"resolutely" poems
When I was just a little girl,
And as little girls were taught then,
I played with dolls and a teaset,
Made mudcakes for food,
Wore skirts, made my hair into ponytails as I was let.
I saw the boys with the abandon which comes with free wear and play,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.
When I was older, a teen
and as teen girls were taught then,
Walk, talk, rock softly
Don’t draw too much attention
Or attempt to explore too much.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with freedom to play, sit, be as they want ,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.
When I was sixteen, oh sweet sixteen,
And as sixteen year old girls were taught then,
Don’t wear clothes that show your frame,
That’s indecent and you will be in another home and will incur alot of blame.
Don’t wander, argue, or express an opinion,
You’re a girl, being humble, quiet and gentle becomes you.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with freedom of movement and speech,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.
When I was older, and passionately sought a particular career,
I was admonished as many other girls in my time,
It’s not a career for women, late nights, more men to be around,
When you get married, that’s not going to work and troubles will abound.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with the freedom of pursuing their dreams,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.
When I was married, and setting a home, working and raising a family,
I left my work as many other girls in my time,
For my husband to follow his work path,
Unquestioningly, unflinchingly, resolutely.
I saw the men then with the abandon which comes with freedom of being in control of their lives,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.
But this is just the surface of my questioning being a girl,
When boys and men around tried their stunts on girls and women,
I questioned my existence.
When many girls and women I know,
Were told to stay mum on men close who took advantage of them
I questioned my existence.
When In the workspace,
Women got paid less than men because their salary were subtly looked at as secondary salaries,
Or needed to speak louder to be heard,
I questioned my existence.
When the onus of keeping a relationship working was the woman’s responsibility largely,
I questioned my existence.
When a woman got hit by her spouse,
Its she who may have provoked him.
When a man strayed,
Its she who was not a good enough wife that he had to look elsewhere.
I questioned my existence.
The atrocities many men are capable of,
The filth many men spread,
**** hate, aggression, manipulation and more
Abuse, gaslighting inside closed doors,
Wearing a mask of sophistication outside
Animalistic and entitled beings to the core.
My apologies to men who are not,
And I know some,
But they are but a handful,
Too insignificant in the larger way the world works.
But then I see me,
A harbinger of change,
In my home and around.
Raising my son differently,
Advocating for change purposively,
Actioning resolutely what’s right,
Woman for women with all my might.
I see so many more women now who retain their selves and are beacons of hope,
They don’t sit around and just mope.
And I am glad I am a girl,
And I question no more,
I question no more.
Feb 16, 2020
Feb 16, 2020 at 4:28 AM UTC
Sometimes, looking at you in the light of the kitchen I want
to run a finger
Down the length of your nose but
I know you'd wrinkle it, and shake your head citing a tickle, but kiss behind my shoulder as soon
As I turn away
When my feet make ice pools in the bed
Toes accidentally brushing your ankle and you **** abruptly, but upon hearing
My sigh, trap them back with your ankles til, martyr that you are, I'm engulfed in
Warmth at your
Expense.
Sometimes the last trickle of milk is mine, for the coffee,
Silent with your eyes smiling fondly, you look on as I sip, resolutely stirring powdered
Dead baby souls into mug as substitute.
Even damp smelly socks
Greasy hair
Neurotic tears and
Intellectual rambling epiphanies
Even childish blunders, fudging the
Budget or burning the toast
You still call me fond Things.
And love Me.
The most.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
Change...
a word with a world within
With the power to transform
Visions into victories
Opportunities into accomplishments
Some fear it; some resist it
But not us
We are a breed apart
We challenge the limits of action
We dare to explore new dimensions
And transform tomorrow
With courage and absolute conviction
We DREAM fearlessly,
BELIEVE resolutely
And ACT decisively
And when the odds are against us
We even it out by transforming
all we have & becoming who we are.
BE THE CHANGE
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 6:28 AM UTC
I was sure that this feeling was gone for good,
but trial and error has yielded more error than it should
and I’m beginning to think that I can’t do all the things
I’ve so resolutely sworn that I would.
I can’t blame inadequacy on those little pink pills,
Doc prescribed my anxiety for three years and still
to this day I wonder where I’d be
if side-effects hadn’t brought out the demons in me.
But now, dearest reader, I’m finally free.
But freedom, well, it’s a bitter pill to swallow,
because now, who’s to blame when that eerily hollow,
haunting feeling creeps up behind me?
When the only thing in the room is the mirror beside me,
and I’m watching me stare back at me
and I’m seeing what I’ve always seen
and I swore, christ, I swore on everything
that this would be my awakening.
