"gruff" poems
•helping the kids with homework•
no one told you,
was part of the job description
paycheck earner a-ok,
gruff but tender lover,
knowing her special places,
building a tree swing,
a tree house safe and satisfactory,
one the neighbors envy
taking them to the hospital for
broken arms and chemotherapy,
part two of the non-routine but a very possible foreseeable,
going to school to give that principal a look
that will make him think twice before suspending
one of his for defending himself
you remember your daddy doing the same for you,
forgetting to repeat the tar and hiding that came later
the tucking in, the pretense ouch
when your end of day
scratchy beard ruffling the skin of babies,
carrying tissues in a toolbox,
never heard of, nevertheless done,
tho not a memory defining the future inclusive,
definitely a learning ability, a likeability
doing homework, nuh uh,
no way jose, don’t dare let them
know how you never got a gold star,
always sat in the back row, outta sight,
all day dreaming, chemistry rhymes with mystery,
and poetry is rhymes needing a big vocabulary
which means lots of words for a man who don’t talk much
ain’t exactly his strong suit
sure, heard of Shakespeare but never met him,
know where the on/off computer button hides,
the rest is up to them;
got no email address, but taught them sir and ma’am,
how to address humans with respect,
i’ll promise them anything
but not doing any homework,
unless it the kind that that makes
“a home work”
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 9:20 AM UTC
***Crossing the room in slow motion
She watches his muscles move in the moonlight
Oh how they glisten in anticipation
Sit my pet, in a whisper
At her feet he waits with bated breath
So pleased at his obedience
Proceed
Such a simple command
He inches closer
His eagerness evident in his silence
In his omission of a proper response
An outfaced palm and he stops short
Sitting back on his feet, hands in lap, eyes to the floor
I'm sorry Ma'am, he says
That is evident by his failure to respond
He knows what is coming
Grabbing the back of his hair she forces his eyes to hers
Position, she says disgustedly
She leans back in the armchair as he pulls her hips to the edge
He lifts one leg and gently places it over the arm
Then he positions the other in the same manner
Sitting back on his feet, facing the floor
His arousal is evident, as is his moist anticipation
Respire.
The word is grunted through gritted teeth
He leans into heaven
Hovering an inch away
Slow deep breaths
He breathes in her essence wanting nothing more
Than to bridge the gap with his tongue
White satin and peekaboo lace
She runs down the rules of his punishment
Will you touch the Goddess
No Ma'am
Will you drool on the Goddess
No Ma'am
Will you move without permission
No Ma'am
How long will you hold your position
As long as my Goddess sees fit...Ma'am
Good boy
His breath is slow, deliberate, and heavy
The heat of it permeates the thin fabric
She runs her hand over the object of desire
Accentuating the outlines of what lies beneath
An accidental whimper
Silence!
A gruff command
Followed implicitly
In a slow and graceful motion
A hand slips under the fabric
Opening her flower releasing a hint of nectar
The scent grows exponentially upon the unfurling of petals
A glistening finger touches him just above his lip
Is that what you want?
It's a rhetorical question
Yes please
What will you do to get it
Such a simple question with but one answer
Anything you please, Goddess
Stick out your tongue
He does so in silence, careful that he does not touch her
She uses his wet flesh to wipe her finger clean
Closer she whispers
Now, within a half inch he breathes her in deeply
Mesmerized by the dewy goodness held behind the smooth satin
Watching desire grow in painfully slow motion
He blows out on the growing dampness
As he waits for her next command***
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
What is ..... with ......
All this ... " ATTITUDE " ... ?!?
It seems ... The ... " In Thing " ...
to simply be ... " Rude " ... !?! ...
People in ... " The World " ...
are now .... So Crude .... !!!!!!!
Girls now walk streets ...
with arses ... in view ...
" Prostitution's " ... RIFE ...
But this ... " Isn't New " ... !!!!!!
So ....
If you have ... " A Bad Attitude " ... !!! ...
May I ask ... " What's wrong with you ? " ...
Do you feel ... " Misled " ... ???
Are you feeling ... " Upset " ... ???
Do you feel that your life ... ?
is just a .... " Pretence " .... ?
Do you feel as if ... ?
You'd be ... Better off ... DEAD ... !!!!!
