ROBERT, I CAN'T TELL YOU HOW ENJOYABLE THIS CHALLENGE HAS BEEN; IT REALLY GIVES ME SOMETHING TO LOOK FORWARD TO EACH DAY! THANKS SO MUCH FOR ALL THE WORK YOU DO!

Once again, I am posting a piece I wrote a little while back. I'll try to post a new one later. And those of you who will wonder: there is no P. Smithering Mott. He is simply a figment of my peculiar imagination.

P. Smithering Mott

P. Smithering Mott
Just what have you got?
Some people are trying it,
others aren’t buying it.
P. Smithering Mott

P. Smithering Mott
What havoc you have wrought.
Some people are curious,
others are furious.
P. Smithering Mott

P. Smithering Mott
They’re giving you a shot.
But if you don’t improve you,
your school will remove you.
P. Smithering Mott

P. Smithering Mott
What have you been taught?
You might need a savior
to change your behavior
P. Smithering Mott

P. Smithering Mott
Happy you are not.
Your eyebrows are knit,
and you don’t smile a bit.
P. Smithering Mott

P. Smithering Mott
You think that I forgot:
You used to be charming,
your grin was disarming.
P. Smithering Mott

P. Smithering Mott
Think of what you’ve got:
The good food you’re eatin’,
the warm bed you sleep in.
P. Smithering Mott

P. Smithering Mott
Believe you I do not.
All of this wincing
is just not convincing.
P. Smithering Mott.

P. Smithering Mott
Haven’t you learned squat?
Need I remind you
police can confine you.
P. Smithering Mott

P. Smithering Mott
Now you have been caught.
It sure would behoove you
to try to improve you.
P. Smithering Mott

P. Smithering Mott
Do not be distraught.
You weren’t the first,
and you aren’t the worst.
P. Smithering Mott

P. Smithering Mott
I love you a lot.
I know you can do it,
and I’ll help you through it.
P. Smithering Mott

P. Smithering Mott
Resisted “I cannot.”
You did what you vowed,
you did yourself proud.
P. Smithering Mott

P. Smithering Mott
At last you’re not distraught!
Your anger decreased,
and you are at peace.
Good for P. Smithering Mott!

THE TALKER

When the woman in the row
in front of me
at the choir concert
with her perky hair-cut
and tennis bracelet,
leans over to whisper
to her neighbor
while I’m listening to Mozart
I cannot abide.
And while I try to rise above
to soar with the melody
as the voices blend and rise
her talking continues,
the whispers persist,
in spite of my glare,
and I may spend all of Hayden distracted,
deciding whether “Shhh!”
will work as well as “Shut-up!”
or a long lecture on
concert-going-etiquette
in the intermission,
I spend the songs worrying
that I am the rude one,
moving around in my seat
to catch her eye,
which she ignores,
and while I would like
to be mellow, to overlook,
to attend to the music
and my date beside me,
holding my hand,
who is unfathomably placid,
I cannot let go,
am unable to turn a deaf ear to her chatter,
have counted eleven comments
have sighed and shifted,
the talker is stealing my joy
or I am letting her,
and she is oblivious,
she must be stopped,
she will not make me a victim,
will not continue to steal this from me,
I have the power,
lean forward,
ask her to please
talk less,
and remarkably,
she does.

Angry
********

I am angry,
At many things,
Normally I'm a sweetie but I'm not sorry,
But be like honourable vikings.

Sometimes you should show your anger,
Don't let people use you or take you for granted,
Be firm and ruthless with those who are a trampler,
Bottling up your feeling will one day make you blurted.

In relationships you should be honest,
Talk about what bothers you without disguise,
That will make your relationship be the deepest,
And deepen your ties.

I sit in the Halls of Congress,
My glass trembling in my hand.
I sip it slowly, hoping the cool
Crisp liquid will calm
The bubbling lake of brimstone
That once was my stomach.

The mere thought of the purpose
Of my presence before
Mighty lawmakers,
Who wear suits made
From the Constitution
Tailored by the founding fathers,
Causes me to loose sight
Of my speech.

The words I use to address
This gathering of patriots
Are not the ones I've written,
But are the grumbling
Of the earth they tread upon.

Mad About The Nineteenth Hour

In some places, time flows
and so it is that hours
do not stop and start again
at noon; its more normal,
like breath or the beating
heart, going on and on
as far as we can—Toulon
then Le Mans and Avignon
only stopping to rest
for supper
at the nineteenth
hour, deux moyens.

I Have No Excuses

I know
the aim
of fighting
is to win.

I know
that sword
beats shield
every time.

I know
no one recalls
tactics, just
who lives.

I know
some think
preemptive strikes
are valid.

I know
preemptive food
and medicine and
education are more so.

I know
no one hates
war more than
the warrior.

I know
that children
are dying
as I write.

I know
I
am
not
doing
enough
and it
pisses
me
off.

"A Mother's Anger"

I know that you are angry by the way in which he left.
Twenty years and no good-bye,
I can't imagine how that feels.
But, the anger you are carrying is coming through
in all you do. Your negativity is infecting everyone around you. We would love to see you smile and look forward to tomorrow, but the anger in face is blocking all that's good. The anger in your words directed at the wrong people. Turn that anger into purpose and come back to us. We miss your smile, we miss your laughter. We miss you, our family glue.

CHEMICAL EXISTENCE
By: Hannah Bowles

I used to get so livid at
night, when you'd fail to
call or even come home I
used to get so filled with
bitter resentment when I'd
roll over in morn and your
pillow had not borne the dent
where your head was supposed
to be. I used to feel the rage
deep inside me when you'd look
at me and boldly lie that you
hadn't gotten high, when your
eyes told that you needed a fix
and it was all you could do to sit
in my presence. I used to get mad
but then I just felt so sad that my
heart felt as though it might melt
into a puddle of our future wasted.
I thought it would never change, but
I was wrong and a strong will in me
proved that I could save him, refused
to let the substance enslave him. He
was mine. I used to get mad at whomever
made up drugs. When really I just feel
sad for those who can't dabble without
having their whole lives un-ravel like
a web that has lost its' design, tender
threads of silk, purpose and its' divine
meaning for existence. I used to get mad
now I just get so, so sad.

Subject: Angry Poem

"Belonging No More"

Lost and alone
I aimlessly plunge,
spiraling down an
empty cyclone.

Cascading streams
of multi-hued tears,
reminiscent of
lingering pain.

I reach in twilight
for just one star;
vanquished,
exhausting my brain.

Oppressive breezes
circulate, faint
sunlight dancing
on my skin.

Pulsating through
my fatigued body,
a harsh finish where
it should begin.

Watercolor rainbows
reveal themselves,
remnants scatter as
thoughts slowly perish.

Moments frozen in
memory’s cavern,
to embrace you once more,
my tormented wish.

ROAD RAGE
By: Hannah Bowles

That has got to be one
of the scariest things
people driving around
in their individual
metal encased worlds
hurling the nastiest
of words only for
the sound to reverb
right back at them
treacherous event
an angry driver
who vents behind
the wheel of an
automobile.

THE MAN NEXT DOOR

4/19/09

His appearance, calm
as a mirrored lake,
yet under the surface,
shoved-down emotions bubble,
boil, and brew
in volcanic cauldron,
ready to explode,
spew, and burn
in a lava-like stream
inundating all
in his path
who dare to
challenge him
in any way.

Ode to the County Fair

I leave with nothing from the county fair
except empty pockets, teary eyes, a bee sting.
Walter carries bags of goldfish and candy

like trophies, and I ponder how it’s truly unfair
as I leave with nothing from the county fair.
I came ‘this close’ to winning a soda with a ring

but it bounced off ten caps and got me angry
that I left with nothing from the county fair.
What’s got me boiling red is the ‘ching-ching’

from Walter’s pockets; he’s still got some money
as I leave with absolutely nothing from the fair.
I put my name in to win a cake, but got nothing

but a pat on the head by a guy dressed as Bambi
‘cause I’m leaving with nothing from the darn fair.
To top it all, oohh, and this is what really stings:

Mom and Dad fawn over Walter, call him amazing,
then asks why I have nothing from the county fair.

please advise

your thoughts: which is worse --
that sullen no-name bitch
who sits on the top of the washing machine
or the monster that hides behind
black-shadowed by lines of loss
of pegs and tapestry
spilling out of the spinner and into the guttering
down pipe's leaking again
again again
I told you you didn't I did no you didn't

see she doesn't move not an inch
just sits there twirling her hair looking up now and then
shrunken top long socks
over her knees
no way should that be allowed
I said she could wear them you didn't I did shut up

it's still leaking
so what just stop just stop just stop

I will not yell.
I will not scream.
I will not lose my mind.

I will not cry.
I will not sob.
My sanity I will find.

I will still this anger.
I will stop this storm.
For harmony I will strive.

I will breathe deep.
I will relax.
This too I will survive.

I will be calm.
I will be cool.
My stability will revive

I am composed.
I am at peace.
Tranquility did arrive.

Now I am still.
Now I am serene.
Again composure is alive.

Angry

I don’t know what to say today
My anger was here
It left yesterday
Went out with the trash
Blew away in the wind
Here I stand
Now
Feeling safe again

The Golden Girl

Sic ‘em, Roxy Girl! Way to go!
Dumbfounded squirrel is in shock.
Treed prey spitting at canine foe.
Sic ‘em, Roxy Girl! Way to go!
Throwing acorns on those below.
Chattering; making the tree rock.
You got him, Roxy! Way to go!
Dumbfounded squirrel is in shock.

18 Interacting Prompts (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater
April 18, 2009 18th day prompt word: interact

Obi-wan Atwater went out one day

To the Poet's ASIDE challenge, and among the fray

He did “interact” with a thousand clan

Of poets and scholars among women and man.



At the outset “Origin” they began to compete:

At first as “Outsiders”, they did measure and mete

Out ‘the words’ from a prompt that began in array,

Set forth by “the guru” of rhyme and sway.



He tasked upon them one prompt after another,

“The problem with…” that is it was such good weather

To be inside on the keyboard for prompts, instead of walking “the animal”, dog;

Seems “something missing…” either “clean or dirty”, set down in a bog.



Now this “routine” soon brought to “memory”

Things that we did on “Friday” from our Thesaurus armory.

The “Object” at hand was to write every day in the lobby,

“So we decided to…” work on our favorite “hobby”.



The hobby was “love”, or “anti-love” for the negative,

So we took what we love: “another poem to change” figurative,

And we “shared our favorite poem” in flying “Colors”.

So now “all I want is…” to go to Iraq and “interact” with the mullahs!
================================================================
(No this is NOT an "angry poem", just a frustration on the inability to post it last night when the "disk failure" precluded entry

It’s No Excuse
By Judy Kneprath
4-19-09

Just because you’re mad
Is no excuse
To let it all loose
On them

Just because you are
Disappointed
Hurt
Grieving
In pain
Wounded by the wide world around you
Is no excuse
To let it all loose
On them

Hard times are here
Money’s tight
Weather’s dark and cold
Car’s broken down and old
Hope is a dwindling commodity
Still
It’s no excuse
To let it all loose
On them

Better to surrender it
Lay it at His feet
Let it go
Get some help
Take deep breaths
And let them out slowly
Count backwards from ten
Do a little physical exercise
Ground yourself however you can
With wholesome coping mechanisms
That serve you
Instead of wounding those you love
And who love you

Better to surrender it
Lay it at His feet
Make an effort
To instead be nice
To those you love
And who love you
So you don’t drive them
Away in self-defense
‘cause
Whatever it is that makes you angry
Is no excuse
To let it all loose
On them

ANGRY BROTHERS

He blisters when we speak,
flares
like a wind-caught fire,
brings up the fights
and words
that flew between us
decades ago.
Or is that me?
Am I the one
who restarts the fight
every time we reunite?
Is he the one
who reacts
to my picks and prods
and reignites
only after
I stoke
the the flames
to life?

Only 1 'the' in the second last line. I do believe I stuttered!

Redirect

Bitterness, and spite
it isn’t right.
picking a fight.
Direction away
from ugly anger;
put God in my sight.

The Neighbor

His heart’s a thrift store having a sale
on already reduced items. Like cheap
cologne, the air in there closes my throat.

He permeates a room like stale smoke, the rasp
of his voice a telemarketer calling five nights
in a row during dinner. Like a rabid dog, once

he starts yelling at his wife he doesn't stop
until we're cowered by the far wall
of our apartment wearing headphones.

He’s as emotionally available as the pulse
of a pear. Some people are birds who fight
the wind, squawking as they flap and flap.

Priorities

Six fifteen Sunday morning
no traffic, so naturally the one in front of me
can’t keep his lane or his speed.
I ease by and see that the driver is texting,
fingers dancing, his eyes riveted to his device
flicking up occasionally to correct the drift
of his twenty five hundred pound missile.
As I ponder what could possibly be so fucking important
that he’d text at sixty five miles per hour,
he finishes, laughs and punches it,
disappearing at eighty five in the right lane.
Thank God for Darwin Awards.

Teenage Drivers

That hot summer day
four years ago
when you looked down
while driving fast
in your big white truck
on a curvy neighborhood street
and rammed into
my husband's small car
while he was innocently
driving home from church
with the three young kids,
changing our Saturn
into an accordian,
crushing my husband's neck
and ruining our serene life
changed my family forever.
I hate you for that,
irresponsible teenage driver!

Laurie K.

Our Society

Something need to be done
the people does not know where they at
if ou say a thing, they think you are bad.
For most the future seems to be blunt
their back to the problems without moving on.
I am very mad
the system has spots that we need to overcome.

I am feeling sad
with every minute we build up more stress
perhaps because the economy is a mess.
There is one thing we need to understand
we can only blame ourselves for what we have.
We should know what is next
if we keep doing the same that brought us that.

19

There was a 19th hole in your concept of my life, a
Non-existent bar where the drinks were always on me.
I'm placidly angry because I failed, and I don't much, and
Because you failed to tell the truth, even to yourself.

Angry Poem

Right now my anger is in the form of frustration
Yes, I get so mad sometimes I see red
But now it's just the fact that after
Physical therapy and finally starting to feel
Like the ankle was on the mend
A tumble down the stairs starts the whole mess
All over again
With the addition of an injured knee
The fall made me cry out initially
But then the situation really came into focus
It wasn't the pain I was worried about
It was that road to recovery I dreaded
With it's twists and turns
Feeling like the healing has begun
Then falling back three steps the next day
That's what is so frustrating
That's why I'm angry

Haiku: Hóka-héy! (Hold Fast or It Is A Good Day to Die)

They took everything-
our land and our culture. Now
we fight to the death!

Wondering

You are angry at me.
I am determined not to speak to you,
To keep my distance
Until your hurtful actions
And unkind words
Stop burning a hole in my stomach,
Stop filling my head with an inharmonious combination of musical sound.
You are angry at me,
And the reason for your anger has left me
wondering
why you didn’t let me know.

LBC

Teenage Drivers-
(Revised- I left out a crucial line. Here's the updated poem).

Teenage Drivers

That hot summer day
four years ago
when you looked down
to change the radio station
while driving fast
in your big white truck
on a curvy neighborhood street
and rammed into
my husband's small car
while he was innocently
driving home from church
with the three young kids,
changing our Saturn
into an accordian,
crushing my husband's neck
and ruining our serene life
changed my family forever.
I hate you for that,
irresponsible teenage driver!


Laurie K.

“Ever Just Get Sick O’ Yourself?”

I am made of phlogiston and India ink.
Tiger wood and shade,
lamplight and silence.

I am
nothing.

For who can really be anything when one is called upon to be so much:
to be
to find
to hope.

To search for life in a sea of blank faces and wooden replies:
“Why yes, thank you, please, not at all.”

Vain reveries of the poetic life,
rapturing in the glory of... something... I don’t know what...
but time is precious and can be bought on the corner of 7th and 188th street,
money-back guarantee and all that.

I am too much of the poesy persuasion of slop and such.
I am not concise.
I am long-winded when wind is not required to communicate.

Tonight I will ease down the eons with electricity
and find the lost Electri City where the lost thoughts hide themselves.

If I could be less romantic and I could be more pragmatic
and more likely to be the main character in a Jane Austen novel, rather than the silly younger sister
doomed to marry a Colonel,
which is not spelled how it sounds at all.

Day 19 Prompt: An angry poem


(1) angry poem

an angry poem rages
on the page frayed around
the edges hits you with
a sledge hammer it spits
words in your face and while
you’re chasing words to fight back
it leaps out and smacks you in
the head but you’ll be glad
you read this poem ‘cause
anger is passion and
the adrenalin’s rushin’
but through the intensity
of this rivalry you will
know that you are alive

Maureen Sexton


(2) Angry Poem

“That’s an angry rash on your arm”
the doctor said. I wondered what
I had done to make my arm so
irritated. Perhaps it was

feeling left out. I do use my
right arm more, or maybe I had
twisted it or squashed it in my
sleep. Of course this could be anger

from years ago, never dealt with
but left to fester and only
just surfacing now. It could be
from the time I fell over ice

skating and broke it. One thing for
sure was I hated this silent
treatment. So I rested my arm
gently across my chest, soothed it
with cooling balm and embraced it.

