10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind |
Like one of those adventure games where you go off questing in different directions but you don’t advance like the others. You earn pretty medallions gallantly while other players buy, sell and trade at market to get ahead without moving an inch. Slow burn…hey? You’d rather keep your dignity, or try to figure out their game. That’s where you really get lost. Game full of misdirects leads right back to start over and over. You could have stayed on your quest. Now, you have this. Redacted, censored, gaslighted…must be doing something right, my old boss would say. I’m not a sociopath, he tells himself. Equal parts, then? Mom should have had me tested. Because, life of turmoil produces stuff like this. Not going to call it beautiful agony…it gets a bit ugly.Tap on them. It’s part of the quest…see where I’ve been; see who I am: Right. I redact myself. The beautiful mess you made. Who are you? If I’ve been denied the right of knowledge, I’ve earned the right to judge. | Without knowledge, who’s to judge? | No gavel; no voice. "...politely reedy but ambitiously eclectic—moving effortlessly from hen-picking and bottleneck slides to a full deck of chucka-chucka rhythm figures." I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. *Neurodivergent poet. *Don’t judge/hate. I love. *Honesty without mincing words. *Dump your prejudice outside my door. Hope you leave it on the way out. *Nothing to fear but people who surround themselves with rules, can’t be touched. *Real dialogue accepted. My words collect, arrange on a kaleidoscope spectrum. The true experience/acknowledgment of my writing yet to come...long after I’ve left WDC, am dead, or both. Truly been a blessing, but I've been pushing it — envelope, push world and all inhabitants away, push buttons to find boundaries, having no clue or told where they lie, where I've lived in your dark. Now and then, push dirt out of this hole; someone/thing/entity might envision me the way I need to be viewed. (if I knew what that was. Cryptic, I know. Try living in my dark, find comfort amid the strange, virtual walls that tempt me to try). *The parenthetical lawyer up? Foot free, I’m all over the place. Best Poetry Collection 2X, nominated three years. What does it mean? I was enjoying myself, head bagged. A happy idiot. Something messed with that. I won’t be a coward; not starting feuds or wars over ideals and beliefs. We all know that’s a pile of crap packaged with dreams of pretty things to sell the next boob that walks by. Been more than I could imagine or expect. My achievements aren’t going on a LinkedIn wall. But, I get it. You're sick of me. It's how I feel about myself when I dig deeper, push boundaries. Don’t care my words that aim for honesty, either brave or veiled cowardice, flinchingly flung, inadvertently hit a target. Get a back off shoulder shot for asking your motivations to write…won’t get me to bend over backwards to appease, again. There’s no prize to eye, not properly incentivized. So, does it mean when dealt the worst two cards before the flop, do the best with what you got? Yeah, rigged. Yeah, other tables — other ‘games’. But, something in my gut I’ll never be rid. My Pluggers: You are an icon here. You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer.{/blue} It’s like plugging myself, but using other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "Life’s Little Misdirections 🥀🦋" 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 ▼ |
Lyrics Look at the desperate man Clutching with broken hands Wondering how it ends Stumbling back and forth Looking to start a war I'm lucky he was a friend Wait Take me apart and I'll flow like water slowly fade I'm disappearing again He would've risked it all He wanted to heed the call This was the last attempt But as he turns to go A broken voice cuts through the cold "This ain't how it ends" Wait Take me apart and I'll flow like water slowly fade I'm disappearing again Time and space, there's never enough and I don't mind waiting for The day Everyone here will go mad Wait Take me apart and I'll flow like water slowly fade I'm disappearing again Time and space, there's never enough and I don't mind waiting for The day Everyone here will go mad I was the foolish man Living to fight again But dying to find the end |
