"grudgingly" poems
We were teammates
We suited up
We showed up
We weren't stars
But we rolled in the dirt
With the best of them
Our blood ran red
Like the rest of them
Our sweat tasted salty
As the most athletic of them
Wounds and bruises
Ached like the most
Stalwart of them
We were Bulldogs!
We anted up our
Gifts and talents to
Forge a winning season
A flair for humor
Wry observation,
Encouragement, fortitude
And intelligence were as
Valuable as speed,
Agility and strength
We all pined for the
Affection of cheerleaders,
Bandmembers and the
Adoration of fans
We equally joined
In the chorus of
locker room banter
And honored the
Confidence of camaraderie
Such intimacy bares
We endured thankless
Adversity, while wending
through anonymous toil
As brothers
We grudgingly drank
From the vile cup of defeat
And passed the chalice
Of victory among us
To share the savory
Taste of triumph
As champions
The Duke of Wellington
Said “the battle of Waterloo
Was won on the fields of Eton”
I trust my teammates and
Not forgotten friends
Tasted sweet victories of
Happiness and success
As they coursed through
Their prodigious fields of life
And at games end
I hope their heart swelled
With pride to know they were
A beloved and Valiant Bulldog
David Irving Korsh #75
BCSL Champion 1973
Rutherford Bulldogs
Well done Valiant Bulldog
God bless and Godspeed
Music Selection:
Bruce Springsteen
Thunder Road
5/5/18
Puyallup
jbm
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 2:58 PM UTC
The parasympathetic nervous system
is responsible for regulations
unconsciously transpiring
within the organs and
the glands of
the body.
Such as:
urination, salivation, digestion, defecation, and
lacrimation
(noun. ‘the flow of tears’. Latin.
from lacrimare (‘weep’) and lacrima (‘tear’).
It’s why I cry
even when I don’t want to.
You are the parasympathetic nervous system.
The (ortho-)sympathetic nervous system
is responsible for the mobilization
of the fight-or-flight response
and constantly maintaining
homeostasis within
the body.
It acts
rapidly, enacting an attempt at stability and
the necessary and critical ability
to suddenly escape
on pulsing legs or
cling to survival through
brandishing adrenaline-doused knuckles
and dilated pupils.
It’s why you live
even when you don’t want to.
I am the sympathetic nervous system.
The parasympathetic and sympathetic nervous systems
are two of three essential nervous systems which
compose the autonomic nervous system
(a part of the peripheral
nervous system)
that manages
involuntary
functions of the body. Such as:
swallowing, perspiration, arousal, breathing, and
heart rate
(noun. ‘the speed of the heartbeat’.
usually expressed in beats per minute. mine speeds up when I see you).
Individually these two systems oppose
but compliment
each other like our hands do—
pressed together and omitting equal force;
veins meeting
at the fingertips and throbbing at the wrists
but running amuck on our respective digits otherwise.
You are the invariable and unspoken reminder to
breath,
love,
sweat,
and live.
I am the sudden snap of reality always aiming to save you
but grudgingly willing to fight you and
ready
to
leave.
From the deepest lower half of my brainstem
and from every nerve
in my cycling body,
I’m sorry.
From all of my chromaffin cells
and from the truest parts of submandibular ganglian,
I am sorry.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
In all of my twenty years of life,
I have been many things.
A daughter
A sister
A friend
A lover
But now, I am no longer my father’s little girl.
My father doesn’t talk to me anymore;
He says that I don’t look him in the eyes,
And he is right, but not for the reason he believes
I am afraid to look him in the eyes
Because I don’t want to see myself reflected in them,
Proof of my failure to separate myself from him,
Proof that I am him and always will be him
I do not want to become my father,
Stuck in a marriage with no love left
Or love that is there
Only because it is supposed to be
I do not want to become my father,
Constantly on the verge of tiredness,
And whether that tiredness is directed at
His family or his life, I shall never know
Because I do not want to become my father
All sharp words and angry edges,
Keeping everyone around him on their toes,
Keeping my head on a swivel to not upset him
I do not want to be my father.
I do not want to make my children feel
as though they will never measure up to
Impossible standards, set way too high
I do not want to be my father,
Telling my daughter that she’s eating too much
And not looking at me enough,
Guilt-tripping her into half-hearted apologies,
Said with tears trembling in her eyes
I do not want to be my father.
I do not want my children to be frightened of me,
Dreading the thought of my arrival home
Waiting in fear of my reaction to something they’ve done
I do not want to be my father.
