10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind |
Like one of those adventure games where you go off questing in different directions but you don’t advance like the others. You earn pretty medallions gallantly while other players buy, sell and trade at market to get ahead without moving an inch. Slow burn…hey? You’d rather keep your dignity, or try to figure out their game. That’s where you really get lost. Game full of misdirects leads right back to start over and over. You could have stayed on your quest. Now, you have this. Redacted, censored, gaslighted…must be doing something right, my old boss would say. I’m not a sociopath, he tells himself. Equal parts, then? Mom should have had me tested. Because, life of turmoil produces stuff like this. Not going to call it beautiful agony…it gets a bit ugly.Tap on them. It’s part of the quest…see where I’ve been; see who I am: Right. I redact myself. The beautiful mess you made. Who are you? If I’ve been denied the right of knowledge, I’ve earned the right to judge. | Without knowledge, who’s to judge? | No gavel; no voice. "...politely reedy but ambitiously eclectic—moving effortlessly from hen-picking and bottleneck slides to a full deck of chucka-chucka rhythm figures." I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. *Neurodivergent poet. *Don’t judge/hate. I love. *Honesty without mincing words. *Dump your prejudice outside my door. Hope you leave it on the way out. *Nothing to fear but people who surround themselves with rules, can’t be touched. *Real dialogue accepted. My words collect, arrange on a kaleidoscope spectrum. The true experience/acknowledgment of my writing yet to come...long after I’ve left WDC, am dead, or both. Truly been a blessing, but I've been pushing it — envelope, push world and all inhabitants away, push buttons to find boundaries, having no clue or told where they lie, where I've lived in your dark. Now and then, push dirt out of this hole; someone/thing/entity might envision me the way I need to be viewed. (if I knew what that was. Cryptic, I know. Try living in my dark, find comfort amid the strange, virtual walls that tempt me to try). *The parenthetical lawyer up? Foot free, I’m all over the place. Best Poetry Collection 2X, nominated three years. What does it mean? I was enjoying myself, head bagged. A happy idiot. Something messed with that. I won’t be a coward; not starting feuds or wars over ideals and beliefs. We all know that’s a pile of crap packaged with dreams of pretty things to sell the next boob that walks by. Been more than I could imagine or expect. My achievements aren’t going on a LinkedIn wall. But, I get it. You're sick of me. It's how I feel about myself when I dig deeper, push boundaries. Don’t care my words that aim for honesty, either brave or veiled cowardice, flinchingly flung, inadvertently hit a target. Get a back off shoulder shot for asking your motivations to write…won’t get me to bend over backwards to appease, again. There’s no prize to eye, not properly incentivized. So, does it mean when dealt the worst two cards before the flop, do the best with what you got? Yeah, rigged. Yeah, other tables — other ‘games’. But, something in my gut I’ll never be rid. My Pluggers: You are an icon here. You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer.{/blue} It’s like plugging myself, but using other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "Life’s Little Misdirections 🥀🦋" Your poetic muse is on fire! Some great emotion, well-balance(d), lovely lyrical qualities -- even the ones that were written out of sadness or anger came through in a clever cadence…It's obvious you've put a lot of work into each entry and the totality of the blog has eye appeal. Published four times with one a literary journal, including… "The Tender Core (Sedona)" I don’t submit because it’s too much work. Truly alone, know no one cares to show they believe/support me. Lip service feeds delusion. I’ve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Try not be cynical, work hard at openness and consideration — work, sooo…gut thing. August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼
No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼ This is old…. What? Oh, this? A rhetorical, self-motivational speech I'm working on. Don't just read the parts to construct your theory, as if to confirm (construed out of context) your opinion, mentally-stunted Neanderthal. Therapist wants me to be less negative toward myself. I see it as attacking, rather than being defensive. Fear I will chomp too many bullets unintentionally sent toward the unsuspecting. If you can be triggered for stupid reasons, then I? …just looked like me rolling around on the floor with myself. What Was NEW Who am I, you ask? My mirror knows that question, repeated daily. Just trying to create a little buzz, not boost my ego. #amwriting #poetry #blog #contest #freeverse #award #bestpoetry #freyaridings #lyrics #music #video #YouTube Can you believe it took this long for someone to put a quarter in me and push the button GET ANGRY? Mud 4 My Eye: Is that you, Poo? 💩 Secret Back Door ▼ |
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. |
Not since Britney was stuffed by that NBA security guard…dunk heard round the world less than 24 hours ago. Ignore Tenacious D version. 3.12.24 I’d post to social media a paired song/video…like so much social not worth the effort. Except this: Trace Jackson-Davis sent Wembanyama to a floorboard grave. #solittle2root4 #quashed #GOWARRIORS #notasnowballchance? #givehellatry Hopefully this post doesn’t disappear… after 3 edits. |
Con-cocked I’m the envelope you fill with your craft, Red paper hearts strung in a row enter this soul. When I’m sealed, stamped by your tender hand Deliver me to that destined land. The warmth of your crimson constructive Lip-sticks me from within from your heat. Our delivered fate from post I’ll inscribe With saturate ink pursed lips imbibed. 2.29.24 In progress…
Rock Bottom ▼ Well, I entered before last day of month end... 🫤 |
It’s always been there (my poem), but you don’t notice or care to admit… In their version, The Marías slow the story down while also cutting it short at just over two minutes. Yet so much differs throughout those 125 seconds. The “...Baby One More Time” cover welcomes listeners with a quiet and gentle guitar melody. Within seconds, Zardoya enters with a soft, raspy tone, pleading for one more chance. Softly layering her voice as the mesmerizing background vocal, there's a much more intimate feeling than the original. Within the first half minute, Zardoya sets a guilty tone as she sings, “I shouldn’t have let you go…” There’s a regretful implication as her voice quivers. Then, she declares, “There’s nothing that I shouldn’t do / It's not the way I planned it.” The subtle change from Spears’ more innocent “wouldn’t” to The Marías’ “shouldn’t” places the responsibility on the singer for her past mistakes in love. Zardoya is not pleading with the promise of doing whatever it takes to save the relationship; she understands she should be the one to make the effort to salvage it. Then, instead of singing “It's not the way I planned it,” Zardoya speaks this line with a disgruntled tone, as if she's tired of having to defend her intentions. "grind on this (MV)" https://www.afterglowatx.com/blog/2023/5/8/cover-story-the-maras-make-a-relaxing... It’s ‘not the way I planned it’…none ever do…plan. Yet, manipulation everywhere I look. Hit me baby one more time?? I’ve been writing since the first black eye… |
The Small Voices (Not A Windmill’s Chance…without my brother) I wish I had a nickel for every time she pointed out that’s just how it is now like I’m ignorant … like I’m surprised life had made me it’s bitch … but a small voice that isn’t harmonized, that isn’t paired by another in tune … isn’t harmony … and … when did life make you so smart … ? and … made you its bitch?? as the two of you laugh at me right now fitted for plastic armor? readied for any situation … big or small … pierce with my pointy stick while wheeling atop a uni-cycle I call stead … ?? precarious, I know … but brave? to fight alone knowing it’s more than life that’s hurtful that wants to make me their bitch … ?? because … bitch-slapped. it’s easier taking down the labeled Quixote (reckless, feckless), than lance these giant demons — machines designed, sluicing the weather around us, taking our energy, harvesting our electricity to deplete good souls to short out … not grounded to any element, chained to that grist … railing with clenched fist … toppled: and there you are standing over me. I see through this visor what you intimate … what you intone … like a coward you pick on the weakest thing planted in the dirt of a machination’s shadow … you’re lucky I see you and not a windmill (that I look up and not down on you… where you say my poem should have ended … there. It never ends …) but for a small dagger life goes on without my brother. 2.24.24 I made last 3 lines its own statement than attach to the poem machine because it is the only thing that could separate, yet like throwaway lines only a fool/man would consider In post.. taking up the gauntlet ? while everyone else is saying back away from it because they can’t control me or think me a fool with it? I have no doubts Yet, labeled to make me feel reckless, feckless I hold on to it, sleep with it… not to feel safe … but the closest thing to kinship I have in this world it’s that side of myself everyone denies me access to… won’t realize or accept I live in two worlds just to feel whole in one because cowards and what do they sleep with…? WHAT HAVE I TO HIDE? Oops, I left caps on… and I’m not going to fix…cuz…?? Not going to be a bitch to ML either… |
Against a woolen sweater that was blue Thats all that I remember of you Before you learned to walk, I learned to run I guess the ants really go marching one by one When a train rolls in, the doors open, I get in Last night I had a pleasant nightmare La da da da La da da da La da da da, da da da there's an ocean formed outside my bedroom door on the sleepless nights I listen to it roar there's a road too long to walk, too steep to climb at the end of it, is what you left behind and when that train rolls in the doors open, don't get in last night I had, a pleasant nightmare La da da da La da da da La da da da, da da - Emily Kapnek transcribed R.I.P. Mike |
