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 |    10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind |
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I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. - me This poet’s words collect, arrange on a kaleidoscope spectrum. The experience of discovery through writing is the truest reward that has allowed me to grow and learn who/what I am — what other people get naturally, immediately, while I stomp around in it. Been blessed, but pushing it — envelope, world and all inhabitants away. Push buttons, find boundaries to trip traps. No clue why cat curiosity, living in your dark. (Bored, perhaps?) Now and then, push dirt out of this hole; someone/thing/entity might envision me how I need to be viewed (if I knew what that was). Cryptic, yes. Try living in my dark, find comfort amid strange, virtual, wonderful walls that tower above, tempt me to scale. Been more than I could imagine or expect here. But, achievements aren’t going on a LinkedIn wall  . I dig deeper than I should, often without forethought. Aimless words, brave or veiled cowardice, flinchingly flung, inadvertently hit targets? Get a ‘back off’ shoulder shot when asking your motivations here. Not fair?No prize to eye; not incentivized. Dealt the worst two cards before the flop, do best with what’s in hand. My Pluggers: You are an icon here.  You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer.  It’s like plugging myself, but using other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "Poetic Referendum(s) On Life"  Your poetic muse is on fire!  Some great emotion, well-balance(d), lovely lyrical qualities -- even the ones that were written out of sadness or anger came through in a clever cadence…It's obvious you've put a lot of work into each entry and the totality of the blog has eye appeal.  Published four times with one a literary journal, including…  "The Tender Core (Sedona)"  I don’t submit because it’s too much work. Truly alone, know no one cares to show they believe/support me. Lip service feeds delusion. I’ve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Try not be cynical, work hard at openness and consideration — work, sooo…gut thing.   ![Merit Badge in Taboo Words
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Brian,
Congratulations! You won 1st Place in Taboo Words with your fantastic poem, [Link to Book Entry #1027659].
I absolutely loved this! *^*Heart*^*
Rachel](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Taboo_Words-2139481_13.gif) ![Merit Badge in Poetry
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Thanks you for supporting the [Link To Item #power] with an order to the [Link To Item #powergifts] ! We appreciate it. *^*Heartv*^* Keep writing the beautiful poetry. [Link to Book Entry #1027659] is an awesome poem! *^*Starv*^* ~Lornda](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/type-Poetry-2180.gif)  August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼
No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼  Now: I was such a whore.  This is old….What? Oh, this? A rhetorical, self-motivational speech I'm working on. Don't just read the parts to construct your theory, as if to confirm (construed out of context) your opinion, mentally-stunted Neanderthal. Therapist wants me to be less negative toward myself. I see it as attacking, rather than being defensive. Fear I will chomp too many bullets unintentionally sent toward the unsuspecting. If you can be triggered for stupid reasons, then I? …just looked like me rolling around on the floor with myself.    What Was NEW Who am I, you ask? My mirror knows that question, repeated daily. Just trying to create a little buzz, not boost my ego.  #amwriting #poetry #blog #contest #freeverse #award #bestpoetry #freyaridings #lyrics #music #video #YouTube Can you believe it took this long for someone to put a quarter in me and push the button GET ANGRY? Mud 4 My Eye:  Is that you, Poo? 💩 Secret Back Door ▼ |
| Cruise Control Dad with the blinker on We just noticed, as kids, maybe once, now eternal, Dad drove everywhere the same speed — 45 miles per hour on M-95 to our camp. Through town, 10 miles over the limit. Mom: “Slow down John. Do you want to get a ticket?” He scoffed, mildly, derisively. On the cut off road, twists, turns, belly flops from dips — forty-five. It didn’t matter if gravel or blacktop, cruisin’ speed, steady-set, boot to pedal in that flat-green, Ford pickup, weighing needle scoring its usual number, 45. His ball cap tilted up and back, sweat on brow, breezes flew perfectly through the cabin — blowing my blond hair south, and east, and west, then briefly north drifted in again. He leaned into a hard wheel, shouldered a skinless frame. A few times, gave that brim a wiggle, loosed a few of his loud sighs. We asked if we could hang our arms out the window. He’d point to an old guy in a wagon passing, stub of arm hung on the frame. “That’s how he lost his.” We didn’t believe, but didn’t question, and so, behaved as children ‘seen, and not heard'. He’d still stop at Tastee Freeze, probably wanted ice cream, too. He gave me my dime, dropped on the white, weathered counter to order my chocolate cone. He preferred vanilla. To my brother, I low-whispered, “He probably lost his arm in the war,” and with darting tongues gathered the brown melts, quick slop rolling down those waffles. The freckled shrimp spit through two holes in his beat-red, wicked face — he already knew that. 6.17.24 revised 33 lines, free (prose-y) verse Story poem 3.25.22 48 lines, free verse, originally |
