"offbeat" poems
Liquid courage to numb the pain.
Intoxicated to forget.
Offbeat blood, sent from heart to vein.
Returns with a guest, she just met.
She closes up, leaves the bar clean.
To her apartment, around three.
In bed she lays, counting some sheep,
That mock her, thinking she will sleep.
She hears the crickets’ lonely beat.
Reminding her of creeps she meets.
Sometimes they have a potential start.
But never truly go that far.
Each night dealt with some other cards.
But slowly starts to build up guard.
She puts less time in her makeup.
But drunks continue to pick up.
She joins in shots, hopes to pass out.
But in her head she hears the shouts.
Her heart’s hunger for real love.
Her clouded thoughts rise above.
A newly turned insomniac.
No longer sleeping on her back.
Till curtains peek with starry eyes.
So bright, leaves a forceful rise.
Her sobs like strings of violin.
A void no liquor can fill in.
Despite how much she tries to drown.
The aches resonate with shrill sounds.
Another night, still found no one.
A man enters, two drinks and done.
She questions him, “What is the rush?”
Always pulled into a quick crush.
But never really tends to last.
As he mumbles about his past.
A bartender, like therapist.
As alcohol reveals the gist.
Now drunk and loud, he starts to shout.
Before his crash, he raises doubt.
He talks about, the best he lost.
Always at home, waits for the toss.
She cheers him up, when in a rut.
He gets up again, “That **** mutt!
To see her hurt, curled up in bed.
I held her paw, up till her death.”
The next night, slept pretty early.
He was perfect, brown hair curly.
Her eyes were lost, but not with lust.
Enjoyed his smells, delicious must.
A piece of her, became a part.
Happy to save his sinking heart.
Rescued him, he slept on her rug.
Named Milo, her three-legged dog.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
You slowly walk down the avenue of normality
Ignoring the side streets and oddly placed alleys
Change, you feel, is strange and unnerving
You stay straight and narrow, no veering or swerving
You look at us weirdos and our strange machinations
you speed up your pace with much trepidation
You're so busy keeping to the road that's more traveled
that you are completely unaware that it's turning to gravel
You're walking alone, and the road has all but decayed
the streets that you passed up, now bustling highways
Your fear of the odd and peculiar, the offbeat uncommon
has led you to become alone, forlorn, and unwanted
Everyone's different
Everyone's weird
Everyone has secrets that no one will hear
You wanted to be normal, and normal you are
now you're a minority, among the bizarre
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
My enemy let us compete,
in game unique, offbeat.
This is my father's vintage gun,
using it we'll have some fun.
Rules of the game let us fix,
bullet is one, chambers are six.
Rotate the chambers putting bullet in one,
where is the bullet will be known to none.
Pointing each one's head in turn,
we'll pull off the trigger one by one.
At the very outset brain can rend
or game can go till the very end.
Six times of nervous ******
is enough to make the projectile burst.
With anguish and pain looser will yell,
very soon his soul will reach fiery hell.
Winner's anger and hate will get a vent,
future will give him enough time to repent.
My enemy let us compete,
in game unique, offbeat.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
Granite plaque in a tulip bed, end to the Oregon Trail.
Teminus for ordeal by ox and prairie schooner,
where slight survivors began rejuvenation,
the wretched fortunate refusing a backward glance,
children with ancient faces set atop skeletal frames
tried desperately to remember what it meant to play.
Manifest Destiny's broken terra incognitae rested.
Swamp Mama Johnson's concert in the park,
a blues-to-the-wall celebration of life and love,
was a saxaphoned shibboleth for offbeat orphans.
