Tag Archives: life

A Good Girl Who Does

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As a thinker I excelled in science and chess
Bright in my other academics, I gave no less
Could mentally match just about whatever you bring
Daunted only by my emotional state, a very different thing
Ever curious, I took a shine to coition with ambition
Female born, however held a certain restriction
Gracious model of virtue? Hah! I never tried to be
Held back within all the rules of social complicity

Inquisitive, I felt it more honest than being just a tease
Justly stated, I would pursue my desires as I would please
Knowing that the names for me were much closer to ‘whore’
Love was but a word as the males I knew were free to ‘score’

Mainly, I felt you can’t grow a garden by reading a book
Negating convention I dared to do more than just look
Oh guys can easily convey how often they go to bat
Privately the girls aren’t ever to admit knowing any of that
Quietly I learned to hide how I came to know so much
Raging that a male is never asked to hide knowledge of such
So, I could hum the foulest limerick and still be called quaint
Talk knowledge of a hummer when I was barely twenty ain’t

Understanding people I had known only one or two
Vicious rumors and some cruel truths I muddled through
Watching eyebrows rise as double-standards reared its head
X-rated knowledge in a g-rated world was a hard path to tread

Years went by before I felt I wasn’t a freak
Zeroing in that I’m a rarity someone unique
Allowed myself to enjoy it all in its various forms
Because I refuse to stilted by social world’s norms
Carnal knowledge once bane, I’m now admired for
Day or night, finally happy, I don’t care any more

Every now and then I’ll get outrageous with a verbal gush
Freaking people out on purpose just to watch them blush

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And today’s form is an Abecedarius which is an alphabetic acrostic or a poem in which each line or stanza begins with a successive letter of the alphabet. Historically, it was widely used in religious aspects as the beginning of prayers, hymns and oracles. As time progressed, variations of the method developed and new types of acrostics appeared. Some methods included using the first letter of the first word (as I have done above), the first letter of the stanza or the first letter of the first word and last letter of the last word in each line.

dVerse Poets Pub – Poetics: The Art Of Rebellion

Caught Between

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Woman crouching back against wal

I was with friends clubbing, at the bar sipping wine
Wearing the hell out of my Prada, I knew I was looking fine
You walked in, looking as good as you know what
Your hair so sharp, your barber must have been cut
My anchor slipped as we talked jobs as steps to empires
Like the smoky haze, our interest rose along with our desire

Yes, sometimes a woman can let sex lead her by the nose
Caught between the best of nothing and anything goes

We were together for weeks, just living the life
And then by accident, I found out about your wife
I can’t even lie and say I kept my cool that day
Once again the anchor, slipped and I began to sway
I careened into a wall so hard, the pictures on it shook
But even as I was regained breath, I knew I was hooked

And I had no one but myself to blame for all my sudden woes
Caught between the best of nothing and anything goes

With your secret fully out, your love slowed to a dribble
You promised me a feast of your love, I barely got a nibble
Each time I said no, your so sweet whispers break through
And wanting so much to be in love, I know that I let you
One day I saw you both together and I just wanted to cry
Not for you, but for me and the time I wasted in the lie

How did it come this? What was this is crazy life I chose?
Caught between the best of nothing and anything goes

As I stood at the latest hotel door, cardkey in midair
Knowing that I have no business to be standing there
I finally find the nerve to back away, but then
The door’s open and you’re standing there, calling me in
My heart is screaming “No, baby! No baby! No!”
But my body’s screaming “Go, baby! Go baby! Go!”

Before I know it, there we were again and again curling toes
Caught between the best of nothing and anything goes

It was a summer night we met and love began to soar
It was near summer again when I finally said no more
It took so long not to be sad, for the lack of a phone’s ring
I made a promise to myself, my love is for all or nothing
Another summer blazes, and once again I’m on my own
But if my only choice is to share, well, I’d rather be alone

When will my empty heart fill again? Only heaven knows
Caught between the best of nothing and anything goes

>==========<

Entered in
dVerse Poets Pub | OpenLinkNight – Week 36

Mr. Palmer

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Artwork: The Single Man — Gerhard Haderer

Did she make you mad?
Again?
An object of ridicule?
Again?
Did she leave her sad taint upon you?
Again?