But. It wasn’t.
Yeah, I swore that this feeling was gone for good,
but winter’s brought it back like part of me always knew it would.
So I’ll hide blame under the furniture, in dark the corners of this room
and hope I’ll learn what it means to let go sometime soon.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 4:21 PM UTC
From bristly foliage
you fell
complete, polished wood, gleaming mahogany,
as perfect
as a violin newly
born of the treetops,
that falling
offers its sealed-in gifts,
the hidden sweetness
that grew in secret
amid birds and leaves,
a model of form,
kin to wood and flour,
an oval instrument
that holds within it
intact delight, an edible rose.
In the heights you abandoned
the sea-urchin burr
that parted its spines
in the light of the chestnut tree;
through that slit
you glimpsed the world,
birds
bursting with syllables,
starry
dew
below,
the heads of boys
and girls,
grasses stirring restlessly,
smoke rising, rising.
You made your decision,
chestnut, and leaped to earth,
burnished and ready,
firm and smooth
as the small *******
of the islands of America.
You fell,
you struck
the ground,
but
nothing happened,
the grass
still stirred, the old
chestnut sighed with the mouths
of a forest of trees,
a red leaf of autumn fell,
resolutely, the hours marched on
across the earth.
Because you are
only
a seed,
chestnut tree, autumn, earth,
water, heights, silence
prepared the germ,
the floury density,
the maternal eyelids
that buried will again
open toward the heights
the simple majesty of foliage,
the dark damp plan
of new roots,
the ancient but new dimensions
of another chestnut tree in the earth.
5.4k
As a poet
I seek to give words
A form of sorts
I feel as though I am a blacksmith
The hammer a pen
The paper my anvil
Words the steel
Viciously shapeless at first
Once refined, beautifully curved
Tempered with my emotion
To form a crafted sword
Not meant to pierce flesh
But instead the soul
Surface can be of gilded gold
Ornate and pretty
A blade meant to dazzle and woo
I say this resolutely, absolutely
Because in the breath of a sentence
One can live forever
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 3:53 PM UTC
Set not thy foot on graves;
Hear what wine and roses say;
The mountain chase, the summer waves,
The crowded town, thy feet may well delay.
Set not thy foot on graves;
Nor seek to unwind the shroud
Which charitable time
And nature have allowed
To wrap the errors of a sage sublime.
Set not thy foot on graves;
Care not to strip the dead
Of his sad ornament;
His myrrh, and wine, and rings,
His sheet of lead,
And trophies buried;
Go get them where he earned them when alive,
As resolutely dig or dive.
Life is too short to waste
The critic bite or cynic bark,
Quarrel, or reprimand;
'Twill soon be dark;
Up! mind thine own aim, and
God speed the mark.
2.6k
while the debate goes on and on,
as to which country has the longest, continuous
democratic parliament, have it on on good authority
that the subject above,
is it better to love your kids too much than not enough?
was the first among all temporal discussions ever held,
despite periodic tabling, the debate remains unresolved,
the question unsettled even after 1000 years+ of argumentation
when over time, Universal Adult Suffrage finally came to be,
the debate became renewable, enflamed, divisive most contentiously,
various coming down on each side of a point of view topically
since mother, father and child, i.e.
pretty much everyone, definitionally,
claimed total expertise,
and sparing the rod was deemed by most to be illegally,
no plebiscite, amendment or ballot initiative was resolved resolutely,
the beat goes on continuously as new children reach voting age, sagaciously repeating their view, personally
my view?
I’ve tried both and failed equally
so I’ve little to contribute,
so let it be stated in manner unequivocally,
the sweet sensibility says too well,
but helicopters crash and monied snowplows
run over other both their own and others better deserving,
leaving all of them buried in snow piles street side,
while those who blame their faults on insufficient love,
are later most demanding more attention than any,
having becoming painfully hardy, by being treated hard about,
hard on themselves and worse to others
everyone knows the answer to this question for themselves
but I’ll leave you with this,
permitting a child to fail is a winning strategy,
as long as there is no legal limit
regarding the amount or frequency
on lifetime hugging
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 2:14 AM UTC
Most days self-doubt laps at my ankles
in pools that I hardly feel, with ripple effects
so small I don't even sift the footprints
in the sand. Other times it comes in waves,
striking me behind the knees. I wobble,
skim the water's surface with a grasping hand
that's never held on to anything except for broken
secrets, but I don't fall. The salt stings my eyes
but instead of closing them I resolutely
gaze at the sunset in the hopes that I could find
some written metaphor in the pink and orange clouds
about something like "starting over" or
"self-forgiveness". And then there are rare days
when there's an eclipse and I can't blind myself
with sunbeams or use an ultraviolet floodlight in my brain
to scare off all the lurking thoughts I can't pin-point
but know are there... that's when the self-doubt
comes in tsunami waves, and I don't fall but
sink like a wayward torpedo, farther than
any reaching hand could pull me
to shore, to normal rock bottom,
and I realize, as the oxygen slowly leaves my lungs,
as my vision darkens into obscurity,
that I've visited this abyss before.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
May the seasoning of the season
stuff you full of all that's holy,
all that's holly
and all that's homely.
