Oscar

If God were merciful,

it would be me in your stead.

Your GED study book lays

unopened on your bed.

Your mother prays over

your body,

Your beautiful mind and soul

part from earth evermore.

Thirty-four, you won’t grow old;

It’s not fair, but life seldom is.

Comforting you gave me some

purpose, now I’m empty.

You were so close to turning your

life around from the cliff that

you strayed too close.

Say hello to my mother for me.

Why?

Why was I born this way,

to be society’s burden?

To be a blight on life,

and a disappointment

to everyone’s path I cross.

To feel like a human,

though just barely.

To love meaning well,

but it all becomes hell.

Spring

The sun mocks me

and the sky is blue.

Spring is alive

while I’m dead inside.

The world is decaying

and I am the plague.

Flowers I touch wilt.

I alone my prison built.

Maybe

Maybe,

In a parallel world,

I’d tell you.

But not here.

Maybe,

Were I accomplished

at anything,

You might forgive

the deficits:

in appearance,

in charm,

in intellect.

I might tell you then.

Maybe,

She will tell you.

She is deserving

and superior

in every way.

I wish I could

make her feel an ounce

of the  regard I feel

for you.

SMaybe,

she would tell you

while I’d only fail you.

Ignorant Women

The truth is

Ignorant women feel,

with their bulbous bodies,

and their inarticulate words.

They feel love, but can’t express it.

Jeers is what they fear,

rejection the death knell

to what they call self-esteem.

Flea

I am a flea; just a minor annoyance

to be swatted away.

I hop around your ankles,

hoping to be noticed,

but you crush me dead.

Family

I thought my family found me,

the other day.

Nothing too dramatic,

just another friend request.

I have a thousand friends,

none who know me.

But this request.

This request had my bizarre surname:

“Son of the Butler” in old English.

“Son of a Bitch” it might as well mean.

Why after nine years,

a computer literate one looked me up?

Second cousin had an adult son die,

but they still have that other one.

No need for their dead cousin’s kid.

I used to think their anger at my dead mom

could only last so long.

I thought one Sunday

sitting in a righteous pew,

their pure minds would hit on me.

The request was a fake profile.

I deleted it almost in relief.

No need to suppress my politics,

or pretend to be normal.

Appalachian cousins don’t forget.

But maybe someday.

http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/2019/03/thursday-thursday-poets-rally-week-90.html

Poetry Potluck: “Passionate Nights of Love”

Please visit http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com for better versed poets or to  join the meme.

Passionate Nights of Love (Ha Ha)

‘Passionate nights of love?’

Um, that’s what you want me to write?

Swine sprout wings and take flight.

 

Passionate nights of love?

Poison ivy becomes an aphrodisiac.

Maybe I’m just having a panic attack?

 

Passionate nights of love?

I hear rumors it exists.

In bed, in  shed, one gal with her cousin Ned.

 

Passionate nights of love?

I live with my mom, three cats, my doll collection.

And the consensus is I’m crazy.

 

Passionate nights of love?

What a joke!

I’ve never even been with a bloke.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Mama’s Old Home Style Stiffy Cure

Pic from indiana.edu

Poetry Potluck -Nightguard

Image via Wikipedia "See if you lose this, b!#*h"

Depending on who you ask, bruxism (that’s grinding your teeth) can be caused by stress, OCD, your jaws doing weird things, etc., so forth. This brings me to my first real post on my new blog, submitted to you by the muse of losing my nightguard -later found. I decided  to post this to Poetry Potluck too!

The Nightguard

 

Dammit, damn, and damnation!

Losing one’s nightguard is such an abomination!

 

Night Guard?

You mean that invisible rent-a-cop the complex hired?

 

No! Hell no!

That’s not what I’m saying.

Nightguard, oh wretched nightguard!

This, this, is for which I lament.

 

What’s it look like?

 

A damned dental apparatus!

Once a plastic clear,

now jaundiced yellow sunshine

from the years.

 

Sounds lovely.

 

It’s the one that cut into my gum,

but going to the dentist…

That’s no fun.

Snip snip the scissors.

Fixed it, it’s done!

 

Not fixed, not really.

 

Been a bit loose since that day,

asking myself, as one may,

if I swallow the damn thing

would I be able to cry,

‘Alas, alas, I choke! I die!’

 

 

It’s doubtful.

 

Could I have swallowed the nightguard

in fitful sleep’s embrace,

my teeth no longer braced?

Wailing! Gnashing my teeth,

The damn thing I must find I think,

lest my teeth continue to shrink,

ground down to my gums!

 

Good luck!