Let's try this one time... Lyrically... Rewire Feed me amphetamine my messy head needs a rewire boy I’m tired pretty please prescribe I’m not a seeker life is bleaker without the bright sunshine supplied by ten milligrams at a time but quit by five if I want to sleep tonight coffee helps tea's better I've learned for patience and a bright mind good vibes this really jibes man, I was so sad people didn’t get me -- still don’t it’s gonna take a while to rewire me write on that pad: amphetamine my inspiration tonight 7.27.23 |
Last PPC Week 52 PPC ▼ Week 51 PPC ▼ Week 50 PPC ▼ Week 49 PPC ▼ Week 48 PPC ▼ Week 47 PPC ▼ Week 46 PPC ▼ Week 44 PPC ▼ Week 45 PPC ▼ Week 43 PPC ▼ ADDITIONAL: Week 29 PPC ▼ Week 39 PPC ▼ Week 40 PPC ▼ Week 41 PPC ▼ Week 42 PPC ▼ Week 35 PPC ▼ Week 36 PPC ▼ Week 37 PPC ▼ Week 38 PPC ▼ Week 31 PPC ▼ Week 32 PPC ▼ Week 33 PPC ▼ Week 34 PPC ▼ Week 26 PPC ▼ http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/naani.html candlelight for week 27 PPC ▼ Week 28 PPC ▼ Week 29 PPC ▼ Week 30 PPC ▼ Week 22 PPC ▼ Week 23 PPC ▼ Week 24 PPC ▼ Week 25 PPC ▼ PPC Week 18 Picture Prompt ▼ PPC Week 19 Prompt - Pain ▼ PPC week 20 Prompt - Acrostic ▼ PPC week 21 Prompt - Birds ▼ Choice for Week 12 PPC ▼ Cinquain for week 11 PPC ▼ Home for week 10 PPC ▼ Survival for Week 9 PPC ▼ Hope for PPC Week 4 ▼ Limerick for Week 14 PPC ▼ Clues: Week 15 PPC prompt ▼ Week 16 - prompt Promises ▼ Week 17 prompt Tri-Fall ▼ 8.12.22 PPC - week 4 prompt: Hope https://terraprime-encyclopedantic.fandom.com/wiki/Demolecularization Hope (writ first, 10+ days earlier) My organ bleeds on purpose, digests all input, spins, in four chambers, separated. you enter and exit again and again. Hope is the thing in my houses, feathered and bloodied, escaping, no longer fed. In my upper chambers a chest swells. So much ingestion lifelong, for little hope, as yet resolved. A typical heart has two upper and two lower chambers. The upper chambers, the right and left atria, receive incoming blood. The lower chambers, the more muscular right and left ventricles, pump blood out of the heart. The heart valves are gates at the chamber openings. I muse that hope must pass through all stations of a heart, which at the core of soul, advises experience to a brain that has fight or flight capability. Experience brands a coward who’s central processing system has glitches from a life over-informed, forced into periodic shutdown. Tanka for PPC Week 5 ▼ Pic Prompt for PPC Week 6 ▼ Guilty Pleasure for PPC Week 7 ▼ Gogyohka form for Week 8 PPC "Invalid Post" Brain Trench Dirtbike-brain spins-around-in-circles, Rear wheel ruddering fresh lawn. Grass spewing, gravel skittering, Yard trenched when I jump off. Overwhelmed by just 50ccs of power. 9.16.22 Ideas go round; my brain a mess when I'm done with thinking. ruddering - we used this in Upper Michigan in my formative years, meaning we were steering or handling something like a rudder in water. Could only find dirty urban slang for ruddering and not the vernacular accustomed to my neck of the woods. Week 3-PPC ▼ Week 2-PPC ▼ Week 1-PPC ▼ |
Does something of worth know it is good without validation? desirable, this good, tied to dignity? meaning what, to whom? virtue is good? inside you. benefit? cost? take a pill, go to bed. it creeps beside you. Good. Good? 5/30/23 Edit 8/11/22 italics and extra title work |
will i do anything with this? F...my fluorescence (Father) highly reactive element and chemist killer efforts to isolate dangerous. highly toxic, corrosive. pale yellow diatomic gas at room temp. bursting electronegativity higher than electron affinity. Fluoride is fluorine ion. (ion def.) mineral fluorspar, glows in the dark. fluorescence. unlike Fluoride europium gave fluorite effect. Sodium fluoride saves from rot teeth. Fluorine attacks metals. Steel wool will ignite exposed to pure fluorine gas. War War 2 only reason Commercial production of fluorine needed to enrich uranium. https://sciencenotes.org/fluorine-facts/ 5.29.23 free verse |
