10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind |
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. August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼
No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼ 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 ▼ |
sunny wisdom seeps between hairy branches coming into focus through this smeary glass dull day oozing through crusty images obstructed view thick heat rises up from glistening green having received nature's early donations a disheartening vision scanning across a dry intersection focus on their cottages divided, quiet as yet when will we all wake up to greet another unremarkable day on this street with similar views out windows and wonder how to waste yet another day in lonely captivity? 8.24.21 i must care about writing again, because I'm adding punctuation (one way to gauge my mood)...but not add a line count because I don't care to prepare these words for judges now, or anymore (but Brian, how will your community recognition total ever climb? ) got to stop writing to music videos and get ready for another day of toil (reality)...not what the judges want to hear...next... |
I'm just going to go with this thought: I'm like that monster that doesn't know it's a monster until it gets a hint from the view in other's eyes. If they're not running from his countenance, they're hurling rocks, prepared to fight with a fire he doesn't bring. This man without a true mirror, who just feels, then acts, with his heart, stands alone in your cobblestone streets longing. Are there scars upon my face that I cannot see, or do I ignore what is as plain as the cliché appendage? Your fires reflect in these dull pupils. Your heat singes tender skin, blistered and ravaged by wounds of words I neglectfully cast, come back. Wounded in your town square, surrounded by visions of you not there, I sit upon the fountain's edge yearning the knowledge to understand why am I a monster, again? 8.24.21 What's more crude than a monster, those who would apply labels? That was too easy. Wrote in less than half the blogged song's time (longer to edit). Godless, again. Thanks Dandy's... |
The red Yeti fumbled, tumbled, sprung from the headboard, releasing a gusher from its top. Pepsi and spiced rum spewed a geyser in free fall into a steam punk hat laying atop the stove top Abe Lincoln lid on the carpet beside his nightstand. He longed for a refill more than a rag and detergent to scrub the scene of wasted inspirant, concocted earlier above the kitchen sink in dim, happy fluorescence. 8.21/22.22 Completely random and separate: &?@!#%&! Programmers And Random-nality Explained (Computers Cheat At Cards!) -- The computer’s skill level was determined by giving itself better hands than its human opponent. I apparently made up inspirant and wanted to include aspirant, though it will take a revisit to consider this. |
Can I build a metaphor for box springs? You lay it on the frame to receive the burden of comfort, mattress your master lays upon, pillow talks with. The grunt beneath speaks with dust bunnies, asks the child’s monsters be reasonable, covets the forgotten, lost troves daily unwitnessed, tucked away until the dread loneliness of cleaning day and a mattress flip. The dark and lonely domain is an underworld of under-appreciated castoffs from Eden by a cruel god who will hear no complaining of the strength it takes to hold all and receive no love stuck, devoted as each mattress sags, replaced for one more ample to get through the long nights. 8.22.21 maybe not while personified, drawing parallels to personal experience, akin to the doormat |
Write To This When I can't self-subscribe I dive into a world not my own to imagine myself in this space Walk away from that race When I can't get a handle into a life that doesn't jibe I visualize an aura glowing where my words get flowing Why won't they realize my eyes hold dreams they'll want to see to imagine a space together walk away from this forever What will it take to get comfortable in this happy, shiny bubble? Your grooves where I try fit where I want to get lit? Your song fades away... this pale look on my face... 8.20.21 just something I wrote on the fly... Track two? |
All the beautiful words collected in your basket, off you journey, handing fistfuls of glory to an elderly man in the park, partaking in final Autumn, to a child mastering chalk lines on cracked pavement, to a young couple nuzzling beneath a spying oak, to Earth, scattered on a dutiful, green lawn we all walk upon, wondering the meaning of all this. The sun glares down where the girl spills her own life beneath murksome reeds edging a film-green pond. The basket tumbles down the hill to meet my hand, trying to understand life's cruelty. Explain, why am I alone in this final Autumn. 8.17.21 10.1.22 edit written to Godless by The Dandy Warhols |
She would say how beautiful a sunset with our forest on fire. 8.17.21 |
