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 |    10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind |
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Iām disabled by more than blindness. Writing: Like one of those adventure games where you go off questing in different directions but you donāt 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 agonyā¦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 whatās ātruthā (hereās some oven mitts). Best to stay clear of those surrounded by moat rules. Real dialogue is accepted. Wasnāt 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 12/4/17ā¦blogged). This poetās 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 ā what other people get naturally, immediately, while I stomp around in it. Been blessed, but pushing it ā 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 arenāt 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 āback offā 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 whatās in hand. My Pluggers: You are an icon here.  You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer.  Itās like plugging myself, but using other peopleās (reviewers) wordsā¦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 cadenceā¦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, includingā¦  "The Tender Core (Sedona)"  I donāt submit because itās too much work. Truly alone, know no one cares to show they believe/support me. Lip service feeds delusion. Iāve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Try not be cynical, work hard at openness and consideration ā work, soooā¦gut thing.   ![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.  This is oldā¦.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? ā¦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? š© Secret Back Door ▼ |
Not since Britney was stuffed by that NBA security guardā¦dunk heard round the world less than 24 hours ago. Ignore Tenacious D version. 3.12.24 Iād post to social media a paired song/videoā¦like so much social not worth the effort. Except this: Trace Jackson-Davis sent Wembanyama to a floorboard grave. #solittle2root4 #quashed #GOWARRIORS #notasnowballchance? #givehellatry Hopefully this post doesnāt disappearā¦ after 3 edits. |
Con-cocked Iām the envelope you fill with your craft, Red paper hearts strung in a row enter this soul. When Iām sealed, stamped by your tender hand Deliver me to that destined land. The warmth of your crimson constructive Lip-sticks me from within from your heat. Our delivered fate from post Iāll inscribe With saturate ink pursed lips imbibed. 2.29.24 In progressā¦
Rock Bottom ▼ Well, I entered before last day of month end...  š«¤ |
| Itās always been there (my poem), but you donāt notice or care to admitā¦ In their version, The MarĆas slow the story down while also cutting it short at just over two minutes. Yet so much differs throughout those 125 seconds. The ā...Baby One More Timeā cover welcomes listeners with a quiet and gentle guitar melody. Within seconds, Zardoya enters with a soft, raspy tone, pleading for one more chance. Softly layering her voice as the mesmerizing background vocal, there's a much more intimate feeling than the original. Within the first half minute, Zardoya sets a guilty tone as she sings, āI shouldnāt have let you goā¦ā Thereās a regretful implication as her voice quivers. Then, she declares, āThereās nothing that I shouldnāt do / It's not the way I planned it.ā The subtle change from Spearsā more innocent āwouldnātā to The MarĆasā āshouldnātā places the responsibility on the singer for her past mistakes in love. Zardoya is not pleading with the promise of doing whatever it takes to save the relationship; she understands she should be the one to make the effort to salvage it. Then, instead of singing āIt's not the way I planned it,ā Zardoya speaks this line with a disgruntled tone, as if she's tired of having to defend her intentions. "grind on this (MV)" https://www.afterglowatx.com/blog/2023/5/8/cover-story-the-maras-make-a-relaxing... Itās ānot the way I planned itāā¦none ever doā¦plan. Yet, manipulation everywhere I look. Hit me baby one more time?? Iāve been writing since the first black eyeā¦ |