| Leaf-Shadowed Leaf-shadowed crossroads brighten the longer I pause -- indecisive -- but nearer a sun setting, knowing I'm prompted to choose when to push forward into that good night. It won't matter what road I travel. An autumnal tide washes me out of summer. Humidity shudders. Breezes brush lines of starch linen where the child played beneath her gathered skirt, a white envelopment in fading light. 6.16.24 When I finish with this one, I'll add it to the Memorial collection for my brother's celebration of life this summer. Former title: Frost Meet Dylan On Your Journey To The Sun Poem in another form was the introduction of a now deleted Quill nominated Autumn Poetry collection. It's a blog entry now with all the linked poems that still remain. Inspiration is a Frost poem from here:
I would have read both poems, but before approach knew that each poet embraced a different style and preferred Frost over Stevenson...which I grew up on, read to me by animated mother at bedside. |
| when you look at a line of text and each eye wants to go the other direction on that page. humbled like the day 20 years ago, after sized for a walking cane, was taught to use it, led by a government employee up and down my block to tap, tap, tap the reflective thing like this and like that that comes up just under my arm pit to fit i don't know where it is now and i don't want to use it i want to drive a car fast i want to chase the orange globe across the hardwood, to dribble, juke, shimmy, side step defense and hoist another three pointer people hated me and my cane 20 years ago how can you be blind and drive? i didn't know the short answer and knew nothing would actually suffice i had never felt that kind of hate, but not hard to absorb with a gut full of the lifetime lunch I've had full it how can you write and be blind how can you be stupid and ask questions like that? no not that's not me i'm forced to think it, not how i was taught to react don't want these feelings I get for people who scorn a cringe-fool with their decisive judgment what hurt them? We used to say, 'what crawled up their butt?' that they want to hurt me? oh, well?? no strength to roll eyes anymore. I've written this much so far without really casting an eye to illuminated laptop screen above the keyboard where I don't see my hands either. I'm in my head and drifting away for the moment. I'm thinking of all the words I could write, places I could be, where i be cooooolllll.... back to reality back to here back to the same schoolyard mentality of judgment and have a nice trip, see you next fall or coming in just when everyone at the treehouse is having a vote and you get the gist nobody wants to ask questions, understand why do i envision a dirty, snot-nosed, twisted little kid? it's that easy to hate? how? oh, the good act. it's a façade. sad. i learned the meaning of gaslighting and true narcissism. i didn't need to understand, but i wasn't getting the message apparently, so i became a study of stupid people. I want(ed) to contribute, be a part, have fun, launch that orange globe so many times the sun never sets. Now, i put the ball down on the pavement, motherless and lay in the summer grass, cooling as black fills a vault over my sweaty noggin until 'up' isn't there any more and it's just me in abyss of nothingness and i feel fresh, rest and be happy here alone until some stone skipper comes along and wants to know what i'm doing is that stupid, i ask. they lay in the grass and ask what i'm looking at i describe it then we just be coooolllll.... if i have to be blind I want friends like You. 6.15.24 five minutes in my habitual dark. you wouldn't last. and i still review. i'll give it all away. but won't prove anything. at least, i know something. |
