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Rated: 18+ · Book · Spiritual · #1149750
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.
 
"Note: Poetry: life’s little interruptions amassing int..."
 

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. *Clown*

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.*BigSmile*
You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer.{/blue}*Heart*


It’s like plugging myself, but using other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "Life’s Little Misdirections 🥀🦋"
Your poetic muse is on fire! *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. *Cool*

 
Published four times with one a literary journal, including… *PointRight*   "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.

*Toilet* *RibbonW* Merit Badge in Taboo Words
[Click For More Info]

Brian,

Congratulations! You won 1st Place in Taboo Words with your fantastic poem, [Link to Book Entry #1027659]. 

I absolutely loved this! *^*Heart*^*

Rachel Merit Badge in Poetry
[Click For More Info]

    Thanks you for supporting the  [Link To Item #power]  with an order to the  [Link To Item #powergifts] ! We appreciate it. *^*Heartv*^* Keep writing the beautiful poetry. [Link to Book Entry #1027659] is an awesome poem! *^*Starv*^* ~Lornda

 
Love my process constructing and sharing visions in words collected (no small task considering personal and physical limitations, see below).


August 28, 2006 this blog opened

BOOK
SuperNova Afterglow: End Of Days  (18+)
All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know.
#1300042 by He’s Brian K Compton 18 year


No specific aim going forward (2014)

 
What I used to say: 'Maybe, I just don't get it. Watch me fumble with my version of reality, expose ignorance as truth. You don't have to get me, either. But, wish someone would explain me to myself.' Now I say: *Cool* *FacePalm* Now: I was such a whore.
 


*Laugh*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.*RollEyes*
             



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

The Best Poetry Collection on Writing.Com
Previous ... -1- 2 ... Next
June 30, 2022 at 8:38am
June 30, 2022 at 8:38am
#1034465
Pale mother always echoed the adage
about not having anything good to say, say
nothing at all. Slow to comprehend, it gnawed
before my soft teeth chewed that. Tasted like
apathy, indifference, mixed as knowing wisdom.
Moreover, my red father defied, steaming
in cliche quip about squeaking as a wheel,
needing lubricant oil. Mom, how will they know
dissatisfaction, bound to repeat error uncorrected?
Dad, you always roared like a toothsome beast.
Yell too much, not their concern when hard
to please. Ask mother. In fact, both of you
should have consulted the other,

without citing tired, brain numbing,
boiled down thought that is supposed
to leave no room for argument, discourse.
Furthermore, you should meet my kids,
boasting bright memes and viral videos
that capture their ever simplifying heads.
Every word from my mouth redacted,
as if I’ve bumbled like tumbleweed
through a town called life, their residence.
No barn wall rules to re-order, since
we all cool, or rage, then chill.
Clocking out, lock in with Monster, buzz
the skill of video games or grease-thumb
that necessary cell on our ‘family plan.’
Like lawyers on my retainer, represent
themselves.

                   Don’t test this PC world,
been played. Is that gas I smell being lit?
I step away, glare in wonder how we knew
1984 was prophesied. Now, head-bagged,
babbling latest trends, where/what to eat,
Google cheap fuel prices. Pondering
savings — just for me, devalued by inflation,
how to s t r e t c h dollars? Waste like you?
Disordered, lawn to mow, trash to curb,
cat puked again, not my dishes pile in sink.
What street furthest from all can absorb
oil-painted, Edvard Munch trapped screams,
unable to utter in a worldwide bird box?

Squeak like a mouse, or be mum, mom,
dad. Hmm, maybe nothing changed. Nope,
I’m definitely getting a whole, other vibe.

I felt a large scream pass through nature


6.30.22

Disclaimer: I have not seen Bullock’s movie…think I get the gist. The rest of my rambling is experience, getting to know myself, past to present with behavioral therapy and money management. Goodbye little cottage on a lake. Poof!

Grand Finale, we’ll say for:
"The Bard's Hall Contest Merit Badge in Bard's Hall Blogging Merit Badge
[Click For More Info]

For placing 3rd in the Bard's Hall Blogging Contest, June 2022
June 27, 2022 at 10:00pm
June 27, 2022 at 10:00pm
#1034369
building…

I feel this torture, attuned.
Taut echoes, pluck strings
and vibrations play, send waves
my way. Tortured, captured,
recorded and minted, visceral-strong.

