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, a slow burn now. Life is full of misdirects right back to the start, you still quest with a thirst. If they take time to notice, must be doing something right. Life of turmoil produces stuff like this. Not going to call it beautiful agony…it gets a bit uglier. Minced words too pungent. scripturam in hoc non mutamus, quia stultus es et differentiam nescies. The beautiful mess you made. | Without knowledge, who’s to judge? | No gavel; no voice. I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. - me *Neurodivergent poet. *I yearn to love without that fart in the room. *Honesty without mincing words. *Stay clear of those surrounded by rules. *Real dialogue accepted. Diagnosed with new disabilities in 2020: On the spectrum/ADHD (it gets complicated by PTSD and brain trauma). Been suggested by doctors I might want another brain scan. As it is: 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, find boundaries, no clue why, 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 t the next boob that walks by. Been more than I could imagine or expect. My achievements aren’t going on a LinkedIn wall. I dig deeper than I should, push boundaries. Aimless words, brave or veiled cowardice, flinchingly flung, inadvertently hit targets. Get a ‘back off’ shoulder shot when asking your motivations to write. No prize to eye; not incentivized. Dealt the worst two cards before the flop, do the best with what you got. 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 ▼ |
my neurodivergent brain spins like a wobbly top counter-clockwise is there a law (of motion) against that? it seems 'contraindicated', yet I cannot get an 'amen'... like punctuation now stands outside quotation marks. be inclusive — exclusive is the new normal as cheerleaders and jocks once ruled courts and lunch rooms of high-school-dom that was dumb i shouldn't have added that strike that too late for me save yourself go to another room before i babble on any further my wash is already spun and did not include detergent no detergent for this? post-apocalyptic title? 1.13.22 I swear, all the time i wrote, only one song looped in brain: Heat Lightning Lyrics ▼ standing in the fields of neverland a book not forthcoming as none will read or this? so i should be fine. but i won't scrub, sooo. these are not the words I prepped to pen this morning: "Note: Assumption based information can shake the found..." my writing goes down a slippery slide, exiting with all hope of plans for what I would write or conclude writing and sending on for consideration, another day wasted in the washroom of my brain. the abridged version is actually here: "Note: abridged version of morning: my neurodivergent br..." I really need the tires rotated, or to just fall off. Poem 2 (like song No. 2 - short) like driving a car around a corner on two wheels at perilous speed distributing just enough weight to avoid flipping over and not sending the car flat to four wheels (what fun in that) until the bend meets the straight away. even then, its tempting to keep going to see in swerving, free-wheeling mastery how far i can take my two ton friend for a walk down desolate, country highway without serving my brains to the asphalt. first thought (constructing) when I woke and couldn't go back to sleep until I arrived here to 'jot down', 'flesh out', unable to imagine a better forum to dispense hyper-extended, manic logic that serves like two pills for unwinding, over-processing head. look ma! no glasses. need to hydrate same day as above “Blur” reference |
Can you follow this? I run to the river, bright gushing, receeding on banks delivering smallest offspring, fuzzy. They follow mother, but you don't follow me to the bench in mellow sun. Patient. I must be patient. They leave on a stream, paddle soft, obedient, glide unlike me, awkward straining to see what's so important that you can't come to this trough, drink in images I hoped you'd see, that we could share together. Trees hang low on this path. You follow now, paces behind. I point to this or that. I've been wondering, what if you stopped noticing me. I'm not small, fuzzy, gliding but sinking in muck sucking my shoes to shore. Can't get close enough to capture one image satisfactory enough for you, for ‘Ah, that's nice.' You know the sun fades. Air chills early in spring. No jacket, you turn back at earliest dusk when molecules somehow absorb twilight-soothing-aura. Who can I choose to share tiny little moments, not as important as messages with tiny images’ gleam on a palmed instrument? I think it's time to go home. I want to be alone, not to look at distraction, but hide in reeds from a world that needs undivided attention. Dishes, laundry, clean bathroom and ready to mow the lawn all summer long, without you on the stoop, gazing inward. You don't see me sweat without someone to know my devotion and need of return. 10.12.23 |
I don't normally write these: SILENT NIGHT Savoring her holiday confection, baked Into shapely culinary perfection, Love melts in watering mouths with each bite. Each precisely portioned or severed slice Neatly adorns her colorful, festive platter Taken out each season from that relic cabinet. Nestled in quiet of arm chair with loaded plate, I settle warm to bathe in tinsel-absorbed state, Groggily drift, dream of toothsome treats digested -- Hot or cool, salty yet sweet, tender and tasty, Tradition lives on from oil-soiled recipe cards. 11 lines, Christmas Acrostic
