"commiserations" poems
All those young bodies
so trained, taught and tight
all put together for more than a few nights
only the elite athletes are allowed in the village
no partners, no spouses no one to investigate
Apparently that leads to lots of hook ups
Celebrations, commiserations, there's a lot of stuff to do up
So the villagers are supplied with fifteen condoms each
And all around, there is fun in heaps
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 10:29 PM UTC
Thirteen week bump,
Thirty four week lump.
Tummy flutters,
Excited mutters.
Boy or a Girl,
Ultrasound swirl.
"Wow! Congratulations".
Silent commiserations...
Her friends all excited,
and she not invited.
Scream at the smiling,
hurt from the beguiling,
of the unknowing monsters.
The mothers and fathers,
of children not quite existing,
egg like and nesting.
They don't know her agony,
being in perfect anonymity.
but it eats her insides,
like a child that resides,
or once did.
So she logs off of Facebook
Where she can only look
and then logs back on again
Does she enjoy this pain?
One day she cracked
and her emotions hacked
through her rational thought
and she gasps like fish just caught
Shhh, It is okay. It is okay
one point seven second delay
Delete it now.
You stupid cow!
What were you thinking?
Oh you've been drinking.
Facebook friends
and their mid twenty trends
You will have yours one day
Like Anne, who was thirty three?
Just log off now and get on with life.
I can't... Oh look Hannah has a wife!
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 4:24 PM UTC
A lonesome threshold,
yesterday was light as confetti / from a wedding that
bled in thirty litres of martyred roses / How long are
three hundred steps from a church, to stucco walls
the colour of sorrow?
Soil, the tint of blood,
ichor of mountain Gods, deveined for lost embrace
of roots / Wind whistling away regrets in the dust of
liberated souls / Would it sing for her, embalmed
in the bowels of earth’s sanguine hum?
April heat, weighted with a dirge
of tears salted in ocean / rusting the trumpet
and violin strings / Who will tune the piano for mass,
now that those musical men sailed before her,
in paper boat memoirs?
The Goliath tree rooted in bones,
a giant on such sustenance / gatekeeper of souls
tethered to fleshy sinews in beds of solitude /
Will she be interred in fruit, as he suppers
on her animated putrefaction?
Suffering, twice a child,
once a lady, she didn’t stay long to be swaddled
in linens of pity, cottons of commiserations /
Where will I store the enameled chamber *** for
when I grow up to be her likeness?
Nightshades, funneling viscous memories,
trumpeting in a pastel wilderness, alkaloid racket
waiting to sound in the poisons of prayerful echoes /
When will they bloom, toxic with grief of a swelling past,
so I may sleep as soundly as her?
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 6:18 PM UTC
Open the door with pockets full
of preconceptions,
only to be led out the back
with words of commiserations
stitched together by the man,
second-door-on-the-left:
public relations.
Because the PR man
will always paint a prettier picture
because they brush by number and
read from the holy business scripture;
that one no-one knows about- it’s a fable -
the paper that’s propping up the corporations table.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
Spitefully contorted prosecutions,
In the form of attachments,
Anchors tied to our ankles,
You know as well as I,
With fear, we wrought them,
Afraid we'd be left to rot without them.
"No man is an island" said someone.
But we are,
Floating,
Weighted,
Treading,
Storm waters, currents, possibilities,
Any direction,
No direction,
No shorelines,
No light,
Let alone an end to the tunnels we've dug out,
And lost our souls in.
In an ocean wide oblivion we reach for the smallest commiserations, you sought my condolences,
Grasping onto me for one steady breath,
And in what looked to you like your grip slipping,
Drowning without meaning,
I saw a slight slip, in a battle,
With a heaviness as ingrained as the need,
To survive,
To swim out to open sea.
But honesty begs me to tell you,
I never was a swimmer,
And I can only loose so much ground,
Before I, myself, start to drown.
Maybe, when your feet next touch,
I won't love in the form of metaphors,
Until then,
I'll see your vastness, raise you a lostness,
And challenge you,
to a race through everything,
Life can throw in our faces,
To change us,
Amaze us.
And maybe, just maybe,
I'll see you on some sunny day by the water,
Somewhere,
Drifting to me,
Finally in awe of the undertow,
You fought,
For so very long.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 2:12 AM UTC
The paper white as snow,
Glistens in the light.
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
8.10, 8.12, 8.14, 8.16,
Still the paper sits there as white as snow
The paper is now dazzling in the light.
8.22, my biro pen slowly approaches,
A stroke and its done,
Tick, tock, tick, tock
Now a whole sentence sits on the page
‘Sara got on the 24 bus every Monday at 8am, as if it was second nature.’
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
Now a whole paragraph about Sara has come, screech, abruptly to a stop.
Thoughts swirl around my brain what does Sara do now?
What is next?