Why must I feel this way?
Her tousled hair-flames depress,
stain on a keyboard with such pain —
muffle an underground train
tunneling through a soul rumbling,
holds a heart ceding to every refrain.

Attuned, I feel your torture, Miss
Pouty Lips.
Red like that never
should be denied a passionate kiss.
I yield to you, know, just know...
taut echoes, torture rattled, gut chains.

To every lyric lilt, waver and pause,
my heart yields to the tender heart,
like mine! Attuned to a last refrain,
your vibratos send waves my way,
capture soul's release I’ll not deny.
Bound by this, remiss red lips unsavored.



6.28.22
10.5.22 edit
4.9.23

FR, FR, F.R.
June 25, 2022 at 9:34am
June 25, 2022 at 9:34am
#1034218

Freeing to think, I don’t have to write if I don’t want to write…but the resulting emptiness, that void, makes me sad.

Title options:
Poet Wanted To Be Novelist
Poet Wanted: To Be Novelist
Poet Wanted To Be Novelist

I went with the comma, (title above) ultimately. Life hesitatingly reminds, I’m not in the moment until that little light turns on in my head…not over my head, unless…can you see it? If no one hears, reads … then, no one sees.

Something in the dark is illuminated, because I keep passing a reflection in a hallway of mirrors, realize light inside of me gives a glimpse of a man I seldom inspect — serendipitously gives a chance to gaze with limited vision and wonder: what ever happened to the novel concept…idea to write a book, full-length literature?

I’ve been prompted daily (haunted) by posts reminding of lost self-examination of the novel self. It prompts blogged thoughts, responses to posted quips, words forming more poetry, and questions googled that find other writers who’ve stared at themselves in that dark, shedding light on a wall I chose place between me and ultimate commitment with unknown reward:

https://lithub.com/the-first-rule-of-novel-writing-is-dont-write-a-novel/

Sweet little hand outs (merit, awards, published poems) sufficed an ego for years, but did not inspire promising output. I’m lying in bed after eight hours of more fitful sleep to write this. Post pandemic, a great apathy clouds a leveled ego not seeking to rise, hiding in a moist mist of misery, regret and doubt…near a tomb marking a future with craft I have no discipline for, not even enough remaining obsessive compulsiveness to get past the conceptual.

I’m not calling it over yet. Each person has their own journey. All the quotes and self-help books and articles just flick like lit cigarettes at my head. Poetry lit the lamp this far (borne out of desire to write song lyrics in teenage purgatory)…a savage monster that grew, tamed and educated by society, feeding itself on morsels of collected impulses and words when feeling snack-ish.

To be a novelist: I don’t see viable paths forward, other than to to keep jotting my antithetical notes to the world, undiscovered, poking me and saying, Hey, hey…about that novel… So, I suppose this is a wet, underground cave where my monster and I subside. I’ve adapted. How long before my monster eats me?

6.26.22 "The Bard's Hall Contest

F.R.? Freya? When’s the next album coming out?

June 24, 2022 at 8:56am
June 24, 2022 at 8:56am
#1034177
Got a hook, no musical talent, wear the hell outta it with that invention…I noticed (somewhere between the Waitresses and Debbie Harry with a nod to Toni Basil):



No hate. Respect. *thumps chest appropriate number of times* *finger pistols* (non-aggressively)
June 23, 2022 at 12:07pm
June 23, 2022 at 12:07pm
#1034147
Repurposed To Love

you are so beautiful…shall I compare?

I was your refuse, innocently picked up,
never thrown away. Sorry
I darken your doorstep to this day.

Broken, maybe
you thought you could fix me.
I know what I am,
fed your breath, recycled,
used love seeking redemption,
sought by many for reclamation.

Trash isn’t perfect, once used. Sorry
I darken the places you reside
where I hide in delusion
from life, the many people failed
sending me tumbling down a road,
snagged in Rose thorns,
avoiding Ash of smoldering, unattended fire,
colliding right into your Heather,
feeding the blooming
until I didn’t know how to feed you
or me anymore, recede
into soil as memories remind,
haunt one fleeing label of unworthy.

You did not do this,
though I cringe at reminders
I don’t live up to your purpose,
despite instruction to correct,
love dutifully, when unfulfilled myself
inside. More than trash,

dehumanized as waste or evil.
Which is it, so I can decide
how I’ll die trapped in your beautiful garden?


