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 |    10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind |
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I’m disabled by more than blindness. Writing: Like one of those adventure games where you go off questing in different directions but you don’t advance in life. Pretty medallions sought for words/my soul, slow burnt. Full of misdirects, right back at the start, but still quest with thirst. Life of turmoil produces stuff like this. Not going to call it beautiful agony…it gets a bit uglier. Minced words too pungent. If they take time to notice, must be doing something right. scripturam in hoc non mutamus, quia stultus es et differentiam nescies. (hic) The beautiful mess you made: I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. - me Neurodivergent poet seeks love without that fart in the room between us. Honesty without mincing words has come with a price for those juggling the hot my takes on what’s ‘truth’ (here’s some oven mitts). Best to stay clear of those surrounded by moat rules. Real dialogue is accepted. Wasn’t as open at first about recent diagnosis on spectrum with ADHD (complicated by PTSD, life of brain traumas). Been suggested by doctors of late I might want another brain scan (since 12/4/17…blogged). This poet’s words collect, arrange on a kaleidoscope spectrum. The experience of discovery through writing is the truest reward that has allowed me to grow and learn who/what I am — what other people get naturally, immediately, while I stomp around in it. Been blessed, but pushing it — envelope, world and all inhabitants away. Push buttons, find boundaries to trip traps. No clue why cat curiosity, living in your dark. (Bored, perhaps?) Now and then, push dirt out of this hole; someone/thing/entity might envision me how I need to be viewed (if I knew what that was). Cryptic, yes. Try living in my dark, find comfort amid strange, virtual, wonderful walls that tower above, tempt me to scale. Been more than I could imagine or expect here. But, achievements aren’t going on a LinkedIn wall  . I dig deeper than I should, often without forethought. Aimless words, brave or veiled cowardice, flinchingly flung, inadvertently hit targets? Get a ‘back off’ shoulder shot when asking your motivations here. Not fair?No prize to eye; not incentivized. Dealt the worst two cards before the flop, do best with what’s in hand. My Pluggers: You are an icon here.  You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer.  It’s like plugging myself, but using other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "Poetic Referendum(s) On Life"  Your poetic muse is on fire!  Some great emotion, well-balance(d), lovely lyrical qualities -- even the ones that were written out of sadness or anger came through in a clever cadence…It's obvious you've put a lot of work into each entry and the totality of the blog has eye appeal.  Published four times with one a literary journal, including…  "The Tender Core (Sedona)"  I don’t submit because it’s too much work. Truly alone, know no one cares to show they believe/support me. Lip service feeds delusion. I’ve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Try not be cynical, work hard at openness and consideration — work, sooo…gut thing.   ![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 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 ▼ |
| A Fine Mess Perfectly fine answers echo the room. Because, perfect IS the enemy of good. And it stands to reason, fine is associated with perfect, deemed better than merely good. Yet, the mere utterance of good as response suffices. Nowadays, perfect, alone, reigns supreme. So, why get all tangled up with fine? Their expression may be discarded as archaic. If perfunctorily pretentious perfect punctuates positive response, then fine and good go at each other. Good wins. Fine behaves as sniveling or sycophant little brother. Good be cool, modifies with merely, or not. The contentious pair had partnered as ‘fine goods’, yet few noticed or cared. They split when perfect hung around too often. Fine, then! Good, I hope you’re happy. Good merely split, while fine stood behind a perfect fool. Eventually there’d be scandal. Perfect retains status, speaks to the common good. Merely sidles up, time to time, seeing perfect union to soften long-held public perception. They sometimes coincide. Perfect, meanwhile, is elusive, vexing, could team with good and neither would care — come together or not. Merely fine might be seen together, when it’s discovered none are monogamous, let alone synonymous, to realize: none are perfect. 5.17.24 There is stuff I write, and there’s stuff I write. This is something I wrote, still and always working on. Hope its good enough for you. Or not. Its all good and fine? |