Come get me.

I am there…
There whenever,
There wherever,
There whatever.

I’m not gallant,
I just know what you need.

Come get me.

For I know you
All of you,
Inside and out
To the letter “T”
I’ve known you before
The last one
During this one
And perhaps
After the next one

From your junior
’Till when
You’re much elder
It’s how we
Connect.

Come get me.

I’ve seen
Sides of you
No one’s ever seen
I hear you cry
And when you scream
You know
I don’t care.
I won’t
Imbrue you with
Needless guilt.

Come get me.

In joy
In anger
Or when
You just need
To take
Some of the edge off
When feeling
Awry.

Come get me.

And when you’re done
Spent, lying back in repose
I’ll go back,
Back to the shadows
From whence I came,
Until the next need
When you’re pressed to be

Happy again

I’ll be ready for you
Always
Or at least
As long as
Your arm holds out

Come get me

====><====

Submitted for:
 Jingle Poetry – Pot Luck:
Week 46 | Love and its not being there.

I’m pretty damned sure this not what was expected when the subject of “Love and its not being there…” was thought up for this week’s Pot Luck, but.. it does fit the bill * wicked grin *

First Feelings Part II (The Reality)

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It was mine.

It was mine to give
to the one I chose.
Instead it was taken,
forever from my grasp.

Stole the most valuable item
That this fifteen year old possessed.

It was mine.
It was suppose to be a gift.

Somewhere out there
the potential recipient
knows not what was lost.

It was mine.
He stole my gift.

I had visions on how it
would one day be given.

It was mine.
He stole my dream.

For years what I gave
could never bring
me happiness.
It wasn’t The gift.

It was mine.
He stole my joy.

I should be able to reminisce
fondly when girl talk
falls to that time
but I remain quiet.

It was mine.
He stole my memories.

A stranger made himself familiar
in a place he should have never known.

<>==========<>==========<>

dVerse Meeting the Bar ~ Symbolism

HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?

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Seven Year-Old Girl Pimped-out at Party by Step-Sister
and Gang Raped

To say I was speechless upon first reading this article is an understatement. I have oscillated between pure rage, pure sorrow and depressed resignation since I first read it, over a week ago. My head realizes what has happened, but my heart simply cannot process this.

Yes, the step-sister bares a magnificent portion of the blame here. She was fifteen-years-old.  Not a legal adult by law to make the decision to prostitute herself on her own, but obviously old enough to know what she was doing. The social and moral wrongs of her own acts are not debatable; she was wrong. What she did/allowed to be done to her little step-sister is so beyond wrong there really is not an adjective to aptly put this in any perspective.  However, as much as I put the share of blame on her for what happened, she was not the only person at that party.  No matter which way I turn this I keep coming back to one question infallible question to the men involved in this:

How Could You?

The statutory rape of the fifteen-year-old girl was disgusting enough. Granted she was officially prostituting herself, but you – however much/little you paid for her services, you were raping her.  However old you are above or below the age of consent, how could you have even thought about wanting to, let alone actually do the brutal act of, inserting your penis into the vagina of a seven-year-old child?  Where in the depravity called your mind (because you obviously have no soul) did you take a look at this child and thought to yourself that this was something good? You deserve to spend the rest of your life as a eunuch.

According to the reports, there were at least a dozen people at this party.  My God, what form of hell had this seven-year-old doled-out in a past life that she should be so punished in this one? To be led, by her own step-sister, to an abandoned apartment full of misogynistic, depraved individuals, to be gang raped?  What kind of culture is it where not even one person in that room thought it was wrong and left to call the police?  Not one person ONE FUCKING PERSON in that room simply said “No.”.  Whether they took part in it, or turned a blind eye to the event, they are all perpetrators in this crime and all culpable.

The ONLY good news in this will be the penal system. Even a prison system has its bottom of the social barrel, and that is those who mess with children.  We won’t hear about it, and if even one iota of prison stories are true, we won’t want to hear about it. We never know how it gets out, but information about child molesters/rapists always gets out in the penal system and when it does…

…Let’s just say justice, for this seven-year-old child, will be served.