I don’t serve u u don’t get it ~ ~ ~~ low tide slows ~~ rolls me in ~~ sand ~~ slugged dry sun dry slug in sand fried lapped again ~~ ~~ cool licks taste my hide ~ raw ~~ flesh ~~~ torn ~~ sewage rocked to ~ fro ~~ crest ~~~ dive ~~ ~ ~ ~ on the white caps ride ~~~~~ carried to the horizon ~~~~~ cry u don’t own me ~~~~~ i serve no one ~~~~ not the moon ~~~ not the sun ~~ in surf ~ drown high is bottom is alone is the middle of a sea called nowhere beautiful free lonely dark the full glow on my face finds me here ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ here we go again ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ eternity is a sea ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ constantly hauling me ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ back before your eyes ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ no surprise ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ i can’t hide ~ ~ . 5.27.23 Alone is free is torment is beautiful is life before we all die It’s living, a |
intoxicated bad breath repulsive words bubble on red lips behavior like lust wanton and ignorantly dressed selfish to think you can grind on this in perfume saturate sober words could ingratiate if not stale -- scripted to death eely eyes can't disguise looking directly at mine inebriated broken hearted I stumbled into your flesh behavior like lust never intended to be mated selfish to think someone would grind on this sober words braved reveal a soul devoid of any hope to meet eyes as blue as mine. 5.23.23 Yeah, I said it. What, what? Please don't hate. It shows original intent, and psychotic Grind On This is a raw and evocative poem that delves into themes of intoxication, lust, and self-reflection. The poem's style is concise and direct, using vivid imagery and stark language to convey its message. The poem begins with the word "intoxicated," immediately setting the tone for the reader. This word choice serves as a metaphor for the emotional state of the speaker, suggesting a lack of control or inhibition. The use of "bad breath" and "repulsive words" creates a visceral image, making the reader feel the discomfort and unease of the situation. One notable poetic device in the poem is the repetition of the phrase "behavior like lust," emphasizing the reckless and impulsive nature of the speaker's actions. This repetition reinforces the theme of self-indulgence and the consequences of such behavior. The poem's brevity adds to its impact, as each line carries weight and significance. The theme of selfishness and the consequences of reckless actions is prominent throughout the poem. The speaker reflects on their own behavior and the realization that they were driven by selfish desires, as seen in the lines "selfish to think / you can grind on this" and "selfish to think / someone would grind on this." This self-awareness and admission of fault add depth to the poem's narrative. The poem's ending, with the mention of "sober words braved" and the revelation of a soul "devoid / of any hope to meet eyes / as blue as mine," introduces a sense of regret and self-examination. It suggests that the speaker has gained insight into their actions and the emptiness of their pursuits. This shift in tone adds complexity to the poem's narrative and leaves the reader with a sense of introspection. While Grind On This effectively conveys its message in its current form, there are a few suggestions that might enhance the poem: Sooo…suck on that?? |
Landfall, landfall Crash more my shore Glint sand smush, push Divide with obedient tide Nightlong, daylong On my soft, bare shore Beneath white glow commanded Flatten smooth, raced and hide My brown girth yearns, spills With you to drown dead Where you leave me lie 5.23.23 |
Can’t get out of my own way some days Bright inspiration cleaves my head A pungent onion, quarter or dice, Dream every purpose No dish in mind An oven, stove or microwave Standby. Other ingredients To pair as I stare Into that time portal A hole in physical space where I waste So much waste, like time. Store the chopped tear jerker Return to the obedient fridge Not hungry now, maybe, Never again. Too much time And work getting lost In thought of what to prepare And for who, having cultivated A particular taste that appeases A chef, without anyone To huddle over, ask Whatcha cookin’? Just to reply Whatcha in the mood for And spend a pretty dime At one of the many houses Where we order the same thing Off the menu, because We know what we like, Don’t like to cook, especially When your uninspired, without Two lips and a hungry mouth Begging at your ear Whip me up another dish, Because you cook so good. 5.22.23 |