| Not a pretty start to the day when the shit storms of May come early. Profanity. Sorry, Gord. Placeholder Title:”BS Bunker” Saddlebag bullshit camps around me, spares what it might from the sheathing, armor of publicly distributed weapons: happily employed by co-workers, bill-collectors, raging motorists vying for the coveted fastlane to…? anyone might have mad-cow dis-ease — flies buzz around a hot-light-bulb-brain. Close your home, sealed within are the really insane: resentful children, spouse, mother, father, in-law? Words reverb from thick, dull walls into ears you can’t pack with enough mud. Hide in your bunker: clay, lime, sandstone, vat of sangria. Seek refuge within quarry, behind granite rock, remains of wayward meteorites, all blown to smithereens, tainted by grime-dust. Or, retreat to the crystal caves. Bright gems wall eyes for hours. And diamond, fucking diamonds! brittle as glass, tracked by networks, hyperlink clicks, the geo-positioning. Heat-seeking shrapnel screaming, shaming your name! You’re just a boy in bright pajamas again: different flashlight, probiotics, but still colorful crusader comics. Hiding in the tightest, darkest recesses of closet-head, you have seen lifelong where horses and cattle fed, scoop BS remains, packed in army green knapsack, all school daze backpacks, and the accumulated life luggage. BS brims, beautiful savior of high piled excrement — to your rafters, filled until safe, unseen by naked eye, or those equipped with scope, angling full you. Your BS need apply, as self-preservation deludes. Lay forgotten in shithouse-sewer-rubble, and BS, forget even who you are. Holographic stench-heaven lower, wafting from blurred sky. Wisp cloud trails blind two eyes dimming, sinking red-lava-globe still tempting to dream that fourth dimensional arch slide open, gleam brilliant avenues paving escape. Something happens after decades in that BS hole. A mirror reflection? One squint-eye opens? much like the coveted gem that cedes to pressure… implosion, explosion occurs…and what’s the difference? You arrive from sanctuary-purgatory a different man with your stink, befoul the virtual neighborhoods, workplace, shopping plazas, crush- compactor house. Anywhere, free to congregate, delicately defecate your art. It won’t remove the stain-smell skankier than skunk, but if one nears, they should know what they’re in for. Acquire a taste to risk. Bear heart, soul, all eminence to judge, jury, wannabe executioners. Giggle-swing in that galley. You can’t be killed for a greater love, greater good, right or wrong. Witness yourself. Testify. You’re a diamond now and black, flawed as they come. The fuck with them. 5.17.24 You do not want a machine head, but… I become semi-consciously aware (but not slow my writing) lyrics looping through my head…’breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in…’ muffled ‘blood is like fire, wine?’ What? And ‘disease’, the hard rock panic, climb-apex with swelling pace, before tempo change, wind down, instruments quake and rest near finish and go right back, indiscriminately to places in song, whether near end or hover over chorus/open. No meds, one cup of coffee after decent sleep. Aware all the more this dull, quiet morning (peaceful unrest). I’m used to it. A lesser person…? I guess I’m tough? Why soften the statement, Brian?  All…one finger tapped on iPad. Can’t line fingers on keyboard — what breaks me when I try type, can’t see words go up on screen, or fingers, or oops the caps or number lock buttons. Disable feature somehow? Irony much??The interior of this poem is being written separate…speaking to the influence(r)s from year 1 to death. Why we become liars out of self-preservation. Why we fight by any means for our share, earned respect, when told FREE! but duped, unfair. Told to act citizen-Christian, if proclaimed, held to higher ideals. Or, be labeled hypocrite, phony, criminal or worse for being human by folks who judge…because…? Who won’t risk as I have, cowards. I seek forgiveness from loved ones and God. Simple: ‘Thank you, God. I’m sorry.” From my heart. He knows why. I know and I work daily to be better, overcome what attempts to antagonize abd provoke. It’s akin to being spat upon. None other will I cede to without mutual honesty. And not my place to speculate, say from this limited perspective. Never assert…again. But, likely to err. Soooo. But capitalism over consumerism, I’m going to fight the power until it is just and/or acknowledges without BS any truth I can accept to loosen my grip on those shitbags. Poem interp: Protagonist is BS and poem demonstrates how one might use it to get through life as comfortably as possible, just worse. Doesn’t make it just, but flawed. (Now I’m thinking of Limp Bizkit, ‘We’ve all been treated like shit…’ and the provoking words that follow. Not intention of poem. One thing leads to another when you’re me.) Unspoken: truth gets dirtied up. |
