10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind |
I’m disabled by more than blindness. Writing: Like one of those adventure games where you go off questing in different directions but you don’t advance in life. Pretty medallions sought for words/my soul, slow burnt. Full of misdirects, right back at the start, but still quest with thirst. Life of turmoil produces stuff like this. Not going to call it beautiful agony…it gets a bit uglier. Minced words too pungent. If they take time to notice, must be doing something right. scripturam in hoc non mutamus, quia stultus es et differentiam nescies. (hic) The beautiful mess you made: I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. - me Neurodivergent poet seeks love without that fart in the room between us. Honesty without mincing words has come with a price for those juggling the hot my takes on what’s ‘truth’ (here’s some oven mitts). Best to stay clear of those surrounded by moat rules. Real dialogue is accepted. Wasn’t as open at first about recent diagnosis on spectrum with ADHD (complicated by PTSD, life of brain traumas). Been suggested by doctors of late I might want another brain scan (since 12/4/17…blogged). 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 ▼ |
Wait Until Whatever Tomorrow There’s a book, a book, a book I say, I dawdle, procrastinate over. Now there’s four of them, or five? Accumulating as poetry popcorn, as sardines smelling cloistered hell where words jumble, tumble out the brain’s mouth into parlor, or squalor. How shall I serve them all? Wait. What am I doing this for? This self-collaboration in internet, inherit incognito innuendo indefinitely interlopes ignorantly indefinite, infinite, and infernally. I started all this for a reason. Seasons change as my mind goes a-wandering after lolly leaves into snooker snow piles s-sliding down, free-form spring-sprung, tousled tulips serenading summer, seething-sensuous, ‘til tumbled, careless castoffs over and over and over mount mounds colorful, as I (should) dive within. And, would you look? A poem. Do I really want to do this again? Wait until tomorrow. 1.6.23 At this point, the gray matter pretty much doesn’t compel the machine anymore, but monkey that learned tasks by repetition until he couldn’t multi-task the Enguish langwage aneymore. Haven’t completely lost…lost…lost… *looks around* it it was what I was going to…going to…goin… Wrote in dark, without glasses, on tablet, no talk to text, as she snores and snorts bedside. I won’t link/share in your newsfeed. Don’t worry. NOTE: at this point, felt an imposition by those wanted me to impose, heard me, talked over, ignored, and I backed away. Sensed the ‘where is he going’. There’s no explaining to gaslighting narcissists who want your soul like stuff from your pockets, act disgusted when you’ve been shaken upside down by your ankles, expecting your lunch money, at least. They are the new bully, who points at me, if I speak up, not PC, take my rights, boot stomp, cry for all the other red-headed banshees to herd up, buffalo stance, expect me to yelp, try harder, go away. Knives, arrows, bullets at your back, wouldn’t you want to silently, unnoticed, slink away from the purveyors of sunshine and candy? 💩 sorry, that was supposed to end with a period. I had mine. Theirs is ongoing …………….. has it been that long? Note add: 8.11.23 because I’m an idiot with my time. Nothing I write is preconceived, except for a notion, burgeoning words that sort and slot into sentences that seem worthy to further pursue, until cornered, no bombs to break me out of alphabet logjam. Blah, blah, blah…fuck me, apparently. What are my sins? Can it be that bad?? Got in the way. Oh? A simple move, or play through with us would suffice. I’m on the ninth hole (beginning, middle, end, or restart…playing through a lightning storm with a reverend. And I was doing so good? Even the high and mighty can be full of themselves, but what am I? Not on the green. Gawd, would I just shut up?! There wuz more alphabets piling up before the screen freeeezzz… |
sole thin takes the road less traveled alone and it's worn down now by just these two shoes sole-thin tread it is 1.6.23 january no boots for this everywhere i go now they want a little piece of me. the more the better. sorry if i don't have more to give. I look each in the eye with clear blues so they might peer as deep as they should into the cavern of soul to see what I spare. a room for the night, shirt from back, last buck in my wallet. it's a game for them, see how much of me i give of myself, build margins higher on their side. I see the dots of worn down nubs all around in the deficit. red, redder. the low and lowered, when I stand up and choose to be blue. Not red or black. Not on chessboard, or checkers, if you're not into that. A pawn, maybe. But, I move circumspect of their instruction. they follow me. don’t like I make my own game of them, these people of rules and order who want to tell me where to go, where to yield and stand. My ears turn way down low, they just follow, know, they can't be a father to this man. They killed him. and i know. just riffin' off this vibe reinspect later. |
