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 |   All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. |
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The Idiotic Ideate?? Formerly: New Zenith To Hell…(all started with arc as writer here from the trials of Rising Stars to Preferred Author to WDC Quills Best Poetry Collection to the falling action I feel now that settles in a white case.) Got to hustle to preserve the best of me before fully fading on that virtual horizon glowing more brilliant with each passing day to permanent nuclear winter. if people don’t get it, I don’t need to explain it. We kill all that’s beautiful before we question it’s purpose. So many people find it easier to think in the black and the white. God forbid you get lost straying in the gray. "Whoever fights monsters should see to it…he does not become a monster.” I’ve been to the abyss and back. Not so bad. The loneliest happy person you'd ever meet, when not the saddest person who needs to be alone. In an ever-changing world, we need to handle topics at the ready. If you roll over and give in to the narrative without lending a voice of your own, you might as well hand over your civil liberties. We have voices that should connect to true conscience and spirit for honest and open discourse. Why feel so redacted? Unify on issues and put drama aside. Open minds require complete objectivity. If none need apply, question the unbendable sources for answer. If you knee-jerk react to every issue lurking out there that clutches your neck, you fall victim to your own ignorance born from a life of apathy (no doubt) in pathetic cries of injustice. Just writing what I feel without the narrative-altering mind f---ing with my head. [MY Chorus] In your house, I long to be Room by room, patiently I'll wait for you there, like a stone I'll wait for you there, alone "It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe indefinitely." "You are all better than you think you are, you are just designed not to believe it when you hear it from yourself." ![Merit Badge in Second Time Around Contest
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Congratulations on winning the Grand Overall Prize in [Link To Item #2164876] with your beautiful poem, [Link to Book Entry #933358]. This poem really moved me. Great writing!
Rachel *^*Heartv*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Second_Time_Around_Contest-2164963_14.gif)    "...lasting art is never anything more than a mathematical expression of the relations that exist between the internal and the external, the self [le moi] and the world." -Jean Metzinger I'm in love with carefully chosen words, arranged just so, audible, edible, to inhale. I attempt to post new poems and epiphanies daily with some links to what inspires. I am legally blind with a rare, genetic form of glaucoma. I'm described as "end stage" after two successful surgeries, still subject to further vision loss. Cataracts complicating matters. Writing Can get strenuous but seldom deters what yearns to emerge, despite a documented history of depression and recently diagnosed ADHD and undefinable social disorders and/or PTSD. My recent poetry:
Sometimes epiphanies about my insights on writing and life and what goes on... Making sense of life is maddening. Why do I need to know, when truth may not actually exist? Learning to accept would be a better pursuit? Flailing about in my own mediocrity, hoping to bust out. I am visible. You can put a face with a name. I would like to see other writers, too. Fiction is what you write, not who you are. Reinventing myself. I couldn't continue on the path I was on and needed a fresh start. This time around I want to put the focus on writing and the world outside of this community as it affects my life. I realize now that I have been baring my chest a bit more, as when young. fake me much more boring and unliberated than the real me. A world arriving as silent as that blossom in your garden that I told you about... |
| Appease You? (Perhaps, My Epitaph) They try to find a metaphor to indirectly say what they mean Lost, I want to speak like them, in innuendo Nudge Get what I mean? No. Sigh. Try again. I paint pictures in words, without directly saying What I mean. Been done before. Okay. I pour my heart in staggering words, upheaved a torment From a storm of thought that took years to arrive -- An entrail of unhealthy logic exhumed from my soul. We don't get you. Who am I writing for? I simply stare out a window where I write, don't think And everything I've ever worked for spills out on a canvas My repressed thought bubbles, spews Volcanic And I harden. If this is what it takes to get through to you I'd rather walk my loving pups across the sands Of some temperate beach than even approach a thought To appease you. Where's My Audience? Shout Here! if you're tired of isolation in a desolate world of thought. |