My home will be a gentle home,
Peaceful and quiet,
With no rage-filled shouting matches
I do not want to be my father,
Wondering where he went wrong with his daughter,
That she would stand in front of him, angry tears on her cheeks,
Screaming at him that she wishes that she were dead
I do not want to be my father.
Struggling to catch up with the times,
Grudgingly supportive of the daughter that is different,
The daughter that loves men and women,
But only because he has to be
I do not want to be my father
But I wish that sometimes,
I could be his little girl again,
Back when everything was ok
And it still felt like he loved me
I do not want to be my father,
But sometimes,
It feels as though
I will never be anything more
Jun 9, 2023
Jun 9, 2023 at 10:44 PM UTC
To quote Athos from "The Three Musketeers"
"You are not a woman
You are a demon escaped from Hell"
When I first met you as a colleague
I made the mistake
Of getting friendly with you
When I should have ensured
That our relationship was going to be strictly professional
Of course, you had your own ways
Of charming those whom you came in contact with
That is something for which I have to give you credit
Albeit grudgingly
And you were an expert
At playing the victim card
Nevertheless, after I changed jobs
I thought I had seen the last of you
However, you came back into my life
As unexpectedly as the recent rains in Chennai
Initially, it seemed kind of sweet
However, I should have realised sooner
That you had certain ulterior motives
Unfortunately, I got fooled by your sweet talk
And started helping you financially
Because you looked up to me as a brother
I never doubted you in the slightest
Which was probably the biggest mistake of my life
You took advantage of me
In the worst way possible
And kept draining my bank account
Your lies kept getting taller and taller
And I kept believing them
Because, you had me well and truly under your thumb
However, even the most credulous person in the world
Can develop suspicions at some stage
Thus, after years of being in a psychological coma
I finally managed to wake up to the harsh reality
And told my family everything
Of course, with the help of a dear family friend
After we finally confronted you
You signed a written agreement
Promising to return all my money
Within a certain deadline
That deadline has long since passed
And you have not paid even ten percent of your dues
What is worse
Is the fact that you are absconding
And giving absolutely nonsensical reasons
Which even an utter fool would find it difficult to believe
You ruined my life
Destroyed my happiness
And shattered my self-confidence
Is this the way you treat a person
Whom you have addressed as "brother"
Not once, not twice, but several times?
I am giving you one last chance
Not for your sake
But for the sake of humanity
You had better take it
Because, if not
Then you will soon find yourself in prison
Again, to quote Athos
"You are not a woman
You are a demon escaped from Hell"
May 8, 2023
May 8, 2023 at 10:45 AM UTC
It had been one of those enervating days,
when officialdom and red tape paperwork
had ****** the yolk and marrow leaving only
a dullness that yawed the ghost ship of her frame.
She decided not to cook, as much as
payback for her ordeal by proper channels.
And so to the "Toilet Bar", cafe of choice
for malicious villagers, though rarely women.
The men folk hardly stared upon her entrance,
by now they knew those leopard skin boots,
that packed a wallop they grudgingly took
stock of, then returned to their cheese and wine.
This was her quarter of salt cod with cream,
prepared by owner Paula and daughter Carolina,
the only other women tolerated amongst the chairs,
that smelled of tar and testosterone.
Lacking collars three tumbled to the stony street,
drunken mechanic, one armed plumber, peg-legged sailor,
the kerfuffle amusing her, their wicked aunt.
Another Lagoan night that shimmered out to sea.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
Me: “Father, I think I would like to pray my own way.”
Priest: “Ha okay (sarcasm), whatever you say, Brian.”
(Priest continues about in ignorance of commentary)
Priest (beginning Vespers): “O God, come to my assistance…”
Me: (beginning Vespers) "O **** here we go again..."
(Grudgingly submits)
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 1:16 PM UTC
Beggars line the busy streets
cup and cloth outstretched
the look of desperation etched on their faces
like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph
they don't ask me for spare change
just a simple nod of acknowledgement;
even after a shower and a change of clothes
I must have their look, that broken beaten look
the look of the street.
George Square is busy today
tourists happy clicking panoramic memories
admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph
a list of names they will never know
and marvel at the antiquated architecture
to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone
in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers
while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt
I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance
to the passing of a woman named Judith
the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings
knowing I've been there for 3 hours already
because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts
because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street.
