10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind |
I’m disabled by more than blindness. Writing: Like one of those adventure games where you go off questing in different directions but you don’t advance in life. Pretty medallions sought for words/my soul, slow burnt. Full of misdirects, right back at the start, but still quest with thirst. Life of turmoil produces stuff like this. Not going to call it beautiful agony…it gets a bit uglier. Minced words too pungent. If they take time to notice, must be doing something right. scripturam in hoc non mutamus, quia stultus es et differentiam nescies. (hic) The beautiful mess you made: I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. - me Neurodivergent poet seeks love without that fart in the room between us. Honesty without mincing words has come with a price for those juggling the hot my takes on what’s ‘truth’ (here’s some oven mitts). Best to stay clear of those surrounded by moat rules. Real dialogue is accepted. Wasn’t as open at first about recent diagnosis on spectrum with ADHD (complicated by PTSD, life of brain traumas). Been suggested by doctors of late I might want another brain scan (since 12/4/17…blogged). This poet’s words collect, arrange on a kaleidoscope spectrum. The experience of discovery through writing is the truest reward that has allowed me to grow and learn who/what I am — what other people get naturally, immediately, while I stomp around in it. Been blessed, but pushing it — envelope, world and all inhabitants away. Push buttons, find boundaries to trip traps. No clue why cat curiosity, living in your dark. (Bored, perhaps?) Now and then, push dirt out of this hole; someone/thing/entity might envision me how I need to be viewed (if I knew what that was). Cryptic, yes. Try living in my dark, find comfort amid strange, virtual, wonderful walls that tower above, tempt me to scale. Been more than I could imagine or expect here. But, achievements aren’t going on a LinkedIn wall . I dig deeper than I should, often without forethought. Aimless words, brave or veiled cowardice, flinchingly flung, inadvertently hit targets? Get a ‘back off’ shoulder shot when asking your motivations here. Not fair? No prize to eye; not incentivized. Dealt the worst two cards before the flop, do best with what’s in hand. My Pluggers: You are an icon here. You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer. It’s like plugging myself, but using other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "Poetic Referendum(s) On Life" 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. Published four times with one a literary journal, including… "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. August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼
No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼ 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. 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 ▼ |
Water Symphony A lake symphony set to begin, my ears cleared by green bassos, single notes gulp an opening silence. Brown minstrels grasp surface air, whoosh water, vacuum twilight wings skittering a surface. Pinholes in ultraviolet horizons gasp, as last rays angle, strike the silvery surface. in my yard, lawn chair erect, violinists in the green pit harmonize instruments in unison, lay undiscovered, build a sound-bed consuming ears harvesting a cacophony of familiar notes. Eyes trust a rising moon clear-cutting a path to the dock, stretching across dimpled water. A water symphony punctuates from glistening, dark cellos snapping a delicacy of movement repeatedly. Metal creak of my woven seat, reality. I ease back to wonder if this calm allows a mind to dream, forget mosquitos masqueraded arrival is an unexpected banquet I prepare to pay with my flesh. 7.11.21 27 lines, free verse/vers libre WC Loser 7.21-final version ▼ |
Tears burned his eyes when he realized in earnest he had learned, despite the repression, how to use his voice, when he finally could memorize lyrics to his favorite song, part his lips to loose a song upon a stunned family gathering. Silent, carefully listening, he had them, knew it, and like a cork it bottled him lifelong, unable to sing again before anyone. Tens of years pass, earning his stripes, multiple, menial jobs that buy his bread, he tires of being alone. Quiet, he vocalizes feelings again. Sung with headphones strapped, silences a crowd all around. He parts those still tender lips, having relearned the lyrics, sings his favorite song, stunned. Only this time, he doesn't look, imagines the sweetest melody plays through his soul to mountain tops his remaining years, wherever he goes and gently whispers thank you to his brave heart. 