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Poet Commentaries

Bullying

Bullying is wrong.  Limping is wrong.  Coughing up a lung is wrong.  They are symptoms and with most we look for the underlying cause. We do not just say “stop limping”.  We look for the cause and the disease?  (I guess we call it bullying)  The following compiled poems speak to this issue.   I will add this reference for the poems, they were written about on line “bullies”.  “Blocking someone for their comments”…online trolling and bullying.

These are a bit raw in their description of weak people who name call and pick on others, read being aware of this.

Billy goat blues

Charles Carr

I remember when slipping
from its hole
was the worst a button could do,

now I click and it’s this circle
that won’t stop spinning
so my block falls through

which gives me pause
to realize how vulnerable
my ego and what the hell

do I know what goes on
in other people’s lives;
maybe they suffer

from frotteuristic disorder
or recently lost their job
as a chicken

dancing behind the glass
at a county fair.
I prefer to think the latter

so here’s another quarter,
but if indeed it is the former
then I suppose

there’s some level of gratification
in the knowledge
no matter how hard they rub

their thing against the screen,
the only person they will ever
really touch is themselves.

Proud Bully

Michael Schepers

no tongue lolls about
he tastes nothing
but imaginations
and there is now
no wick for his sweat.

he has no fangs nor teeth
everything is gummed
and thick dark juices
run down his throat
and out of his ass

heavy clawless tiptoes
crash through undergrowth,
there is neither stealth
nor strategy;
day bumps as the night.

he can still thin from herd
and just now is seen
gumming a carcass
that buzzards left
and no more flies swarm

he roars spirit and spit
raising slowly the head
of a grazing doe
a voice just heard
by his distant pride

separated from pride
here his weary bones lay
it would not be sad
but he is young;
and just too proud

 

Ghandette

Michael Schepers

The grade six terrorist came at us with bombs of wet grass.  Quickly I flanked him, flexed a bicep and gave him the eye, showing the power of a grade 10.  My sister did not react and allowed the bombs and shrapnel of grass to explode on her. I moved my defenses close to help,  She walked through the latest cloud of grass unscathed, winked and motioned me away.  Three more  bombs exploded and then, in a flash, the thug was caught.  Forced to his knees, pushed onto his back and subdued with one knee on each arm she calmly moved in.  I squirmed as visions of “pink bellies” and pinched cheeks were remembered.

Bent close to his ear she whispered “poor poor little boy, have you never been loved”?  She brushed aside his bangs and kissed his forehead.  She repeated, kissing him again and again when he was already down. I squirmed and cringed in empathy for this poor poor boy.

footprints across floor
between ying and yang
unwiped feet

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