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 |   All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. |
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The Idiotic Ideate?? Formerly: New Zenith To Hell…(all started with arc as writer here from the trials of Rising Stars to Preferred Author to WDC Quills Best Poetry Collection to the falling action I feel now that settles in a white case.) Got to hustle to preserve the best of me before fully fading on that virtual horizon glowing more brilliant with each passing day to permanent nuclear winter. if people don’t get it, I don’t need to explain it. We kill all that’s beautiful before we question it’s purpose. So many people find it easier to think in the black and the white. God forbid you get lost straying in the gray. "Whoever fights monsters should see to it…he does not become a monster.” I’ve been to the abyss and back. Not so bad. The loneliest happy person you'd ever meet, when not the saddest person who needs to be alone. In an ever-changing world, we need to handle topics at the ready. If you roll over and give in to the narrative without lending a voice of your own, you might as well hand over your civil liberties. We have voices that should connect to true conscience and spirit for honest and open discourse. Why feel so redacted? Unify on issues and put drama aside. Open minds require complete objectivity. If none need apply, question the unbendable sources for answer. If you knee-jerk react to every issue lurking out there that clutches your neck, you fall victim to your own ignorance born from a life of apathy (no doubt) in pathetic cries of injustice. Just writing what I feel without the narrative-altering mind f---ing with my head. [MY Chorus] In your house, I long to be Room by room, patiently I'll wait for you there, like a stone I'll wait for you there, alone "It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe indefinitely." "You are all better than you think you are, you are just designed not to believe it when you hear it from yourself." ![Merit Badge in Second Time Around Contest
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Congratulations on winning the Grand Overall Prize in [Link To Item #2164876] with your beautiful poem, [Link to Book Entry #933358]. This poem really moved me. Great writing!
Rachel *^*Heartv*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Second_Time_Around_Contest-2164963_14.gif)    "...lasting art is never anything more than a mathematical expression of the relations that exist between the internal and the external, the self [le moi] and the world." -Jean Metzinger I'm in love with carefully chosen words, arranged just so, audible, edible, to inhale. I attempt to post new poems and epiphanies daily with some links to what inspires. I am legally blind with a rare, genetic form of glaucoma. I'm described as "end stage" after two successful surgeries, still subject to further vision loss. Cataracts complicating matters. Writing Can get strenuous but seldom deters what yearns to emerge, despite a documented history of depression and recently diagnosed ADHD and undefinable social disorders and/or PTSD. My recent poetry:
Sometimes epiphanies about my insights on writing and life and what goes on... Making sense of life is maddening. Why do I need to know, when truth may not actually exist? Learning to accept would be a better pursuit? Flailing about in my own mediocrity, hoping to bust out. I am visible. You can put a face with a name. I would like to see other writers, too. Fiction is what you write, not who you are. Reinventing myself. I couldn't continue on the path I was on and needed a fresh start. This time around I want to put the focus on writing and the world outside of this community as it affects my life. I realize now that I have been baring my chest a bit more, as when young. fake me much more boring and unliberated than the real me. A world arriving as silent as that blossom in your garden that I told you about... |
| Ignorance As Crime Is Punishment When I think I've done everything right And she points to the daub of red frosting left on the kitchen table And the back of my ignorant knuckle, recounting the transference and Where else have my hands committed transgressions I wasn't aware of. When I think I've done everything right, I wonder what other crimes I've unknowingly committed that she Witnessed without remarking, what a felon she's married to. Wonder Why she ever settled for a slob like me spreading wayward crumbs About our shabby life, from here to our bed.