You're In My Way I stood in the path of a black bear twice my weight and ten times my strength. I wasn't going to run as it was twice as fast. I'd never turn my back to it. I stared and dared the thing to roughly dissect my anatomy. I screamed and yelled at the dope like it was my monster-tormentor. Before it could shred me like a woodland pup tent I woke up. I hope I see it again. I'll cover myself in bacon grease, my blue-red eyes blaring hot in a frozen white scene, bells around my neck and rocks to hurl. I want one shot at overcoming every odd to defeat this grizzly goliath. I'm more dangerous because I don't care, once I smell it's disease breath. My eyes hard close like five thousand pound, stone doors no animal will withstand or scale. You're mine, every hairy, little bit from mouth to bowels, until I no longer exhale. 12.10.23 33 lines, bean counters free f-ing verse. Title plays to both camps. It's implied meaning is up to the reader. Poem in a word -- fierce. Two more words -- death wish. You should see what I wrote before this:
whose the precious little MF when they suggest you leave the room? Dumb or not, this gift to you is my magic act. |
In a word: Nothing Comes to mind… Can’t slow. I’m snow: You must shovel If you want to drive To get what you need. In your treads Every inch of the way… I’m still falling… Gently heap… Cover bushes beneath the bay Overlooking the adorned trees On limbs: Resting, waiting For you to witness Before moving me Aside. 12.4.23 As honest as can be, before I lie To feel worth? To feel a part of your world? While we coincide, I’m at your side Looking for something, a clue And why it seems cold Outside Of you. Investigation of 👣 yet to come. Prompt (newly edited): "Pretend (the long halls)" |
Voice in night anchors me, disembodied Where I lie alone in dark Where I float, reach But cannot touch a soul With words uttered, muttered In the chosen black romance Too dense for images to develop, enveloped In fear, nothing near Sound rises, raises me, interplanetary, Adrift on fading belief Something could rescue Pluck a being from tempest deep, haunts I long to keep that held me Held me down, spine, organs, Heavy blood matting deep In the fibers of a vacuum That swallows dreamers, spits out A cynic, poorly dressed, unclean For the immaculate deceivers Who couldn’t possibly be Angels to me High the sound escapes, divided by tide silence, rolling over my body Washing out into a thin horizon, Gray all the days; I beg for night, For something warm to hold tight. Eyes penetrate this space, Frown upon a fool disgraced. Doesn’t want to lift up, sinks To silt bottom like stones cast. Raise the rim higher, pound A tempo upon these cans. A racket. Door closed. Louder A voice rises above all the rest. A song I hear buried deep in breast Flows out my chest, skims and skitters Across your fog waters. Yet to see If the sun will rise, shine on me. Don’t seek it, reluctantly veil All in my heart with every wail. Swallowed whole in arriving tides, Anchored, won’t find any shore. Voice in night never feels fright But free from any who can’t conceive The true identity you won’t believe Resides in a callous heart, long deceived. 12.2.23 I’ll revisit another time. Not really trying. Just going whatever way the wind blows my pinwheel mind. Poetry:same results |
November hush, colorful castoffs sleep — their dreams fade, interlocked on a hard mattress. Soft, pristine descent of tiny-winged angels come. Gray time swept up into prolonged nights, resist allure of outlasting that twelfth chime. Memories cascade — serenading symphony comes — Her holiday confections rise in oven, whisper to a soft nose, as I cuddled in hand-me-downs. Decorations ascend; presents find their shrouds. Music wanders about a quiet truce in our home. A temporal refuge, our family's respite. Time to unwind, be present, and be family. Thanksgiving's embrace, feast tradition, revel in comfort food and kinship extended. Trapped in snow globe of nostalgia, Kresge Drug Store's magic orb, gazing scenes imagined within, immersed. Beneath the next tinsel-draped tree, a child's haven of stick-sap and dreams mingling. Face pressed to cardboard nativity, wise men, cows, humble manger and a solitary bulb, humble star, celestial and warm guide tiny dream scenarios. 11.28.23/23 lines, free verse 12.26.23 minor edits, tighten, tweak, tastier words. In this free-flowing verse, enjambment weaves the memories seamlessly, capturing the essence of November's nostalgia and the timeless magic of family traditions. Prompt: “It is also November. The noons are more laconic and the sunsets sterner and Gibraltar lights make the village foreign. November always seems to me the Norway of the year.” — Emily Dickinson