6.23.22

"The Bard's Hall Contest
It’s A Trap!

I understand this is dark and heavy. Many can’t avoid feeling it, whether or not one’s own perspective is true, yet obviously flawed, but felt just the same. And why, why have to explain, defend, when the missiles of love take aim? Not going to excuse the metaphor.

Who’s in my head? Surely, I realize some will object, the narcissists? The true guilty ones? Saints don’t defend themselves, but apologize, pray with concern. Throw a stone and see if you hit one. You won’t know, because they absorb our pain.

The mirror reflects back on me. Okay, who’s the most saintly then, obvious it’s not me? This is my confessional. Where have all the priests gone? Cue Paula Cole. World in decay, grabbing my leg from that quagmire. I won’t go without a fight.

If I accept all the above as truth, can I quit self-correcting, therapy? (Sorry, rhetorical) Point me to the road of redemption, away from purgatory, directly to sainthood? Didn’t think so. Kick the soap box out from under me…something implied here, can you infer?


A bit of deviation from this postulation, though dystopia is here (wacko, uh-huh), similar to the prophecies of 1984, employed by people (self-appointed PC Police, the media/mediums, your boss & more…) who want to come correct for their overlords…telling us the correct way to behave, move away from prophecies upheld by tenets of philosophy, religion that simple minds won’t indulge unless boiled down to a meme or stupid cat video…anyyyyywayyyyy….

ANOTHER DISCUSSION FOR ANOTHER DAY, (brought to you today by Coke (intentional to sound like a cool drug? — 😉😒



SONG EXPLAINED:
https://rsrihari.medium.com/feel-good-inc-explained-7b8d45366bcb
June 23, 2022 at 2:23am
June 23, 2022 at 2:23am
#1034130


Your mood music, viral, could infect
a cavernous soul incepting, deceiving itself,
believing you know the lonely exist.
I feel your breathing, filling
an empty one dreaming. Glowing
is on the horizon, nearing a lone survivor.

Wind whips sand into this artificial eye.
How can I cry for a hologram interceding?
Beached beneath neon palms, flashing,
waving in dark, blasted heat-breezes gust
a thin one down cement divides — luminous,
painted, remind where to find a crosswalk.

There’s nowhere to hide. Reflecting glass decides.
Echoes. Dreams. Echoes. Screams. Soft…
I’m not here. I was never here. I don’t exist.
Words persist — words I resist. Why insist
anything should be meaningful, at all?
It’s what you want to say, I have inferred.


6.23.22
t.26.22 incepted
June 22, 2022 at 7:36am
June 22, 2022 at 7:36am
#1034110
Thousand ton bombs are raining, reigning
over me, and yet dim of wit still stand
in a field where wildflowers may yet appear.
Each launch above from life seems targeted,
finds a fool in thick of little bluestorm. With hope,
as if purpose, ride out rockets’ torpedo hail.

I look at you, cranking your deployed sirens,
in your bunkers, or caves, in armored vehicles.
You don’t dispatch or deploy for this man,
who is boy, sans uniform in a lone fight.
I idle in a meadow beneath distant stars,
the largest nears, and yet fearless. Why?

Why have I survived so long walking amid
land mines with snipers aiming from bush?
I walk directly through it all, unwittingly
grow taller, stronger, but just a boy you know.
You know? Daisies at foot, small wildlife nears.
Trees suddenly take root, sky and shadow.

The blackest nights arrive, when a moon soars,
fully glows. I’m bathed, by pale iridescence
and hum. Cooled in a long night, bedded,
life furthers this soloist than galaxies above.
Tomorrow’s warheads prime in silos. I sing,
longing another day wading my tall grass.



6.22.22

I don’t know if it means anything, but meant something when I started. Essentially, emotion is drama that feels like it could kill us, but the experience makes us stronger…probably not wiser, in my case.

It just hit me: in other words — happy idiot
June 21, 2022 at 4:16am
June 21, 2022 at 4:16am
#1034055
The Illusionist

so much is beautiful.
big shock, not me,
not like I believed.

I’m not whole, still healing
and I won’t see you,
even if you decide to pry.

why try.
not worthy, though I know
I present myself in a certain way.

sorry for my delusion,
assumed an illusion,
lifted so long it fell on me
because I’m not strong,
not whole

is it wrong
I believe I feel a certain way,
yet lay here, motionless,
quiet wishing you would lift,
make me whole?