| The Small Voices (Not A Windmillās Chanceā¦without my brother) I wish I had a nickel for every time she pointed out thatās just how it is now like Iām ignorant ā¦ like Iām surprised life had made me itās bitch ā¦ but a small voice that isnāt harmonized, that isnāt paired by another in tune ā¦ isnāt harmony ā¦ and ā¦ when did life make you so smart ā¦ ? and ā¦ made you its bitch?? as the two of you laugh at me right now fitted for plastic armor? readied for any situation ā¦ big or small ā¦ pierce with my pointy stick while wheeling atop a uni-cycle I call stead ā¦ ?? precarious, I know ā¦ but brave? to fight alone knowing itās more than life thatās hurtful that wants to make me their bitch ā¦ ?? because ā¦ bitch-slapped. itās easier taking down the labeled Quixote (reckless, feckless), than lance these giant demons ā machines designed, sluicing the weather around us, taking our energy, harvesting our electricity to deplete good souls to short out ā¦ not grounded to any element, chained to that grist ā¦ railing with clenched fist ā¦ toppled: and there you are standing over me. I see through this visor what you intimate ā¦ what you intone ā¦ like a coward you pick on the weakest thing planted in the dirt of a machinationās shadow ā¦ youāre lucky I see you and not a windmill (that I look up and not down on youā¦ where you say my poem should have ended ā¦ there. It never ends ā¦) but for a small dagger life goes on without my brother. 2.24.24 I made last 3 lines its own statement than attach to the poem machine because it is the only thing that could separate, yet like throwaway lines only a fool/man would consider In post.. taking up the gauntlet ? while everyone else is saying back away from it because they canāt control me or think me a fool with it? I have no doubts Yet, labeled to make me feel reckless, feckless I hold on to it, sleep with itā¦ not to feel safe ā¦ but the closest thing to kinship I have in this world itās that side of myself everyone denies me access toā¦ wonāt realize or accept I live in two worlds just to feel whole in one because cowards and what do they sleep withā¦? WHAT HAVE I TO HIDE? Oops, I left caps onā¦ and Iām not going to fixā¦cuzā¦??Not going to be a bitch to ML eitherā¦ |
| Against a woolen sweater that was blue Thats all that I remember of you Before you learned to walk, I learned to run I guess the ants really go marching one by one When a train rolls in, the doors open, I get in Last night I had a pleasant nightmare La da da da La da da da La da da da, da da da there's an ocean formed outside my bedroom door on the sleepless nights I listen to it roar there's a road too long to walk, too steep to climb at the end of it, is what you left behind and when that train rolls in the doors open, don't get in last night I had, a pleasant nightmare La da da da La da da da La da da da, da da - Emily Kapnek transcribed R.I.P. Mike |
| I hear you listening. Silence has sound. Scientifically proven, but already knew ā experienced the likes of shadows with veils, behind scenery, disapproving, yet revealing value of some kind lay hidden beneath throbbing. Pulsating. Reminding, a tiny red engine can howl, startle even the largest black holes ā warn, get the fuck back, shut the hell up, so black cedes to impenetrable light. Melt, god damn it! Or, suck on nothing and starve in your own disquieted, severed earth. I brought warmth, fought a rejecting fire, now merge-bound to a penās fractal friction aflame. Your shame is not mine to own. Whoops. (  was here before latest, major addition to end, likely to be revised to get sound expression about silence and how hot rages a disquieted person to erupt when shackled to vague, public opinion, without one soul to clue another in what it is about projected worth versus the value you strongly assert. In fact, I need more horror vacui, molecules branch out within where I find my truest nature. Iām building as the growing atom that binds others when that time comes, whether it tears ears off or attuned as sweetest harmony. These feelings harnessed bring indicate another emergence forthcoming ā swear it will tsunami sized compared to that last tidal wave.)12.19.23 A momentary lapse. Back to meds and your āusualā programming. 