Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Twenty Eight, Poem Number Twenty Eight: “Accursed”

Her legs are crooked,
her arms are obtuse.
Your humor is dark
there is no excuse.

If you are Love,
then why is this so?
Such a beautiful girl,
not in body but in soul.

She has needs
as most of us do.
Yet she was unworthy
but for daily abuse.

The anger wells within me,
a punishment so unpleasant.
The anger pools in her,
frustration turned resentment.

I don’t want to be a father
for my own selfish reasons.
You shouldn’t be a Father,
guilty of spiritual treason.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Seventeen, Poem Number Seventeen: “Plagued”

You are a pervasive rash
that keeps me from sleeping properly,
Awakening me in fits of itch
until I rip my clothes, stitch by stitch.

My nails dig trenches into my thighs,
no amount of ointment or cream
can quell the firestorm raging under my skin.
You’ve turned my body against itself head to shin.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Thirteen, Poem Number Thirteen: “Drowning”

Love is for the young
or the young of mind.
It is foolish, reckless,
it is responsible
for more than one crime.

As a young man, I dove in
to several pools’ deep ends.
The waters were warm,
Clear, and embracing.
I surfaced every time free of the bends.

Years expanded the blue.
I swam the deltas and rivers
that invaded my closed places.
Until I arrived to endless seas whose
cold depth made my heart shiver.

Sometimes I still jump without looking,
but the ocean beds are dusty and dry.
If there are always other fish in the sea,
then they’ve grown wings to fly.
All that’s left are brittle bones
that creak, groan and sigh.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Twelve, Poem Number Twelve: “Chameleon”

I’m not a great writer or a celebrated poet.
My truest title is chameleon and don’t I know it.
I mime and mimic the best from literature’s past,
restricted to the verbal fodder I’ve amassed.

My muted colors change more than
the foreign key rings on my night stand.
I imitate with the sincerest of flattery
because I am a flirt wooing all of history.

Genre, style, theme or form,
my pretty words are used to adorn
the lacquered, wooden frames that contain
original works of art, free of mental strain.

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Poem A Day, Poetry

Day Two, Poem Number Two: “The Last of the Appalachian Mountains”

Once tall, strong, and proud,
my spine is no longer straight
nor is my confidence immediate.
I’ve succumbed to her whims and I break.

For her Eastern winds pummeled my skin,
while her Western winds eroded my defenses.
From the North her cold invaded my heart
and from the South a surprising warmth still caresses.

She has peaks and I have valleys.
She diminishes me with her great sky
and she punishes me with her torrential rains.
How did the roles reverse with her and I?

Her Earth should be pockmarked and shattered
with my nebulous body draped over her in protection,
soothing the fragile ground with my redresses,
defending her honor with thunderbolt aggression.

I know there are those far more Rocky,
I know there are those far more Grand,
but even as I wash away under her weather,
I fight for my place in her arms, making my last stand.

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