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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
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August 30, 2020 at 1:07pm
August 30, 2020 at 1:07pm
#991890
Name it what you will...

The worlds where I reside
are imagined
The worlds I spent years crafting
now dying
The worlds where I cannot reside
don't exist
The worlds in my mind clearly
delusional

Where is the visualization to live
in reality?
Where is the maturation to accept
I live alone?

The worlds that are fading
were reality
The worlds constructed
safe havens
The worlds sunsetting
blind

forcing me to leave

Where is the hand in this dark
to lead me out?


8.30.20

With youth, bliss ignorance. And, where are you now, of a different perspective?





TOP 35 ALL-TIME Writing.Com AUTHOR:
Rank 32nd, 8/2020

BLOG: "SuperNova Afterglow: End Of Days
POETRY BLOG: "Life’s Little Misdirections 🥀🦋

2020 WDC Heart Throb Poet

Most Talented Author 2011

2009 North Star Award


eternally dead in this world
August 30, 2020 at 12:55pm
August 30, 2020 at 12:55pm
#991889
Seasons In Soil (to my daughter with regrets)

I cared for you throughout all the seasons,
Tended to care all of these years
And still see you struggle
In this soil, with the sun’s love.

It’s still a mystery how
Something once so vibrant
That produced the most beautiful blooms
Witnessed, So ripe, fertile
And tender with hope,
Could hang so low before me.

In all the years,
Throughout all the seasons
With joy I have feared
You might wither before me,
That you might not rise
To meet the white-puffed blue sky
From this humble earth
Where I planted you.

I linger over
Springs enjoyed together,
Summers in my heart,
The bittersweet farewells of Autumn
Before I packed you in
With offerings of the maple’s love.
You nestled with those friends.

Now I watch leaves
That slowly form to stick,
Prone to curl and hide
Immature in any shadow
After the last frost;
Some spotted black
From the briefest drought,
Do not shelter with buds.

A few blooms unfold awkwardly,
Eaten by starving beetles
I shoo away. Maybe, I lack
The love you need to bloom
Again and again
Like you once did, and yet

I cannot give up on you
As I’m your only gardener.
You’re a mystery I yearn
To solve, and one day
Learn to understand.


8.30.20



Got the idea...yes, you guessed it, while tending to my garden.
August 29, 2020 at 8:27pm
August 29, 2020 at 8:27pm
#991842
the withering

go ahead and suck the rest of summer from my lungs;
exchange my humid breath with dry, white dust
to spew to the heavens, freeze the white ghosts
hovering above the burnt ground, transparently
inked with its black sheep roaming.

pluck the stray hair from my decaying head, withering
with no further purpose to frolic with tan fools;
my skin burnt and raw from ignorance about light,
and freck'ed by genetic predisposition, too late
to alter. thanks mom and dad.

slowly i go down between the remaining blades, yellow
like butternut soup from squash spared in the cellar.
slowly i go into the dark hole for what's remaining to eat,
because i still have a hunger for something but
did not cultivate the garden well.

shuck my chafing skin like you husk stored corn; but
no butter churned to spread. the bitter salt
sprinkles my corpse still fresh, but soon rotting.
with my last prayers spoke to a bare place setting,
i have nothing left to give or share.


8.29.20

August 29, 2020 at 3:13am
August 29, 2020 at 3:13am
#991796
Lake Symphony To Begin

The bassos single notes gulp silence.
Brown minstrels grasp surface air,
whoosh water to vacuum twilight wings
Pinholes on ultraviolet horizons
As violinists harmonize instruments
In unison, undiscovered, lay down
sound-beds for ears harvesting
With eyes black trusting a moon
Clear-cutting a path to the dock
Stretching across the water
To listen to the symphony begin
To wonder if calm allows a mind
To settle in as the mosquitos arrive
for an unexpected banquet.



7.30.20

i don't know where i was going with this poem at the end of last month. just inspired by fish breaking water surface and frogs croaking in the humid night as crickets joined to drown them with their ongoing symphonies attuning.
August 27, 2020 at 11:29am
August 27, 2020 at 11:29am
#991694
In a pandemic
the fat men in small jerseys
have no place to sweat,
so the geese take the field.

The long corridor
to connecting avenues
intruded by just one car
on a Wednesday night
greets us.