It must have forgiven me ‘cause
we’re hanging around together
again now. So arm yourself well
with soothing balm for angry arms.

Maureen Sexton

Anger Boiled

Huff! Puff! Blow!
Tomorrow, you will regret,
we know.

Frustration unvented,
your drug of choice,
safety valve
locked in place
by demon in residence
deep within

One can only hope

rust corrodes the lock
before boiler self implodes.

Mobile Kids Drivers

Talking on cell phones
Having great fun
Killing everyone
Mobile Kid Drivers
Loud fast music they mimmick
Creating moving violation tickets
Mobile Kid Drivers

Vist my blog "Mobile Kids" ecrumbsnatchers.blogspot.com and place your comments. Thanks

The prompt of the day: “an angry poem”…Immediately I thought of Diana Ross’ song: “Stop in the name of love, before you break my heart, Think it over, haven’t I been good to you.” Then immediately the thoughts of my “angry” poem came to me in relation to the very same words that might be spoken by Jesus---“Stop in the name of love, haven’t I been good to YOU.”
It’s appropriate that this poem should be written on a Sunday morning when we all should be in church praising the Lord.
===================================================================
Computer Frustration © Richard-Merlin Atwater April 18, 2009

I typed “a beautiful story”,
Of eloquent style and wit. (such a story is contained
throughout the Bible)
The words were sweet and lovely,
Came from the heart with grit.

Because of obstinate courage,
I typed all through the night,
Not on my old typewriter,
But my Hewlett-Packard with fright.

I forgot to push the “save button”,
At line six-thousand and one,
My computer crashed in front of my face,
So now I’m angry as a son-of-a-gun!

I heard the story of JESUS,
And the Devil who put Him to test,
They both took the challenge to write all night,
And base it upon “prompt-“ness.

They each were given “key prompt words”,
From Robert Lee Brewer that day,
Then both began to type like Hell,
Or Heaven, perhaps I should say!

They typed much faster than mortals,
A billion or trillion lines more,
The Devil, he seemed much faster
Than the “pleading prompts” of my Lord.

When the midnight hour struck its’ tone,
It seemed the Devil had won!—
For JESUS now was way behind,
In doing the things they’d done!

The Devil laughed in horrid delight,
But his screen was only blank as “empty graves”,
While JESUS’ every word was on file:
Why? Don’t YOU know? Because JESUS “Saves”!
===================================================================
Don’t forget to push your “Save button” every now and then as YOU write YOUR “Book of Life” through the pages that YOU live each day—in the things that YOU do and say and write. “Be happy”. And get “Saved”-- (Salute from:) Rich Atwater—the poet---who don’t know it, just happen chance thoughts that come into my head based on “prompts”! Thanks Robert for making us "angry" today!
===================================================================

Richard, Ha ha. Touche!.

Keeping It In

He’s getting under her skin
Her patience is growing thin
He makes her feel like a moron
Her anger’s bubbling up
It’s filling her cup
Searching for something to pour on

She counts to ten
Again and again
Trying the techniques that she’s learned
But they escape her
Someone duct tape her
Her anger’s on an unhealthy burn

She could walk away
Wait till next day
But that’s not how the story goes
To him it’s abrupt
When she does erupt
Stand back everyone, thar she blows!

THE FOUL RAG-AND-BONE SHOP

rage turned inward like a worm,
the cutter turns the knife on her wrists
so the pain in the flesh will be sharp
enough to distract her from the pain
in the deep heart’s core

bright phoenix, return to us!

Yeats is gnawing at me from the inside
reminding me that my cousin, too, has
the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart
underneath her scars, underneath
her scars, her scars, her scars

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

Anger

when dirty plates take
pride of place on table
instead of washing faces in machine
when garbage lurks in the hall
instead of garbage bin
when you lie abed waiting
for me to give the breakfast-ready call
when clothing hangs its head
from backs of dining chairs
when piles of books
clutter up the stairs
when your concerns
nudge me and mine aside
when what I need from the day
gets twisted up with what you say
then there is a certain danger
that these things stir me to anger,
and to say things
I didn’t mean to say.


Carol A. Stephen
April 19, 2009
PAD Challenge Poem

Split

Which side of the bed,
what to muster from your wide
white refrigerator, your pet prow-
ling fresh premises like a feral
thing a cruel maze—-live it up! you tell
anyone with an ear for risk—-patient
acquaintances, wry sisters, bus
stop strangers. Lectures
over the bathroom sink
into eyes red with wonder, the in-
furiating wonder of: I like it,
you tell him when you finally dis-
connect, remove your cloud
from across his heart, shove
it into the same old
freeze.

WHO'S PULLING YOUR STRINGS?

Seems to me, you plan your life
as a contradiction of terms.
There are times when I wonder
"what makes you tick?"!
It's funny. You say one thing
and do something else.
I may look dumb,
but I'm not stupid.
You wish me happiness while
you make me miserable.
You claim I brighten your days
as you leave me in the dark.
You say you live for the truth,
but we know even that's a lie!
And now you say you're no one's puppet,
so I have to wonder,
who's pulling your strings?

Don’t get me started!

“Don’t get me started!”
He exploded at my innocent inquiry,
About how his day was going.
I wasn’t to know
That his pants had split,
As he bent down to tie a shoe-lace
And that was before his car wouldn’t start.
I wasn’t to know that the cat had been sick
Into the left shoe of his best business loafers.
I wasn’t to know that he’d lost his cell charger
And missed a very important text
That could have changed his life for ever!
“Hey give me a break”,
I think under my wavering smile,
“I was just being polite.”

The Danger of Anger

The danger of Anger is everywhere.
We see it in the headlines of the news each night.
In the morning headlines each morning.
The journalists’ motto: “Blood runs on the first page”.
News anchors follow suit with the leading story.
Even when a news anchor breaks away from the norm
begging for something different, it’s only for a day.
We’re back to Anger in the next broadcast.
YouTube promotes it, Twitter spreads it.
No socioeconomic faith is immune – and for those who
shy away, refuse to look, try to see beyond,
we call them innocents, clueless, unseeing, sheltered.
unrealistic! Not of OUR world, living in a fantasy world,
No doubt. And our Anger rises at them as well.

Invisible

Dismissed by his peers
Disrespected by friends
Ignored by the opposite sex
Could he be invisible?

Everyone regarded as better than he
Treated better
Their words heeded
But little for him.

They say things to him
They would never say to another
Insults in the guise of jokes
Faint praise followed by a quick laugh.

He is the subject of scorn
A person treated impersonally
Someone not to be counted
Or taken seriously.

Is it because he is different?
Darker, with non-white features
Not like them
Physically or mentally.

His heart burns to make them see
He is better than them
Better than others
They would rather be around.

No amount of outrage
Can stop the hate
So the best thing
Is to distance himself
From the angry ones.

Angry

me
when I look back at life
it's the decisions I made
that make me angry
in the past I was mad at "them"
it's taken me so many years
to look at the one who has angered me the most
me

fear, when it sleeps,
dreams of beauty
and love and
wakes up angry,
believing it can
never have
or touch
or hold.
never realizing
it needs to
let itself
he held
and touched
and had.
which is why
it is fear.

Red Poppy

The poppies came early.
A red map to follow.
Tomorrow, I’ll walk into those woods.
Tomorrow, I’ll know what the tall oak know.

Sweet trees, if there were a better answer
I’d stay thirty-nine, a woman
In my wattle and daub,
Turf roof over my head
In a field of dreadful spring.

“Oh, Winter Soul, I hear him say,
Don’t compare the candle light
To a whisper from the moon.”

O, him and his blossoming hands
He makes me delicate as his desire
But does not reconcile my passion with again.

Refrain. Refrain is a red poppy in the wind.
Refrain is but appetite
In love with the pain
Of once and not again.

Thirty-nine in dirt and device
With nothing but this red legend
And the memory of his frivolous hands.

You want my rejoinder? My reply is this:
(You will not hear it again)
The tall oak are grounded but touch the moon
The dark trees stand for me.

Anger begets anger

I seem to need to be punished
or cast to the outer darkness

No Jesus to “save” me from you
my angry “God”

I tried to be better but something
has you upset with me

I guess I deserve it.
I am such a worthless being
that you must yell and scream and swear at me

I am devastated
but there seems to be no way to make amends
I will never be able to love you again

I guess if you were really God
there would be no need to try

Anger begets anger
Whatever I did you have done worse
So now I am angry with you!

Who will save us from each other?

“The Introduction”

Corners jut, angles bend.
A tertiary, tangled mess
contrived of you, me and
what I can only describe as it.

I didn’t want it, and the
only excuse you give is that
“It takes two.” However,
there was no consultation.

You claim I’ll grow to love
it over time. That feelings
will change, a new bond
will form. I doubt that.

You promise that I won’t
have to do anything. That
every night I’ll get a full
night’s sleep, and be rested.

I don’t care what you think.
I understand my inner-workings,
and this isn’t going to change.
I want our old bed back.

Good Morning!

Just a brief thank you
to Robert for hosting this challenge,
to Obi Wan, Hugh and Walt, for your consistently brilliant work,
to tell you how overwhelmed I am to be in your e-company.

Trudi

Well....I've screwed up again. I am so sorry Robert and fellow PADers. I am just a sucky editor. Please ONCE AGAIN disregard my first post for editorial purposes. Thank you, Alison "Two Poster" Linnitt.


Red Poppy

The poppies came early.
A red map to follow.
Tomorrow, I’ll walk into those woods.
Tomorrow, I’ll know what the tall oak know.

Sweet trees, if there were a better answer
I’d stay thirty-nine, a woman
In my wattle and daub,
Turf roof over my head
In a field of dreadful spring.

“Oh, Winter Soul, I hear him say,
Don’t compare the candle light
To a whisper from the moon.”

O, him and his blossoming hands
He makes me delicate as his desire
But does not reconcile my passion with again.

Refrain. Refrain is a red poppy in the wind.
Refrain is but appetite
In love with the pain
Of once and not again.

Thirty-nine in dirt and device
With nothing but this red legend
And the memory of his frivolous hands.

You want my rejoinder? My reply is this:
(You will not hear it again)
The tall oak may be grounded
But they are touched by the moon every night.

Tomorrow, I’ll walk into those woods.
Tomorrow, I’ll know what the tall oak know.
The poppies came early.
A red map to follow.
The dark trees stand for me.

Unsent Letter to Abuelo

Bendición

Your son lives in the sunny state of Florida,
two orange groves away from me. Me? I’m thrilled
for papi. His recompense for leaving Chicago,
among plain northern/southern differences is
the weather. The weather treats his body well.
I know that before Chicago, Jersey, New York,
and Detroit, when Boriquén was home, his bones
cracked a few times. There was never an x-ray
proof. Proof was in his voice, finished in euphemisms
like the a cello moving its cloth along a song
about someone who strikes, then, leaves to attend
more important live stock. Day to day, I thank God,
I thank God, papi was like the wren that flies
to canopy heights from a dark crevice with a complex song.
Did your rooster look up the morning papi left
with his beak full of yellowing blows ?
I don’t know all the lyrics to his complex song,
because he stops midway to slip an orange slice
in his mouth when on odd occasions your name comes
up. And every time you come up, the sun goes down.

Abuelo = Grandfather
Bendición = Used as a greeting for an elder
by asking to be blessed.

A formal protest

I’m angry and you turn away in silence.
I storm and your resistance fogs my brain.
Although I know you’ll never turn to violence

it leaves me with a sense of constant grievance
when I bring up some cause that you disdain:
I’m angry and you turn away in silence.

I know I can severely try your patience
and I can often see I cause you strain.
Although I know you’ll never turn to violence

you still expect my ultimate compliance
and when you hear my tedious refrain,
“I’m angry!” then you turn away in silence.

And then I wonder – should I place reliance
on the calmness of the way that you restrain –
although I know you’ll never turn to violence –

do we have here some monstrous misalliance?
Some unfought battle neither of us gain?
I’m angry and you turn away in silence,
although I know you’ll never turn to violence.

Day 19 An Angry Poem

On a particulary warm day
in January of 2007,
we noticed that it was getting windy.
This, however, is a a normal occurence
in Hope, 100 miles east of the sea.

More than 160 kmh, it is said
that the wind reached that day:
hurricane force winds that roared through the town
ripping the trees from the earth,
trees hundreds of years old, massive, dignified,
knocked over like toothpicks.

One woman hurt when her neighbour's back deck
was pulled off the house, tossed over the street,
bounced off the ground and hurtled, rudely,
through the entranceway of her home.
One vehicle crushed when massive firs
toppled across 4th Avenue.

If we believed in a pantheon of gods
we could say there was an argument in heaven,
or that a game of bowling got out of immortal hand.
But in our comparative weakness, ruled by mortal stupidity,
we may have to blame outselves and admit
that we have brought the changes on ourselves
and that the Earth herself is angry with us.

Marie,
Even your comments are beautiful poetry. Thank you, you touched me deeply with that. Apparently I am able to put my heart on paper quite well, if you can pick up all that from my writing. That is the most wonderful compliment you could have given me. The unfortunate part of yesterday came to cause me to recall "The Escape". The person I wrote about was my "red-haired beauty", "My Autumn Summer". After surviving two bouts of cancer, she had finally succumbed yesterday morning. She surely was the love of my life. The tribute was liquid emotion. Whether on my sleeve or in my poetry, my heart is an open book. I know, to much info, but that's what I'm about.

Today's Prompt: Write a poem about anger.

“Clapboard”

Given a stack of white pickets,
the ribs of the schoolhouse,
I would feed them to a chipper
one by one, one after another,
with my bare hands
in order to watch the purity
of the pulp split under the hungry
blades of the wood eater.

I want to see the white of that place
where hymns were learned and lessons completed
rendered in colorless flints that catch the sun
sprayed into the back of some truck
to be carried away up GreenWood Church
to some landfill to be
a better part of the North.

I want to find the lessons
of how to add anger upon anger
and divide it by restitution from the ruler.
I want to measure each hurt, 2 X 4,
pulling nails from the joists
and the crossbeams

feed feed feed

(all good things are fed, one to the other)

chew chew chew

(a minimum of 30 years for processing)

splinter splinter splinter

(hands hurt with the wringing)

I want to tear down
a partition to see the slate boards
where some pupil was asked
to write “In Adam’s Fall/We Sinned All.”
I want the wasted wood to smell of apples.

I want to take the cleanest nail I find in the yard
to push into my palms to dislodge
the slivers after the job
is finished and remember
what it means to feel my hands
do something other than
beg, in supplication, to forget.

“Another Round”

She stomps away with
no response, only
a grim line of lips,
glued in place on
her face. He shrugs
and turns away, flipping
on the television—Friday
night fights. Its noise
his unspoken
jab. His confusion
and frustration pummel
his gut with a one-two
punch; memories
batter; emotions
pound into his
fibers, too imbedded
to wipe away; too deep
to unlock. He turns up
the volume and sinks
back into the chair.

09-0419

Electronica

Woke with a headache,
but still needed blueberries
for those pancakes I’m going to make.

Driving the car I notice
the gas was almost used up.
Now I need gas for goodness sake.

Stopped to get gas, my card
wouldn’t scan. “GO SEE CASHIER”
After fiddling around (His name was Jake)

His pronouncement was
“You have to use credit. Inside
the store.” Oh, give me a break.

Then off to the grocery
and got strawberries instead
but the self-serve scanner made my head ache.

“Please place the item in the bag.”
“Please place the item in the bag.”
“Please place the item in the bag.”

“I already did.”
“I already did.”
“I already did.”

“Please wait for cashier.”
“Please wait for cashier.”
“Please wait for cashier.”

“Honest, I’m not trying anything.
Your machine is tattling on me for nothing.
And let me say here, I’d really like to give it a shake...”

“Try again, lady,” (Lady, like I’m
a million years old, instead of 46. Hmph.)
So I do, and it works. Of course. Must be my mistake.

All for a damn pancake.

eight years later

anger building upon itself
exponentially with each
affront:
stolen elections
unwarranted invasion
illegal wiretapping
rendition and torture
suspension of civil liberty
abu ghraib
anti-science
anti-environment
anti-language
greed, corruption
unfettered cronyism

the anger festers
they got away with it

Midnight Palpitations

Vomit rising,
Heart pounding through my skin,
“Father, take this cup from me.”

I want to be wrong.

Let my fears overtake me
For they are only fears
And fears can be forgotten
In the laughter yet to come.

I want to be wrong.

No longer hiding
Behind the shield of faith
But armed with it,
I must proceed.

