to run away
The calm lake waters now treacherous tides
A funnel takes form, dark menacing grey
Why should we wake them from their calm cool sleep?
It’s already done; the water’s too deep.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 10:16 PM UTC
I don't write poems because I'm worried you'll think they're "good"
I write poems because I can't do heart surgery
I write songs because I need my poems to sound a different way
Not because I'll get laid if I read this **** at a slam or after I play a set
If you're worried I'm just in this for the praise or the money, don't
I'd have it better as a doctor or a lawyer if that was my goal
I write because I have nothing else burning within me
Except for the occasional case of heartburn or lactic acid (I am human)
I can only observe and report, and augment, and adapt
In a world of chaos, in a world beyond qualification and adaptation
Where truth is a perspective and frameworks cage our knowledge
I can only assess outside of this cage,
I can only claim land in fallow soil, and attempt to quench myself with mirages of Oasis
I'm trying to drink from a dribble cup, my **** keeps spilling out
I love fiercely and speak brashly, I can't keep it contained
so tell me how full of **** I am, or tell me I'm convoluted
and I'll keep trying to quench my thirst in a dry spell
The desert will listen either way.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 6:22 AM UTC
An old dull silver tray bought from the thrift store last polished never
Sits between us, holding a half emptied handle of rye, two rock glasses
Adjunct ice bucket and a handful of spansules all neatly lined up in a row
Like candy for the taking
Too late
Existentially snuffed out
'Yes' I thought, there's a good start
But existentialism is so boooooring dear,
such a dry, ****** passe affair, pedantic really
She groans out her words elongated like some big queen of England
Sitting on her royal *** smoking from a long black cigarette holder
I pull her towards me roughly slipping quickly into thick, thickening
Newfound (land) accents
"Listen here missy, you're no Audrey Hepburn"
Brashly kissing bright blooming vermillion lips
"And you're no John Kennedy"
Playing dress up S&M; cosplay games de la haute societe
Cruel broken bank account pauvrete down and out facade
Tho this is neither Paris nor London
Nor do we find any satisfaction in our destitution
I am not a plongeur et vous,
Vous etes rien qu'un petit ami du nuit
"I'm not your *****
All part of the act
Or so I'm told
We've forgotten who we really are behind these vaudeville masks
The world less lucid, less clear, receding gently tho greatly
Day by lurid day
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
Broken time watches warily
Godless granite-hard cruel
Unrelenting
Crooked finger shall give
Abundance of clever foggy portraits
Vaguely quick spun words
Just words
Hopeless downcast downtrodden
Shifting swimming eyes
Thrown scattered shot
Up
Careless siege of swill
Scarlet shiny garish
Plucked and fussed and
Cosseted
Gone gone gone
Vanished brashly veiled
Never more
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 3:01 PM UTC
Have you memorized the ocean wave?
It draws in an out so slowly
To the ocean you are a slave.
Being near the sea is something you crave
You stare into forever dully
Have you memorized the ocean wave?
Under the waters there is a cave
Calling your name so brashly
To the ocean you are a slave.
Something inside you is still brave
But you know you won’t act rashly
Have you memorized the ocean wave?
For the sea you have not yet forgave
It has taken your life wholly
To the ocean you are a slave.
The tides never seem to behave
Never dividing the time fairly
Have you memorized the ocean wave?
To the ocean you are a slave.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 9:38 AM UTC
How I long for the breath of youth once more
These tiered bones and weary eyes will mend
My bending back produced by years of chore
will bend right back as an unbroken trend.
The lines and wrinkles will begin to fade
My erratic heart will beat strong and true
My calloused hands torn and battered remade
Will lift up boldly into the bright new
I'll be callow naive and ignorant
Brashly pushing forward never looking back
I'll be breaking hearts, my love to be sent
given to those with worth or those who lack
But my weary back will remain thus still
for my youth alluded leaving me chill
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
I made you love me
With treacle, tricks and tonsure.