| I've already written a poem in my head, while prying the last peanut butter from the jar, before I could get new musings on paper...well, mostly and/or the concept of one...it goes like... can you tell the sand crab not to bury itself everytime you near? why would cuttlefish hide in the anemone? I hunker deeper in dirt each day so that each night the tide can't roll me out and drowix-thon me where no one wil see ...it's beeb moonless in this endless night 6.10.24 I'd refine and add more later. For some people, life is easy. For others, they a waiting to be reaped by the water harvester. I could add more or refine further later. My eyes dearly need rest. I have a six-thousand character review on an article to whittle away at and hope the sea doesn't swell to 7 before I can send it home tonight. Rest little puppies. and finish the PB&J sandwich. Jelly is next, after I open more PB. -------------------------------------------------------------------- I'll say or do something stupid (to avoid frustration and/or depression) in the days ahead. I early bury my head, if not to thicken a quick tongue, ostrich onset of the fogs of shame settling in over my crown...without a whisper of my crime. A gumball dipped in white paint looks delicious to a mouse, even after it's offered by an ignorant cat. —————————————————————————————————————— tell the sand crab not bury itself? every time I near? while cuttlefish hide in anemone? I hunker deeper in dirt each day so each night the tide can't roll me out drown my soul where none will see or find ...it's been moonless in this endless night …I’ve shared many thoughts while waiting… as the hydra hurls swelled form in black …air sucked out eternal anticipate… in bunker resembling cradle layer over layer year after unmarked year further go… …limb, torso, eye out one portal I spy infinity …do you feel the abyss between? I could ply a neutral surface, clean, calm… …I still wait and I wonder why write |
| The Red Canyon Heat rises on a dust plain, distorts wilt-flowers, the dry fauna fading. My bones warm when your blooms reveal, soul-heal each limb lit by refracted, amber light. You offer a lotion-smoothed hand, place inside a weathered mitt. Exactly the way I remember the first night, when you walked upon your father’s stoop. Your gait, still easy. I lack amble function. We walk the length of a solid porch. Our haven, shade where we rock, glide side-by-side in silence, in knowing, all though these years. A moment arrives so perfect, I kiss you. Any flashback since the day I was born couldn’t compare, witness your arriving joy, like the cicadas, tremor from invigorated rest. You stand to refill our lemonade. My hand brushes the soft underside of your boot-cut denim. I beg, “Please, don’t be long,” grinning like the boy. With sunsets as red as wood-glow fire, in our cayenne canyon of soaring rock, time eternal to the vortex clock. Sky washes starry-black on the bedroom porch. No hunger for dinner tonight, wrapped in silk linen. The sandalwood aroma drift encircles cooling limbs entwined, when I hear tender beating beneath breathing. You cradle a tender man, soothed. Stolen glances absorb calm of irises, color sunrise, renew these pale eyes. Fuel, the warmth of that hand, heating a soul's canyon. ----------- 6.5.24 32 lines, prose-free verse 6.10.24 some major, hopeful final, edits. 6.13 tweaked a bit more, tightened. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Imagine many years from now in dry heat of Arizona, I’ll put boots up, she’ll drop capri-wrapped sticks atop, idle in our solitude. After all the years, having spoken all that need be said, transmissions eternal will send between two sated hearts via quieted souls. Prompt: “They might have aged 50 years, but when they held (hands), those hands felt exactly like they did the first time.”
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| “Creep” Song Meaning “…about feelings of discontent with who you are as a person…struggling to find…identity…chimes "I don't belong here" and "I'm a creep"….the idea…subject is having trouble dealing with the social environment they are in, making them feel like a creep. The (part) about someone who is "So fucking special", and "just like an angel", isn't just a reference to feelings of unrequited love, and/or the pains of not always being able to have what you want. However, it is an allegory for how the subject sees everyone in the world as more special…sees…they all have places to fit into, which he cannot seem to find for himself. The subject wants to be like these people that he sees around him in society…” My subconscious works on me and keeps tapping me on the shoulder until I notice the underlying meaning in my words, whether they be poems, blogs, notes or email. It leads me to places like song meanings, thesaurus or dictionary, some cultural or historical information. Mind gets blown sometimes what I’ve been working on unaware. I’m hyper-analytical, don’t let stuff go until I can piece together enough circumstantial evidence to write a poem or story, chronicle my life these past 18 years. I just say highly functioning, OCDADHD, neurotypical all-the-way. Board wiped again and again. It just smears, getting harder to see my mind in the grease. dumb. No. disproven (how many years wasted listening to them? Instead of myself.) Impulsive, anxious, moody and depressed, but happy; alone, inside alone, inside lonely. It’s where I’m content, feel safest with these layers. If you’ve been under my coat, you are very special. This is why I either annoy, irk, frustrate, confuse or bore. Are ya sleepy now? What’s this button do?  But love, I have, receive in many forms…just don’t work to feed it like the naive, fresh faced boy chasing a cat.  ![Merit Badge in Write From the Heart