7.11.21 How I imagine it might feel one day when ready to share love of singing to a broader audience. It takes a lot of courage to be a part of a social community where one is only willing to share so much of them self, fearing reception, fearing rejection. Moreover, tied to self worth, it stings when people don't get him, or want get him, because he doesn't bring to the table what they think he should. Though, he does lay bare his soul of it's gifts. And when that's deemed only partially good, it might as well be all bad. He's honest. Maybe, that scares you. He knows the difference between people who speak real words or use them as a mask. But using real words as a mask will take much longer to discern. |
life flashing: low battery like a love fool, when it was a new cardigans song, warm, pulsing rhythms by a vexing songstress, a vision, my heart boils over for: a stew that warms your soul. but the lyrics scatter in my mind, chasing words and musical notations, inscribed on long forgotten sheets, stains on an empty heart. too much wind in the street to chase them down, find I lack skill to revitalize melody. low battery. how I wish for a new cardigans song like a love fool running out into that storm to retrieve her, but too much wind in the street. 7.9.21 20 lines, free verse Intimacy "Typing in lowercase signals familiarity. It says: “We know each other and don’t need to be fancy.” Lowercase text can read as honest, unedited, and approaching something like a stream of consciousness — more like actual speech." https://www.thecut.com/2019/02/reasons-to-type-in-lowercase.html from deleted static ▼ |
Shooting Arrows In The Dark I spend all day collecting targets -- prey for my instinctive arrows, honed but hollow. I toil, spy from the backdrop -- camouflage and build a dream of capture before sunset. When distracted, too late, dark shrouds cloak my head. In my little hide away, ears keen, nose clean, I think -- check traps, wind my way through this scene, and soon after go clumsily through thick woods -- pitched dark, black before I'm lost. Shooting arrows in the dark, in this theater, purposed, resilient, adds no kill -- maims a toe or two, blisters the adjoining fingers to a savage construct, weaponized mind -- aiming to become more practiced when real game comes. 7.6.21 7.8.21 edit |
the daze of recirculation a dusty box fan in wood-wrapped, single pane window set my mind numb. humid air churned amid an uneven hummm-hummmm. a hideous, green-paneled, eight by eight dungeon hid spackled, dull-yellow walls. cracks and chipped paint lingered like me, unexposed. an ancient brotherhood scaled, explored deep within four corners before i took residence. in my metal bunk, the eldest of the remaining brood, i surfed from on top. the warmest, stale air inhaled under thin, musty, attic-retrieved blankets, freed of mildew by bony hands that operated her wringer-washer. summers seemed viewed in a shaded cave with a mono turntable crustily spinning hand-me-down vinyl, 45s by Beach Boys, Doo Woppers and the man who repeatedly wailed 'Dang Me'. i'm awake in a new, ivory tower with King-size bed. lofty pine peer in at me in all this luxury. she removed the down comforter, as a/c hums tighter, quieter, in a sleek, double-pane window, clinging to frame, setting sixty-four. this body readies for a misty, post- thunderstorm, july afternoon. nuzzled, less like the coiled, breathing fur piles, on a hypo-allergenic down pillow -- nap away an idle life, as yet to sync as harmonious as a sturdy, steel-framed box fan pulverizing intrusive childhood air. can’t sleep. i miss my old cell. 7.5.21 7.8.21 edit can't decide on titles, as usual. Intimacy "Typing in lowercase signals familiarity. It says: “We know each other and don’t need to be fancy.” Lowercase text can read as honest, unedited, and approaching something like a stream of consciousness — more like actual speech." https://www.thecut.com/2019/02/reasons-to-type-in-lowercase.html |
While she’s in the dungeon below, torturing her foolish body, streams her half hour daily workout from trainer to phone through Roku to tv, I slip into the refrigerator freezer, retrieve the double fudge 'Moose Tracks', her faux 'Mackinaw Island', ice cream and sit at the kitchen table, pull that lid off and let humidity that she helps produce soften the blend. I roll open the silverware drawer, select a spoon, sit and listen. Weights with sleeves slide on lifted bars, collide with iron, mid grunts, as her trainer yells instructions. I use my instrument to ply within tender cardboard, draw down even the level of the sweet, churned fare. My son slinks past and I knowingly wink, as he removes one of her peanut butter, chocolate chunk cookies from the big box store container. I cringe because he is not as stealth. But, her ears must be consumed with a body's regret from neglect. We consume a timely dessert together, clean up with time to spare. She’ll know something is missing, but not just yet. She earns her guilt after she arrives back from her work. I'll have a devilish grin to share, then. 7.1.21 7.6.21 edit |