December, 2022 |
i had coffee this morning. i let it get cold. he came over with thermos 'i'm not going to finish. do you want the rest?' i said that'd be fine. before i could stop it, he poured the entire contents into a cold, brown pond -- now a white magma flowage. i only wanted to add a little to my mug, running over now with sweetness from my son's warm donation. it will take me days -- maybe, another twenty blended cups to get through it all. waste not, want not, hey? even if I have to drink five cups per round? I will get it down. 1.8.23 a free-ver joint Sorry, Spike. Seriously, I am. (He won't remember) just having fun riffing off previous blog entry inspired by cubby's post. now trying five words per line with no commitment to syllable construct. this actually did just happen a little while ago. Still haven't remedied the coffee 'situation'. Lilith of House Martell you might appreciate. I had brown coffee. Seriously, how did it get that white! I thought the newly purchased creamer bottle felt light. |
five words (and poetic license) do i know why i'm being pulled over? not usually. poetic license? i've got it in my billfold here somewhere, officer. This sentence has five words. Five-word sentences are fine -- monotonous the longer they go. Listen. Hear what's now happening? The sound of five drones. Needle, needle, needle gets stuck on a record that repeats. Our ears demand variety. Pauses. Listen. Vary sentence/line length, and music. Pleasant rhythm, lilting with harmony, sings with: short lines, and lines/sentences of medium length, and sometimes, when your reader is rested, engage with a considerable sentence (within the lines), burning with energy, building with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of tremorous drums, and crash of clamorous cymbals - sounds that say, listen to this. It is important. Five-word sentences are fine. This sentence has five words. You can have a chorus with five words per line. Just maybe, poetry sings louder, if you take some license with five words per line. I think it sounds fine. 1.8.23 inspired by Cubby~Cheering House Florent! newsfeed offering today: "Note: Daily Writing Quote [Image #2272216] ..." part redaction poetry, free verse and some poetic license of my own |
Wait Until Whatever Tomorrow There’s a book, a book, a book I say, I dawdle, procrastinate over. Now there’s four of them, or five? Accumulating as poetry popcorn, as sardines smelling cloistered hell where words jumble, tumble out the brain’s mouth into parlor, or squalor. How shall I serve them all? Wait. What am I doing this for? This self-collaboration in internet, inherit incognito innuendo indefinitely interlopes ignorantly indefinite, infinite, and infernally. I started all this for a reason. Seasons change as my mind goes a-wandering after lolly leaves into snooker snow piles s-sliding down, free-form spring-sprung, tousled tulips serenading summer, seething-sensuous, ‘til tumbled, careless castoffs over and over and over mount mounds colorful, as I (should) dive within. And, would you look? A poem. Do I really want to do this again? Wait until tomorrow. 1.6.23 At this point, the gray matter pretty much doesn’t compel the machine anymore, but monkey that learned tasks by repetition until he couldn’t multi-task the Enguish langwage aneymore. Haven’t completely lost…lost…lost… *looks around* it it was what I was going to…going to…goin… Wrote in dark, without glasses, on tablet, no talk to text, as she snores and snorts bedside. I won’t link/share in your newsfeed. Don’t worry. NOTE: at this point, felt an imposition by those wanted me to impose, heard me, talked over, ignored, and I backed away. Sensed the ‘where is he going’. There’s no explaining to gaslighting narcissists who want your soul like stuff from your pockets, act disgusted when you’ve been shaken upside down by your ankles, expecting your lunch money, at least. They are the new bully, who points at me, if I speak up, not PC, take my rights, boot stomp, cry for all the other red-headed banshees to herd up, buffalo stance, expect me to yelp, try harder, go away. Knives, arrows, bullets at your back, wouldn’t you want to silently, unnoticed, slink away from the purveyors of sunshine and candy? 💩 sorry, that was supposed to end with a period. I had mine. Theirs is ongoing …………….. has it been that long? Note add: 8.11.23 because I’m an idiot with my time. Nothing I write is preconceived, except for a notion, burgeoning words that sort and slot into sentences that seem worthy to further pursue, until cornered, no bombs to break me out of alphabet logjam. Blah, blah, blah…fuck me, apparently. What are my sins? Can it be that bad?? Got in the way. Oh? A simple move, or play through with us would suffice. I’m on the ninth hole (beginning, middle, end, or restart…playing through a lightning storm with a reverend. And I was doing so good? Even the high and mighty can be full of themselves, but what am I? Not on the green. Gawd, would I just shut up?! There wuz more alphabets piling up before the screen freeeezzz… |