Well ... if you do ... ?
It's Not Just ... YOU ... !!!!!
But it's ... NOT COOL ... !!!
to act the ... " Fool " ...
and live your life ...
with .... ATTITUDE .... !!!!!
If life's ... " So Rough " ...
and you wanna ... " Act Tough " ...
Get in ... THE RING ... !!!!!
Try on ... some gloves ...
and if it ... " Suits " ...
Make WAR ... NOT Love ... !!!
I riSE ... abOVE ...
This ... " Attitude Stuff " ...
But ... " Many suggest " ...
I'm ... " Billy Goat gruff " ...
This ain't ... " Call My Bluff " ... !!!!!
But I guess it's cos' ... ???
I'm NOT ... " White Enough " ...
to be .... " So Cool " ....
and ... NOT ... Wear Cuffs ...
Presumption can make ... ???
People give ... ATTITUDE ... !!!
So .....
Don't just ... " Assume " ...
cos this might be ... ?
Your ... LAST MISTAKE ... !!!!
" Attitude " ... that arises ...
because of ... " Assumption " ...
can leave men with ... " Truncheon " ...
Without their ... Heart Function ... !!!
cos' Attitude ... quelled ...
will then reach ... COMBUSTION ... !!!!!
So ....
PLEASE ... Don't Assume ...
when you enter ... " A Room " ...
Read this ... CLOSELY ... !!!
cos' when you ... Assume ...
You just make an ... " *** " ...
of ... Both You and Me ... !!! ...
Did you ...
Read it ... CLOSELY ... ???
Break that word into ... " Three " ...
*** ...
" U " ...
and then ... ME ...
Reminds me of a word ...
Yes ... " That Word " ... His - story
Just look at ... News Stories ...
and you ... Surely ... MUST SEE ... ?!?
Attitude's ... runnin" ....
on streets ... TOO FREELY ... !!!!!
Even on terraces ... in Italy .... !?!
Inter ... or ... A.C.
which fans ... can it be ... ???
I'm told these fans ...
... " Attitude " ...
FRIGHTENS POLICE ..... !!!!!
So .....
When they're ... Supposed ...
to use ... BRUTALITY ...
They'd rather not use it ...
but ... bring it to ... " Me " ... ?!?
Kind of like people ...
who do ... " Poetry " ...
From trying to act ...
Like ... They Like ... what I read ... !!!
Until I write words ...
That DISTURRRBBBB ... " Their Chi " ... !!!
Attitude ... ISN'T ME ... !!!
Come on ... Don't You See ...
My name is ... " Big Virge " ...
Friends call me ... " Big V " ...
But ....
Unless i've told you ...
You'd better use ... VIRGIL ... !!!
Unless you are ready ...
to fall at ... " That Hurdle " ...
This Isn't ... " The National " ...
My Poetry's ... " Rational " ...
as are ... " My Thoughts " ...
which ... CANNOT ... be bought ... !!!!!
So ....
Ideas that you ... " Court " ...
of ... Any such .... " Sort " ....
Take my advice ....
it's time to ... ABORT ... !!!!!
cos' ... Attitude's RIFE ...
when my temper ... " Runs short " ... !!!!!
So .... maybe it's time .... ?
to leave you ... " This Thought " ... ???
Attitudes' ... Crude ...
and is something for ... FOOLS ...
who think ... Being Rude ...
is now ... The New ... " COOL " ... ?!?
Well ....
Check out ... This view ... !!!
You're NOT ... being cool ... !!!
You're acting ... THE FOOL ... !!!
Now ....
If you're a ... " Female " ... ?
PLEASE ... Refuse to use ...
This ... " Needless Abuse " ... !!!
But ....
If you're a ... " Male " ... ?
Just be a ... " Cool Dude " ...
and just do ... " What's Right ... !!!
REMOVE ... !!!
... " Attitude " ... !!!!!!
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
A proud man,
Upright and unshakable
In belief and morals,
Once only I did I see him
Without a tie.
A child of Edwardian England,
The links Of his watch chain
Glinted
As they hung
With formality and elegance
From his waistcoat pocket,
Yes, even as he worked.
And work he did.
Patiently,
Brilliantly and tirelessly
With ingenuity and imagination.
A craftsman from a bygone age.
A master of his tools.
Grandfathers are soft,
Playful, bear-like in their
Gruff-whiskered familiarity.
Not Poppy.
Unwittingly aloof from his grandchildren,
We avoided the need for directly addressing him,
Unsure of where we stood.
He’d probably have secretly
Loved the informality
Of our secret nickname.
I hope he knew.
The chapel piano did for him.
Too much weight for his work-weary ticker.
Grandma gave me his pocket watch to keep,
And for a time I treasured it,
Measuring its weight
Like a smooth round pebble
In my palm.
A workman’s watch;
Practical.
A yellowing face
Behind a scratched
And hazy glass.
But accurate,
And precise.
Reliable as the man.
Detached in life,
I liked to hope that
Gazing down,
Watching,
He just might have
Laughed
In loving acknowledgement of his
Grandson’s curiosity
And foolishness
Sitting cross-legged on the carpet,
With heart-thumping nausea
Adrift in a sea of springs.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
A dancing Bear grotesque and funny
Earned for his master heaps of money,
Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey,
And cheerful if the day was sunny.
Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood
He tramped, and on some common stood;
There, cottage children circling gaily,
He in their midmost footed daily.
Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle
Were quite enough his brain to puzzle:
But like a philosophic bear
He let alone extraneous care
And danced contented anywhere.
Still, year on year, and wear and tear,
Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear.
A day came when he scarce could prance,
And when his master looked askance
On dancing Bear who would not dance.
To looks succeeded blows; hard blows
Battered his ears and poor old nose.
From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon;
He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon,
Capered in fury fast and faster.
Ah, could he once but hug his master
And perish in one joint disaster!
But deafness, blindness, weakness growing,
Not fury's self could keep him going.
One dark day when the snow was snowing
His cup was brimmed to overflowing:
He tottered, toppled on one side,
Growled once, and shook his head, and died.
The master kicked and struck in vain,
The weary drudge had distanced pain
And never now would wince again.
The master growled; he might have howled
Or coaxed,--that slave's last growl was growled.
So gnawed by rancor and chagrin
One thing remained: he sold the skin.
What next the man did is not worth
Your notice or my setting forth,
But hearken what befell at last.
His idle working days gone past,
And not one friend and not one penny
Stored up (if ever he had any
Friends; but his coppers had been many),
All doors stood shut against him but
The workhouse door, which cannot shut.
There he droned on,--a grim old sinner,
Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner,
Unpitied quite, uncared for much
(The rate-payers not favoring such),
Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare;
Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear
Danced back, a haunting memory.
Indeed, I hope so, for you see
If once the hard old heart relented,
The hard old man may have repented.
4.6k
I wish that I
could fall in love
with a female,
for she would make
a far better muse than
the gruff sailors and musicians
and drunks and men
in general that I am
inclined to crave.
to write about
a painted pout or
skin that brushes against
your own like nylon,
sunlight shining through
the window onto a Cupid's bow
and dancing down to
a delicate clavicle, or
black eyelashes that bat
and blink remorse
into your cavernous heart,
to muse over such aesthetic
delights, would be
ecstasy for my poetess heart.
I linger, staring, at beautiful
women, androgynous women,
delicate, feline women,
stringing words
together in my head
over long legs and
hair that flutters like silk,
and they think I'm crazy
or in love with them.
well, maybe I am crazy,
but I crawl into bed each night
with my snarling, gleaming,
mahogany gentleman,
and I love him madly,
my rugged muse.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
Speak to me in a Russian accent
sound all angry and mean
then buy me a puppy named Tobias
and cuddle fer hours et hours.
I like 'em gruff
and dorky and sweet
and badass and lovely
and secretly love to write poems.
Do they tear up during The Notebook
and still love mountain biking and rock climbing?
Can he laugh at my weird jokes
and tell some of his own?
Maybe.
May 29, 2012
May 29, 2012 at 8:12 PM UTC
Unicorn Moments
It was Maundy Thursday, an afternoon so lazy
the words of the passion could sink hardly
for my eyes were on the beading tray
the unfinished bracelet was now awry
off and on, i kept stringing
the garnet rounds and pearls kept falling
no more tiny brass rings to string in between
i had to think of other ways...something
also had to wash away the gray feeling.
Searched inside my bedroom drawers
and found silver flower spacers!
i gloried at the thought of finishing two bracelets
three, more, maybe even an anklet!
Three, four hours had passed, i was so exhausted
i had already showered
the whole bathroom was spotless,
smelling of ^Pandan leaves^ and flowers,
i was so delighted!
Outside the bathroom door, i stopped
spotted the shiny silver spacers! on the bed, i almost dropped
the silence was too loud, i couldn't stand the spacers' glare,
nothing to say, nothing to offer... just a stare...
"No! no way!
i'm fine, i'm okay!"
was that my voice that gave me away?
moment of truth could never be held at bay...
I held the cable wire to start beading
but body and mind were one...refusing
my fingers were limp...a bit trembling
tired, from too much scrubbing.
My finger traces the head of my unicorn figurine
God knows, i have loved this magical creature ever since
but, i'm not sure i even like these new visitors, these
unicorn moments,
they don't come often,
yet, they're bound to happen.
oh, well....i guess i have to be a bit bolder
accept these changes that come with growing older...
when this happens, i try to joke and laugh,
and then people say......."you're tough!"
i answer them with a smile...and a gruff!
Sally
Copyright April 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 7:02 AM UTC
Sitting early at McDonalds over a dollar cup,
I join a gathering of days...no longer years...
Whose better days are nearly up
Alone, or nearly so, they gather here.
Greetings gruff or none belie camaraderie;
They wait until each man has joined the crew,
Half-hearted views of the morning news,
Wonder of a friend who's feeling blue.
I cannot hold myself away from finding me
A few years up this downward road,
Waiting with the men I've come to see...
A weary lot to meet and think of growing old.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
Wasting my love was only half of the fun,
but to waste it on you made me a fortunate one.
You taught me that love was never enough,
you taught me to lie and how to be tough.
You taught me that *** is better when it's rough,
because then when you hurt me it's mutual gruff.
When I lay my head on my pillow at night,
I remember how weak I was during our fights.
Because you never loved me and you never cared;
though if I knew this then, my skin might be bare.
After hurting myself, whilst you hurt me too,
I remember today - I am strong - so thank you.
k.d.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 1:55 AM UTC
*Claw beneath your ribs
Hold down wild you
Just for a little while
Feel the anguished flutter
Begging these gruff hands . . .*
1.
Fear takes commotive hold
Makes wooden legs
Delayed dance…..so delayed
Causing silent attendance of synchrony
No use stepping out for flight just yet, if alone
Will meantime practise wing-span
iron out brittle energy
attempt to fortify links
..
2.
Careless snubs to fragile sapling
Did absolutely nothing
To the course set out
Only hypocrites squander even half-truths
and wallow in obsequious words
rendering paralysis and decay
I will continue to claw beneath your ribs
Covert trove awaits us
In the tormented form of
Crashing waves on a broken coast
Hacked to near-distraction by potent searching
3.
Loss is not wasted
unseen by its absence:
evocative presence felt …with penniless eyes
I challenge you to visualise our melting:
perched on fate’s right shoulder
re-sent to this basic arena as buoyant token
summoned by that primordial, blue light
..
*the sun may well baulk and melt
at the ruddy sight of
such intense clawing beneath your ribs
(like your customary digging into my bristling blades)
To find my foetal place
within the calling drumbeats
of imperative you . . .*
S T, sunsday . . . 21 July 2013
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 4:50 AM UTC
Another dark day in this dismal old place
Snow clouds were moving in fast
The sky was so dark, and the wind had a chill
This was a storm that was sure gonna last
At Cy's, The Old Pawn Shop was empty except
For Cy and the stores old dog Gruff
The storm was en route and Cy figured that this
Was a good time to go through the stuff
Years of memories, years of tall tales
They were all on the shelves in this store
There was all sorts of jewellery, tvs and clothes
And in the back was at least 40 years more
The door opened sharp and the bell startled Cy
He was checking the watches and clocks
A young man came in, dressed all in black
Cy said "push hard or the **** thing don't lock"
The young man was tall, about six two I'd say
Cy had never seen him before in his life
He'd said "Sir, I've an offer, you can take or can leave"
"And it's the best one you've had all your life"
Cy looked at the man, intrigued though he was
He said "Sit, and I'll put on some tea"
He went to the door, checked the oncoming storm
And then he put the sign up..."BE BACK AT 3"
They sat and they talked, and they laughed as the wind
Blew the snow up against the front door
Cy pulled out some books, went and made some more tea
Then the man left and left Cy in the store.
Later that night, under cover of darkness
The man came on back with a truck
Cy opened up, and with Gruff by his side
They watched as the man quickly loaded the truck
Two days had passed, and the whole town was white
The storm closed the town for a day
The streets were a mess and the schools were all closed
And the kids had the day off to play
On the third day, the town, woke up almost as one
With people phoning up Cy's by the score
For as they all left for work, there all wrapped up in brown
Was a box, sitting by their front doors
Jim, was the first, opened his box outside
Saw the watch that he pawned with Old Cy
Gianni, and Mike, and others as well
Received items they'd pawned by and by
In total you see, almost 200 folks
Opened boxes paid off that dark night
Christmas was early for folks in the town
Given by a young man, who'd done right
Cy gave the names of the people he knew
Even though it was against the Pawn shop man's creed
He'd loaned out the money in interest free loans
To these folks that he knew were in need
About five thirty that day, the young man returned
Cy and old Gruff were waiting inside
They spoke how his stunt was a universal success
And at this, they both laughed till they cried
The man rose from his seat, shook Cy by the hand
Cy asked "Why did you come here?"
The man answered "I'm here after my Mum"
"Her names Mary, and I heard she serves beer"
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 7:41 PM UTC
Rehashing the rare
Out with the new,
In with the old.
She's always had a thing
For the things that exude
A quirkiness and a bucolic charm
The smell of old books
The black and the white
Good ol' Chaplin, James Dean
And the Sound of Music
The Beatles, a tape recorder
High-waisted pants
And the gramophone
And a rustic old bar
With a gruff bartender
Who's off his rocker
But he'll double up as your therapist
And for the boy with the dark brown eyes
Who looks across the bar at her.
And smiles.
It's all black and white again
Except this time,
It isn't her favourite Casablanca scene
But a white screen
And a thousand particles
Microcosmic
A milieu of
Unfathomable numbers float
Through the atmosphere
Connecting her to him.
And she doesn't want that.
She's always had a thing for the old,
But he makes her doubt that.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
It was at the cottage, by the marsh,
Where the husband slipped through the threshold.
The Bass boots left marks of silt and clay on the worn wooden floor.
He dropped the shovel on the floor as well.
And globs of mud, sawgrass and marsh water seeped in the cracks, forever to stay there,
As a silent reminder.
He sat down at the dinner table, a table for two,
With only one chair.
The coo-coo clock chimed above his head,
It was dinner time, where was dinner?
His thick gruff hands made fists and smashed the table top,
Breaking the maple top in two, which now made it a table for one.
He just needs sleep, his temper was getting to him.
As the husband climb up the stairs to the spacious bed,
And laid his head upon the pillow, he fell asleep.
But if you follow the muddy tracks down the stairs, through the kitchen, out the door, into the rain,
to the marsh, you will see a pile of mud that looks misplaced.
The sludge will begin to shift and slide away to reveal a hauntingly beautiful women.
She will rise, and walk through the marsh, in the rain, to the door, through the kitchen and up the stairs to see her husband in a fitful sleep.
And as any good wife would do,
She'll kiss him and lay next to him to ease whatever could be on his mind at this hour.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 8:22 PM UTC
the Big Gruff Man
let the fear from his soul
leak through grave stone eyes
how hard the matter
must have been pressed
before he released his grip
on that liquid prize
what a strange sight
seeing water falling,
falling,
falling,
falling
from those grave, stone eyes
he looks at me
as though i hold the key
to unlock the lock
and release the chain
binding him to his pain
look away Big Gruff Man
or i will drown
in your pleading stare
for you are me
or more to the point
what i fear to be
i scream to his deaf ears
"it is not the matter
but the clinging
that brings your pain!"
let it go,
let it go,
let it go
the waters will come
the waters will rise
the waters will carry you away
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 7:29 AM UTC
A man is a man
Is a man
He stands tall
With strong shoes
And blue jeans
And red wings
He does not strut
But
He owns the block
With his talk and walk
A man is a man
He understands
To be gruff is to be loved
To be aloof is to be good
Muscles to waste away
And away
And away
And
A man
Broke the rule
A man
Choked me through
Pulled me too close
Transparent as ghosts
An unyielding lust
To the horrors of man
Stare into fear
Such horrid leer
But please
Don't
Hurt
Me
So
I
Let
This
Man
Take and steal and scare and sing
Or better yet his radio sang
Such a long quiet sorrowful manly drive
For those who wish to thrive
Be a man?