Homeless youth played hacky-sack in time;
a baglady danced with the little girl with Downs;
a camera rocked on the shoulders of the PBS man
--- Olympia gave hommage to ghosts in the gazebo.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:59 PM UTC
dust has collected in this once filled room of my mine
it's floated and settled on the last few things left behind
spellbind
windchime
now i can say this empty space is all mine
8 years of pacing this room
8 years of shouting at the moon
8 years of sleeping til noon
just to ignore the fact I meant nothing to you
so much anger has made home in my bones
the way you used to speak about me felt like being casted with stones
I used to try and drown out your tasteless, colorless tone
you type "she's dramatic" in a text on your phone
I expected this feeling of indifference to feel free with no stop lights
yet this empty space
and this empty mind
coincide
with what I've known this whole time
that all too familiar feeling of restlessness has come to an end
and even though there are still memories burned into my head
I don't believe I have anything else left unsaid
I envied your callousness
I despised your self-righteousness
and i ached at your lack of consequence
what caught your eye was never my elegance
but rather my callowness
as the ice in your drink swirls and melts
and you're blaming me besides everyone else
as your anger starts to swell
just remember it was me who wasn't treated well
we can keep our heads down while our eyes meet on the street
while you pretend I don't resemble meadowsweet
and that we never danced in my kitchen with me on your feet
but
to be honest
in the end
we were always offbeat
when you chose to secede
I found you to not be an aesthete
if you could agree
to be without me
this story is begging to no longer be told
so maybe I'll revisit this time of my life when I've seen how my life will unfold
til then my king is fallen on this chess board
my feelings are buried far past the sea's shore
and I've finally
stopped keeping score
Feb 25, 2022
Feb 25, 2022 at 2:02 PM UTC
moving past the foliage
I smack back
the tangled brush
a strange truth revealed
my emotions in a rush
Here I am
in this hell-hatched bind
braced against the winds
grasping at shards
of the Divine
for they're inside me,
all those pieces
jagged glass and soft meringue
my innards humming
shades of the blues
in offbeat notes of pain
and I know that deep within
between my earthly
beats of heart
resides a light that's
only mine
that slices through
this drape of dark
It's a heavy nightcloak breaking
as I reach out from
the abyss
praying for the comfort
of my soul's
bright morning
kiss
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 7:38 PM UTC
The bourgeoisie?
I loath them,
and I hope they buy my poems!
The critics?
They know nothing,
and I hope they hail my poems!
The intellectuals?
Dumber than pigeons,
and I hope they canonize my poems!
Unabashedly,
I'm not afraid to admit it:
I write for fame and riches,
and nothing really more.
Yes, yes, make no secret of it,
I wish only to shock you,
arouse and repulse you,
****** you,
with mindless,
gore-splattering violence,
and heart-throbbing ***
along on every page.
****** and ***** gore, and blood,
how else are my sales to flood?
It's art for arts' sake,
or something to the effect of that,
whatever makes me edgy,
socially relevant,
to scholars postmodern,
housewives bored,
and teenagers yearning,
to read ***** words.
So keep it then in mind,
my lovely readers you,
I very much like infamy,
and piles of money too;
be sure to buy my books,
praise me,
“Fresh and new!”
So that I may hire cooks,
to save time writing verse,
the very verses you adore,
lambasting the very rich and poor.
Rampant materialism,
spiritual decay,
what else do you
*******
want me to say?
A saint of the lowly,
the offbeat too,
voicing the obscure,
and the unheard and the
blah, blah, blah,
whatever it is,
I really don't care
quite honestly,
bluntly,
I'm being true,
I write for the fame
and the riches,
not you!
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
The person across the street
I never really meet such elite
I pass around the neighbors greetings
But she is the one who gets the sweets
I walk over to her with lots of treats
But never can finish the incomplete
Next day will try again
All that we can do is to repeat
While we try to fix the offbeat
We have tried but failed
Will it ever be
Complete
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
I've been called
A freak
A ******
A headcase
I've been told that
I'm crazy
I'm insane
I'm bizzare
I've heard my actions are
Alarming
Unsettling
Offbeat
All of this may be true
But it's me.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
**The glass bowl stands-a fragile shell
For puny, puffing orange swimmers
Flimsy as the frosting on a wedding cake
You, an endearing fool care too much
For goldfish- that on a bleak Sunday evening
When the weather’s offbeat and the curtains
Appear especially dull- and you slouch back on
Your favorite divan regretting the choice of
Wall-color and some slightly more cardinal matters
Will die on you-
All you asked was for the dumb goldfish to keep
Scurrying about- but no, today’s not your day.