I was so sure of myself
I could dissuade you from anyone else
And elves would come
In the night to bewitch you more deeply.
Sleepy, sleeping, not seeing
You would fall under my loving spell.
And well would I use you
Truly dragging you along unaware
Of my witchery, jiggery-pokery
Jokingly, or seductively
Instructively guiding you to please
Easing you into your role;
Solely in charge of the play
Saying sweet, flattering words
Heard in clutches and hugs
Drugs for the lonely, the needy.
And you became convinced
Since I am so good at my craft
I drafted you into my dream
Seemingly all your idea.
My Galatea of sweet, smooth skin;
Sin for me to commit gladly,
Madly, I did not care what you wanted
I flaunted my talent brashly
Trashily uncaring of the scorn
That might be born of my ego;
My need so ugly to see:
Me, playing god of love.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
You were the enterprise of my frontier,
expanding wide, new sliding glass doors in front of my eyes like the grand opening to the gates of an
uncharted section of heaven,
Our friendship affected me more than
I have ever managed to convey,
I felt like after groping around in a dark clutter of disorientation, I touched your hand and you held mine in yours for a most enriching, painfully fleeting while,
And every slicing moment dissolved ever-faster the present into the past; time was not the lingering pleasant man with face nose-deep into that rosebush
but he was that scurrying monkey suit hurdling brashly through conceptual space as if always in a rush.
Like clockwork the moment your hand gave mine that enticing squeeze--that little implied promise of adorational reciprocity and affirmation--it just as suddenly loosed its grip altogether and dropped away.
You were the most profound "What If" I'll never gain the self-preservation and willpower to forget, and in my most dire moments of no sense of direction,
my weak coddling infant of an ego will cling to that most desirous notion of romantic ambiguity,
And for that, I shan't ever truly let go of my idea of what could have been,
under alternative circumstances and more suitable factors on both parties' parts,
because I still trust that the girl I was at sixteen new
what it was she was feeling
when she basked in the wealth produced in her admiration of you.
You were the first real name scribbled on the metaphysical list of my fancies,
And I can't manage to forget so.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 6:15 AM UTC
i often think about the people that go hit by meteorites
how space shrapnel invited itself into their homes
took its' shoes off and shimmied into the floor
asteroid junk, hold me closer
tell them they're not alone
that one day they'll burst, or be swept
all just soot in the end
this dust, this sand
can fill up a city
i can be that city
how likely is it to be struck by lightning?
and will i be the lucky one
tell me, will it shake the truths out of me
will it burn my hair like it did when someone got too close and their cigarette got even closer
the way it sizzled and made the air hard to breathe
will my veins line up with the electric as if i were part of something greater than a body of earth?
in times like these i hear the word aha!
Geronimo calling from the light-bulb, brazenly jumping to enlightenment
a tiny revolution starting in every little thing that can line up with the other
a thousand circuits jump starting and brashly telling me to
step out of the dark
i could use a little time
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 6:09 PM UTC
A humming violin brashly buzzes at first as a bow washes over its strings,
A motif meticulously dreamt from a distance, a daring denouement evaporated into a silent wellspring.
[The Moment]
The violin opens into an ampitheater of heads and legs,
A place where the movement of moments plays itself sideways,
And every open space is a sheet of music sideways, heard but not seen.
Every part and promise is a thing to be heard and well seen.
A face at once, a note sounded, the moment of promises projected on the symphony,
The sounds of want and need have a way of playing and praying in harmony.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
But then his back severed the cord as it closed the door to our conversation.
What wanted to be said got hit in the face and retreated into my throat.
and
I choked on every syllable.
I too turned not desiring to be cradled by the arms of silence.
I opened the door leading to the case of stairs.
Every step mimicked his words enraging my feet
and
They attempted to mute but they grew weary in defeat.
Closing my eyes I spun facing his general direction.