The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway,
the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke
like a coal fired power station in the sunlight
this is where they go for over-priced craft ales
with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak
a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays
dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded
the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet
that was simply spare change to begin with
I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call
pretending in mime to be semi-OK
that the compadres are running late
and "tell me about the theatre show later"
the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies
while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco
and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me
because I have the look of the street.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
All I do, all I am has a toll attached to it,
Every time I wake up Waiting around are my taxes,
I will pay my taxes
Taxes of rumors and gossip I will pay for my public persona.
Taxes of misunderstandings, divergences and sporadic frustration I will happily pay for my happiest of relationships,
I will pay my taxes.
Taxes of theft I will grudgingly pay from my vast wealth and abundance
I will pay taxes of generosity and philanthropy,
I have argued with my taxes, disagreed with them,
I found that trying to escape my taxes is but vanity, a chase after the winds
I will pay my taxes and enjoy the fruits of what I get to keep,
I will pay my taxes.
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 12:13 PM UTC
with cupped hands
i chase this beautiful orange sunset
to the ends of the earth,
as the universe grudgingly makes other plans.
here, manhattanhenge calls!
fallen red maple leaves neuters a virus,
but only after many stolen dreams and lives,
now time’s scars fill the contours
an iridologist’s tools don’t lie
her love for me, never shy
but as i lie on the bed of the cosmic serpent, i smile,
knowing time’s true turn
and with it, life, love, death and dreams
© 2023
Aug 5, 2023
Aug 5, 2023 at 10:57 AM UTC
Strange times. When I speak of caressing your mantic lungs
I don’t know what I mean, but I know
I would hurl you under proper circumstances.
Darling, one whisper falls from a tree silently
so as not to wake the ghosts from their siestas.
Your robe has holes I can’t write of. I can fathom
getting there, what that might entail, wrapping,
as I am prone to, my fingers around your furry pincers
while I wait for you to read my rights to the ceiling fan
who whirls above our renovated combustions like the glowering
eye of our Lord upon the teary-eyed wicked.
I am not looking to escape through the window, darling.
I am diving for your diamond-in-the-rough, peeling off barnacles,
making moustaches of seaweed. You threw it into that ocean-
sized trough in which you drown lizards as way of
stress-release. I don’t know what I’ll do next.
The poor man. You give me your hand,
darling, and your robe, your robe is shiny like a pubescent star,
and it shimmies like a wagon piecing itself apart, as you
piece yourself apart, starting with your smile, which was always more
like a photograph of a dune in a textbook.
You give me your hand. It is a blue egg
dusted with microorganisms. I sprinkle it with our fragrance,
what’s left of it. I wish happiness upon your sleep-life, doldrums
upon your late-night haunting. I am tired and these
machines are so convenient, bringing me on all-expenses-
paid visits to the site of your burial. Or is it your sister’s?
I quote, my heart is like a walled onion.
The poor man is tired. It is not 1904 anymore.
You are not smiling anymore, darling, but you give me your hand.
You give it in a basket with parsley and cheese
and cut-outs from The Waterlogged God.
You give it almost grudgingly but I will keep it.
You tell me you’ve been dreaming again of train stations.
I wonder what that means.
I wonder about your eyes.
There are many spiders inside the wall, and along it,
and on the chandelier’s fingers, and inside the spiders.
I quote, a dream is worth a thousand dustpans, but you,
darling, are worth so much more than dustpans.
But I grow weepy, as stated. What do those dark blue lines mean?
Your fingers, darling, smell of a dark cloud in an electrical storm.
Your palm is a circus. Your nails ticket stubs.
That one’s from the alligator show. You dislocated your
throat. I had a plan. If you stare into someone’s eyes for
more than six seconds, you’ll want to lick them.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 8:20 PM UTC
This astonishingly smart work
by an enterprising bunch
of greedy caterpillars on this tree,
symbolizes sweet success itself
(only to them, not for others
I'll have to grudgingly accept)
Look how they devour with a vengeance,
every bit of the gentle greatness, one felt
in presence of the exhilarating fine green crown,
of the lovely tree that stood head held high,
smiling in scorching sun, storm and rain,
and made me stand awe struck,
for a while the first time I passed
through the path under her thick canopy.
Success has avariciously eaten up glory
a fine creation of many seasons,
without any concern for those
who die for greatness, nothing else!
All that remains to see is this:
whether fragile winged butterflies,
charm personified in vivid colors,
would come out,of this greed?