Your heart is a shore pebble and your lips are
As twisted as a winding hill road
As you regret ever having brought in the goldfish that die.**
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
imagine a calloused doubt.
cracked, chipped, clicking
like warped wooden floorboards.
soft from overuse
but still overrides willpower
in one palpitating breath.
grimy yet illusive
like your teeth after a day’s work,
collecting gunk that sidles up
to calcium companions,
crunching down on things
that become
so bland in the end.
doubt is offbeat,
monstrous footsteps hidden deep
off beaten paths,
its thudding is clammy and hurried,
aligned to the discordant jazz of
your alarmed body.
it tastes like
coppery heartbeats,
rising bile,
salt and mucus in the back of your throat.
it is a truly uncomfortable thing.
it stacks sweetly like buttercream pancakes
but crumbles you
with such a sour taste on your tongue.
imagine an agony that loves you.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
Like a discordant chord striking the piano deaf,
Or a saxophone that lost its swanky *** appeal,
When you breathe down the neck of my violin,
The horsehair refuses to bow,
When you huff out your limitations into my harmonica,
You disrupt my harmony,
Throwing me
offbeat.
[But I refuse to be beaten].
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
Pretty girls
Pretty blonde girls, pretty brown girls
Try on wedding dresses on late-night cable.
The dresses are pretty too.
Organza and flow and corset and satin.
Pretty dresses for pretty girls
Who will marry pretty boys in a pretty church.
One is less pretty
Fittingly, her dress is less pretty.
Where most have satin, she has cotton.
Eco-friendly, she says.
I like it.
She not very pretty
She's neither blonde nor brown
I wonder what her boy is
And where her wedding is
And if everything is "offbeat" in her wedding.
I hope she gets to use an adjective
Other than pretty.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 7:17 PM UTC
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Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 1:04 AM UTC
17 feb: offbeat
I couldn't stop thinking about
grey tartan and gin
and soft pink skin.
Cigarettes and typewriters,
drops of ink on the paper
leading away from the word
"desperation."
But there it was.
"I'm leaving for the afternoon.
Your choice is to prune
the bushes or to water them."
What was I to do?
I liked them full and so did you.
You were frantic.
As though you'd misplaced something
when really you were just searching
for a fishing net.
"Look at the sunset."
Oh but it's gone, it's over, I'm sorry.
[Friend, friend
do not cower or back down
from this but know
that I am listening for you,
to you, always.]
Left to rot,
built to spill,
one of us was always ill.
I was waiting for you to come home--
I have not touched the bushes yet.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
Say one more time the crown of beauty's dying. Without the shine the gown of beauty's wilting. 'Tis nothing fair a timid being. Fear not, stand tall against them halt from fleeing. Prove thy might young maiden now before ye bitter.
-----
Dear Restless, don't you know when you mess with the Mother it comes back twofold? Reckless actions masking your denial feeding her disapointment. Striving to get your way, darling, but you'll never be happy. One wrong move after another and she's coming for you baby one way or another.
-----
One day, one night, lost track, lost time. Standing alone I see all to be done, but lack ambition to clean the slate. Whereas, together I'm blinded and forgetful. Seconds pass, alright, but seconds build to minutes as a steady trickle builds to a stream. Soon enough I find myself trapped in a river. I can't escape, I'm caught in a current of disassociation. So what if I drown here? No, I want want more more. Every second a thought runs by and like the trickle turns into a dream. I feel that I think I can, but as I think this there's another stream building, the one that's pulling me back. As I'm drowning, the seconds tick..tick..tick. Just one strong lunge and I'm air bound to a new element, the one I was meant to survive in. Soon I will take a lungfull of that bountiful production the leaves breath for me. I will bask in the glorious light and love to be loved. Just one .. Strong .. Lunge.
-----
Just get on your feet and run, baby, run. Glance behind you once, no shame, twice and you'll lose your footing. I tripped when I tried to get out of misery, but I'm standing up now and tying those laces tight. Moral of these things is normally not to run anymore.. Not here, I intend to keep going.