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| On audio book number 20, I could tell from her eyes she was still not home. Doesn’t listen to romance, close enough to spin to dance. I know she’d give the mystery up, if I offer my hand. But, middle of the day, sun burning, she’s far, far from my horizon. By morning, I’m late to get up. She’s had her first cup. I text, not sure if her ears will heed calls of the late bird, pleas of attention. ‘Whatcha on?’ ‘On to twenty-one’. Where is the fun in words you can’t see without words you read with your vision, decide right pronunciation, character direction, accent and tone and proper inflection? Read between the lines? Guess.What.The Writer let-be-known without stage direction? If something in the wings awaits her attention? If he offers a hand, fear for misdirection? What plan after 21? The night sets, and I fear the morning comes. Sleep as late as I can to find she’s moved on, with more land, water and sky to displace me to unihabitable, remote island, dared to send wisp-smoke signals high, sketch this sky before blur epitaph, ‘please come home’, as an exposed fire’s flames die. 6.2.24 {dropnote:"I’m just holding out"} Until words will spill out. It’s not hard to rhyme, afforded the time. Wish I had places to be, People to see. Limited Is me. Wo Yeah…no, be… Deliberately dramatic…poignant, sentimental, done ironic yet tragic (seriously). Satire no longer inspires… I just seem to get to do what I want nowadays. Where’s good ol’ conformity? I’ll sit in my cage. Okay…that…that right there…go any way you want. I’m bored. So, I just put myself in jail. She read the poem before this. If I link, she looks. Ask for a review, Not anymore. The poem before this … ‘I got a chuckle.’ Best comment in a while. Now, I leave it, her, kids, be. This is dad’s thing. Everyone, to your neutral corner now. TMI/don’t care Tell it like it is, get sat on I emote and write. I write to emote. Self-inflicted (book title?) Hmm. |
| Title, my darling: I’m not having a second cup of coffee because of your dad. When we visit, I have to take that small cup. From cupboard where I’ve stared, he extracts and places a small ceramic receptacle in my hand. I eye it from the ground with frown. By the Keurig, cold it stands from early morn, a near empty pot. But, want to top off the cold with new brew, via K-cup, temper temperature right. He’s been busy cleaning one dish in a standing soapy bath, dishwasher idle since Thanksgiving. Now, I’m in his hands. I must have a pillow-creased, dull expression, as he takes over the machine, because I press to send 8 ounces of Donut Shop delight. He says you want 10, it won’t fill. I say, I like 8. Press. He can hear me, in my space, but like he forgot our meet at the summit less than 30 seconds ago presses the 10 button again. That’s how he does it. That’s what is right. I have an opinion, but…keeee-errrrr -- it flows; down it goes. Not enough room for creamer, when it tops to brim. He’s moved on. I bend at the counter, siphon, lips to rim because of him. But still, spillage, and lift to discover my loss, loosed to glue-bond laminate. And, from over the sides more brown goes. Hard to stay kilter, if not always off. I sip and wipe, mop the cup round left to right, at least twice, to the flat under, and return sop wash rag to an empty sink moat. With one hand squee-eeze, rinse, hang flat a crochet cloth on swan-neck, water breather, only to see more brown puddle a work-space. One more draught, set it down, clean again before area re-zoned habitable for … After awhile, finally recliner-adapted and content, I decide...my first decision of the day of my own? Merge last of carafe with my luke-leftover, and nuke, and compliment the freshened brew … savor with elapsed time in cranial expansion — horizon finally arriving. Just, not…quite done. A brief respite from living room, before return … when my right hand pet dethroned?! I’m sorry. My coffee no there. To the dish rack, surmising before the realization: on left resides that cup, clean per standard. It’s nearing noon: mow the neighbor’s yard, bring in another’s mail, drive another vet to dermatologist with your wealth-of-heart, busy-body man. Never leave half your life blood in a container alone, at your in-law’s until it’s high noon. Strike that. Never. Ever. 6.2.24 6.8.24 edits, mostly structure, articles and small grammar changes 6.2.24 Okay, I can return to normal activity, after I get out of this Griffith jail. |