Some float down as if from heaven, twirling, mating with the air, bouncing on the invisible mattress, slow spin back and forth to meet a calm green scene fading, present to onlookers like me. Some tumble through like wild gymnasts frolicking, colliding with hard earth, dancing about obstacles on their course, hyper join a swarm of mates to meet a village of cloistered inhabitants fading, appear before bystanders like me. Some take their time, as if mother won't let them mature, hanging lonely, a child absent after recess crying for a purpose in this late season, fear natural selection to pluck them from despair, cloy for her arm, hide in her nest, never to meet true heaven on earth, feed sorrowful eyes of witnesses like me who long to join you, and you, or you, but serve this perch by the window, now or for eternity. A dull heart fears go out to play, as if some final day leaves, in life viewed this way. 8.15.21 Cued up a song, thinking I'd blog about a basketball life at the YMCA and was disturbed by other thoughts, also cued up and ready to roll. |
Weight so heavy cripples Inertia on this floor smooth linoleum comfort No argument here Face flat on a cool surface by the door locked Dust collects on skin less like flesh Never bother get up Always feel a cool surface a dry stream purge Carry me down this alley avenue A hollow heart grinds blood Hollow head grinds grist of thought slowing beneath a table shadowed covered surrounded by empty chairs a wide kitchen hush lost village a ghost town Me and dust Tumblers fumble The dull door unseals Through that portal all lost to another time Stand sober Crumbs wipe away Excuses to be made? Why? Just, why? fantasize in such a primitive place where no one else can see me? Though where I wish be found before primordial decay 8.12.21/8.14.21 edit 52 lines, too long, too unstructured for any contest I know of. It started with six lines re-edited into oblivion and taken over by an imagination that tends to get lost while seeking its way before sobering reality sets in. Or, I might just be talking out of my ass, as they say. Ever just laid on the hard floor for a temperate place to let the mind wander away from reality? You can't think like me until you're willing to let your face lay with the dust bunnies. |
Should I be bitter? I'm a mix. It's more interesting. You cannot cultivate a taste as I offer the core of me, sliced, yet not bleeding out. 7 Should I be scarred? I have a remarkable body, more interesting than the pale flesh next to me blathering about the weather, the ball score, some political rant none of us have a hand in. 8 Should I be vexed? Not at your disinterest, though I'm curious what makes you tick, tick, tick. When, do you go boom!? Will your remains be strewn in bed, in your car, at your desk where you're chained nine to five?? 9 Wait, shouldn't I be asking the questions? No time for contemplation about that. I'm about to take another bath, lather myself in this vat, remove dull oil and tar of an ordinary world, sip my weight in gin mixed with something sweet. Cherried stems top my treat. 10 Guess I'm done. 1 8.5.21 34+1, if we need to keep track. just rambling now. Though, I think an attempt at social commentary about my newest rant about illiteracy that abounds in a community that proposes what? be ignorant?? |
No one eats cheese as old as me. If I were wine, too precious to uncork. I'm not even allowed on a shelf, locked away in a cellar with no temperature variance outside 52 to 55. You would think I'd be eyed by all the lovers and dreamers of special concoctions like me that took their time to age, bitter yet sweet, though not tempting enough for all the passersby who barely get a hint of what I'm eminating. Reflecting, deflecting in the dark in the corner, in my purgatorium/cemetarium, wax me, cork me, full of life's scintillating nostalgia, but, oh no, not for you who dines with store-bought cheddar, aged 90 days in resealable cellophane, sipping a glass of twist top Moscato plied from a pulpy bath at an industrial vineyard. I'll age a little longer, inhale some of what I'm breathing, as I cozy up to dark, bourbon mash. Enjoy your microwave corndogs! 8.5.21 Hmm, ageism? Not so much in this community, me thinks. Yes, I made that word up: http://ninjawords.com/Cemetarium Pinterest it like Lou: https://www.pinterest.com/louhellbaby/cemetarium/ Where are you, Bethany? You should be reading me. |
I make no apologies For my humanness When under duress To find a fit in what Always feels like a new place. Faces I can’t see, Let alone envision, Never materialize before My wondering eyes. As I bumble around, Step on your shoes, I’m making every possible mistake, Shunned by some who Don’t know the first thing About compassion for a fool. With perceptions so long In the making, Can’t gravitate, elevate without This awkward rambling. Aiming for clarity, purity, Feigning perfection, I'm lonely, rejected because I Cannot assimilate. 8.4.21 |
Are you real? just like the images that arrived before your appearance, now standing by my arm? so near my flesh, my heart? How could I ever imagine you? materialized? in this scope where I look out? seek you? A thousand puzzle pieces could not assemble a vision so pure, so real, forcing me not to believe what is real — the flesh of you, so near a cavern echoing, filled with your multiplying voices, calling so near my beating existence. A river of blood absorbs your impactful light. Let me take a moment to breathe, as if my first inhale of the most premium air. Let this be my life beginning again. Are you real? or imagined, like the poem? 8.2.21 xx lines, x verse Written to Pink duet (aloof on title, they all sound the same), half dreaming if ever to meet a celebrity like her, how we would communicate, knowing it would be difficult to impress upon someone so in demand. You would have to openly declare this, why they would have the feintest interest to commune with words I could share. Since I'm making stuff up, I should write fiction and get paid. My net worth is not in a well stocked cache of managed funds/accounts but in a heart devoid of the true appreciation of just one who fully gets me. |
