Tag: Beth

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Internal Misery, by Beth

Can’t cope so I dope,

Can’t stand taunts, jabs, injustices and lack of humanity.

Being ‘Gay’ I’m terrorized and teased mercilessly.

Can’t cope, so I dope and dream after taking lots of Dramamine warding off perpetrators inside my head.

I dream of ending it all.

If I do will that stop bullies, homophobes and the like?

Or will they still harass and call me a Dyke?

Perhaps they swim in their own internal misery.

From schoolyards, to back yards, to cemeteries, my life and death won’t even end in peace.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones-but words can never hurt me”

Yeah, tell that to the teen or Mom or brother that wants to end it all because year after agonizing year they were called Queer.

Denver, © January 2015

About the Author


Beth is an artist, educator, and is very passionate about poetry.

She owns Kahmann Sense Communications

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Internal Misery by Beth Kahmann

Can’t cope so I dope,

Can’t stand taunts, jabs, injustices and lack of humanity.

Being ‘Gay’ I’m terrorized and teased mercilessly.

Can’t cope, so I dope and dream after taking lots of Dramamine warding off perpetrators inside my head.

I dream of ending it all.

If I do will that stop bullies, homophobes and the like?

Or will they still harass and call me a Dyke?

Perhaps they swim in their own internal misery.

From schoolyards, to back yards, to cemeteries, my life and death won’t even end in peace.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones-but words can never hurt me”

Yeah, tell that to the teen or Mom or brother that wants to end it all because year after agonizing year they were called Queer.

Denver, © January 2015

About the Author

Beth is an artist, educator, and is very passionate about poetry.

She owns Kahmann Sense Communications bethkahmann@yahoo.com

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Poetry Tree by Beth Kahmann

Some need Poetry like another
whole in their head,
Well, I certainly don’t need
another whole in my head, Beth said.
Others need it to fulfill a
proverbial scratch that needs itching
Or a needlepoint project that
needs more stitching
Others still ache and crave
And must partake and
create, 
In order to be saved.
Others, still, need it to
quench a gnawing thirst, just like a water balloon, ready to burst.
One common denominator or thread
seems to be that some cradle their Poetry, as if it is Communal bread. 
All I know is I get bursts
and phrases of conjunctions and dangling participles that randomly float around
in my head, even when I’m in bed
And when I am able
I sit at my table
striking pen to paper
creating, cultivating my own
little song, rhyme, Haiku or fable
Sometimes I awaken from sleep
or slumber or meditation, my mind firing with anticipation.
Then the words and phrases
spill forth before I say my morning affirmations.
I feel so blessed to see Poetry
as my passion and my friend.
I feel like a kid again
who gets a free snow day and
gets to play and play and play all day.
All I know is my soul is
saturated with utter joy.
Not unlike a Toddler Turning
Two who receives a brand new sparkling toy.
Not sure why the title of
this poem is Poetry Tree, well that’s because to me………Poetry is Rule Free!!!!


14 July 2014 

About the Author 

Beth is an artist, educator, and is very passionate about
poetry.
She owns Kahmann Sense Communications (bethkahmann@yahoo.com).
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Grief and Its Enterage by Beth Kahmann

Grief greeted me unexpectedly.

Like the other day, when I tipped my toe in a icy cold pool
My mind, as well as my blood was frozen, stymied,
The scene reminded me of a generation of life’s collectible sorrows, all lined up in a row of dominoes, waiting for the first tile, of many accidents, assaults, barrages, ballistics and statistics of fallen human souls in an insanely, archaic savage battering, smatterings of shard glass thrown aimlessly afoot.

Not unlike the slinky that we placed upon the top of our musty, worn out wooden floors. With each step, year after year, catastrophe after calamity, corruption after collision,
Decision after division after dying, and after death.

Grief, then rage filled me and fueled my heart with madness, until I felt like a mummy, entombed in sadness. More than likely, until the day I perish, grief might accompany me on the many trips I take til that final resting place, ’til that final resting place.

©  25 February 2013

About the Author 

Beth is an artist, educator, and is very passionate about
poetry.

She owns Kahmann Sense Communications (bethkahmann@yahoo.com).