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| Angry I mean you no harm Why do they cower when I approach? My eyebrows Knitted, yes But not for you But poor vision That forces me glare Because I'm tall? Mighty arms? My hard jaw line? Confident demeanor Cuts through bullshit Past lame pleasantries To get at truth The cut of my jib? What? I scare my daughter's male teacher Dragged to a tired Rehearsed conference Guys at gym When I grunt clear out Child at home Who won't do chores Is that my fault? You all label me Set the narrative Correct me before I speak Before I'm done Make me come to you Force me to say 'their's a problem' I see you want to run Laugh maniacally At a trivial remark Just settle down Take your drug Why do you make me feel a surgeon with mask, A scalpel or pliers Angling for your teeth God, no wonder I look Angry I'm not a chimp pushing buttons for bananas. I want to write. |
| Attempt at Allegory When she sidled up, she couldn't match his long strides. Roxanne had introduced herself with simple innocence. He slowed his pace, knew he was not to be left alone, roam free. She had accosted him with such clever sweetness it could make any man's head turn. But, he could not know her. She was not even a vision -- just a guardian to lead him back to his room. Brian had a history of anxiety, meltdowns. He couldn't just wander about, conjecture to the others. He had felt that soft hand guide before. He was always led to quiet places. It was like the smell of glue, crayons and markers -- given busy work to help with the obsessing. Each time he realized even sooner the ruse. Feeling manipulated, he would go along with the game long enough to earn their trust back...again. A door slid partly opened facing a gray wall. "Why are we here?" "This will be your new home in a few years. I thought you would like to see it," Roxanne pleasantly replied. A concrete floor laid before a windowless room. It was just like he imagined: no air vents, square and dead silent. He noticed the peeling numbers '6, 0' on the entry. What he dreaded was presented like a new opportunity, or the beginning of the end. His days wandering the halls were now numbered. Before waking from this dream, Brian had an odd feeling. How long had he lived in this asylum? Maybe, stay in bed a little longer, give lucid dreaming one more try. |
From the time I first learned to tie a blanket around my neck I believed I could be like my idols, a hero; but it would be for no one but myself, as I had to defend my own faith. Faith started out as courtesy to mother and father, to their ethic, tradition -- values instilled and projected on family, friends, neighbors and community that one by one abolished a crusader in tethered linen running through yards and streets majestic. I wasn't fit. I couldn't serve, limited by the values, ethos and traditions of others -- not mine. I contemplated every nudge, get off my block -- each glare or indifferent demeanor -- studied body language, hands on hips or if thrust skyward sending me up, up and away and off to my room, my corner of a world so cold, punitive. It was hard to believe my faith with what they imprinted on me. Green with anger, identifying with powerful monsters, I grew stronger in my fortress, in my resolve that I can be your hero and eat your bullets. I can walk in humid night, dark path leading to four walls -- an anti-hero caged in quiet solitude sought, within knowing, out there someone needs me. And if I knuckle under, I will die a little more, become mortal. I serve darkness and instead yearn light. I'm as public as ever and alone as hell. 11.8.19 4.11.23 edited Monsters don't know their limitations. How am I still alive, thwarting pure evil? |
| Some days, I feel I’m the only adult at a kid’s table. And, they’re trying to intimate I should be somewhere else. Indifferent, they play amongst themselves. If I chime in, furrowed brows and scowl as they whisper in hushed tones. Yup, just sip the imaginary tea old man. Observe. |
When I Arrived (Note: I'm still working on this) Remember that summer He took us to the Tastee Freez After helping mow a field He Sprang for 10 cent cones You had your freckles I was just past orange Blond hair a melted heap Beneath a cap, grass Specked, stained by messy Errant sun screen applied Before she would let us go I remember the day at camp Arriving, big wiffle bat in hand (the kind that couldn't miss A pitched ball). Temptation sated As I flung it at his fat behind Maybe, he was frustrated Just embarking Maybe, I was acting out Before he rumbled, chased Down, assail like No toy could A tender backside I wasn't in pain as I cried Learning to hold in anxiety Especially the evening He pinned my neck In that dinner chair to floor Vicious words spat After I realized openly Why I had five extra newspapers Left over from my route I wouldn't finish my meal Reheated after He drove me to deliverance Of each tardy daily I suspected you were amused Each time I failed him But I was