Young beneath the stalks your dad’s garden we hid schemed gathered in corny forts free silent We heard green grow between the ears sunny yellow inside our heads shaded from a sinister sun The toiling man with his hoe told us to go shooed us like rabbits into other yards we spied as we played sought the tiniest nooks crannies that held our beating hearts bedamped heads where we fled from imaginary foes tussled like heroes into the dusk an abyss of time seldom glimpsed before light fled through onlooking trees down to the ground Though we did not dread dark just a scolding Where do you hide now? 7.31/8.1.21 40 lines |
the color blue: markings on a pale wall by the unhinged door. gentle notations rise to meet another in graphite on satin-finished trim. darling with age, no cleaning agent dare scrub unless we give this house up. the first day, you stood obedient for an angling stick atop your head. she reached beneath, scraped in permanent blue, while your backpack laid idle by the closed door. your brother, three years before, ascended by graphite. dark markings intermingle amid your rising blue. such hope sends a gaze reflecting on those first days, your noggin and wide open grin, now foggy mornings of yore. every marking inked, as high as it will go, on the finish with a final date installed, I now realize the potential of you is a memory, not the future anymore. 7.31.21 34 lines To my darlings, Myles, Camden and Madeline, wherever they may yet roam. For: "Monthly Poetry Contest" |
Riddles Like Bath Bubbles A life spent placing myself on a path to serendipity, hoping to capture uniquity, reinvent a cliché language like re-equating a theory of relativity, reconstructing riddles of math, long since solved, without its rudimentary roots, recreate for minds exploring a future and not the past, when I simply need live in the present for clarity, sanity, watch the other scavengers collect clues, as I solve this game in my head, in the shine and gleam, never having to tell what I’ve found and what I haven’t, a sort of serenity -- bath bubbles you cannot clutch. I'll never thrive on your divinity. 7.30.21 One sentence, run on, to make a point |
Cool White Dawn We were looking at charred remains, embers not as bright since a chill dawn -- still white smoldering -- nothing compared to the colors sparking a black night. A fuel-soaked concoction, once enflamed, glowed romance, softened eyes, brushed hues on two pale faces. Rose-boned skin inspired by wood used up. We lingered too long. Now this thing is ash. I ran a grammar checker over this today and it wanted to change 'enflamed' to inflamed. However, the only distinction between the two is that 'inflamed' is more commonly used in the US, while each is defined the same. So, no errors. I still struggle to see how this poem lacks in competitive value. |
Saw/buck In my mind, the places to find money unclaimed and free, that I found just for me -- came from the street outside a place to eat, under cushions of the couch, hidden deep in the pouch, or, in a wallet owned by dad. Would he miss one if I had? In my youth, when I lost a tooth, a fairy stashed it there, under my pillow with care -- a sawbuck just for me inspired toothless glee, smelling better than laundry. Yes, crisp and fresh, sometimes I wish I saved it in a bank like a Swiss franc, earning interest annually -- but, not so in reality. A sawbuck for me, was enjoyed merrily. But, they're all gone like the end of a song -- each fed to the alligator, the depository incinerator. Memories of that cash, now dreams up in ash. Fun Facts ▼ Sawbuck ▼ The Writer's Camp Static Version I Deleted ▼ Fun Facts ▼ |
Writing to myself so loud, as if you’ll hear. ears burn down, disintegrating words so hot... you melt, excite, invite me out of these woods amid owls who don’t think like me, don’t believe I’ll make it through this one long night. bones chill in rags, ill fit for a vagrant in evergreen, who wants to be seen by a clean white moon, muted by clouds, but soon piercing a scene, hoping you’ll defile this nature, should you liquify, as I spin words measured by reason, crystallizing hard in wide blue eyes -- this stature thawing in your view, a silhouette until Luna hits me right where I take my stand. Melt with me where we could be one. 7.21.21 28 lines, free verse |
Another Highball Down Savor Where is the love? In a highball glass? Or, straight from the bottle? Is the love in mixing the drink? Is the love in offering this concoction to another? Watching them enjoy your liquid creation? Life is however you mix it. Love is however you choose enjoy it — either in the preparation or in the consumption. The bottle is never empty, my friends. 6.04.19 Addendum... But, I'm currently out. Because... it's a magical refillable vessel that needs needs a little time to, ah find the right combination of sunlight and shade away from the deciduousness of it all? My mouth...er, keyboard, that is. 7.21.21 (TD+1x3(2)) not equatic? not equasible? we can't define everything with our diseased minds (I really hate this process) Please, Brian, don't google all the values for a period in this construct. Let it be today. Resource: "Glaring" I plagiarize...myself. |