Somewhere Sealed I was sealed in, or sealed out, when I sought a view of you in your department — a mannequin come to life possessing all the qualities I lacked: festive clothing, a smile. rosy cheeks I got passing that mound of flat, steel autos by the rails balancing each day enroute to winter habitué to view you in the hallways at school. a ghost could have learned your combination. never neared that blue, iron door to try. it was glass that separated us. I, sealed in or you sealed out, but then you didn’t view me as I didn’t have a smile and bright apparel like other torsos on display. just window shopping anyway, I tell myself, whenever I’m sealed in, or out, in memory. 1.1.23 I wanted to be nostalgic about being alone when I was young and how comforted I could feel in certain settings, and it went another way, and just ran on. |
From “Weirdly Poetry” (yet to be published) Easy On The Petals She loves me I love me She loves me not I love me not She loves someone else I’ll love myself eventually or not Though I’m no prize please take a chance on me so I learn to love for two me as well as you buttercup I’ll never tear petals again because that’s childish Love is a tender, fragrant flower, imbued joy in small hands before gleeful carnage. My lips will wet your damage already done, sealed with these kisses of what love… what love. 12.30.22 12.31.22 last verse added love damages, repairs but not like new; experienced will hurt less or more by love, or no love. Better to have loved and live nostalgically ever more? I don’t know if I’ve loved but desired the salve of her bare skin on mine. With passion, I think good enough. Yet, not my best. Yet to come? |
You fell from heaven like a feather. I devilishly witnessed dainty descent, tried to field you, whirring event, elusive, before your rest, gentle on the green mass. What point of picking you up now, unless breezes should stir, send you heavenward? In all your glory, twisting, spinning, I’d try again, calculate with more fervor. Heaven loves a wild dreamer chasing its cloud castoffs. 12.29.22 It started with initial notion, cultivated from there. Poem gave way to how we love chaste, available dreams that we win (men, I supposed). Still considering |
like flitting words casually floating through an electric fence. some crackle. some singe and simper. some sail past deconstructed without the rest, and still floating, aiming, seeking to find true meaning. words informed fasten like seat belts. look out! here we go again!! 12.24.22 |
Chance favored me without preparation. Trailed hazardous life stumbling over serendipity near the turbulent waters lapping my ignorant shores ready to consume a fool. What were my odds? the chance I'd survive ordinary existence to reach its inevitable end with fortuity? Manifest destiny or fate life seemed to be lived by accident. Found love. Periled lips still savor kismet. Was it providence, coincidence, happenstance? or did I just get away with cheating life because of dumb luck? 12.24.22 20 lines free verse "Invalid Post" 12.5.22 PPC Prompt: Luck "Invalid Post" Kerf form |
thank you for unnecessary commentary in this shared theatre I shouldn't push play why don't I learn? is a poet supposed to get to the point? thank you for the unprovoked remarks in the din I live in Should've worn my headphones Why don't I insulate? is a poet supposed to self-edit? for you? you've been kind to give your opinion in my shrinking domain, a condition where little space can be sought to self-isolate Where is the acceptance I yearn? Is a soul supposed to dry its pen? What am I living in that walls don't echo my thoughts? The vibrant messages could soothe aching ears Where am I living if I cannot go from here without you on my mind vigorously absorbing all of my soul's light? thank you for choosing me to hear you out A chamber envelops my lungs, heart pushed to the glass How can I unpin and ask for my breath back? Let a poet grip foolishly again his words flung to a non-dimensional wall expanding to infinity and all I’ll not capture thank you. 12.23.22 12.26.22 added 3 end lines 4.9.23 added punctuation, more capitalization and last line. it's about sharing music i love in shared amphitheater, and have to hear her say she doesn't like this song or that artist, or thinks the volume too loud or when will it end? things like these attach to my heart, she severs with her blunt knives |