Examination of my life has come down to the large metatarsal bone on my right foot -- the fungal toenail I show her that she previously noted I would lose. While it lay exposed one night, elevated on the pillow amid a king-size bed, she pried. And like a jarred, package delivery chute, it yielded its dry core. Clipping wild, wayward shards from petrified infusion, tender bed of black and blue, in my delicate disillusion its impending departure left me wonder: when it leaves, what will become of me? My other quandary: what will protect but a shoe? And yet, another reality: imagining an investigating camera panning away, silent, with its backward, crab-walking crew, unobtrusive, not wanting to be seen documenting this life. Journalists flee down our hallway every night, shouting wrong house! Wrong life. 7.4/5/6.21 Took me awhile to see if editing this was even worth the time. |
Nestled in pants pockets, heavenly-blue arrival pack to the brim. Clutter of jilted ore pellets — brilliant wonder matching a child's eyes. The rough gems restrict a proud stride. Grasshoppers flit, buzz like heat, cutting humid silence. Pale-black, yellow-tipped wings sail down smooth-worm, rusted rail. Blistered feet, brown and nimble, warm — navigate rail on fixed horizon. No ticket needed for an adventure sought. Distance from the platform protects him from a lonely wail. Iron trail constructed in a roaring era before grandpa died — a timely train that no longer whistles. Tracks quiver, Horns blares around the bend. Red crossing signals flare, bells clang, before the striped gate secures the path. This locomotive will swiftly pass. Soon, crickets darken scene that means home. 7.4.21 For July — Stormy Poetry Newsletter still trying ▼ |
When she foggily stirred and rose to meet my eyes, she said, 'I love you'. I said, 'you need to nap more often, my dear'. just after she puts away her phone on the night stand, before slumber, she spools to my half of the bed, still listening to me roll. she’s lulled, lids descend but haven’t reached the floor, stay ajar, as I take my cue to wish her a peaceful slumber. but she insists, continue. Though, I know my next sentence is the last that I will hear loudest, best, repeating until three a.m. like a skipping record, because I can’t finish that thought. She takes all my rest. 7.4.21 22 lines, free verse I won't explain, for a change. |
the widow sits by the window -- beneath the bay window, slumped in the chair, a lump -- in the easy chair the widow lay beneath the window, the widening hole, a dull glass above a young lass. a widow -- a graying woman delaying in a room bright, a dark gloom, a vault-like tomb, where the widow sits and idles alone, nobody home. though, the window sees a busy street scene, a park opening, people walking their dogs. it’s 80 degrees. you think she would freeze with the a/c on well after dawn, huddling there in the great green chair. is there despair for the widow who sleeps, possibly dreams beneath a streaked scene? the wind always blows. but, whoever knows from outside if she’s alive or if dead, because they can’t even see and she can’t see, because her eyes are closed below the window in her dusty, old chair. has she a care? the widow beneath the window, in such a strange scene, shaded you see beneath a willow tree. the widow beneath that window doesn’t look to see. must be a dream, because I’m not even dead, yet. 7.4.21 47 lines, free verse I had the ending figured out just after the repeating 'widow in the window' mantra went going around in my head, before finally jotting it down, and then all the stuff in that sandwich kept bubbling up, piling on, before I could add that reality at the finish. I won't spoil it for those who might need a second read to understand what I mean by that last line. Note the only capital letter. You guys look for, or notice this stuff, right? Sometimes, I forget that I'm doing it, look back and have to find these things myself. There should be a noticeable narrative with the way the lines start out, like trying to get traction. I might go back and edit the end to alter line positions a little, if nothing else to ease that downhill march to the end of the read. |