| Should it be toilsome to hold you in our hearts? Should it be a very bad life for us, if we don't carry that concern for you in our hearts? It is our struggle to please you, while trying to take away some satisfaction selfishly, for ourselves? in how we live? If we do not carry your heart in our heart, how light then the burden? Once weighted do we lift at all? separate from your gravity? or eternally earthbound to see your eyes know your will none greater than our own permeates the tender shell penetrated deeply and often (catch your breath here) because our wings are shorn once we first realize the necessitude of cohabitation with one who so dearly plays with our heart, our soul, our mind (here, too) as if we have none, nothing to share but be enslaved to cruel, centric master of our domain? Thank you for loving me in your way knowing my only worth in this struggle for self freedom is the innermost pressure that allows me feel I have lungs, veins thick, blood pulsing, heart pumping (inhale, again) from the struggle within to be sure I have not displeased one so kind to let me dwell near serve a hungry soul more dominating than a mere poet who mutters words as he scribes at your tidy, kitchen table. Should it be toilsome to hold you in our hearts? Should I have to explain? Okay, because it's Sunday. I'm on a spiritual quest. And, I don't want to clean the garage. That simply sparked my brain to produce an ode to a woman who doesn't understand why I cannot accept the conformity of her religion anymore. My home life IS dystopian...if you give her power over you. |
| I’d like to serenade you but you’re not my child Since these humble darlings could dream I’d play them a song sing along sang solo in the car in the yard chasing life swirling them about, anchored on shoulder in our living room crooning soft at bed when the hazy light of day could fill their eyes no more rubbing sore legs looking out those windows wondering will they be like me? I hope better; want better As soft as the cat that slow-crawls hidden beneath their bed each night I roam room to room carry my velvety pipes hoping the day doesn’t arrive too soon when they ask stop clowning, creating lonesome cowboys, owls in silvery moon beams, mocking birds or dazzling diamond rings and twinkling stars where they rock cradled in my tree tops visited each night to chase away fright, secure dreams they will be as good, no better than the old minstrel wandering their halls. 10.2017 12.19.19 ledit 6.21.20 ast edit |
Stoic stalk lowed by time Lilts in the dark cold Hard rain comes Pelts the offshoots Graying, too In a neglected planter Weathered, soiled and cracked Not made for these elements On the front porch Passed daily a summer long Long since adulation Now unnoticed Time withered away The hurtful memories In it's slow decay Unremarkable They don't have time for you They can't tend to a dreamer They can't mend what was lost A summer long Adulation now gray To a stoic stalk torn from pot Repurposed to stiff November earth The warm heart of Mother. For ~ Aqua ~  and "The Not-So-Daily Poem"  |
| Damn cellphone So easy to write poetry to you Does it have to be in traffic? Muse thinks so Better than scribbling On a grocery receipt While exiting highway of delusion Thinking These words need capture I won’t recall Ignoring what Mama said If you can’t remember Must not be important But this heavenly device Talk to text Could secure even The most tragic thoughts Or My last moments Worth it? Muse seems to think so Or have I been answering petulant mirth of youth That child could never grow up Eaten but undigested In my belly Where I spare him life This wheel is so easy to manage I could set up office By air vent Phone accessibly clipped Hands free Siri answer me Can you open notes? She will comply My secretary Because In ten minutes of clarity Serendipity will inspire muse Play with the lonely child Transient in memory To try again understand Why he’s jailed In the soul of such a careless driver. Sent from my iPhone New Edit: Soul of a Careless Driver Damn cellphone, so easy to write poetry to you. Does it have to be in traffic? Muse thinks so. Better than scribbling on a grocery receipt while exiting highway of delusion, thinking, these words need capture. I won’t recall. Ignoring what Mama said, If you can’t remember, must not be important. But this heavenly device with talk-to-text could secure even the most tragic thoughts, or, my last moments. Worth it? Muse seems to think so. Or, have I been answering petulant mirth of youth? That child could never grow up, eaten, but undigested in my belly where I spare him life. This wheel is so easy to manage. I could set up office by air vent, phone accessibly clipped, hands free. ‘Siri answer me. Can you open notes?’ She will comply, my secretary; because, in ten minutes of clarity serendipity will inspire muse, play with the lonely child, transient in memory, to try again understand why he’s jailed in the soul of such a careless driver. Sent from my iPhone |
| I didn't want to open the email, so I had my wife do it. The new Wisconsin poet laureate Karla Huston read my poetry and had advice for me. I doubted I'd get a reply, let alone the next morning. I didn't want to be intrusive...and she wrote me a long and thoughtful email. Ms. Huston wants me to submit. She also located three poetry reading spots where I can share and suggested I join a poet's group of about 500 that's over 60 years strong. She talked about all the ins and outs of approaching publication and being a poet today. She knows poet laureates that don't submit and just self-publish! That's because they write, teach and talk about poetry everywhere they travel. I submitted four poems to this poet laureate. It was very difficult choosing while hopefully not overwhelming her. What I picked...the styles of two contrasted the other two in verbosity. "Thank you for sharing a few of your poems. I really liked 'Feeling Autumnal' and 'Celtic Roots.' My taste runs to poems with simple language and smart metaphor. That's my taste, though."