Though they being a creatures of transience
makes it a bad bad bargain.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 12:05 PM UTC
I am dead.
My legs are broken
And my mind has betrayed me.
I
Cant
Move.
I hear the screaming.
Loud
Horrible
Torment.
I try to make it stop
But still
I
Cant
Move.
I rip my eyes open,
The air is acid.
Time is rushing through
My disoriented state
Wasting,
Wasting away like
I am.
My lead arm strains
And my lips groan
As I reach
Reach
To stop the torment.
Quiet.
The stomach rises and falls.
The fingers move,
The shoulders roll.
My left knee bends as it
Battles over the precipice.
The right grudgingly follows
My dead body spasms
I scream,
I expand,
I unfold,
I get out of bed.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:47 PM UTC
The sun dips over the horizon.
Beginning its' rise.
Alarm 1... Grudgingly greeted
With a fist.
Alarm 2... Mama waking me.
3... Me waking you.
Early morning songbirds whistling their tune.
Gospel dimly transient from the far let room.
Pancakes, eggs, bacon, and grits on the stove.
OJ and milk sits for the kids,
While coffee brews for the adults.
Early morning chatter.
Sounds like shoe laces and belt buckles.
Tooth brushes and hair brushes
Frantic in pace.
Traffic
Back and forth, up and down
While we,
Barely awake.
White Cadillacs, Lincoln's, and Oldsmobiles
With the beige and burgundy rag tops.
Reminds me of Granny's car.
4 in the back
3 in the front.
With room to spare.
Red lights and stop signs.
Peppermints and tootsie rolls.
Meijer.
So we're halfway there.
Slanted park job in the lot.
High heels and Stacy Adams
Clash the cement.
Like soldiers
We march in
Just in time for praise.
Cheerful smiles and warm greetings.
Some real.
Some fake.
We sit.
And now
We pray.
Thank you Lord
For this day.
The sun is up
Such as our faith.
Our health is good
Our love is strong
So thank you Lord
For this lasting bond.
We nap.
We chat.
We clap.
We praise.
We jump.
We shout.
We cry.
We raise
And benedict.
Home for dinner.
*** roast and corn.
Sweet potatoes and greens.
Kids playful in their youth
Adults lively in their jeans.
We sit.
Thank you for this food
We are about to receive
For the nourishment of our bodies
In Jesus' name
We pray.
Amen.
We eat and enjoy each others company
No conversation needed.
Just the sound of good food.
The feeling of love.
The sun
Setting in the window.
It's almost time for rest.
I can't wait until next Sunday.
The weekend might be over
But the love,
The memories
Are the best I've ever had.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
it would be easy
taking you back
easing on in
to the old routine
of you hurting me with actions
me hurting you with words
both numb
rolled out
stamped into shape
day after day
until the smiles turn to smirks
and thoughts of your touch
make me cringe in disgust
phone calls go unanswered
then unattempted
i won't see you for days
and smile about it
yeah, it would be easy
taking you back
much more difficult
starting something new.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
It wasn't good enough you need to improve
you need to remove all this stuff and make it a new
you need to please me, and make me happy
what I say goes no matter how sappy
I hear these words and down goes my mood
I grudgingly go to work and there do I brood
I wish for evil things to befall the one who told me
That all the work I put in the use they couldn't see
I spent my time, and put in all my effort
I worked hard yet you treat it like dirt
I can't stand that, the feelings I get
when I hand you my work and it you reject
You may not see it, feel it or ever know
but against me you have given a grievous blow
you have attacked me in a way you cannot see
you have gone after my identity
For by telling me that my work was no good
is telling me the time I spent was useless and crude
I went through the trouble of trying to impress
and me you see as nothing but someone useless
so go on and enjoy your power
for soon it will go sour
and as you fall into despair
I will be waiting for you there
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 12:16 PM UTC
The metal cart intertwined,
forcefully ****** it free.
I wipe off the microscopic organisms,
that manifest in the plastic fibers.
Push the cart across the cracking linoleum tiles.
Hearing the rusted wheels squeak,
as I veer through the narrow aisles.
Collecting an assortment of desired items,
that seem appealing despite the harsh florescent lights.
The radio ads try to entice me to purchase new things.
I grudgingly ignore them.
Crossing the goods off my list,
with a swift black x’s
the same black that is seen on the signs for sales.
2 for 3 dollars?
Is hard to resist.
Blackberries, Greek yogurt, a head of broccoli,
soon I have a heaping cart.