in his way until The day he lynched you At the back door After midnight with his Gripping hands Accusations of drug use Questions about your intent When she intervened (Slapped to the floor Like a dog) [With free mitt] before I arrived Locked burly arms behind thick torso, shoved Across our house to couch Sat upon him hammering his face Two stone fists Just glancing off That thick, dull skull Mouth drawn Like a wide-eyed fish Punished like a child As I shouted contempt Why couldn't I hurt him Hit him harder Turn him to dust? Because I still loved him. I went to bed knowing You and she were safe I still relive torture Restrain hard Not to hurt another But, I guess that depends Since I have my vocabulary You might not see me as a child of abuse. Nowhere to stand in your house With my drama. I'll wait outside No matter the weather Long for the proper invitation Somewhere the likes of me Is welcome Did I mention my baggage? |
Where We Flowed Gathered at the back porch The old man's drugs were flowing Whatever your fix It was all good Together, forgetting Ills replace ills In our neglected neighborhood Behind the old woman's shed It was all good Raid canning jars Or garden instead Veggies raw Whatever will do For the fix For the ill Remedy for veins thick Ply pale flesh Swim inner trails Under the neighbor's apple Shade From a harsh sun angling Aims between Thinning leaves That dive, swim To our fateful ground Pile up like us Cold, shivering Until the next remedy I told them how I dream Of dying like the grass I pluck, become Decay in mortal earth I dream I never wake Immortal in fantasy Knowing I'll never be rich Transacting Behind a value mart Dry cardboard walls contain Strays like me that Scratch, claw Dine on leeching Black plastic Oozing sustenance Never winter here Seek shelter of Wool gifts A stranger's alms Rub elbows with The other lonely Sample soup endless In their kitchens Load up on bread Dream, one day Return to the tree Where we flowed. analogous ▼ |
Apologetic Postscript Of A Year Later by Robert Louis Stevenson IF you see this song, my dear, And last year's toast, I'm confoundedly in fear You'll be serious and severe About the boast. Blame not that I sought such aid To cure regret. I was then so lowly laid I used all the Gasconnade That I could get. Being snubbed is somewhat smart, Believe, my sweet; And I needed all my art To restore my broken heart To its conceit. Come and smile, dear, and forget I boasted so, I apologise - regret - It was all a jest; - and - yet - I do not know. |
Before the boys wake the refrigerator hums discontent -- furred, snarled dragons ply smooth, dead floor about idle, be-socked feet -- hardwood surfaces plateau from toe to eye glossy, forlorn in chilled autumn morn -- our clear vestibule prison warm, satisfies Before one voice unwinds silence uninterrupted night already nearing -- mindless echoes still chirping draw dragons' eyes out return their desires chained to domestication in padded sofa/lounger play land Nearing the crack of pipes emerging mechanical waterfalls an empty hull longs fill to the brim with expectation neglected brown coffee cold Thoughts ▼ e.e. was right about i though We never met. 🤔 |
| Conor boasts He jousts A feisty tatted Irish chap? But he surely busts The fourth wall Because in many a Shakespeare act A second chance Livestrong Able nobleman Not caught in a lie But how one does try (Like a fool) Redeem oneself Then double back In another act Hmm, looks Scots to me Must've broke from the clan Give me my stead I'm off! 'afore he sock me in me eye. You wouldn't beat up a bard? Old, blind man?? Bad try, mate! You bet your Bollocks! Never say McGregor near a boxing ring Nay, 'tis a charmed life Watch 'im 'awk 'is whiskey. ESPN left out one detail from McGregor's past in story announcing his 'comeback' (cue LL Cool J). I think the last graph of the story today explains why: http://www.espn.com/mma/story/_/id/24746406/conor-mcgregor-cashes-new-6-fight-uf... Let bygones be bygones. Let's make some cash! Brian is such a cynic. https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/McGregor_(surname) https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theatrical_superstitions I wish I could use this image: https://www.vectorstock.com/royalty-free-vector/conor-mcgregor-mma-fighter-vecto... his mugshot is public domain!  |