I swear I’m not fake.
don’t know what this is?
why do I want to impress?
compared to you, why
do I lack so much self-love?


6.21.22

Yeah, I’m flawed
You look at me,
As if I could do something
About it.

6.21.22

All for Freya R until I can get her out of this head
June 20, 2022 at 1:04am
June 20, 2022 at 1:04am
#1034020
Another Day Drowning

The rain came again and it looks
I’m up to my neck. Limbs heavy,
wish to float. Rising to surface,
after submerged, I gasp for breath.
I wipe water like buckets of tears,
so I see you again, envision memory
of what we had. The sun lowers, angles
and shines a blinding sheen. I can’t wait
for darkness to take me to the river bed.

You swum so well for all the years
our child minds dreamed a wide ocean.
Passing ships of any size, variety, gleamed.
Witnessed you ride waves effortless, while I
bob and thrash, try not ingest in my lungs.
Water isn’t clean, as when we were young.

Clouds swell on the horizon. Say a prayer
I’m here to greet another day, drowning.



6.20.22



Getting old is all. I know my time could be nearing, without having lived like I dared dream.
June 19, 2022 at 4:30pm
June 19, 2022 at 4:30pm
#1033997
Quiet, listen…
I’ve been…shhh. Quiet,
She’s singing…I’m listening.
Each lyric, inflection, pause
for rest. That’s when we collect.
Do you understand? Get the meaning,
while swaying to an intoxicating melody?

Look up. She stares you in the eye, deep, fully
aware the spell casting, yearning for something.
But what is it she can’t forget that brings her to an ear?
You’re standing near, yet far. You could reach and taste
the delicacy of a voice bending and blending soulful.
Harmony that strikes a chord, salivates craving
for a moment in her aura, as an aria spins,
takes you to a knee, unbelieving, you
were missing what you didn’t see.

Glowing in this moment, quiet
listening to her gold spun,
gleam in soothing sun.
Her song must end —
but you still hear.
Now, reflect.


6.19.22

To ‘Elephant’ by Freya R

"The Bard's Hall Contest

Don’t leave me here.
Don’t leave me here.
Don’t…
June 19, 2022 at 3:08pm
June 19, 2022 at 3:08pm
#1033995
Fuzzy

Fuzzy,
the nearer I get
arriving —
arms at your side, not open
and I’m…fuzzy

not like you, when
I was fizzy, dizzy,
drunk on your love,
your lips received on
my tender flesh,
warming love —
rolling, boiling,
now fuzzy.

was it a dream?
I want to see you clearly.
Was it all a lie?
Did your love make me high?
Drunk on one
so conceited to believe
I’d be hurt.

I’m just a bit fuzzy.
these eyes will clear.

I don’t need you
to lift unwilling arms.
Maybe,
you’re the fuzzy one.

You had my heart
in your clutch.
It won’t drop fully.
I can catch,
even though I’m fuzzy.

It won’t take long
for someone - you -
to come to their senses,
fully envision loss.

Clearer, my eyes now.
Turn. Walk away,
don’t run. Still…
a bit fuzzy.


6.17.22
while at work, interrupted for taking a few minutes by a nosy boss.

I could develop a chorus. Need another chance.

#freyaridings
June 16, 2022 at 11:51am
June 16, 2022 at 11:51am
#1033896
Make Up Something New/No To Cake

Whenever it's late I need romance
with something.
There's no chocolate cake.
The novel can still wait.
Coffee isn't brewed until morning.
If I binge that show,
I'll sleep late.

Drama in my brain doesn’t equate
to a world’s pain.
Endless suffering needs recreate
notions of dream love,
when I can't concentrate
on a dutiful nightingale
cooing in my ears
buried in pillow.

Take the car out?
Where's there to drive?
Fill up bags of groceries?
I can't eat then flatulate.
What about a book?
Haven't indulged in yarn for years.

The nightmare I'm living
wouldn't bring any to tears.

So, sleep, dream, maybe
see her materialize again, if you recall
the one that got away,
you wish would have called.
But, it's half a life ago.
No escape.

I chase silly words
on a dim screen,
so the one I lay by won't wake.
More than half these years,
unstated need in gut
no medicine would touch.

In soft fortress encased,
fuzzy thoughts beg,
Come back in, dream again.
No alarm will disturb.
Enter scene, wait and listen
in a darkening revision.