No
Take a stand
For a man is a man is a man is
A
Man
Man
You broke my life
Left me as bile
But I'm still alive
With vision for miles
I see it clearly now
I see that a man is a man is a man
I understand
You're sad
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 10:10 PM UTC
I was once in a rough & gruff biker gang
figthing with tough as nails bikers, dang
and I knew all of the sick biker slang,
but then I woke up when my cell phone rang
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
maybe it's there, in the crevice of his hard heart, that he heard the soft echo of light.
maybe, if the wound really is where the light enters you, it's in the heavy handed claps or in that gruff way men tell their sons, when it seems like the right thing to do, that they love them,
and then it's gone,
vanished into the cold nothingness, behind
rough hands and hearty laughter and the slow descending numbness of duty and honor and being a man.
it's faded, worn over, rusted old coppers,
until there comes along a boy who'll tuck the rough love away, who won't stand startled but rather perplexed,
who'll keep it boxed safe like pressed flowers between thin brown paper.
and then maybe, maybe that sweet boy will spread a few more, until his love is no longer a coarse and dying brittle sea air but nourishing, sustaining,
and maybe then he can start over.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 8:09 PM UTC
My shoes are scraped and scuffed,
But I'm still walking.
My voice is pained and gruff,
Yet I'm still talking.
My fear appears so tough,
But I'm not balking.
My love had never seemed enough,
So this is shocking.
I feel so blessed.
Each wound a test.
Please hear me knocking.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
what person could have known
how a cataclysm rolls in
slowly
obscuring
the towering force
of nature
what person could have known
that there was a tip to that tower
how cold is the view from its peak
now clouded by teardrops
now rising through
though heaven made mist of the sky
rising from a cotton mouth
to make a liar of the tongue
what person could have known
for we do not speak
of a lonely tower
but to climb it
we do not speak
of a distant summit
but to find it
we do not speak
but we see it
rising from a bluff
on a cold shoulder
turned away from gruff land
on a plain sky residing
it is not enough
to pierce the sky
to see through it
where there is a window
there is a view
it must be seen to be true
where there is a cloud
there is the sun
shrouded though it seems
get high enough
to find the clue
what person could have known
that you were here alone
watching for a break in the storm
unless it was them all
and the tower was home
to everyone
all at once
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 11:46 PM UTC
A time from now, we'll put the French Riviera to shame
with the spellbinding travesty
of our **********
The stars that grazes the Monte Carlo sky must realize that they've never even really shined once they witness how my eyes will glisten with rapture as you taste me for the very first time.
Oh, we'll hush the musicians of Vienna with the rhythm of our moans, the terrifying yet invigorating song of your gruff voice begging for more.
As we succumb to each other's biddings, the world shall be left helpless with no other choice than to watch.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC
I want to be a man.
I want the broad,
Sculpted shoulders.
I want the deep, gruff,
Musty vociferation that roars
From within the pit
Of his stomach.
I want the veiny, *****
Callous hands. The ruffled,
Strong hands that hold dirt
And flesh without hesitation,
Or dubious grasp.
I want the broken nose,
The ****** teeth,
And the enraged, inflamed eyes.
I want the hair, the dark,
Damp, coarse hair that grows
From his every pore,
Resembling more and more
The body of an ape.
I want the smirk,
The arrogant smile splat
On his face.
I want the swagger,
The saunter that is
So impregnated in his walk,
That one which steps the earth,
Waiting for it to shatter
With his every advance.
I want the commanding voice,
That which with his footstep,
Orders the world to be held
In his hands.
I want to be proud,
Be primitive,
Strong.
I want my immediate desires
To be quenched
By the milliard.
I want to destroy
And create.
I want to seek,
Seek with zeal,
And desperation
Despite stability,
Despite being pleasured.
I want the dissatisfaction
That comes with being a man,
The constant unhappiness,
The constant yelp
For something
Other than what is being offered.
I want to hate,
I want to enrage,
And be enraged.
I want to punch,
To butcher till that which I despised
Is nothing more.
I want to rip that which is his,
And his, and mine.
I want the lack of restraint,
Because it is all acknowledged
When you are a man.
It is all pardoned,
And when condemned,
There is always exile,
Exile to then live in solitude,
Still seeking for that which isn’t his.
I want to breathe freshness,
And deliver the putrid breath of
Meat, *** and saliva.
I want to be a man,
For I am not.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
He hurriedly glanced at his wristwatch again,
The shadow of the cross from the steeple
Landing in the middle of the watch.
A sigh echoed through the church courtyard,
And a few rats scurried out of their hide-aways.
They should be here by now.
The moon hung in the sky,
Trying and failing to shed light on what was below.
The harsh noise of a truck on gravel reached his ears,
And he breathed a sigh of relief.
The newcomer parked the truck and lumbered out,
Holding several filthy beer bottles in his large, grimy hands.
“Here you go.”
His voice was gruff, calloused even, as if it was being
Grated like cheese.
Money from the priest’s hands went into the driver’s hands,
And when the priest looked into his eyes,
They spoke legends of ******
The truck drove away, and
Pretty soon the courtyard was silent again,
Except for the hoot of an owl,
The contented sigh of the priest, and the
Pop of a beer bottle being opened.
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 10:36 PM UTC
~
who knows the definition of a poet?
~
*for my friend, S.Y,
who I will embrace with both hands,
both eyes, when he hands me a signed copy of a book
that answers the question*
weighty subjects deserve your best work,
expressions of affection and introspection,
need careful reflection, a proper set up for the
tumult inevitable when delving in the unopened recesses
where the answers kept
so, of course, the writing commences well after 1:00am,
when the darkness of night clarifies the process,
for I work by day but live by night,
when summoning up my one tool no one can take away,
the joy, the relief, the spectacular exultation of
rearranging the aleph bet in new ways,
when the quietude of reflection transports me
across the continents in visions of what will be
I don't know if I know the answer, perhaps, any answers,
but when this man demands
the ebb tides of soul to depart,
to make him stand alone on the shore of endings,
forcing him to acknowledge his reckonings,
lonely, only humanity and frailties
I hear a voice gruff growling and me laughing-
"cut to the chase, make your point, get out of people’s way"
so in your honor, this simp fool who asks questions
no human has any business, the answers knowing,
will one last stanza grant and give and
yours to keep,
and commence countdown waiting for that day of welcoming
*from the underground comes a chorus of voices,
in one voice but many languages, chanting:*
***all humans are poets
who acknowledge and freely confess that the
blood and stuff, the kisses and the touches of family and friends,
parent and child,
are the ***** and the egg,
the beginning and the circulation of the never ending,
the open entrance that penetrates the berm surrounding real life,
all these are the root and the stem and the blossoming,
of poetry writ large, for they who have these in their possess,
are surely by definition certainly
humans, poets***
~
5/14/17 2:05am
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 2:37 AM UTC
She ran a boarding house in Boston,
But they used her size to terrorize men
And lead them to the lock-holes.
Or was she a lady clad in black ruffles,
Presented to the Queen in 1844?
Perhaps she was a racehorse
Foaled in Harlem and won a prize.
She had peddled drugs and run a gang
In the chaos of Civil War,
Black Mariah escaped from the darkness
Of Edison’s studio to roam the world,
But in it found herself re-imagined.
They named police wagons after her
It’s said, but no one knows the truth.
Did she cross the battle lines again,
To tread on civil rights?
Or swing the batons in Chicago
And fire rifles at Kent State?
She seems to take time out to charm
Gruff-voiced men who sing her praise.
She prowled the streets of Brixton,
In 1983, with truncheons at her side.
Through gas clouds, dragging men to jail.
Black Mariah is with us still,
Helping to create tyrants and traitors,
To stop the mouths of those who defy
She’s an accessory to the killing.
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 7:09 PM UTC