But I want to be wrong.

Your words ringing in my head,
I see the double edged sword,
how it gleams in the darkness,
with a thousand generations of death on its blade.

Father, please.
I want to be wrong.

“The sword of the Spirit.”
I’ve heard it a hundred times.
As my blood runs cold
My sweat drips red.

I want to be wrong.

My soul cannot bear the pain of betrayal
From one so close as he.
My love poured out like water
On his open wounds.

Abba, bear my pain!
I want to be wrong!

Angry Poem


The poem is angry. It is ridiculously angry.
It does not like the metaphor you employ

to equate your mother-in-law’s pursed lips
with a half-eaten moon of a dip-slipped

potato chip. It does not appreciate your
metonymical shift, bringing in all the children

who teased your sister about her overly-bulbous
nose as “the big sneeze”. It does not like

that you have failed to rhyme a couple
of the interior couplets, deems that a mistake,

doesn’t understand that you were deliberately
eschewing expectations. The poem is angry.

It is foolishly angry. It is hyperventilating
like a petulant child sulking

in the trunk of the car, sucking the air out of it.

Dial-Up Detention

Like a kid who called a tyrannical teacher
A well-deserved name
Who must sit in Detention after school
For half an hour of her tender ten years,
I, for the offense of saving money
Must sit for ten or fifteen minutes
In the Detention of Dial-Up
Waiting for data
That takes others who pay for average service
Mere seconds.

The Flowers are Coming

Six white carnations fringed red on the edge,
as if embarrassed they should be so few
for this man who’s dead, splay in a paper vase
left at the gatehouse where he guarded us.

Nine stargazer lilies, like spattered bayonets
with blunted tips who tried to ward evil off
and failed; a pair of yellow roses; purple alstrumeria;
margarita daisies; cream-colored chrysanthemums; and
wild mustard in a fist-sized bunch.

One by one and two by two the cousins, friends,
and colleagues come; they build a flower arsenal
around Juan’s glass-framed portrait: blue iris; pink tulips; baby’s-breath white lace; cuttings of camelia;
lemon wood; pussy willow; forsythia; lilac heads.

One by one, like coma victims somehow set to walk
and bend, place their tribute near his absentness,
wife, sister, son, daughter, brother, grandchildren,
neighbors, like me, who did not know his name.

And the boy Juan tried to save is still missing,
thought dead; and the family of that boy prepares
a photograph and altar for the son who once kicked
soccer balls in the street below my window, laughter
ricocheting off the outer walls.

Anger is a quiet thing, full of hurt and sparse
carnations, scents lost on a boulevard of love
and hate.

“The Autumn of my Life”

The autumn of my life has come too soon
The call on the waters of the despairing loon.
The shores receding by the ebbing tide
A strong willed soul and a distant pride.

The full circle of life has been cut in half
And tears have replaced the lilting laugh.
The leaves have turned to red and gold
And winter’s touch has etched its cold.

The disease I fear to ever mention
Robs me of old age and lifetime pension.
The anger rides within my soul
Draining my hope through space’s black hole.

So many things I hoped to be
And treasures still hidden I hoped to see.
Summer’s gone and autumn’s here
And the prize of life has eased its fear.

A wish for the extension of the seasons
The sands in the hourglass have elapsed the reasons.
Reflections mirrored the obstacles of the past
Conquered victoriously at the twilights last.

A fleeting glance we chance to take
A union of two and a life we make.
The season circles around once more
And autumn’s arrived at winter’s door.

Anger is an angel burning bright.

Anger is the comforter that soothed me off to sleep
hot tears on my cheeks, sobbing breaths that jerked me conscious,
sadness was no use to me, but anger kept me warm.

Each blow was a caress of sorts to prove your love to me,
each bleeding wound evidence of our closeness.
Each scarring healing blemish on my skin a brand
reinforcing who was in charge, who ruled with pain,
and anger was my friend, it kept me sane.

I Saw a Friend of Yours Today


I saw a friend of yours today;
He called to me across the way.
He doesn’t know my real name
But I answered just the same.
It wasn’t ‘til I walked away
That I thought of what to say.
Isn’t that the way it goes?
When caught up in surprise hellos.
I wonder: what with good intention
If he will think to mention
That he saw your old friend today
And called out across the way.
You’ll know it’s truly me he saw.
He said my name with his usual awe;
The cryptic name that you once used
So you couldn’t be accused
Of knowing what I’m really called
That was simply not allowed.
I could have said to say hello
But then I thought of long ago;
The way in which we said goodbye,
And so it was I could not lie.
Goodwill greetings I could not send
Brought to you innocently by your friend.
Let him say he called my name
And then perhaps he’ll also claim
That I am well and looked good, too
And did not say hello to you.

“Them There Angry Clouds”


Of course we aren’t allowed
to call them angry. They’re simply
clouds and the fact that they’re
dark, roiling, filled with flashes
of lightning, booming with thunder,
means they’re doing their thing,
happily and mightily – no, we can’t
say that either, because clouds
are simply clouds, as butterflies
are butterflies. Has anyone ever seen
an angry butterfly?

GOODBYE

I've gone ahead and done it
I've walked right out the door
I know it hurts you
But I couldn't do it anymore.

Many years of unhappiness
Has been bottled up inside
It's no use pretending
My love for you has died.

We loved each other once
Once upon a time
A time that seems so long ago
And now our dreams are left behind.

You Can't Go Back!

A friend of mine used my car
and said he'd be an hour.
Dressed and waiting, with an
appointment soon, I paced
and paced til' my stomach was sour.

When he arrived, I screamed
and yelled, berating him for
his inconsideration. He said
he's sorry he was longer, was
lost and never found his location.


He'd been abusing prescription drugs,
of that we knew for sure. Everyone
had given up on him, but not me--
until now when my blood pressure
spiked--I always went back for more.

Taking my keys, I turned away, saying
"Don't come ever again, get a ride from
your son!" Angry and hurt, he left in
a hurry. A week later he died before we
made up and now my eyes are blurry.

Fury Compressed

I take all my anger and squeeze it so tight
I drive it too deep in me, way out of sight
I fume and I rage, in my own quiet way
If my gall-store should crack, I won't live through that day.

Tears

It’s your birthday baby girl
What shall we do
Has it been more than three decades
No matter it’s still your special day

It’s your birthday baby girl
I’ve waited all year
For this day to arrive
Your Papa’s love is never-ending

Is it that day again Papa
I hardly recall nor do I care
The day lost its luster long ago
Now just one more challenge to face

Tears and sorrow
The heavy burden of pain and worry
Like a mantle that crushes
Almost unnoticeable almost expected

Daughter don’t lose hope
We’re here for you always
You will never be alone
Listen for His voice

It's Hard To Be Angry Today

I need to write an angry poem;
that’s todays prompt and I try
but it’s hard to be angry
when there’s so much love around.

My daughter just married
a wonderful guy and I’m a mother-in-law.
The wedding party was here last night
so full of love that it was magical.
I can’t even search for anger today
it’s just doesn’t exist right now.

My husband and I are ready to mark
thirty-nine years of marriage
by taking a cruise to Scandanavia
with our daughter’s new in-laws
for a further bonding experience
with two people we cherish already.
We will learn to dance from these
professional dancers who swear
no one is unteachable…they haven’t
danced with me though so I know
I’m going to make a record breaking
hard case for them but yet I go,
so its hard to be angry right now.

I walk through my house, on the grounds
through the gazebo dedicated to my son
decorated with daisies and light.
I feel so thankful for all the people
who came last night to celebrate this
event with our daughter, her husband,
with us. Each of them so loving and helpful
leaving us with a clean house and incredible
memories.So, it’s hard to find something to
be angry about right now.

Perhaps tomorrow I can find angry
about something or feel it towards
someone but today, it’s hard to be
angry when I’m so in love.

Judy Roney
April 19, 2009

Angry poem

Such curiosity
Inquisitive beings innocent
Slap hit pop and thump my fingers
Rear face back my head my soul

Quickly I learn life’s limitations
Imitating you

I hurl my angry sloppy rage at all
My friend my lover self
And really what I mean to do is scream for
Help!
Help!
Help!

ya know what r-e-a-l-l-y pissed me off…
coat hangers

like when you’re
in a hurry and you
grab the coat
by the sleeve
to pull it off
the hanger
and the front end
where the shoulder is
gets stuck in the
front end of the hanger
next to it
so you pull it
to the side
and tug the sleeve
down
and the back of
the hanger
gets tangled in
the back of
the hanger on
the other side of it
so now you’ve got
a clusterfuck
between the jacket
on the left
and the sweater
on the right
with the coat you want
tangled in the middle

and that r-e-a-l-l-y pisses me off

A slow seething death
By Lynn Potter

Why

If we know the dangers
Of exploding, raging, and
all the effects
of the impulse of anger

do we enjoy it so much?

Do we enjoy accelerated heart rate,
poor health
and the lost of relationships?

I wonder at our fascination with
this slow seething death.

Is it worth one fleeting moment
of explosive release?
Or do we just enjoy feeling better than
someone else?

Today
By Diana R. Wilson

Rage
Iron tight
Leaking rusty milk

Surprise!


There is
No greater
Fool
Than
I

Dunce cap
and badge
to wear,
false pride

Exit stage
left
young lady
you have
won
The prize!

Explosive Words

The words sound alright in my head
but something goes wrong in the way
they come out, as if my brain said
night but my lips form the word day.

Could be your ears, pre-set for one choice,
I walk on quick sand, edge round mines,
this dark shore you prepare for my voice
and sound waves ignore the Danger signs.

The beach café table is strewn with left over food
I must have said that you ordered too much.
'So it’s my fault is it', that flip in your mood;
I meant we but the mine was already touched.

Sunday Walk

Sure, there’s plenty to rant about:
The drivers who roll through stop signs
and almost knock me down as I pass,
the dog debris left for others
to sweep away from the path,
a guy’s hairs falling on the ground
as he gets a haircut
in an outside salon with an ocean view.

But, not today. It’s much too glorious:
the deep blue ocean crowded with surfers,
the Santa Monica mountains
rimmed slightly in LA’s golden haze,
the row of fishing poles
resting along the edge of the pier,
babies in strollers,
joggers easily passing me by,
jet streams dissipating slowly
like clouds in the sky

No, this is not an angry day.
The only hint of anger I can find
is having to trudge
up the Manhattan Beach Boulevard hill
toward home so
I can sit at my computer
and write this angry poem.

On this spring morning

I do not invite anger
into my life.
Instead I sip coffee
on the creek bank,
observe the swallows.
Beside me the lilac
aged into a grove
is massed with purple blooms
bee-ridden and cloaked
in butterflies, black fans
waving.

Downstream
past blackberry and periwinkle,
past the riffle that sings
all day, all night, four geese
head upstream,
fly low to the water,
honk thoughts back and forth.

Across from my chair
tire tracks rut the bank,
tear down the soil,
extend onto the rocks
and I could work myself
into a fine froth of rage
at the young males
and their roaring pleasures.

Instead I sip coffee,
refuse to invite anger
into my life.

“Angry Look”

When he gets angry his face turns pale
Eyes not much large demand an attention.
Fake smile and tension. He wants to skip,
Change the theme. He can do it. He is sure,
He is right. But the problem is the others
Don’t think he is. No shout, just long
Silent anger is an aura of him. It is hard
To give it up for him. I advise him to bring
Down that kind of look since that is not
A hook to be liked by a woman, though
Shout is also not preferred when the deal
Is under way. Wish him not to be angry
At all. If he is able that way, he is a winner;
Hero of the theater, and maybe of cinema.

THE GARDEN

I suppose I thought they were angry just because of the red.
When I opened the back door, two cardinals fled
from my feeders to my neighbor's trellis.
The male quickly hopped a few feet further away,
the female watched him. Come back here and finish this,
I thought she was saying. The male approached slowly,
ashamedly maybe, inching closer. But when he stood
next to her,she flew to a high branch, too fragile
for another to rest on. Fine, he must have said
as he flew to their empty feeder. She probably laughed
to herself and looked over my way. A squirrel sped
from a tree chasing another out of his yard.
When it returned, the two drew circles across the grass
until the intruder surrendered and slid under my fence.
All of a sudden the whole garden seemed angry
and I felt angry too, at everything, the world.

Yardwork

My husband takes the Metro North
on his daily trek to work
My son is on the bus to school
they leave me behind,
today is my day off.

My game plan set in place
arranged my tasks and duties,
mow the lawn, trim the weeds
plant some flowers in the beds
all before the rain.

Work boots on and gloves adorned
dragging the Toro from the shed,
prime the engine, it’s full of gas
yank the cord,
yank the cord,
YANK THE CORD again!

Prime the engine, it’s full of gas
yank the cord,
YANK THE CORD again!

I grunt, I scream,
I YANK THE CORD again!
AHhhhhh! The mower does not start.
It begins to rain.
No yard work today.

Anger at No One

It just shows up
in the stub of a toe,
in the drop of an egg,
in the spill of a cup
on the book as I read,
at the pop of a button,
the milk carton empty,
the gas tank on empty
when I’m running late.
My swearing and growling
is crouching corners
bouncing off the walls
and stinking up spaces,
and I long for someone
to hit with this club
that I’ve fashioned
from trivial rage

Stormy eyes that flash dark gray,
He tends to make her feel that way.
Late for dinner, he doesn't call,
Is it really worth this all?

Disappearing, he won't say why,
she sits home and starts to cry.
With the tears will anger start?
Side affects of a broken heart.

Grabbing scissors she shreds clothes,
that is how this story goes.
He deserves it, he started this,
he ruined all their happiness.

She packs her bags so she can go
But to where she doesn't know
The anger makes her just see red
she wishes ill, he should be dead.

With that thought she cries once more,
she barely makes it through the door,
How can love to into hate this way?
She prays this anger will pass some day.

Stormy eyes that flash dark gray,
He tends to make her feel that way.
Late for dinner, he doesn't call,
Is it really worth this all?

Disappearing, he won't say why,
she sits home and starts to cry.
With the tears will anger start?
Side affects of a broken heart.

Grabbing scissors she shreds clothes,
that is how this story goes.
He deserves it, he started this,
he ruined all their happiness.

She packs her bags so she can go
But to where she doesn't know
The anger makes her just see red
she wishes ill, he should be dead.

With that thought she cries once more,
she barely makes it through the door,
How can love to into hate this way?
She prays this anger will pass some day.

::Sighs:: Sorry, it posted twice.

They are angry
all of them
the men I have known
He reacting with paranoia
him with rage, violence
screamed words
abandonment
and unexpected return
They have all been angry
an anger born of fear
How can I ignore the obvious?
It must be me!
that much seems clear
I can not say what I do
what it is
afraid of me
they try to make me fear.

“Colorless”

My heart grew
cold, watching the sun
sink away
as his life
had sunken three prayers ago
shriveled cobwebs now.

Dull gray street
murky like charcoal
in water
colorless
just shades of what could be if
I had not died too.

When Dorothy Runs in Kansas

it is probably
just an old wives' tale
that when you hear
the piercing cry
of the city's alarm
warning you
of incoming disaster
you should
open the windows
to let out the pressure
before you run with
your dog, blanket, pillow,
and frightened kids
to the space under the stairs
when a tornado is about to hit
but when you came home
dropping the f-bomb
on our sweet children
for leaving their toys
blown like leaves
in the yard
I opened a window
just in case
the innocent line
between anger and fear
seen with poor visibility
on this turbulent day
is painfully crossed
again

Russian War Strategy

Pumping fists like guns
Anger deflates my soul
Tepid hate grows warm
Burning even desire bare
The landscape is scorched

Vermin like you

You come from a dark, cold place
a place inhabited by faceless beings
they utter gurgling sounds
of desperation due to their misdeeds.
you are one of them
your sick distorted mind,
filled with hate
envy devours you like a blazing fire
arrogant being forced to live
in your own hell
slimy vermin like you
belongs in a dark cold place
heaven is not for you
you are not going there.