| I woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep when I realized I had Bonnie Raitt on a loop in my head. Mostly it was the chorus, possibly reminding me that art rejects this dreamer. It could be I'm stuck idling over stuff that's easy to do rather than tackle the monster that's been alive in me all these years. I might pine over a what-would-have-been woman, write her odes she'll never see. But, it keeps coming back to me: what I'm afraid of, intimacy and the ultimate rejection of that which we don't have the mental fortitude to master. Maybe, never had or never will sail that craft. Wrong metaphor? Out of place. I looked at at dark wall for about an hour, tossed. I knew I could disturb her, in every sense of the word. So, I went downstairs for a respite. Even after telling my wife and daughter I was getting published last night, put on some enthusiasm so they could appreciate what I should be joyful about, I had that gnawing in my gut. Seeing a poem in print isn't what will suffice. My brain didn't negotiate what the dreaming mind keeps relating at 3 a.m. When are you going to write her? I had a dream about her (LuAnne) again the night previous. My mind is deceiving me into believing we live in two altered worlds. The LuAnne I knew and the story that could have been, at least about her. I had a scene play out in my head that would be the climax to our story. I had woke and was jotting it all down when real life reminded I needed to shower for an appointment. I wanted to revisit her, if even to reread the notes. Reality kept us apart. Though, she didn't disturb my slumber tonight directly, I was reminded I was neglecting her call...the true vision that could make her come to life. I've wrestled with the story, thought about it from all perspectives. The thought of wading through chapters of disjointed material...it's difficult to separate what really happened to what I could imagine our outcome to have been. That's not something you toy with, like second-guessing if the life you lived is worthless in pursuit of one that was not. It was a path not chosen. No sliding door references, but a portal keeps opening to my past and shoves me back to pursue a woman seemingly unwilling to meet me. So, it's me, not her calling? We took separate trails. But, all the odes I've ever written, the one most prophetic is hidden in a folder somewhere, begging me to try again recapture the feeling...so I can move forward without her once again. And, my mind will always come back to this place at three a.m. when I'm not thinking anymore about why she didn't love me. She did. It wasn't in the cards. Yet, she (me) haunts me some nights, but leaves me smiling. She's not really gone, you know. As long as I wrestle with writing and some kind of acceptance to validate me (acceptance that I must validate myself), I'll be stuck with this misery. Maybe, I'll stop getting near to others in hope of the same kind of shared intimacy only to shove them away once I've had a taste and find it doesn't compare...(don't you dare sing, Sinead!) I'm lost like Disney's Stitch. I'm prone to break stuff like David Banner when he's Hulk. I'm running through a village chased like Frankenstein because I'm just too damn ugly, I shouldn't exist in anyone's garden. Stitch finds love, the abomination of revealed science kills his master (or gets a bride, you choose) and Banner will be haunted forever unless Marvel has the decency to kill him like Spidermam (although, like D.C. and Supermen, they'll bring him back. Just wanted to make you feel something since we're all getting bored with all the super hero nonsense and it's like a billion dollar industry). And so... At 3 a.m., after I exhaust these thoughts, I'll sleep, wake and sober to these meandering internal reflections. Are you ever going to write her, Brian? Afraid to rebuild your monster because you might kill her, or will it destroy you? I'm guessing this lifelong process of wrestling with the art of it all includes suffering, brooding and a need to be misunderstood...yes I like aloof! And because I can only access a friggin' iPad, I type with one finger as fast as I can, making sure this stream doesn't close. It's closing. Adieu sweet ghost until deja veux? I'm sorry to all those who have to suffer when I'm around...like a moody goth teen. It's easier to accept your rejection than realize I'm screwed up and am forever figuring out the coordinates to this portal so I can just get inside and destroy it...or forever merge with it. Just had a flashback to 'Eureka.' Look it up. What I struggle with:
Written 30+ Years ago |
| My son is taking AP Lit in his senior year of high school. He came to me with a poem 'Crossing the Swamp' by Mary Oliver that was a task master and said, "Okay, Dad. Explain poetry to me.' We got distracted with dinner and other obligations, so I decided to write my discourse on poetry to him, hoping it will help: To Alex, Why watch a movie called Titanic, if you know how it ends? There is more to the story than beginning, climax and outcome. It's about how they got there, what you experience along the way. A poem can be like that. A poet wants you to feel what they are experiencing, but they don't want to just shout out the answer in these never ending games of charade. You have to guess. But, who's going to tell you you're right? It's like working a New York Times Sunday crossword alone now. You figure out the parts that are easy to understand and place them next to other clues and puzzle it together. But, the whole time, you have to remember, you must stand back and let this wash over you. Don't strain too