| I Was A Thumbsucker I was the kitchen gadget taught to peel potatoes, sacrifice tender epidermal, layers of youth, seasons-hardened. Growing hands gripped her paring knife, learned pressure, how sharp a blade — clean sever, cube neat — undressed tubers. Kisses salved a thumb. From forefinger to thumb, sharp slice vegetable not the beef of a brawn lad, summers spent on a hot sidewalk straightening nails for dad. before there were food processors, not a need for one, a fascinated, culinary-prep observer willingly lent hands and regenerative tissue. Still count ten whole digits, employed as human wattage, who spared a whirl-some, electric meter, and by pennies reduced the utility bill. 5.29.24 I wanted to insert some logic about cutting away rather than toward yourself. Potatoes didn't get done that way. Hand-cradled those puppies and split them like atoms? Forget the atoms part. Wattage, Brian? Equal to 1 joule per second...no, not julienne. Though, we did have a fryer. For the geeks (the electricians already know *shrug*): The watt (symbol: W) is the unit of power or radiant flux in the International System of Units (SI), equal to 1 joule per second or 1 kg⋅m2⋅s−3. |
| Neighborhood Murders If you asked me, crows have always been planning to murder. Have you listened how aggressive they beak-clap-caw communiqués? Not a hush-tone from limb of loft-leaf space. Deployed air crafts, they float, land, signal intent, calling out coordinate positions. Am I the only one from vantage of a kitchen window perch that suspects they’re plotting something? Optimized, cranial beacons eye-hunt the weakest of neighborhood denizen. Does a ▼ It’s not just grain; murders committed need protein, half a winter starved. Foul, feathered, wolf pack, they waddle, as if whistling, wings behind back with discerning wonderment — shoulder, skip, hop-step, wary of anyone and the whereabout. Quick-ducking under blossomed crab, night spawns in shifting shade. One lingers alongside parked vehicles — eyeing the street, gives an all clear, ready to advance, when I swing the door wide, laughing, witness the slick lot, chest flop two-claw pop back up, swoop-soar, hollering in flight. Back in flock of pine bow row, green-needled, their area masts mask — yet, quiet nevermore, the sense: they spy again where the next murder shall be. 5.29.24 37 lines (without dropnote) for Shadows and Light entry this round 47 lines total I had fun writing this, so much reminding of my mom and how she could animate stories in spoken word…her nightly performances at bedside. I am still in awe of those storybook treasures. |
| Terrestrial Blue Mystery At the epicenter, everything pain, is a be-strung man singing a refrain. whether he is free, he does not gloat. We may nod, emboldened, feign to free float. No nobler in the mind than you or me, away from the wreckage none ever see, on that highway flung apart carelessly from spark sung song, come echoes endlessly. Our fate-gripped wheel fool-held by two bound hands. Mind’s scattered, verse to verse, to distant lands, where we’ve been spun to the arms of mother from twang-tongue it hung, ‘you and me, brother’. Hills and valleys paved, strung miles of cable, ‘neath bedrock, o’er clouds, driven by fable, gather grey-clung to the asymmetry — blue terrestrial sounds of mystery. ‘Love better’, opined his drawl, if at all tight to her apron, we steer from that call. 5.28.24 Was going to be a traditional sonnet after I got started. Now an extended iamb piece that I can call Sonnet XL Idea: we don’t communicate well, but did when radio and music were influential. Since the advent of all things divisive from internet to rules of work/sports/engagement in judgmental gathering, comes voices that can’t agree (hold a hand up, too dumb or obstinate to gather info with labels, buzz words and made-up minds choosing either door A and B), and don’t step up like before, except for what’s obviously right/politically correct/rely on influencers to be ‘taught what’s right). We fail mother. This is not an all-encompassing, generalized suggestion, but another wake up call to talk, keep your mind open, don’t be quick to judge, shame or participate in shunning, by hate or ignorance, without due diligence to know what you are so sudden to rapier. Could it be, you’re just tired of it? Now, back to endless hours of streaming, virtual life-support. Thinking of a subject of a forum…yes, some people are more important than others, because they are enabled.. However, clean living will get you more money for that spare kidney…where there’s a market. |
| A Fine Mess Perfectly fine answers echo the room. Because, perfect IS the enemy of good. And it stands to reason, fine is associated with perfect, deemed better than merely good. Yet, the mere utterance of good as response suffices. Nowadays, perfect, alone, reigns supreme. So, why get all tangled up with fine? Their expression may be discarded as archaic. If perfunctorily pretentious perfect punctuates positive response, then fine and good go at each other. Good wins. Fine behaves as sniveling or sycophant little brother. Good be cool, modifies with merely, or not. The contentious pair had partnered as ‘fine goods’, yet few noticed or cared. They split when perfect hung around too often. Fine, then! Good, I hope you’re happy. Good merely split, while fine stood behind a perfect fool. Eventually there’d be scandal. Perfect retains status, speaks to the common good. Merely sidles up, time to time, seeing perfect union to soften long-held public perception. They sometimes coincide. Perfect, meanwhile, is elusive, vexing, could team with good and neither would care — come together or not. Merely fine might be seen together, when it’s discovered none are monogamous, let alone synonymous, to realize: none are perfect. 5.17.24 There is stuff I write, and there’s stuff I write. This is something I wrote, still and always working on. Hope its good enough for you. Or not. Its all good and fine? |
