"rueful" poems
Hazy outlines familiar faces
Echoes of familiar places
Captured moments long forgotten
Honesty in words unspoken
A fleeting smile unguarded eyes
Truth beneath the surface lies
Pause a moment the masquerade
Telling postures now displayed
Rueful smiles and tired eyes
A warm glance melts a mask of ice
And as the frame fades away
Smoke and mirrors back into play
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 2:24 PM UTC
'Tryna get to sunny Californy' -
Boom. It's the awful raincoat
making me look like a selfdefeated self-murdering imaginary gangster, an idiot in a rueful coat, how can they understand my damp packs - my mud packs -
„Look John, a hitchhiker'
„He looks like he's got a gun underneath that I. R. A. coat'
'Look Fred, that man by the road' „Some sexfiend got in print in 1938 in *** Magazine' –
„You found his blue corpse in a greenshade edition, with axe blots'
10.6k
We all look up to the same sun.
To the same moon we confide.
We all look at them the same...
Hoping for the light of day...
Wishing for peace at night.
Unfortunately...
It seems that they are not just.
For their light is selective.
It is not available to those
heavily shrouded in the dark,
drenched in tears.
It seemingly favour those
who'd shamelessly croon for their boon.
Miscreants who shirk
their responsibilities and fears.
I beg you...
Guardian of day and sentinel in twilight.
May your arms be kind and fastidious.
May your reach be deliberate,
purposeful and extensive.
Find those who cry but without voice.
Cradle those who've made decisions
without the luxury of choice.
Shed some love so they could see
past their laboured breaths in mud.
Raise them to their feet
so that they might
have a fighting chance to live.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 1:21 AM UTC
Mayday: two came to field in such wise :
'A daisied mead', each said to each,
So were they one; so sought they couch,
Across barbed stile, through flocked brown cows.
'No pitchforked farmer, please,' she said;
'May cockcrow guard us safe,' said he;
By blackthorn thicket, flower spray
They pitched their coats, come to green bed.
Below: a fen where water stood;
Aslant: their hill of stinging nettle;
Then, honor-bound, mute grazing cattle;
Above: leaf-wraithed white air, white cloud.
All afternoon these lovers lay
Until the sun turned pale from warm,
Until sweet wind changed tune, blew harm :
Cruel nettles stung her angles raw.
Rueful, most vexed, that tender skin
Should accept so fell a wound,
He stamped and cracked stalks to the ground
Which had caused his dear girl pain.
Now he goes from his rightful road
And, under honor, will depart;
While she stands burning, venom-girt,
In wait for sharper smart to fade.
4k
Passover or Easter or Happy Any Ole Thing, Sam I Am
she
asks me good naturedly
which to wish me - a happy this or that
and a poem’s immaculate conception is instant arisen arising
hot ****
rueful smile and unruly reply
a solid out loud Ha!
neither either or he writes and so believes
for I am a god loving man,
whom we’ve -Him/It/Me have agreed
that I may call
Sam I Am
and the answer to your question is
why not
for most quests and questions can be well-answered
why not!
my genes my historical beings my ancestors and my issue
all declaiming that I am a jew who left egypt, no defaming, a slave to no man who cannot love another like his own self
but some in all that I write, this deity boss slips in quietly unseen in one of his jokes-on-us-disguises like singing ave maria
and thus whose to say
his rightful name, is not
Sam I Am
my choice and the big D
(a self-employed informal his choice, nom-de-guerre)
has agreed via his acknowledgement in his normative style of
low volume taciturn tacit acceptance
so wish me a u happy
anything you want-to-call-it-day
don’t matter. but know this u were there
when, all on that happy day where, @ the manger,
when this Sam-Approved-Appeared
poem was born and Sam blessed it with a
hot ****
she laughs, tosses back in my face, some schematic I
prior penned that I can’t recall the when or where or my
nom-de-guerre employed but fits this ex-slave perfectly
“there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth”
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
Now do our eyes behold
The tidings which were told:
Twin fallen kings, twin perished hopes to mourn,
The slayer, the slain,
The entangled doom forlorn
And ruinous end of twain.
Say, is not sorrow, is not sorrow's sum
On home and hearthstone come?