hard. Because a poem is like a painting that can be wild in color or muted in tone. What type brush strokes, canvas? In essence, what is their medium? Is it traditional rhyming (feel good) or free form with line breaks putting emphasis on some words for extra meaning. How do the words layer over one another like the painting? You might feel better as you go along collecting clues, assembling them, getting a general spirit for the writer's game. In the end, they want you to feel something in your gut. It's experience. If it's something you can't relate to because of lack of experience, it would be hard to feel empathy. Sympathy is a tool for those who can feel your emotion but cannot relate. Everyone (except, maybe, sociopaths) experience joy, pain. This is why reading poetry about stuff you know will help you understand/feel poetry -- poetry that uses form (can be lyrical), poetic devices (personification, imagery, allegory) and those words so cleverly paired to give us coined expressions. (Just Google Shakespeare and you will see.) I'll end with this, for now. I can explain further in the days, weeks, life ahead. But, I wrote a poem in college that was my rant about people confusing my writing for greeting card stuff. Though, it doesn't prove my point (it would take many toils to come), it describes what a poem was to me then. My 25-year-old self to my near 18-year-old son: What do you make of a poem? A poem is a poem, is a poem, is a poem. Is that all you can make out of that? Wherever you roam, you roam, you roam, don’t forget to bring a hat? A rose is a rose, is a rose, is red, now dead. Now what do you make out of that? You killed it with your drool you fool; slobber from your face you spat. A dream is a dream, is a dream, is a dream. What a scene you made out of that. You killed it with your vision, division; television spawned the illiterate brat. I woke up one day, saw daisies, a meadow; a brook full of leaping trout in their raincoats, trying to land on hooks. Caviar bellies splash on the cement, bake in the sun. Now what do you make out of that? Nothing? I see you, I dream you; you’re just fiction. You breathe my air like gas, pass out from fumes too real for your kind of imagination. So what do I make out of that? A poem is a red rose, is a dream. A poem is a field full of fish in raincoats. A poem is nothing but what you see; not television, it’s fiction, too real for your imagination. Now what do you make out of that? Indirectly quoting Gertrude Stein while thinking about Shakespeare: https://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/15900.html
Truth is elusive. It makes you doubt it exists. (Your current dad) |
| Imitation is the sincerest form... ...Edwyn Collins updates the Len Barry tune of '65 in '94 with an eye to Iggy who inspired the song when he was rejected by an intriguing woman. But, many still claim 'Mr. Pop' wrote and/or performed this song, keeping a discophile myth alive... Myself, I thought it was Bowie until I was corrected. I'm an Absolute Beginner  |
| Dear Lois, I'm Sorry For My Ignorance I need to unburden my brushes with great blunder Lois Gibbs thought I underfed my cat, worse, thought I was a biased journalist...but I was young Spike Lee wanted to know while I was rolling tape why I didn't ask him a question I remained mute Maya Angelou appeared puzzled when I cornered her and compared her poetry to John Keats' Al Gore's hand felt small in mine a pregnant Juice Newton was annoyed by my interviewing technique that one summer day while Eddie Money was baffled I didn't remove the 45 'Walking On Water' before having him sharpie the sleeve but we appeared together backstage in a Billboard magazine photo the concert promotion I stole from a local radio station promoter because the concert manager was a childhood neighbor in the hallway of my old university the girls of Vixen weren't allowed to pose for a pick with me I think they wanted to, but weren't in makeup I could have met Buddy Guy, didn't want to, wasn't my kind of music -- nor were war stories, I told a workshop author, unaware he penned the boring grist, and Elie Wiesel, how important was he when I could spend the afternoon on my dorm floor blasting 'Disco Inferno,' which was about what? Social ignorance, my social discord, wake me up when it's time for another 2-dollar-a-bottle-Boone's Farm run I'm going to sleep this off now...plenty more ignorance to come. *Lois Gibbs was a famous activist I invited to my house You can look up the rest, if confused I'm sure I'm leaving some folks out Selective memory? Spike scared me most |
| The Value of Good Wood When the termites discover my woodwork they gnaw at my ego, they gnaw on good intentions until they look bad and I have to wonder what was I thinking. I can store my craft. I can set out to kill them all, tedious, as if one by one. Why are they so hungry for my craftwork? I could polish good intentions until less ambiguous shine. But, termites don't know the value of wood. It's a poem that wants to say more, but if I did, then it would lose luster. Irony ▼ From my vantage: ▼ What if you could teach your teacher something. Would they willingly become your student? One more thing: ▼ discourse in rambling ▼ You don't know. |