| Not a pretty start to the day when the shit storms of May come early. Profanity. Sorry, Gord. Placeholder Title:”BS Bunker” Now: Candy-Crush-Life Saddlebag bullshit camps around me, spares what it might from the sheathed armor of publicly distributed weapons: disdain happily employed by co-workers, intimidating intimations of bill-collectors, or horn haranguing, motorists raging, vying for the coveted fastlane to…? Anyone might have mad-cow's dis-ease — flies buzz around a hot-light-bulb-brains. In this house, sealed within, are the really insane: resentful children, spouse, mother, father, in-laws? Words reverb the thick padding, walls of ears' echoings. You can’t pack with enough mud; hide in your bunker: clay, lime, sandstone, vat of sangria. Seek refuge within quarry, behind granite rock, remains of lost meteorites, all blown to smithereens, rubble in grime-dust. Or, retreat to the crystal caves. Bright gems wall eyes for hours. And diamond, fucking diamonds! brittle as glass, tracked by networks, hyperlink clicks, the geo-positioning. Heat-seeking shrapnel screaming, shaming your name! You’re just a boy in bright pajamas again: different flashlight, probiotics, but still colorful crusader comics. Hiding in the tightest, darkest recesses of closet-head, you have seen lifelong where horses and cattle fed, scoop BS remains, packed in army green knapsack, all school daze backpacks, and the accumulated life luggage. BS brims, beautiful savior of high piled excrement — to your rafters, filled until safe, unseen by naked eye, or those equipped with scope, angling full you. Your BS need apply, as self-preservation deludes. Lay forgotten in shithouse-sewer-rubble, and BS, forget even who you are. Holographic stench-heaven lower, wafting from blurred sky. Wisp cloud trails blind two eyes dimming, sinking red-lava-globe still tempting to dream that fourth dimensional arch slide open, gleam brilliant avenues paving escape. Something happens after decades in that BS hole. A mirror reflection? One squint-eye opens? much like the coveted gem that cedes to pressure… implosion, explosion occurs…and what’s the difference? You arrive from sanctuary-purgatory a different man with your stink, befoul the virtual neighborhoods, workplace, shopping plazas, crush- compactor house. Anywhere, free to congregate, delicately defecate your art. It won’t remove the stain-smell skankier than skunk, but if one nears, they should know what they’re in for. Acquire a taste to risk. Bear heart, soul, all eminence to judge, jury, wannabe executioners. Giggle-swing in that galley. You can’t be killed for a greater love, greater good, right or wrong. Witness yourself. Testify. You’re a diamond now and black, flawed as they come. The fuck with them. 5.17.24 You do not want a machine head, but… I become semi-consciously aware (but not slow my writing) lyrics looping through my head…’breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in…’ muffled ‘blood is like fire, wine?’ What? And ‘disease’, the hard rock panic, climb-apex with swelling pace, before tempo change, wind down, instruments quake and rest near finish and go right back, indiscriminately to places in song, whether near end or hover over chorus/open. No meds, one cup of coffee after decent sleep. Aware all the more this dull, quiet morning (peaceful unrest). I’m used to it. A lesser person…? I guess I’m tough? Why soften the statement, Brian?  All…one finger tapped on iPad. Can’t line fingers on keyboard — what breaks me when I try type, can’t see words go up on screen, or fingers, or oops the caps or number lock buttons. Disable feature somehow? Irony much??The interior of this poem is being written separate…speaking to the influence(r)s from year 1 to death. Why we become liars out of self-preservation. Why we fight by any means for our share, earned respect, when told FREE! but duped, unfair. Told to act citizen-Christian, if proclaimed, held to higher ideals. Or, be labeled hypocrite, phony, criminal or worse for being human by folks who judge…because…? Who won’t risk as I have, cowards. I seek forgiveness from loved ones and God. Simple: ‘Thank you, God. I’m sorry.” From my heart. He knows why. I know and I work daily to be better, overcome what attempts to antagonize abd provoke. It’s akin to being spat upon. None other will I cede to without mutual honesty. And not my place to speculate, say from this limited perspective. Never assert…again. But, likely to err. Soooo. But capitalism over consumerism, I’m going to fight the power until it is just and/or acknowledges without BS any truth I can accept to loosen my grip on those shitbags. Poem interp: Protagonist is BS and poem demonstrates how one might use it to get through life as comfortably as possible, just worse. Doesn’t make it just, but flawed. (Now I’m thinking of Limp Bizkit, ‘We’ve all been treated like shit…’ and the provoking words that follow. Not intention of poem. One thing leads to another when you’re me.) Unspoken: truth gets dirtied up. POSSIBLE ENTRY for Higher Ratings Contest when done. Poem with commentary. |
| The Nails/Hood Nine inch nails drive into my skull, reverberate subconscious. Words perfectly recaptured in harmonic head amphitheater cascade memory after memory of are you worthy, did you serve well? To whom I owe debt sometimes unknown. Feel a cur, bit the ‘master’ that fed? Disembodied hand hammered away at those spikes. Relentless, life taught where face meets dirt. Do I stay down on my knees? No one’s Jesus, or piteous child-martyr, I’ve been staked, shard-fractures with flesh- driven, unwilling to die on any mound. What’s left when deep, shiniest dreams cloud, drift away? force you to decide what must be given chase? see obstacles, you, feeding the impulses. Disgrace? Sufficiently aerated by blacksmith steel force, I can look you in the eye with no remorse. If any spirit resides, it rests, rejoins with what remains. Look beyond whatever manipulator, shame of meager words launched ethereal. Know false crosses faced. I know when and where I died, repeatedly self-resurrected from each crime against one who reverbs soft, smooth, restores whole. Stronger than before? Too old? Bring a nail gun, mortar shell, atomic missile and tell me where to stand. But, I request witnesses hear you read me last rights, and let me look direct into the eye of each — so I can stare deep, get a glimpse of each simpering sycophant suckling teats of self-proclaimed gods — if just to shudder how dark sadistic satin's aim. No grave, no holy apparition will be seen. The invisible nails cowards send in palms deliver no pain, but seal their own future fates. 5.16.24 https://songmeanings.com/songs/view/3530822107858531883/ The sound comes up in my head this morning and it’s the emphatic lines from ann artist who decries the hapless sheeple nations. And yet, the simplest cliche questions emphasized by a haunted voice and cacophony of arranged, punctuated music does as little good as Bono (unless you credit him for Mandela’s release and brief reign). Better tune than ‘Feed The World’. My Immortal always plays on the flip side, if not memorializing, self-healing, where your pale pity will not suffice. I provide my own shroud of words that testify a lamb can be slaughtered more than once and still have an ounce of blood not drained into your chalets. Metal Cased Hood up, lights down. I’ll suck on that straw before that next round… P.S., no one is your master. You can set yourself free and remain healed. If it feeds you, eat if you must. Don’t lend loyalty to the owner who does not embraced you as equal. Respect is emboldening. Given eyes and ears to earn a heart as friend is endearing. To enter a contractual obligation to embark on new journeys together decides the other’s fate. Fate. Fuck it up brilliantly, if all fails. |
| The Rising Days Days our weather changed, soaring 30 degrees hotter, and climbing past noon, we tucked long pants in sleeves of light jackets, their arms loosely hugged our waists where dared hike. I ran faster than you, but waited up, when you called me back, slow down. I encouraged you higher. But, with no lemonade left, sandwiches gone by nine, your interest declined. We snacked on strawberries instead, hiding below red-tinted camouflage leaves, beneath parabolic-strung power lines. Black wire navigated our summer lives from from camp trail to hidden creek alongside that lonesome stretch of tar. Her beloved cattail sought, spied in hopes of uncovering love and what it hides. Slip shoes swamp green and muck black, stomped off what didn’t stick on dry reeds. Running out of time, this alluring remote place hid time with her rules, and you left. Only the sky wouldn’t eternally illuminate before I ventured alone on my own. Punishment for this strange fascination to spaces unknown did not bar a sun bleached and red boy, trotting in and out of that 50-acre wood. 5.14.24 still raw, not fully conceived Not like many of you when so enthralled that ADHD sent me with every new notion, a bright-eyed Angel who would trace each scene to the next in search of love like truth in days of innocence and the arrogant ignorance slowly rendering hard a misguided heart. It still resides, because the man always entertains an adventurous, aimless boy seeking, who’d do anything for a true friend who shares a similar passion like love. |
| White Winged (revised as prose poetry) from the pandemic I hope you know darling I can't be the wild garden butterfly haphazardly flapping white wings before your aromatic hyacinth, lily of the valley bell sprays, amid Spring tulips daring symmetry. Other hand-me-down heirlooms long tender hands to weed, divide, surround your beautiful, wide eyes envisioning eternal symphony nearing like infinity. In an instant, we are taken by nature. Gnawing hare, herbivorous hoppers and humpback haulers inch close with voracious appetites - like mine - consume collected bounty of beauty, too. I'll be white-winged wherever you are, flow, but separate from our past, move beyond, fade forgotten into your blue, clouded vault of mystery - beyond yellow dust of towering pine, swaying, judging — worship ash ground, soil mix, ever-loving, always nurturing shared desire of blooms opening. Graceful, garden butterflies return — kiss you — and your unsuspecting love labor. Coda The most beautiful melody at memorial you can't hear plays in an empty row, eternally alone. You clutch my hand, as if knowing my suffering heals your own. In bed each night, in earth silence, know you tenderly clutch my soul's remains. Sometime in 2020 |
| Hunting All Over Again tell me to stop writing poetry, this useless mind-fuckery, the all consuming journey to self-discovery through artless muses, crafted by idle hands from a troubled mind, as life could suck the yolk from a man. aiming and pointing these words at the world, is like shooting at woodpeckers that go round and round the bark, so i can blast a stubborn tree with the hand-me-down, 4-10 gauge-whatever-shotgun given one winter to drive deer toward his blind. in a white out, i fired and fired at the annoying bird echoing his labor in that pine edging my trail – pristine morning path to shack where he sat, drank coffee, read porno he thought hid. did he wonder about all that firing from a feckless, flanneled, fifteen-year-old without a red trappers hat to own? dry, because of bread bags he put on my feet to protect tight boots with holes – damaged from kicking too much snow and ice. my invisible march clomped toward him, he with loaded, high caliber rifle. his long, metal casings could pierce an animal my size and put me down, put him out of misery from a meandering boy zigzagging through hovering wood, bored with setting fires, releasing my groggy summer bees collected in Bell jars, or severing little brother's thumb with hedge shears. took way too long to arrive, dispensing every shell i could load, before deciding throw away the gun before i kill someone and returned to camp to clutch a pen, circle and combine jumbled letters into visions to soothe an aching head, throbbing again; find another way to put meat on the table. life's not as easy as a gun. 12.17.22 Now just 20 lines! 5.13.24 restructured as prose poem for publication seeking justified prose poetry. |
| Rigid-stiff, green-sieve-bows lift, sift snow high on mountain pine. Thinking of:
Riffing off this, maybe present an approach from the visual inspiration to see what words tumble down the branches. 5.14.24 I also have dyslexia of numbers. Spelling of every word in the English language is memorized. |
| The Barking Kafka Postulate Kafka’s gun is barking at me. I think I’m gonna go off in the second act. What’s my motivation? Ask the author of me who improvises all things, provokes and manipulates me into action. I could kill my puppeteer, but then I’d be dead. And would I be resurrected for the matinee? Hoping for writer’s block. I should get out of bed. 5.12.24 Writ in a few moments, not fully realized. Just like a barking Kafka gun. #Writingforwriters |
| …and stumbled in early day (series?) Down the hill we run, stumble, fall — tumble, roll, get up, run to the meadow, amid the flora, wild as us, where we play. Still tumble, fall down, early day. Bee stung, we run up the mound to mother. she packs sun burnt skin in mud to ease the pain. With a band-aid and a pat, told, ‘go outside. It’s a nice day.’ We wouldn’t want to waste the sun, where we climb, granite bluff. tug at moss, salamanders scurry away. In dense wood, red-faced sweaty mopheads, chasing tree toads, hopping fern to fern. Few caught, in pockets shoved. We hear her holler, and we run past pines, up the walk, deposit shoes relieved of sand, by the steps of the sheltered truck. We can’t sit just yet. In the kitchen, In our skivvies, she picks them off, one by one. We’re barely bitten by anchored bugs. Dad pretends to eat one, then it’s lunch. 5.11.24 5.12.24 really, midnight For my departed brother and upcoming celebration of life When your sight-impaired, thick fingered with tablet while inspired…nothing gets in the way. Give me a blindfold, tie my hands, I’ll peck with my nose. Meh on talk-to-text. |
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Brian,
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