10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind |
I’m disabled by more than blindness. Writing: Like one of those adventure games where you go off questing in different directions but you don’t advance in life. Pretty medallions sought for words/my soul, slow burnt. Full of misdirects, right back at the start, but still quest with thirst. Life of turmoil produces stuff like this. Not going to call it beautiful agony…it gets a bit uglier. Minced words too pungent. If they take time to notice, must be doing something right. scripturam in hoc non mutamus, quia stultus es et differentiam nescies. (hic) The beautiful mess you made: I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. - me Neurodivergent poet seeks love without that fart in the room between us. Honesty without mincing words has come with a price for those juggling the hot takes on what’s ‘truth’ (here’s some oven mitts). Best to stay clear of those surrounded by moat rules (not my attempt to disrespect, shame or shun. Just doin' me, which has come with its price [I've accepted.]).. Real dialogue accepted. Wasn’t as open at first about recent diagnosis on spectrum with ADHD (complicated by PTSD, life of brain traumas). Been suggested by doctors of late I might want another brain scan (since 12/4/17…blogged). This poet’s words collect, arrange on a kaleidoscope spectrum. The experience of discovery through writing is the truest reward that has allowed me to grow and learn who/what I am — what other people get naturally, immediately, while I stomp around in it. Been blessed, but pushing it — envelope, world and all inhabitants away. Push buttons, find boundaries to trip traps. No clue why cat curiosity, living in your dark. (Bored, perhaps?) Now and then, push dirt out of this hole; someone/thing/entity might envision me how I need to be viewed (if I knew what that was). Cryptic, yes. Try living in my dark, find comfort amid strange, virtual, wonderful walls that tower above, tempt me to scale. Been more than I could imagine or expect here. But, achievements aren’t going on a LinkedIn wall . I dig deeper than I should, often without forethought. Aimless words, brave or veiled cowardice, flinchingly flung, inadvertently hit targets? Get a ‘back off’ shoulder shot when asking your motivations here. Not fair? No prize to eye; not incentivized. Dealt the worst two cards before the flop, do best with what’s in hand. My Pluggers: You are an icon here. You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer. It’s like plugging myself, but using other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "Poetic Referendum(s) On Life" Your poetic muse is on fire! Some great emotion, well-balance(d), lovely lyrical qualities -- even the ones that were written out of sadness or anger came through in a clever cadence…It's obvious you've put a lot of work into each entry and the totality of the blog has eye appeal. Published four times with one a literary journal, including… "The Tender Core (Sedona)" I don’t submit because it’s too much work. Truly alone, know no one cares to show they believe/support me. Lip service feeds delusion. I’ve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Try not be cynical, work hard at openness and consideration — work, sooo…gut thing. August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼
No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼ This is old…. What? Oh, this? A rhetorical, self-motivational speech I'm working on. Don't just read the parts to construct your theory, as if to confirm (construed out of context) your opinion, mentally-stunted Neanderthal. Therapist wants me to be less negative toward myself. I see it as attacking, rather than being defensive. Fear I will chomp too many bullets unintentionally sent toward the unsuspecting. If you can be triggered for stupid reasons, then I? …just looked like me rolling around on the floor with myself. What Was NEW Who am I, you ask? My mirror knows that question, repeated daily. Just trying to create a little buzz, not boost my ego. #amwriting #poetry #blog #contest #freeverse #award #bestpoetry #freyaridings #lyrics #music #video #YouTube Can you believe it took this long for someone to put a quarter in me and push the button GET ANGRY? Mud 4 My Eye: Is that you, Poo? 💩 Secret Back Door ▼ |
