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10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind |
Making sure everything goes down with a yank before someone has to sit where I've been at. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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 ![]() 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! ![]() ![]() Published four times with one a literary journal, including… ![]() ![]() 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) ▼ ![]() ![]() ![]() 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: ![]() |
While we're being handled, spun on our chairs with fancy words whirling 'round, better strap yourself in. It's a nauseous ride, if you're going to get to the other side. 7.21.21 a date that is twice divisible by itself. what I call an 'inanity', or one of my inanities. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Lumped In: Awakenings I cut my heart out and hand it toward them. Stupid boy. Put it back in. We only need your blood. The eels slither, smile, caress my flesh, soundless, suck, suck. Leaches. I’m supposed to enjoy this. We like your taste. We’d like more. I’m learning this is my giving, wither and pale, grow scales defenseless against the swarm. 7.25.21 Decompressing thoughts to phone on road trip today. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- about me, mostly one day i will knock upon your door where you reside to say hi looking for answers to complete one mission in life a journey for answers and why i had to come all this way to understand me and you |
Flushed Words circle a drain to drown. In your bath, I sink, Stainless. Perfection washed clean From hands that toil For you, You consume in this bath. Unworthy, I watch the tap open A deluge upon My head. Unable to consume what you call Your love, I spill down the channel To a dark dimension, Space afforded Fools like me seeking True divinity Only to discover A sewer runs through My sentences forming words Of grief. I am flushed In your stainless drain, again. 7.13.21 It is what it is 7.18.21 Poets Needed: "Invalid Item" ![]() |
Consumed, Hopeless Each retelling better than the next? You know the feeling but not the words, as you’re consumed to relate to a tender mind like yours who says, I know. The one you’re with, not on the same page, shames you like the ignorant, tells you how to think and not question why you are trapped in this lovelessness. Looking for the one, holding on to hope, straining out the windows of life, you see scenery so still speed pass, wondering, is she there under the apple, beside the dappled mare, riding the smoker tractor beside an idle farm, seemingly calling you to breakfast, but it’s late. The moon rises. The sun has no time for this meandering, wandering that doesn’t visualize purpose, while your soul, consumed, settles for zombies taking the last of your pale flesh. Don't lay down! Run! Daydreamers consumed, hopeless. 7.13 7.18.21 not worth improving this Poets Needed: "Invalid Item" ![]() |
Yet Leave her alone, boy. Let her rest. She's had a long day of cleaning up your mess. This life she couldn't put straight. Your brain probably can't contemplate what she's gone through since she first laid eyes upon you, a bastard produced from a loveless marriage. The fights, her wails echo still inside your walls. You're too ignorant to notice. My anguish not yours to inhale. Leave it alone. Go back to bed. She's badly bruised, but not bleeding, Yet. 7.13 7.18.21 Written during Long Hall, purely conceptual about the different parts of a schizophrenic brain negotiating with itself not to panic after self-abuse. And, I'm fine, too, if you're wondering (narrator speaking). |
Speaking To The Lonely Strippers Why unburden your soul To the damaged stripper Holding the pole in thong, Bedazzled by sweaty glitter, Nipples bared, blush-red, When you don't see her broken heart, Masked in its agony of sweet grinding In the room, On the chair, Over your pressed pants To rhythms thick with bass, Produced by empty minds Earning their own bottom dollars, while Masturbating regurgitated words To a lonely, uglier audience deprived Of sex, of love, just Like you, lifelong? You could at least tip more than the recommended gratuity. 7.13.21 7.18.21 final edits 19 lines, freeverse I used to lust. Now, I want to hug them all. Speaking to myself as the party of the first part. Just think inner dialogue. |
The Bath Again Another day with back pain, no medication But sweet Rum that/which Can temporarily touch/reach Up to my neck in this Boiling bath -- An organic mix bubbling with stale Flesh and a mind's persistence, nurture These aimless words, a blend Of grief and bliss, while An ever vigilant brain, vexed Tries remedy but can only reminisce When we were whole. This was my universe. My planets aligned around A holy, loving, warming, Fiery body gleaming In the morning, fading, tagging off With a white moon rising, Checking in on me, I could feel luminescence On my face, soul -- Permeated, adjusted as We all rotated together I'm in my bath again. It's welcoming, Not reassuring enough, Just yet. 7.13.21 7.18.21 edit more or abandon? Autobiographical |