| The Nails/Hood Nine inch nails drive into my skull, reverberate subconscious. Words perfectly recaptured in harmonic head amphitheater cascade memory after memory of are you worthy, did you serve well? To whom I owe debt sometimes unknown. Feel a cur, bit the ‘master’ that fed? Disembodied hand hammered away at those spikes. Relentless, life taught where face meets dirt. Do I stay down on my knees? No one’s Jesus, or piteous child-martyr, I’ve been staked, shard-fractures with flesh- driven, unwilling to die on any mound. What’s left when deep, shiniest dreams cloud, drift away? force you to decide what must be given chase? see obstacles, you, feeding the impulses. Disgrace? Sufficiently aerated by blacksmith steel force, I can look you in the eye with no remorse. If any spirit resides, it rests, rejoins with what remains. Look beyond whatever manipulator, shame of meager words launched ethereal. Know false crosses faced. I know when and where I died, repeatedly self-resurrected from each crime against one who reverbs soft, smooth, restores whole. Stronger than before? Too old? Bring a nail gun, mortar shell, atomic missile and tell me where to stand. But, I request witnesses hear you read me last rights, and let me look direct into the eye of each — so I can stare deep, get a glimpse of each simpering sycophant suckling teats of self-proclaimed gods — if just to shudder how dark sadistic satin's aim. No grave, no holy apparition will be seen. The invisible nails cowards send in palms deliver no pain, but seal their own future fates. 5.16.24 https://songmeanings.com/songs/view/3530822107858531883/ The sound comes up in my head this morning and it’s the emphatic lines from ann artist who decries the hapless sheeple nations. And yet, the simplest cliche questions emphasized by a haunted voice and cacophony of arranged, punctuated music does as little good as Bono (unless you credit him for Mandela’s release and brief reign). Better tune than ‘Feed The World’. My Immortal always plays on the flip side, if not memorializing, self-healing, where your pale pity will not suffice. I provide my own shroud of words that testify a lamb can be slaughtered more than once and still have an ounce of blood not drained into your chalets. Metal Cased Hood up, lights down. I’ll suck on that straw before that next round… P.S., no one is your master. You can set yourself free and remain healed. If it feeds you, eat if you must. Don’t lend loyalty to the owner who does not embraced you as equal. Respect is emboldening. Given eyes and ears to earn a heart as friend is endearing. To enter a contractual obligation to embark on new journeys together decides the other’s fate. Fate. Fuck it up brilliantly, if all fails. |
| The Rising Days Days our weather changed, soaring 30 degrees hotter, and climbing past noon, we tucked long pants in sleeves of light jackets, their arms loosely hugged our waists where dared hike. I ran faster than you, but waited up, when you called me back, slow down. I encouraged you higher. But, with no lemonade left, sandwiches gone by nine, your interest declined. We snacked on strawberries instead, hiding below red-tinted camouflage leaves, beneath parabolic-strung power lines. Black wire navigated our summer lives from from camp trail to hidden creek alongside that lonesome stretch of tar. Her beloved cattail sought, spied in hopes of uncovering love and what it hides. Slip shoes swamp green and muck black, stomped off what didn’t stick on dry reeds. Running out of time, this alluring remote place hid time with her rules, and you left. Only the sky wouldn’t eternally illuminate before I ventured alone on my own. Punishment for this strange fascination to spaces unknown did not bar a sun bleached and red boy, trotting in and out of that 50-acre wood. 5.14.24 still raw, not fully conceived Not like many of you when so enthralled that ADHD sent me with every new notion, a bright-eyed Angel who would trace each scene to the next in search of love like truth in days of innocence and the arrogant ignorance slowly rendering hard a misguided heart. It still resides, because the man always entertains an adventurous, aimless boy seeking, who’d do anything for a true friend who shares a similar passion like love. |