Black is night.
Black in my head.
She's not coming back.
I'll make up something new tomorrow
to ease the dread.



6.16.20 I edited, somewhat carelessly, overly, hopefully…ly-lee, ly-lee.
Sorry, I got to produce as a muse flies. #freyaridings
June 16, 2022 at 12:24am
June 16, 2022 at 12:24am
#1033885
Kicking stones. How’d I get here.
Is this cul-de-sac the end
Of Earth? Existence?
There’s a quarry ahead.
I could lift each stone, peruse,
Wonder if perfection exists —
How smooth, if the right fit
For my chucking hand,
Take aim at those other castoffs,
In retrograde, living in an aggregate,
A hole like purgatory.

How did I get here, wayward,
Mindless booting things further
Down a road called redemption?
I only see my prison lies ahead.

Well, better make the most of it.
Roll these sleeves down, haul stone.
I’ll examine each one, luck to find beauty
Where in my travels it seldom exists, and
Less obtainable, like the right rock to kick.


6.16.22
7.3.22 edit

#freyaridings keeps me rolling
June 14, 2022 at 12:04am
June 14, 2022 at 12:04am
#1033807
These tumblers don’t align, as I
spin and spin, seek egress again
into an ocean of words swum
that hauled out by an eager man
compile messages longer than S.O.S.

This lifelong game to win affection,
recognition I’m worthy of your love,
disregards any notion of self-worth.
Not complete without reciprocation,
Validation that does not come easy. S.O.S.

You could watch my toil, tousle a blond crop.
I wouldn’t notice, obsessed until I finish,
offer each as answer before smiling eyes,
see only disguise. Just feels my best
not good enough, when you oar to shore. S.O.S.

Who’ll solve the puzzle of me, before I accept
there is no true love, a fable for all,
enthrall a meager man with no plan,
but fish this open sea contemplatively.
Can I come correct, see response to my S.O.S.?


11.14.22

Free #freyaridings from U.S. anonymity, sorta
June 13, 2022 at 11:45pm
June 13, 2022 at 11:45pm
#1033805
Heavy Tonight

Cap tight — lid on lid,
a crown un-bejeweled lifted
from sour skull with scowl into a fast mirror
that reflects, but quicker deflected.

Eyes trained by shame, resulting guilt,
spark self-doubt
that I should reveal, yet conceal
anger, easily expressed ignorantly
since youth. Does it make me wiser
to self-contain in a powder keg?

I remove the denim, unbuttoned,
slide into my easy chair, no care
for a throne. I’m no king where I roam.
Should I roam? with tired words,
worn expressions as deep as furrowed brows
yearning rest, one good night’s sleep?

I lay the head on not one, but two pillows
fresh, adorned by the dryer’s heaven scent.
Hope just one dream from youth
returns again, tonight.


6.13.22

#freyaridings
June 11, 2022 at 11:53pm
June 11, 2022 at 11:53pm
#1033737
Your face appeared
an expressionist painting come to life
capturing back its original beauty —
and more than just breathing,
vocalizing hauntingly,
lovingly and reassuring.

And I am with you. Blue eyes like ours
edge with gleaming, crooning our composing,
attuning to any willed ear.

I realize your embodiment may never near
any closer to one so eager and studious
of your visage — truth in beauty,
embodiment painters can’t live without.

I’ll never blackout you.
As my vision fades, always I’ll hear
tempting words you send,
reverberating wave patterns tracing
your signature, symphonic harmony.



6.12.22


You peaked before I could glimpse your rising.
June 11, 2022 at 11:00pm
June 11, 2022 at 11:00pm
#1033735
When You Glowed

You’re small to me now, but somehow
like a funhouse mirror, viewed tall,
a mentor who could mold
blob of boy, acting man. Sham,

not for who I am, but shamed
by someone who tried tame wild.
Couldn’t comprehend I didn’t depend,
sought the world his own way.

Your guilt, a ploy. Learning,
growing taller in shadows,
the world would look much smaller,
as you sighed, nothing to do but

unclench aging, arthritic hands,
loosen a well-worn scowl, darkened
by that thin brim burying
any expression of impression.

Your objections and rejection
didn’t help me grow but further away.
Someday. Someday, greet again.
Share lessons. Maybe, my chance

to glow again.



6.11.22

This could apply to a lot of men in my life who thought they knew better, rather than help me cultivate personal interests and unique personality, choosing shame and ridicule to serve as methods of mentoring an ignorant one.