RS 4-19-09

The Verdict

The judge took the note from the jury
He struggled as he started with “We…”
He shook as he read
the verdict, he plead
for calm in an angry sea

of people who shouted out “Killer!”,
People who shouted out “Shame!”
The family who prayed
now felt betrayed
and desperately directed their blame

at twelve angry men in the jury
Twelve angry men who felt meek
They left the courtroom
on a cold afternoon
Later saying the evidence was weak

Twenty long years since the trial
Twenty long years since the crime
New evidence cleared
the man’s name they once feared,
and it also brought justice for all

Date Night

Finally, it’s Friday night, and his kids have been dropped off
with the sitter. He’s in his best suit, and he pictures her in her
short red dress, with garters and heels. He arrives at the restaurant
right on time, gets their usual table, and orders a drink. Dinner
and a show tonight, followed by a long night alone in the house.
He glances at his watch. She’s late again. There’s no answer
when he calls her office. She must be on her way. He orders
another drink and calls her cell, which goes straight to voice mail.
She should have left work already, but he begins cursing
her damn job, her boss, her unpredictable retail schedule.
It’s the one night a week they can be alone as a couple, try
to recapture what they had ten years ago before they had kids.
He picks up the menu, reads nothing, and sets it down. Rearranges
the table. Checks his text messages. Slams the phone closed and looks
toward the front door. It’s not her, so he calls back and leaves
a short, unkind message. Third drink now, and he’s writing the night’s
conversation in his head, the way he’s going to lay down the law.
He can hear the yelling, the excuses, knows how it will go down,
can hear the slamming of the door, how his anger will fuel hers,
until they both retreat in a silence like the moment after a gunshot.
Meanwhile, tire tracks lead off the highway, a front tire still spins
toward the sky, and hanging from a tree branch, a single red shoe.

Paul Scot August

The Nicest Child in The World

He’s one of the most conscientious children you’ll ever meet
He’s always honest, doesn’t know the meaning of deceit
He’s always angry, never happy, very depressed
I had his brother years ago,
though that they were related you’d have never guessed.
Unless told, you’d honestly never know

As an educator,
this child is a rare find
His work is always done on time,
He never gives an excuse about later
I’ve never seen him act unkind

When there’s someone others are making fun of
He’s the one, who jumps in front of
The child in duress
Not wanting another to suffer as he does, I’d guess

The child is in my class
Only for this year
No doubt he’ll pass
Of that he need have no fear
Yet, unlike the ones who do so little
He worries that he will fail
That he will become someone others belittle
Even though, he will easily prevail

I met him back on the first day
He came up to me in a very mature way
His words were few
Simple to accomplish what they had to do
He simply said, I am not my brother
Your’ beef with him, is with another
And then walked on to gym
It was then,
I decided to find out more about him

As it turned out,
he was right
He is a complete turnabout
He and his brother like day and night

The one thing that angers me
This child is always angry
Only one time,
have I seen him happy
I feel it’s a crime
that a child like this
has to live without life’s bliss

Although, I know he would not be
the child that he try’s so hard to be
without the pain inside him to guide him
Now there’s a very good reason for his pain
there was something horrible witnessed
that with this child will always remain
The kind of pain that eats from the inside out
though therapists have tried,
they’ve brought little change about
Unlike his brother, who takes it out on everyone
this child dwells and seeks out some fun

The one time he showed joy
was on a field trip, made for a boy
It like most,
was a trip I had arranged
Now, I don’t mean to boast
I just believe children go through a change
when they can become a part of the learning
At the same time
there’s a form of respect the educator is earning

However, unlike any child before
this child came up to me
shook my hand, and said something more
He actually thanked me
Though, for what I was not sure

Later, I realized
I had given him a little fun
Something rare and prized
for an always angry someone. . .

©Ralph J. Fitcher, April 19, 2009, Angry poem, about something that angers me.

Confounded

I did not like it when I heard
you were disappointed that I did not show up
after all you had so generously invited
me as your guest. I felt deflated and angry
that I had to explain myself, had to be or do
something in particular. Follow some kind of
unspoken mystical etiquette that I don’t understand.
Fear underlying all that. It wasn’t until later
when I realized that it was I who was disappointed in you
that I found an inward smile, that melting away
of the cosmic relationship between the self and the universe
where everything is a reflection of itself
and there is nothing but the unconfoundable one

Snakes of Ash

Where does the rage go? It’s so rhetorical!
— and how to sort out brands of rage,
create a sort of rage triage, a system of
priorities and urgencies: black rage, white
male rage, women’s rage, the rage of the aged,
the rage of the ones who, as children, saw
the airplanes plow into the towers. Merck
and Lilly, marijuana merchants with their
Levenger ties and Burberry galoshes, try to
put a blanket over all these different rages.
See how we sit in a circle, forming a macrame
out of our neurons, charming them out of our
separate bodies like snakes of ash, our arms
sickle-hooked as if we were a Barrel of Monkeys —
hands across, hands across, all pray for mending,
our dendrites extending! For we are all enraged
and outraged and outgauged: knitting circle
of nervousness, skein-chain-of-pain.

Your Anger


It brings a shiver to the warm morning
and blocks out the sun.
Frost impedes my mind,
rust invades the process,
it freezes to a stop.

I wade through the day like drifted snow
with no boots.
No shovel in existence
can move the mountain
you pile on me.
You ski on it methodically,
with determined glee.
And yet, you love me.

My Angry Father

Listening, ear pressed to my bedroom door
before venturing into the hall,
skulking from my room to the kitchen or bath,
I did all that I could to avoid my angry father.

Long after the heat of his rage had passed,
leaving behind its bruises and scrapes,
he still smoldered, eyes filled with sullen venom,
so that when I walked by him,
his pointedly not looking at me
felt like I'd been vaporized.

I only lived with him from 10 to 14,
but those four years
taught me the meaning of dread.

Want to say these were poems I thought very good:

A Jarrell Hayes
ann Privateer
Daniel Paicopulos
Yoly **
Trudi Jarvis
Paul W. Hawkins **
Christina Bass **

They were well written, properly fit the theme, no spelling mistakes, very touching.

Cut This Class

The flyer at my gym
Announces a new class:
“Yoga for Stress and Anger.”
I know what it will be like:
Focus on your breathing--
Breath in,
Breath out,
Notice when you stop breathing;
Relax your toes,
The little piglets that they are;
Let your body dissolve
Into the ground…
Melting--Help I’m melting!
Feel the center of your eyes
Dissolve back into your head,
Like giant squishy scallops;
Let your internal organs
Go wherever they want to go,
Aruba or the Virgin Islands.
Feel your vertebrae and count them
One by one,
Down your neck and down your back
Until you can release them
From all further obligations.
Sit on a blanket,
If you still own one,
In simple cross-legged position,
As though your knees could bend like that
After the endoscopic surgery.
With your hands on your knees,
Palms facing up,
As though begging the question,
Begin to sit in seated meditation,
To not think about what it is you are trying not to think about.
You are a proud warrior I, II, or III,
A recumbent cobbler;
You could strike like a cobra
But you are in one-legged pigeon pose,
Upward dog, downward dog,
Reclined big toe pose,
Yet unable to master
Awkward chair pose.

Yoga for stress and anger
Is free to members
But I know
No matter how little they charge
Or how they bill it
I will always end up
Hugging my stress and anger
To myself like a warm sweatshirt
Stretched out and alone
In corpse pose.

Day 19: Angry poem

Often I am angry
with myself
for wrong decisions or
poor choices or
silly mistakes, but
more often I am angry
with myself
for dwelling on these things.
When I take them
to bed with me
and can’t sleep,
I know it is
my own fault, and
there is no one to blame
or to be angry with
except for myself.
When I can push away
these thoughts, then
I am no longer angry
with myself, even if
I do not forgive.

"Thunderstorm" By: Melinda Elmore


Lightning strikes
Thunder roars
Rain pounding at my door

The clouds loom overhead
Until rain pours down
In total dread

Then silence returns
For a minute
Then all of a sudden
It strikes again

Danger lurks from the clouds above
Twisting and turning that causes a grudge

Hail starts pouring from the sky
Pounding down in rampant highs

Then the funnel cloud starts to form
Watch out everyone
It’s a dangerous storm

The tornado leaves its mark
As it also hurts everyone’s heart



By: Melinda Elmore

This was hard for me, because I don't get very angry, and if I do get angry, it's not very often ... But one thing's been getting on my nerves lately; the whole switch to digital cable. I like my television just fine ... :)

:digital cable:

Tomorrow I’ll flip through the channels,
and land on another Law & Order marathon.
Because it’s all I watch anymore. I can’t get
enough of Vincent D’Onofrio’s careless lean.
The criminals wriggle and squirm, and occasionally
I think I catch him eyeing me on screen, casually
reminding me: You’ll see what’s coming, just
wait. And across the station lane, Jerry Orbach’s
latest quip only reassures, Hey, I’ve got this
covered. And I’m glad, because in a digital
revolution, some things should stay static.

Fall of an Angry Fighter

It looks like pain,
the way he pants his breath at the ground,
mouth and nose and eyes open as to
bleed it out

Do not gentle him,
You'll be slapped or bitten
No! It wasn't.
You aren't.
It can't.
It won't!
Not!
This!

We won't enter the wall of his anger
just one steps forward,
Pulls him up.
"Let's go take a walk."
Slap. "Come on."

He, his anger, and his friend
leave a wake of low pressure,
an empty spot we're not quick to enter
the gloves on the ground.
The tears in the air.

We disperse, talk lightly,
and try to forget we were ever
there.

-MLV

LOVE ME OR LEAVE ME

Love me or leave me,
love me or walk away.
You better believe me,
I’m not begging you to stay.
Through all of the times we’ve had
you still need to treat me bad.
Love me or leave me,
or hate me and go!

Love me or leave me,
love me or walk away.
You live to deceive me,
and someday I’ll make you pay.
With all that you’ve put me through,
I’m sure to get over you.
Love me or leave me,
or hate me and go!

For all those times that I told you I loved you,
And for the many ways that I showed you I cared.
If after all this time you don’t have me on your mind,
I’ll never be there!

Love me or leave me,
love me or walk away
The day that you leave me,
will be like a holiday.
I wished you’d believe in me,
but now, just be leaving me
Love me or leave me,
or hate me and go!

All those times that I told you I loved you,
And for the many ways that I showed you I cared.
I don’t know what’s left to say, so why don’t you go away
And just leave me alone!

Love me or leave me,
love me or walk away.
You better believe me,
I’m not begging you to stay.
I wished you’d believe in me,
but now, just be leaving me
Love me or leave me,
or hate me and go!

To my own deception

It’s like trying to explain sleeping to an insomniac,
The varied roads of my deception,
How I avoid mirrors
And snapshots, and listening to my voice
On a recording.

Oh I loathe to look at my presentation,

It can only be done with drinks
Confession, and far more cigarattes than Richmond can hold
In her old gray fingers

It is fiend and spider and Madame
This defense, which offends
The very muscles that bind this vessel
To its wheels.

It’s like living inside a fog,
This defective thinking, like a forest fire
Encroaching the city,
The deep yellow smoke
Filling the streets;
Causing car accidents,
Missed connections,
Broken hearts.

MOUNT ST. USEUS

The volcano inside me is
set to erupt into a fountain
of lava, a red molten river
sprouting into the air
a column of accumulated
disgust and rage
at the collective and personal
injustice and unfairness
of this world whose hands
grip our throats
rape our pockets
steal our homes
plunder every opportunity
for peace and happiness
until all left for us to do
is to burn you down and
start all over and maybe
this time we can get it right.

Angry Man

You are filled with much hatred,
always angry at the world.
You are constantly starting fights,
using mean and bitter words.
You have turned many against you.
Why are you such an angry man?

NOTHING VENTURED, NOTHING GAINED

Malcom X understood people,
knew anger was the active ingredient
to making change, boldly experimented,
underestimated its volatility and
blew up the lab.

Barack Obama saw anger
about to boil over, let others
experiment, built a steam engine
instead, and guided the train
into the station.

A Dish Best Eaten Cold

A bit of anger is invigorating;
it energizes me to action,
and when I finish, there’s a satisfaction
in having overcome the hesitating
should-I-or-should-I-not.

To throw away the cards signed “Love forever”
Or keep them, weapons poised to use?
To yell and scream, and sobbingly refuse
to yield to false apologies, however
much one is tempted…I do not.

Excessive rage is always detrimental
to long range plans. I keep my goals in mind,
nursing a bit of anger; when I find
the proper place and time, the elemental
will have revenge. Mercy? I think not.

It

That’s it
You did it
You threw it
Rubbed my nose in it
Then you broke it
I can’t stand it

Why couldn’t you leave it
Alone? Was it
So important to destroy it?
Did it
Matter to you that it
Meant everything to me, and without it
Life with you would just be shit?

Take what’s left of my heart, take it
And leave, or I swear I’ll take what remains and shove it
Where you really wouldn’t want it

Get it?
There’s no more between us, so drop it
Get your things or I’ll burn it
Move your ass or I’ll kick it

You did it
That’s it
There’s no more to it

(This is also a visual/ "concrete" poem; but it doesn't show up this way when submitted. It's better laid out how I intended on my Website.)

April 19, 2009 - I stand alone...

You, and you're "good ol' boy" system
looking down upon those that move in
and do things better than those part of your "clan"
And you know it, you know they do, you know I do....
but, I am not part of your network...so you shaft me.
You praise me when it's right, but when push comes to shove,
they will always get what they want because you allow
a glass ceiling to affect those that are on the inside...
A network of lies and alibis
of beer drinking and graduation rights,
a piss pool of "do for me and I'll do for you"
You disgust me, all of you do, everyone.
Your blind eye and wavering voice
any time a question comes your way that you KNOW
someone in your inner circle has screwed up - and yet,
you blame those not there. Look at me, use words like
"allegedly" "supposedly" "possibly"
hoping I'll lay down like a dog and accept it...
But I won't! I am good at what I do and not part of your clan...
I will always rise above those
you see with a blind eye and a hear with deaf ear...
I don't have to kiss your ass to be great,
I am great without you.
They are only great with you, they are sad, you are sad...

...and given the choice, I stand alone.
For you and your clan are worth it....you, in the end....do not matter.

OOPS - two typos in my first post that change the meaning....resubmission below:

April 19, 2009 - I stand alone...

You, and you're "good ol' boy" system
looking down upon those that move in
and do things better than those part of your "clan"
And you know it, you know they do, you know I do....
but, I am not part of your network...so you shaft me.
You praise me when it's right, but when push comes to shove,
they will always get what they want because you allow
a glass ceiling to affect those that are on the outside...
A network of lies and alibis
of beer drinking and graduation rights,
a piss pool of "do for me and I'll do for you"
You disgust me, all of you do, everyone.
Your blind eye and wavering voice
any time a question comes your way that you KNOW
someone in your inner circle has screwed up - and yet,
you blame those not there. Look at me, use words like
"allegedly" "supposedly" "possibly"
hoping I'll lay down like a dog and accept it...
But I won't! I am good at what I do and not part of your clan...
I will always rise above those
you see with a blind eye and a hear with deaf ear...
I don't have to kiss your ass to be great,
I am great without you.
They are only great with you, they are sad, you are sad...

...and given the choice, I stand alone.
For you and your clan are not worth it....you, in the end....do not matter.

The sweetie Man

Her father ignores her –
sends her a present twice a year
by way of her sisters
who are prepared to drive the
forty minutes to his house.
A tuppeny egg at easter
and a bag of sweets from the corner shop
if one of her sisters takes her with them.
She misses him.
When a little younger,
she forgot the name ‘daddy’ and called him
‘the sweetie man’ instead.

Vindictive Thoughts on Noisy Neighbors


It's 3:30AM and I can hear you
through the walls.

I used to think you both were filming
a low-budget slasher flick,
with all the cursing and the yelling
and the dull soft thumping
of your bed on drywall— I assume
you kissed and made up afterwards.

And in the meantime, I will lie awake all night
and hedge my bets as to which one of you
will throw the other off the balcony first—

you fight and love with equal passion,
but a week of it is getting very old.

I lie here, imagining the scream—
I bet she throws her boyfriend over—
and then, overwhelmed with guilt,
she'll flee the scene, and get caught
by the cops about ten miles from here.

Then, when the news reporters
cease to care about the story,
when the chief of police closes down
the crime scene, then and only then
apartment five-oh-two will quiet down at last,

and I can FINALLY get some long-suffering sleep.

Angry Blisters

I shouldn’t have danced all night in those shoes
They may have looked great but their fit was all wrong.
Now, all I have left are angry blisters and a blue-purple bruise.

Those strappy gladiators were a silly pair to choose
especially when the night started early and went on for so long.
I shouldn’t have danced all night in those shoes,

but they looked so incredibly hot in their bright metallic hues.
I gave too much credit to my feet, that they would hold strong.
Now, all I have left are angry blisters and a blue-purple bruise.

I should have known better than to cha-cha and cruise
and disco and hip-hop and swing to each song.
I shouldn’t have danced all night in those shoes.

But I never considered that I would abuse
my tender tootsies, amidst the jazzy party throng.
Now, all I have left are angry blisters and a blue-purple bruise.

Next time (if there is a next time!) I swear I won’t confuse
comfort with style. I won’t be so headstrong!
I know I shouldn’t have danced all night in those shoes.
Now, all I have left are angry blisters and a blue-purple bruise.