5.18.24 No lapse. Not an aberration. Itās no more side-stepping. Demons can deter, delay, reroute. I do not aim at anyone or anything specifically. With the actual help Iāve received in this overstayed dormancy a controlled force aims at society, apathy, arrogant indifference, dystopian ideals in play, to energize the unenlightened to organize and shove the forces back to find safe harbor within and in shared beliefs we can overcome mere obstacles that are molehills. In short: I want to kick ass wherever I go, whatever I do. Iām busting down doors. Not going around them. No score to settle, just mt world to take back from manipulators, blackmailers (if I had shame), and the complacent mindless told what to root for rather than discover causes of their own. First, uphold writers who get it, acknowledge talent when they see it, acknowledge and credit them, guiding them on a journey to self-fulfillment while still keeping the carny-games in play. Iāll not kick anything over, though tempted. No head butting, though I will bust down the doors that ignore writers with true passion, whether you agree with their views or messages. Tear off your hoods, if you want. Iām here and have always been open to fair questions and criticisms before whatever whispered rumors go around in these segregated ranks. This is not a mission for me alone. This is not something that a Judas can walk into fracture whatever values formed. This is about unifying voices that can be just one part of WDC, to counter with that underworld itās becoming synonymous with, obviously relied upon. Let that be. Bring more to the table to quash critics to overinflated value so this place self-sustains without unfair questions of ā¦ integrity? You divide withinā¦not a good look. Talk out of both sides of your mouthā¦people catch on. Passive aggressively make adjustment to the canaries that singā¦feed the songbird spirit true love of its passion, not its message. Then, tout inclusivity, especially for the core, but also the components that can draw new writers, readers and interest from the world. Now, youāve got an up and coming coder in the midst. Fresh blood, regal lineage. Rewrite code and get a modern look. No easy task, Iām sure. If you only have so much resources, server support to work with, understandable. If not, go back to partnering and tutoring new members to acquaint them quick to the best parts of WDC, so they can integrate quicker, more satisfyingly. Help them learn rules, how to post and review with info not about content but what they can do with tools to make it better. Make contests easier, fewer reviews. Poetry, subjective. Fiction, consult Max Griffin, otherwise, subjective. The smarter the identified judges, the better the results? Now Iām grasping. Iām tired now. Back to me. My wife watches all this lay outā¦one finger on tablet. This is passion (value it?) from true blindness, and also, tangled neuro-network constantly creating, editing, framing, re-editing, creating more, never-ending. And Iād still be reviewingā¦and then family, and now, Spring, renewal. Iām determined a book will come out in June or July to celebrate my brotherās life. And with it, a reminder to find a better purpose for mine before curtain completely comes down. No editor. No one I rely on. Edit later Apologies if anyone feels targeted. I believe in the value of truth than employing BS. Constructive is the aim. |
You're In My Way I stood in the path of a black bear twice my weight and ten times my strength. I wasn't going to run as it was twice as fast. I'd never turn my back to it. I stared and dared the thing to roughly dissect my anatomy. I screamed and yelled at the dope like it was my monster-tormentor. Before it could shred me like a woodland pup tent I woke up. I hope I see it again. I'll cover myself in bacon grease, my blue-red eyes blaring hot in a frozen white scene, bells around my neck and rocks to hurl. I want one shot at overcoming every odd to defeat this grizzly goliath. I'm more dangerous because I don't care, once I smell it's disease breath. My eyes hard close like five thousand pound, stone doors no animal will withstand or scale. You're mine, every hairy, little bit from mouth to bowels, until I no longer exhale. 12.10.23 33 lines, bean counters free f-ing verse. Title plays to both camps. It's implied meaning is up to the reader. Poem in a word -- fierce. Two more words -- death wish. You should see what I wrote before this:
whose the precious little MF when they suggest you leave the room? Dumb or not, this gift to you is my magic act. |
| In a word: Nothing Comes to mindā¦ Canāt slow. Iām snow: You must shovel If you want to drive To get what you need. In your treads Every inch of the wayā¦ Iām still fallingā¦ Gently heapā¦ Cover bushes beneath the bay Overlooking the adorned trees On limbs: Resting, waiting For you to witness Before moving me Aside. 12.4.23 As honest as can be, before I lie To feel worth? To feel a part of your world? While we coincide, Iām at your side Looking for something, a clue And why it seems cold Outside Of you. Investigation of š£ yet to come. Prompt (newly edited): "Pretend (the long halls)" |