To my dismay the lines are long,
they slowly begin to dwindle down.
Cashiers frantically punching codes,
scanning coupons, counting change.
What is this? Okra?
The black conveyer belt constant hum,
as it carries my purchases down.
Until they are all awaiting for me,
in paper bags.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 2:47 AM UTC
Music to my ears, the rush of water un-
mistakingly caresses my hand. I re-
member looking at my hand close to yours wishing
maybe you'd hold it and see.
Graciously, you leapt to me and be-
grudgingly I floated away.
Gracefully, you closed your heart and like
glass I shattered you, but still you stay.
Soft against you, I push and pull.
Straining to escape what I had begun
Simply because the answer was yes
So now my eyes blink hard in the sun.
I swim to you, but you're too far now
I have lost all hope of holding you
I submerge into the coolness of your gaze
I desire so much to be, not one, but two.
Licensed diver, I went too far
Longing now to swim to the very deep
Longing to dive into you, close to your heart
Living with your ghost, it's close enough to sleep
You, in my veins, pressure on my body
You, in my heart, pressure on my soul
You, in my mind, unlocking the chest
You, in my body, one with the wind you become.
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
I tried to smudge your name out of the
playbill of my life, but I couldn't. Somehow,
I'd convinced everyone around me, and even myself,
at some points, that you were nothing but a mere what-if
in my life of absolutes, and I didn't miss you.
Of course, day in and day out, words and lines for unwritten poems
would submerge my thoughts deep in murky, unfiltered tubs of
darkness, and I'd find myself haunted by your existence.
I tried to get over you, but I'm a poet, and the fact
of the matter is that poets don't get over much of anything. So
I'm sorry for this facade that I've so grudgingly constructed,
but I've never been too good at saying goodbye...
..or sorry, for that matter.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
Gravity rips raindrops from
the sky to the earth of my face,
as your fingertips violate the soft
skin of each cheek I offer.
You tell me, I make you so happy,
as salt flows viscous in the pitch
of our bedroom and I say nothing
and you say, nothing much, either.
I bring colour to a life you have never led
and I punish you for it with my silence
and my soft steps and my one single smile,
bequeathed so very grudgingly.
You try, it's true, but I am too far gone now,
too lost in her eyes as she looks at this
shadow of you that I have readily created,
this masochistic need to hurt myself.
I love you; it's times like these I know it
best, the times when I am so insubstantial
that I cannot even bring myself to speak
words I am bleeding to scream at you.
What sick love is this?
When the only time I am sure of it,
is when I feel so very very very
unsteady in your palm.
The night slinks away, with the full force
of sunlight unrefined burning
through slotted blinds.
So ends the the first time I have slept with
someone whilst tears leak from my eyes,
and I cannot say I will ever do it again.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
there is magic in concrete
if you believe
when you work the surface
flat, in circles,
the float tool buoyant
on a gray puddle
here’s the enchantment:
with fingertips on the handle you can
sense the wet concrete, the mojo
like a sleeping wet bear
solid in mass yet grudgingly liquid
sort of bouncy
as you stroke
pebbles disappear, embedded
the tool is ******* cement
a final thin film, a pretty coat
over guts of gravel and sand
now hose the mixer, shovels, tools,
hose your hands and boots
as the water disappears, so shall you
unless you scratch a name
honor the skilled arms,
the corded legs and vertebral backs
the labor that shaped
this odd stone
sculpted, engineered
implanted with bolts
forgotten
half-buried in dirt
bearing our lives
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 8:05 PM UTC
And into the maw must I enter, and into the heart must I attack, with no guide and to me no mentor. The beast must I destroy it to pieces must I hack. A terrible fear grows within me an uncertainty fills me with anxiety, as a terrible rumble escapes the beasts serrated maw. It awakens with me in its vision it's hunger angry and raw. From my side I grip my trusted sword, from my back I grip my beaten shield. I take my stance for I must go to war against the beast violence must I wield. It turns and with a heavy hand it swings my body it intends to pin down and crush. I manage to duck the blow I manage to dodge and quickly land anger and fierce savagery within me rush.to the air I leap and take up my sword and it do I raise a battle cry I utter. The beast threatened opens it's maw it's teeth sharp like daggers.And so the battle begins the end of which I have yet to see. It is one for me that I must fight daily it is one that to it have I repeatedly been. The beast wishes my goals and my dreams to wither and die, never expressed or seen. But I wish to see them free to see them grow to see them reached. For this reason grudgingly do I go and pull out my blade. And into the maw must I enter.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 12:23 PM UTC
there are drops that tremble
along the edges of my glass--
i stare into them, trying
to see how they cradle blood
in their atoms.