Oh, waft with sighs the sail from shore,
Oh, smite the ***** cadencing the oar
That rows beyond the rueful stream for aye
To the far strand,
The ship of souls, the dark,
The unreturning bark
Whereon light never falls nor foot of Day,
Even to the bourne of all, to the unbeholden land.
3.2k
Maturity is knowing what your limitations are…(my daily chore)
<>
“Maturity is knowing what your limitations are. Maturity is a bitter disappointment for which no remedy exists, unless laughter can be said to remedy anything.”
Kurt Vonnegut
<>
maturity comes when you cannot,
even try, to fool oneself,
indeed, you preposterousness,
make you laugh hardest
at your very, fully owned, selfhood
preening mirror disguise
Is this a poem, a lamentation, a pithy regurgitation
of Vonnegut, and you say: “Don’t care, it’s words
that gotta come out, be released to empty the heart”
a daily excess removal of that daily overflow of the
days first words when new day light and nighttime’s REM
sleep overlap, and the music starts of a life time of favorites,
and like a pleasant thorn direct into your temples brain,
the leaking, then the spilling spirals unstoppable onto the pages, and the first true relieving exhalation comes with
the excited exorcism of the stones of your life, come outside
your body and there is a freshly born stripe upon your face,
not yet a scar for it is yet to ripen by healing, but it is your
creature for loving…and it is good company with so many
prior guests who have checked in, stayed for a moment’s
observation, departed after getting an extended checkout
time, joining the many who came and went, disappearing
in to the internet’s ether, where we one will join them eventually,
though you smile at that thought, cause you’re mature
enough, baby, an all growled up dude, to know that when
you reached that stage, you will be, non-stop laughing
at *** serious you imagined you were, and wondering out loud
why it took so long to recognize that mirrored visage as
one big ole fool with a smile upon his face…
p.s so much for that promise to take a break from beating
yourself up, but you know what, it is pleasing, in that way
when upon the grand occasion of waking up to another
unexpected day of living deserves a deep, but rueful,
laugh out loud and others’ look at your self and argue to
only mischievously agree,
you are indeed,
still crazy after all these years…
Jul 8, 2023
Jul 8, 2023 at 8:24 AM UTC
Halfway up a mountain
on an ice-bound January day,
I sought to reliquify
a few calorific assets.
I am no fool -
I had been carefully investing
a portion of each meal
in certain holdings
(mainly around the waist).
Of course, I knew the safe route:
balanced diet, carbs, fruit, veg;
but a venture nutritionist such as myself
pays little heed to such extravagant prudence.
Fried breakfasts looked like offering
a quick and reliable payoff
and sure, for a while it worked.
But guess what:
Just when I needed the big windfall,
nothing.
Not a sausage,
if you'll pardon the pun.
"Sorry," a regretful body explained,
"I know you'd think you could call on your investments
"at the drop of a hat,
"but actually they're kind of clogged,
"a bit like your arteries."
Wheezing, waiting
for the mountain rescue helicopter,
I spared a rueful thought
for the taxpayer -
the reluctant buyer
of my safety.
You might imagine I owe something in return,
but I watch the news
and I reckon
I'll get away with it.
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 10:40 AM UTC
I've laid my claim on No Man's Land,
And yes,
There's really nothing here.
Just dust, and the occasional vagabond wind.
Yet,
I've made the dust my friend,
And wind my accomplice,
And the arbitrary my entirety.
I've bent her sultry whispers into rueful screams,
And play them on repeat while I sit here.
Like music, sweet music.
Then I play them backwards,
Giggling as she speaks in desperate tongues.
A merely wicked amusement you are, Love--
Contrived and bitter love.
If you be the devil, then surely I'm your demon.
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 7:49 AM UTC
my hidden shames
are an excellent source of moral fibre,
nurturing, but not nutritious.
we coexist in a quiet
mutual acknowledgment,
coexisting but un-categorizable,
nonetheless,
among my oldest cohorts,
their singular coordinated characteristic,
they are mine alone,
not meant to be shared.
But they will someday
make an excellent poem.