| Voice in night anchors me, disembodied Where I lie alone in dark Where I float, reach But cannot touch a soul With words uttered, muttered In the chosen black romance Too dense for images to develop, enveloped In fear, nothing near Sound rises, raises me, interplanetary, Adrift on fading belief Something could rescue Pluck a being from tempest deep, haunts I long to keep that held me Held me down, spine, organs, Heavy blood matting deep In the fibers of a vacuum That swallows dreamers, spits out A cynic, poorly dressed, unclean For the immaculate deceivers Who couldnāt possibly be Angels to me High the sound escapes, divided by tide silence, rolling over my body Washing out into a thin horizon, Gray all the days; I beg for night, For something warm to hold tight. Eyes penetrate this space, Frown upon a fool disgraced. Doesnāt want to lift up, sinks To silt bottom like stones cast. Raise the rim higher, pound A tempo upon these cans. A racket. Door closed. Louder A voice rises above all the rest. A song I hear buried deep in breast Flows out my chest, skims and skitters Across your fog waters. Yet to see If the sun will rise, shine on me. Donāt seek it, reluctantly veil All in my heart with every wail. Swallowed whole in arriving tides, Anchored, wonāt find any shore. Voice in night never feels fright But free from any who canāt conceive The true identity you wonāt believe Resides in a callous heart, long deceived. 12.2.23 Iāll revisit another time. Not really trying. Just going whatever way the wind blows my pinwheel mind. Poetry:same results |
| November hush, colorful castoffs sleep ā their dreams fade, interlocked on a hard mattress. Soft, pristine descent of tiny-winged angels come. Gray time swept up into prolonged nights, resist allure of outlasting that twelfth chime. Memories cascade ā serenading symphony comes ā Her holiday confections rise in oven, whisper to a soft nose, as I cuddled in hand-me-downs. Decorations ascend; presents find their shrouds. Music wanders about a quiet truce in our home. A temporal refuge, our family's respite. Time to unwind, be present, and be family. Thanksgiving's embrace, feast tradition, revel in comfort food and kinship extended. Trapped in snow globe of nostalgia, Kresge Drug Store's magic orb, gazing scenes imagined within, immersed. Beneath the next tinsel-draped tree, a child's haven of stick-sap and dreams mingling. Face pressed to cardboard nativity, wise men, cows, humble manger and a solitary bulb, humble star, celestial and warm guide tiny dream scenarios. 11.28.23/23 lines, free verse 12.26.23 minor edits, tighten, tweak, tastier words. In this free-flowing verse, enjambment weaves the memories seamlessly, capturing the essence of November's nostalgia and the timeless magic of family traditions. Prompt: āIt is also November. The noons are more laconic and the sunsets sterner and Gibraltar lights make the village foreign. November always seems to me the Norway of the year.ā ā Emily Dickinson
Never enteredā¦too busyā¦forgotā¦public nowā¦ Impetus: Its post leaves down, raked to curb, before fresh snowfall. days are shorter. Night seems to go on and on that I donāt feel tempted to stay up later. And when I lie in bed, Iām transported, I recall the sweet holiday confections emanating late from her oven to my anticipant nose, sense heightened by sounds of decorations going up, presents wrapped, soft holiday music, quiet truce between parents. Family had more time to wind down, be in the moment, be family, repose, with no current distractions but free time to commune, eat comfort food, enjoy extended family at thanksgiving, timeless traditions, as if trapped in an old Kresge Drug Store snow globe, the kind I stared into for long periods of time, imagined myself inside, or would crawl under the freshly tinseled tree, risk sticky sap, face in front of a cheap nativity of fold out cardboard and glued on wise men, cows, sheep, Mary, Joseph, baby in manger and the one light bulb protruding from the hole in display serving as that star, illuminating tiny dream scenes. How to put all that in free poem, structured, with enjambment was difficult. How to edit this? Iāll take another run at this someday. 12.01.23 |