bared my chest you view an animal heavy cranium with lantern jaw now a long jowl of glass withstanding heat that destroys the physical shell in hell, tissue, bone, teeth more impervious than metal bared my soul you can torch that, too survive ensuing tsunamis, hurricanes, volcano blasts and land interruptions let’s go nuclear, weapons amasser, and see if a cockroach survives fallout of your winters, after bright night hailstorms but the necessary casualties, anything buried in impervious sand, teeth I collect, wear like mementos of the soldiers who fell in ignorant duty to master you can’t kill what’s fictitious unless the story awash, lost in a corked glass drum floating an eternal sea, hopeful arriving to shores like mine in sand your holograph army stands in halls of mirrors strategically placed I hide behind the directed, pull cords in darkness my big head hides with a Cheshire smile aglow And only you know the cost from flamethrowers to torch a village to a weapon that dooms us all. I’m not a dinosaur, but your relic of an ignorant, tyrant war, when, my dumb head entered a small den… looking for direction, not rhetoric from dystonic to Machiavellian warbling. 5.17.23 Unedited or fully ideated https://www.metalsupermarkets.com/melting-points-of-metals/ |
Apparently I was a little Dickens according to one of the church ladies. A boy, wire the wrong way? My mom wasn't having it. Learned what reading the riot act was all about, eventually. The woman who 'was for everyone' set the moral edge I followed, too literally. A life of adjustments would follow. A bit like her, I wear a smile like a frown. Passion like hers, an obsession to create, she wielded a shuttle to tat a 15 square foot display of the Last Supper that now sits atop grandmother- in-law's old China cabinet, greeting through a bay window, if a rising sun should appear, peak through the guarding crabs stationed outside my house. It helps me remember why I write and how surprised she was to see the slew of teenage manifestos compiling, provoking her to ask 'Where do all these words come from?' The apple doesn't fall far, perhaps in a different form, because she didn't understand why I needed to write -- to make sense of a world that confused me. I was 'different' and handled as such. Maybe, pity and sympathy replaced love, but not from her. But, she wouldn't treat me like I was broken, and I didn't know the difference, except I was embarrassed and afraid to reveal I was confused. But words, showy, rich, technical words that I should not have dabbled in, helped me learn. So, when I have time to think and remember the woman who received wildflowers and water in her good glasses or gave my art and words passing glances I'm happy to share memories of her and woman devoted and undeterred. In a nursing home, her fingers frozen, her tongue long since Parkinson's no longer engaged, spat out food from a spoon I employed one day. I worried she forget me, who I was. My wife played the hall piano, as I tried to engage, but leaned too hard on the exit door and an alarm engaged. Flustered, nurses arrived, I survived and then heard a low, familiar growl from a rising head in her wheelchair, "Brrr-iiiiii-aaaaa-nnnn," sounded a silly scolding, her humor in tact. My mom was alive inside a slump torso and could still see me, feel me and know I'm still her little man. And it wouldn't be long before the day she passed. Her eulogy I was tasked to write, I read. I feel tears, emotions and an uncommon strength loaned, flow through me that day. My brothers wept, hugged me for a woman memorialized right. It would take more than two weeks of nights, before the dreams of her began to fade. She talked to me, walked with me, resurrected like some Jesus from a tomb, sharp wit and words, full of life like a whistling bird on the old porch of my old home and the sun so bright made me realize I need not fright I have her with me, day and night the woman who taught me right. She let me know passion like ours will serve somehow one day, even if to console through another to kin that her life was not a waste, purposed to give love and comfort to any who came her way. I hope, I will relocate that glow that last time I felt her dream presence, and pay it forward it some meaningful way. 5.13.23 |