It was as if an audience drew in breath,
Afraid their breathing would interrupt the ****** of this scene.
White noise complained obnoxiously, fluttering nigh the sides of my ear
And
An inferno asphyxiated brashly the cells my heart neared.
“You were-are worth it”
But those words muffled by the cradling arms of silence
Were carried by the white noise
Before
Ashed by the inferno.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
The appeal is in what I lack.
Her hardness, her coldness,
That fierce lack of care,
Brashly charging in
And tearing apart to aid.
All which I look to
Saying with awe, “Now that’s strength,”
While ignoring my own,
Because the appeal is that which I lack.
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 4:37 PM UTC
Loving me is like a cold front. I am scared of fire I can not control and you burn too hot for me. I can not see through your smoke and I am choking on your promises but it is my own fault because I let you think I was a volcano when I am an alp. Still, I grip your embers hoping if I burn off my finger prints I can be somebody new, somebody who is not killing themselves trying to love you. I want to be strong because weak hurts, and I want to kiss you and feel fireworks but all we get is steam. You are not my element and we are not star-crossed just incompatible. I am addicted to the burns you have inflicted on me: I feel them fade in your absence and I miss their sting. I like being reminded that you hurt me, I like being reminded that you touched me once. That you looked at my jagged edges and dared to grab on knowing like glass I could shatter but trusting that I wouldn't: you liked me to believe I was strong. I thought we were perfect for each other and I get stuck in our memories. I can only remember your perfections, and the little things about you until I can only smile because nobody knows fire like I do. I let you take everything I had but I can not control you. You rage through everything; brashly burning paths that aren't familiar to me and you don't want me anymore, you make me wonder if you ever did because you seem to like having me watch. Watch you love other people properly. Watch you finally blaze in the life you've always wanted. I am only trying to rebuild my snowy disposition but you keep lighting me on fire. I don't like fire I can not control.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 12:00 AM UTC
Brashly
You picked me up
Placed me on your lap
Poured a drink in a tea cup
Honestly it tasted like crap
Unwillingly
Sedated and subdued
Forced to *****
Violated by you
Horribly
You played with me
Toyed with my body
Stepped all over me
Gently
Let me down
You had your fun
But now we're done
Sadly
Grieving in silent
Broken and bent
A blank Statement
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 5:41 AM UTC
some seconds
sear and brand
creating Self
no matter drive
to carve new
persona
early stain
rears serpent
head
heel bruised
sets timer
ticking
his demise
rebellion has
a price
for trails mocked
to mountain top
pristine snow
rivers fuelled
brashly strong
diverted
birth
pathways
forged
straight to
waiting
sea
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 2:27 PM UTC
I often misjudge the distance
between me and the world,
this morning the distance
was more like looking
through a keyhole
and seeing the
arrows wreckage,
a woman was walking
in front of me at the
university union
where oversized portraits
of past torchbearers and
victors hang grandiosely
on neat corn rows
like kings and queens
with branded jewels
we watched her fire storm
together - just me and the group,
she came through the peaceful
passageway that normally
reminds me of a quiet library
but not this time,
her pace quickened as she
disputed her case brashly
to her lover on her cell,
something about being seen
somewhere with someone
so furious and unbending
and persuasive, out there
in a swirl, and I thought,
**** why?” such chaos
and anger over an
appearance, over an
inquiry - over a nothing,
there was no autopsy
but she rambled onward
stomping her black spiny
pumps loudly on the marble
creating a demanding rap
it couldn’t wait
tossing her hair back violently
as if it were on fire
she stunk up the joint
with her, “no time for that,”
front,
the distance between me
and the world grew smaller
this morning,
I stopped to look at it
at her retching, it wasn’t
a fire and I did not
misread this,
what I felt there peering
through the key hole
tenderly reminded me
of my own adultery
with absent mindedness
and irrational fear
and messes that protest,
else they lay down under
lily-livered puppet strings
and bed springs.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC