"misnamed" poems
Each day I drive the Belt to work
with a million other slobs.
We pilot cars a decade old.
We're lucky, we have jobs.
Being stuck in traffic is no fun
so my eyes search for distraction.
Your bumper- stickered Civic
offers motorists didaction.
You've no shortage of opinions,
you're a child of hope and change.
gay women for abortion rights?
forgive me, that seems strange.
You're all for education ,
and it seems you're down on God
Your promotion of vasectomy
strikes me as rather odd.
We creep along at walking speed
in the misnamed morning rush
I smile at one old sign that reads:
"Lesbians against Bush"
I change lanes and creep up beside
this most amusing creature.
Shock and awe is what I felt-
She is our children's teacher!
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 8:02 AM UTC
between poems,
an old curmudgeon,
am me-he,
thorny gray stubbled face
available for
knife sharpening and
tongue lashing
cranky and cantankerous,
bad tempered,
ill mannered, me-he,
until they slip me a
paper aspirin
place before me a clean sheet
Presto Chango,
the ole man displaced,
(the boy who remembers to forget,)
in his heart~place, installed,
though the
briar and the thorn
never from his visage depart,
just briefly, Red Sea parted
kiss me surprised,
stumbling about in the
wee of the rambunctious hours,
stubbing me eyes upon
a poetess, a kindred soul
who claims my pointy moniker that
earned I,
only after years
of indentured servitude,
Briar Thornly,
so unnaturally misnamed,
yet she of but,
few and the tenderest years
rights me up
with young words
her poems sweet treats, sweet eats,
departing me delightfully unfairly from
my grumpy good graces,
look below if you dare risking,
a hazardous glancing upon her works,
if you like to, grrrrr, smile
*Déjà vu
Oh to write or not to write.
My mind says I don't have a choice.
Love has made a home in my heart.
I suffer not being able to
open the door to my inspiration.
I toss a paper ball into the trash.
Chapters of my life turn into dust.
I bury those words in my mind.
Words that I used to think
were wrapped up in true meaning.
A break could **** my block but
my pencil spins out of control.
I'll conquer all of those lost attempts.
Piano's and violins phase in and out.
Wheels of creativity turning in caution.
The clock sounds gong,gong,gone.
Inspiration died at the start of a vacation.
On the page there was the suicide of passion.
The ghost of my muse will soon reappear.
My emotions need to break free from
the shelter of my imagination.
I"ll write till the dawn of poetry.^*
read her poetry till dawn
or face my thorny faced
muse,
and perhaps now you understand,
at last comprehend,
**a rose by any other name
would smell as sweet as a
thorn**
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
The sun shone that day. It ought not have. I walked with angels as the earth woke around me and I knew peace; a shadow, disembodied as it were, should have darkened my gaze, none appeared. No siren from God to one of his own, only a summons delivered with the grace of Revelations, thunder without the requisite fanfare. My heart warmed when it should have stopped and I would have held that moment had I known, but instead I drew breath to let the world in and threads of gold blew between the young leaves. The sky was cast in sapphires, misnamed without relation to flame; it would have been more appropriate. The truth in my veins would have run as snow melt had I known, in truth, not truth at all. Thunder preceded cause, ill fated, and I should have flinched in unknown terror like some soldier might when charging down a once familiar hill and one who is brave yet untried shall find a disquieting serenity amidst the gore that bathes the ground and, in a moment, his face. That young veteran loses himself that day and shall seek that stillness for the days that remain to him. A futile venture. It is only to be found in the recesses of the mind; that place reserved for reflection and shame, it is in that calm he holds himself in question and a voice, not unlike his own, whispers a choice that was always there and with it a euphoric ecstasy rises like bile. It is in every man to let go of the lockstep of life, but to open your eyes in the following moments is to face a world unlike that in which you closed them. That new world is the cost of the decision and it shall flood in as the gates lift and the sky shall be cast in sapphires.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 4:23 AM UTC
Truths twisted for the conveniece of others
all assumed trusts abondoned
much invested, non respected much love given but nothing back
when will they see how horrible they are
when will they see what they have done
they know not of any other who has ever done what they have
making up stories in their heads
and saying it so much to themselves and others that they believe its true
phone calls of deception, testimonies of lies
framed, defamed and misnamed
one little voice believes
even in the face of all so knowledgeable
one lttle voice knows the truth
thank you little voice
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 1:09 PM UTC
My god told me
To **** those who are different.