You could scream and hear
your voice roll down
12 city blocks to disturb
dwellers in their cells divided.

What joy is a car
like a Sunday station wagon,
cutting through humid night,
free as a child in pajamas
hoping for ice cream
before slumberland.

Small crickets
in the best mating season
warm to the throatiest chorus,
fiddling on wing
beneath a window
tossed open.

Air conditioning be damned.
I want to experience this
before we're lost again
in the ensuing chaos
called life.


8.27.20

don't know that this needed stanzas but I wanted to break the text up.

Just struck me as funny there is no high school football practice, so the geese are all over the school property where we just turned in the last of my kid's school property. I remembered last night going for a drive and noting once again there is no one moving from here to there because there is nothing to go to better than a firepit and some brews in the backyard to look at the stars and formed constellations forgotten. Yup, I could incorporate all that. Another time.
August 26, 2020 at 1:59pm
August 26, 2020 at 1:59pm
#991638
this needs more work...

covers

covers are cheaper if you find the right one,
something that is familiar
like the original,
the way it was intended to be --
something that carries a heavy price,
lacking cash we dream, but never see
to pay for these dreams.

so in this case,
imitation is best.
we can make do not being genuine,
the way god intended.
people see just fine these covers
draped over souls, heavy with the burden.
we can never reveal the true model.

what a heavy price to pay
for cashless cows
huddling about
wanting to be seen.

paint any dreams on our covers, project and see
who will believe how true
to the original
we can be.



8.26.20

written in two minutes about how being fake can be good when we are not strong enough to shoulder the burden of who we were constructed to be, because it does not come as easily.
August 26, 2020 at 6:21am
August 26, 2020 at 6:21am
#991599
whispers of fall linger above the trees
grass dries, dies
brittle yellow-brown
from a harsh sun angling
to get away
hide beneath a golden horizon
like responsibility

resting on your fence
my arms flat beneath the chin
as I consider all the reasons why
we serve on this planet like ants
until the day we too must die
my blue eyes brighter
than any horizon before
discolored
flame out

whispers of something else calling
i won't think about
the white blankets
I could crawl beneath
I never want shoveled out
but pile high to freeze my limbs
to never lift again

you can have your spring
i won't be a part of it


8.26.20
8.28.20

it's too early for fall, but I have to be prepared for an eternal nap.
August 26, 2020 at 5:54am
August 26, 2020 at 5:54am
#991598
truest colors
a seasonal farewell that always feels final

over our fence
the mechanical whine
whisks the fall offerings

down the aisles of tall men.
gratitude this season heaps
in the grass with love,

collected from stoic parishioners.
air flowing up to the shiny god,
sucked dry in sanctuary.

wind offers more oratory:
thank you friends for colors
adding to our breezes.


         you have all been to me
         pure poetry like trees,
         always humbling my heart.

         if I could live one more season,
         show you my truest colors,
         that would be pleasing.



18 lines
8.26.20

Prompted by:
gratitude heart friend
from "Rising to the Challenge! - CLOSED Written to support my friend, Lilli who needed more contest entries, but then forgot about mine when listing those for judging.

DID NOT PLACE AMONG FOUR ENTRIES
August 23, 2020 at 12:37pm
August 23, 2020 at 12:37pm
#991417
Containers

Sorry I didn’t fit
I wanted to dive within
Snuggle in with someone
Like you

Sorry I’m too big
Or too small to fit
With someone like you
Who has particular tastes

I tried so long to change
Tried to find the rhythm
As I swayed on your floor
Not nimble enough to play

Mom and dad never told me
Anything about my role
If I was the proper shape
To find a place to fit

I rolled through life
Missing and hitting
All the obstacles on the way
Until I fell into you

Wanted to stay

Sorry I wasn’t right
For someone who sees me
The way you do and that would be
How? So, I know what’s true?

These containers I see
The world provides for us
Doesn’t have the right one
For me to crawl deep within

I’m sad that I’m not the fit
For anywhere I roam
That will allow me to be near
Someone like you

I’ll never change again
For someone who needs a fit
Someone in the right container
To hold onto within.

Don’t want to lose myself.