| I've been right about there constant on your horizon whether you don't look for me or just don't see hidden plainly burning in your brilliant light Revolving, evolving I linger that you might glimpse even in the darkest hour moving away to the naked eye a vision to behold if just for an instant -- one circumpolar giant minimized by vantage glimmering, a glint sent pulsing by curling obstinance forbidding masses but, constant still peering at you in our shared twilight. * |
| I pine in your isolation late afternoon the kitchen where you hide watch shadows wash a porcelain, provential woman dream one day take as my wife deluged in soft light how I might stoop to kiss a concealed face veiled at our alter. Go about your business paused for a demur soul undiminished in pale room, pale scene Imagine you hands clean busy with privacy my subtle queen Revere undisturbed beauty silent as grey eve. Fear not stolen glances of your reposed servitude delicate in duress behind the white door open just for one reverential in shared solitude leaves you neigh until our time dear Ida future bride of an equally lonely craftsman. 10.05.18 "Note: The Mystery of [Link: 'Vilhelm Hammershoi&#..." wife of Vilhelm Hammershoi, widowed 1916 |
| The moral edge you hold to my skin close to my neck your pressure my resistance in a chair tethered to philosophy of mankind buried alive in cemeteries like mausoleums you won’t visit because you don’t know where they are, where they are stored. But, resuscitate, parade your dead words, beliefs while I recline, drip out until I am to join them uncelebrated and clean. 19 lines Writ on phone at work 8/24/18 edited here 9/14/18 |
| If I start thinking about something All the old feelings and musings come rushing back But with a new twist, Something new revealed as truth To diminish the illusion. Or, Is it delusion that keeps me toying with An unsolvable puzzle We are not meant to understand Only be entertained with Until we die uttering our rosebuds in deathbeds. |
Looking at these private colleges and all the shiny incentives they throw at you reminds of that sleek Cadillac of envy that would be a dream to own. You sit down after presentations and tours and go over all the options and start to think it's doable. They laud the kid with their presidential, top-of-the-line, merit-based scholarship in high figures. There's a chance of an elite education, to rub elbows with greatness? Getting a fuzzy glimpse of this teen's future might make a person misty-eyed. Then, when those numbers go crunch, the gap between tuition and grants still can't match the cost of a state school. So, you go back down the block and kick the tires on that Plymouth Duster...again...and a BMW buzzes by. I imagine 'I'm a proud alum of...' frame on a vanity plate. Meanwhile, 'the kid' has just spent his tenth straight hour on the X-Box. The light of a fading day pours in as I enter that room. His pupils constrict as I greet his dull response. That's when the vision of owning a speed boat at my new cabin on a lake arrives. He found his passion. Maybe, I should indulge my dream instead. |
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In the Falkland Islands, internet is very limited and very expensive. The place I'm currently staying only lets me use it in the middle of the night, so when I have to get up at 3 am to check my texts (no cell service to the US here unless I'm on the internet) or WdC, I don't do nearly as much as I used to. 
I currently have 2 very long emails I still need to get to from several days ago. Anyway, I miss everyone, but I also miss sleep, so there's that. 
Have you spoken to the doctor about your vision problems lately? I know there are special glasses for it because I have to wear them to read much ever since the brain injury. It's part of why I now only listen to audiobooks instead of reading regular books. It took 8 years for anyone to diagnose it because I have a brain injury and while one might think it would be obvious to me that I see double, it wasn't. Partly, my brain does a fair job of compensating. But also, partly, you use your brain to realize and understand that the 2 images you constantly see are double vision and something you should mention to your eye doctor. Since my brain was damaged, even basic things like that can escape me. 
I never once thought to mention it, even with annual eye exams in the Army and an exam every 2 years at the VA. Though, in my defense, since it happens in something like 41% of people with a brain injury, it should have been discovered by an eye doctor much sooner. 
I know doing that activity is a CRAP TON of work. But you made a difference in lives, not just his, but for all the people he's reviewed since. 
Well done! 