sole thin takes the road less traveled alone and it's worn down now by just these two shoes sole-thin tread it is 1.6.23 january no boots for this everywhere i go now they want a little piece of me. the more the better. sorry if i don't have more to give. I look each in the eye with clear blues so they might peer as deep as they should into the cavern of soul to see what I spare. a room for the night, shirt from back, last buck in my wallet. it's a game for them, see how much of me i give of myself, build margins higher on their side. I see the dots of worn down nubs all around in the deficit. red, redder. the low and lowered, when I stand up and choose to be blue. Not red or black. Not on chessboard, or checkers, if you're not into that. A pawn, maybe. But, I move circumspect of their instruction. they follow me. don’t like I make my own game of them, these people of rules and order who want to tell me where to go, where to yield and stand. My ears turn way down low, they just follow, know, they can't be a father to this man. They killed him. and i know. just riffin' off this vibe reinspect later. |
Somewhere Sealed I was sealed in, or sealed out, when I sought a view of you in your department — a mannequin come to life possessing all the qualities I lacked: festive clothing, a smile. rosy cheeks I got passing that mound of flat, steel autos by the rails balancing each day enroute to winter habitué to view you in the hallways at school. a ghost could have learned your combination. never neared that blue, iron door to try. it was glass that separated us. I, sealed in or you sealed out, but then you didn’t view me as I didn’t have a smile and bright apparel like other torsos on display. just window shopping anyway, I tell myself, whenever I’m sealed in, or out, in memory. 1.1.23 I wanted to be nostalgic about being alone when I was young and how comforted I could feel in certain settings, and it went another way, and just ran on. |
From “Weirdly Poetry” (yet to be published) Easy On The Petals She loves me I love me She loves me not I love me not She loves someone else I’ll love myself eventually or not Though I’m no prize please take a chance on me so I learn to love for two me as well as you buttercup I’ll never tear petals again because that’s childish Love is a tender, fragrant flower, imbued joy in small hands before gleeful carnage. My lips will wet your damage already done, sealed with these kisses of what love… what love. 12.30.22 12.31.22 last verse added love damages, repairs but not like new; experienced will hurt less or more by love, or no love. Better to have loved and live nostalgically ever more? I don’t know if I’ve loved but desired the salve of her bare skin on mine. With passion, I think good enough. Yet, not my best. Yet to come? |
You fell from heaven like a feather. I devilishly witnessed dainty descent, tried to field you, whirring event, elusive, before your rest, gentle on the green mass. What point of picking you up now, unless breezes should stir, send you heavenward? In all your glory, twisting, spinning, I’d try again, calculate with more fervor. Heaven loves a wild dreamer chasing its cloud castoffs. 12.29.22 It started with initial notion, cultivated from there. Poem gave way to how we love chaste, available dreams that we win (men, I supposed). Still considering |
like flitting words casually floating through an electric fence. some crackle. some singe and simper. some sail past deconstructed without the rest, and still floating, aiming, seeking to find true meaning. words informed fasten like seat belts. look out! here we go again!! 12.24.22 |
Chance favored me without preparation. Trailed hazardous life stumbling over serendipity near the turbulent waters lapping my ignorant shores ready to consume a fool. What were my odds? the chance I'd survive ordinary existence to reach its inevitable end with fortuity? Manifest destiny or fate life seemed to be lived by accident. Found love. Periled lips still savor kismet. Was it providence, coincidence, happenstance? or did I just get away with cheating life because of dumb luck? 12.24.22 20 lines free verse "Invalid Post" 12.5.22 PPC Prompt: Luck "Invalid Post" Kerf form |
thank you for unnecessary commentary in this shared theatre I shouldn't push play why don't I learn? is a poet supposed to get to the point? thank you for the unprovoked remarks in the din I live in Should've worn my headphones Why don't I insulate? is a poet supposed to self-edit? for you? you've been kind to give your opinion in my shrinking domain, a condition where little space can be sought to self-isolate Where is the acceptance I yearn? Is a soul supposed to dry its pen? What am I living in that walls don't echo my thoughts? The vibrant messages could soothe aching ears Where am I living if I cannot go from here without you on my mind vigorously absorbing all of my soul's light? thank you for choosing me to hear you out A chamber envelops my lungs, heart pushed to the glass How can I unpin and ask for my breath back? Let a poet grip foolishly again his words flung to a non-dimensional wall expanding to infinity and all I’ll not capture thank you. 12.23.22 12.26.22 added 3 end lines 4.9.23 added punctuation, more capitalization and last line. it's about sharing music i love in shared amphitheater, and have to hear her say she doesn't like this song or that artist, or thinks the volume too loud or when will it end? things like these attach to my heart, she severs with her blunt knives |
