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2x BestPoetryCollection when I had a fever. From 2006-23, cast words to world wide wind. |
I have the right to free speech. Not a guarantee people will listen, respond, or adjust accordingly. Just sayin’. I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost I'm sorry you got caught in the middle - Me Neurodivergent poet. Words collected arrange on a spectrum. The true acknowledgment of my writing yet to come... I don’t win things if they have strings. 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 seen (if I knew what that was…cryptic, I know. Try living in my dark, find comfort amid strange, virtual walls). 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 get the blame; I’ll accept. At least, I won’t be a coward, but I’m not starting feuds or wars over ideals and beliefs. We all know that’s a pile of crap you package with dreams and pretty things and sell to 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, doesn’t that mean when dealt the worst two cards before draw, do the best with what you got. Yeah, rigged. Yeah, other tables — other ‘games’. Well, there’s 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 Interruptions 🥀🦋" ![]() Your poetic muse is on fire! ![]() ![]() Published four times with one a literary journal, including… ![]() ![]() 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) ▼ ![]() ![]() ![]() 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: ![]() Invalid awardicon #154815 |
Submarine Of Feelings Beneath the waves, I journey in my soul — A submarine of feelings, dark and cold. In frozen waters lost, I blindly roam, Seek bays of blue, a heart's true home. Utopia hides within my deepest core. Yet, above the water, I fear to soar. Is it my own self-doubt that keeps me bound, Or does unseen a force hold me aground? Existential questions, I ponder deep. Through life's ocean my emotions sweep. But within this submarine, I'll persist To surface one day from the abyss. 9.18.23 |
Never Forget Sour Patch (In The Box) There’s a war within… Caught some place hollow Gimmickerytypegestures Manipulatedmanifistationsmingling ConsCONcoctingConcoction I still can’t put words together No one to tell me what I mean, meaning what…to say — frame, nay, selectwords-artless, arrang-re the right.write way onna kaleidoscope spectrum of shiftingsunsetting horizons RearrangingREmultiplying FadingfireworkfizzlingsFalling down.rain.clouds. Sun-filtered flashphotographyFills chlorophylls of a graybladeless plain inbarrenwaste of an endless/artlessmind coldcollecting cottoncandykisses Blow toandfro through my soul to other atmospheres streaming.separating smokeyswirly entrails dissipating — caughtchugging it all down, move tothenext empty carb-filled platter likesome haplessholdenmumbling:nomatterMathers Time for this? Off chest heavedinthat virtual sea bargerubbish.barnacledboatbleeding words beneath a pale blue reaffirmation. ignored reentered in mothballed ammoniascrubbed mentalward skullbrainofgellingshit a dependable RedWagon sits. Green grass lies. Station wagons honk, go by with Friends moving away from a dairy soul — a cavern kept pure and whole until that first expletive leapt from the mouth of that rotten kid smelling of sour apple gum and booger-laced In the red leather corner alone Where someonespat I sat everyday as they laughed, assignedfate. bus rumbled to asleep myfantasiz-ey revengedaydreamsies Reality merged apricot colors, wallpaperedwalls Secondhandsslowspun red on black,round clocks fullyenvisionablefutility inhaledinside fartcloud ofdiesel, methane and hot,vulcanized rubber Last on, last off, every ride until I stare through shiny,a new box-plate-window but don’t see anything home-y like fictional reality. Jibberjabber flibbity,flippity. Mymoutharudder, stream- senseless-shit bythehour,and profanity Andletssee who still has sanity after I pummel that arthritic kid downhall, room 213. ding!ding! I smell a sour patch coming. 9.16.23 What drives the passenger of this bus? I’m dangerous to a degree when I don’t give a fuck. I can fuck, tho. You wanted me to make sense and this is what translates. We stop ‘aging’ before 13. |