My god told me
That genocide is efficient.
"Go into their land
And **** every living creature."
I saw it on TV just last week
In a Technicolor double feature.
My god told me
Gay people are abomination
My god told me
To hold back children’s rations.
Rip babies out of parent’s arms
Because they are terrorists
Pay no attention to the heartache
That’s just how my god’s law is.
My god told me
It matters about the color of skin
People can be born inhuman
Depending on the country you’re in.
It’s not as bad to be a dark person
If you stay in dark people lands,
But here in the good old USA they
Only deserve to be migrant hands.
My god told me
What’s sin for other people to do
Is not a sin for me to commit
The criminal things done by you.
My god told me
It’s just fine to cheat on my wife.
As long as I go to church weekly,
I will have a wonderful, godly life.
My god told me
Other people have to wrong idea
About who is god and who is not
And who will burn with the devil
In some place below, where it’s hot.
My god told me
To worship no god but him, it’s true.
Well, I worship Jesus, his misnamed son
So, I’m going to heaven, aren’t you?
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 3:20 PM UTC
I feel my heart buckling under pressure I beg it to bear
I screamed quietly last night and my brain snapped in half
How strong, how prideful, how immortal I was
How conceited, how terribly much I thought of myself in the past.
Allow me to state that I am weak. Allow me to say that I am done.
When night falls I tremble with fear of something on the horizon
I feel my own body rip itself to shreds in some effort to save me
I truly wish I had savored my irresponsibility now that it's hard won.
Home. Only a year ago I cursed it. How conceited, how idiotic.
Your children will curse you to hell and regret when youth passes.
The mind I prided myself on having has deteriorated, I cannot think.
The sentences meld into unintelligible paragraphs of thoughts as slow as molasses.
I would sleep for an eternity if given the chance but my sweet, foolish, pride...
I would find peace and revel in it if not for the guilt of the method.
I futilely push away thoughts that constrict and wrap around me.
I must be stronger, do more, cannot bear to forgive myself should I do as I please.
Others have done what I am choosing to do and succeeded; my failure won't be justified
I must stand tall until my back breaks, I must smile until my lips quake
I must try harder until my body bleeds, I must give more until there's nothing left of me.
And if I fail, at least I know I jumped, even if I was far too late.
My dreams no longer consist of impossibilities that I will drag into being.
When I sleep, I am plagued by the sight of my own death in a multitude of ways.
When I wake, I miss the simplicity of the horror of the same dreams I ran from.
All the thoughts I used to have now only come after careful contemplation over many days.
I am unsure of who I am. I feel, sometimes, that I am merely watching a play.
That I am just a spectator to a caricature of myself, crudely pretending to be me.
And I would believe in that wholeheartedly if I was unaware of life's inane ways.
If things truly do get better, I wonder if they will do so in time to save me.
How conceited, how foolish, how narcissistic, how self-important, how desperate, how crazed, how terribly, terribly deluded I've grown to be.
How idiotic, this new view of myself and life that I've misnamed maturity.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 1:48 AM UTC
The Congressional wag GOPs
Spend most of their time on their knees
Their favorite repast
Is the kissing of ***
Just like the ****** in DC.
Republicans surrendered their shame
They just call it by some other name.
They see their sad schism
As patriotism
And point to Obama to blame.
The Senator from Old Virginia
Just loves shoving it in ya.
At every election
Bigots bow to his ********
And let that Old Turtle come skin ya.
Republicans are making it clear
As we come to the end of this year
Their regime is a mess
But they couldn’t care less
They ***** us with no trace of fear.
The guy now on top is a fake
GOP worked overtime to make.
The cheating and lies
Support the unwise
And hide all the money they take.
Our leadership now is misnamed.
Ignoring the people is their game.
They go golf a few rounds
And throw us to the hounds
Then set the Constitution aflame.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 12:49 PM UTC
I have not lived all my life
My ma and pa at the birth
misnamed me
I always say poor Curtis Melton
Died at only three days old
I am often amazed in wondering what his life would have been like
© 2017 Jim Davis
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 1:46 PM UTC