your mother had to knit you cool blue mittens to hold my red hot heart when we enmeshed in snow melted and froze into ice spring did not thaw you i was a puddle cars drove through sent skyward blocked promise land above heartless sun a heavy rising you were saved by my freezer i can still open the door gaze in that dark refrigerator and wonder how long you'll stay in tact if i could hold you one more time my mother didn't knit mittens for that 12.20.22 18 lines |
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 his words at the world like shooting at woodpeckers that go round and round the bark while i blasted a stubborn tree with a hand-me-down 4-10 gauge- whatever-shotgun i'd be 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 and drank coffee read porno magazines he thought hid probably wondered about that firing from a flannel fifteen year old without a red trappers hat to call his own feet dry because of sandwich bags to protect from holes in tight boots 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 bored with his fires, bees collected in Bell jars, severing brother's thumb with hedge shears took way too long to arrive dispensing every shell before deciding throw the gun away before i kill someone and returned to camp to clutch the pen circle and combine jumbled letters into visions i would find my own way to put meat on the table life's not as easy as a gun. 12.17.22 42 lines - poem, prose, story, puzzle or something like that. took less time to explain with this notion. did i mention if you understand a poem after one read it's not good? I had to stop editing this after nearly completing poem, assisting wife with car after my son drove into a snowy ditch. no worries. i got the poem finished better than expected. oh, he's fine. so's the car. |
We would really like to know If ever I'm perfect they'll dismantle me maybe, study me but mostly, do away with me We lost paradise once Tirelessly, must settle for imperfection? I hand her the correct change she says perfect I complete their application submit, he looks it over perfect Making an appointment I respond to need of contact info Verbal utterance echoes on the line perfect You can't call me back Unable to process my application I passed counterfeit bills (coins I can't mint) You don't know me I could be the person trying to undo all that is perfect, "functional" within the frequencies, communes of coexistence, governed society, aiming with just one word — perfect Perfect? Do you hear yourself? What's perfect about correct address? You've never been here I could live in squalor police sirens blaring, cars jacked — a militarized zone, mortar shells perfect bullets rip past down my street as I take the car out again and it performs as it should on journey to my next 'perfect' when I stop (while it rolls independently) to consider, then pat the fading dash from my leather-creased, captain's chair inside a rusty hull, bumper cracked radio-sometimes-working, beaut of a machine and say 'you're what's perfect'... even though, you aren't. If I don't appreciate all imperfection and what functions, necessitating a weary life keeping me going up this hill we're on before the six foot drop off or crusher, then I must admit between here and where eternity ends I might make it to perfect... Envisioning a white cloud airily lifting me close enough to touch bluest heaven and no one will see I'd keep it to myself between me and the Chevy We'll both drive off that cliff before we'll let anyone dissect us. We are what we are and it ain't perfect Okay, good, thank you, I have all that I need... unless there's something more? 12.16.22 62 lines (free verse} Best Long poem I've written in sometime, if ever. a little, annoying word on the lips of many little minds, more functional than me. and you know what else I don't care for? indifference. |
don't want to be too sing-songy avoid the stunted syllables grinding out each unsubmitted manuscript that light these pages unseen by the main don't want to be alone pitchy singing avoid the top of stunted chords grinding melody each retracted utterance could light still hearts unheard by that main untested but willing singing in rain showers puddle splashing, hopping over hearts inside windows in my yellows like spring sop-wet with the sky's tears for a little man inside unloved by her who'll not be if I don't get outside a foggy dream get seen, heard and loved. 12.11.22 |
the flaw in our beauty a broken heart holds together in its sand, its ancestor until that final heap topples a fractured vessel, ice glass bleeding. tides try claim the mess, wash remains to sea. some pieces hunker in grit, hold on, wear down. you don't see, unobserved from dark space separating a billion miles a second, speeding away away away, down to bottom of this shared ocean, middle of our galaxy. you didn't glimpse while your heart was cracking, too. but I noticed, and noticed you didn't see me. we share sand – blown, mysterious, special fish bowl or flower vase people, each of us fragile. not adjoining on shelf, we'll not ocean together at the same time, aweigh on this life forever and ever and ever. don't say amen. i already hate me for being impure. 12.5.22 12.7.22 some major edits could suffice as lyrics; what chorus? written to: men have feelings we're taught to access the part of our flawed DNA that doesn't allow us to show it, or feel shame if we do slightly altered version ▼ |