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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


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
July 27, 2022 at 5:55pm
July 27, 2022 at 5:55pm
#1035766
Glowing,           glimpsed
swaying   in a breeze
,   lone buttercup.
Your lengthy   neck          angles
,   flat-cropped,
yellow top  dares rival  a blue sky
that when black,
raged
,  poured down  on your flimsy head  —  sent low
amid sparse  weed that hard
- fought   gravel,
clasping an Angel   nourished
. Your  golden coat
shook glad dust 
 upon them.  As a brood, coexist,
nestle  on a solemn
,  jagged roadonce
 bent unending  past wheat
,  corn and potato.
Now
,  just as neglected.  Indistinguishable lines fade,
tar   slow collapses   from her intense  glare
,
left   spider
-cracked,          craggy not like
a flimsy  flower   seasons saturate
,  
sun
anointedglowing, glimpsed… 
by me
.
~~
~~
 ~~
  ~~
  ~~
 ~~
 ~~
~~
~~
 L
~~
  o
~~
   v
~~
  e
``
~~
``
~~’’
``
~~
‘’~~’”



7.27.22
8.14.22 edit, formatted for Shadows and Light mid July/August contest

Merit Badge in Shadows and Light
[Click For More Info]

Hi Brian,

Congratulations on coming third in  [Link To Item #shadows]  with your absolutely beautiful poem, [Link to Book Entry #1035766]. 

This really is so clever and so pretty, and it has to be my favourite title of any poem I've read in a long time.

Rachel

Idea that we are beautiful and remarkably outlast some of a dying world?
I aspire as a buttercup, or as the weed? *Think*
July 25, 2022 at 12:13am
July 25, 2022 at 12:13am
#1035663


I’ll keep digging for obscure music…
July 17, 2022 at 5:31pm
July 17, 2022 at 5:31pm
#1035330
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
July 13, 2022 at 9:06pm
July 13, 2022 at 9:06pm
#1035168
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.


July 12, 2022 at 8:25am
July 12, 2022 at 8:25am
#1035072
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.
July 11, 2022 at 6:49pm
July 11, 2022 at 6:49pm
#1035053
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?

July 11, 2022 at 4:20pm
July 11, 2022 at 4:20pm
#1035045
Week 3-PPC

Week 2-PPC

Week 1-PPC




July 11, 2022 at 3:47pm
July 11, 2022 at 3:47pm
#1035041
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.
July 7, 2022 at 8:18pm
July 7, 2022 at 8:18pm
#1034835
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

July 6, 2022 at 5:37pm
July 6, 2022 at 5:37pm
#1034788
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
July 1, 2022 at 4:15pm
July 1, 2022 at 4:15pm
#1034542
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?


                   2-Time WDC Quill Winner: Best Poetry Collection, 2020 and 2021.

For quill 2021 winners
July 1, 2022 at 9:07am
July 1, 2022 at 9:07am
#1034508


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)


12 Entries · *Magnify*
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/profile/blog/ripglaedr3/month/7-1-2022