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’ll keep digging for obscure music… |
To the poet within the reader: I can’t define the impulse until words attempted put to it. Sometimes, it’s the whole of my life — gut reactions, feelings emotional with color longing to be painted in words. And even when finished, feelings faded, words linger empty, aimless, as I stare at the dry wall of myself. A Painting Hangs Somewhere probably hangs an inviting painting of an unpurposed, rustic chair. In a sturdy Adirondack begging a friend, frequent a call from the secluded lawn along that saggy, gray fence. Irises purple decadence, mere glimpsed, truly missed, enmeshed by weeds and invading ground cover that crept, snake as replicate green in the bare, weaved. Escape could frame my sweaty ass to hard surface, leaned back as invitation to view bobbing, waving pine limbs. I could see myself there, not a care, clutching clear-beaded, brown glass; sample amber, light. A breeze might brush my chin, skin bared, tousle hydrangea heads slow-lifting from low after a night gushed, glistening a radiant, returning scene a sneaky sun could spy. I could pull off worn high tops that miss hardwood of yore, peel socks like foot-shaped stickers, toe the thick patch sheltered by crotchety crabs; white blossoms long since blended, bled for her. Yup, it’s out the window and I’m alone in here. I could be care free, if I had a moment to share... 7.17.22 |
I hear from the porch, you in the parlor; intent, locks lean in, weight depresses dusted-off ivory. Only once had I heard the bench groan Its stubborn disdain. The hall released doves so sweet, hovered a human ear in humid seat, sucked denim unsealed to envision you there, lost in despair. Honey, you’re so far away, enmeshed behind a Pacific screen, hopeless. If I council, share that music bench, we could quench notes deep-stuck, catch in my throat — your vocal vibrations entreat. You to one half, hit the high notes, where I climb — our fingers at apex meet. With my tender sole, brush your lovely feet, sending brass levers to board complete. Amber tresses soft, replete, when I turn to the parlor deep, far as it will go, before eyes freeze, cover as flakes of coming snow. It’s whiter weather here my dear — time to go. Voice like lemonade, savory, soothing tea. I embrace your lyrics, longing like memory until dawn. Crystal blues ice a wide pond. Though a heart weeps, in my chest tender, firm those waves roll on, dreamt ever-tide on my shore, before humidity lifts to find you at my door, once again. From a porch sweet, so complete, when you drag those legs over bare wood — love all the more, steeped in your song. 7.13.22 7.24.22 revised To F.R.’s “Why Do I Do This?” maybe, 40 entries further down this blog. Half from the song, the rest echoes in my mind as words writ down. |
Daily Listening Before eyes open, I close tighter, hold on harder. Just one glimpse at just the right moment sends me on my way. Have to be open to it, wherever, The day Mirrors reflect my eyes, redder or white, contrast blue, deepening hue. Sunlight bright could dive into you, on brown-gold grain. Glint crush sinks deep beneath our summer weight. Decisions were made, as perpetual mornings remind. When lids unseal, I have to be open to it, cast away fright of another night endured alone. Too much fabric gathers from fists clenched tight. Questions of 'where were you' echo from a fool. I’d be happy to see you remove those heels at the threshold. But I wasn’t open to it, before pavement echoed final regret. A fool clears orbs, shutters with too much might, windows clasp tight. This room dries remaining sight. I should've been open to it, let the shower cleanse a scent down drain to heaven or hell? I can be open to it, if given enough time, wash pain from memory sublime. For now, rock in this corner, stare at shadows slow motion. Thick drapes go to work until night arrives, anew, like hope. 7.12.22 10.5.22 edited, maybe too much. We'll see When I reread this now I’m reminded of how one word inspires another word as the poem builds, continuing downstream a page. I’m reminded that I have to keep my eyes on the intended destination, but be open to any insight revealing along the way, because they can inform even more than just the initial impulse to write a thing down. For all I know, some part of my subconscious tries to be heard in this poetic forum, yearning to be beautiful, worthy of love, validation. With fullest meaning properly projected, perhaps consumable, accessible to someone else who can relate, a connection forms that I cannot get in personally, but hopefully in a blog life. |