"Anger Reflected"

I remember

The torrential tirade
with which you
tried to drown me
pull me under

Your word
bullets
aiming for my heart
and when they missed their mark
you used a fist instead

You spit venom from your mouth
called it love
Teaching me a lesson

wanting me to learn
the hard way

Swept away
downstream
battered and bruised

In the silence
I heard my voice

Singing

(c) m.u. PAD prompt "Anger"

Prayer

Heaven help us in our futile anger—
simmering in standstill traffic,
backed up for miles, then breaking
loose—and not a sign of why,
or waiting there in baggage claim
for luggage left behind
or sent to parts unknown.

Keep us sane while sitting
with the phone held to our ear,
listening to inane tunes
and taped reminders of our
call’s importance or endless
loops of “please press 1.”

If anger we must feel, then let it be
for wrongs we can redress,
something we can set aright
with a sharp left hook,
a flipped breaker switch,
a call to which a living human voice
responds, “How can I help?”

Nancy Posey

How Should the Estranged Wife
Wear Her Anger?

Dangling from her wrist
to waft under the nose
of anyone who dares to kiss
the back of her hand? Or
as a neck scarf to keep
her head on straight?

(corrected version)

Anger at No One

It just shows up
in the stub of a toe,
in the drop of an egg,
in the spill of a cup
on the book as I read,
at the pop of a button,
the milk carton empty,
the gas tank on empty
when I’m running late.
My swearing and growling
is crouching in corners
bouncing off walls
and stinking up spaces,
and I long for someone
to hit with this club
that I’ve fashioned
from trivial rage

hateful, angry, spiteful
mean, vindictive, ungrateful.
These are the things that you are
when I see you,
when I knew you.
That's why I had to go.
That's why you are now alone.
Don't tell me your lies.
You overstepped the line every time.
Stepped on my heart and crushed it.
Now that's over, thank god.
I can be free of your pain.
I'll never walk your way again.

Man of the House

He has such a terribly short fuse,
we’re adept at tip-toeing on eggshells,
his demands and orders no one dare refuse.
He has such a terribly short fuse!
When his ire’s up, he’s a bull on the loose,
we stay quiet, feign smiles, endure the yells.
He has such a terribly short fuse,
we’re adept at tip-toeing on eggshells.


His temper erupts in such a brief flash,
we brace ourselves for the passing fury,
we whisper quietly while his teeth gnash.
His temper erupts in such a brief flash!
Speak softly now, or his tongue will lash,
his lack of patience does make me worry.
His temper erupts in such a brief flash,
we brace ourselves for the passing fury.

The slightest thing will invoke his wrath,
so breath deep, be still and try to stay calm,
when he’s in a rage stay out of his path.
The slightest thing will invoke his wrath!
Think of peace while he’s on the warpath,
his brief absence is like a healing balm.
The slightest thing will invoke his wrath,
so breath deep, be still, and try to stay calm.

`Nuff Said About That

I toss a stone, baseball missin’ its laces,
at a pair of geese grazin’ beneath
the backyard willow. They kept greasin’
the grass with shit green as mom’s broccoli. I only

meant to scare `em – watch `em leap into morning
as I snuck close enough to feel wings scrape
against air; but my stone cracked a skull,
smushed it against a earth – fat bird dropped

like a bagpipe bleeding air. Me and the goose
still breathin’ stood silent, awkward – like me
and Betty Tisdale at the last school dance.
I tossed it the jelly donut I’d been gnawin’,

hoped the bird would cake its bill with sugar
and jam – consider the whole mess even-stevens,
but it hissed at me like a gas-station air pump
so I found myself another rock – `nuff said about that.

The Stupid Football Coach

I don't think I ever saw
A stupider coach then he
who did not let my son play Ball
Who made him sit on the Bench for most if
NOt all
The Games that he has played since first
Grade
I think I'll hit that coach with a
Spade- or a shovel
And then I'll kick him on the Shin
And we'll get a new Coach
Who can let my son
Begin
His major career in Football!

a.m. Anger

Tall, black and chrome,
opposed to your sterile surroundings
you become angry in the early hours.
Your grinding whine wakes the block.

You hiss, heat up to a sweat.
Seething that guttural gurgle
as sweat beads turn to steam.
Dark bitter drool seeps into my cup.

The Hole in Me

No one understands the pain I feel
It varies month to month
It is a yearly cycle I must fear
An emptiness
A darkness
Over which I have no control
My soul becomes a pit
A vampire
That devours all things good
Light, laughter, joy and life
Sucking it in with greed
Never getting it’s fill
A mental, a physical pain
Through which I must remain
Silent and alone
There is no one to cry out to
My pain brings them fear
They do not understand me
So they do not trust me
They fear me and what I
Might do
But I will endure
Because I know in time
It will pass
It will fade and go away
The hole will fill
Yet as much as I know this to be
I also know it will return
Again and again
To devour me

TOLERANCE

Man with a sign, with wifebeater and jeans,
we've got some communication issues.
Our parade does no harm to you and yours
(secure in some bunker deep in the woods),
but still

you stand with a megaphone, shouting slurs
about how we're sick and contagious and damned.
This polluted mind can't understand how
God, in one stroke, made us next to someone
like you

with your warbly voice and your sweaty face,
red and round, made for the ends of my fists.
If God is love, which you seem to forget,
and love conquers all, I hope that he starts
with us.

Inherit The Heat



There's a streak of heat sewn
in the seams of my genes.
I denied it and lied about it,
held unraveling threads to hide
my nakedness inside it--until I nearly
died in its silently raging shame.

There's no bigger monster than
one fed secretly beneath polite
bleached sheath tablecloth,
silverware laid just so,
crystal to the right,
china plate under china bowl.

Couldn't let go till I lifted the side,
looked--cried--reviled--raved--flailed--blamed--named
rippled scars from white-hot flame of familial pain.
Hurricane blew through me with blinding rain,
leaving the air clear, clean, and sweetly sane.

Mother’s Nature

Is Mother angry?
She rages and quakes
And burns earthly blood.
Is she righteously mad
Or merely bent by thoughtless force?

She screams her windy keen,
She weeps her drowning rivers.
She births her monstrous bastards,
Sweeps away with salty shivers.
To believe she does not hate us is so hard.

Does Mother love us?
Why these fevered shakes?
As if she could, she would
Be done with us, and glad,
And infinite justice would enforce.

She waves her wild baton,
She calls in fearsome voices.
She writhes in weary labors,
Now abandoned by her choices.
To believe she does not hate us is absurd.

© 2009 Chuck Puckett
19 April 2009

SIMMERING AMBIVALENCE

A note?

I stood in disbelief
as you pulled away from the curb,
and I watched you,
I watched you navigate
that left turn out of my life.
Your tail lights became
tiny laser beam beacons from the distance.
Burning into my brain
and cauterizing my heart.

We walked that afternoon
by the lake in the park,
holding hands and kissing on occasion,
public displays of affection
that seemed to embarrass you.
That should have been my first clue.
No mention was made;
you smiled and fawned.

I made you dinner that night,
"Mr. Romance" in blue denim,
candlelight and wine,
polite conversation and
plans for a getaway.
And I leaned in for a kiss,
just as you remembered
you had an early day tomorrow.
No mention was made;
I walked you to your car and you smiled.

"I'll see you", you painfully said.
And as you fastened your lap belt,
"Here, this is for you."
You handed me the envelope.
A love note to hold me over?
No, more of a "writ of Execution".

A note!


"Wally,
It just seems I was kidding myself,
thinking I could learn to handle your intensity,
your love songs and your incessant poems.
I never wanted to be weighted down.
You are a fun guy and will make someone
very happy. Just not me.
I hope you would still consider me..."

A note.
No sweet nothings.
No I can't live without you.
No mention was made.

"...a friend, Tiffany"

Take your note and go to hell.

And you finished all the wine?
I can't believe how much I hate you right now.

If you’re angry, please press “1”

I’m angry when
People tell me they can’t
Reach me on my cell phone.

I think, “leave a message,
that way I’ll know you called
and I can call YOU back”.

It’s not like I’m trying to ignore them!

Mute here.
Low ring there.
Having no pants pockets is disastrous.

Personally, I’d prefer
A gentle reminder like,
“hey would you try to remember
To turn your phone back on
After work?”

I could remember that!
And then I wouldn’t be so angry!

No Child Left Behind

Of course we teach each child to read
but in the course of government intervention
our children can no longer truly succeed
for we are focusing only on children in need.

Instead of ensuring our children will learn
we keep them together until all understand
the concepts on on a page then they turn
together and through the system they churn.

As a result 35% of our kids now require
remedial help to prepare for college. They
don't receive the basic skills for hire
at a decent job, and the situation's dire.

So every child graduates and the President is pleased
but society must suffer because none can succeed.
The bosses and the citizens feel like they have been fleeced,
and of course we teach each child to read.

Chronology of Emotions: Father

Love
Wonder
Admiration
Confused
Needy
Concerned
Scared
Certain
Lost
Alone
Injured
Abandoned
Crushed
Searching
Curious
Elated
Hopeful
Disappointed
Destroyed
Depressed
Furious
Unforgiving
Tired
Apathetic

© 2009 Molly Logan Anderson

“Where are you, God?”

Restless and troubled, I arise
still dressed from falling asleep with my tears.
I can no longer hear God over the screaming in my mind,
“You are unfair! I don’t deserve this! Where are you?”
I wallowed in rumpled clothes and self pity.

I came here to get away and think
but I had only stayed inside, and cried.
Inside the two-room beach cabin;
wrapped in myself, unwilling to get out.

“Where are you, God?” I shout out the door into the darkness.
Barefoot, I step out into the silent predawn morning.
Walking and feeling alone,
Drinking in the stillness of the beach.

I gaze up at the first shrill cries of seagulls taking flight.
I lose myself in the barely lit golds and peaches of dawn.
Enraptured I gaze at dawn’s unfolding flower,
The color-splashed grandeur of each moment’s changes.

The warmth of the sun reaches my skin.
The warmth of the Son reaches my soul.
I walk making footprints in the sand;
the piecrusty powder of earth, moist and cool.

I watch as water fills my footprints until they are mine no more.
An awareness of God’s enveloping presence fills me
As dawn’s palette fills His sky.
“I Am” is mine.
And I am glad.

Homo Erectus

Don't think the guy that came up with that classification
didn't have a sense of humor.
Well, I am not amused.

Not when I see that NONE the so-called "scientific classifications"
embrace who I am--me and the fifty percent of the population
I belong to.
Or, if they DO embrace my sisters and I, it is only
to discuss matters of sexual reproduction.
Surprise, surprise.

How many FEMALE scientists do you think were involved
in creating THIS list:
homo habilis
homo ergaster
Turkana boy (and please tell me, why does HE get his own classification?)
homo antecessor
homo heidelbergenis
homo neanderthalensis
homo sapiens
homo sapiens sapiens (running out of ideas? why don't you give US a try?)

All the scientific articles go on and on about MALE BRAIN SIZE when they
discuss the importance of these prehistoric specimens, but guess what
takes the headlines when they discover a woman's bones here and there
in the loam?
You got it: her PELVIS, analyzed to pieces until the cows come home.
Surprise, surprise.
And, when they DO decide that finding one of our pelvises is an "important"
discovery, guess what they call it? "Lucy."
Isn't that the name of a goddamn DINOSAUR? At least call us
Madame Lucy, oh Distinguished Gentlemen of Science.
With all due respect
to your many years of study and learning.

Sorry. Do I seem crabby? That's because you caught me on a bad day.
Did you read in the paper yesterday that a woman was almost flogged
to death in the year 2009, for allegedly having sex with her father-in-law?
And where was the father-in-law? Did anything happen to him?
(not that I'm saying it should, but I'm sorry, let's face it, if there was any sex
going on between them, in that country, anyway, he probably raped her).
Tomorrow I'll probably have my sense of humor back.
Please, check in.
After all, that's the only way we women get by.

Anger

the only wetness allowed between
two grown men is red

the only color between their
eyes, red too, funny then

that a bouncing baby boy
is swadled in powdery blue

and not the fire red he will
be baptized in when he comes

of the age where he can ball
his anger up tight in his stomach,

into stoppers in his the tear ducts, and finally
in the cold rocks at the end of his arms

that he'll use to complete the circuit
he was thrust into by his father's sex

anthem


listen closely
you can still hear the sound
of the third Reich marching

listen as
boots jackhammer
across pavements and boardrooms

listen as
crowds shout in streets
as terror rises from
asphalt paved with bones

listen
you can still hear Hitler scream
listen
you can still hear the dead rattle

sieg heil
(jackhammer boots march on asphalt)

sieg heil
(arms goose step)

sieg heil
(jackhammer boots click heels)

heil Hitler
(arms shoot up)

sieg heil
(boots again click heels)

la chiam
(arms pumped fists)

la chiam
(arms never waver)

grief stricken relatives
should not hold hands
they should build fists
not excuses


© 2009 lgjaffe

Stressed-out Niece

Her father is an idiot---
today’s phone call exclaims.
Her brother is not much better---
didn’t we go over this
just yesterday?
And don’t even
get her started about work.
You see there is this girl there---
well never mind.
She fumes and sputters,
and I’m really quite amazed
that the phone line has not
spontaneously combusted!

I wonder if a poem is like a joke - whereby if it has to be explained then it has failed somewhat?
I hope not. But going by some of the comments I got when I posted this elsewhere today maybe the poem I posted for this prompt needs a bit more explaining.

I don't want people to think I advocate going around bashing people.

In fact this was written from the perspective of the abused person. The blows are upon them and are perceived by them as a twisted way the abuser uses to show their depth of feelings. Despite the powerful dynamics of an adult abuser to try and manipulate a child into believing that this is a 'normal' manifestation of the power an adult is entitled to wield, the instinct of the abused child in this poem is strong and healthy.

The child refuses to be a 'victim' emotionally, refuses to have its spirit broken and refuses to take the responsibility onto themselves for their abusers wrongful acts. The child finds refuge in a healthy righteous anger that blazes against the misuse of power by an adult to hurt and torment and pretend that it is an expression of love.

I think that anger against injustice is always right and always the correct response. It doesn't always mean violent action or hatred - those are different emotions but often mixed up. Clean pure anger is a healing power - it means that a person is placing the responsiblity for that abuse squarely where it belongs with the abuser and can move forward with self respect for the future.

Anger at injustice is in my opinion a permanent fixture and should be a permanent fixture. Here it is again to read after having read the explanation. I should have written it better - maybe I'll redo it.


Anger is an angel burning bright.

Anger is the comforter that soothed me off to sleep
hot tears on my cheeks, sobbing breaths that jerked me conscious,
sadness was no use to me, but anger kept me warm.

Each blow was a caress of sorts to prove your love to me,
each bleeding wound evidence of our closeness.
Each scarring healing blemish on my skin a brand
reinforcing who was in charge, who ruled with pain,
and anger was my friend, it kept me sane.

Listening:
You never listen!
Your ears hear my words, I'm sure,
But does your mind compute
The message of what I've said?
Can you interpret the hidden meaning?

No.
Heeding my words is beneath you!
Sometimes, I feel like showing you
How it makes me feel.
But you wouldn't understand,
And I loathe you for it.

When I speak, you cut me off.
Beginning your own lengthly tale,
Into which I cannot get a word in edgewise.
Why? Are your ears clogged
With the pompousness of your ego?
Sometimes I'd wish you would shut up,
Or that I could force you to listen!
Yet, the task is impossible.
You would forget the next minute,
For getting through your thick skull,
Takes an eon.

Sunday morning before church

my heart emptied;
you wrenched
the last small bits of care
and flung them, desolate,
indifferent,
to the floor, trampling them
in the tremulous morning light
where our son sat, composing a story.

My heart will fill again;
but not with you,
not with your words.


---
The poem spun from yesterday's prompt (an interaction) could easily fit today's bill. Oh well... here's my meager offering for today. Difficult to write about anger today - too beautiful outside... Peace, Linda

Toxic Sister

born first,
pageant pretty,
straight A student,
everybody’s best friend,
seemed like she effortlessly
rolled downhill while I painfully
trudged up,

no one saw me
saw the special in me,
outside the funny one, inside
rage-ravished, I couldn’t
help the secret stomach punches,
painful arm pinches, only now I
wonder, why didn’t she ever tell?

* * *

baby sister,
made everybody
laugh, scene-stealing
extrovert, seemed like
she got away with murder,
while I walked a net-less high-wire

everyone,
watching me,
hoping for success?
Or rooting for failure?
Outside perfection, inside
confused by love, by hate, both
to me seemed unearned, pinched, punched,
nobody to tell

Bitter


We watch her peel off layers of herself like an onion.
Invisible gluey skin loosens in patches as she picks
away at her reflection from the bulging mirror.
Kilo by kilo her silhouette flattens, folds
away flesh. With the fat, goes hope,
joy; leaving only the brittlest
of loves and fragile temper.
The mirror smashes
her bony outline
into daggers
of bitter
anger.


Sarah James, UK.

(Apologies to anyone reading this as this poem looks/reads better centered but I've got no idea how to get it to format properly - if that's possible - in this comment box. Sorry!)

Black Sunday Conessions

I didn't get to church today.

My roommate, who owes $300/mo, hasn't
Paid in five months. My boyfriend got
A DUI, for driving too slow, when
He couldn't get to the left due to traffic.

I didn't go to church today.

Because I had to get caught up, I'm taking
four graduate courses to keep a job
I may not have next year since I'm officially
laid off. Non-renewal of contract.

I didn't go to church today.

I have to go to court tomorrow, with
My boyfriend, who says he will love me
Forever, but he has to go to
Jail first. Do not pass Go or collect $200.

I didn't go to church today.

Because I was up late late night, thinking
This is my only night to really enjoy the
Insomnia that comes from too many worries,
And unanswered prayers. I thought about God.

I didn't go to church today.

I still pray for forgivness, and maybe
A chance. I know I don't have one in hell,
Wine makes it better, but still, I pray,
For forgiveness and a blessing, still,

I didn't go to church today.

The anger was always there
mostly inside
but then he would lash out
He hit her one time
after she raged all the way home
at what a total jerk he had been
and people would see who she was really married to
And pity her.
She went to the sanctuary of my car
and drove till she reached the ocean
where she raged and screamed and cried and then
with nowhere else to go
she went home.
But how could she blame him
she had married the wrong man
and though she never actually threw it at him
she knew two days before the wedding
when he showed his true self
as a self-centered unkind and vindictive man
in a totally uncalled for disagreement about
picking up the cake, for God's sake
She tried to call it off but
in those days
it wasn't done
And her wonderful aunt
was here for the wedding
her father's sister
from half a continent away
talked her out of it,
telling her it was the pre-marital jitters
And she wanted so badly to believe her
that she went through with it.
She remembers it well
down the aisle on her father's arm
with her eyes cast down
as she was told to do
he was so proud
She hahas no memory of the ceremony but
She went back down the aisle on her new husband's arm
with her eyes wide open
as she had been told to do
he was so proud
The reception was and is a blur
as they (she) tried to visit every table
and to dance with all who asked
and it wasn't possible to do it all
and she only remember's her granny and pop
looking happy for her
and her mom and aunt
beaming
and her father
crying
and everyone smiling and cheering them on
and her sister, knowing how she was feeling and
trying to help
The two went off together
and her sister fixed her hair
and she tried to be happy
and everybody saw her as the happy bride
as they left the hall.
but she knew
already
because he was horrible
only to her
when no one could see
and her heart was broken.

Angry poem

Such curiosity
Inquisitive beings innocent
Slap hit pop and thump my fingers
Rear face back my head my soul

Quickly I learn life’s limitations

Imitating you

I hurl my angry sloppy rage at all
My friend my lover self
And really what I mean to do is scream for
Help!
Help!
Help!

You cause the problem,
but you refuse to fix it.
I can’t stand the way you act
like it’s nothing to do with you.
I wish I could shake you – hard and fast –
but that won’t change the way you are.
This anger is always coiled up inside me,
waiting for you to open your mouth
and tell me it’s my fault again.
How do I get past it, and you,
so this black roiling will go away?

Parent-Teacher Conference

She sits between them, head down.
I watch her ball her hands into fists
underneath the table, pound them
slowly, silently against her thighs.

Her mother says she is disappointed
in her daughter’s grades, her work
ethic, her attitude, her apathy.
I watch the color rise in her face,

flush from pale to purple as her father
shakes his head in silence, nodding
his assent. She is not good enough.
My affirmations of her creativity,

her kindness, clatter across the table
like snake-eyed dice which they ignore.
She places her hands against the lip
of the table, elbows bent and poised

to push back. When she does, their eyes
roll I told you so’s as she knocks over
the chair and runs to the door. She is
good enough, it seems, at anger.

Yesterday was a wonderful day to read all the feeling and beauty you all wrote. Today seems to have evoked even more yet! wonderful!!!
Marie E. - Mott is no snot! I loved it!
Hannah, again - so finely writ!
Richard Merlin Atwater ( have to type that full name!) I loved your 18 prompts!
Judy K. You said it!
Richard ‘saves’ us all!
Jane B - You feel so deeply and write so perfectly!
Oh! Banana, Banana, Banana!!!


Day 19 Prompt - Anger


THE ANGER

I couldn’t express it. The ANGER
I couldn’t address it. The ANGER

It’s not fair! The ANGER
Oh how I care! The ANGER

This is not play; The ANGER
We don’t have another day! The ANGER

We have to fight; The ANGER
Right now, tonight! The ANGER

IT cannot win - The ANGER
WE cannot give in. The ANGER

I have cried so long The ANGER
You must try as long. The ANGER

We will not stop. The ANGER
It will have to stop The ANGER

We must win! The ANGER
‘Cause we will never, ever give in! The ANGER

Carole

“Don’t let the sun go down
upon thy wrath.”

Don’t go to bed angry.
That’s what mama said,
but we do our best fighting
while piled up in bed.

If we can’t work it out
by eleven at night,
what good would it do
if we stayed up to fight?

So we kick off our clothes
and crawl under covers,
and tussle and tumble
like two angry lovers.

Kicking and scratching
and gouging and cussing,
rolling and punching,
griping and fussing,

Then one of us giggles
and laughter breaks out.
Before long we’ve forgotten
what we’re angry about.

Nancy Posey

Workplace

The workplace is angry,
bitter and sore
We put up with it once
but not anymore

A chain of events
stretched over time
linked all the parties
to the scene of the crime

Posturing for power
Flashing a brave face
Behind the veneer
a sea of disgrace

Not quick to react
We’ll give it some thought
to find us a way
to bury the lot

Anger

He was dying. The doctor said
he was dying, he had a few days,
no more. She did not accept, blamed
the doctor Do something, she pleaded.
I can do nothing more, he said.

She was angry. With the doctor.
With her husband. With God.
With everyone. With life
It was not right. It was not fair.
Her husband would not die.

Her husband could not die.
She shook her fist at the heavens,
implored the doctor, beseeched God.
It is not yet his time. Help me. Help
my husband. But it was his time.

The doctor could do no more. God
did not intervene. She had to accept
death's power. Death demands this,
does not argue. Death arrived
And then, only then, did she cry.

Mary Kling

PAD- April 2009
Prompt: Anger

Vicious Circle

The thing about
rage is that
it swallows
you whole like
a boa constrictor
devours a toad,
and then there is
nothing left but
the burning bowel
and empty lily pad
with no sweet flies
to steal with the tongue
which boils the bile
of the toad to start.

© Gretchen Gersh Whitman April 2009

Combat

Parents
Mighty Scissors
Cripple son’s future
Wildly beating against ritual
Parents.

WHAT HE GOT

Pressed up against the wall
beside the stove, Ma belongs
to him. Their mouths so close

if they weren’t fussing, they’d be
kissing. She doesn’t mind, tonight,
daddy's hands heavy-tight

around her wrists— keeping her
from swinging: which means, then,
that he remembers the last time

& what he got when he came sneaking
in late with his outside smell. The boys at the P.O.
won’t ever let him live it down— that time

he showed up to work
with his face blacked-blued & the mole
on his chin, gone. Scratched off.

Steam Vent

Boredom here is monotony unleashed
A geyser to the ceiling of a scream
Stifled in the steam of infinite sky
Soaking these foam board walls
Covered in meek tweed
Pricked over with useless plastic tines

Boredom: here is monotony unleashed -
He pries her from the tightness of those jeans
Scene stifled in the steam of a dream -
Lost in infinite sky of waking eye
You're joking with me in a foamboard stall
Talk is tweaked
I'm a dick-lover with bruise-less plastic ties

Anger

A white hot rage
Starting small as a pinprick
Growing slowly, steady
‘Til it overwhelms
Glowing red with hate
Vengeance ruling thought and reason
Destruction in the heat
Of red hot anger’s moment
Exploding fiery, wrath of Hell
Exhausted, spent, ragged breath
Focus…
Count…
Calm again

Wildfire

Wildfire uncontained,
stripping the hillside, raging
poker-hot: anger.

(day 19) April 19, 2009

Angry People
------------

The mob gatheres around him
with angry voices they cry,
"He's an imposter not our saviour"
"Let's kill, not curcify"


With angry words they taunt him,
as the cross he dragged behind.
They kicked and spat upon him,
Our saviour yours and mine.


Angerily they nailed him to
the cross on top the hill.
They mocked and they despised him,
The crowd the got their fill.

Anger Management

If I could strangle
anyone or anything,
I’d strangle the words
arrogance and condescension
from the tongues of the pompous.
Or maybe I’d just shoot the messenger.

Angry Poem

This poem is angry because I refuse to write it.
I will not let its premise spoil this fine spring day.

monkeys see obelisks, obelisks do monkeys

invocation of myths will not excuse facts
imitation hippies who enjoy riding blacks

buy $10 electronics all constructed by kids
then off to the races and laughing at yids

transporting you back to a time and a place
nineteen sixty nine, up close, face-to-face

try out your excuses on the freshly exhumed
they know frauds and posers; you are doomed

perhaps if you'd lived among them you'd see
their conceits and lusts and need and greed

but brought together with those you revere
shamed by your shallowness, lying and fear

run back to your homes all carefully gated
ignore revelation and truth: you are hated

Leslie, I liked your poem.

One Fall Sunday
-------------------

"Dolphin gold for sale,"
screamed the angry football fan,
descending the steps
of the west end zone bleachers.
Clutching the chain around his neck
where upon a dolphin jumped
through a ring of fire
4th quarter
the Patriots had just gone ahead.
But number 13
was far from done
He was coming back from Achilles' Heel
he faded back and took the flicker
Heaved and flung it far
The home team in white had won.
I wonder if
the angry fan
clutched his gold
that night lying in his bed.

To a Family divided

Angry words, spat out like bullets
Vows of revenge, threats and alarms
“I am right!” You are wrong!” carried
on forever and never mind the harm.

Even in the loneliness of midnight
When sleep has fled and you are all
Alone. Could we reach out and take
Them back? Try to undue the hurt that’s
Suffered? Big hurts can grow from words
So small.

Why beyond all reason and all mercy
Forgiveness is ignored and trampled down?
We make our righteous rage so self important
Our pride, our dignity and pride we can’t
Lay down.

Are the words “I’m sorry” so huge a bite
That we would choke to death before
We let them pass beyond our lips? Apologize –
No! Nevermore!

I was right! I was right! Keep saying it
Forever! All alone when all your friends
Are gone. Mutter it in your old age
When no one understands you. And
Make sure it’s carved upon your tomb
Where it stands forgotten and alone.

What Angers Me?

No guileless flub enrages me;
Not even from an enemy.
The only thing that I can’t take
Is meanness just for meanness’ sake.

a slight revision...

Anger Management

If I could strangle
anyone or anything,
I’d strangle the arrogant
and condescending words spewing
from the tongues of the pompous.
Or maybe I’d just shoot the messenger.

“DON’T TELL ME”

You can’t tell me now
Or later what to do
Inside my life is consequence
Inside your eyes
It don’t make no sense
Sweet green enemy comin’ round
Comin’ round to bring me down

Tall buildings
Burning shrubs
When you call me up
There just ain’t no love
So I hang my head
To the up above

You pray for my soul
Will your well to do’s
I pray for your flesh
And it slips right through

So save it for the innocent
Cause I ain’t no clown
Just give me a country
And bring me a crown

Move on with your village sneer
Not much common sense
Hanging in the square
You don’t read my books
You ain’t got my looks

Don’t sell me with the artificial, beneficial
Elastic dreams
Retouched, renovated
Tombstone
Magazine spread
‘Cause believe me
It’s waiting at the end

Knocking on the door
Looking to be found
The man with the answers
Comin’ round, comin’ round .

Karin Contovasilis

Banana, your feelings are right on target, in my opinion. Christ Himself was not only angered, but enraged by injustice. And remained sinless. Nice job, banana.

FOR MY SISTER

Funny how anger ebbs after it flows,
how it seems to crash to the shore,
smash all unanchored ideas into
a sea wall, then recede, a thunderous tide.
When you first refused to come to our
father’s funeral, your denials weak,
unsubstantial, I could not forgive you.
Unbelievable, I said.
How could you after you denied him a last visit?
That was really the bigger offense.
That I will not forgive.
Still. My anger has shifted, made itself
known as a waste of time, a destructive
tide that bears down on my head, my heart.
The further I get from that day, the more
I understand that your denial of us, your family,
makes you as one swept out to sea, your selfishness
the current that pulls you away along with anything
else you might offer the world.
I’ve stopped missing you
though I do think of you sometimes
when I watch the breakers split apart,
foam, then disappear on the wet sand.

Anger Management

A merica was never in the business of
N eglecting the Source of our success but
G od has been put out to pasture and
E vil has taken over America at all levels
R ighteousness has become a dirty word

M ankind has turned to its own self for
A nswers to all of their questions
N o need to depend on the Good Lord
A fter all God is patient and He
G ave us the power to choose whichever
R oad we want to travel down, unfortunately
M an’s plans will never live up to God’s
E xpectations, and God lovingly expects
N othing more than our love and obedience
T hank You, Lord, for Your anger management

Defusing the Bomb

You’ve stacked too many hurtful words
Like sticks of dynamite
Grudges piled like powder kegs
Resentments wound up tight

I think my touch might detonate
The anger in your heart
And if I stand to close to you
I will be blown apart

If rage was like a coloured wire
I’d grasp the one that’s red
And gently cut, defuse the bomb
Then you’d have peace instead

you call
yourself
friend

you are
no fried

my feelings
my wishes
bear no
weight

angry
a thousand
times more
with myself

for once more
being stupid
enough to care

How We Fight
--for my son's father

Middle fingers
& eff yous, thrown
apples & thrown Vogues,
you call me names
in another language.

An Angry Poem

It’s hard to write an angry poem
when I’m out for a run on a sunny spring day,
in the suburbs on a mostly safe trail shared by
walkers, families biking, other runners and lovers strolling.
Beautiful lawns, trees, and blooming flowers line this trail.
It’s hard to be angry on such a perfect running day.
Yet I run to dispel my anger.
Anger at the suicide of an 11-year-old boy
who chose death over repeatedly being bullied and called gay
at his middle school.
Anger at a country that worships guns more than life.
Anger at a people who want a President to change the results of 8 years of ruthless rule in 90 days.
Anger at the bike riders who don’t let me know they’re passing on my left.
Anger at an aging body that never possessed the speed I imagined.
But in spite of anger, I know I’m blessed.
I have clothes and shoes just for running.
I have a body that continues to let me move without too much pain.
We still have a house and can pay the mortgage,
for at least another month.
I run to dispel my anger.
But angry poems still linger,
just under the sunshine.

A nightmare unfolds
before my eyes
Hate and Love entwined
Like tree
and vine
Anger choking patience
silent scream
When did they learn to be so mean?

And also... when did I?

Turmoil now lives
where peace did once reside

Too many
locked together
How can any one
survive
hearts
filled with chaos
confusion
polution?

Living, the problem
Love must be
the solution

Where to begin?
Instill desire
Extinguish fire
Swept by an ocean
new emotions
ride a wave of mirth

Rebirth.

Earl Parsons, I've enjoyed each and every piece you have written.
Today does not disappoint.

“The One Who Led My Son Astray”

He’s young
He’s vulnerable
Susceptible to charm and need

They said “Come here”
He thought
They need me
I must go
I must stay
They love me
They need me

Join our group
And bring your wife
Bring your children too
We can put them to work
They’ll feel needed
They’ll feel wanted
And we all “Win”

Not so. They all lost
Cast aside
Your family of origin
You don’t need them
You have us
You have a new “family” now
Exclusivity
If you aren’t with us;
You’re against us
So the laws were set
Hell would be paid
If ever they turned and looked back
Spend all your free time
With “The Group”
Come, work with us
Dine with us
Vacation with us
Until your body, mind, soul is spent
And there’s nothing
Left to give to anyone or anything else

Anger
Fear
Sorrow
Tears
Anxiety
Disdain
Loneliness
Prayer
Lord, cast the ugly demons out
Their leader is not the enemy
I must remember
It’s the devil directing
Human beings to do his bidding
“Our struggle is not against
Flesh and blood,
But against the rulers,
Against the authorities,
Against the powers of this dark world
And against the spiritual forces of
Evil in the heavenly realms”

Lift the heavy blinders
And allow Truth and Light entrance
Whatever it takes to bring
My child back to reality
And the Truth
Justice
Fairness
Equity

Our son and wife
Followed a man’s desires
A man’s cravings
For ten long years
Then one day
We got the call
Dad---Mom: I’ve quit “The Group”
And it hurts so badly
These people…
This job is all I’ve known
It hurts so badly

Honey, you did the right thing
We’re been praying
God answered our prayers
But, I need a job
God will provide a job for you
But, I have no friends
Dear, you have us
And you always will
You have God on your side
That’s all you need!