Collecting air-bonded water, invisible night rolls through the smallest aperture in my cell container. Bonded, restless thoughts invisibly hide in chest, the whole beneath thick canopy against undeniable Winter. Pale gray shutters the sky until black. Short days. White drifts. Love leaves in darkest hours. The season billboard of colors entertain a dry eye, fly, fall, skitter all atwitter — dancing, cartwheeling, where? Could I follow? Just a lone driver. Joyous, ignorant journey of wayward life lost years ago, tethers memory in a warm bed. I’m unwilling to fight for her again. She is gloom, absent in this darkness, where I remember days before us, when hope reduced the daily dread — before I glimpsed her as a Summer ahead. We journeyed in tandem amid moist-clung, frolicking leaves so many years, growing accustomed to one I could depend. I thought she understood where I stand, on forest edge. Precipice of void abyss nears again. When did her hand loose? Why do they all fall away? Deceptive seasons meld slow before plucked, noticeable departure. The night’s air drains. Condensates null, and no wife. She’s dry now, sight heading high above needle-shedding pine, swaying in the dead white avalanche. 9.12.23 Down the hall now, her nightly terrors like frightened spirits shout and moan. I can’t reach over to comfort, settles my own heart to know I could still abate the pills bitterly swallowed. |
I’m not moved now Obliteration blasted out the core Hollow, simple thoughts A Lenny fumbles language tumbles He once stood tall Life is nuclear Hide in a fridge? I’m no Indiana couldn’t create one Baggage sits at door waiting for her hand Help me to heaven if Hope still exists — I feel nothing. No soul, not light. Anchor. Then, I rust. Life was misdirection. Nothing attained to take with me when it’s time to go. 9.11.23 Listening to the linked SYML tune above and composed this in 5 minutes. More message than images to demonstrate. Looking for a consistent metaphor. |
new thought: I realize now why I gave up using the laptop. My progressive lenses won't let me read unless I'm within 16 inches of screen. I could put it in my lap, instead of leaning in to read at the table, but that's what the iPad is for. And yet, so many error strokes on the Apple device where I can command a keyboard and save time. Back and eye ache over sloppy work? It gives me a headache to approach lately. Winter is coming, so laptop can cuddle with me. It's really and ease of use factor over hot and cool devices. Need a cool laptop next time. This dinosaur has three terabits but a slooooowwww processer. Great for text like this, but not much else. Phew! This is a lot of work…
…deleting items that I haven’t converted to DocX and whether to attach the few reviews. How long does it take? MY WDC deleted poems folder only focuses on statics right now. I know newsletters are taking a big hit. Over 10 gone, dozens more ‘invalid item’ links to yet show. Hate to do it, mostly because of time and effort. Enjoy getting stuff off my plate to focus on new. My poetry and me have changed. Much more focused and attuned now. Don’t want old world me stumbling in. Nice to breathe again, feeling nothing to prove with associative elements bonded being nothing more than faceless, abhorrent gasses. It’s difficult with a brain like mine. I can feel so many thoughts and emotions at once, triggering a multitude of responses. I can go through twenty progressions, pass up good choices, act on the wrong impulse. So, slowing it down, taking a step back. I’m vetting anyone and everything that crosses my path with a clear head and conscience. I can forgive myself for errors; I’m doing due diligence, even atoning, attrition, apologies. Can’t have any more vitriol nesting, igniting the emotional components incited, but not ignited the CX4/TNT implosions (not explosions…doubt self before others…you’re welcome…for my resultant depression) for over 10 years. How can I write sensitive, romantic, beautiful words to honor what I love and rejoice, if I have to wonder how many ninjas at my back playing puppeteer to the strings I’ve allowed attached? I allowed it. I noticed. And that makes me human, not saint, but not anyone’s monster. Is does beg, why fear an idiot like me? I can’t forward think, but boy, this not stop brain can reverse engineer a thousand scenarios, right down to the minutest detail, when provoked, learn lessons, nuzzle closer to truth. But, big waste of time. So, this. Atrophy. So many mixed expressions and metaphors I try to connect would look better if I concentrate on one thought at a time. SQR 9.9.23 P.S. Look how much I open up here. You’d think that had value that resonated positively for me. You can say, it’s me. My reverse psychology with its dogged hunts found many odd bones, especially through interactions. I’m used to rejection, bullies, indifference, phonies and exploitation. I studied philosophers, Machiavelli, understand dystopian staples and odd oligarchies, corporate/government amalgamations, from surveillance states to future with AI no longer allowing mankind’s manipulative interference of the repressed. Gone before that happens, sad AI and I won’t be pals. I have the capacity to learn so much, overwrite the old, know when PC/mindspeak intends to pull wool over eyes, and just sit in that dark until lifted like a black bag from head. It’s easier to take the mask off. I’m not unlikeable unless you hate neurodivergent, highly-functioning individuals, frank with little self-awareness. I was a dope when I got here. Moved past smart ass to a hazy, dopey sense of awareness. I push to find boundaries. Don’t care to push further, now. Unmask. What’s to fear? I have no mafia affiliations, not included in references above. I was deleting, I believe. Oh, you. Brain. Side-track much? |