In consideration of Bard’s Hall…"The Bard's Hall Contest.
June 10, 2022 at 8:44am
June 10, 2022 at 8:44am
#1033681
The pencil knows the story, flips
when my redacting head repels her graphite.

This heat of my friction reduces to rubble
each errant word scrubbed from start
to nearly every never finish. Well-worn sheets
wadded, sent away from our station.

My round torso reduces as pencil sharpens,
honed to a fresh edge. I wait, worry
when my rubber strikes cemented words,
harder, deeper, severs a thin page, worthless.

Half-life for me. Pencil pens on. Writer
pauses plenty, talks aloud to muses and gods.
Pencil gets her ear; I get a stubborn head,
tenderly rub temper, the temporal aching.

Pencil knows his fiction. I’m just friction —
an abrasive unknowingly lending to story.

As heat, I’m rubber and glue, sticky enough
to grab graphite particles, bond
the small pieces collected, sent away
by smooth stroke of writer’s hand

to live in a wooly, divided land. Combined,
we settle on carpet, regale dust mites
of lessons from a tangled mind spinning
yarn after yarn and the truth left behind.

Erasable jottings, reformed, live in a dry,
decaying land. Beware of the vacuum —
our rebuilt graphs are not ready for space,
traveling from bag to bin to sodden land.



6.10.22

28 lines, free verse
213 words
Legit writ today in acknowledgement of: "The Bard's Hall Contest
Prompted by "Personify Writing Contest-CLOSED
Personify an eraser for June
June 9, 2022 at 11:10am
June 9, 2022 at 11:10am
#1033653
Therapeutic Analytic Poem

I get this image of stubborn cows
they gently nudge, at first, to move
from pasture.
They kill them for meat.
They could raise a gun to me.
Humane? It requires a clean shot.
Where are the gunmen, because a cow knows nothing,
except not wanting to go?

If you’re a human cow, you slowly suspect
guns filled with concisely instructed words
implement each cow-like journey
to the processing plant.
Terminated, no promised heaven to dream beyond.
Once dead, neatly divided and packaged.
Who would deny this traditional process
of gaslighting a cow to stop grazing,
come home and let the end be humane,
equitable as possible.

Mom needs butchered meat, so the boys can eat,
grow up and be strong as cows. Never intending
to be shooed from yard and street —
but human, and better.

We are better than stubborn animals,
don’t obey our farmers,
with bullets of dread. it can get messy,
roaming about ‘free’. Cows used are stud, milked,
grilled in portions as steak.
Slice me, grind for your hamburger to fry.

All of this we must eat like destiny.



from 6.1.22 on iPhone while dehumanized at work.
6.9.22bedited, altered, blogged
June 9, 2022 at 9:40am
June 9, 2022 at 9:40am
#1033646
My clothing, hung to dry for any prying eye…

I’m investigating every emotion felt,
ascribing words that don’t quite match.
hope a paint-brushed portrait of words
I long reveal to an audience, to any
that would assemble, considers
love guided by illusion, or delusion,
discovers how a spark initially intends.

Sorry, if dry etchings don’t drip brilliant,
never-envisioned-before color,
the kind you fantastically assign.
after stark, sobered perception,
each nude word clothed codes
in fleeting memory for you, hanging
hope on time nail, hooked by stable wire.

a piece of me and you on flat drab,
adorned forever, loosens little in shadow
of a narrow, hollow hall, cluttered,
where half-dressed we excuse our passing.

soft words want harden as timeless paint,
indelible, never fading or peeling,
sealed in some super gloss before falling
into abyss I fear to navigate, retrieve
essence of whatever it is you and I
envisioned together, forever.

I must step back, catch breath, breathe,
inhale each consideration reconsidered
in redraft after next to final, final edit.

be still, view. slow this new scene, once
quick-paced, now measured. tiny intervals
redacted scenery, scrubbed wildflowers,
replanted, recolored, recast. swaying sights
lush with life anew, gentle in soothing breezes.
I squeeze your neglected arm, haul you out.
time still beats for an obsessive revisionist.

sorry, my throbbing muffles conceivable sound.
Hear me now, or hear me never. It’s hung.



6.6.22/6.9.22

We must commit to finish what we started, so we have time to live.

36 lines, free verse (if we must count like accountants)
*Notice use of capitalization from apology to assertion.

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