What was a story within a matter of minutes becomes notes
It essentially becomes academia on a story not written,
As the years pass, and the essays in the folder grow,
Sara becomes she.
As the terms fly by, the relationships happen or don’t happen,
Friendships begin and end, there are celebrations and commiserations,
Weddings and funerals.
She becomes me,
The words begin flowing out,
The stories plummet onto the page.
What was missing all along was the Sara is not she, she is a little bit me.
She could not be me, until I knew who me is or was.
Apr 17, 2021
Apr 17, 2021 at 11:58 AM UTC
I am the destroyer of worlds
specifically of my own,
with no regard to the landscape
I consume,
My words brazen in their wild hunt,
Uncaring for the lives of those they swallow whole.
I raze fields, create canyons
Without a second glance,
Without care or thought or reason
I shall burn the hollowed
recesses of my heart
Until there remains naught but
Ash and cinder.
Destruction is my name,
Desolation? My title.
I am the harbinger of death,
Specifically my own,
Mercy knows no hiding hovel in the caverns
of my skin,
pity lives not in my eyes,
flooded by rage
devoid of hopeful commiserations,
I am inhumane,
I am the plague
So you must run to escape me,
Oh but run you cannot
For the roots of my depression stretch
Far beyond my physical body,
Wind around our planet,
Touch soul after soul after soul,
I shall set fire to my very source of humanity,
The weakness in me which
Allows my doors to swing open,
My drawbridge to lower faithfully,
Covering the moat I had built myself,
at the first knocking promise
Of someone else caring about me in a way I
have never learned to for myself.
Yet once I glean that first bit of affection
My poison twists through any veins of love
And I seem without fail,
To corrupt the small sparks of good
That dare to show their face.
So.....
Destruction is my name,
Desolation? My title.
I am the destroyer of worlds,
Specifically
My own
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 1:20 PM UTC
Without you paid employment would last forever,
eagles wouldn't have feathers,
every letter full of commiserations,
without you.
Without you Usain Bolt wouldn't be as fast
and disappointments last
and not fade
in time,
no hope in mind,
without you.
Without you every fox would be hunted,
and expressions of love blunted
by fear,
no one to lend a friendly ear,
without you.
Without you soars would be stilted by trepidation,
spread wings unaware of elation,
without you.
But, for now, as it is
you're here,
engendering cheers easy, when you smile.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
Every silver lining is tied to a cloud
Dark and full of rain
There can be light
But you have to go through the pain
You smile but it’s only a frown
That’s been turned on its head
A mask of what you have to hide
Showing the joy, when you’re crying instead
Ambushed by friends’ good feelings
You can drown in their commiserations
Pity me. I am lost in the dark,
Dark day. Only the night shows a starry light
There I can let my mind float into the void
Hitch a ride on a searing comet flight
Grief is absent in the hours of the day
Hidden under a ‘I’m doing well’, look
But at night I can hug it close, like a blanket
Breathe in the sorrow like a well-read book
You see, sadness is a picture you can’t complete
When you are missing a piece of the puzzle
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 11:31 AM UTC
)(
/\
( • )
/\
___
many ( if not most )
Of our poems are written to
A ...... You
More properly spelled
Y
O
U
rising up as the ******* symbol that it is
/::/
By addressing the poem to this
Y
O
U
The real audience ( the actual readers )
Are effectively erased from the writer's consideration
And all responsibility for the poem is likewise erased
•
Y
O
U
as the subject matter
Totally de-personalizes the person who is the subject
Of the poem and renders him as a mere object
( phallus )
In the writer's mind
•
This enables the writer to invent any SELF desired
The usual SELF is of
THE VICTIM
category
//
This VICTIM status
Has been raised to a religious level
As
THE BROKEN PEOPLE
have replaced
THE CHOSEN PEOPLE
as the god given identification for mankind
•
With its ritual mutilations
( real or fake )
Commanding its ritual amens
And commiserations
///
be wary
DEAR YOUNG ONES
and try to write real poetry
For it can heal both you and the world
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
Sent some flowers the other day
to a friend who’d lost life’s loves,
kith and kin, too often
over the years.
Loves & Lives Lost,
too many fears realised…
Birthdates after death,
death-dates after life
they concertina together
to cause concerning days, weeks,
months. And, commiserations come in
in a flurry sometimes and amplify the hurt.
As time rolls on it's strange
how anniversaries come in bunches!
Just for the moment it seems that all
the good things are in the past…
But let’s look forward to warmth,
comfort and re-assurance from
memories of friends, family,
partners and loved ones - at last.
Jun 30, 2020
Jun 30, 2020 at 7:28 AM UTC
the hollowest congratulations
is a nuanced muffled commiserations
funeral bells chiming alongside
wedding bells fuming during the ride
spreadsheets and graphs
not dictums and Acts
but one thing lies in common
man's pact can be determined by Acts.
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 9:45 AM UTC