Mon jan 2 2023
6:47am
@here
———————————————————-
the askew
are my oldest companion,
dating back to my naissance,
faithful, eternal, but single-minded,
with a rueful sense of humor,
of course,
refer to my relatively plentiful hairs
inherited from my mother’ genetics.
a morning chore,
to return their antics
to an adult,
dignified pose,
plenty sufficient to be be brushed,
straight back,
the preferred orderly compose,
of older men
who cannot waste time
with foolishness,
the excessive vanities of
curls, parts and pompadours,
and yet,
every day they wake me with
ridicule, mockery, by presenting
themselves.to me,
as if electrocuted,
each
hair raising itself
pointing to the heaven,
whence
their true Creator resides.
no amount of product
persuasive,
they do what they must do,
akimbo, askew,
with inordinate amount of
malice aforethought and
a venomous sense of
hairy (and now hoary)
absurdity .
a splash of water,
a handful of rigorous brush strokes,
returns order
and the pretense of a serious mien,
an adult demeanor.
But their purpose accomplished,
they have reminded me of the
absurdity of human vanity,
to humble myself
before forces
more powerful
than human self-aggrandizement
by accentuating
our human foibles.
7:13am
same time & place
——————————————-
morning prayers are
always
a trilogy
the rounded evenness of three,
provides the necessary gravitas
of sufficiency,
three being
not too short,
not too long,
not too quick,
just three right,
to impart
the seriousness
of gratitude
for having gained
another day upon earth,
with it,
many multitudes of
chances to share
thankfulness,
kindness,
yes,
& love too,
and to write,
one more poem
encapsulating
all of the above.
7:35am
same day
same place,
same cup of coffee
Jan 3, 2023
Jan 3, 2023 at 9:17 AM UTC
thorns in the thicket of thought and
thistles of the heart's crown makes a bitter tea
which she pours thin for her porcelain dolls
with plaster-of-paris cakes 'n' cookies neatly adorned
with christmas colors daintily painted in blood and tears
the bard speaks the rueful tale with cliffhanger pauses
and excited joyous moments enclosed in the
crisp images of winter wonderland
the bard is a figure of such stories
long white beard and eyes that twinkle like stars
but now that the tale is told
the song sung.....
the bard retires his joyful face in his private room
with its smoky mirrors
and clutter of memorials to his younger days
his words once on the powdered lips of elegance
now are the dirt stained humble man's bread and butter
they were grand stories
they were adoration's to velvet goddesses....
but now they are but thorns in the thicket of thought
picturesque visions of nubile nymph's only sadden the old man
the bard packs away his joyful face
it is for the readers whom he loves
the road weary eyes linger upon her lace
she was a beautiful moment of summer in his winter life
she's now a sacred image protected by
thorns in the thicket of thought
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
I mold like clay
in your rough calloused hands
and you shape me
with drunk eyes and fingertips
that **** my sensitive skin
like knives
The snow plants kisses
to the cloudy glass windows
that confine us together
and I tremble with the fear
of being carved
into something I never planned
or wanted to be
My stomach shrinks
and my spine curves
from the harsh conditions
of your malicious mind
that pushes me further
and further
into depths of myself
I never knew
existed
I am hazy over the idea
that once I was strong
and maybe even the kind of beautiful
that blooms flowers
and jumpstarts heartbeats
and makes the world
close its rueful eyes
even just for a little while
You are an artist
with a clear goal and path
and I hope to god
you let me dry out
for I am not
shiny and mesmerizing
like the ceramics that
populate your dusty shelves
I’ve been molded and shaped
and framed and built
by those coarse and icy hands
so that I am no longer what I used to be
but rather a blurry and ugly version
that makes my head
whirl like the blizzard outside of my
window
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
There's something missing in this heap of hearts.
i'd happily admit he'd fall apart
without his special taste of what was to come
after every horror night he'd slept,
beauty truthful, I wish i'd seen
his glory days, our glory days
we breathe as one, and there's music to come -
but an unstrung guitar would yearn for it.
Something like diamonds or vague metaphors
like years of friends and friendly enemies that struck a bone like a tattooed hand a chord
something like that which fills the soul of rueful smiles and before they left -
he knew that was where he took his breath.