No one eats cheese as old as me. If I were wine, too precious to uncork. I'm not even allowed on a shelf, locked away in a cellar with no temperature variance outside 52 to 55. You would think I'd be eyed by all the lovers and dreamers of special concoctions like me that took their time to age, bitter yet sweet, though not tempting enough for all the passersby who barely get a hint of what I'm eminating. Reflecting, deflecting in the dark in the corner, in my purgatorium/cemetarium, wax me, cork me, full of life's scintillating nostalgia, but, oh no, not for you who dines with store-bought cheddar, aged 90 days in resealable cellophane, sipping a glass of twist top Moscato plied from a pulpy bath at an industrial vineyard. I'll age a little longer, inhale some of what I'm breathing, as I cozy up to dark, bourbon mash. Enjoy your microwave corndogs! 8.5.21 Hmm, ageism? Not so much in this community, me thinks. Yes, I made that word up: http://ninjawords.com/Cemetarium Pinterest it like Lou: https://www.pinterest.com/louhellbaby/cemetarium/ Where are you, Bethany? You should be reading me. |
I make no apologies For my humanness When under duress To find a fit in what Always feels like a new place. Faces I can’t see, Let alone envision, Never materialize before My wondering eyes. As I bumble around, Step on your shoes, I’m making every possible mistake, Shunned by some who Don’t know the first thing About compassion for a fool. With perceptions so long In the making, Can’t gravitate, elevate without This awkward rambling. Aiming for clarity, purity, Feigning perfection, I'm lonely, rejected because I Cannot assimilate. 8.4.21 |
Are you real? just like the images that arrived before your appearance, now standing by my arm? so near my flesh, my heart? How could I ever imagine you? materialized? in this scope where I look out? seek you? A thousand puzzle pieces could not assemble a vision so pure, so real, forcing me not to believe what is real — the flesh of you, so near a cavern echoing, filled with your multiplying voices, calling so near my beating existence. A river of blood absorbs your impactful light. Let me take a moment to breathe, as if my first inhale of the most premium air. Let this be my life beginning again. Are you real? or imagined, like the poem? 8.2.21 xx lines, x verse Written to Pink duet (aloof on title, they all sound the same), half dreaming if ever to meet a celebrity like her, how we would communicate, knowing it would be difficult to impress upon someone so in demand. You would have to openly declare this, why they would have the feintest interest to commune with words I could share. Since I'm making stuff up, I should write fiction and get paid. My net worth is not in a well stocked cache of managed funds/accounts but in a heart devoid of the true appreciation of just one who fully gets me. |
Young beneath the stalks your dad’s garden we hid schemed gathered in corny forts free silent We heard green grow between the ears sunny yellow inside our heads shaded from a sinister sun The toiling man with his hoe told us to go shooed us like rabbits into other yards we spied as we played sought the tiniest nooks crannies that held our beating hearts bedamped heads where we fled from imaginary foes tussled like heroes into the dusk an abyss of time seldom glimpsed before light fled through onlooking trees down to the ground Though we did not dread dark just a scolding Where do you hide now? 7.31/8.1.21 40 lines |
the color blue: markings on a pale wall by the unhinged door. gentle notations rise to meet another in graphite on satin-finished trim. darling with age, no cleaning agent dare scrub unless we give this house up. the first day, you stood obedient for an angling stick atop your head. she reached beneath, scraped in permanent blue, while your backpack laid idle by the closed door. your brother, three years before, ascended by graphite. dark markings intermingle amid your rising blue. such hope sends a gaze reflecting on those first days, your noggin and wide open grin, now foggy mornings of yore. every marking inked, as high as it will go, on the finish with a final date installed, I now realize the potential of you is a memory, not the future anymore. 7.31.21 34 lines To my darlings, Myles, Camden and Madeline, wherever they may yet roam. For: "Monthly Poetry Contest" |
Riddles Like Bath Bubbles A life spent placing myself on a path to serendipity, hoping to capture uniquity, reinvent a cliché language like re-equating a theory of relativity, reconstructing riddles of math, long since solved, without its rudimentary roots, recreate for minds exploring a future and not the past, when I simply need live in the present for clarity, sanity, watch the other scavengers collect clues, as I solve this game in my head, in the shine and gleam, never having to tell what I’ve found and what I haven’t, a sort of serenity -- bath bubbles you cannot clutch. I'll never thrive on your divinity. 7.30.21 One sentence, run on, to make a point |
Awakenings I cut my heart out and hand it toward them. Stupid boy. Put it back in. We only need your blood. The eels slither, smile, caress my flesh, soundless, suck, suck. Leaches. I’m supposed to enjoy this. We like your taste. We’d like more. I’m learning this is my giving, wither and pale, grow scales defenseless against the swarm. 7.25.21 Decompressing thoughts to phone on road trip today. |