May your sudden new year
surprise you with a new sense
of living fully,
resolutely
and purposely.
And may the Christ of Christmas be present meaningfully daily.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 10:13 AM UTC
When Death resolutely comes
Abrupt with his deadly summons
Tarry not like a galley slave
But like a courteous warrior behave
Do not waver and do not droop
As if you are to be hung on a loop
Never dread lying under the dust
With the body in a narrow vault ******
Know, it is only when seeds rot
That fresh and florid lives sprout
So when it is time to go
Strut like an indomitable foe,
With swinging hands and head held high
To be welcomed by angels of the sky
With the music of clanging cymbals
And the rising rhythm of sounding bells
Into a kingdom, bright and cheerful
And a state far radiant and blissful
Where the sun shall never set
Where blessed souls will joyously meet
Where Truth and Beauty preside
Where peace and bliss abide
Ousted out of terrestrial space
You’re enfolded in God’s sweet embrace
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
"Where literature is concerned,
I will not cooperate at all":
A mind resolutely turned
From the social crusades of fall.
Seventy-eight years later
I agree with the "dilettante";
Twenty-five years cater
To reclusion in a shanty,
"Writing frightening verse
To a straight-toothed dude
In New York." Curse
My reckless solitude!
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
Are these tears of blundering laughter
or heckles of contempt
that spirit on these haggard few
to rhapsodise our era’s curtain calls?
They who brought us mounting debt and conscientiousness
which seems only to be healed in the appeasing fluorescence
of 24-hour supermarkets and the purgatory
of weekends spent at home?
Such stifling, nervous coughs
are head as responses of
today’s domestic questionnaires
Gung-ho reformative advances
and calls to “pull up our socks”
Mixed with the state-sponsored fortune-telling
Rationed out to boys languishing on the dole.
Which All falsely transpires,
intimidatingly revealed as being
About as appealing as vacuum cleaners for the soul
aimed at the resolutely bored to tears.
Despite our fears
the sun will come streaming again
through fresh fir trees
which decorate contemplative, sheltered lanes.
These last, frostbitten years
seek replacement with halcyon days
in order to suspend dogmatic disbelief.
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves:
Pessimism is ****
Even in the most roaring of times
we remained despondent and calculated.
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
Lady,
lady,
lady,
It made no sense then
and still I'm at a lack.
Those days I'd read and fall asleep,
take the cheap warmth of the sun on my cheeks
(and literacy) for granted, then
wake to a sunburn on my back.
Aloe evenings, peeling loose skin
revealing goose-flesh, feeling foolish
again, by my garden
on my deck
off my guard
and lonely.
Heck, this is only one instance where I had chills that summer
Another was under the orange glow of a poorly funded lighthouse,
Us there - just sitting - perched
on my car, parked
on
a
slope
West River lay ahead and below -
Behind were the kinds of smiles and glances
people give before they know
each other and the chances
of where they both may go
So,
I took my time
not giving a ****
despite the dame's insistence
on a kiss the tourists planned -
Too many instants
spent looking, fearing leaping
peering,
keeping
distance
sparse.
Alas, a tour de farce?
Thanks to pop-rocks when our lips touched
we chuckled at the sparks
Lip gloss
Then my loss of control
Utterly unable to console
Is it any wonder the cunning fox we saw just wandered home?
With this rhetoric I am ready to admit that
I lack(ed) certainty
Was the mist real or is't only foggy in my memory?
In hindsight I do mind causing pain
Though my brain,
it sure likes hurting me
And lo,
À l'acadie we go
...for academia!
My ego can't stand seein' ya
so the strained "Hello" is ignored -
Please impale it on the sword
of vanity and estrangement!
As I sway toward derangement
or insanity, I lurch forward
lacksidaisically
Need to learn to curb these feelings
to watch out for those of others
As the sun or lighthouse over us
this message resolutely hovers:
I hurt
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
Just a young sapling
With an unhindered view,
It chose its position
And then grew where it grew.
