Poetic 📝 Jottings got the virtual hardware w/ inspired words cast to a world wide wind.
It’s like plugging myself, but using other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "✍️ Writing Under The Influence 🎧"
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.
Being published in Summer, 2022 Bramble literary journal
I love the process of constructing and sharing visions in words (no small task considering personal and physical limitations). It’s an HONOR receiving WDC’s Quill award: Best Poetry Collection, two years running. Nominated was more than I could expect. Inspired still to share all the more.
If you only write when inspired, you may be a fairly decent poet, but you'll never be a novelist. -NEIL GAIMAN
August 28, 2006 ▼
A new start for an old blog -- at capacity as of 2018, focused on specific writing projects and goals.
No specific aim going forward ▼
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:
Who am I, you ask? My mirror knows that question, repeated daily.
Just trying to create a little buzz, not boost my ego.
|When I was running through my neighborhood,
PJs on, towel wrapped around neck,
who did I think there was to save?
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
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.
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)
|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.
Locking out, locked in with Monster, buzz,
skillful at video games or thumbing
that necessary cell on our ‘family plan.’
Like lawyers on my retainer, represent
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. Wondering,
savings — just for me, devalued by inflation,
how to s t r e t c h dollars? Think 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
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"
I feel this torture, attuned.
Taut echoes, pluck strings’
vibrations play, send waves
my way. Tortured, captured,
recorded and minted, visceral strong.
Why must I feel this way?
As her tousled hair-flames depress
stains on a keyboard with such pain —
muffle an underground train,
tunneling through a soul rumbling,
holding to a heart ceding in 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 rattling gut chains.
To every lyric lilt, waver and pause,
my heart cedes to that tender heart,
like mine! Attuned to the last refrain.
Your vibrations send waves my way
captured, release soul song I’ll not deny.
In heavy chain, remiss red lips unsavored.
FR, FR, F.R.
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.
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:
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?
|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.
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?
"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? — 😉😒
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.
|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 glow. Cooled in a long night, bedded,
life furthers the soloist than galaxies above.
Tomorrow’s warheads prime in silos. I sing,
longing another day wading my tall grass.
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
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.
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,
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?
Yeah, I’m flawed
You look at me,
As if I could do something
All for Freya R until I can get her out of this head
|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.
Getting old is all. I know my time could be nearing, without having lived like I dared dream.
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.
To ‘Elephant’ by Freya R
"The Bard's Hall Contest"
Don’t leave me here.
Don’t leave me here.
the nearer I get
arms at your side, not open
not like you, when
I was fizzy, dizzy,
drunk on your love,
your lips received on
my tender flesh,
warming love —
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.
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.
while at work, interrupted for taking a few minutes by a nosy boss.
I could develop a chorus. Need another chance.
|Make Up Something New/No To Cake
Whenever it's late I need romance
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.
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
|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.
#freyaridings keeps me rolling
|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.?
Free #freyaridings from U.S. anonymity, sorta
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,
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.
|Your face appeared
an expressionist painting come to life
capturing back its original beauty —
and more than just breathing,
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.
You peaked before I could glimpse your rising.
|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.
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" .
|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.
28 lines, free verse
Legit writ today in acknowledgement of: "The Bard's Hall Contest"
Prompted by "Personify Writing Contest"
Personify an eraser for June