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 |    12.3k views, 2xBest Poetry Period. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind. |
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...white-hot coruscating genius that more than once dipped its proverbial toes in the obscure. https://ew.com/recap/community-season-3-episode-16-inception/ T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ You get hungry as a seldom published author/poet/lyricist, so quit pedaling words and just enjoy the writing process. The bullshit ‘process’ of submitting is submission. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My  goes through — R S = 2 G M c 2  ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~   ————————- .How I see myself create…in the zone: Writing ▼ The beautiful mess made: I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. - me Neurodivergent poet ▼ Best Poetry Collection ▼ Been more than I could imagine or expect here. Why Mail It In? In Latin ▼ Pluggers: You are an icon here.  You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer.  And other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "The Absence of Wavelength"  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—too much work with ADHD, OCD, low vision in condensate in mental prison of failing memory. I’ve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Cynicism bred, work hard at openness and consideration. ![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.   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 #lyrics #music #video #YouTube #awardwinning 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 ▼ |
| Idle Adoration/I'll Sing To You I'll even you sing you a poem whichever of the many I wrote we could cool beneath maple limbs if you'll tell me why you chose him I'll sing you about my dream tonight of one on whom I'd wish to dote you can continue view a love as granted or be still here in magic near the root the summer can inspire passion's reflection just like the butterflies deflection how pretty we sit here, thirsting what the blooms beneath could offer -- us I'll play you with harmonic strings whichever verse chosen that compels you we two could sing a chorus together long after the sun dips, light streaks from dusk to twilight to night you could have these words vibrations echoing my love so true in morning dew I'll know you at least stayed the night Autumn arrival will come soon enough where still lyrics foster in leaf parade The frost will be too much for you my words keeping warm as long as can and I'll sing you this poem, too I'll take any requests, if I only knew would you have loved me as much if you knew? my dreams true, longer than one season I'll even write odes to you long after and whisper your beauty into black sight One last tender touch on the wing remind words nothing to what you bring I'll sing these nothing words to you if you want me to, in idle adoration. 9.15.20 inspired by three Kacey Musgraves songs including: beginning with: "Mystical Gypsy Moth-Laden Tree Of Yore Only I Knew About" |
| bridge avenue quiet-thumbing your song in a bustling throng all week long vibration echoing memories spared in a funnel of resistance when you come to a bridge and stop traffic heart broke, lungs work it's noted as we stop you could sing sweeter, echo respect on avenue to city dwellers they might be on break in a hurry, back to punch that clock you strike with something worse I might be the only, standing here quiet return, strumming, I notice you never looked up -- all day long, vibrating hummingbird I could kiss you slow, hush our funnel of resistance 9.15.24 re-listening to Kacey Musgraves' Slow Burn, and coda relating what it feels like to sing pain with strain still aiming for beautiful and find the one notices is me, how I wish I could find solace without silence within resistance where you hide until a maelstrom of force emphasizes essence lifelong building my own city song Haven't done 'coda' in awhile |
| The sun smothering persistence of one hurtled into your atmosphere ~ permanence ~ until you relent. Be prepared to lose your breath as I resuscitate you with eager lips' ~ emergence ~ in response you tremble assured in love's embrace. 9.14.24 As it stands for now...as I coined it earlier along with: Maybe, we shouldn't expect love and witness it's arrival like serendipity. ~ Me, just now. [Refresh to load countdown.] |
| Snails leave entrails ~ sands of time an endless journey. Mollusks, like emails, still endeavor. Unlike slugs, don't disengage ancestral luggage since forever. Evolved slugs, nanos faster, less outfit, not trailer-hitched like snails with weight they master, shouldering their sweaty buggy on the beaches where its muggy. Go ahead, hide frail snail, in your calcified jail, easy prey, no delicacy ~ unlike slug, like a bug, snuggles in bark and stone, a flat-like wonder. Special reproductive functions can compare in this pair, hermaphrodite to asexual. Freaky, funky slug and snail swing or sway, go whatever way. Where they lay, either stinky ~ one straight, the other kinky. Lose the Winnebagos snails, and we'll collect them along those trails left by rectum. 9.5.24 25 lines Edge: Slugs, post modern funk Wild Card: Snails, classical The main difference between slugs and snails* ▼ |
| The Two-eleven arrives today how it got started, no one can say with a low hum it now starts to come envision steam like a lonely bum Within earshot, I know what to do pine for beverage about to brew since we don't learn how it's timing works Keurig coffee midday has its perks. Or I could just shut it off, pull the plug 9.2.24 this more like, what the readers want?  |
 I'm aware the promise to always love you was the moment you opened your eyes and saw me with what wonder. You, new to the world, and me, new to awe of a small hand reaching, grasping a thick thumb — the next moment recalled. I was unaware, when it became unwritten promise I'd teach you everything. Yet wondered how you grew, somehow — as unaware, how that voice would sing after gliding where we rowed many hours logged in our green, comfy chair. From that window, aware and hoping all of nature could see but not compare to the love you'd given me. How confident legs ran right for open arms, well aware you'd plunge my chest like the deepest ocean bared for you, protected and spared any lurking evil should it ever dare. All too aware, prayed where we read together in a small bed each night, a fight coming to stay alight, struggled in those sands together before free of that fog remaining hours logged by her to dream you forever. Laying aware in silence, finally convinced of this marvel, not dread. Wonder of dreams that charm the crown in cuddled plush, slept tight to grow up right. My lifelong friend offers hugs, with a grip strong to soothe slouch shoulders, stiff of neck. Aware, you'll offer anything, beverage to bring, snack where I nap and gaze the autumn tree, ponder its colorful arrival. Truly aware in this phase, the ease to laze in our old chair, unplanned adventure possibility yet before winter white paints the step. Awareness now, cocoa clutched, the blanket on my lap. Garland and tinsel greet needles and rails. Your words adorn shortest days. Brighter story, a melodious tumult with cadence marches from a resonating man's chamber, echoes love undying, with knowing — you're aware. 8.26.24 58 lines It's been forecasted; what I wish I could have offered: "fuzzy word" At outset, written to Pachelbel Canon in D with reminder of the classical musical mobile above his head on the carpeted floor where he learned to reach, see those lights lit when touched and old dad singing his full name in 10 easy syllables to Mozart's Eine kleine Nachtmusik. |
| Running's Not The Answer If you have a hankering, still have that taste in poor men, ask around, ask any, when you see me. I might be the worst of them. If you need to get away from your dead end part of town, ask around, when you see, I'll be around. I might be one you can count on. I've had my share of ups and downs. I've had my heartaches that gave a frown. I could have drank, tore up this town but never had one like you around. If you still have fire-like passion, and find need for one that disappoints, know. I intend no harm, as you see the light. Accompany me, to help you through your night. If you need to get away, because you couldn't find your dream to stay, ask around. I'm around, but please remain. I'll can be the one to count upon. I've had enough of ups and downs. I don't care if you break my heart like them, as always celebrate freedom to roam. Take my hand; spin around these rooms. If you want to really just get away, come to my open arms, so I can whisper stay. I'm too strong of heart to be broken. Just trust yourself; lean in as I pray. If you still have a need to get away, it's okay. But, you should do it on your own. Call or text me from wherever on your cell phone, so I can remind you of home. 8.9.24 Yet another human story. "Note: 48-HOUR CHALLENGE : Media Prompt Deadl..." |
| 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. |
 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.”
Entered at another contest, too. I think judged and not placed, so hold on for those if you’re a loser contest…  |
![Merit Badge in Write From the Heart
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Congratulations on winning [Link To Item #2093224] May 2024.](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Write_From_the_Heart-2121477_14.gif)  In Truth: Your BeautyI'll write you sonnets if your eyes will see. In beauty's hollow, words seem oft restrained, Unstructured toil, aimless, fails true glee, As meaning's essence cannot be explained. I'd run amok in fields of words with glee, Harvesting life's treasures, small and grand — Untidy dreams fall through my pockets free, Ceremonious, placed within your hand. Green-legged blooms in your tall glass are shoved. In well-sprung water, words commit my love. As heart-dedicated bouquets reveal, No better words will capture what I feel. In pure truth's essence, words may not suffice, But through this verse, a soul now pleads your voice. --- 5.22.24 14 lines, sonnet Took soul of a failed poem and made it the engine of a sonnet, in renewal. Nod to Keats’ visions, with a bit Shakespeare. Don’t read past… here////////// --- prison door --- //////////Inside asylum Either way…or both! Eloquently, I try to make you see. In dreams we’ve met, loved so perfectly. 1st draft ▼ iamb iamb iambic ~ still it comes... The summer burned our skin just like a torch Passions raged in shade of mother’s porch Smolder-steamed beneath the waterfall. Limbs entwined on grass with bodies sprawled. You know…you were there… A picnic set on grass would go to waste. Inside two mouths, sweet tongues spice-savored a taste. Our clothes came off…remember? Etc. etc. tired now ▼ |
| 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. 5.14.24 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. Written Sometime in 2020 "Re: EIGHT - 06.10.24" edited eight line verison |
| 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. |
| I haven’t worked out all the tpyos Impulse Control One minute I’m trying to do something, the next minute I’m trying to do something, and it just goes on like that. One time, I realized I was in the moment. So, I looked around to see if I had found God, wandered and got lost, and haven’t found my way back since. I’ll get a selfie if it happens again, record the moment. What? I should just remain still and enjoy it, let it wash over me like a shower? Gee, I hope it’s not someplace cold or public. No one wants to see me naked. Nirvana would be nice, though, if Kurt Cobain wasn’t dead. I had two thoughts at the same time once. They refused to collaborate. I get why dogs chase postal employees or squirrels, and cars. But what’s the deal with them hating cats? I think it’s the other way around, because cats probably prefer the Foo Fighters.  (book title idea: Dogs Jam With Nirvana…)How’s it going Dave Grahl. Sad when NBC replaced your song. Then brought it back, but too late. Ed was never the same again. I think when we find love the world ends, fades to black. Ed knows what I’m talking about. Dogs, too. They like the Police. Always in pursuit. Hey Sting, or are you Stung now? To do do do. Ta da da da. That’s all I wanted to say. Is there a lyric to dummy translator on Google, or the other away around? I need to fix my poem. I’ll edit later. What a minute. There’s a dog staring at me. The cat is looking at me like: just don’t do it. Or, it went to sleep. Can’t tell. Oh well, another epiphany is around the corner. Just don’t want to get caught with my pants down. I’m getting better with navigating the sharp corners, even when eye don’t see them coming. I should have ended well before 5.1.24 What’s the line limit, Kenneth? (think I just got hit with something) Rather, 53. For actuarial Porpoises. Something I worked up, since a thought. I like the Eagles Of Death Metal now, or yesterday. What’s today? You can’t just write something with line breaks and call it poetry? Poetry is in motion always, somewhere. Think it’s Physics. Einstein could probably work out the math to prove the Big Bang offspring of my mind as more than theory or my relative. Can I stop now? Only 23 hours and fifty minutes left, when it continues again. You get in my head and see why I’m a flake. But not a snowflake. I think people don’t like those. Gets too heavy to shovel like these words, prose poetry? Nap. Cat? P.S., you know what takes longer than coming up with this? ML Writing Should I add color, italics, dropnotes? My iPad just shuddered, or my forefinger. Can’t tell which. Probably conspiring against me. At least I have the cloud. I think it’s going to rain. Good God, man! I think that means…(digitalis interuptus veritas) If I separate my body from my head, what do you think spills out? Blood. It’s blood. Right? More — words? No, blood. Final answer. I feel good about this. Sorry, sorry. I’m going. He blessed me with my wife of 29 years this summer. Okay, it took 20 minutes. ML less than five. Will I get my life back? Sleep?? How’s my run-ons, Mom? She wasn’t listening. Guess I’ll just have to repeat… |
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Realize someone somewhere (everywhere and anywhere) has it worse. You won't hear me drowning out their cries. I confide here, look for others who relate. I question what drives me to share, need to be understood with this obtuse, oblique language. No amplifier or soap box needed. Joy is in doing the work, connecting dots in brain…puzzles I forget, repeat. It's catharsis, this discipline called writing. I assume that's why we're all here…? 
— 21
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— 29![Merit Badge in Shadows and Light
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A huge congratulations, to you!
You have won a very deserved Honourable Mention in [Link To Item #shadows] , round 112 *^*Smile*^*
Rachel](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Shadows_and_Light-1936078_14.gif)
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Brian,
Congratulations! You won 1st Place in [Link To Item #shadows] with your fantastic poem, [Link to Book Entry #1037176]. Fabulous writing!
Rachel](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Shadows_=38_Light_II-1936078_14.gif)
— 9
MAY 
37![Merit Badge in Coffee Award
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Congratulations on placing 2nd in [Link To Item #2182602] with your poem, [Link to Book Entry #1031722]. *^*Coffeeo*^* Kindest Regards, Lilli](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Coffee_Award-2149524_14.gif)
APRIL 
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Congratulations on the third place win at [Link To Item #hpc] for your poem: [Link to Book Entry #1030482]. Thanks for making me laugh, and keep writing the funny stuff! *^*Bigsmile*^* ~Lornda A.K.A. The Queen of Comedy *^*Crown*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Humorous_Poetry_Contest-1875103_14.gif)
MARCH 
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CONGRATULATIONS for winning 2nd place in [Link To Item #2254385] !!](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/genre-Contests-235.gif)
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Thank you for your participation in the 48-HOUR CHALLENGE: " Thank You by Dido ." Media Prompt hosted by [Link To User support] March 2022! We appreciate that you tackled this challenge... *^*Smile*^* *^*Thumbsupl*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/WDC-WDC_Media_Prompt.gif)
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Here's to a world where we wouldn't have to keep reciting the words woven in your excellent poem [Link to Book Entry #1027990].](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/Kudos-Good_Things_Take_Time.gif)
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Thank you so much for your poem [Link to Book Entry #1026670]! Please don’t ever stop being you, both as a writer and a visionary of love!](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/genre-Gay_Lesbian-680.gif)
JANUARY 
18
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Congratulations on winning Best Medium-Length Poem, Free Verse in the 2021 edition of The Quills!](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Quill_Award-1375927_6.gif)
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Thank you for your generous donation to [Link To Item #quillhome] ! *^*Quill*^* Every donation is used to celebrate WdC while recognizing quality work and acknowledging community involvement. Kindest Regards, Lilli](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Quill_Sponsor-1375927_6.gif)
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From [Link To User jayne] : With my apologies for the Redaction Poem prompt mishap. Thank you for taking on the challenge! I hope to see you next time for a redaction-free week of fun at [Link To Item #dailypoem] !](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/general-Problem_Solving-210.gif)
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Congratulations on being our Honorable Mention in March of 2022 at [Link To Item #2216416] !
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A work of art which did not begin in emotion is not art.
― Paul Cezanne
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