Until Then, For Your Love You held all the love, all The offerings of A lonely boy, Eyes fixed on Your every movement until You could feel the weight Of my gifts In your accepting arms Weakening like your smile that I see falter Like the light in your eyes that I see dim A gaze tightens, forms lines Around your mouth, below I see form upon Your exposed hairline I speak But your mute button pressed view you scan the channels In the sky For another For forgiveness For tempting a young boy, needy For your acceptance, For your commitment For your unconditional love I can wear out a welcome quick I can wear on a soul I can wear you down I can wear this heart on my sleeve Until then. 7.13 7.18.21 More edits coming. Stalker-y. |
We listen to him personify whiskers on his face, narrating how they escaped the razor. Wily, spry, gray rebels sprung free, sproing! from the shadowed, pale patches in unchartered regions 'neath his chin and cheek that mock a groggy, wrinkled face, before black brows muscle up on his forehead, when he's stopped, reminded again, that it’s Sunday and he is not yet dressed for church, if he's going. And so, his shadow darkens the hall back to the bedroom to start the morning over again. He rolls open the top dresser drawer. Two black socks peer back at him. Are we going to play? 7.18.21 19 lines, freeverse Something I made up today from the poem open about my personifying and narrating that can both amuse and annoy, though mostly the latter, if you ask them. |
Compromise, you say, finger waggling, begging me to walk your way. If I hesitate to follow a temptress, what about my worthiness? Give up, you tell me, lying on dewed grass, tempting me to roll your way. I could lay a blanket for this vixen, but what about my worth? If I give up, If I compromise, If I forsake my art for someone who really doesn't want me, wants to know they control my soul's offerings, be my guide, will I get lost? I only see steep cliffs where I'll be a lamb lead like all the rest. It would be sweet death to be done with you, but I have worth. I have pride. I'm stubborn enough to walk you over, kiss you full on tender mouth with a spray from waves, lashing and licking an eroding shore, then push you to your death, because you deserve it for weakening my resolve. But I won't, and I stay, and this game continues this way until someone's dying day. May I see you in hell, dear. 7.16.21 random write after listenign to boygenius in previous post. |
![]() Breathless Start -- Throbbing heart, ruby-throated romance hovers above the hummingbird feeder. From a bay window viewed, amid evaporating dew, a field of daisies tremble when summer breeze stirs. Will you depart? How we're apart; my heart near yours, separated by clear pane. Hum, flutter -- I hear myself mutter, don flip flops, gather a picnic lunch. Chase a dream? I'm trapped in a scene inside a foggy head by this vision of you. Hum, thrust -- How you must notice me, too, arriving, vibrant, green angel? I'm not whole. Muse, heal a poet's soul, given flight as morning yields to a white sun burning. A sky so blue, I must join you in the pleasant shade of evergreen to write. Hum, flutter -- Wings melt like butter, fade to the backdrop -- a steadfast soul inspired by summer. 36 lines you name it, rhyming verse Writer's Cramp prompt 6.24.21 with thoughts of poetic inspiration from a rare sighting.
Also, Another failed poem from Stormy Poetry Newsletter contest of yore. |
The whole world filled with suckers looking for something to follow. Here I am at your doorstep, a basket-baby reject by those who would not raise a demon. Will you rear me, let me stray onto your carpet of philosophy? Pleading, tell me how and what's right. Why do I bear such shame in helpless plight? You take me in, your odd duckling who blindly follows you deep into night, sure to belong, never wrong to carry on your purposed fight. A world full of suckers live by rules, sometimes recanted philosophy. You say they fit as a round peg in a square hole, just like me, who dares nibble fare at your set table. Questions aim, looking into gray eyes, sequestered long in a dimming room, divided by maddening walls of doom, and what you believe best for me, from what I know is right. I'm a sucker, your bastard child, alone divided. A square peg in this round hole. You never knew I could be so bold, as I'm to learn now beg forgiveness for this acquired, unfit obsession. 6.27.21 29 lines, your may hear rhyme, but mostly assonance in this free verse piece. You didn't think I'd conform, did you? Writer's Cramp prompt in bold, though as to the actual idiom, as a quote: Kenelm Chillingly asks, "Does it not prove that no man, however wise, is a good judge of his own case? Now, your son's case is really your case —- you see it through the medium of your likings and dislikings, and insist upon forcing a square peg into a round hole, because in a round hole you, being a round peg, feel tight and comfortable. Now I call that irrational." The farmer responded, "I don't see why my son has any right to fancy himself a square peg ... when his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, have been round pegs; and it is agin' nature for any creature not to take after its own kind." — Edward Bulwer-Lytton, Kenelm Chillingly, His Adventures and Opinions[ from: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Square_peg_in_a_round_hole On any day you can learn something, unlearn it, learn correctly and move on. But, who's going to correct us? - Brian K. Compton |