sucked in by heat expansion, from putty and paint, sticky on sealed wood window frame. softly she pried to slide open, where scheming white pollen, faces pressed to screen, silently waited like screams, wake up boy! even though school's out, chores don't do themselves. I miss Mother's reminders for a lazy head. 5.29.23 one version |
Ebb The Sun Goes down On me, on you On a little river Flowing flowing flowing (by the tree Watching, viewing, spying) Whenever wherever however We think we are free To babble through cattail below wildflower Tumbling to greet decay on our shore Within the divide where we hide From an angry sun, devouring (Shade from the vigilant old man Who lost his way over time Scarred and hating all he remembers All he can’t remember) And what we do flowing to the docks Not our shelter, biding time Lapping, licking, lusting Landfill, warm cover, bathed by evening fire Crackling, blazing, puffing The exhumed into the exhaled Searching, seeking, rising To the fullest, roundest white glowing Gleaming a dreaming bay, longing freedom To search every shore, but settling Beneath the bedrock to aquifer going Going, gone by dawn, dissipated lost To a dry world with dying fauna I hoped this could be happy I hoped this could be you and I I hoped you would see the confluence Of two rising tides Didn’t have to settle for a creek Dry on the pebbled rock Beneath the limbless man Rooted rot tilted, spying Eyeing, knowing we are doom We are severed from humanity Any life we could have escaped Before air no longer could ignite A single Oak to douse our dark Internal, eternal, unelagantly This must die, we will die, no one left To try 5.8.23 7.30.23 edit Hmm, shape it, leave it? Nope. Formerly, ‘To Try’. |
I forgot to bear my heart at your gate adoring everything inside through those blue eyes. I could provide a bouquet less worthy. What does a boy like me know? I lean on your treated wood, Idly conversate, about weather when your hand neared mine on thin wood, we noticed. I feared too near, made exit on promises next time the sun shines. Walk by every day, hope to spy your mastery with spade in cool mid-day shade, the right hour when your true gardener arrived. Heaved on my sagged shoulder, a bag of fertilizer. Older, less bold, remember you, beautiful mouth agape at your gate. The last time, I laid waste at the perimeter of my sealed fate. A nod, back peddle and off down the street to consoling mother, I confessed mistake, failure to win love. Because I don’t know a thing but lolly-gag in your sunshine, wait for water to aid love for a bright, cheery one. She would plant seed in fertile ground. No blooms for me could grow for us, when not sewn, had I lent a hand, a heart, when hers offered to that tempered wood now shutting me out. On my porch, wondering when rain, the brightest star did come. A chill breeze at the foot hold as the warmest, smooth hand returned, touched mine. A whisper, it’s fine. Take my time. All the time. Blue pierced black night. Fright would dissipate. Morning came, ready to be her right man. 5.6.23 Earthy, simple, sentimental, it’s late. Text dense, dull. |
The last line of that first answer was all I needed to see… https://www.beaconbroadside.com/broadside/2019/04/poetry-that-speaks-truth-to-po... …and if anyone knows me, truly, knows what I felt. No hint provided. It may or may not be in my writing. It may or may not be rooted in religiosity… 5.5.23 It might be a hint, but, it’s in the answer about being broken. There is power in the written word, if anyone knew how to read. I might be among the writers and interpreters who get it wrong…let’s see? |
