"thrashings" poems
My tear gorged head aches
with the thrashings of the day
misjudged and downcast emotions
re-saturate me with fury
disputes risen from a simple question
threaten my scar tissue sanity
that echoes my unseen thoughts.
But those who seek me
make use of the assumption
there is nothing else to look for
finally leaving me at peace
to exhaust even the time
with disordered reflections
of my tear gorged head.
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 8:43 PM UTC
Speak your mind and burn ephemeral,
peace in time, a gem, an emerald,
Speak no more, your words desert you,
deep you bore, perched, they hurt you.
Words are birds, they're always fleeting.
Away they fly, at ev'ry meeting.
They cost no pay, they're often freeing.
Away they fray, from you they're fleeing.
The branches broke, they gave to nothing,
beaked by blokes, you must be bluffing,
With broken wings, you hobbled home;
withholding brings forgotten woes.
You dared to fly, you reaped the ceilings,
at dusk, "Goodbye!" - a tale of telling,
You sold none short, you bought your longing,
no silver tongue - you earned their thrashings.
In shadows, taunted, your aura lingered,
its presence blossomed, incessant it spurred,
Forever haunting, a black crow in turn,
in droves of white doves, "At last!" - you were heard.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 6:35 AM UTC
I took your
Favorite food
Favorite artist
Favorite ev'rything
And buried it deep.
I took your
Haunting holdings
Haunting thrashings
Haunting ev'rything
And buried it deep.
I took your
Lasting laughter
Lasting impact
Lasting ev'rything
And buried it deep.
With such depth I dug
With hopes to never repeat
I'm reminded nightly
In dreams and restless sleep.
Like telling words I choke on
A secret, seething, breathes
I gathered all your mem'ries
And
I
buried
you
deep.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC
It was in my mother’s father’s final days when Beckham curled it in against Greece
It should have been wrapped up months or at least minutes prior
But for the English
Football is a beautiful form of torture
Some relief in the dark and painful last of his days
It may sound dramatic from the outside
But from the inside
When you’re in on the secret
Football has always been the beautiful game for a reason
And fate was sealed that day
The infamous Zidane headbutt
It came at a time when I was realising people aren’t perfect and heroes are human
For me, not a disgrace, but a lesson
The world’s greatest are also flawed
Lampard 2010 World Cup
It was over the line
I know it
You know it
But the greatest journeys all have their ups and downs
Their misfortunes and their injustices
Our time is nigh
It’s coming home
The psychopathic work ethic of Ronaldo
The glue on the boots of Messi
The precision of the Pirlo pass
The ‘Why always me?’
The ‘You’ll never walk alone’
The wins, the losses
The joy, the heartbreak
The frustration of supporting a yo-yo that never goes all the way up
An ode to my forever unmentioned Plymouth Argyle
The screamers, the blunders
From Thierry to Titus Bramble
Alonso to Okocha
The once-club-record-signing whose name now evades you
The heroes, the villains
The naive dream that maybe one day you’ll make it
And the hope that maybe this will be our year
The diving, the referees, the relegations, the failure
The 4-0 thrashings by the rivals, the penalties and quarter finals
I don’t know why I do it to myself
But I know that I wouldn’t have it any other way
This is the beautiful game
This is football
Sep 2, 2020
Sep 2, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC
What do I take with me as I walk out that perverbal door?
The butterflies I have kept hidden in my hope.
My disintegrating resilience, slowly chipped away by your verbal thrashings and controlled blaming.
The hijacking of emotions.
I pack away what remains of my self esteem.
Delicately wrap the shattered pieces of my truth.
To be replenished and reconstructed with sober eyes
and a revived mind.
I ask for the lessons yet to be learned.
And the love yet to be unconditional.
Left behind is my forgiveness without expectation.
My resentments without guilt.
My shame without implication.
I no longer need them to define me.
My apology is next to the many things left unsaid.
A silent acknowlegment of my regrets and carelessness.
We can each take the memories that remind us of a happier time.
When ignorance was euphoric and accepted.
Floating above reality in a kismet of our own creation.
Finally, we can each lovingly share the life-force that has made it all worth something.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
Aching bones arch in movement soaking in
Salty thrashings. too old to travel as once did.
Like a child in a paddling pool only dipping
Her bow in enough to splash around.
Content that she is still in the ocean,She ebbs with
The tide. Her bones ache, rope frayed tied to shore.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 2:57 AM UTC
There is a certain apprehension
upon learning
that one must sink before
being able to float. And swim.
It calls to mind previous drownings,
in and out of the water.
Of being pulled under
of thrashings
of water coming in and threatening
to overpower one's self.
But one plunges in
and acclimates
to the cold water,
remembering that even the
greatest among us must face
the unknown.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
The sea wrenched up in agony
The sky a beating storm
Lightning blazed with vanity
The clouds a flailing swarm
Nightmares plagued a fitful sleep
The ocean's rolling waves
The spinning curtain of the deep
Brought many to their graves
Iron ships cut through water
Like a knife through sand
Still, even brave men falter
When forced against the seas to stand
The skies release as thrashings cease
The sea begins to dream
The storm withdraws as anger thaws
Its tears no longer stream
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 12:15 AM UTC