they yield none of their secrets.
they slide
unnoticed
through my veins.
they are crystals that emerge
gracelessly, unheeded
to ponder the airless spaces
that clutter my lungs.
tonight they roam like ghosts
to the unclean surfaces of skin that
stretch grudgingly across my bones.
they tremble
to the lights.
they are silver pepper
that sting my cells alive yet
i can't feel them singing.
they inhabit me
and uninhabit me too quickly
for me to invite them home.
they find no home in me, only
poison
to **** into their loving atoms
blindly, uncaring
that they are contaminated with
my waste, my blood.
they carry these things from me
to pour back into the forge
that melts my mistakes.
they permeate any weakness
to sustain it.
to prevent me from bloating
with toxicity that unconsciously
finds its way inside
especially on colored nights.
they click their tongues at me
while i'm sleeping, they
can see my dirt-encrusted synapses
and the hitches in my skin.
they feed and chastise me
from within.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
Every word uttered
whether
offered or obligated
spit or sputtered
graced or given grudgingly
bears an impeccable pin
point
of potency
Some snuffed suddenly
others
an epidemic
EXPANDING
--Demanding.
Exclaiming!
or
proclaiming
M
ai
mi
ng
Blaming--->
Stirring up
and
then
Taming
Careless sentences
strewn
over laughing lips
Reiterated recollections
and
aspirations running hot
on alcoholic
raspberry breath
What weight
but
what worthlessness
what wastefullness
Speech is
an immediate line
to your
purest heart and soul
but
Without
consideration
we are wandering
the mazes of our
very conversation
My words and your words
whispered or shouted
were designed to be
Dazzling
Not crammed in
uncomfortable pauses
Not vomited
with cruel intent
but
powerful and
persuasive
Accounted for
and
appreciated
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
Curveballs can be hit,
But dodgeballs are impossible to dodge.
Comparing dodgeball to a summer’s day?
Shakespeare, try again.
Dodgeball, you are synonymous
To a hellfire confined to a perimeter
That destroys everything it touches,
Especially at summer camps.
I walk away from dodgeball alive,
But dead in self-esteem:
Always getting hit,
And any clever maneuver of mine always seems to be a violation
Of game rules.
Dodgeball, you only fuel my aggression.
When I am the only one in play,
And see beyond the half court line
Stronger, more agile and athletic demons
Ready to pelt their confidence against my hope,
My mind defaults to “bad-sport” ideas
And just wants to get the match over with,
Lose or win.
With a POW!
Or even the slightest brush of orb to skin,
I give in
And have to wait until opposing victory cheers melt
Before grudgingly submitting to a pointless rematch
That tortures me, vaccinates me with sulky feelings.
Crying over spilled milk is negotiable,
But I cannot undo the rash from the whiff of a dodgeball
By screaming “That’s so not fair!”
Instead, I force out good sportsmanship,
My eyes wincing, my throat and mind hardening
In the struggle to keep vengeance contained.
If only the interest in dodgeball would cease
And suffocate on the taste of its own humiliation.
Boy, would I ever love to burn some dodgeball rubber.
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
I don't always see the ghost-
he chooses a wicker chair to sit-
seems to be the problem when past comes to dine.
I don't always see them-
the empty obscure references
as they drip like baby saliva from pale lips
places we've been,
things we've done.
The past sits across.
pinky out daintily
as past will do
when drinking champagne
and talking about the
good days.
I see him like James Dean leaning against the door frame.
I feel like Grace Kelly
Flipping blonde hair flips in dip and twirling curl,
licking pink lips as if they were full of icing on cupcakes.
Yes, I do not see him.
Here I go again flirting with the past.
I do not see the emptiness of the stare
as he looks across to me
I think foolishly it is star crossed love-
and grab his hand to slip wistfully through my own
and pull him grudgingly forward.
I zoom with him room through room,
looking for a place to hold him.
And the present sits forlornly on my front porch.
dejectedly he sits.
And the presents gift-
of soon wilted flower
lay on his lap...
And the present stares through the window
as I waltz with a ghost.
I do not see, I can not see.
I do not see the ghost.
Sahn 10/03/14
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 6:21 AM UTC