7.19.20
August 23, 2020 at 9:42am
August 23, 2020 at 9:42am
#991400
It's not your fault
I could have been dead on arrival
but I lasted fourteen years, willing
to draw dreams like clouds on your skies.
You never felt obligated to marry my vision
to yours in this strange bedroom I've been given,
my heart monitor slowly beating. Fluids that filled my
empty veins thicken an already dark soul hiding.
It's not your fault I gave up on life before I
arrived at this emergent room for hope.
I could draw these last breaths of
dreams, carried out on gurney,
wheeled down dark halls. No,
it's not your fault

I had a fast car
that I steered into
steel buildings with windows
like a bird purposed to message.
My vision not your own, and
I trust these instruments
drain my life's blood,
words of peace
before I die.
goodbye.


8.23.20

August 23, 2020 at 9:04am
August 23, 2020 at 9:04am
#991397
Trapped in a forest I parachuted in,
a haven to spare me from humanity,
one soul adrenalized learned to defend.
In my hopeful woods I camped to forget,
drew dreams in the sky with eyes that once
could see; visions carved like a fool,
struggle aimless in the dark nights.
Navigating the lay of furry, green land,
I witnessed brilliance in streams and
a renewed face, distorted, ready to believe.
The longer I foraged and trusted this Eden,
I realized a projected fantasy in me,
similar to my visions, a virtual reality. I
hadn't lived, but gave myself to wolves
with schemes to devour my spirit before
my meat. I camp at the river of sorrow,
the edge of tomorrow. I could put one
boot outside these woods and never look back.
I made this strange place my own; but,
I owe something deep within. I owe myself
freedom in true civilization one more chance.


8.23.20

I could pack this with so much more, about a virtual world where I landed seeking rescue, thinking I could find my way through a strangely familiar and comforting land only to realize I had isolated myself from me within the convenience of virtual reality...or something like that.
August 22, 2020 at 2:20pm
August 22, 2020 at 2:20pm
#991359
Black Breath (Cheating Life)

Sorry life if I cheated you, didn’t
die young. Sorry that I didn’t careen
cliff sides narrowly missing the rocks
and open sea inviting me to plummet down.
I have visited you; but was likely overlooked,
the loner lingering beneath the umbrella woods,
hiding from sunrises, glimpsing sunsets with regret.
Sorry that I cheated myself, didn’t
search for a truer love to lend my lips.
Sorry that I didn't skywrite her name on blue,
tug at the hopeful hearts, tears from crystal eyes.
They long to live more passionately than I ever dreamt.
Why didn’t I try? Was it because you devilishly dare too much?
Impulsive, swim against river currents, dive beneath their tow?
Sorry I cheated this life, didn’t
take chances like those fools running
naked into the night amid toothsome evils.
Sorry I cannot hide this fear to live afresh.
I wasted so much time, the horizon now fading.
Clouds like fingers curled beckon a boy too old;
digits spared from the sharp swords not juggled.
I come to the edge of another cliff in my mind.
I stare deep down inside a dried up well.
I wait for the 18th degree of angle
to draw at very last black breath.


8.22.20

Responding to lyrics of a modern song using the cliché line about dying young. Struck me as an idiotic convention to live life like there’s no tomorrow, when it’s obviously a narrative people buy into to throw caution to the wind and go in debt...that’s what I wanted to include in the poem.

August 21, 2020 at 2:00pm
August 21, 2020 at 2:00pm
#991295
Where To Begin

Where does the story begin? With the rabbit nibbling
clover from my backyard, or the robin yanking grubs
by beak from beneath patches of remaining grass?

Does it begin with a squirrel raiding seed from bird feeder,
spilled beneath the cedar? Kernels plummet beneath
moldy mulch to grow weed in a summer season.

Is it where the white owl resides, mystery in lofty pine,
swaying with stiff breezes? Or, the mole hiding the day out
beneath the deck, covered in waves of decaying needles?

Do I find my story lingering about tiny sand mounds where
ants carry harvest to caverns below, or with clever toads
stoically snuggled in cool dark, within rock and dank clay,
hunger the unsuspecting bugs to prey? What would leave me
this way, wondering all the day, where to find my story
start? in my robe, in my room, looking out the window
above a sheet-tussled bed? Where I shall stay and drink
this morning away? The coffee maker will have to wait.


8.21.20


I'm beginning to think my default is to not try until something inspires me. When I search for that thing or someone who can motivate me, feed off a good subject, project to fulfill; I'm empty. I might try, but it usually ends up with a daydreamer looking out at a world that self-sustains and wonder 'why can't I be like that?'

My assumption is everyone can relate. People try to avoid getting in this rut. Mentally, I have to rock myself out, but then what direction to go? Where is purpose? You spend 14 years on a journey with writing that meets with obstacles and find you went too far south. Efforts to find paths that could lead you out of a maze find distraction, find a person wanting to give up.

But, it's been 14 years, and you are a different person, to yourself, just not in other people's eyes. You want a fresh start and burn all bridges to the past. I want to leave everyone to be alone and find me, go on a journey where none tries influence me. I can make my own decisions and stop second-guessing, stop leaning on people who never got me or cared enough about me to let me grow my own wings to fly. Rather, mine have been tapered to sit in a cage and sing like Angelou's bird like freedom.

The only person I should owe anything to is myself, but out of obligation have felt a debt to others. And, it is the work that I do to appease others that grows like cancer on my heart. I think they would love me if I set myself free and truly show them how I fly...if I only had true navigation.
August 18, 2020 at 5:28am
August 18, 2020 at 5:28am
#991081
Some things you can't help thinking about...

I said I was quitting you coffee,
but you call me from the grave
in the cupboard. I should have
moved you to the back of the pantry.
What does it matter? When I'm not
thinking about you, there's some
old cigarette ad burning on a reel
in the back of my mind. It reminds
mom and dad never smoked, but
they did percolate a heavenly smell,
brewing atop that tiny, corner stove
where meals were frequently ruined.
Coffee greeted me in the morning in my underwear,
after I woke for school. But, I didn't drink
you in those days, just warmed by your fire.

Making up for lost time, and to stop
being tired and/or late for work,
you inspired me, lit my heart afire,
lubricated a jaw with coherent words
forming and flying free past lips
that never moved so fast with ideas
that never before materialized
until you. And now
you're banned
in the kitchen of my heart, where
I deny myself because it's not healthy.
It's wrong

to want to keep consuming you, coffee.
Maybe, I should start smoking cigarettes.
No. Worse idea.
I'm going to

start the coffee maker instead.
Coffee.

Coffee.
Coffee.
I think I have a problem. Oh, well.
Coffee...
l
l
l
*CoffeeBl*


8.18.20
37 lines, freeverse

I wrote this instead of starting the coffee maker so soon. 4:15 a.m. Hmmmm-mmmmm....I have a problem...*CoffeeBl*
August 18, 2020 at 4:49am
August 18, 2020 at 4:49am
#991080
In Michigan

I live in Wisconsin. Don't worry. It doesn't get clearer.

In Michigan I hung upside down
and shoveled the snow
from the ice,
icicles form inside my runny nose.
Eyes water and crystallize.
I skated down hills
in my insulated boots
and on my head
in Michigan. I took walks
while the wind chased
high in the sticks
they call trees. My
tormentor howled, threatened
and sometimes shoved me
in the back.

In hung upside down
Michigan I did.

At night, calm
by the frozen harbor
lonely bells clang,
perhaps in my heart.
Yard lights blind spots
on docks where night shelters
mounds of coal piled high,
waiting, radioactive
monsters about to sneer
with menacing green eyes
come after me.

In Michigan I wait
eight months for summer.
It never comes, in my mind.
There's no place to put snow
after March in Michigan
where I dwell in my head.

Hard to remember,
sitting on the sunny beaches
of Mexico
upside down
with Margaritas sweating the
frosted, stemmed glasses
full of icy concoction
and warm Tequila infused
with blended fruits...

in Michigan, okay! I confess.
I never left.

8.18.20

Got the idea from someone In Texas or On Tumblr...never mind, you wouldn't understand.
August 16, 2020 at 3:27pm
August 16, 2020 at 3:27pm
#990958
Equal To Dead

The brittle grass is too hot for my feet.
I fear the dusty soil where ants have overcome.
The sun hasn't been a friend to my yard.
I don't take time to check in every day.
What does the world want from me, this
barefoot wanderer who seeks a garden to roam?

For just a moment alone at this busy intersection,
where I can hide like a child in bushes sought,
these invading words pursue a once gentle mind
not capable of bending more; travels to places
away from chaotic billboards of cancel culture
bleeding evident truths I can no longer consume.

