Musings in poem on what inspires, casting words like seed into a world wide wind.
New 2021 Quill Nomination for this blog (best poetry collection):
Blog Won 2020 Quill for best poetry collection:
Disenfranchised writer ▼
If you only write when inspired, you may be a fairly decent poet, but you'll never be a novelist. -NEIL GAIMAN
And here I am
August 28, 2006 ▼
A new start for an old blog -- replacing "SuperNova Afterglow: New Zenith" , 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:
Predictive models of outcomes measured by
Reactions to the likes of you
Approach a solemn figure recalculating
Wondering if I can trust your sort
Taught uninformed me to be the cynic
Plead drop the gloves, let the guard down
Since you beg it must be safe
I behave like a fool
A precedent sent
As models form from
The calculator treating
Math as an emotional subject.
If I could boil it down to a few words that illuminate
If I could write it down with the briefest definition
I would try
If I could show you how I feel in just one expression
I would try emote
so many vistas to follow, so many stars in my eyes
I often have to wait until the darkest night
to get the truest vision to share with you,
if you haven't tired of being at my side
If I could,
maybe, I have
perhaps, you have visions of your own
that I haven't taken the time to listen
|my heart could be a drum you beat upon
my soul clangs as my engine sputters
no brakes, no steering down this street
careening off the curb, headed for your house
the shrubs could rip at the root
flowers strewn across a hopeful garden because
you could be the piston's percussion
a mechanic with a wrench rachets
the tight bearings of something hoping
to disconnect my assembly before I drive
straight into the living room of your lovely home.
does love mean having the patience for something,
someone built with good intention,
wheeled to ride a winding road leading
to your welcoming garage door,
before i could separate from this machine,
unlike the cyborg still coupled to beating,
the rhythm of something that tells me depart
and roll these hills and valleys to meet
with a mechanic who could help me restore
all the purpose the machine was intended for.
why run-on poems like these?
show the desperation to express something
could someone measure the length
of these expressions?
watch that anorexic model sing
hair falling out beneath
a stylish leopard print cap.
garments hanging off her gaunt rack —
glimmering garb drapes
a beleaguered soul
perilously vocalizing all
my fearful heart contains,
a ruptured soul like yours
clinging to hope someone
is listening and ready with daring arms
to drape this empty form.
1.5.21 edit, add (now public)
|The aching has returned
to my eyes,
each night I dream about you
we're together in a bright nuclear vision --
a blast that slowly
forces to me to forget but see
a fading smile.
Yearning and waking again,
I would lean into your skin
taste your tender lips
I cannot savor in these night reveries --
of you and me flying
cavorting upon a shore of an endless pale sea.
your hands reach for me,
taken back by determined tides.
a rising sun obliterates
eyes blocked by impending reality
and the renewal of such purposeless days
wishing I could dream
the rest of life away.
edit later. written in 3 1/2 minutes to Sinful by Rhye
You’re grinding an ax and I can see
you’re not willing to listen
sparks fly from the blade
as you hone steel to suffice
and I who just wants to make sure
you don’t need to use that ax
is willing to confide whatever you need to hear
so you can let the Grindstone rest.
|What is keeping the stars apart?
What is in my heart
(that was many times
I cannot venture — but — (in my mind)
to that glowing, wondrous galaxy,
capturing a fool every night
What is keeping me, (in abstentia)
welcoming arms, busses upon cheeks,
shining faces brighter
than a lone, dim one
(once the sun,
gleaming) before a supernova
Hiding in this dark, I wonder
each night where
each of you are, if
you'll near me,
the right one heal me,
heal my heart, (so) no longer
vexed by (this) unwillingness
to be torn apart,
I carry it, too
It doesn't have to all be sad. But it is.
|All my God ever asked was try
Not succeed, not bleed for this
All my God asked was give
Not too much, but what he needs
All the world wanted from me
Was my flesh, bones, eyes
Pay my debts like a ransome
To release this beleaguered soul asking
Where is my God during all this?
All my love ever asked was a kiss
But that was only the start of it
My love needed my hand, continuous
Support until death we part
All that has grown in my garden seeds
Bears more fruit that pass from beak to land
All that I've ever sewn there is weeded
But struggles more to riise each spring
When I look to the sky
Does he see me lying on the ground
With a frown begging to reap?
Does my God even know I've died?
With the daisies interlaced surround.