ever feel like someone else’s carnival prize, and yet not good enough? Silver barb through my eye because I caught a glint, tried. Angled, be-slimed catch can’t wriggle off your line. Spurred fins flare, prick fickle flesh that grasp me whole. I’m inhaling more than a surface will do. Is the sun mad at me? Gleam of smile so bright, fat teeth could crush scale and bone and tiny brain with a single bite, when revealed, a thick fat worm that struggles against its might. Red pours through my window, my cavity fast filling, when the blunt, stiff tug comes. I’m unplugged and flung back to brine, moat of scum. Wind up your vinyl vine, cast the next fresh bait and let’s try to get it right this next time. From depth of black bottom to green to bluest high I should rise, as desire, a golden center most merciful. 5.5.23 Why the last three lines? Try. Everyone seems to know more than me. I’ve settled, tired. |
On my journey to self discovery, notice — every word you choose affect on me, effect of you, like blood dripping from my hand, a wound unfelt you could see, the worrier of fabric of clean things. you, decidedly dramatic, when I realize my injury, transgression human, tiny red scrape and smallest ooze daubed clean…I’m bleeding all over? everything? Words employed as preventative measure in struggle of worth amid a life of inanimate things I stain, the blood coagulates, clots as I heal, rather than dispense, dissipate all over our life — hold it in? but wonder about imagination, the machination of your words. Need of narrative control realized, that pride when you wheel into a wayward construction barrel struck dead on by your gleaming machine in a dark night, and report to my judgment your accident account as merely cosmetic. yet, I question, as you come clean, the described drivable, your rationale, that a dent on the bumper, scrapes and hanging trim ripped — flapping from wheel well while driven — gives pause about the power of your words. It needs repairs, insurance claim. How you limit that drama in these moments, but your heart must race to avoid disgrace most humanizing. I’d offer my arms but that would mean…? insecure? come clean? to me, a bloody savage? it’s you’re pretty car. but, it’s fine. No big matter. Smaller than the human who severs? It’s my car, too. 3.4.23 Needs work. Typed on iPhone from a talk-to-text note, edited by arthritic bones. |
Why I don’t submit? Recon on where to submit invites my ADHD to obsess like an owl with a Tootsie Pop. I find a sweet crunch and forget what to savor, sideways again go… We’re not so different, you and I…. https://massreview.org/sites/default/files/13_64.1Ok.pdf …is something I could never get the nerve to say. As I stare out a window Up to the branch on the crab Pointed directly at me… Longing, I spy your winter Coat melting off. Feathers Baffle breezes tormented, Beg strip you free. You eye me, eye me, Side to side, side to side — Never…with such beauty. My heart feels worth slip Through a clear pane. Vanity is insecurity, but Only for the borrower Of a free spirit’s wing Diving for the feeder, then Bomberang away to the sky Because I flinched an inch. We’re not so different… I feel even more alone whisper mutter keep to yourself. Let me have this moment… I’ll be fine. 5.5.23 I just made that up on the fly… No bird outside, caged Is/in my heart. Adverb! Adverb! Adverb alert! Delete, delete, delete… I was just… A-ha! Uh-hah. You are very Very. . 😏 After…fine…do I speak to you, to me…to you through me? to me through you? Somewhere in the narrative divide, not personification, a third person/1st person narration, but a fourth wall I only see the divide of this personality, reflecting, deflecting back and forth off satellites to off shore accounts, transferred a thousand times, pinging off space rock, floating free in a black sea, never incinerate, falling back, burn for reentry, but what black holes spy, crave, if even a glim of shine. Now? I digress… Maybe, another run to look into publications to submit, after lunch. I’ll be distracted for a week or a month or forever, at times. Now, what was/what am I doing? Ignoring right hand arthritic numbness, tingling *shakes hand repeatedly*…what is this compulsion…he tapped with an extended ring finger (right index isn’t ‘having it’ today)? The pinkie tapped the inserted ‘right’. Showing off, now. |