Cool White Dawn We were looking at charred remains, embers not as bright since a chill dawn -- still white smoldering -- nothing compared to the colors sparking a black night. A fuel-soaked concoction, once enflamed, glowed romance, softened eyes, brushed hues on two pale faces. Rose-boned skin inspired by wood used up. We lingered too long. Now this thing is ash. I ran a grammar checker over this today and it wanted to change 'enflamed' to inflamed. However, the only distinction between the two is that 'inflamed' is more commonly used in the US, while each is defined the same. So, no errors. I still struggle to see how this poem lacks in competitive value. |
Saw/buck In my mind, the places to find money unclaimed and free, that I found just for me -- came from the street outside a place to eat, under cushions of the couch, hidden deep in the pouch, or, in a wallet owned by dad. Would he miss one if I had? In my youth, when I lost a tooth, a fairy stashed it there, under my pillow with care -- a sawbuck just for me inspired toothless glee, smelling better than laundry. Yes, crisp and fresh, sometimes I wish I saved it in a bank like a Swiss franc, earning interest annually -- but, not so in reality. A sawbuck for me, was enjoyed merrily. But, they're all gone like the end of a song -- each fed to the alligator, the depository incinerator. Memories of that cash, now dreams up in ash. Fun Facts ▼ Sawbuck ▼ The Writer's Camp Static Version I Deleted ▼ Fun Facts ▼ |
Writing to myself so loud, as if you’ll hear. ears burn down, disintegrating words so hot... you melt, excite, invite me out of these woods amid owls who don’t think like me, don’t believe I’ll make it through this one long night. bones chill in rags, ill fit for a vagrant in evergreen, who wants to be seen by a clean white moon, muted by clouds, but soon piercing a scene, hoping you’ll defile this nature, should you liquify, as I spin words measured by reason, crystallizing hard in wide blue eyes -- this stature thawing in your view, a silhouette until Luna hits me right where I take my stand. Melt with me where we could be one. 7.21.21 28 lines, free verse |
Another Highball Down Savor Where is the love? In a highball glass? Or, straight from the bottle? Is the love in mixing the drink? Is the love in offering this concoction to another? Watching them enjoy your liquid creation? Life is however you mix it. Love is however you choose enjoy it — either in the preparation or in the consumption. The bottle is never empty, my friends. 6.04.19 Addendum... But, I'm currently out. Because... it's a magical refillable vessel that needs needs a little time to, ah find the right combination of sunlight and shade away from the deciduousness of it all? My mouth...er, keyboard, that is. 7.21.21 (TD+1x3(2)) not equatic? not equasible? we can't define everything with our diseased minds (I really hate this process) Please, Brian, don't google all the values for a period in this construct. Let it be today. Resource: "Glaring" I plagiarize...myself. |
While we're being handled, spun on our chairs with fancy words whirling 'round, better strap yourself in. It's a nauseous ride, if you're going to get to the other side. 7.21.21 a date that is twice divisible by itself. what I call an 'inanity', or one of my inanities. |
Flushed Words circle a drain to drown. In your bath, I sink, Stainless. Perfection washed clean From hands that toil For you, You consume in this bath. Unworthy, I watch the tap open A deluge upon My head. Unable to consume what you call Your love, I spill down the channel To a dark dimension, Space afforded Fools like me seeking True divinity Only to discover A sewer runs through My sentences forming words Of grief. I am flushed In your stainless drain, again. 7.13.21 It is what it is 7.18.21 Poets Needed: "Invalid Item" |
Consumed, Hopeless Each retelling better than the next? You know the feeling but not the words, as you’re consumed to relate to a tender mind like yours who says, I know. The one you’re with, not on the same page, shames you like the ignorant, tells you how to think and not question why you are trapped in this lovelessness. Looking for the one, holding on to hope, straining out the windows of life, you see scenery so still speed pass, wondering, is she there under the apple, beside the dappled mare, riding the smoker tractor beside an idle farm, seemingly calling you to breakfast, but it’s late. The moon rises. The sun has no time for this meandering, wandering that doesn’t visualize purpose, while your soul, consumed, settles for zombies taking the last of your pale flesh. Don't lay down! Run! Daydreamers consumed, hopeless. 7.13 7.18.21 not worth improving this Poets Needed: "Invalid Item" |