| White Winged (revised as prose poetry) from the pandemic I hope you know darling I can't be the wild garden butterfly haphazardly flapping white wings before your aromatic hyacinth, lily of the valley bell sprays, amid Spring tulips daring symmetry. Other hand-me-down heirlooms long tender hands to weed, divide, surround your beautiful, wide eyes envisioning eternal symphony nearing like infinity. In an instant, we are taken by nature. Gnawing hare, herbivorous hoppers and humpback haulers inch close with voracious appetites - like mine - consume collected bounty of beauty, too. I'll be white-winged wherever you are, flow, but separate from our past, move beyond, fade forgotten into your blue, clouded vault of mystery - beyond yellow dust of towering pine, swaying, judging — worship ash ground, soil mix, ever-loving, always nurturing shared desire of blooms opening. Graceful, garden butterflies return — kiss you — and your unsuspecting love labor. Coda The most beautiful melody at memorial you can't hear plays in an empty row, eternally alone. You clutch my hand, as if knowing my suffering heals your own. In bed each night, in earth silence, know you tenderly clutch my soul's remains. Sometime in 2020 |
| Hunting All Over Again tell me to stop writing poetry, this useless mind-fuckery, the all consuming journey to self-discovery through artless muses, crafted by idle hands from a troubled mind, as life could suck the yolk from a man. aiming and pointing these words at the world, is like shooting at woodpeckers that go round and round the bark, so i can blast a stubborn tree with the hand-me-down, 4-10 gauge-whatever-shotgun given one winter to drive deer toward his blind. in a white out, i fired and fired at the annoying bird echoing his labor in that pine edging my trail – pristine morning path to shack where he sat, drank coffee, read porno he thought hid. did he wonder about all that firing from a feckless, flanneled, fifteen-year-old without a red trappers hat to own? dry, because of bread bags he put on my feet to protect tight boots with holes – damaged from kicking too much snow and ice. my invisible march clomped toward him, he with loaded, high caliber rifle. his long, metal casings could pierce an animal my size and put me down, put him out of misery from a meandering boy zigzagging through hovering wood, bored with setting fires, releasing my groggy summer bees collected in Bell jars, or severing little brother's thumb with hedge shears. took way too long to arrive, dispensing every shell i could load, before deciding throw away the gun before i kill someone and returned to camp to clutch a pen, circle and combine jumbled letters into visions to soothe an aching head, throbbing again; find another way to put meat on the table. life's not as easy as a gun. 12.17.22 Now just 20 lines! 5.13.24 restructured as prose poem for publication seeking justified prose poetry. |
| Rigid-stiff, green-sieve-bows lift, sift snow high on mountain pine. Thinking of:
Riffing off this, maybe present an approach from the visual inspiration to see what words tumble down the branches. 5.14.24 I also have dyslexia of numbers. Spelling of every word in the English language is memorized. |
| The Barking Kafka Postulate Kafka’s gun is barking at me. I think I’m gonna go off in the second act. What’s my motivation? Ask the author of me who improvises all things, provokes and manipulates me into action. I could kill my puppeteer, but then I’d be dead. And would I be resurrected for the matinee? Hoping for writer’s block. I should get out of bed. 5.12.24 Writ in a few moments, not fully realized. Just like a barking Kafka gun. #Writingforwriters |
| …and stumbled in early day (series?) Down the hill we run, stumble, fall — tumble, roll, get up, run to the meadow, amid the flora, wild as us, where we play. Still tumble, fall down, early day. Bee stung, we run up the mound to mother. she packs sun burnt skin in mud to ease the pain. With a band-aid and a pat, told, ‘go outside. It’s a nice day.’ We wouldn’t want to waste the sun, where we climb, granite bluff. tug at moss, salamanders scurry away. In dense wood, red-faced sweaty mopheads, chasing tree toads, hopping fern to fern. Few caught, in pockets shoved. We hear her holler, and we run past pines, up the walk, deposit shoes relieved of sand, by the steps of the sheltered truck. We can’t sit just yet. In the kitchen, In our skivvies, she picks them off, one by one. We’re barely bitten by anchored bugs. Dad pretends to eat one, then it’s lunch. 5.11.24 5.12.24 really, midnight For my departed brother and upcoming celebration of life When your sight-impaired, thick fingered with tablet while inspired…nothing gets in the way. Give me a blindfold, tie my hands, I’ll peck with my nose. Meh on talk-to-text. |