your mother had to knit you cool blue mittens to hold my red hot heart when we enmeshed in snow melted and froze into ice spring did not thaw you i was a puddle cars drove through sent skyward blocked promise land above heartless sun a heavy rising you were saved by my freezer i can still open the door gaze in that dark refrigerator and wonder how long you'll stay in tact if i could hold you one more time my mother didn't knit mittens for that 12.20.22 18 lines |
We would really like to know If ever I'm perfect they'll dismantle me maybe, study me but mostly, do away with me We lost paradise once Tirelessly, must settle for imperfection? I hand her the correct change she says perfect I complete their application submit, he looks it over perfect Making an appointment I respond to need of contact info Verbal utterance echoes on the line perfect You can't call me back Unable to process my application I passed counterfeit bills (coins I can't mint) You don't know me I could be the person trying to undo all that is perfect, "functional" within the frequencies, communes of coexistence, governed society, aiming with just one word — perfect Perfect? Do you hear yourself? What's perfect about correct address? You've never been here I could live in squalor police sirens blaring, cars jacked — a militarized zone, mortar shells perfect bullets rip past down my street as I take the car out again and it performs as it should on journey to my next 'perfect' when I stop (while it rolls independently) to consider, then pat the fading dash from my leather-creased, captain's chair inside a rusty hull, bumper cracked radio-sometimes-working, beaut of a machine and say 'you're what's perfect'... even though, you aren't. If I don't appreciate all imperfection and what functions, necessitating a weary life keeping me going up this hill we're on before the six foot drop off or crusher, then I must admit between here and where eternity ends I might make it to perfect... Envisioning a white cloud airily lifting me close enough to touch bluest heaven and no one will see I'd keep it to myself between me and the Chevy We'll both drive off that cliff before we'll let anyone dissect us. We are what we are and it ain't perfect Okay, good, thank you, I have all that I need... unless there's something more? 12.16.22 62 lines (free verse} Best Long poem I've written in sometime, if ever. a little, annoying word on the lips of many little minds, more functional than me. and you know what else I don't care for? indifference. |
don't want to be too sing-songy avoid the stunted syllables grinding out each unsubmitted manuscript that light these pages unseen by the main don't want to be alone pitchy singing avoid the top of stunted chords grinding melody each retracted utterance could light still hearts unheard by that main untested but willing singing in rain showers puddle splashing, hopping over hearts inside windows in my yellows like spring sop-wet with the sky's tears for a little man inside unloved by her who'll not be if I don't get outside a foggy dream get seen, heard and loved. 12.11.22 |
the flaw in our beauty a broken heart holds together in its sand, its ancestor until that final heap topples a fractured vessel, ice glass bleeding. tides try claim the mess, wash remains to sea. some pieces hunker in grit, hold on, wear down. you don't see, unobserved from dark space separating a billion miles a second, speeding away away away, down to bottom of this shared ocean, middle of our galaxy. you didn't glimpse while your heart was cracking, too. but I noticed, and noticed you didn't see me. we share sand – blown, mysterious, special fish bowl or flower vase people, each of us fragile. not adjoining on shelf, we'll not ocean together at the same time, aweigh on this life forever and ever and ever. don't say amen. i already hate me for being impure. 12.5.22 12.7.22 some major edits could suffice as lyrics; what chorus? written to: men have feelings we're taught to access the part of our flawed DNA that doesn't allow us to show it, or feel shame if we do slightly altered version ▼ |
Decades long I still cannot metabolize you (It’s been) a lingering death Memory is still here (falsely) disguised Nostalgia lingers in shadows Dementia swallows regurgitates in dreams (Your face) the same in hollows (which eludes) my enzymes consuming (my love) of any other Period… The approximation of exclamation since I couldn’t form the proper interrogation to get to the end of our story… Antacids aid in this digestion 12/3/22 Could title (Read Between The Lines) but that’s not the point. You could say I’m weird again…but on closer inspection… Maybe they should Quill ‘Poet Of The Year’ I would concisely conceal that tattoo somewhere on my body before doctors sever the afflicted appendage. Simply: I’ve not been worthy of it, if not her Travel back in time with me to win Her love? When we know Who she is?? (What do you suppose antacids could be?) 🥃🥃🥃🥃🥃 |
Subtitle: I know why you’re alone, Brenna Untested Conversation It’s familiarity familial people they see daily talk to but not me who sits in the corner as would a lonely puppy trying not give that impression avoiding pity inside the distance can be - engaging enlightening frightening sees what conversation you prefer rather not intervene send to a rocky ledge but would embrace you against my field of abyss - hold against this untested world - kept from your known safety from my discourse sees eyes avert empathizes with that discomfort fragile soul fleet animal must forest within denizen’s kin spares the approach from a cur at your tables spared from an observer who knows fear and loneliness and true survival as one against the void in a din incipient space fissured wide open closed by a constant, linear soul 12.2.22 It’s not poetry you fear, but what weight words. R-E-L-A-X But, in other words: I get it. I can be too much. A growing affliction with some unknown/undiagnosed social condition:disorder since I was 7, walking down a road in my pajamas because I thought my mom abandoned me in another state. …now Brenna. A work friend of my wife (statement in 'work friend') who is 32, attractive, opines about not getting married, but will have a baby with or without a husband (and the three bedroom home), operates safely in her domain, her confines. I see, like me, she won't get out of her comfort zone because the unknown isn't easy to approach, as with that sound in the night behind the door in that horror movie called life. Brenna, poor, poor, girl. *sigh* I am safety? I have to wonder. Now…this pompous announcement…
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They floated me out on dinghy upon a tumultuous tide rode soft, swift, deft atop highest wave to the swell sucking sweetly down I wanted to fly looking on blue sky Why a watery surface with its unknown depth? They sang to me from shore too gently Bird and bee dimensionally sung It hurt. Skirts flirt motion from an ocean for a willing, wanton clown Will it come back around? I needed oars to row envisioning sought, brilliant horizon Why does it escape day to day unable to paddle back time? No chorus, nor melody now for an ostentatious fool in his common vessel. 12.2.22 It needs work, but I’ll brave eyes upon it. |
Reflecting Mortality a thin vision near Drawn down while you’re stuck chasm I can’t cross no magic in imagination to build a bridge see you gaze at my emerald as I peer down on your ruby you fierce clutch your animal I built these ethereal castles that topple from stones I see you place your beast aside by the river gleaming flowing smoothing a bed where you could punch through a surface to clutch its offering when my clouds appear a portal takes me back away before you can take me down into that unknown 11.25.22 |
Each time I open the pantry door now to deposit them in the brown paper bag held inside the receptacle, I scoff “say hello to the Pacific Ocean for me.” There’s major breakthroughs in the field of bullshit while we believe we save a periled planet one recycled Pepsi 20-ounce bottle at a time. Cut apart those six plastic rings…for Flipper. Bottle-nosed. 11.21.22 |
Little Gourd I witnessed the plumpest gourd blossom on its vine -- yellow, flower-topped, sere soul embedded beneath backyard pine. It didn’t need much sunshine. Withered, bloom tapered brown, it dropped after sundown, when ripening stopped. Not cold, inert, slow shriveling during our dry days. Dark veggie inspired so much hope in those rays. Lone, bright bell, detached, hard-melded a be-pricked surface. Silent glossed by eventual frost, my heart sank somewhere around midnight. It wasn't better in sunlight. Fewer gourds appear each year, for an ignorant farmer who still cannot conceive how he erred. How much more could I have cared? Not much I can do. Till, fertilize, close the bed until spring. Plant again. How long am I to toil before hope runs out for a little gourd to feed from that stem? 11.24.22 Reap what you sow My toil with words bears hopeful fruit appreciating with time. It's really about raising my kids.
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buds of chrysanthemum the mums went silent in their pots on the porch step since frost since snow fell over night white woven with green, chin hairs pierce a soft blanket yielding, receding past a naked maple clinging to precarious, withered offspring, iced yellow-peaked porch blooms poke, penetrate our early shadows they’ll not die easy brave buds of chrysanthemum, bright, beautiful, crisp as new winter weather greet me 11.18.22 just looking out my window at something that I could take care of |