| Hands wrest heart from soul without physical act Touch and all crumbles into virtuality, nothing Eyes penetrate a weak mind without a second glance View all that tumbles into hollow reality, a void Old patterns emerge, a defense Knee reacts, hands hold down Mouth strapped, I shut Speak no more of experience unacknowledged. 11.26.23 Working on I play the SYML song and response with no preconceived notion what Iāll write. Lay down, repeating refrain Locked in membrane Seeking purpose within a crowd Loud, words forced out Shatter the heat, mind, soul Crumble into a sea of self-doubt Personality un-conformed cannot reform, anymore. Better to live in a void, Be as unexistant as possible, Not a sound, mutter, mumble Restraint so tight, I fail to breathe Find comfort of satin, in another loverās arms, whoāll hold protect a giant man with plow hand to settle the quakes that disrupt the tranquility of candle-illumed rose room Shuttered portals lock all out But the mere essence of the remains Of a graphite skin and bones dull The galley of hull on torn sail craft Amid a rock harbor, no sound, edge of the earth on tattered map given a lad who dreamed serpents would come lay waste to a bright sailor, claimed black pirate shackled dreams interned in purgatory nary a clank, clasped cold in steel never see another sunrise, sundown in literal afterlife counting down tether free, float, sink deep, never found at the center of a bottomless reality I count each moment of descent, savor sweet death of a mouth penned words in time bottled body, never found again, no eyes, heart, could possible perceive. I am him, the one you donāt wonder about pathetic persecution, in negation, censored so casually to sodden sea free to just be everything and nothing without existence personally, blight on one who tried to bloom words, life viewed from your above, looking down deciding fate abd destiny not my right if not enslaved to conformity over co-existence could not commune without carefully stepping about scattered shards, suddenly Bleed, cry pain, not understanding why a moth drawn to light. Couldnāt see how reform, be what you want without losing all I dream, seek, am about. Submerge in this primordial lay down, dream fire consumes and hardens my metal find strength in this fightā¦yet brittle break from the quiet, which is sound surround, echo repetitively, shatter all that epoxy in 11th hour canāt repair, stilled. Shhhhh, heart lay down. Shhhhh, mind lay down Shhhhh, small boy lay down and let some motherās arms collect the remainder for ever after Lover come before the striking hour Gifted glass returns to sea-soothing sand never to be reformed, graveless, forgotten but for memory loss vision as guide Lay down, sweet soul Lay down, tender heart, Lay restless mind, sleep in decay. Donāt dream again, that maybe one day? Overstayed. 11.26.23 All this, with memory of the song of defeat amid a throng with eyes redirected to sky, great beyond. Itās not your fault, only comfort I can add Itās your job. Stick to those weapons. Lay each down. Iāll look back at this too, and wonder Unable to remember day-to-day where Iāve been What Iāve shared How this is to all go down Nattering |
| There was a time when staying up late was special. You could hear the world wind its giant clock. Since daylight savings time, everything digital, we wait for sunrise eternal. We canāt hear. We donāt see. Whatās special that we cherish ā the tradition of anticipation? Why do we have to learn the ending of every story, and not fear the trap of our eyes inside a snow globe? Whatās not eternal, is mother tucking me in, placing two waxy lips tenderly upon a sweat-tired forehead. Donāt stay up, spoil what waits at morning. Bright, lumin colors and scents hovered in nights. All unwrapped now: my gifts, her presence, what I regifted my children; and what do they give moving forward from me, her, from Father Time? Where is that clock? Did we break midnight eternal? Chains, gears, pulleysā¦a shopā¦bespectacled, gray assessor? A few more grains slip the hemorrhaged container, spill faster like counted and gobbled pastel beans. Does the March hare come or a mad hatter? Iām tired even of myself, questioning everyone. No one acknowledges, but look over my shoulder at something. I look behind for presumed ghosts, turn back and years elapsed; all are gone. I presume looking, echoing my name amid valleys and dense wood. Iām alone in November, recall we held each other for warmth with a tune harmonized from one heart. Not even a sigh now, unless resignation December. Its weight of mighty hammer, soon pendulous, smashes open that gumball machine of time. Snatch up all, as I walk through and past each of you, invisibly ā the children Wonka never wanted, but one. The