| I haven’t worked out all the tpyos Impulse Control One minute I’m trying to do something, the next minute I’m trying to do something, and it just goes on like that. One time, I realized I was in the moment. So, I looked around to see if I had found God, wandered and got lost, and haven’t found my way back since. I’ll get a selfie if it happens again, record the moment. What? I should just remain still and enjoy it, let it wash over me like a shower? Gee, I hope it’s not someplace cold or public. No one wants to see me naked. Nirvana would be nice, though, if Kurt Cobain wasn’t dead. I had two thoughts at the same time once. They refused to collaborate. I get why dogs chase postal employees or squirrels, and cars. But what’s the deal with them hating cats? I think it’s the other way around, because cats probably prefer the Foo Fighters. (book title idea: Dogs Jam With Nirvana…)How’s it going Dave Grahl. Sad when NBC replaced your song. Then brought it back, but too late. Ed was never the same again. I think when we find love the world ends, fades to black. Ed knows what I’m talking about. Dogs, too. They like the Police. Always in pursuit. Hey Sting, or are you Stung now? To do do do. Ta da da da. That’s all I wanted to say. Is there a lyric to dummy translator on Google, or the other away around? I need to fix my poem. I’ll edit later. What a minute. There’s a dog staring at me. The cat is looking at me like: just don’t do it. Or, it went to sleep. Can’t tell. Oh well, another epiphany is around the corner. Just don’t want to get caught with my pants down. I’m getting better with navigating the sharp corners, even when eye don’t see them coming. I should have ended well before 5.1.24 What’s the line limit, Kenneth? (think I just got hit with something) Rather, 53. For actuarial Porpoises. Something I worked up, since a thought. I like the Eagles Of Death Metal now, or yesterday. What’s today? You can’t just write something with line breaks and call it poetry? Poetry is in motion always, somewhere. Think it’s Physics. Einstein could probably work out the math to prove the Big Bang offspring of my mind as more than theory or my relative. Can I stop now? Only 23 hours and fifty minutes left, when it continues again. You get in my head and see why I’m a flake. But not a snowflake. I think people don’t like those. Gets too heavy to shovel like these words, prose poetry? Nap. Cat? P.S., you know what takes longer than coming up with this? ML Writing Should I add color, italics, dropnotes? My iPad just shuddered, or my forefinger. Can’t tell which. Probably conspiring against me. At least I have the cloud. I think it’s going to rain. Good God, man! I think that means…(digitalis interuptus veritas) If I separate my body from my head, what do you think spills out? Blood. It’s blood. Right? More — words? No, blood. Final answer. I feel good about this. Sorry, sorry. I’m going. He blessed me with my wife of 29 years this summer. Okay, it took 20 minutes. ML less than five. Will I get my life back? Sleep?? How’s my run-ons, Mom? She wasn’t listening. Guess I’ll just have to repeat… |
| Let’s see if I can finish this notion written in the truck … Metal conformity hones of brittle blade. Grind on a Whet stone, tool, implemented by butchers’ carving up the slaughter, bullet brain heads severed, bodies relent blood. Separated hog produces the desired cuts, packaged in neat paper taped shut. Seal that fresh meat in your freezers moms, serve to your hungry, craven children told vegetables are better, yet, harder to raise, process, package, if not salted away, thawed in your careless microwave — imploded and exploded protein with green-spear-shrapnel, mother wipes all clean with rubber gloves and bleach. Now, Go outside and play. It’s a nice day, after we’ve devoured thankless sacrifice, the oinkless. 5.1.24 impetus 5.10.24, mostly structure, adding almost all of final two verses to include conclusion-producing title. Tap-tap, tap-tap went the finger-poked tablet. Reminder: trim nails. |