little bird who took shelter in your welcoming tree, the innocent one drawn into the open wood in a chill at dawn, spied by me. speckled plumage, fresh feathers multiply, she squawks an awkward tune, found your seed meant for prettier prey, colors illumed in your yellow space, warmed by currents in a soft bed. ugly, it crows from shadows of judging branches unyielding, hops limb to limb to seek your love afforded to inhabitants preening in view. not meant for you, little bird. Hope ruffled by cold. Hope shrill in winter. Hope soils the ground, as little bird spent too long refining an awkward song. Hope can't fly as a thing of joy should, with a heart planted by your seed scattered, follows the wrong dream, confined now in a dry, dark wood. 24 lines free verse Wriiter's Cramp entry 6.15.21 unedited with this blog entry prompt: use the title 'a chill in the air'. Hmm. |
Water Symphony A lake symphony set to begin, my ears cleared by green bassos, single notes gulp an opening silence. Brown minstrels grasp surface air, whoosh water, vacuum twilight wings skittering a surface. Pinholes in ultraviolet horizons gasp, as last rays angle, strike the silvery surface. in my yard, lawn chair erect, violinists in the green pit harmonize instruments in unison, lay undiscovered, build a sound-bed consuming ears harvesting a cacophony of familiar notes. Eyes trust a rising moon clear-cutting a path to the dock, stretching across dimpled water. A water symphony punctuates from glistening, dark cellos snapping a delicacy of movement repeatedly. Metal creak of my woven seat, reality. I ease back to wonder if this calm allows a mind to dream, forget mosquitos masqueraded arrival is an unexpected banquet I prepare to pay with my flesh. 7.11.21 27 lines, free verse/vers libre WC Loser 7.21-final version ▼ |
Tears burned his eyes when he realized in earnest he had learned, despite the repression, how to use his voice, when he finally could memorize lyrics to his favorite song, part his lips to loose a song upon a stunned family gathering. Silent, carefully listening, he had them, knew it, and like a cork it bottled him lifelong, unable to sing again before anyone. Tens of years pass, earning his stripes, multiple, menial jobs that buy his bread, he tires of being alone. Quiet, he vocalizes feelings again. Sung with headphones strapped, silences a crowd all around. He parts those still tender lips, having relearned the lyrics, sings his favorite song, stunned. Only this time, he doesn't look, imagines the sweetest melody plays through his soul to mountain tops his remaining years, wherever he goes and gently whispers thank you to his brave heart. 7.11.21 How I imagine it might feel one day when ready to share love of singing to a broader audience. It takes a lot of courage to be a part of a social community where one is only willing to share so much of them self, fearing reception, fearing rejection. Moreover, tied to self worth, it stings when people don't get him, or want get him, because he doesn't bring to the table what they think he should. Though, he does lay bare his soul of it's gifts. And when that's deemed only partially good, it might as well be all bad. He's honest. Maybe, that scares you. He knows the difference between people who speak real words or use them as a mask. But using real words as a mask will take much longer to discern. |
life flashing: low battery like a love fool, when it was a new cardigans song, warm, pulsing rhythms by a vexing songstress, a vision, my heart boils over for: a stew that warms your soul. but the lyrics scatter in my mind, chasing words and musical notations, inscribed on long forgotten sheets, stains on an empty heart. too much wind in the street to chase them down, find I lack skill to revitalize melody. low battery. how I wish for a new cardigans song like a love fool running out into that storm to retrieve her, but too much wind in the street. 7.9.21 20 lines, free verse Intimacy "Typing in lowercase signals familiarity. It says: “We know each other and don’t need to be fancy.” Lowercase text can read as honest, unedited, and approaching something like a stream of consciousness — more like actual speech." https://www.thecut.com/2019/02/reasons-to-type-in-lowercase.html from deleted static ▼ |
Shooting Arrows In The Dark I spend all day collecting targets -- prey for my instinctive arrows, honed but hollow. I toil, spy from the backdrop -- camouflage and build a dream of capture before sunset. When distracted, too late, dark shrouds cloak my head. In my little hide away, ears keen, nose clean, I think -- check traps, wind my way through this scene, and soon after go clumsily through thick woods -- pitched dark, black before I'm lost. Shooting arrows in the dark, in this theater, purposed, resilient, adds no kill -- maims a toe or two, blisters the adjoining fingers to a savage construct, weaponized mind -- aiming to become more practiced when real game comes. 7.6.21 7.8.21 edit |
the daze of recirculation a dusty box fan in wood-wrapped, single pane window set my mind numb. humid air churned amid an uneven hummm-hummmm. a hideous, green-paneled, eight by eight dungeon hid spackled, dull-yellow walls. cracks and chipped paint lingered like me, unexposed. an ancient brotherhood scaled, explored deep within four corners before i took residence. in my metal bunk, the eldest of the remaining brood, i surfed from on top. the warmest, stale air inhaled under thin, musty, attic-retrieved blankets, freed of mildew by bony hands that operated her wringer-washer. summers seemed viewed in a shaded cave with a mono turntable crustily spinning hand-me-down vinyl, 45s by Beach Boys, Doo Woppers and the man who repeatedly wailed 'Dang Me'. i'm awake in a new, ivory tower with King-size bed. lofty pine peer in at me in all this luxury. she removed the down comforter, as a/c hums tighter, quieter, in a sleek, double-pane window, clinging to frame, setting sixty-four. this body readies for a misty, post- thunderstorm, july afternoon. nuzzled, less like the coiled, breathing fur piles, on a hypo-allergenic down pillow -- nap away an idle life, as yet to sync as harmonious as a sturdy, steel-framed box fan pulverizing intrusive childhood air. can’t sleep. i miss my old cell. 7.5.21 7.8.21 edit can't decide on titles, as usual. Intimacy "Typing in lowercase signals familiarity. It says: “We know each other and don’t need to be fancy.” Lowercase text can read as honest, unedited, and approaching something like a stream of consciousness — more like actual speech." https://www.thecut.com/2019/02/reasons-to-type-in-lowercase.html |
While she’s in the dungeon below, torturing her foolish body, streams her half hour daily workout from trainer to phone through Roku to tv, I slip into the refrigerator freezer, retrieve the double fudge 'Moose Tracks', her faux 'Mackinaw Island', ice cream and sit at the kitchen table, pull that lid off and let humidity that she helps produce soften the blend. I roll open the silverware drawer, select a spoon, sit and listen. Weights with sleeves slide on lifted bars, collide with iron, mid grunts, as her trainer yells instructions. I use my instrument to ply within tender cardboard, draw down even the level of the sweet, churned fare. My son slinks past and I knowingly wink, as he removes one of her peanut butter, chocolate chunk cookies from the big box store container. I cringe because he is not as stealth. But, her ears must be consumed with a body's regret from neglect. We consume a timely dessert together, clean up with time to spare. She’ll know something is missing, but not just yet. She earns her guilt after she arrives back from her work. I'll have a devilish grin to share, then. 7.1.21 7.6.21 edit |
Examination of my life has come down to the large metatarsal bone on my right foot -- the fungal toenail I show her that she previously noted I would lose. While it lay exposed one night, elevated on the pillow amid a king-size bed, she pried. And like a jarred, package delivery chute, it yielded its dry core. Clipping wild, wayward shards from petrified infusion, tender bed of black and blue, in my delicate disillusion its impending departure left me wonder: when it leaves, what will become of me? My other quandary: what will protect but a shoe? And yet, another reality: imagining an investigating camera panning away, silent, with its backward, crab-walking crew, unobtrusive, not wanting to be seen documenting this life. Journalists flee down our hallway every night, shouting wrong house! Wrong life. 7.4/5/6.21 Took me awhile to see if editing this was even worth the time. |
Nestled in pants pockets, heavenly-blue arrival pack to the brim. Clutter of jilted ore pellets — brilliant wonder matching a child's eyes. The rough gems restrict a proud stride. Grasshoppers flit, buzz like heat, cutting humid silence. Pale-black, yellow-tipped wings sail down smooth-worm, rusted rail. Blistered feet, brown and nimble, warm — navigate rail on fixed horizon. No ticket needed for an adventure sought. Distance from the platform protects him from a lonely wail. Iron trail constructed in a roaring era before grandpa died — a timely train that no longer whistles. Tracks quiver, Horns blares around the bend. Red crossing signals flare, bells clang, before the striped gate secures the path. This locomotive will swiftly pass. Soon, crickets darken scene that means home. 7.4.21 For July — Stormy Poetry Newsletter still trying ▼ |