Yet Leave her alone, boy. Let her rest. She's had a long day of cleaning up your mess. This life she couldn't put straight. Your brain probably can't contemplate what she's gone through since she first laid eyes upon you, a bastard produced from a loveless marriage. The fights, her wails echo still inside your walls. You're too ignorant to notice. My anguish not yours to inhale. Leave it alone. Go back to bed. She's badly bruised, but not bleeding, Yet. 7.13 7.18.21 Written during Long Hall, purely conceptual about the different parts of a schizophrenic brain negotiating with itself not to panic after self-abuse. And, I'm fine, too, if you're wondering (narrator speaking). |
Speaking To The Lonely Strippers Why unburden your soul To the damaged stripper Holding the pole in thong, Bedazzled by sweaty glitter, Nipples bared, blush-red, When you don't see her broken heart, Masked in its agony of sweet grinding In the room, On the chair, Over your pressed pants To rhythms thick with bass, Produced by empty minds Earning their own bottom dollars, while Masturbating regurgitated words To a lonely, uglier audience deprived Of sex, of love, just Like you, lifelong? You could at least tip more than the recommended gratuity. 7.13.21 7.18.21 final edits 19 lines, freeverse I used to lust. Now, I want to hug them all. Speaking to myself as the party of the first part. Just think inner dialogue. |
The Bath Again Another day with back pain, no medication But sweet Rum that/which Can temporarily touch/reach Up to my neck in this Boiling bath -- An organic mix bubbling with stale Flesh and a mind's persistence, nurture These aimless words, a blend Of grief and bliss, while An ever vigilant brain, vexed Tries remedy but can only reminisce When we were whole. This was my universe. My planets aligned around A holy, loving, warming, Fiery body gleaming In the morning, fading, tagging off With a white moon rising, Checking in on me, I could feel luminescence On my face, soul -- Permeated, adjusted as We all rotated together I'm in my bath again. It's welcoming, Not reassuring enough, Just yet. 7.13.21 7.18.21 edit more or abandon? Autobiographical |
Until Then, For Your Love You held all the love, all The offerings of A lonely boy, Eyes fixed on Your every movement until You could feel the weight Of my gifts In your accepting arms Weakening like your smile that I see falter Like the light in your eyes that I see dim A gaze tightens, forms lines Around your mouth, below I see form upon Your exposed hairline I speak But your mute button pressed view you scan the channels In the sky For another For forgiveness For tempting a young boy, needy For your acceptance, For your commitment For your unconditional love I can wear out a welcome quick I can wear on a soul I can wear you down I can wear this heart on my sleeve Until then. 7.13 7.18.21 More edits coming. Stalker-y. |
We listen to him personify whiskers on his face, narrating how they escaped the razor. Wily, spry, gray rebels sprung free, sproing! from the shadowed, pale patches in unchartered regions 'neath his chin and cheek that mock a groggy, wrinkled face, before black brows muscle up on his forehead, when he's stopped, reminded again, that it’s Sunday and he is not yet dressed for church, if he's going. And so, his shadow darkens the hall back to the bedroom to start the morning over again. He rolls open the top dresser drawer. Two black socks peer back at him. Are we going to play? 7.18.21 19 lines, freeverse Something I made up today from the poem open about my personifying and narrating that can both amuse and annoy, though mostly the latter, if you ask them. |
Compromise, you say, finger waggling, begging me to walk your way. If I hesitate to follow a temptress, what about my worthiness? Give up, you tell me, lying on dewed grass, tempting me to roll your way. I could lay a blanket for this vixen, but what about my worth? If I give up, If I compromise, If I forsake my art for someone who really doesn't want me, wants to know they control my soul's offerings, be my guide, will I get lost? I only see steep cliffs where I'll be a lamb lead like all the rest. It would be sweet death to be done with you, but I have worth. I have pride. I'm stubborn enough to walk you over, kiss you full on tender mouth with a spray from waves, lashing and licking an eroding shore, then push you to your death, because you deserve it for weakening my resolve. But I won't, and I stay, and this game continues this way until someone's dying day. May I see you in hell, dear. 7.16.21 random write after listenign to boygenius in previous post. |