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 ▼ |
Tell me your truths and where mine should apply I've used them as patches on these dry eyes Share your secrets and what I should divulge mine trapped in Tupperware sealing a dull head You seem to know it all Your easy demeanor instructs how I should behave repose in your presence Any last words before parting? You have better things instead? Drop your knowledge like bombs Demolish the already dead What sport in that? I have a few more coins to toss in this parking meter My car idles at your walk I write poems that make no sense It's a cathartic, rambling word soup I snicker as you struggle discern meaningless words like allegory Tables turned 4.1.20 origin 4.30.20 revised and expanded |
Tanka -Calico your calico heaves from bed, gray, arthritic form, no proud tail to swish, with clear blue eyes buttoned tight sunbathes on the floor Tanka -Mastodon stoic mastodon chiseled gray in dirt, extinct. long, curved tusks battled buried with its long trumpet a proboscis stilled I don’t typically write these. These were constructed a few days back. |
straight-en-ing u-sed nails whenever he hammered two-by-fours, dad reused nails pulled from old wood. it became my job to flatten the curved spines of rusted, metal gents with slightly tilted hats i couldn't quite correct. but as their chiropractor, each postured between thumb and forefinger, plying any flat surface: the work bench, driveway, garage wall or nearby tree. my instrument took aim, became more true. i learned not to flail like a god of thunder, but strike harder than a gentle tap, tap, tap-ping -- awkwardly roll, pin, strike. roll, pin, strike! hopeful they wouldn't squirm. hopeful i could produce enough before he caught up, note, what's the hold up? take away my pride, left to devour my oozing blood. a left-handed maestro with up-tempo flair whacked away unflinchingly, deftly smoothing the rust-crusted, stubborn little pegs obeying. dad directly rap, rap, rap-ped each into the yellow hearts of repurposed wood, stood a right frame in under half of a day: erected the tool shed, our doghouse, properly lay a bed frame for mom's tiger lilies, while i sucked a raw thu m b. 4.28.20 6.21.20 edit 8.13.20 edit Brian K. Compton honorable mention for 'Shadows and Light' when smushed to fit 40 line max. requirement. Now, straightened out to length of: 51 lines. I got the idea from 'flatten the curve' and went in on this with a non-pandemic direction, since I have a better handle on memories from childhood than imagination about how communities are trying to social distance and not overwhelm hospitals. Maybe, I'll take another stab at flatten the curve another day. |
gypsy tree in my youth hidden on the hill where my father would hunt deer wild game and me on the tree hidden slow, undulating wings. hundreds, if not thousands of Gypsy moths revealed reminding of black and yellow fungi clasping tree corpses on a nearby logging trail. but, age cannot rediscover that tree hoping to glimpse a timeless revision hewn from an old stump. a decaying mind harvested by vexing gypsies that grew in me flew from my room truth eaten spare a few words eulogizing. fleeting, fleeting, we're all fleeting and holding onto this ride before it stops. 4.26.20 still working on. only one type of punctuation for now |
No immortality, no dignity in crawling Across your sand, bedraggled, Clutching coin to toss in your receptacle, Hard-earned byproduct of toil like waste. 4.11.20 |
After 3 A.M. I don't want to rise this early Cats' stirred will want breakfast A prisoner to these covers I would rather not ruffle but lie awake, try not think of all unsaid A mind burdened could dutifully make coffee instead But the machine would deliver a light sleeper too soon for her own journey today So I contemplate moments of happiness, turn off dread The moon gentle glows just beneath my head where the pines rise from a broken frame where the black has led escape from another dawn The glass reflects too much within I roll from this bed seek solace in the coldest room shrouded with footrest garb draping burdened shoulders The corner hutch reveals cola to mix with rum Lubricate dark haste in sin? To this screen instead bent fingers crawl, ache characters dance in dim light I'm not getting any more sleep after 3 a.m. I've stopped trying to make sense of it all. Medicate 4.12.20 5.1.20 revised, completed |