Now, going classic school girl, trying not to gush, I thanked her in a short follow up, letting her know I appreciated her time and helpful advice, which I will use. |
He never once released The panel beneath Their toaster. Years of neglect Shook from her heart, Washed down the kitchen sink. Her onion bagel Sated a pining appetite For something different. Just learned what '50 Shades of Red' means...and from all places, Wikipedia. Some things you can't unlearn. |
Self-destruction We must let go this all or nothing reality — the unbearable lightness of being. Scrub memory? Seek eternal sunshine of the spotless mind? Rather hunker down alone in my delusion, find purpose for the endless stirrings, heart still beating, wanton, yet; hope daunts, as I’m still seeking a friend for the end of the world. Free verse 12 lines or 13...your call http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0096332/ http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0338013/ http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1307068/ |
 ![Merit Badge in Poetry
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Congratulations on being named Honorable Mention for Best Medium Length Poem, Structured, for [Link to Book Entry #922328] at the 2017 Quill Awards. *^*Smile*^* For more information, see [Link To Item #quills] .](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/type-Poetry-2180.gif) Uninspired on an overcast morn, shrouded, a mist of ideas newborn evaporate true inspired revelation. Dear Autumn with your condensation, wonder why you abhor a leafy loft, send away my humecant words soft? Withered truants twirl, fumble, hide. What I seek no longer lives inside a foggy window, merely a facade -- tiresome reflection looks at me odd. Clouded in aged memory's wake, behind every smile I cannot make, rages a beauteous, symphonic death; when Winter smears white my breath. 14 lines Traditional, non-sonnet Prompt: behind every smile Words: facade, abhor, wonder, mist I know what I feel inside, can't fully express it with my face on the outside and I'm aging as winter threatens again. Why don't you understand me? |
 Believe is what you said and so I did, waited, alone for you in this uninhabited dark. Trust is what you said, hold fast I did, dying inside, awake in memory, slow decaying in my heart. Visions stir, enter pale light. I seek anew just the touch of you. The essence of true love lost I crave. How to get back in your good grace, see your dark face with an approving look. Encased in my cell, I've chased away hell, relegated to lament all you took. You'd unclothe me, leave me to spoil? Such sickening sweetness, now emerging, awakened amid the odor of your rescinded vows. A taste for your flesh lingers on hungry lips. I have not forgotten your tongue, teeth-gnashing youth, truth inhaled; now blemished, lurid, hiding from me in light. These visions stir me from a dense antechamber, enter pale light to seek anew just the touch of you -- the essence I crave. You left me here. You left without goodbye, blemished to stain and die. And, the one reason I waited In death was to celebrate when you join me again. 10.31.17 46 lines Free Verse October Dark Dreamscapes Poetry Contest for picture prompt |
I want to tell you I'm having a good morning. Short moments of clarity Finding me, Escaping me, Wanting someone to share This reverie. But, you're not there -- Preoccupied. I want to tell you What this soul is discovering. Shared serendipity Is best. Rather not Lift these rocks alone. Rather not stroll a beach Full of discovery, waiting Alone. The gulls fear my pitched stones -- Flung, Skipping an eternal sea, Waiting for another Who will discover me. Waiting for you To rediscover Your lost soul, Basking on this outcrop, Hoping your eyes scan This way. Be not preoccupied. Let's get lost, where I'm lost -- Find another way, Together. I want to tell you I had a good morning. Realizations come and go, Like a transient one With leanings in other directions. Share this path. Share my journey. Look this way. I want to tell you... "SuperNova Afterglow: End Of Days" My BlogBrian K CanTry My Webpage |