Melanie Kerr, I love your poem. Especially the last stanza.

A Poem for Katie, Who Kicked Me on the Dance Floor Last Night

My left foot is angry today
the small scrape across the base
of the little toe is misleading
the bruise has not yet appeared
but I feel it purpling somewhere
beneath the skin telling me
to watch out for drunken girls
with sharp heeled boots
who dance with abandon
and a serious lack of balance.

Pretty lame when compared to the gems written above, but as I'm preparing for a business trip, it's about all I have left.

~~~~~

the anger builds

dogs bark unceasing
angry at their yip-yip sounds
and the rude owners

five terriers shrill
bulldog’s jowls flap when he growls
charging through the shrubs

backyard is not safe
they’ve found a way from their side
and still they all bark

charge the brush then run
they threaten me where i stand
and the anger builds

Nita G Isenhour
April 19, 2009
PAD Challenge prompt # 19: angry

Emily Anderson and Terri Lasher both made me smile, for different reasons. :)

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

Hey!

Look, this has gone on long enough!
I can't believe I allowed it until now.
It has been difficult maneuvering
around the neighborhood since you started this.
Even at school, I can't think straight
and all I hear is the teacher's constant
WAH-WAH-WAH.
ENOUGH!
I know your brother is my best friend and all,
but friendship only goes so far!
You are bossy and a fuss-budget.
Shut your damn yap
and let the guy play his piano in peace.
And get it through your head,
you're not all that pretty
(not like you think you are anyway!)
You have serious issues, you know that?
Get some help, will you?
Hell, I'll even pay the nickle myself.
Heal yourself for a change!
So here is how it is going to be
from now on.
The next time your father gets my kite
out of your tree, I WANT IT BACK!
Make fun of the shape of my head again
and I'll get the restraining order
lifted on that filthy kid down the block
that was stalking you all summer.
And if you ever, EVER,
pull that football away
just as I am about to kick it,
I will have my dog lick your face
so badly people will think
you're wearing Alpo perfume!
It's a shame a kid my age
needs a chiropractor
and it's all because of you!

One more thing, stay out of my bean bag chair!

Yours angrily,

Charlie Brown

P.S. - If you see that little red-haired girl,
tell her I miss her very much!

Dear Charlie, I miss you too!

The little red-haired girl



I love Charlie Brown! (And I do have red hair ...)

Posting two:

Day 19: Angry poem

“It’s not fair to deny me
Of the cross I bear that you gave to me
You, you, you oughta know!”
Alanis Morissette


Words can be hurtful,
So very hard on the spirit,
Tearing pieces of the soul
A part, bit by bit,
Blow by blow.
The small voice inside
Screams for help
But during the rage,
The cries are not heard.

As time passes,
More and more
Damage done,
The inner voice
Changes.
Through the cycles
Of abuse
Doubt, confusion, loneliness
All become friends,
Constant companions.

Reaching out, the voice
Searches for the truth,
Quietly, one step
At a time,
Looking for relief, safety,
A path leading
To a place
Far, far away from the
Hurtful words.
The ones repeated
Over and over,
But each time
They are always
So very hard on the spirit.


(another – same song – different verse – to be read as a Rap song)


Your words are not
As strong as
Knives or swords
Or fists
But they do tear
Bits and pieces
Right out of my soul
Leaving behind scars
For me to call my own,
The hurt lingering
Needing to hide, heal,
Always to bear
Like a cross
Branded forever
On top of what
Remains of my heart.
Despite time passing,
Me forgiving,
The tragedies that
Time erases –
Episodes that never happened –
I’m angry about it all.
Just so damn angry
About every part of you.

The best thing
Would be for you to
Go away,
Put yourself
In whatever place
You call home
Because MY home
Is not open anymore
To the violence,
The hate,
The darkness
You carry inside.

I’m mad.
I am just SO DAMN MAD!

Walt, again, you are a gem. I grinned all the way through Charlie Brown, until your P.S. It's then that I held my clenched hand to my heart. I'm working on getting the lump out of my throat. Your attitude is extraordinary. I hope your own little red-haired girl knew how you felt about her. But this is Walt ... I'm sure she knew. And still does. If only everyone could be loved as you loved her. And still do. Bless your heart.

Nice Try

After our screaming match about
where the little fork should go
I take my Anger, that razor blade
boomerang, and I find a place in
the woods near the burned-out mill,
start gouging a hole with
a large pickax. I work like a
one-man chain gang into
late afternoon, manage an
11-foot grave for my Anger,
that pipe bomb yo yo, satisfied
it can’t claw its way out of
this pit. But then I get wise to
my lack of a ladder or other up-
lifting device. I’m stuck swearing
and sweating next to my Anger,
that rabid echo, evening hovering
above us and the long night ahead
circling it, trying not to hug it
to keep warm. I might even have
to eat it to survive. It smells like
chocolate revenge drizzled with
raspberry fishhooks. I’m certain
where that fork goes, and I start
scrabbling my way hungrily
upwards

Donald R. Anderson
The Angry Samaritan

The Samaritan had run out
of all the good stuff to give away,
and though he looked in every
dusty corner,
they were all empty.
At first he was frustrated,
and was tempted to play Robin Hood,
but when the beautiful sunset came into view,
he knew it must be true...
he had reached his destination.

Angry Poem

Sometimes
Words
Can't express
The angry emotions
Working away
Inside
Keeping
All the frustration
Fomenting
Inside
When
It is best
Not to speak out loud
About things better left
Inside.

To Love Your Job


The man behind the counter
asks:
what can I get for you today?

A pack of Camel Lights please.

That’ll be $7.26.

The short round man digs his stubby
fingers into the pocket of his mesh shorts
and begins to place coins on the counter.

Nickels, dimes and a lot of pennies.

As the worker counts the change
he gives mesh man a look that
could’ve killed someone.

And as mesh man leaves
the clerk looks down at the shotgun
below him and envisions something
that would make him feel a lot better.

BAD, MAD OCEAN


Very few can hold a candle
To the depths of my very soul
For when I become so angry
I am dark and awfully cold.

My waves slap louder than thunder
I may seem to even roar
I'll drown one without feeling
For my emotions are no toy.

I can swallow gigantic whales
I can eat most alive
Even when you're experienced
Honing me is a challenge and a strive.

Be careful what you do
Be careful what you say
Making me mad or angry
Can cause a dreadful day.

This is dedicated to the memory of Carl Joseph Walker Hoover.

School bullies sized him up,
decided he was gay,
and the relentless taunting began.

All he did to piss them off
was go to church,
excel in school,
volunteer in his community,
love his family,
and play football.

Thinking they had protection under the law
his mother fought for the school
to protect her son,
and Carl was to eat lunch
with the bully for a week.

Carl hanged himself
with a cord instead.
He was eleven.

What is a child to do,
when the adults
have no wisdom or courage?

Angry Watches

don't like time passage,
the burden of knowing
exactly what happens when.

know how you felt carting me
three flights when my ankle
sprained your grumbling silence.

know what it's like listening
to my mother's voice rattle
my ears, sadly searching for solace.

know you can't excuse anger,
for flashing your sweaty palm,
for shirking your responsibility.

God's Crying

Raindrops falling from the once sunny sky,
God's crying for sadness, grief and sorrow,
Thunder bolts strike the silent atmosphere,
Our Lord's wrath on things unjust and unfair,
Lightning booms in loud blasts of long echoes,
He's yelling at the gods and goddesses in Heaven,
A cold wind blows in various chilling speeds,
As our omnipotent one, He ended Satan's war.

The aftermath is a little destruction as possible,
As we reconstruct our own lives, one by one,
When He's smiling and pleased with the result,
Sunshine penetrates through white, puffy clouds,
And if we're lucky with the saints and the angels,
A light breeze will ripple a placid blue-green lake,
For a faint trace of a rainbow will appear in sight,
Arching over the horizon in an array of a prism's colors.

Marie.
I knew you would understand the P.S. Like I said, on my sleeve or in my poetry...The "love story" is incredible if I do say so myself. It is the basis of the book I am struggling to complete. Maybe someday...After a thirty year absence I found her again online and the rest is history, as they say.
But although, I don't think thanks are necessary anymore between us, I'll continue to let you know your sympathetic ear and inquiring eyes are much appreciated. I'm not through with her yet. Trust me.

Anger You Can Believe In

Automakers whining louder than the engines they make
No more bailouts for bankers to waste
Government clowns -- clean up your act
Excessive taxation breaking the worker's back
Repent America for bringing all of this on

- not a very bright house -

they seem unable to stop the signal drop
full of excuses and sorry tales
every single one of them fails
to do what they are employed to do
you ring them up, you can't get through
stuck in voice jail listening to muzak
try to make an emergency appointment
and they say they can't do that
all backed up, reasons stacked up
and service that amounts to nothing

there were too many doors
we didn't know where to knock
it didn't just affect yours
it was everyone on the block
we are replacing the spans
to correct the problem; it should be alright
we've checked the lines, checked the boxes
but in spite of this it doesn't work
sorry that the last guy was a jerk
who recommended you get another provider
yes, it makes you worry when an insider
tells you that the product is worthless
we'll reimburse you when the problems fixed

the tv freezes, actors grimace and smile
and we know the internet is due to go
and soon after that we lose the phone
they haven't changed the number on record
from a year ago, and keep telling us to get a cell
some of this should ring a bell, say let them hang
and find some other group to provide the cable
someone who has a clue and keeps the signal stable
someone who brings customer service to the table
reset, reset, reset, regret, regret, regret
and no cable, phone or internet

Blood is not thicker than Chai Latte

He sat before me in his hand-tailored digs-
Abercrombie- and thrift bin accessories.
Dirty sandals belied his manicured toes;
His hat was pre-shredded for effect.
He lounged with a large crocodile grin,
Self-assurance reeked like big retail cologne.
He challenged me first with empty eyes,
Childish, the mark of little experience.
“You just want your high throne amongst the
Rich
White
Christian
Majority,”
he spat. “Who do you think you can impress?”
His punch rolled off me, lazy and casual.
What a box of Chardonnay, he was!
He swilled his Soy chai latte with extra foam
And smugly waited for my angry, beaten
response. Only, there was none, just two questions:
“And when did you become part of the
Poor
Ethnic
Minority?
I bantered lightly, “You’re in school; explain to
me again the math behind how one can live
as you do without a job, brother?”
Sneering, he yanked up his latte cup and threw
it in a trash can like an angry
Five-year old before stomping away,
And he didn’t even recycle!

LIGHTNESS
Anger should not rule us.
Let Death rule.
Go to a junk yard or cemetery
& resurrect.
Fill the sky with lightness,
wise Knights in rusty armor,
little animals that
tunnel in the dark,
lips & eyes, lungs breathing
ever more gently.

Feeling Anger

Six of us, siblings and spouses
gathered for an evening meal
delighted for the opportunity.
My brother suggested ahead
that we ask for separate checks
because he felt everyone would
feel more comfortable and order
exactly what they wanted, not
worrying about a check split
three ways. I agreed to the idea
although truly, I could accept
any payment possibility.
So, just like it happened when

we were kids, it was me who
spoke up when my brother didn't.
Can we split the check three ways
I asked Dexter, our waiter. No,
he said, unfortunately our computer
is old so we cannot split the check.
Oh really? An old computer is the
reason? What if we were three couples
sitting at different tables? Why could
this not work? Normally I would not
carry on about this issue, but the
computer statement seemed so
ridiculous to me. Let's be honest,

I said, I know it's not you, it's the
policy of the owner, too bad, but
I accept this is how it is. From that
moment on, it was clear Dexter
was angry, very angry, mostly with me.
He took away my forks and never replaced
them. I had to get one from another table.
He intruded into my body space when
serving me, making me uncomfortable.
He made sure that my lobster was still
attached to its shell, unlike anyone else's
lobster, and watched me struggle to eat
with a 'getting even' attitude radiating

my direction. He wanted me to respond
by acting like an ass, but I refused.The
overall result was that the food was good
everyone enjoyed both food and company,
but everyone saw the anger, too. Next night
we are just down the street at another restaurant
Shame on The Moon, our waiter is Dennis with
the biggest smile, could not be more polite
no problem at all with the bill, serves the most
delicious food, makes it a point to shake all
of our hands before we leave the restaurant.
Dexter, what a contrast in attitude.
We will never forget either one of you.

Red Hot

Anger claws ruthlessly at my numb heart
Stirring emotions, brewing hot hatred
Powerful enough to liquefy ice
Leaving only a rising steam behind.

Angry People

Angry people in the street
Loud drums they beat
Left and right they repeat

March shout
Evil’s about
Truth must out

Hate the other side
To us they lied and lied
For blood we cried

March shout
Evil’s about
Truth must out

Throw tea bags
Burn the flags
Power to the rags

March shout
Evil’s about
Truth must out

On and on and on it goes
Often coming up to blows
Stopping it who knows

March shout
Evil’s about
Truth must out

The Rain

Anger hangs in the air,
raining down on the crowd
they had waited in line for tickets
since the previous night
in the cold and the damp
and now they were told this-
the concert has been canceled.
Displaced emotions rumble
through chests and fingers reach up
to rip down posters leading to
hands that roll over trashcans
and arms that rock the cars
while shoulders shove against door locks
and glass windows break and
people scream and car alarms go off and
feet run and hearts pound and chaos reigns
all because anger rained.

The mighty Jalepeno

Makes me scream OH!

It is so flamey

it makes my tongue ANGRY!




LOL best I can do today!

refuge

terrorist bombs, AK-47’s
genocide, murder
spousal abuse, elder
and child abuse
parents killing children
children killing parents
road rage, riots
war

I want to crawl inside a hole
seal the hole on top of me
hide
till all the anger
in the world
has bled out

The Lone Golfer
caught in a sandtrap
while the sun is
setting on the world's lap.

Swing after swing
set sand on the fly,
golfer turned around
as day became nigh,

Whoosh, Pat, Smack,
dug a small hole
lower golfer stood
looked like a mole,

Smaller and smaller
his shadow became
until he was seen no more,
Lost in the Game!

Prescription for Anger
By Diana J. Baker

I could tell as soon as he entered the room
He was ready to explode.
His face was red; his fists were clinched,
He was definitely in anger mode.

I wanted to rush and comfort him,
As mothers are prone to do,
But I knew from past experience
It would take more than me to break through.

He stomped to his room and slammed the door;
I heard him fall on his bed.
I realized I needed to give him time
To clear his heart and his head.

I knew I was powerless to intervene
In situations with his friends.
So I leaned upon the All Powerful One
Who knew beginnings from ends.

I went to my room and began to pray,
Asking from wisdom from above.
I needed to know how to minister to him,
And show him the Father’s love.

I arose from my knees with an answer,
A scripture from God’s Holy Word.
“Love your neighbor as yourself,”
That is what I had heard.

I went to the kitchen and began to bake
My little guy’s favorite treat—
A pan of brownies so big and fat
They were more than one could eat.

The smell soon coaxed him from his room;
He came and sat at the table.
I wanted him to share his heart,
But I was quiet until he was able.

The cause of his rage he soon expressed
And I asked him if I could pray.
Reluctantly, he said, “yes,”
So I poured out my heart this way:

“Father, I know that Andy is hurt
By the things that his friend has said.
But Father, your Son was hurt too,
But He loved even after He was dead.

Please help Andy forgive his friend
And allow his wound to heal.”
I could tell by the tears in Andy’s eyes
My requests to God he could feel.

We soon shared the wonderful treat
And a smile covered Andy’s face.
I knew he had let his anger go.
There was not so much as a trace.

For the Father had reached into Andy’s heart
And washed his anger away.
How glad I was the had said
It was all right for me to pray.

Can I take some brownies to Billy he asked
And of course my answer was “yes.”
I was elated that he would choose
That instead of revenge he would bless.

How wonderful life would be, I thought
If all of us reacted this way:
Instead of giving anger first place,
We would simply remember to pray.

And after our prayers we would look for ways
To bless those who have caused us grief.
Life would be so much happier then
Without anger there would be such relief.

Sue Bixler, your such a hoot! :)

Carole, I figured nobody could love my poor "Mott" but me! Thanks for sharing the love! LOL!

Diana, if there were more moms like you, perhaps there wouldn't be so much anger in the world.

Trying a new poetic form today - the American Sandwich.



Here it is:

http://nickersandinkblog.blogspot.com/2009/04/angry-american-sandwich.html

ANGRY AMERICAN SANDWICH

That Darned Cat


Bartholomew Foggerty, the brilliant weasel
Had stopped painting portraits in ketchup and diesel
He had changed his style to drawing instead
Mostly done in crayons and lead
The Cat he had paid to be his model
Had suddenly taken to do a waddle
Licking his tail and his paws and nose
The model gave up his well held pose
Now the weasel flew into a terrible rage
His pencil poised over the page
He wished the cat had moved later than sooner
After all he’d paid him with anchovies and tuna