-----
This road we travel on may some day bring us to our peace, but in the meantime we'll roam this place one offbeat path at a time. Join me on a magical adventure to nowhere and I swear you will never forget it. Peace, love, and wickedry shall set you free.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
i put my fingers in my mouth
salty
honey soap tasting
i can feel the pulse in my upper lip
desperately beating
i can feel my pulse uneven
when i jab my fingers into my neck,
like a dancer slightly falling offbeat,
distracted with the smoke
or maybe that's just my imagination,
my father had arrhythmia,
so did my grandfather.
both of them abused substances
and drank irish ***
and black coffee with sugar,
both of them wrote about things
like "passion" and "sunset",
both of them had troubles with commitment,
uneven smiles
and
bad teeth.
both of them ate too much sugar,
and laughed really loudly,
both of them liked arguing
and letting stories fall from the caves of their mouth,
leading armies with their teeth
their tongue a home for dragons.
it only takes a skip of a beat,
the dancer to fall completely
for me to become
another carbon copy.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
My entire life
No matter where I go, who I'm with, what I'm doing, how drunk I am
I have always felt on the outside - out of the picture
From childhood's hour
I have not been like others are
I've always been
Out of the conversation, at a distance
As though I am alone in existence
Everywhere I go, there is an impenetrable barrier
At home I'm a foreigner in my own land
I've always felt like a different breed
Slowing down when others pick up speed
As if I was the only one picking up the sounds or words that others don't hear
Deaf to the words that they do hear
I do not hear what others hear, I do not see what others see
Doing, saying, thinking things that others don't
When I try to explain what my world is like,
I baffle and stutter and can't find the words
And they look at me
From the other side of the barricade
With condescending, puzzled smiles
I've never really been a part of a group, a piece of a whole
Even in my own house, with my own friends, I've always been an intruder
Everything I say, everything I do seems offbeat
I feel like everyone is dancing some sort of elaborate choreography
And I haven't learned the steps
Or they're all playing a game
And no one taught me the rules, or let me roll the dice
I've always felt out of it,
As if I was alone on the opposite side of an enormous, invisible window
Pressing my hands against the glass, tracing worlds in the fog
A stranger looking in
I've always felt it
Struggling to break the sturdy facade
In crowded parties, sleepovers,
Lunch breaks, with my family, with best friends
other half of poem redirected
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
Tick tock tick tock
There goes the clock
Busy with ticking away
Every second of the day
Giving a sound to time
Indicating day or nighttime
Tick tock tick tock
There goes the clock
Its hands are clapping
While time is unwrapping
Clapping on the beat
Every second never offbeat
Tick tock tick tock
There goes the clock
It seems to go so fast
When you're having a blast
Other times not at all
Time then just seems to crawl
Tick tock tick tock
There goes the clock
Again I give a big sigh
Trying hard to deny
That another day went by
Another day to say goodbye
Tick tock tick tock
There goes the clock
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
My entire life
No matter where I go, who I'm with, what I'm doing, how drunk I am
I have always felt on the outside - out of the picture
From childhood's hour
I have not been like others are
I've always been
Out of the conversation, at a distance
As though I am alone in existence
Everywhere I go, there is an impenetrable barrier
At home I'm a foreigner in my own land
I've always felt like a different breed
Slowing down when others pick up speed
As if I was the only one picking up the sounds or words that others don't hear
Deaf to the words that they do hear
I do not hear what others hear, I do not see what others see
Doing, saying, thinking things that others don't
When I try to explain what my world is like,
I baffle and stutter and can't find the words
And they look at me
From the other side of the barricade
With condescending, puzzled smiles
I've never really been a part of a group, a piece of a whole
Even in my own house, with my own friends,
I've always been an intruder
Everything I say, everything I do seems offbeat
I feel like everyone is dancing some sort of elaborate choreography
And I haven't learned the steps
Or they're all playing a game
And no one taught me the rules, or let me roll the dice
I've always felt out of it,
As if I was alone on the opposite side of an enormous, invisible window
Pressing my hands against the glass, tracing worlds in the fog
A stranger looking in
I've always felt it
Struggling to break the sturdy facade
In crowded parties, sleepovers,
Lunch breaks, with my family, with best friends
But with him
I'm not an outsider
Even though we argue, or call each other names,
Or slap each other, or steal each other's pens
We understand each other
Simply
Easy
With him
There is no window, no barrier, no wall
When we talk, there is only us
Encased in a small, invisible circle
A circle I'm not excluded from
Which enclosed us, and protects us from the world
All the others fade,
And only remains this sort of forcefield
There's no plausible explanation
For this halo
Nothing logical about it
Nothing like "we just get along",
Because we don't, not always
But the circle is there
Undeniable and hopefully eternal
One day I'll trace that circle
Around us, and he'll see it
too
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 1:12 AM UTC
I'm deceased
my body and sweet decay
the rot setting in,
I still hear the beeping,
a flat line signaling my end.