keys to the chocolate factory embedded in carbonate chocolate time. We could write a sequel, but not like the first screening, reclined in tight-hinged, creaking theatre amid landmine popcorn memory crunch. From bucket to mouth to seat, eventual gravitational, cement floor, wasted calories. Even as pale faces flickered, we knew our film souls losing to the giant clock. What is time really, without one record keeper, reminiscer and a mother who tenderly turns pages with a wet forefinger? The furnace kicks in one more time. Itās late. Life in the morning. Time exhales, as I do. 11.18.23 5:41 a.m. before a glim of sun spied in my shed. Why edit to satisfy the needs of contest promoter or publisher. Fear the giant clock, our own impatience? I will read to you from my giant, green recliner. Space for two. You can feel these emotions when one writes. Not quite as much on a later read. Give it time. Then read. Hopeful clarity. Look for the popped kernels in every crevice. Tell me: was it fun while it lasted? Make Some Memories. Be glad for recollections that nourish a tired soul. O, for the lack of a good editor. Looks to the northernā¦lights. |
| Papaās getting ready to hang up his hat for good. Naps in the green recliner with the tv on in his boxers when a knock at his door alerted him. Pants off, the blue ball cap on the nail, hooked for good. In black nights he sleeps all alone. No one to comfort him. He could wear a frown, but blooms rose from her oven. Soon stern tulips waited for the delicate lilies to rise with our eternal sun. Papa never opened his eyes in late summer; harmonious roses being plucked, Chrysanthemums dared frost and snow. He had no space to move, when he felt something underground move. From her delicate hand a bright, light lid for a stern head. No pajamas needed for this bed where he could stretch limbs as long as the willows that tickle toes across the street. From brown to green to blue ā delicate and stern ā they still fly, higher than any eye could spy. And thatās why we donāt touch the old hat that needs itās rest in his very old house. 11.17.23 30, 37 or 38 lines. Take your pick. Or, 39? Itās surreal, some literal, but all imagined except for dad and his tv and recliner. His left hand ran up the trimmed wall, locked there, while his right cradled the cocked head, asleep. Couldnāt change his channel, with a, āI was watching thatā, after opening blood eyes. You need the right channel to rest. No gas stove for us. āāāāāāāāāāāāāāāāāāāāāā Somewhere, a link just died. 40. |
| šSeasons Changeš But Not Theā¤ļø Fall Themed Poems in 2023ā¦ "Itās The New Seasonā¦Notingā¦" "Seasonal Layers" Note: I cannot be Quilled. Go ask Bugs. He's told it to Elmer once before it blossomed into a bosom buddy relationship. No good vibes here, yet. *Watch where ya pointin' dat thing, doc'. THE OTHERWISE ā "Autumn Analogy" "autumn perms" "Autumn Irony" "Finality In Autumn" "Autumnal" "Picturing" "leaf piles" "The Clotting Season"              I always looked forward to fall -- crisp air, beautifully colored landscapes, the wonder of how death promises renewal. It's somber and awe inspiring to know life will lay in its icy, white bed only to offer something more plentiful blooming with hope. It's a truth we can trust, like the sun setting and rising daily. I found many loves in Autumn, making my heart swell with the potential of love everlasting. While the fires of a kindred few flamed out/faded away, one true love remained...poetry. An assemblance of words to evoke rememberances of the ones that got away in a backdrop of glorious promise, love's serendipitous return with each season.
Read where my beauties display haunting misery and potential bliss for one growing too old to savor the memory of tasting vibrant painted lips, or foggily recollect tender arms entwined in a lover's dance. When the last poem drops, I will close these doors forever. Enjoy the simplicity of nature as provided by Robert Frost, and enjoy the brief audio as you follow along: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/resources/learning/core-poems/detail/44272 Response to Frost with Dylan Thomas' prompt... "Why (I) Blog" Leaf-shadowed crossroads brightening the longer I pause indecisive nearing an even tide sun setting knowing I'm prompted to choose when to push forward gentle into that good night It won't matter what road I travel I feel an autumnal tide washing me out of summer. Humidity shudders. Breezes brush lines of linen where a child once played in fading light.