One Hand

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Old Man in Window
The stories of the street are mine, the Spanish voices laugh.
The Cadillacs go creeping now through the night and the poison gas,
and I lean from my window sill in this old hotel I chose,
yes one hand on my suicide, one hand on the rose.
~ Leonard Cohen (The Stories of the Street)

I spy out my window, pan the changed neighborhood
And decided all this change is not for the better
Variety has its place, yes, that’s understood
But it suits neither me nor my aging setter
And I’d change it all back, if only I could
Tales of old I tell to ones who know not hoe from staff
With cheeky little chuckles some listen to my lore
others, not so politely pretend not to snore
All too quick to set upon any misspoken gaff
The stories of the street are mine, the Spanish voices laugh

In my country youth we rode the roads on horse
Potential fertilizer the only cause for alarm
Yes there were the rich who had cars of course
But that was a life far from my sharecropper farm
Get through the toils of the day our driving force
But a bend of brutal winter came to pass
And my quiet country road became a bustling city street
With days filled of noise glaze the tons of people to meet
Fragrant airy fields gone as different scents amass
The Cadillacs go creeping now through the night and the poison gas

Not to say this city life did not have its good days
you’d note me as a liar if I told you so
It has been no bed of roses as the old folks say
But there are sweet things I’ve come to know
Oats have I sown in many ways
Yes, I’ve known my measure of passion’s throes
I’ve rented flats and owned several places
But with time and finances I’ve lost those spaces
My remaining sunset days spent in SROs
And I lean from my window sill in this old hotel I chose

Some concern fills my advancing years
As I outlive those who knew me well
The ones who get my sudden laughter and tears
Without a long explanation to tell
Only my Josie’s left to indent my fears
But even the end of her dog’s life draws nigh and so it goes
As I enjoy the lovely flower paid to entertain my night
I eye the bottle on dresser barely seen in the dim light
And I oscillate between my joys and my woes
Yes, one hand on my suicide, one hand on the rose.

====<>====
Entered in:


Thursday Poets Rally – Week 45

What’s next, Ku Klux Klan Week?

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http://www.cnn.com/2010/POLITICS/04/07/virginia.confederate.history/index.html?hpt=T2

Seriously? Seriously?

Last month Virginia Gov. McDonnell made a proclamation to designate the month of April as Confederate History Month in Virginia. If that alone was not enough to ignite some tension in the US, the governor then added insult to potential injury, by totally omitting any reference to one of the main reasons Confederacy came to existence in the first place — slavery.

The attempt to omit any acknowledgment of the role of slavery, during a proclamation to celebrate the Confederacy, is insulting to say the very least. It would be akin to Germany wanting to hold a Shutzstaffel (more commonly known as the SS) or Swastika Celebration without acknowledging the Holocaust.

Granted this is not the first time the state of Virginia has placed this proclamation. It also is not the only southern state to do so. This is the first time any proclamation not only ignored slavery but, in this case, also white-washed the brutality of the Confederacy in the immediate years following the Civil War. It is revisionist history at its finest.

Yes, the Confederacy is very much a part of the South’s heritage, and we (Americans) acknowledge it happened. However, I do not see the need to have an entire month dedicated to it. Hell, Black History Month only has 28 days, 29 on leap years, in which to celebrate. Confederate History Month will have 30 days guaranteed. I’m sorry but there is something wrong with this beyond mere arithmetic.

Did McDonnell really, I mean really, think he would get away with it in the first place? Of course not! So whose ass was he pretending to (or perhaps outright) kissing, knowing he would have to change the verbiage?

As expected, the Governor was called to task on the omission by various groups, for reasons ranging from racial, to political and just down right insensitivity. Gov. McDonnell has since issued an apology for the omission and has stated that new language will be added to the proclamation to include slavery. Sorry, it’s too much, too little, too late motherfucker. It’s using the lube after the screwing.