But the feline continued to lick and to preen
Which caused old Bartholomew to start to scream
If you can’t hold still how can I draw
At least you could lie asleep on the floor
But the cat just stretched and meowed
And old Foggerty’s mood flew into a cloud
Of mayhem and swearing and throwing brushes
The Cat up he jumps and out he rushes
You can bribe me with chicken and even with fish
But I’ll not stand for this, not for gold in a dish
Bartholomew Foggerty stuttered and stared
At his empty studio now of model quite bare
Perhaps the answer is to return to my easel
And paint portraits in ketchup and diesel


Iain

Fire

Anger comes
when least expected
and spreads like
fire during a drought
ravaging everything in its
path. The rage of one
ignites the other as it spreads
indiscriminately wounding,
destroying.

My tree is bare without leaves,
my dreams ashes. A fire started
when I was a child by hearts unaware
of its damage. It remained an ember
until exploding in later years.

Sadly sifting
the rubble of my life
I look for redemption
in the eyes of Jesus
who reaches out to me
with hope and mercy
telling me to forgive
and finally put the fire out.

“Stupid Meat!”

He exclaimed, “Stupid Meat!”
Then added some colorful words
Picking up the pastrami at his feet
As if it had flown like a bird

Again, it's nothing new. Neighbors,
their constant noise. The bay
of beagles, mini bikes revving.
Will today be the day?

"Season of Punishment"

First my nose begins to run, even
when I use my spray every day,
as religiously as my grandmother
dips her fingertips in holy water
at Mass. Then both nose and eyes
are punished, transforming me
into the flea-ridden puppy next
door. And finally, the hives,
angry red welts, displaying wrath
upon my skin, growing more
and more enraged each time I scratch.

being on the right side


I was working as an interpreter
I had to translate the interviews
made for a special publication
about war prisoners forced to work in Austria
during the II World War

i didn't think about it
if there was the right or the wrong side to be on
by this job

I didn’t realize
what the contract that I have signed
with the Historian Commission
really meant
only after I flew from Vienna to Poland
and landed in Lodz
with one member of the commission
I have started to understand
what I have gotten myself into

I started to see how different the sides were
the ex-prisoners side
and the Austrian Historian Commission side

I actually signed a contract
in which there was a point
that I was obliged not to show emotions
to the ex-prisoners
old people
who had survived the camps

while I didn’t take this one point seriously
the member of the commission did

I was trying not to show emotions
while translating crying men
and women
but then came a moment
that I didn’t care about the contract any longer

I started to see clear the differences between the two sides

when a woman was telling her story
she was 15 years old and very beautiful
back then when
she got arrested on the street of Lodz
put into a German prison for a week or longer
then on a train to Berlin
it was winter
minus 20 degrees Celsius
the train with prisoners was stopped in a snowfield
not to far from Berlin
4 German soldiers
brought the girl out of the train
ripped off her clothes
she was standing naked
freezing terribly
the soldiers touched her everywhere
with batons
then they painted her with
what she thought
was some red paint
or maybe blood
she has been told many years later
that she has very likely lost her virginity
back then
but she didn’t remember anything
she still does not remember
the time in the Austrian camp
where she landed
the only thing she remembers is fear

she reach towards me
wanted to hold on to my arm

the commission member
raised his voice and told me to leave the room with him
screamed at me behind the thin door
that I was not to show emotions
I have agreed to it in the contract

the women heard him screaming at me

(this was a Vienna University professor
specializing in psychoanalysis)

when we came back
the women crying asked me
if she didn’t behave well enough
if she did something wrong
the interview was taped
I said
no
I felt so bad
dying inside
angry
that I was sitting there

not on the right side

within those few days
filled with interviews
I realized
that I was not able to live in Austria
any longer
that I had to pack my apartment
and leave

I called the women
after the interviews ended that day
I explained to her
why I couldn’t have held her hand

she was so thankful
she had this old schema in her head
“you have to be nice to the Austrians
you have to make everything right
otherwise something bad will happened to you”
I told her
“You don’t have to be nice to Austrians
they can’t do anything to you
the war ended a long time ago
and this is you who is doing them a favor
by agreeing to give this interview
and allowing them to tape you”

she cried again
she said

“yes you are right
thank you
you are not like them”

but I felt ashamed
that I didn’t rebel against the contract
I felt angry
next day
I used the short moment
before the interview
the moment
in which the Austrian professor
introduced himself
and didn’t have the tape switched on yet
I was explaining in a few short sentences
to every ex-prisoner
with a voice pretending to introduce the professor
that I do feel empathy
but I am not allowed to show it

and I am on their side

and as soon as the tape will be switched on
I will have to stay distant
every interviewed person
felt relieved after my introduction
I felt better

but my anger grew

I had a hot discussion
on the plain back to Austria
I told the professor how I felt
how I didn’t understand
why he wanted to treat the ex-prisoners
that way
as if they have done something wrong
and the Austrians have done something right

he told me that this was the case
all the people that we have interviewed
might have bin killed in Ausschwitz
but because they were taken to
the work camps in Austria
they avoided gas chambers

I screamed at him
“but who invented the gas chambers?!!!”

we have never met again

after that
I couldn’t love Vienna any longer
the way I loved it until then
it was not my home any more
a few months later
I moved away…





Bozena Intrator

Paraplegic anger

At twelve, a stroke ties
her to a respirator -- repeated
rasp of air forced into lungs, which
expand then deflate at the whim of
electricity. Depleted breath rushes
out to mingle with the
angry tension her parents exude.

Bitter words and hate erode a
relationship rife with turmoil before
the stroke trapped them in marriage -- seconds
drawn out like eons ticked off by the
click and clank of the respirator chaining
thief daughter to life and each to the other.

In the small hours of the night,
I wrap myself in blankets to keep warm
But even in summer heat my plight
Leaves my heart cold as a winter storm,
A dead chill inside me never melting
Never hoping to be glad
Never hearing music lilting
Forever cold, forever clad
In ice. Ice without a shimmer, dark
And black, ice with blood streaked
Through it, the ugly mark
Made when last I shrieked
At awful fortune for losing you.
Jagged hatred. At everything. At nothing. For losing you.

DNA

He is only 4 years old,
but his punch hurts
as bad as his daddy’s

did.

I have to wonder
how so much rage
can swim through
two people whom
have never met.

Tethered in the ether
through invisible cords,
that anger must travel
from father to son.

I thought at first:

terrible twos

then threes

then fours,

but I see

now

it is so much

more.

On a lighter note:
I know our love's begun to chafe
I know you want to take the house,
And the jewelry in the wall safe
'Cause you think I'm such a boring mouse.
But a month ago I made a call
And you don't know my lawyer filed,
And the judge is going to give me all
The money, the dog and our domicile.
'Cause I got all the photographs
Of you and sweetie in Las Vegas
Making love in a pool for laughs,
And buying prints by Degas,
And I got the chemists report on the cheapo wine you sent.
So you'd best abort your effort now. You won't get one red cent.

Jane Beal: I love your poem; can totally relate with the emotion.

~Barb

Boons of Anger

Bitter bile spewing as I walk
sends the gang wanna-bes on the corner running.
Bellicose waspish froth fumes
and the pit bull guarding Manny’s Auto slinks
for the undercarriage of a Fiat.
Choleric bilious irked dudgeon
encourages opposing drivers to turn right
well before our two-lane paths cross.
Ill-humored pique cuts down on invitations
from the fanatical religious neighbors on the right
who must evangelize or burn.
Enraged fierce iracund discompes hornets;
they sweep wide with their nasty sting.
Velvet tree ants, too, keep a wide berth
even when I climb their homey Oak.
Wild testy fluster gets me the best table at
Luigi’s Italian (of course I leave no tip)
I could go on like this all day.
Is there no end of benefit my erinys shall bring?

As I read each of these poems it seems that there are many who live in the shadow of an angry person. I've learned though, that usually the anger has nothing to do with us.:)

His Anger

It creeps up on us
Like a tiger hiding in the bushes
One minute it’s peaches and cream
He’s smiling, expounding, joking
And the next exploding
Voice harsh, cold, sarcastic,
mean, drilling its way into our
egos even if we are in the right.

Who made the wrong turn? He can't
accept the mistake. Yet he shuts us
out as if we were in a glass room –
we can’t reach him when he crawls
into his anger coat.
He becomes the fairy tale ogre
The bully, the villain

His voice slaps our faces
Through our armor
of caring and love.

Especially angry for Padgett!!!!


Dear Moussehead,
Angry? I am livid
I’m paying, well you know how
much a season and this is what
I get! 22-4 is not a score it’s a
1930’s phone number. Jeez! If
the season carries on this way, I
may move out to live with you
in Queens and join those Nancy
boys yelling for dem Mets!! I gotta
get a new bumper sticker for my Cab:
No Yanks ‘Til You Win!!! Ferchrissakes!!
Anyway pick me up at seven we’ll go
to that sports bar where your cousin
is stripping. If it’s good enuff for the Knicks
its good enuff fer us!
I have cash for beer, bring dollar bills
for her knickers (she is family after all)

Yours outraged and depressed


Ringo the Howler

Thanks to mjdillis, who pointed out wonderful submissions. I agree with your choices, mj.

Frosty Walk
April 19

Sunday morning early, we rise
today’s a travel day:
after church we leave
and travel to Saint John
to help repaint a house
try to raise the payout
before it gets torn down
having been slated for expropriation.
But first we load our car
and then we take a walk
up to the garden field
and through it in a wide circle
among young ten-foot spruce
and many frost-tipped pine.
It should be warmer now
this late in spring
we long for the sun’s heat
and there should be more warmth
instead of frustration and anger
like what fills our son’s house, and safety
for all of them, man and wife
and all those cherished animals
the dogs and cat and all those birds
rescued from poor nutrition
ignorance and neglect.
But average weather
means just what it says:
there are always frosty days
and sometimes the perfect house
simply stands in someone’s way
and nothing can save it.
So we’ll give in with a smile
put on our warmest sweaters
take out the brushes and paint
and hope for a fair assessment
Hugh ….

Prompt: write an angry poem
Day 19
April 19, 2009



when angry…
by Faye E. Arcand

the blood races
away from the
head and courses
through the body.
the inner heat swells
as the pulse increases to
keep time with the
rush of adrenaline.
beads of sweat appear
to cool the situation
but there is no release;
no primal liberation...
only emptiness…when angry.

Frosty Walk
April 19

Sunday morning early, we rise
today’s a travel day:
after church we leave
and travel to Saint John
to help repaint a house
try to raise the payout
before it gets torn down
having been slated for expropriation.
But first we load our car
and then we take a walk
up to the garden field
and through it in a wide circle
among young ten-foot spruce
and many frost-tipped pine.
It should be warmer now
this late in spring
we long for the sun’s heat
and there should be more warmth
instead of frustration and anger
like what fills our son’s house, and safety
for all of them, man and wife
and all those cherished animals
the dogs and cat and all those birds
rescued from poor nutrition
ignorance and neglect.
But average weather
means just what it says:
there are always frosty days
and sometimes the perfect house
simply stands in someone’s way
and nothing can save it.
So we’ll give in with a smile
put on our warmest sweaters
take out the brushes and paint
and hope for a fair assessment ….
Hugh

In the Face of It


She thought she could run far enough, come
to this shore and sit out the squalls.
Here, she looks for blue in the sky, tries
to hide from the daily paper and bury
her guilt in the rocks that shingle the beach.
She wanted to be done with the white
hot rage that struck through her like lightning,
to be done with the thunder
that rumbled, building, until it drowned
all the other sounds, and she could not think,
could not catch her breath, could not keep her words.
She is letting the wind run through her,
digging her toes in, trying to get purchase
in these shifting days. She knows the names
of places should light the match--people split
with machetes, children soldiers, mothers
on the streets, sons dead in the market.
The world turns into its own demons
and she is as small as a speck of sand,
as heavy as an anvil. If only
she could be used that well, help hammer
edges of swords into blades for a plow.
She is trying to find the heart to fight
the fight she doesn't want to fight,
find some kind of voice that is loud enough--
and from this channel, meet the storm coming.

Lain's That Darn Cat is so creative!

Friendship Review



Events took place... feelings turn sad.

Someone is hurt, another is mad.

Angry or merely a pain in the heart,

Each seeking to discover their part

Take time to think this all over,

Say hurtful things and you will only feel lower...

Try not to judge, until the whole story is known

All had a part, in the seeds that were sown.

Who is being honest, is anyone being fair?

Pride is the victor, so please be aware.

Honesty, fairness must play a part,

As selfishness alone can deaden a heart,

Kneel together... take time to pray,

Ask the Father to show you His way,

Trust in His wisdom and then step aside

Allowing love once more to abide

Walls erected... one by one fall

If hurting hearts heed to His call.

One brick at a time, a friendship renews

Honesty, caring, and love now breaks through.

Let the fruits of the Spirit descend from above

All of importance...the greatest being love.

With a new beginning... promising you,

A loving friend who vows to be true

The Visit

Jenna is at slow simmer,
Sitting on the red plaid sofa.
Her feet not quite reaching the floor.
She’s listening to her father, as am I.
He ticks of all of her faults, her failures:
She lies, her grades in school are pathetic,
You can’t trust her to do what she’s told.
Do you know she hung her little sister upside down
And threatened to drop her because she wouldn’t
Quit singing?

Jenna swallows, again and again,
She bites the inside of her cheeks and
Stares out the double-wide’s window.
She kicks her feet against the sofa and
Keeps rubbing her knees – hard.
Her cheeks are flushed.
I notice them when I catch her eye.
And I see she knows more than I do
About why I am here.
She’s seen her share of social workers.
We come in and out of her life
With each new abuse charge.
Nothing but our faces change.
And Daddy always wins.

Raymond Alberts, your lovely piece came in just as I was bowing out. Nice job, nice sentiment, nice way of viewing life.

Marie Elena thank you... Bartholomew is my latest creation.... BTW not that I mind but its IAIN with an eye not an ell!!

Iain

Oops. Accidentally posted this on yesterday.

FRIEND


__INVITE
You want to be my friend?
Then take back those words you used for me
in seventh grade.
You don't remember?
I do.

You want to be my friend?
Invite me to one of those parties
every one of our ninth grade classmates
talked about.

I'd settle for the junior prom,
a covert note in class,
a valentine.

A hello in the hall.
You want to be my friend?

__IGNORE

The other one made me feel....bletch.

Angry Wren

Small
Busy body
Nosy, noisy pest.
Brown and plain and irritating.
Alice was angry
And better at protecting children
Than a pack of german shepherds.
She will be missed.

Axe

Everything he does is not an axe
chopping at the ancient oak he thinks I am.

No,

he whittles at me aimlessly,
he takes a piece and makes a piece
and soon I am all gone.

Remaining is this thing he made
by accident.

Yes,

the thing he didn't make is me,
the one he loved is gone.

It's not his fault!
It's not his fault!

He thought it was an axe.
He thought I was an oak.

Father Jeckyl, Father Hyde

Growing up our father
of great charm would
turn on a dime. We kids
tiptoed around, always wary,
even good times underwritten
with worry. Emotional cruelty
is grounds for divorce. What
is there for kids? Neurosis?
Time? Distance?
Why not all three?

Recruits

Young men are kicking the women of Kabul,
pushing them into the streets, stoning them,
spitting and shouting. Faceless is the
anger of these men raging at the black heaps
they have created on the street corner,
dust in the mouths of the women,
dust spewing from the spittle of the men;
dust covering the silent watchful faces
of the children newly weaned.

This comes from a conversation I had with my sister-in-law about her mother who just recently passed away.


Mom

Selfish you
How dare you leave –
You, the heart that pumped
Life
Into our family.
How could you?
You knew
Yet did nothing
For ten years
While your lungs closed in;
You suffocated in silence,
Withheld a secret
That each day
Brought you nearer
To your end
When no breath
Remained.
And all along
You continued to
Inhale tobacco’s poison
Into your diminishing lungs.
How dare you?

Did we matter?
Did you ever
Give thought to
Our survival
Once our arteries to you were
Severed?
Consider treatment
To maintain the flow
Of our family?

And your excuse?
Life?
Polio?
A tired body
Unwilling to fight?
Too many rounds
From age four on.
And now,
In this ring
Before the match begins
You hang up your gloves
Leaving us
Without the heart that
Pumped
Life
Into
Our
Family.
Selfish you.

And yes,
Selfish me.

Bashing Waves

The relentless waves
Whipped up by
The hurricane
Pounded and pounded
The old wooden dock
Stinging
The old soul
With its
Salty spray
Unleashing
The fury bubbling up
To its surface
Ongoing
Hour after hour
Until
The release
Of the
Peaceful
Dawn.