Last year for this Autumn collection before permanent deletion from account. |
| Cotton, woven, linen too perfect in reverence of gentle white greetings it would be new anguish to stain. Then, the tubās the thing ā though it soothes ā itās with purpose to serve a soiled soul with stains to drain each red moment tide-bled from eternal life clock, ticking, ticking, ticking off. Oh, but be a burden to the maid that must scour? So, with the life-nourishing water tapped, spigot-ever-sending, purge an outpouring until every last sap-drop drowned. And yet, could a soul vanish in wood somehow-never-found except by hungry mongrels to sever worried flesh from pale bone upon receiving ground? Maybe, walk into a fire so intense it disguises all remaining hope of a life not lived well enough to tell? What worry to have been a burden so small unworthy of comfort of bedding, a bath, a walk in wood, warm fire that sparks the fleetest gleam in a lone moment. Thoughts entertain a soul not-ready-for-bed in this quiet undead void of endless night meandering. What if Iām gone? Since, I seem to be less-than-sheets-suds-roam, and another rekindled sunrise of-no-surprise at all? 11.12.23 Letās not speak of thisā¦too easy to entertain idle thoughtsā¦that progress from room to room to open door, down a highway to hopeful non-existence, freedom of burden to roam as unshackled spirit wherever my mind wants to take meā¦since, no true home but inside my mind. Thoughts progress, the wider the maw of existence unhinges jaw to receive a thin-thin-pale soul washed awash, never-endingā¦ and-it-just-goes-on-like-thatā¦ ā¦dashes blur like yellow highway stripes toward highway oblivionā¦ dot-dot-dotā¦ Do words everā¦ |
| āCelebrating what we hope for together is better than fighting over what we believe separately.ā Wing-clipped Hereās to: all the energy, vitriol, indifference, sanction, silent demonstration that fills your lungs like the black balloon, weight one small bird inhales, exhausts white with fallen plumes in endless flight and its cryptic coos... Shall I never write poetry again? Wing-clipped & burdened under a white cape. Black buzzing shears the head of hope Iāll ever be beautiful again. Winter death dreams not of eternal Spring, silenced, sputtering, inhaling morbid dust. Mourning nests in eaves, stiff pine, bushes with cold dandruff. Within, all aspiration chases them through wild Summer grasses past to get to this Fall, to fall and fall, fall, fallā¦with no arms to receive ā me ā fleeting, particulate white, scattered, slowly painting my green home going down under brown. Bookmark a life this late, risk sleep without knowing if Iāll wake to realize the chased happy ending? Iām saying, Iāll die without truly immersing in this life wasted. As ash, I have become one with snow. Who knows where we will go. a piece of ash incinerated body a magical element collected by a child my last shard of a human-alien bone. Disembodied, my voice in his room, mis-associated as ghost but helps him cope, find purpose, hope, how to deal with lifeā¦ solve for difficult factor of x with y. When not charged, itās silentā¦until itās truth revealed. place that particle in some experimental norm an energized, particle accelerator. dark fiction, real but with hope for the future, teach people how to treat one another with respect, and pay attention to whatās really importantā¦love, community, unity, compassion, caring, and imparti Bluck!