It was all a poorly sung illusion,
the offbeat melodic rhapsody
a ****** mockery,
a slow sweet tinkering of bells
tolling a harsh lullaby.
The composition meandered for
so long, the songs changed my life,
beautiful textures,
my bones showing,
my love so bountiful, each moment
still-life.
I flicker to passages,
as I'm lowered in to the case,
I see the happy faces,
you see I'm deceased,
I'm not dead...
I'm at peace.
My hair and teeth,
against bleached cartilage,
and that face;
a contemptuous corpse,
fingers pointing inward,
freed heart and soul,
piercing chest,
a cavity...
okay,
he's dead.
http://www.robross.ca
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 10:08 AM UTC
Sweet fragrant offbeat smells and sounds
accost us as we wake in the oversized bed.
Sheets have been crumpled and creased
thrown to floor in a white pure heap.
Your warmth next to me is almost too
much to endure, I can see the sheen of sweat
coming from your very pores.
Sweat created by the Spanish sun and our Spanish fun.
I look around the suite, and sweet memories flood
through me, the heat of the night as we arrived,
dishevelled yet ready to concede with our pleading
bodies. We cannot retreat just surrender to the crisp
white sheets, inviting us in.
How we tried to be discrete, but it was too sweet
we tried to contain our passion, but it was a lost cause.
This was a country used to the rhythm of repeated pleas.
I run my nails down your sweat covered torso
here we are complete, we are one in this, the Spanish sun.
You turn lazily to look at me,I see the fire is still burning
I know I'll get another treat, Latino fiery ness has emboldened us
In this anonymous suite we compete with each other's affections
Like a matador and a bull we display, and play with each other.
Broiling in the sweat covered sheets we concede defeat,
we fall asleep not by the moonlight, but by the blaze of the sun.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 6:23 PM UTC
I write for many reasons.
Most too hard to explain,
but once I start my writing,
it becomes almost a game;
I’m player one, Literacy two,
I feel it then he rhymes,
and so we work together –
it doesn’t take much time.
Which is why too many syllables
sometimes mean I am offbeat –
that is Literacy taking lead
but I won’t accept defeat!
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 8:20 PM UTC
Silence will not do, but does.
Datura are in bloom below
equatorial divide,
or is it above?
Nevertheless, I smell them
just as moon rises.
That is how I know.
"No understanding of this,"
says an upside down bat,
who I've named Plato.
We enjoy our cave dwelling,
clamminess included.
Visitors suchlike the snake and mosquito down here, get eaten
by he and I.
Venturing out isn't required.
Distinction between shadows
and puppets to us are visible.
Our senses are keen.
We can turn our heads around.
Still, we stay in the cave.
For all our nutrition comes to us.
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 4:25 PM UTC
P
O
E
T
R
Y
Awakens the senses....
Captivates the eye with a unique flair, like a skilled artist on the stage-a great dancer, a supreme actor, an athletic acrobat, an experienced musician, an engaging orator, a gifted singer, a heavenly choir
Entices the nose to imagine the hint of various scents, soothing or disturbing, and often blends different aromas into peculiarity
Touches the heart, mind, soul and skin--when it is spot on, perhaps with shivers, or perhaps with warmth
Teases the tongue to taste the words, salty, sour or sweet, vaguely satisfying, sometimes mystifying
Pounds on the eardrum to listen to its beat, at times, offbeat, at times, in perfect rhythm
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC