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 ▼ |
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 ▼ |
Decades long I still cannot metabolize you (It’s been) a lingering death Memory is still here (falsely) disguised Nostalgia lingers in shadows Dementia swallows regurgitates in dreams (Your face) the same in hollows (which eludes) my enzymes consuming (my love) of any other Period… The approximation of exclamation since I couldn’t form the proper interrogation to get to the end of our story… Antacids aid in this digestion 12/3/22 Could title (Read Between The Lines) but that’s not the point. You could say I’m weird again…but on closer inspection… Maybe they should Quill ‘Poet Of The Year’ I would concisely conceal that tattoo somewhere on my body before doctors sever the afflicted appendage. Simply: I’ve not been worthy of it, if not her Travel back in time with me to win Her love? When we know Who she is?? (What do you suppose antacids could be?) 🥃🥃🥃🥃🥃 |
Subtitle: I know why you’re alone, Brenna Untested Conversation It’s familiarity familial people they see daily talk to but not me who sits in the corner as would a lonely puppy trying not give that impression avoiding pity inside the distance can be - engaging enlightening frightening sees what conversation you prefer rather not intervene send to a rocky ledge but would embrace you against my field of abyss - hold against this untested world - kept from your known safety from my discourse sees eyes avert empathizes with that discomfort fragile soul fleet animal must forest within denizen’s kin spares the approach from a cur at your tables spared from an observer who knows fear and loneliness and true survival as one against the void in a din incipient space fissured wide open closed by a constant, linear soul 12.2.22 It’s not poetry you fear, but what weight words. R-E-L-A-X But, in other words: I get it. I can be too much. A growing affliction with some unknown/undiagnosed social condition:disorder since I was 7, walking down a road in my pajamas because I thought my mom abandoned me in another state. …now Brenna. A work friend of my wife (statement in 'work friend') who is 32, attractive, opines about not getting married, but will have a baby with or without a husband (and the three bedroom home), operates safely in her domain, her confines. I see, like me, she won't get out of her comfort zone because the unknown isn't easy to approach, as with that sound in the night behind the door in that horror movie called life. Brenna, poor, poor, girl. *sigh* I am safety? I have to wonder. Now…this pompous announcement…
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They floated me out on dinghy upon a tumultuous tide rode soft, swift, deft atop highest wave to the swell sucking sweetly down I wanted to fly looking on blue sky Why a watery surface with its unknown depth? They sang to me from shore too gently Bird and bee dimensionally sung It hurt. Skirts flirt motion from an ocean for a willing, wanton clown Will it come back around? I needed oars to row envisioning sought, brilliant horizon Why does it escape day to day unable to paddle back time? No chorus, nor melody now for an ostentatious fool in his common vessel. 12.2.22 It needs work, but I’ll brave eyes upon it. |