Just a singular tree,
Not in a forest, copse or wood,
Preferring its own company,
It stood where it stood.
A tree in its infancy
Coping with life’s highs and lows,
It takes on all challenges
And it grows where it grows.
Standing resolutely alone,
An independent tree,
This somehow reminds,
Reminds me of me.
Jul 4, 2021
Jul 4, 2021 at 1:49 AM UTC
I walked into my house,
expecting my senses to be aroused,
by the aroma of baking bread.
so it surprised me, when instead,
of having my senses tickled by,
the delicious scent of apple pie,
or the aroma of food in the making,
or rice on the stove and turkey baking,
I walked in, instead, to an awful smell,
the source of which I could not tell.
I ventured to the garbage bin,
to see if the source of the stench came from therein,
but the bin was empty and sans any stink,
so I walked over to the kitchen sink,
to inspect and see what it could be,
But sink was spotlessly clean,
glistening almost with silvery sheen.
So I went off to see if the food had gone bad,
food in the fridge, if I may add.
But the food looked splendid so to speak,
it clearly wasn’t causing the house to reek.
So what then, was casing my flat,
to smell of a dead rat?
The toilets was where I ventured next,
to see if my kids had left them wrecked,
But they were clean and pristine,
cleaner than my face has ever been.
So I checked the rooms, to see if I had forgotten,
an half eaten plate of food that had gone rotten.
But alas, the house, to my dismay,
resolutely refused to betray,
the source that caused my home,
to smell like a sewer, from cellar to dome.
Aghast and defeated I called out to my wife,
who is the Sherlock Holmes of my life,
"Oh dearest wife of mine,
there's a stink sending down my spine,
a nasty and distasteful shiver,
like I'm drowning in the Mithi river".
"I cannot stand to stay indoors,
inhaling this vile smell anymore"
"Darling" she said sounding like a lark,
"While the cause of the smell may appear mysterious and dark,
the matter is quite simple and plain,
this smell of which you complain,
is not of rotting eggs or meat,
it’s the smell you've bought in with your feet."
With that, out of the window, she tossed my shoes,
She would have tossed me instead if given to choose.
She then scrubbed my feet with sandpaper
and made me less hideous and more dapper.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 2:14 AM UTC
You are hard to put into words.
You leave me speechless at times,
but the again, occasionally,
I have the daring urge to scream so loud at you that spittle flies.
More often than not though,
I just want to scream at myself.
The night sky and the stars and the moon question me.
Irresolution creeps to the basement of my soul,
snapping the homemade defenses in two.
Bile and tears climb my throat as shadow and trepidation crawl into my head.
Hidden secrets fester along with the feeling of emptiness.
That void eats positivity like a tiger eats deer:
stalking resolutely,
followed by a pounce,
and then teeth shredding everything to little bits.
The stars cry out for answers,
while the sky demands too much in order to maintain my sanity,
and the moon just gazes inquisitively,
wondering what darkness brought me to my knees.
Bright colors wash out in the moonlight while indecision clouds my perception.
Misunderstanding loops around all of my decisions;
death to all right-doing.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 4:25 AM UTC
there once was a pyromaniac
he lit himself on fire
he should have panicked
but everything was just brighter
he lived from day to day
yearning to add to the pyre
he knew it to be easy
with a touch it would spread wildfire
but he was no devil
he could control his desire
so he lived in agony
even when his need grew dire
he'd never intrude unwelcome
almost like a vampire
but he was far too kind and reticent
to trap a victim whom he would squire
he scared them all away
with apathy and satire
he was too familiar with the anguish
his fire would inspire
he wanted to protect the beautiful souls
from the harm of its ire
he let his fire burn him to the ground
leaving nothing to quench the inquire
he watched as his fire ashed
his wings and invisibly divine attire
he let it consume him
alone, entire
there once was a pyromaniac
he lit himself on fire
he was resolutely resilient
he drove himself to the pyre
but in his final breath
he heard no lyre
he was a fool
that no one could admire
there once was a pyromaniac
he lit himself on fire
i would have held his hand
together nothing could conquer us, not the world, not a fire
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
subtlety is not a trait I possess well, when I mention
late night texts and infatuation here and there I mean you,
the problem is that I've been here before and I've
fallen too fast.
the problem is that I build these walls that cave in
quickly and resolutely;
I am a dreamer of romance and like
procured fat bouquets of sunflowers unexpected,
quilts, meaningful embraces where the whole world
drops right out of your stomach.