Never entered…too busy…forgot…public now… Impetus: Its post leaves down, raked to curb, before fresh snowfall. days are shorter. Night seems to go on and on that I don’t feel tempted to stay up later. And when I lie in bed, I’m transported, I recall the sweet holiday confections emanating late from her oven to my anticipant nose, sense heightened by sounds of decorations going up, presents wrapped, soft holiday music, quiet truce between parents. Family had more time to wind down, be in the moment, be family, repose, with no current distractions but free time to commune, eat comfort food, enjoy extended family at thanksgiving, timeless traditions, as if trapped in an old Kresge Drug Store snow globe, the kind I stared into for long periods of time, imagined myself inside, or would crawl under the freshly tinseled tree, risk sticky sap, face in front of a cheap nativity of fold out cardboard and glued on wise men, cows, sheep, Mary, Joseph, baby in manger and the one light bulb protruding from the hole in display serving as that star, illuminating tiny dream scenes. How to put all that in free poem, structured, with enjambment was difficult. How to edit this? I’ll take another run at this someday. 12.01.23 |
Hands wrest heart from soul without physical act Touch and all crumbles into virtuality, nothing Eyes penetrate a weak mind without a second glance View all that tumbles into hollow reality, a void Old patterns emerge, a defense Knee reacts, hands hold down Mouth strapped, I shut Speak no more of experience unacknowledged. 11.26.23 Working on I play the SYML song and response with no preconceived notion what I’ll write. Lay down, repeating refrain Locked in membrane Seeking purpose within a crowd Loud, words forced out Shatter the heat, mind, soul Crumble into a sea of self-doubt Personality un-conformed cannot reform, anymore. Better to live in a void, Be as unexistant as possible, Not a sound, mutter, mumble Restraint so tight, I fail to breathe Find comfort of satin, in another lover’s arms, who’ll hold protect a giant man with plow hand to settle the quakes that disrupt the tranquility of candle-illumed rose room Shuttered portals lock all out But the mere essence of the remains Of a graphite skin and bones dull The galley of hull on torn sail craft Amid a rock harbor, no sound, edge of the earth on tattered map given a lad who dreamed serpents would come lay waste to a bright sailor, claimed black pirate shackled dreams interned in purgatory nary a clank, clasped cold in steel never see another sunrise, sundown in literal afterlife counting down tether free, float, sink deep, never found at the center of a bottomless reality I count each moment of descent, savor sweet death of a mouth penned words in time bottled body, never found again, no eyes, heart, could possible perceive. I am him, the one you don’t wonder about pathetic persecution, in negation, censored so casually to sodden sea free to just be everything and nothing without existence personally, blight on one who tried to bloom words, life viewed from your above, looking down deciding fate abd destiny not my right if not enslaved to conformity over co-existence could not commune without carefully stepping about scattered shards, suddenly Bleed, cry pain, not understanding why a moth drawn to light. Couldn’t see how reform, be what you want without losing all I dream, seek, am about. Submerge in this primordial lay down, dream fire consumes and hardens my metal find strength in this fight…yet brittle break from the quiet, which is sound surround, echo repetitively, shatter all that epoxy in 11th hour can’t repair, stilled. Shhhhh, heart lay down. Shhhhh, mind lay down Shhhhh, small boy lay down and let some mother’s arms collect the remainder for ever after Lover come before the striking hour Gifted glass returns to sea-soothing sand never to be reformed, graveless, forgotten but for memory loss vision as guide Lay down, sweet soul Lay down, tender heart, Lay restless mind, sleep in decay. Don’t dream again, that maybe one day? Overstayed. 11.26.23 All this, with memory of the song of defeat amid a throng with eyes redirected to sky, great beyond. It’s not your fault, only comfort I can add It’s your job. Stick to those weapons. Lay each down. I’ll look back at this too, and wonder Unable to remember day-to-day where I’ve been What I’ve shared How this is to all go down Nattering |
There was a time when staying up late was special. You could hear the world wind its giant clock. Since daylight savings time, everything digital, we wait for sunrise eternal. We can’t hear. We don’t see. What’s special that we cherish — the tradition of anticipation? Why do we have to learn the ending of every story, and not fear the trap of our eyes inside a snow globe? What’s not eternal, is mother tucking me in, placing two waxy lips tenderly upon a sweat-tired forehead. Don’t stay up, spoil what waits at morning. Bright, lumin colors and scents hovered in nights. All unwrapped now: my gifts, her presence, what I regifted my children; and what do they give moving forward from me, her, from Father Time? Where is that clock? Did we break midnight eternal? Chains, gears, pulleys…a shop…bespectacled, gray assessor? A few more grains slip the hemorrhaged container, spill faster like counted and gobbled pastel beans. Does the March hare come or a mad hatter? I’m tired even of myself, questioning everyone. No one acknowledges, but look over my shoulder at something. I look behind for presumed ghosts, turn back and years elapsed; all are gone. I presume looking, echoing my name amid valleys and dense wood. I’m alone in November, recall we held each other for warmth with a tune harmonized from one heart. Not even a sigh now, unless resignation December. Its weight of mighty hammer, soon pendulous, smashes open that gumball machine of time. Snatch up all, as I walk through and past each of you, invisibly — the children Wonka never wanted, but one. The keys to the chocolate factory embedded in carbonate chocolate time. We could write a sequel, but not like the first screening, reclined in tight-hinged, creaking theatre amid landmine popcorn memory crunch. From bucket to mouth to seat, eventual gravitational, cement floor, wasted calories. Even as pale faces flickered, we knew our film souls losing to the giant clock. What is time really, without one record keeper, reminiscer and a mother who tenderly turns pages with a wet forefinger? The furnace kicks in one more time. It’s late. Life in the morning. Time exhales, as I do. 11.18.23 5:41 a.m. before a glim of sun spied in my shed. Why edit to satisfy the needs of contest promoter or publisher. Fear the giant clock, our own impatience? I will read to you from my giant, green recliner. Space for two. You can feel these emotions when one writes. Not quite as much on a later read. Give it time. Then read. Hopeful clarity. Look for the popped kernels in every crevice. Tell me: was it fun while it lasted? Make Some Memories. Be glad for recollections that nourish a tired soul. O, for the lack of a good editor. Looks to the northern…lights. |
Papa’s getting ready to hang up his hat for good. Naps in the green recliner with the tv on in his boxers when a knock at his door alerted him. Pants off, the blue ball cap on the nail, hooked for good. In black nights he sleeps all alone. No one to comfort him. He could wear a frown, but blooms rose from her oven. Soon stern tulips waited for the delicate lilies to rise with our eternal sun. Papa never opened his eyes in late summer; harmonious roses being plucked, Chrysanthemums dared frost and snow. He had no space to move, when he felt something underground move. From her delicate hand a bright, light lid for a stern head. No pajamas needed for this bed where he could stretch limbs as long as the willows that tickle toes across the street. From brown to green to blue — delicate and stern — they still fly, higher than any eye could spy. And that’s why we don’t touch the old hat that needs it’s rest in his very old house. 11.17.23 30, 37 or 38 lines. Take your pick. Or, 39? It’s surreal, some literal, but all imagined except for dad and his tv and recliner. His left hand ran up the trimmed wall, locked there, while his right cradled the cocked head, asleep. Couldn’t change his channel, with a, “I was watching that”, after opening blood eyes. You need the right channel to rest. No gas stove for us. —————————————————————— Somewhere, a link just died. 40. |
🍂Seasons Change🍁 But Not The❤️ Fall Themed Poems in 2023… "It’s The New Season…Noting…" "Seasonal Layers" Note: I cannot be Quilled. Go ask Bugs. He's told it to Elmer once before it blossomed into a bosom buddy relationship. No good vibes here, yet. *Watch where ya pointin' dat thing, doc'. THE OTHERWISE — "Autumn Analogy" "autumn perms" "Autumn Irony" "Finality In Autumn" "Autumnal" "Picturing" "leaf piles" "The Clotting Season" I always looked forward to fall -- crisp air, beautifully colored landscapes, the wonder of how death promises renewal. It's somber and awe inspiring to know life will lay in its icy, white bed only to offer something more plentiful blooming with hope. It's a truth we can trust, like the sun setting and rising daily. I found many loves in Autumn, making my heart swell with the potential of love everlasting. While the fires of a kindred few flamed out/faded away, one true love remained...poetry. An assemblance of words to evoke rememberances of the ones that got away in a backdrop of glorious promise, love's serendipitous return with each season.
Read where my beauties display haunting misery and potential bliss for one growing too old to savor the memory of tasting vibrant painted lips, or foggily recollect tender arms entwined in a lover's dance. When the last poem drops, I will close these doors forever. Enjoy the simplicity of nature as provided by Robert Frost, and enjoy the brief audio as you follow along: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/resources/learning/core-poems/detail/44272 Response to Frost with Dylan Thomas' prompt... "Why (I) Blog" Leaf-shadowed crossroads brightening the longer I pause indecisive nearing an even tide sun setting knowing I'm prompted to choose when to push forward gentle into that good night It won't matter what road I travel I feel an autumnal tide washing me out of summer. Humidity shudders. Breezes brush lines of linen where a child once played in fading light.
Last year for this Autumn collection before permanent deletion from account. |