| Ode To My Coffee Mug You are like no other Perfectly shaped to hold more Than 16 ounces of black brew Colored by butter pecan creamer My saccharin divers spun Deeper inside, rise up To my ever satisfied lips Savoring life, words shared As we commune alone In this pale, sterile room Facing the oval, flat plain A clutter of scrawling From last night's bedside mead I hold porcelain-smooth warmth In withering hand, knowing Our delusion will eventually end Your hull becoming lighter, I admire how your ear Steadfast holds, how? Attached for life, or until A fatal slip leaves you broken And my dreams shattered Of our days spent reminiscing Fatally by the dimensionally Restricted window access. No escape for either, so... Time to write to you, my friend, Dear stained vessel of resurrection. I love that they are not bothered by, my, punctuation! 'Cause few read me,.?!', |
Hushed, All the world, it seems, Still emerging In faint light. Fainter, the birds trill In hidden, hollow sanctuary. Whispering pine Stimulate their Arriving song, Haunt the auditory receiver. Dawn. Time would deny This dreamer A few more moments? Hush your heart. Hide in the hollow. Haunt memory no more. Deny, for now. The secret pine Reveal more Tomorrow. -- 21 lines free verse |
| It's a strange, forbidden place They'll say, don't go down there But, it begs me try, scale The rocks, seek the unvisualized, Thinking, it can't be so bad You're entreated to a cavern Mocking this lonely shape You won't dare go further What else have I to do, thinking You need me, need my eyes Explore a lost, unloved world, To return and tell others You're not some ugly mystery But hidden truth to be shared But, would you want that? I go deeper within each mission Treacherous, consuming Exhilarating that I live. But, I share no more Because I have tried, survived And died with each ruinous search Never actually finding you, but me Alone, all the more. The Hollow of Truth? Empty The Cavern Forbidden |
When I was ignorant and verile I dreamed I could move mountains for you There's been a cave in And apparently it's my fault Buried in my own emotional rubble I don't hear anyone digging It's peaceful, I'll give it that I'm not in dire need of rescue No emergency here, waiting Dreaming decathexis tastes like Two decades of dirt you made me eat. |
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In the Falkland Islands, internet is very limited and very expensive. The place I'm currently staying only lets me use it in the middle of the night, so when I have to get up at 3 am to check my texts (no cell service to the US here unless I'm on the internet) or WdC, I don't do nearly as much as I used to. 
I currently have 2 very long emails I still need to get to from several days ago. Anyway, I miss everyone, but I also miss sleep, so there's that. 
Have you spoken to the doctor about your vision problems lately? I know there are special glasses for it because I have to wear them to read much ever since the brain injury. It's part of why I now only listen to audiobooks instead of reading regular books. It took 8 years for anyone to diagnose it because I have a brain injury and while one might think it would be obvious to me that I see double, it wasn't. Partly, my brain does a fair job of compensating. But also, partly, you use your brain to realize and understand that the 2 images you constantly see are double vision and something you should mention to your eye doctor. Since my brain was damaged, even basic things like that can escape me. 
I never once thought to mention it, even with annual eye exams in the Army and an exam every 2 years at the VA. Though, in my defense, since it happens in something like 41% of people with a brain injury, it should have been discovered by an eye doctor much sooner. 
I know doing that activity is a CRAP TON of work. But you made a difference in lives, not just his, but for all the people he's reviewed since. 
Well done! 