I can acknowledge the Confederacy. I don’t think twice about it, as I see the Confederate flag waving proudly from various front porches, when I travel south. Maybe it’s the residue of my very southern (and yes, very racist) mother’s words still rattling in some far corner of my mind from when I was growing up but, some things just should not be “celebrated”. A part of me can’t help but wonder…

What’s next, Ku Klux Klan week?

November 18, 1978

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April is National Poetry Month. Today is a not so gentle reminder of why we should not forget out past. So I won’t end with “Enjoy!” as I usually do. This time I’ll say “Remember!”

November 18, 1978

Morning dawns anew upon a utopia time
A place filled with fluffy white cloud skies
No poverty or hunger or the slightest crime
Where no one ever hurts and no one ever cries

A special place where all can belong
Where God is followed and faith so strong

Built on the words of a charming teacher
Very few noticed beneath the sheen
Of the dashing, dark-haired preacher
Was the susurrus of something mean

A ‘Peoples Temple’ built for equality, tranquility
Headed by a monster of no comparability

But just as all seems right in the dawn
Utopia shatters and blood falls like rain
Sweet cyanide sips are over 900 gone
Bodies die writhing and screaming in pain

In the end the ugly truth is passed
among all the dead bodies amassed

Many simply drank if their faith was true
Or were met with murderous fusillade
But why did the babies have to die to
In the service of this monster’s façade?

Some survived to find their own truth
Forever scarred by the ashes of youth

All they wanted was an earthly paradise
With races coexisting side by side
Who could have ever known the price
Would be one of genocide

Nearly forgotten shadows of a madman’s fate
Jonestown, November 18, 1978

Jonestown massacre 1978
[Bodies at the Jonestown compound under a sign that reads:
‘Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it’]

In case some forgot, never heard of, or were not old enough to know about, the Rev. Jim Jones and the horror of what happened in Jonestown, Guyana, November of 1978, don’t worry; man definitely finds a way of letting bad history repeat. David Koresh and the Branch Davidian massacre in Waco, Texas, was twenty years ago in 1993. If you don’t know/remember either event, tick…tick…tick….
====================


dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Meeting the Bar: The Unfathomable

By Friendly Hand

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My large beauty
My ethnic birth
Female I am

All mocked cruelly
In brutal words
Spoken so quick

The flip remark
Said upon lark
Really did hurt

And did begin
A vicious rend
Upon my soul

My poise shaken
I’d never think
Because of you

The shot fired
By friendly hand
Hurting much more

Than the exact
Same something by
Strangers that pass

That you’re clueless
To meanings dealt
Under the joke

Give scant solace
To feelings hurt
Deeply in me

Steps to repair
The friendship torn
Begun by you

Yet to forgive
Then forget this
Really is hard

Where to begin
In healing such
Haven’t a clue

====================

Today’s form? A Novem

National Poetry Month: All For Not Knowing

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April is National Poetry Month, so each day I will post poems that I have written. Enjoy!

All For Not Knowing

We met at the worst I thought I could be
After my life was crossed by a rouge star
Life between the worst and the best to come
I hike my joy on our mock verbal spars
Such was the mode of our sharp biting wit
Mine under the belt, and yours just bizarre
Crossed that line between acquaintance and friend
All for not knowing how far was too far
Ache held tight to my emotional cage
Still half living inside a past memoir
Knew my pain gave nix but a rough sketch of me
In time drained the hurt of that soul deep scar
“There’s no place like home” said with arms held wide
And I opened mine too, we were on par
Crossed that line past friend but not to lovers
All for not knowing how far was too far
Seemed that Fate was not quite through with me yet
And released the hold to stability’s bar
A new fix of hell crashed through my soul’s gate
My path, once clear, now so muddied and marred
Too much too handle you turned tail and ran
Showing exactly the colors you are
Crossed that line between true friend and just friend
All for not knowing how far was too far
Letting slack what you once begged to hold tight
As I needed you more than gold to czars
The sun sets shadows on what you can’t give
You withdrew from me as though I’m eschar
Where to go when home is now closed to me
With no chance of door being left ajar
Thus crossed that fine line between bend and break
All for not knowing how far was too far