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 ▼ |
Visages Glimpses Flashes uncaptured Soundless reminders I can feel Touch my core Two hands about your waist Rotating Into shadows Into howls Darkness Raining molecules Dust my eyes Unexpected dreams Madness revisited Reawakening I had you Wish I tasted you Cannot savor Invisibility Truth Your power Grips me now 3.31.21 edit tomorrow |
Remiss Burning light wading deep into night to search Is there another road I missed? Burning oxygen inhaling deep into pale lungs Will I ever get my breath back? I meant to sing as I journeyed so you would find me If white hadn't turned black If I had just learned to breathe Dusty journey beckons me back to leave the dream of you. Fading night wading deep in the bright to seek a destiny I still wish 3.30.21 New line breaks and end 4.8.21 new ending/added title 5.18.21 |
My fingers linger over the black and white with dulcimer dreams flashes of sound burst from a reckless whirlwind, full of power and ignorance for over an hour, tousling a landscape, but would calm in straight striations striking chimes beneath your window -- a beckon to come play and you did. I still fondly remember that day. If I could just inhale again, but lack the discipline and instrument. 3.28.21 5.1.21 ed. I tried to write another after an inspired poem, and here it lies...will lay. |
We are ships in this strange ocean. Our passages mark time. As fingers scrawl calm waters, we make our own waves; ripples reaching tides, idle land and the sterns of other steely keels slow-rusting from ballasts — our bilge cast, though we hope viewers only spy our silent majesty — silhouettes now in night. I tip my cap to you, my captain. A golden sea shimmers for thee, reaches to me — no bergs do I envision on a glass ride to the next horizon. 3.28.21 5.1.21 edited Inspired by Kåre Enga in Udon Thani who commented on "the blue markings" . |
The rivers run hard draining and purging from Winter's restraint Cold nights weathered sequestered alone before doors open up All fires belong to the sun as we forget because the hard earth yields colors, life and a reason for the pent up soul to regret lost time -- to run hard into your arms 3.21.21 |
I had it and you Just a moment longer beneath the stars whatever weather wherever you are I had it Didn’t I? I saw the reflection of galaxies in your eyes polarizing around one lonely soul In orbit magically carried an eternity in one moment gone forever Didn’t I have you? Now I’m not so sure and the heavens seem very far 3.21.21 Girls like Bethany should know the ability to be an eternal muse is but a moment She’ll never read this... |
When you can inhale first fresh air without narrowing lungs, frozen amid gales, I squeeze the tender hand warming my digits in the thaw, streaming, gleaming in the barely dim. Nostrils filter freed soil returning from the soiled, soft banks fleeing like black icees drained, descending in pointed, paper cups -- just as winter candles when wax wicks droop, seep beneath the ground. I long for seasonable color, but the eternal light of a once tender soul ignites a spectrum of revision. All seasons start and end, even without us. 3.14.21 Envisioning glints of former memories in this brief season...inhaling what essence remains through whatever negative capability. |
Purposed Fool For you, me or who? Chained to the machine in your dim light, fingers bleed amid yearning of words coalescing, dreaming... spun in vain, miss the mark, your lover's lust, again. Chained to a horizon burning, blinding, I blister, bleed all the more with desire to earn rapture, your touch; so I could ascend young, anew, again. I could drink love, my own blood like a fire in my veins, unquenched, again, but I have a new drug, instead: Resistance. 3.14.21 5.1.21 edited, unsure of the initial intent/inspiration and trying to make cohesive and clear, but feel lost as yet. |
Your cryptic words (though unintended) do not unbalance my soul. Your odd approach does not cause my neck cock, crane only to see the next page in unfulfilling eternity, when I hear your knock. Uneven door raps (your offerings left) before you run off. The gift of you, unsavored, I do not quest or quench. I'm sorry if you've heard this before. Thankful still, but obligation is no longer our arrangement. 3.14.21 5.1.21 ed. |
Fasting: "Can only imagine it's about mindfulness. If we are not consumed with distractions and sensations, we are closer to centered and spiritual, self-fulfilling truth." Heart beating quicker, Breath yearning harmony, Shallow settles Into inner vision, beauty -- The soul of you Recalling -- Warm rays penetrating Our cotton Where we laid. Your eyes absorbed the blue Of two spirits dawning My heart slowing Yearn your sighs, Deep encouragement Our inner vision, beauty -- The spirit of two Warm rays reprise Soon after sunrise, daily -- Dawning on one soul A heart aching alone For your deep encouraging Tender lips once again. 3.14.21 |
True how the sun rises surmises its equatorial, western disdain, smudged more -- yet, geese strain voices this spring again while all the world supposedly changed -- life unbalanced spun on a perpetual plane -- I see your colors change but do not match the skies I surmise, seeking new tones not yet attained I see you and hear you not the same -- but the peepers sing, crickets’ clarity still a-hum night long again -- and when I close my eyes it’s only dirt I wake to see my ears are another thing. 3.14.21 Focus for this poem is on 'tones' and its duality (sight and sound). |
You know it’s over I don’t go to the hall to seek you in the connected rooms knowing you long ago went even though I had wanted to glimpse you again idling before me even if silent or maybe with just a word of encouragement you know it’s over when the wonder is no more when a view out any window is fine because nothing leads to a sliding door one moment in time that could ripple open because we did not defy odds and I must turn to my final destination I do not wish to walk. 3.7.21 The part that been holding on like waiting forced to leave the past and any foolish memory behind. |
Your words like gravity hover above my head your eyes like lead embolden the gaze holding staring through brightest sunlight only obscured when I look to images like the night black ink matching stains on my heart in bracken your body like monuments precarious hovers like falling shadow a soul doused in black particles that make me invisible to all who approach and dare discover rubble beneath gleaming but I love you why? 3.5.21 |
Another Day A heart regulated by sound spun Beneath a needle plying vinyl Skating through grooves Vibrated life into near-dead flesh The narrow red railways soft Beneath a hammer hovering glass Sailed through waves Splashing life into near-dead flesh The wide blue byways crush Beneath a body plying cotton Still through night Praying life into near-dead flesh The hollow black nothingness thin As a vapor before sunrise Revealed Just another day to replay 3.2.21 |
My desire to sing to you romantically, wistfully, beautifully a tune I know all too well bittersweetly longing to coalesce our spirits but cannot grasp, fathom the words to recitate, elucidate my head lowing, longing for you sing the melody to me I'll learn, yearn to know it like you. 3.6.21 |
The dagger dripping with poison drips black from the pen you filled last night exacted your revenge on an ignorant lamb who didn't intend... but you knew what you were doing I'll hand you the revolver it's quicker, humane to drain a bullet from the chamb directly into my brain sparing five others for the cows Do you kill for sport? How do you eat? unless I'm the buffet Dine Well 3.5.21 |
One kernel down the gullet morphed me one grain of truth not the serum to cure but seal me from the world still burning rejecting can’t see you, or feel you with that growth in my gut I could stare at a setting sun like a dull wall spirits having flown into the hardened ground an earlier burial let me live should I suffer who would mind not me my grave was long ago dug let me just sing above it and not below another night 2.26.21 We're all gonna die...why can't I live? Cures for depression not the right fit...but what's another pill down? |
Soon Ancient Notes to myself Remembered -- Written And unread Soon Ancient Pieces of my mind Scraps scrawled -- Ink and graphite Barely discernible Less understood Eroding by oceans Soon Ancient Serendipitously revealed To the groggy head Draining blood From an organ to stain memory In the ever present Soon ancient 3.1.21 |