These Dying Seasons When they release redacted files do they preserve a pristine copy? Is our past so corruptible, as ink upon paper by scribes who die with knowledge that could free our souls from guilt and shame, stashed away by forefathers, propped by Machiavellian visions for a sour world sucked like gumdrops by candy-loving occupants with fillings deep to the nerves, stored in cheeks like wintering rodents housed in an aging oak dropping dead branches on acidic earth, killing a once lush, green lawn. The mower uses less gas in these dying seasons. Redact away, if a poet won't self-censor. 4.13.20 The reason why it's almost all one sentence? You can't guess? |
if you have to ask why we haven't come together, the only answer is ignorance there is a universe right outside our doors, hearts trapped inside yearn to fly i can see your name forming above my eyes, planets and stars shining inside my lonely cabin I have no wings to send me near, by your side asteroids, flung shrapnel, pierce tender skin air I breathe is too thin if you hear me calling, i need your eyes if you see me falling, know I tried fly heart yearns ascend your heaven where we could unify, stuck in strongholds captured, begging forgiveness of mankind when I breathe in this black air, pink lungs fill clear, inhale your light if you have to question why so dark here, the only truth is ignorance a universe pulsing right outside my door and I’m a wingless soul who cannot fly until I can feel you by my side. Heart stay strong I need them to see you beating when they come. 4.19.20 Brian K. Compton |
Twister roars, air fuels me in shaded forest high. Desire for you hides in green. Lungs ablaze, inhale sky aflame. No visions seen with you. Love is razed. Form: Sedoka The Sedoka poem consists of two stanzas of 3 lines each.The syllable structure is 5,7,7 5,7,7. The poem should address the same subject from different perspectives. The poem does not rhyme. |
cold He ignorantly shoved you in the pool today the day you miscarried as we watched shuddered from the cold only you could feel a rewrite of a 2008 offering included in a poetry collection of misfits that are sometimes publicly available here (sorry if set to private, as yet) "Invalid Entry" |
I'll retitle later... These Dying Seasons When they release redacted files do they preserve a pristine copy? Is our past so corruptible, as ink upon paper by scribes who die with knowledge that could free our souls from guilt and shame, stashed away by forefathers, propped by Machiavellian visions for a sour world sucked like gumdrops by candy-loving occupants with fillings deep to the nerves, stored in cheeks like wintering rodents housed in an aging oak dropping dead branches on acidic earth, killing a once lush, green lawn? The mower uses less gas in these dying seasons. Redact away, if a poet won't self-censor. |
It’s only temporary driving by the car lot you see sales lost, potential to go out of business what I see cars that won’t start if someone doesn’t rev those engines to keep batteries charged before the next test drive passing desolate hotels you worry hospitality is ending, dying tourism, local economy bedbugs have no flesh to bite, to support a temporary life, offspring, for me. multitudes of walkers we mull down roads seldom traversed by foot traffic, you count potential casualties for me, fat cells clinging to long undisturbed hearts burn gazing upon skeletons on idle construction sites, you fear bankruptcy and foreclosure but I don’t see progress stopping here, envision men in hard hats, women in every garb resuscitating a beleaguered people back to life before fall starts too strong for regression, no time for depression, seasons unchanging, a planet breathing with or without a few more dollars to spend. I'll edit some more later to fine tune message of hope |
World on fire, air fuels me in shaded forest high. Desire for you hides in green. Lungs enflame, inhale sky ablaze. No visions seen with you. World on fire. Form: Sedoka The Sedoka poem consists of two stanzas of 3 lines each.The syllable structure is 5,7,7 5,7,7. The poem should address the same subject from different perspectives. The poem does not rhyme. |
Poem that doesn't know what it wants to be when he grows up… lonely like you I swim in these tiny Concentric circles nearing Your idle feet soaking In shallow water I deserve a nibble As do you Our hearts aching For the moment -- I gleam beneath surface Collecting a solar charge -- Love shimmers Like a quick, gold gift Too smooth to claim Curious for sodden toes Gripping soft sand -- The tiniest mermaid Swaying even with hydrilla Like a heeled animal Coexists as you atrophy Wishing we could play |