One day I'll come to understand why deprivation is my vice and virtue
and why good things come to those who forget -
but for now its grief for ghosts and phantom hands left unheld
that keeps us both waking during the night.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
Just like Eminem,
I'm not afraid to take a stand
If that is what it would take to make you
comprehend
That this adulation spawns me to be
mettlesome
I was impatient to wait for the time,so I
purchased a new watch our time has come
Been in many debauched rapports
All resulted a faux pas because I invested less
effort
Not rueful, but from this juncture I prospect
to be more perfect
I'm not afraid
To take a stand
If that is what it would take to make you
comprehend
I was improvident but I'm devising to be
provident
I was impatient but I'm outlining to be patient
I am stubborn but I'm willing to be adamant
You said I'm indelicate I'm willing to be decent
I'm not afraid
To take a stand
If that is what it would take to make you
understand
That I'm for you and only you
I'm executed from dishonesty, I take an oath
to be true
I'm not afraid
To take a stand
Even if that is what will make you understand
That I love you and only you...
Siyanda
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them “Supper.” At that word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off—
The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!”
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
1.6k
Spring, cherished maiden ambivalent:
three parts rain, one part intemp'rate sun.
Show sympathy for clouded, rueful weather -
and let her weep 'til she, at last, is done
for there is no permanence in her grief.
She's winter's lover, moreso summer's child:
clutching daisy chains like bespoke rosaries,
new petalled life retrieves her golden smile.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 6:51 AM UTC
Up and over the barbed wire gate
Crept a dreadful Mr. Despair
To meet a horrible Mr. Hate
Who was impatiently waiting there
The dark alley that they had chosen
Was well off the beaten path
But it wasn’t long they heard approaching
A reckless Mr. Wrath
He greeted them with a grunt
A courtesy, for they’d never met
Then up from a steamy sewer
Rose a rueful Mr. Regret
He hardly nodded his heavy head
On his face a grumpy grimace
And so there they festered
Awaiting their last accomplice
Then out from a ***** dumpster
Creeping quite quietly
Fell the gang’s last felon
An awkward Mr. Anxiety
So there they plotted to pillage
In that abandoned alley
That lovely little town
Then called Vulnerable Valley
There they consorted, concocting
To bring the town nothing but gloom
They snickered, spat and sneered
Oh, the impending doom
Suddenly all peered upward
As a light shone through a window above
Their riotous rebellion had roused
A light-hearted Mr. Love
“Top of the mornin’ down there
Dandy weather wouldn’t ye say?”
To which there was no rebuttal
To sewers and shadows
The creeps had crept
To fraternize another day
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 8:04 AM UTC
A fiery passion boils in an internal furnace…
A snake coils and prepares to serve it’s purpose…
One man can only hold the burden so long…
Finally out of breath from humming his rueful song..
As the chilling notes pass his weary lips…
He gasps in one last breath of the dreary mist…
He drops the heavy burden from his bruised and broken shoulders…
Wipes away the blood and sweat, it’s the end for the soft spoken soldier…
He lies down to let time nurse his sore and infected wounds…
He can cry now and say goodbye to what they expected was his tomb…
But no matter what, along that road he never faded…
Carried that burden no matter whether he was loved or hated…
Held his head up and never fell when he stumbled…
They pushed him to the no end but he never crumbled…
He kept drawing the will from some unseen source…
He battled every challenge sent by some obscene force…
He faced a true test of humanity and showed an iron heart…
This is my goal… it’s what sets the antelope and lion apart…
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 2:09 PM UTC
The moisture congregates on the surface,
and a single drop condenses quickly.
With a blink, it is released.
This salty drip of anguish,
it will crash to the ground below,
or absorb into my clothing,
Until I am drenched, in tears of woe.
One after another, emanated from each cavity,
each oculus becomes clouded, with liquid distress,
as I sit here reduced, to a beautiful, rueful, mess.
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 4:13 PM UTC
Someday you feel as though you are the last leaf of the autumn’s being
And, the slightest whiff of the wind would ruin the season for all.
You feel that the entire world is woven in the designs on your skin
So intricate, so compact and yet so burdensome, you’d fall.