I worry myself because this heart is so brittle; it's known
to have been dropped a time before;
I'm sick of sweeping up slivers of organs like glass,
always laying everything that means anything out on the table for people to poke around in like
I am some kind of mystifying tag sale.
even though things seem different this time,
they don't, really,
anxious wrists and fingers that don't
hold pencils very tightly,
hugging sweaters and the memory of a
quite lovely monday night
and some really awful ones time and time before.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:24 AM UTC
caged bird - is starring into the horizon
dreaming of the touch of the luminous sun
a wingless creature,
terrified her prison will be swept away into a cruel, humid coffin
...how high
can a mockingbird fly?
in twilight hush's, a silhouette's hasty and restless strides, do not want to stop.
the girl is darting to her death as if there was an expiration date - only that she set it for herself
she walks the line where the shadows close
her eyes scanned the surroundings, weary of undesired company
the place is empty and she resolutely starts taking her steps with more urgency
....how high
can a mockingbird fly?
in the cage, a feather departed on the vexing floor
the puppeteer toying with the girl's body is moving her ahead to the guardrails
a futile endeavour is made to drift away by the bird
now she is not a bird, but collapsed heap of flesh and breakables bones
....how high
can a mockingbird fly?
a jelly leg is now levitating above the edge, bleeding finger tips have asked the waves crashed on the shore, to seal a forbidden agreement
she s promised they will be at their highest when she is ready to let go and later be entombment
....how high
can a mockingbird fly?
Oct 1, 2024
Oct 1, 2024 at 9:43 AM UTC
I've always admired
the hands of a poet
fragile, yet capable of telling
the most breathtaking stories
and writing down
the most frightful thoughts
in the form of ravishing metaphors
so no one really gets
how dreadful they really are
the hands of a poet
can take you to a place
that’s constructed out of time and illusions
the hands of a poet
can lift you up
and make you fly
they can take you to the only place
that they would call shelter
I’ve always admired
the hands of a poet
because they can form the letters
so resolutely
while the words are still pondered about
they can make words look
like they’re on the right place
the hands of a poet
aren’t as damaged as their feelings
and unlike the mind of a poet,
they age
until the poet can’t write
the beautiful thoughts down anymore
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 7:27 AM UTC
~
her wishes she guards,
like every beat of her heart;
and plans too far off
she easily discards.
they offer comfort, no cure,
t'is the best they can find;
she calls it quality assured,
takes it one day at a time.
tomorrow a hope,
next week is a prayer;
living forward with foresight,
she's had years to prepare.
unfettered by limits,
her mind now unchained;
free from constraints,
she's gained... far and away!
with joy she embraces
every hour she outlives,
with nothing to lose
she has everything to give!
each night gives her sleep,
rest reserved for the brave,
her future she's glimpsed,
she lives free...
unafraid!
~
*post script.
this one feels undone, and yet i have nothing more on the subject. i suppose it just means the end, like life, remains unknown... unwritten.
Memorial Day brings with it a somber hush; a reminder of sacrifices past... a realization of more to come. as i have written here before, none of us gets out of here without any scars; and though we are living longer today than at any time previous in history, the mortality rate still stands firmly... almost resolutely... at one hundred percent! this then begs a question- would i live differently, if i knew just how numbered my days were... and what keeps me from living that way today?*
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC
What I admire most of all
Is the leaf that is last to fall;
That so resolutely lives on
When many thought it would be gone.
A symbol of strength and courage
As life enters its final stage,
Facing a foretold destiny
With so much grace and dignity.
Each day struggling to survive
Against all odds, to stay alive.
Somehow finding the will to fight,
To remain proud despite her plight.
There is no doubt the day will come
When finally she will succumb,
Though I shall always love, admire
Her will to live, her sheer desire....
For all in life she gave to me
I shall cherish her memory,
Though her love of life I believe
Is the true legacy she leaves.
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 8:49 AM UTC
I think I left a domesday device
in big yellow storage-
no the grimoire, Doktor Dee
had that, think he lost it while absolutely ******
on K cider. Losing all his teeth.
The pages are scrunched up, trodden, sodden
on some minor wasteland path, probably in Coldean.
You know, those treacherous corners of *******
resolutely and hopelessly parked upon by a dog ****
Papa Lebron's been making it rain down
most of Lewes Road,
but it never floods.
Leads to the sea, you see.
Old warlords sit on monobloc chairs
outside the garages they rent out
with their war chests & loans,
gesturing slowly across the way to each other.
My shoes, my jeans, my jacket,
all falling apart.
What I need is to raise a
good old army o' the dead
and take those rusty garagesm
store them for ransom in Big yellow Storage and
wait-wait-wait
for the bounty to roll right in.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 6:24 AM UTC