| Unnecessary Burden I am…like fucking Atlas over here shouldering a spinning, magnetic mass — counterintuitive black hole rejector — told stand aside, shut it, yet my grimace draws judicious stares, blinking sycophants, angular posturing of the ‘I’m trying to get something done over here’, adding audible groans, ready to instruct how to accept the obligated debt of a boulder grinding my scalp daily, while passersby shove, shoulder, spat upon by those quick and dead, seem to have lived more — taxed more (firmest grip of shared “reality”) — than a carny fool who dares be their spectacle-shadow, unable to accept patronizing, proffered pity equal to contempt on her scale — sacrificial ineptitude, waste of a true immaculate embryo to his wayward-sputtered seeds — grow to bear this weight for no one I’ve ever met, but they sidle, shuffle past without a look, suckle-savor that plastic, white coffee dispenser, it’s lingering steam blown out, wisp of last harvested vintage processed, from some Colombian hillside hauled across a treacherous divide, to consume each brown beans’ last exhaust — that earth consuming cup sinks our sea heavily, jars my arthritic, osteo-vertebrae decay. I have no choice. What could those meek do, but hope scripture true, pray to not join an aisle from stiff-dead, wood pews audible ache, trail to that bully’s pulpit in silent remorse. Accumulated history of negative input that would launch a thousand underworld vampires, living off the degrading cells of my anatomy, reconditioning, sparked as your green mountain despiser of seasonal tidings, find truer love in self-worth and yet prompted like a socialist to serve some common… not a storybook any child should recitate, not fake enough? Swallowing a bilge of mixed apathy, concealed aggression, convert into this new energy, when I toss a dense rock. My hurl does not aim, cannot consider your fate, but the discard of sacrifice to the elitists who suck mother’s teat, slobbering, ghoulish as a younger sibling ready to gesticulate at anything as transgression, hoard all snack … left with none. 5.6.24 and that’s where I ended I consort with what I shouldn’t … and here I am. Ignore the following (unworthy): 2-Time WDC Quill Winner: Best Poetry Collection, 2020 and 2021. NOMINATED for 2022!   
My feelings about awards documented long ago with early life struggles that manage to still manifest now. Ego doesn’t preen now, but staunchly defends. I check my reflection more than once daily, with the clearest reflection allowed amidst obstacles. |
| I sang these words aloud in kitchen and decided to write down… We’re in a black hole — a vomiting vortex. There is no way home — do you get the context? 5.8.24 It’s bleak, yet I live like a song is ready to erupt from my mouth about standing on the edge of an abyss. (and continue on) Anti-Jon-Bon-song? Hold ‘hole’ and ‘home’ and end lines 2 and 4 on upbeat. Kinda sings itself. I’m rather melodious myself. Available to musicians/lyricists who need inspiration less dark…or, darker. and there’s no motivation today and there’s no place to get away if some light should appear what will I near? since it’s ever-expanding and crushing while its ever-demanding yet hushing allow pain from under your thumb? and your silence making me numb? space has many divides In crevices many do hide it’s bleak yet I live to owe sacrifice I shoulder-tow. through cosmos there is no time washing words out with every rhyme. I’m dumbing my ears — — I don’t want hear — free will you borrow but never will own. others will fight for what you have earned, smite and light you, watch as you burn. Tomorrow…the sun-rise For a moment…no-oo — lies It’s no surprise that I’ll quake moments after I wake for all that I strived, no one will confide their struggles by my side, gaslight like everything’s fine shaved molecules leave my sword flash in my dark glint Steele eyes full-face I fight without disguise I’d rather be dead than be confined in your den, collared and leased and unfed Eternal I know but I do not bend *music*Black hole…black holy-hole…  Sanctimonious sanctuary … Etcetera, ibid. |