I could be a messenger of love, to bring unity, but Wing-clipped, fallen with no one whoāll touch. So, I never stop flying like a dream, through smoke, Your fog, clouds, huffed, puffed that I consume, chug Meant to pull out my plug, but Iām wireless, impervious To ignorance, defeatism, realism Iāll finish and defeat The defeatists. Their game is division, keep my coos From your ears, too many to block, so keep me out, down. Unity isnāt the aim of my love, but a blissful byproduct. We could share but that would mean cutting out the purveyor Middle man who created this tent in a worldwide house. Itās a snare at best. |
| Formerly: āRaised ā¦ in a memoryās dreamā I heard you say only one metaphor at a time ā all you could follow am I dreams ā when I donāt speak to you? artless? Let me keep this straight while working on another poem in my headā¦ I see ā crayons color motherā¦ She hugs me. Appreciation? I draw another and another, lifelong to please her. Wish I could near you, merge with song. Everyone is mother, becauseā¦ I chase something across a barren rug. Oh, there you are. Iām holding my drawing upā¦ I remember you say everything is poetryā¦yes/no? Where thereās beauty is song? No receptionā¦ The purpose of these crayons? mother raised me wrong. she died. Indifferent, the song plays on. I surpassed into nothing but a void, living in a memoryās dream, recast into shapes like you, with eyes ears nose. You donāt follow this cryptic form of communication that lives in the untold ā yet, visualize this incipient space? Thatās me! Thatās where I live! But (~none~) conceive what cannot be, that cannot bond to your atoms. 11/2023 41 lines, free form https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horror_vacui_(physics) : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horror_vacui_(physics)#Origin Can I breathe now? Wanted to end with an added lineā¦ Iām not living a dream? -or- Iām not even the memory of a dream. a little tooā¦ Afterthoughts: To exist is to be acknowledged? Earth is true purgatory. 11.30.23 last edit |
| Iāve considered you all So much I forgot about me And yet Thank you for the distraction Never far From my next birthā¦rebirth Received? Amniotic waves flow away From me Once fertile feelings of love Are naught My love not to be bought I hide Walls of resistance crushing Fall in Explode a beautiful sea into A void Harmless blue blood washes brown Back out Black into light obliterated I am Alright in sanctity tonight Until morn We wait to see a sparkling babe Bornā¦again. What a waste lost, to revision. 11.11.23 Thisā¦Iāve done for all and any, and yetā¦ still learningā¦and who I am? Not to be defined by another, anymore Thatās why the reviewlutionā¦for nowā¦ Cleansed into one-ness. Careful, lest stars get in your eyes. |
Yeah, you donāt know me. Whatās that on yo neck? Unrelated How many corners of Earth you tryinā to own? How many more have I been in tryinā to whiff an essence? You? You think I chase. You aināt got the cash I need. You canāt own those mountains, that sea, the sky. You can climb, swim but never fly, yet you tryā¦ buy it all, hoping I buy something you canāt conceive, something I aināt sellinā. āCause, the more I buy, the more Iām bought. The more Iām bought, the less Iām worth. And you canāt have those words that I just stole. They aināt my birth. 11.11.23 Trousers back on If you aināt feelinā me, aināt been tryinā. Maybe, you read wid dem roses on. Roses aināt green. You aināt foolinā me; but someone, right? I hope they pay you good. Me, Iām jusā tryinā ta be. Nowā¦my dick? Yeah, now it feel good. And sorry, itās jusā for me. No need a Buffalo Stanceā¦ Iāll try another approach another day. I know you donāt ārespondā SVP. p.s. My poor momā¦āwhere do all those words come from?ā She SHOULD have had me tested, instead of calling me ādifferentā, her ādumb bunnyā. You know, a dumb bunny is sick in the headā¦soon dead from madness. Iām no March hare, mad hatter. She could never see what was the matter? Me neither, until EVERYONE told me otherwise. Then, skinned or marshaled me to some island where echoes of childhood float above black plumes and below these lava boots. Iāve stomped each bitch, one by one, until in my Lost, saw just illusion, someoneās delusion, as others employed guilt and shame from that long ago Time Machine I refuse to board. You get in. Bet you wonāt know the date Iāll set it. Edited versh. I wudnāt do you like dat. Pilinā FBoys like logs fer fire. š„ burn. |
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ā 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!
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ā 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 donāt 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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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.
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Thanks for your participation in my 'art' challenge via my notebook feed.
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Thank you for sharing it! It's genius.