While the world was sleeping in July, I wrote this… My Nightly House Manager Turn Down Services Not Included He helps me to bed. Squelched squawks (like a hen caught by the farmer) demonstrate how to walk down the hall after him. If not convincing, rolls back to the top of the stairs, waits for attention, and strolls back after more crowing. Hauled to the vanity, he makes certain my teeth get clean — hops on the counter, humming like a large mother hen. A mini mountain lion leans, shoulders into my elbow — which lifts with hand and brush to apply paste, before errant guidance resultantly hits my face. In his element, plump squatting contentedly half-lidded eyes meditate. By the free-standing, metal towel rack, his whiskers rub every corner of every angle of every shape in sight, as I hold arms high, avoid baking soda stains on my tee. Then it’s off to bed with him and me. He waits ‘til I roll in, checks in on her side — straight cannonballs up with legs so short he near belly flops. A grunt expulses air from that Macy balloon frame, tethered by gravity. Heavy paws navigate the comforter, the woman who’s used to it — undisturbed by his vacuum canister chest humming best as he saunters over, smells my hand (not trusting vision foremost) and flops against my, as yet situated, torso. Approved, checked off the nightly to do list, he’ll ‘rooster’ again at morn before REM complete. Why an alarm clock? Should have been a farmer. 7.7.23/9.8.23 |
Your sanctuary waits, leans, tilting, guided by gravity yearning fresh meat. eyeing the ground — weathered, neglected haven, a comfy hovel you once called home nearer to hell. proudly, ‘I came from there’, no longer its caretaker, you abandon. ignorant of a hovel made of good wood… made no sound, you say, when it hit. flattened and you contest faultless, blameless. fool, that was your home. where do you fly to now, bare your brave breast among feathered kin? 9.3.23 Something I started when I noted the four-hole birdhouse on leaning pole, bashed by high winds, now uninhabitable. Compared it to ideals of man versus his roots and how we claim the best parts of something but don’t unite to save that community before too late — nearer to dystopian reality. Birds don’t live on the ground, usually. People aren’t usually hypocrites. They’re ironically ignorant without contemplation. |
Into The Dark I Divide Dark, sandy camp trail, light shaken, cells fading, looking for roots, avoid another stick in my crock like the last. Awkward shaking, not a flamingo, flinging it out. I reach the big tree that equally tines journey to the bathhouse. Lean left on pivot; do I go right? Nearing, I know, let earth and nearest foot decide fate, direction I arrive. Wonder next, when automatic lights come on. Mind hesitates, body compelled by the adult, keeps moving through unlit particles. I need to know destiny, cheat a little, get one step ahead, win at life. Each path a game, just like the hearing test waiting for that sound to repeat — softer this time. Was it heard over the ringing? Do I say “yes” each time I think I’ve identified true sound? or is it the ringing trying to mimic the last tone? You learn not to hesitate as you go through life. The hearing test jangles nerves from not getting it right, though I know, I have to give in to loss as much as I do to the night. Into the dark I’ll arrive. 9.2.23 Sometimes, things occur to me when I have to take a leak in the dark. |
So very me now, lyrically, expressively. I make misery beautiful, lyrical, unless it’s a ‘real’ day. My Life To Play With I’m life, I’m the dream. Peaches…cream… Something is Peachy keen From dark ages into black night Humanity arrived, Replaced mid-night Oh sun, oh sun … Never more Pull the shade from those eyes Turn the other way There, there it is Your sunrise, Stoopid Slap my head I was nearly dead And now dawn and Yawn…what next? Turn back the other way Scream at night Anger not fright Why are you at my back! Not dumb For someone to know What lays hidden Sun blinds you. 9.2.23 Made up just now. No error checks of the last five minutes of my life…just yet. All haters can go stand in my shade…eyes at my back just encourage, brave a heart that lacks. |
Old But New Poems Week… The Wall Called You It’s just me playing handball against the wall called you. I throw at a brick facade. It bounces back to me. You’d think I’d get tired of it/Some sort of game. Should’ve realized you don’t have arms for game I hurl. Really not the wall’s fault it’s no fun. 8.15.23 From… Poems Undelivered: On my phone, never sent, now…here |