In my mind I’m building scaffolding on top of scaffolding on top of scaffolding, rising higher. So high, I don’t dare look down. Where is all this material coming from? How far have I over-reached? What is the true purpose of scaffolding? I have to think. I find I can’t control impulse to build this rising staircase to nowhere, as if it had purpose, leads me to wonder what I can’t escape while purposed to this rickety outcrop, as if chair back top to chair back top perilously climbed, but calm, safe in my contrived, virtual haven. It will collapse. Yes, but before it goes down, someone please notice mastery so futile, possibly artless, so I can disassemble? Do I hear response? What? You’re faint, far away. I’ve reached summit, realize the sky is my closest friend - ground my enemy. Perhaps, this is the point of no return. 7.11.22 10.5.22 edit 28 lines, free verse These artificial constructs in my mind feel favorable over anything tangible in my life like a rejecting fire. Summit To Insanity? |
The beautiful mind isn’t constant, it’s motor fires, sparked unpredictably. They predictably test good engines, pour sugar down unguarded tanks, that digested eventually works through. When the blue gases fade, timing tuned, wheels tight, we roll, shift smooth, whip lane to lane through a slow moving heard, sleek streak a countryside growing wide as suns burn down on horizon after horizon, as if world spun by our axis, axle a tight treadmill. We burn our fuel. We park wherever we depend. You pick us up, take us home, tuck us in bed with our dreams floating above your head like little clouds, vapors so thin you don’t see, but inhale — glow from bright faces sensually inform cheeks, blush-red. Go ahead. I know you want to. Lay beside. We’ll dream the future, from past and present, together. One of us may weep tonight. 7.11.22 Idea behind metaphor may have gotten away from me a little…about relationship between neurotypicals and atypicals. |
Unequipped to land, how will I soar, as you point to the sky? Dare I try? Fluffy clouds seem a welcoming landing spot. The higher I go, liberated I’ll be, separating from gravity? All alone, I’ll be. This makes me free? No coming home, if I can’t land. The sun stares down. Grounded. Maybe, another time. 7.7.22 |
Snow packs tight beneath black tread of boots silent on solid ground, hiding mysteries lost since frost. Memory scrunched in passing nights, blanketed unending before spring erupts. Flat bodies rise, as small, green missile silos, spearing soft spaces receding. Greet my smile. Bright faith bathes a light jacket, reminds of eternal promise. Though, I still don’t know within renewal how to count off these thin seasons. Perhaps, I’ll watch from bay window tides of time flow before eyes blind, no longer yearn to see what I’m missing. 7.6.22 Turned this on late storms, plants battle back…but as humans we spoil away as we age, lacking purpose, renewal. https://earthsky.org/earth/how-plants-manage-season-shift-from-winter-to-spring/... Who knows how PJ Harvey fits in the mix… All will be reevaluated |
When I was running through my neighborhood, PJs on, towel wrapped around neck, who did I think there was to save? No one. Just nine, a visionary empowered by Saturday morning cartoons, breakfast cereal and a dream to be a hero. I could. No one to look up to. Father paled, 2nd best — didn’t pat my head as he passed. Not typical sitcom dad, resented the notion, be sentimental, measure up to fiction consumed by a boy shining in cotton sleepwear.. Cap guns blazed, donning a plastic lid, loose tethered. Just a lonesome western icon, ma’am. Black masked, a shadow for sidekick. No one but a boy as his own hero, dined in her kitchen nook. With straw drawn, inhaled milk mixed with brown powder. Cheese slathered noodles sopped paper plates, downed with chunks of dogs. And, all the cookies I could eat like dreams. Sun set on those Saturdays, washed with hair wet (in flannel, again) on a clean, cement stoop. Crickets filled silence for me and no one. 7.1.22 Edited, another look later? |
F.R., my twinnie, once said: “…being about this feeling when someone sees a side to you that you’re trying to hide. The parts of ourselves we don’t show…because we think they won’t accept us or love us for our darker side. And just the idea of when someone does see that side…that we try and hide, and does accept and loves us for them – it’s the most liberating feeling in the world. So I wanted to…capture that. That fear and excitement around that moment of thinking, ‘Maybe I can be like that, maybe someone can love me for it.’” As writer, me, I often feel who I am gets astray from who I really am in environments where I dwell and people get glimpses around this Loch Ness. Only when I write can I feel I will come into clearer view for those who’ll read and consider. Maybe, there’s more to me. There’s the risk I’ll fail at conveying, or being further misunderstood, but definitely pinned down as what I am, and still not worthy. I’ve learned to accept I don’t appeal to all, while I go on, trying. *picks up guitar* so, I wrote a little song…? It’s called, Read My Blog?? July 1 entry 7.5.22 added statement(s) |