When did we become so truthful within folklore --
jolly fat men and bunnies toting chicken's eggs --
find nostalgia of some utopia underground, be
lei'd upon solemn arrival to atrophy before frost?
Where can I go to get away from you, who
needs my (worthless) vote this and every fall?

The elections I have to choose from in my head
make me wish for an alternative equal to dead.



8.16.20

Cancel culture is singular in nature. It does not consider references to from things born from the past that do not mesh with the present law of eradicate everything that does not belong, starting with people over 30, hwo don't buy in.
August 15, 2020 at 12:50am
August 15, 2020 at 12:50am
#990814
mediocre dreams and mistreated hearts

what you see as old, beneath beats
a tender heart
what I see as hard, is a child with an organ
cruelly mistreated

not that I seek death in totality when
I cannot resolve these fears
I either need become that hero for you or die
with this unwrapped gift I hide.

but, come to think of it, this is no place to start
that summit in apathetic reclusion.

this is the hole in the center of the universe,
a kind of purgatory
where people like us go while standing far apart
to delude or punish

ourselves for not trying. commune among monsters
that can't taste our flesh, sate immortality

because in a thousand years, it won't mean a thing
we die on our own crosses with none to witness

know like I, nothing to fear to mend your heart
and when that's fixed, get mine undone?

so, yeah. maybe, this doesn't really apply, just
an ongoing dream of mediocrity I'm in bed with.

-dad
8.14.20


August 13, 2020 at 7:38pm
August 13, 2020 at 7:38pm
#990694
Dew Re-Visions

Dewed grass seldom had my back,
because I was a late riser with regrets.
I missed silence, the most special
of each early day. I remember
clover fields, sweat and dust-covered to the hairline
from the infield where I scooped grounders
with my best friend after the third grade.
I remember an dad's army knapsack packed
with saran-sheltered sandwich dreams and
warm, sun-kissed soda quickly guzzled.
We laughed and dared the sun to burn
our tender skin and dreaming up schemes
for the future things.

Mother called us home before
dark consumed its small creatures.
I haven't seen you since, or
the little boy who's name doesn't exist
but lingers in the fields
where I would play alone.
Flowered weeds sway and
another orange light drops without her call
to return home again.
Is there a way I can climb back
in the tangled mesh? Where
is that entrance?

8.13.20/11.16.21
25 lines freeverse

Imagination
August 13, 2020 at 7:20pm
August 13, 2020 at 7:20pm
#990693
Burning Light Inside My Dreams

The light is outside
shining a well worn stoop,
where I seldom glimpse sunsets
since I stopped waiting for sun to rise.
Burning with this dream-like energy
that wants to spill forth,
I too have seeds for the wind to disperse.
Burning indoors with candle visions
and tonight's wine, full bodied
with just a hint of infinite possibilities,
I rise to the door growing
wider and taller than me,
reach for the copper knob
invisibly lost in this mist enveloping.
how will I get out, stumbling,
when dreams fear nowhere to play?
I turn to one place, learn
how the world played today to see
what I missed, since I seldom replay
the memories or reminisce.

8.13.20

"Burning light inside my dreams
I wake up in the dark
The light is outside my door..."

This song is so truncated and wistfully sweet. What do you suppose she means?



We can dream but reality is dark? Yet, if we look outside we'll see what's inside ourselves? I'm composing now in my head hoping I can come up with a worthy poem to relate to this song. I caught up on my sleep and I'm burning with this dream-like energy that wants to spill forth on this page...

Dream another time

August 13, 2020 at 1:57pm
August 13, 2020 at 1:57pm
#990679
excavating words and lost poets

some have gotten so deep beneath the surface
they've forgotten the rest of us lingering
at the top, who need a tour guide
to the excavations where constructs
held within the dark walls don't illuminate well.
so, flashlights are leant to daring explorers
who take in the awe-inspiring images,
wanting to know the artist's true inspiration.
these thinkers, deeper below, have forgotten
how they arrive to the places they go, get lost,
sometimes need a guide to bring them back.
which way is up? then, to see the faces
of those who contemplate subterranean wonder,
and, why construct these monuments buried so deep
for the rest of an inattentive world to envision?

i don't know.

8.13.20

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