Grimy, wilted, the worn-out leaf
You were picked upon by the birds on the tree.
Severed as you jump out of the lap of the once lush green,
Floating in the dusty gust was another misery.
Rueful yet rebellious, you longed for wings.
Cos waiting for you in a dark, far-off corner was the gorgeous spring.
Denuded lands could offer only so much cover.
So as the days grew darker, fearful became the vernal queen.
On your tiny back you bear the brunt of sins of your land
Your gait exudes the weariness, the heart exudes the desire.
The infallible falls but never does he fail.
From the endless scars on your body leaks the vengeful ire.
You were after all, the last leaf of the fall,
the last synapse to sanity, the curtain to the wonderful show.
Your pace slowed down, and each time the mercury rose,
Spring died a little.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
Tears are words the heart can not express
For too many are painful, harsh & cruel
Our very core, weakened under duress
Throat tightened and tacitly rueful
Heart on fire in a burning chest
More fervently sigh after sigh
Hastened in grief and in distress
A bleeding soul seeming to die
Longing for time to quickly come
To heal at once these unseen wounds
Unseen but felt a thousand fold
Awaiting seasons to dispel gloom
Pass Winter come to Spring
With all wonders this season brings
Atone my heart inner scarring
To once more blooms & wildly sings
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC
The rueful ache of time
kissing
goodbye
to
our everywhere
is
rather bittersweet.
The kind of burnt-black and acrid taste of burnt toast.
Strange enough,
it is also
the kind of sweet like
honey and brown sugar
dotting
the centre of it.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 5:37 AM UTC
Lately I've been catching myself missing you,
So much. So much that it hurts.
Lately I've been...
Gee, I don't know?
Awful?
Rueful?
Sorrowful?
Dreadful?
Except... I'm not really "full" at all.
I'm nowhere near full.
I'm empty!
It's the same as what came out of my mouth,
When we both said goodbye:
Nothing!
Like that time you'd kept gazing at my lips,
Then my eyes, then back again, and vice versa.
And what came out from the intensity,
Lust, passion, that kept creeping in the room:
Nothing!
Like that time when we were just about to confess
Our oh-so-undying-love for each other.
Okay, maybe it wasn't undying,
And maybe it wasn't love,
And maybe we weren't about to spill out anything,
But you get my gist.
There was nothing spoken between us.
Nothing!
It's the same as that time,
I was sitting uncomfortably at my rooftop,
Staring and loosing myself,
At the sight of the moon and the stars.
Wondering if you're staring
At the same moon and stars, too.
And I'm hoping you are just so I wouldn't feel alone.
Then I think...
Then I remember...
The stupid timezone separating us.
And now I'm back with nothing.
And the worst part?
That wasn't even a "was".
That was the "now."
That is the now.
And every so often,
I catch myself staring at one of those stars.
Whispering to them,
Stories we wrote, stories we created.
Bragging to them,
How great I think you are.
Telling them,
To look over you.
Forcing them,
To watch out for the girl chasing after you.
Wishing upon them,
That I could be the girl you chase after instead.
And it's times like that,
Times like now,
When I have ten things going on in my head
And I'm pretty sure
About nine and a half are about you.
And I sit there,
And I tell them,
I miss you.
I still miss you.
But it's daytime,
And there are no stars,
And there's definitely still no you.
-djs
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
Dearest,
All those days,
I let you tread over me and gave you a place to stand,
and you with your untrained, weak bladder dog,
your clumsiness,
your laziness,
your unwashed clothes,
your ***** shoes and smelly feet,
stepped on my trust.
I hope you get pricked by the scraps of food,
bleed out with a paper cut
and stumble on my torn out, roughened edges
and I get to smother and roll up your inanimate, dead body
to it's rightful place.
Ruefully, yours.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC
You looked at me
As if I were a broken muse
Jagged instead of smooth
A cracked carapace
A bag no longer containing God
And in this moment of your breath
I was a face for the morgue
The crematorium,
With the sifting of ash
To be your repentance-
The discovery of the shelf of a cheekbone
To be the only thing that held
The disappointment in alignment
Up to your rueful eyes
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC