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 |   All that remains: in afterlife as 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. 20k views |
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Obshchak Some torn to the ground Some burn to the ground Others removed brick by brick Redesign for the times When the lease comes up Or just fold up When you have a bad day and need a reason... Formerly: New Zenith To Hell…(all started with arc as writer here from the trials of Rising Stars to Preferred Author to WDC Quills Best Poetry Collection... "Whoever fights monsters should see to it…he does not become a monster.” - Some guy, I guess. Look it up? I’ve been to the abyss and back. Not so bad. The loneliest happy person you'd ever meet, when not the saddest person who needs to be alone. In an ever-changing world, we need to handle topics at the ready. If you roll over and give in to the narrative without lending a voice, might as well hand over your civil liberties. Voices could connect to true conscience and spirit for honest and open discourse. Why feel so redacted? Unify on issues or don't but put drama aside. Open minds require complete objectivity. Or, agree to disagree and have a beer. Just writing what I feel without the narrative-altering mind f---ing with my head. [MY Chorus] In your house, I long to be Room by room, patiently I'll wait for you there, like a stone I'll wait for you there, alone - Chris Cornell, RIP Some other stuff ▼ My recent poetry:
Sometimes epiphanies about my insights on writing and life and what goes on... Blah, blah, blah ▼ ![Merit Badge in Rare
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I like your work!](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/general-Rare.gif) Thank you WakeUpAndLive️~Happiness  for honoring me with your kind words!Read here some old blog entries...  2018 Highlights ▼ More... 2018: The Quiet Ones ▼  Brian K Compton notes an echo~  |
Apologetic Postscript Of A Year Later by Robert Louis Stevenson IF you see this song, my dear, And last year's toast, I'm confoundedly in fear You'll be serious and severe About the boast. Blame not that I sought such aid To cure regret. I was then so lowly laid I used all the Gasconnade That I could get. Being snubbed is somewhat smart, Believe, my sweet; And I needed all my art To restore my broken heart To its conceit. Come and smile, dear, and forget I boasted so, I apologise - regret - It was all a jest; - and - yet - I do not know. |
Before the boys wake the refrigerator hums discontent -- furred, snarled dragons ply smooth, dead floor about idle, be-socked feet -- hardwood surfaces plateau from toe to eye glossy, forlorn in chilled autumn morn -- our clear vestibule prison warm, satisfies Before one voice unwinds silence uninterrupted night already nearing -- mindless echoes still chirping draw dragons' eyes out return their desires chained to domestication in padded sofa/lounger play land Nearing the crack of pipes emerging mechanical waterfalls an empty hull longs fill to the brim with expectation neglected brown coffee cold Thoughts ▼ e.e. was right about i though We never met. 🤔 |
| Conor boasts He jousts A feisty tatted Irish chap? But he surely busts The fourth wall Because in many a Shakespeare act A second chance Livestrong Able nobleman Not caught in a lie But how one does try (Like a fool) Redeem oneself Then double back In another act Hmm, looks Scots to me Must've broke from the clan Give me my stead I'm off! 'afore he sock me in me eye. You wouldn't beat up a bard? Old, blind man?? Bad try, mate! You bet your Bollocks! Never say McGregor near a boxing ring Nay, 'tis a charmed life Watch 'im 'awk 'is whiskey. ESPN left out one detail from McGregor's past in story announcing his 'comeback' (cue LL Cool J). I think the last graph of the story today explains why: http://www.espn.com/mma/story/_/id/24746406/conor-mcgregor-cashes-new-6-fight-uf... Let bygones be bygones. Let's make some cash! Brian is such a cynic. https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/McGregor_(surname) https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theatrical_superstitions I wish I could use this image: https://www.vectorstock.com/royalty-free-vector/conor-mcgregor-mma-fighter-vecto... his mugshot is public domain!  |
| I woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep when I realized I had Bonnie Raitt on a loop in my head. Mostly it was the chorus, possibly reminding me that art rejects this dreamer. It could be I'm stuck idling over stuff that's easy to do rather than tackle the monster that's been alive in me all these years. I might pine over a what-would-have-been woman, write her odes she'll never see. But, it keeps coming back to me: what I'm afraid of, intimacy and the ultimate rejection of that which we don't have the mental fortitude to master. Maybe, never had or never will sail that craft. Wrong metaphor? Out of place. I looked at at dark wall for about an hour, tossed. I knew I could disturb her, in every sense of the word. So, I went downstairs for a respite. Even after telling my wife and daughter I was getting published last night, put on some enthusiasm so they could appreciate what I should be joyful about, I had that gnawing in my gut. Seeing a poem in print isn't what will suffice. My brain didn't negotiate what the dreaming mind keeps relating at 3 a.m. When are you going to write her? I had a dream about her (LuAnne) again the night previous. My mind is deceiving me into believing we live in two altered worlds. The LuAnne I knew and the story that could have been, at least about her. I had a scene play out in my head that would be the climax to our story. I had woke and was jotting it all down when real life reminded I needed to shower for an appointment. I wanted to revisit her, if even to reread the notes. Reality kept us apart. Though, she didn't disturb my slumber tonight directly, I was reminded I was neglecting her call...the true vision that could make her come to life. I've wrestled with the story, thought about it from all perspectives. The thought of wading through chapters of disjointed material...it's difficult to separate what really happened to what I could imagine our outcome to have been. That's not something you toy with, like second-guessing if the life you lived is worthless in pursuit of one that was not. It was a path not chosen. No sliding door references, but a portal keeps opening to my past and shoves me back to pursue a woman seemingly unwilling to meet me. So, it's me, not her calling? We took separate trails. But, all the odes I've ever written, the one most prophetic is hidden in a folder somewhere, begging me to try again recapture the feeling...so I can move forward without her once again. And, my mind will always come back to this place at three a.m. when I'm not thinking anymore about why she didn't love me. She did. It wasn't in the cards. Yet, she (me) haunts me some nights, but leaves me smiling. She's not really gone, you know. As long as I wrestle with writing and some kind of acceptance to validate me (acceptance that I must validate myself), I'll be stuck with this misery. Maybe, I'll stop getting near to others in hope of the same kind of shared intimacy only to shove them away once I've had a taste and find it doesn't compare...(don't you dare sing, Sinead!) I'm lost like Disney's Stitch. I'm prone to break stuff like David Banner when he's Hulk. I'm running through a village chased like Frankenstein because I'm just too damn ugly, I shouldn't exist in anyone's garden. Stitch finds love, the abomination of revealed science kills his master (or gets a bride, you choose) and Banner will be haunted forever unless Marvel has the decency to kill him like Spidermam (although, like D.C. and Supermen, they'll bring him back. Just wanted to make you feel something since we're all getting bored with all the super hero nonsense and it's like a billion dollar industry). And so... At 3 a.m., after I exhaust these thoughts, I'll sleep, wake and sober to these meandering internal reflections. Are you ever going to write her, Brian? Afraid to rebuild your monster because you might kill her, or will it destroy you? I'm guessing this lifelong process of wrestling with the art of it all includes suffering, brooding and a need to be misunderstood...yes I like aloof! And because I can only access a friggin' iPad, I type with one finger as fast as I can, making sure this stream doesn't close. It's closing. Adieu sweet ghost until deja veux? I'm sorry to all those who have to suffer when I'm around...like a moody goth teen. It's easier to accept your rejection than realize I'm screwed up and am forever figuring out the coordinates to this portal so I can just get inside and destroy it...or forever merge with it. Just had a flashback to 'Eureka.' Look it up. What I struggle with:
Written 30+ Years ago |
| My son is taking AP Lit in his senior year of high school. He came to me with a poem 'Crossing the Swamp' by Mary Oliver that was a task master and said, "Okay, Dad. Explain poetry to me.' We got distracted with dinner and other obligations, so I decided to write my discourse on poetry to him, hoping it will help: To Alex, Why watch a movie called Titanic, if you know how it ends? There is more to the story than beginning, climax and outcome. It's about how they got there, what you experience along the way. A poem can be like that. A poet wants you to feel what they are experiencing, but they don't want to just shout out the answer in these never ending games of charade. You have to guess. But, who's going to tell you you're right? It's like working a New York Times Sunday crossword alone now. You figure out the parts that are easy to understand and place them next to other clues and puzzle it together. But, the whole time, you have to remember, you must stand back and let this wash over you. Don't strain too hard. Because a poem is like a painting that can be wild in color or muted in tone. What type brush strokes, canvas? In essence, what is their medium? Is it traditional rhyming (feel good) or free form with line breaks putting emphasis on some words for extra meaning. How do the words layer over one another like the painting? You might feel better as you go along collecting clues, assembling them, getting a general spirit for the writer's game. In the end, they want you to feel something in your gut. It's experience. If it's something you can't relate to because of lack of experience, it would be hard to feel empathy. Sympathy is a tool for those who can feel your emotion but cannot relate. Everyone (except, maybe, sociopaths) experience joy, pain. This is why reading poetry about stuff you know will help you understand/feel poetry -- poetry that uses form (can be lyrical), poetic devices (personification, imagery, allegory) and those words so cleverly paired to give us coined expressions. (Just Google Shakespeare and you will see.) I'll end with this, for now. I can explain further in the days, weeks, life ahead. But, I wrote a poem in college that was my rant about people confusing my writing for greeting card stuff. Though, it doesn't prove my point (it would take many toils to come), it describes what a poem was to me then. My 25-year-old self to my near 18-year-old son: What do you make of a poem? A poem is a poem, is a poem, is a poem. Is that all you can make out of that? Wherever you roam, you roam, you roam, don’t forget to bring a hat? A rose is a rose, is a rose, is red, now dead. Now what do you make out of that? You killed it with your drool you fool; slobber from your face you spat. A dream is a dream, is a dream, is a dream. What a scene you made out of that. You killed it with your vision, division; television spawned the illiterate brat. I woke up one day, saw daisies, a meadow; a brook full of leaping trout in their raincoats, trying to land on hooks. Caviar bellies splash on the cement, bake in the sun. Now what do you make out of that? Nothing? I see you, I dream you; you’re just fiction. You breathe my air like gas, pass out from fumes too real for your kind of imagination. So what do I make out of that? A poem is a red rose, is a dream. A poem is a field full of fish in raincoats. A poem is nothing but what you see; not television, it’s fiction, too real for your imagination. Now what do you make out of that? Indirectly quoting Gertrude Stein while thinking about Shakespeare: https://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/15900.html
Truth is elusive. It makes you doubt it exists. (Your current dad) |
| Imitation is the sincerest form... ...Edwyn Collins updates the Len Barry tune of '65 in '94 with an eye to Iggy who inspired the song when he was rejected by an intriguing woman. But, many still claim 'Mr. Pop' wrote and/or performed this song, keeping a discophile myth alive... Myself, I thought it was Bowie until I was corrected. I'm an Absolute Beginner  |
| Poem to be available in future ekphrastic poetry collection. I'm up to 2. Um, I might have a third on a series of Kiya's images...when it turns up Sorry, it's gone. |
Looking at these private colleges and all the shiny incentives they throw at you reminds of that sleek Cadillac of envy that would be a dream to own. You sit down after presentations and tours and go over all the options and start to think it's doable. They laud the kid with their presidential, top-of-the-line, merit-based scholarship in high figures. There's a chance of an elite education, to rub elbows with greatness? Getting a fuzzy glimpse of this teen's future might make a person misty-eyed. Then, when those numbers go crunch, the gap between tuition and grants still can't match the cost of a state school. So, you go back down the block and kick the tires on that Plymouth Duster...again...and a BMW buzzes by. I imagine 'I'm a proud alum of...' frame on a vanity plate. Meanwhile, 'the kid' has just spent his tenth straight hour on the X-Box. The light of a fading day pours in as I enter that room. His pupils constrict as I greet his dull response. That's when the vision of owning a speed boat at my new cabin on a lake arrives. He found his passion. Maybe, I should indulge my dream instead. |
| Linguistically functional isosyllabist by prosody, vers libre. |
 Poetry is an improvised dance arrived from years watching, yearning while swaying in restricted garb to each inspiring melody until one day the extended hand begs cut loose to your favorite song. 1.14.18 |
| I'm tired like you girl -- bitch when someone aims with hands cupped to lift your shuddering, bony skeleton with masses of fur balls tight to tender hips, half shorn where clippers could free neglect, no longer reached by rough tongue. Lay flat as a bear skin rug in blankets near heat vents. I would. Swallowed in burrows low and away from foot traffic, never lift your head when the door sends its arrivals. Dreams come no more, waiting winter. Can't remember when you could survey a cruel world from atop the dresser, snuff out prey, clamp in wiry jaw, when you had good teeth. You still eye that bowl by the water. Still hungry like me, I see. And when I have leftovers, if you're there, stray luncheon meat or cheese lays at your feet. |
| Since me and rum departed and me and coffee united, I still need breath mints, teeth whitened, a new disposition on life, hope, serenity knowing someone can accept me: clothes wrinkled, hair unwashed, fingernails torn from biting, and one lazy eye: happy or otherwise perky without my latest vice. Maybe I’ll use up my Vicodin, liquor store closed until 8 AM, stomach detoxing from its bath -- over-caffeinated, acidic aftermath. I know we are all looking for a fix, because there is no solution for the emptiness within and yet, if the universe stopped expanding and collapses on itself, then there is no time to waste, because we will all be gone in an instant. No rapture; no afterlife, just nothingness. If that is our existence now... .... I'm sorry, I started thinking... .....what would be a better purpose for my time? To write or to live? if, no one hears me, no one has read, and no one will listen? If they even bother to get a glimpse, are they moved? If they bother to fully read, do they understand? If they bother to study what is writ, origins, do they seek discourse, agree there is a better approach to finding utility in this life? Utility. Boring. Lay down the pen, kiss life fully on the mouth wherever you roam, make no apologies as they have you fitted for white garments, drug you, lock you up. Perhaps, a better use of time on this disconnected, flat land, horizonless journey of a sterile existence... (toothpaste) ...I choose coffee, and Vicodin, and, when the liquor store opens, I’ll kiss life full on the mouth, maybe the sales clerk, too. Hope she’s pretty. Sorry, men. Sent from my iPhone to my iPad to Writing.Com email to my blog What a circuitous, meaningless journey. *white noise* No *static* Yes I've made my point abundantly unclear 'You're Welcome' ?  irony you are free to misinterpret, roam your own existence now. |
| Was going to write something for Daily Poem (he could say every day). Can't seem to keep up with the prompts lately. But, still hashing out the contest's instructions in my thoughts, I come up with something totally unsubmittable. My mind keeps going in different directions when it wants to express... Out the window Orange and black parka walks a leash Russet flat cutouts twirl on stems hung precarious, sail off Waves of brown ponds crash Two black circles spin about backward-rolling chrome Sent away by roar of compressed pistons Fading down the street A lamp glows inside the pane A hollow, colorless Picasso image emerges Looks upon a doubtful man An organ fires inside its cylinder Never ending, never casting off Always, from early hours to early hours, Viewing a streaked scene. Rewrite: Out the window: Orange and black parka walks a leash. Flat, russet cutouts twirl on stems hung precarious, one by one sail off. Waves of brown ponds crash. Two black circles spin about backward-rolling chrome, sent away by roar of compressed pistons, fade down the street. Dim lamp imbues the pane: hollow, colorless Picasso image emerges looks upon a doubtful man. An organ fires inside its cylinder never ending, never casting off. Stalled. Wheels spun out in the bloody mud from early hours to early hours viewing a streaked scene, glass frosting over a sound-deadened amphitheater. |
| Appease You? (Perhaps, My Epitaph) They try to find a metaphor to indirectly say what they mean Lost, I want to speak like them, in innuendo Nudge Get what I mean? No. Sigh. Try again. I paint pictures in words, without directly saying What I mean. Been done before. Okay. I pour my heart in staggering words, upheaved a torment From a storm of thought that took years to arrive -- An entrail of unhealthy logic exhumed from my soul. We don't get you. Who am I writing for? I simply stare out a window where I write, don't think And everything I've ever worked for spills out on a canvas My repressed thought bubbles, spews Volcanic And I harden. If this is what it takes to get through to you I'd rather walk my loving pups across the sands Of some temperate beach than even approach a thought To appease you. Where's My Audience? Shout Here! if you're tired of isolation in a desolate world of thought. |
| Should it be toilsome to hold you in our hearts? Should it be a very bad life for us, if we don't carry that concern for you in our hearts? It is our struggle to please you, while trying to take away some satisfaction selfishly, for ourselves? in how we live? If we do not carry your heart in our heart, how light then the burden? Once weighted do we lift at all? separate from your gravity? or eternally earthbound to see your eyes know your will none greater than our own permeates the tender shell penetrated deeply and often (catch your breath here) because our wings are shorn once we first realize the necessitude of cohabitation with one who so dearly plays with our heart, our soul, our mind (here, too) as if we have none, nothing to share but be enslaved to cruel, centric master of our domain? Thank you for loving me in your way knowing my only worth in this struggle for self freedom is the innermost pressure that allows me feel I have lungs, veins thick, blood pulsing, heart pumping (inhale, again) from the struggle within to be sure I have not displeased one so kind to let me dwell near serve a hungry soul more dominating than a mere poet who mutters words as he scribes at your tidy, kitchen table. Should it be toilsome to hold you in our hearts? Should I have to explain? Okay, because it's Sunday. I'm on a spiritual quest. And, I don't want to clean the garage. That simply sparked my brain to produce an ode to a woman who doesn't understand why I cannot accept the conformity of her religion anymore. My home life IS dystopian...if you give her power over you. |
| I’d like to serenade you but you’re not my child Since these humble darlings could dream I’d play them a song sing along sang solo in the car in the yard chasing life swirling them about, anchored on shoulder in our living room crooning soft at bed when the hazy light of day could fill their eyes no more rubbing sore legs looking out those windows wondering will they be like me? I hope better; want better As soft as the cat that slow-crawls hidden beneath their bed each night I roam room to room carry my velvety pipes hoping the day doesn’t arrive too soon when they ask stop clowning, creating lonesome cowboys, owls in silvery moon beams, mocking birds or dazzling diamond rings and twinkling stars where they rock cradled in my tree tops visited each night to chase away fright, secure dreams they will be as good, no better than the old minstrel wandering their halls. 10.2017 12.19.19 ledit 6.21.20 ast edit |
Stoic stalk lowed by time Lilts in the dark cold Hard rain comes Pelts the offshoots Graying, too In a neglected planter Weathered, soiled and cracked Not made for these elements On the front porch Passed daily a summer long Long since adulation Now unnoticed Time withered away The hurtful memories In it's slow decay Unremarkable They don't have time for you They can't tend to a dreamer They can't mend what was lost A summer long Adulation now gray To a stoic stalk torn from pot Repurposed to stiff November earth The warm heart of Mother. For ~ Aqua ~ and "The Daily Poem"  |
| Damn cellphone So easy to write poetry to you Does it have to be in traffic? Muse thinks so Better than scribbling On a grocery receipt While exiting highway of delusion Thinking These words need capture I won’t recall Ignoring what Mama said If you can’t remember Must not be important But this heavenly device Talk to text Could secure even The most tragic thoughts Or My last moments Worth it? Muse seems to think so Or have I been answering petulant mirth of youth That child could never grow up Eaten but undigested In my belly Where I spare him life This wheel is so easy to manage I could set up office By air vent Phone accessibly clipped Hands free Siri answer me Can you open notes? She will comply My secretary Because In ten minutes of clarity Serendipity will inspire muse Play with the lonely child Transient in memory To try again understand Why he’s jailed In the soul of such a careless driver. Sent from my iPhone New Edit: Soul of a Careless Driver Damn cellphone, so easy to write poetry to you. Does it have to be in traffic? Muse thinks so. Better than scribbling on a grocery receipt while exiting highway of delusion, thinking, these words need capture. I won’t recall. Ignoring what Mama said, If you can’t remember, must not be important. But this heavenly device with talk-to-text could secure even the most tragic thoughts, or, my last moments. Worth it? Muse seems to think so. Or, have I been answering petulant mirth of youth? That child could never grow up, eaten, but undigested in my belly where I spare him life. This wheel is so easy to manage. I could set up office by air vent, phone accessibly clipped, hands free. ‘Siri answer me. Can you open notes?’ She will comply, my secretary; because, in ten minutes of clarity serendipity will inspire muse, play with the lonely child, transient in memory, to try again understand why he’s jailed in the soul of such a careless driver. Sent from my iPhone |
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![Merit Badge in Second Time Around Contest
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Congratulations on winning the Grand Overall Prize in [Link To Item #2164876] with your beautiful poem, [Link to Book Entry #933358]. This poem really moved me. Great writing!
Rachel *^*Heartv*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Second_Time_Around_Contest-2164963_14.gif)
In the Falkland Islands, internet is very limited and very expensive. The place I'm currently staying only lets me use it in the middle of the night, so when I have to get up at 3 am to check my texts (no cell service to the US here unless I'm on the internet) or WdC, I don't do nearly as much as I used to. 
I currently have 2 very long emails I still need to get to from several days ago. Anyway, I miss everyone, but I also miss sleep, so there's that. 
Have you spoken to the doctor about your vision problems lately? I know there are special glasses for it because I have to wear them to read much ever since the brain injury. It's part of why I now only listen to audiobooks instead of reading regular books. It took 8 years for anyone to diagnose it because I have a brain injury and while one might think it would be obvious to me that I see double, it wasn't. Partly, my brain does a fair job of compensating. But also, partly, you use your brain to realize and understand that the 2 images you constantly see are double vision and something you should mention to your eye doctor. Since my brain was damaged, even basic things like that can escape me. 
I never once thought to mention it, even with annual eye exams in the Army and an exam every 2 years at the VA. Though, in my defense, since it happens in something like 41% of people with a brain injury, it should have been discovered by an eye doctor much sooner. 
I know doing that activity is a CRAP TON of work. But you made a difference in lives, not just his, but for all the people he's reviewed since. 
Well done! 