| My little brother could not wipe away my love of life despite reporting my experimentations that earned timeouts, punitive arrangements, to spare his own bottom from the stick with a fingers’ misdirects. Anger I ingested, held into manhood, when realization I should be worried about him — after drug use, failed marriages, abandoned and shunned by his woman daughter, having blown his share of a family fortune. I’m secure in my holdings. Head up, even in life defeat, because there is one worse off, needs, but won’t reach out to me, Mr. Armless — cut off after that great disease called childhood. My heart with widening chambers ready to hold him within, yet ache from emptiness. 4.28.24 22 lines, free verse Created here/now in minutes…from informed experience not so dissimilar from PTSD of yore. If anyone ever accepts me unconditionally as human, I’ll hold them as dear life. Brother, not my friend, hated me, jealous, yet as the youngest, most freckled, adored. I too, don’t have a relationship with his only offspring, a lovely young woman. How flawed this human experience navigated? P.S., if I spend two hours in one sitting here; that’s on you. |
| I’ve been writing and squirreling it away because I don’t have time to share lately. But, I will share a text sent to my spouse this morning…a snippet of something my unending mind could more fully speak into existence, time permitting, if I actually knew eyes between ears would give consideration to the blooming sea of an ordinary brain that wants/strives to be (accepted as) beautiful (amidst all the waste called ugliness — my own): Was creating observational humor the other day in the carwash when the lyrics “same as it ever was” splashed and assaulted my brain. I decided now to look at song meetings for The Talking Heads “Once In A Lifetime.” https://songmeanings.com/songs/view/43180/ The commenter with 22 likes stated it best (to me) with another remarking beneath about something that always nags me…”It (song) kind of talks about how if a the wheels of a brain stop spinning(,) it is technically dead…if we just accept everything for what it is, and don't question things or stop to think for a second, we're not really living.” And what am I always doing but questioning life, obsessed with thought I routinely express if not verbally, in writing? Writing gives perspective. Writing is stuff on a greaseboard wall that no one visits. (Many new thoughts relate to this). So, to avoid the existential abyss, I need to ask myself what is this thing called writing and why am I doing it? What are these observations I am having and why do I think anybody would respond to it? More importantly, David Byrne’s use of symbolism with water. The top commenter overlooked the lyrics poetic quality. Water is a symbol for life, washes things away, gives us life and holds it all together. And it’s a mystery beneath the surface, further hiding us from truth we all seek. At its essence, the song is about baptism (once we accept this is our life), same as it ever was. And, what you do with it will only mean something to oneself. For me, it’s been a perpetual sense of wonder. Now, ‘into the blue again’. 4.19.23 Who cares where it begins and ends, jump in the stream anyway. Don’t just watch it go by. If someone is there to baptize you, make sure it’s your faith and not theirs that you commit to before taking that leap. Once immersed, you may struggle for breath and your own life as they hold you under. It’s your commitment, your blessing, your life (and how you live it) that gives satisfaction only to you, and none other. No matter how you live it, they will either accept or ignore you, but ultimately, could bend and warp your strength and beauty, when manipulators steal a little something from your soul-essence. Claim it back. Choose nirvana with your tequila. Another sunrise coming. Don’t linger in the dark past day break. ‘Tequila…sunrise’ — yeah, thought it. Are the words ever really that far from one another in any vernacular? Can you guess what I’m thinking now? It makes me so sad ‘we live’ so ‘far apart’ and are virtually (double entendre) on the same page of illumination (doubling down). Sadder…the division widening. I echo the preceding text’s final thought, because all I ever hear is my own voice, even inside this four-wall box of a life. |
| White Winged (Revised) from the pandemic I hope you know darling I can't be the wild garden butterfly haphazardly flapping white wings before your aromatic hyacinth, lily of the valley bell sprays, amid spring tulips daring symmetry and other hand-me-down heirlooms longing my tender hands weed, divide, surround your beautiful, wide eyes envisioning eternal symphony, nearing like infinity, in an instant taken by storm, gnawing rodents and bespecked insects with voracious appetites — like mine — who needs your love, too. I'll be white-winged wherever you are, flowing but separating from our past to move beyond, fading forgotten into the blue, clouded vault of mystery -- beyond the dust of towering pine — swaying, judging -- and below the ground with soil ever-loving, always nurturing our shared desire of blooms sprouting, graceful