Hi and welcome to my Friday series titled The Hairbag Poet.

You can read about the history of this series here.

In the blogging world Fridays are know as Poetry Friday. You can read about Poetry Friday here.

There is no color, or flower, or even adjective to represent the feelings I have for those who prey on innocent people. Since the outing of Harvey Weinstein, we have been saturated with stories of sexual harassment and assault. Victims of sexual abuse come in every age, shape, color, and gender.  Most recently I have been brought to tears watching the members of the girls USA gymnastics team face their abuser, and former team doctor, Larry Nassar.  My poem today is a tribute to the victims who have the courage to speak out and face their abuser.

Todays poem is known as an apostrophe.  According to poetry foundation (2017), apostrophe is “an address to a dead or absent person, or personification as if he or she were present.” The word apostrophe comes from the Greek meaning “turning away” (Allen, 2016). According to Allen, (2016), apostrophe poems are called poems of address; they add drama, and emotion, and allow the writer to express their feelings.

Just an aside, my brother was a police officer in New York City, and I love that he saw his daughters feminine toy as a “Defense against the harasses of the world”  Here’s to good men!

I hope you enjoy these posts. Thanks for stopping by and reading, and please feel free to post your own poetry in the comments if you feel inspired by the photographs I always love reading other peoples perspective on “art”.

 

The Hairbag Poet

Thorn in Your Side

Testosterone fueled,
Perverted proclivities yield mans graces,
and gentlemanly demeanor.
Admiring glances, and polite compliments
digress into lechery.
The greatest generation grows dim.
Nods, and winks, and doors held open
are lost in a past of fading grey matter.
Honor’s legacy stained by
soulless men who prey like rabid dogs
deigning emotion
as their mouths froth over meat they cannot digest.
Until now…
Collective voices rise
like the chorus of pounding hooves
across the plains.
Accusations shoot like thorns
from webbed torn mouths.
The predators have become the prey,
tongues laden with vacuous apologies.
They trip, stumble, and fall
back into their thorny bramble,
Where I will stand watch,
smiling,
as they choke on their just desserts.