garden butterflies showing — arrive — to replace my ego. "white winged (MV)" Coda The most beautiful melody at memorial you can't hear play in this empty row eternally alone. You clutch my hand as if knowing my suffering heals your own. in bed each night in earth silence you tenderly clutch my soul's remains. My eyes only for the spinning ceiling fan whooshing away sounds repeating tiresome, eroding guilt I cannot fully love until I know you celebrate me again. I've come to realize I broke the vision you had for me, of a silent knight long ago, when the white steed suddenly died at your distressed feet... when you realized I became the helpless one, and you would have to shoulder me from then and beyond every tomorrow until I'm ash scattered on breezes sending me hopeful in that morning bed with delightful things I never had eyes to appreciate, like your longing before my soul's return to you, darling.  Can’t fully justify But then, who with intricate webbing ill-devised can free from our own destiny trap. Are you getting any of this? — creator of Community, Dan Harmon, supposedly in his sleep Deep |
| Revisit Rewire (Rewiring) Feed me amphetamine 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 and dosed ten milligrams at a time but quit by five if I want to sleep tonight coffee helps tea's better I'm told for mindful patience good vibes wouldn’t that be nice man, I was so sad when people didn’t get me still don’t it’s gonna take a while to rewire me write on that pad: amphetamine 21 lines "Rewired (still rewiring. big job) (MV)" |
| Before The Six Three At the counter top topics of the day where we stand — deliver words with crumbs washed down black — clutch — never look at one another longer than eyes scanning outside a bright vestibule Mindless deliver a vessel to ceramic louder than anything in our minds at present grab a coat and go as if to quest — but the sun always slithers away before a mind can ignite — spark a permanent horizon. Synth pop, rhythmic vocals, limited instruments and percussion. White Sade. 3.25.24 4.2.24 edited in caesura (My brain suggested this word before googling what it was. What a brilliant storage device.) …Yeah, I really nailed it. ~ Jeff Winger We are the instruments. Jeff, a tool. I’m actually loving writing right now. It won’t last. |
What would an Angel say? The devil wants to know - Fiona Apple At the heart: Some (neurodivergents) don’t know how to act, thus feel like a bad person because they can’t say/do the right thing for demanding others, because it’s not in their DNA. The statement, at the heart of this song, the way it’s sung, means ill will — the wolf (devil) wants sheepskin angels wings) just to deceive. It’s the basis for Machiavellism to manipulate. It’s even gone beyond that to mocking, knowing you hurt another and rub it in their face (like front-running athletes) to feel superior. But, it’s creepy as a snake slithering about that garden. “This song is about Apple making a mistake in a relationship (cheating, perhaps?) and therefore making her a ‘criminal.’ Depression and self-loathing were a common theme in Fiona's songwriting at the time. She told Interview magazine: ‘It's psychologically and chemically impossible for me to be happy.’” (No source I’ll share) If you’re looking for someone to mask pain, do the right thing, keep it ‘positive’, it’s not wrong, unless that person is hard wired and grounded from PTSD, from experience. You can devise a best version of oneself to reflect properly in a society that needs conformity, but turns its back on the genetically predisposed. There are the sociopaths and narcissists and their cheerleaders compelling happy conformity — yet shun, repress, castigate. They wear the skin-wings The neuro in me is done with the chemistry set, altering what’s beautiful in me for the Fiona’s of this world. The singer properly knows what she is: person who tells it like it is, regrets, does it again, can’t please everyone, even herself. Angel or Devil? Both Manipulator or Victim? They choose for you and wear the halo of the other It’s called controlling the narrative…haven’t we learned yet? ‘History is written by the victors’. 3.22.24 Tryin2B Not flexible enough to bend that way. |
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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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MAY 
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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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Thank you for sharing it! It's genius.