10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind |
Like one of those adventure games where you go off questing in different directions but you don’t advance like the others. You earn pretty medallions gallantly while other players buy, sell and trade at market to get ahead without moving an inch. Slow burn…hey? You’d rather keep your dignity, or try to figure out their game. That’s where you really get lost. Game full of misdirects leads right back to start over and over. You could have stayed on your quest. Now, you have this. Redacted, censored, gaslighted…must be doing something right, my old boss would say. I’m not a sociopath, he tells himself. Equal parts, then? Mom should have had me tested. Because, life of turmoil produces stuff like this. Not going to call it beautiful agony…it gets a bit ugly.Tap on them. It’s part of the quest…see where I’ve been; see who I am: Right. I redact myself. The beautiful mess you made. Who are you? If I’ve been denied the right of knowledge, I’ve earned the right to judge. | Without knowledge, who’s to judge? | No gavel; no voice. "...politely reedy but ambitiously eclectic—moving effortlessly from hen-picking and bottleneck slides to a full deck of chucka-chucka rhythm figures." I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. *Neurodivergent poet. *Don’t judge/hate. I love. *Honesty without mincing words. *Dump your prejudice outside my door. Hope you leave it on the way out. *Nothing to fear but people who surround themselves with rules, can’t be touched. *Real dialogue accepted. My words collect, arrange on a kaleidoscope spectrum. The true experience/acknowledgment of my writing yet to come...long after I’ve left WDC, am dead, or both. 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 viewed. (if I knew what that was. Cryptic, I know. Try living in my dark, find comfort amid the strange, virtual walls that tempt me to try). *The parenthetical lawyer up? 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 won’t be a coward; not starting feuds or wars over ideals and beliefs. We all know that’s a pile of crap packaged with dreams of pretty things to sell 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, does it mean when dealt the worst two cards before the flop, do the best with what you got? Yeah, rigged. Yeah, other tables — other ‘games’. But, 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 Misdirections 🥀🦋" 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 ▼ |
Tune Me Slightly out of tune discord plays daily Black keys please my ears best Your forehead wrinkles Tune me Guide my hands over cobblestone white building soft, fluffy melodies your discerning ears yearn in dream Layers of dust pollen to these boards mingle with hardened flesh — impale sharp, plunge within my chest — Tune me Guide my eyes to part your cloud heavens Teach me golden dreams where you rest If this is rust heart repurposed bleeds for rare return the best Soul drum of syrup I’ll purge for you So, tune me Rhapsodic melodies urge long your tender hands on mine Teach me on my playground your tender sex What purpose all I’m feeling decomposing my hard words in soft tune? When iron rusts? They break your heart unaccustomed to your form. Words inform, spoken could mean even more. Author Note ▼ |
Maybe, inspiration will come. In a rut/funk now…been. https://www.quotev.com/quiz/13568704/What-is-your-kryptonite I got: Uncommitted If this is your kryptonite, you might hesitate when faced with situation that require dedication to a particular long-term goal. Often, this term is used for romantic relationships, but it can be used for any other areas of life. Being unable to make commitments can be troublesome, because this inability can cause failure in any sort of relationship, ambitions, and work. You might find that you can’t stay in a relationship for longer than a few weeks, or you can’t follow the same daily routine you have planned for yourself for longer than a week. Perhaps you get bored or tired easily. You lose motivation quicker than you gain it. The perks of this kryptonite is that you have the desire for change. This allows you to experiment with new ideas, so you gain more knowledge, and open up your mind. So, being uncommitted is not so entirely bad, and it’s perfectly understandable. |
Forest Nights Sensed I had waking nightmares mustache hairs were trying to shake hands with the gray nose outcrop reaching low, while wily eyebrows wound like winter vines spiky-hung to look in any open cave. Ear hairs collectively sang a chorus in their cramped theater. Little space for any other sound to wedge within, when I did not hear you. Eyes strained in an antique white-walled room, scrutinizing pale lips, your dilated orbs, well spaced from furred furrows silent arced language. A protracted scene induced rising, flooding in chambers. Clogged heart suffocating, breath going out did not receive good molecules in return. My hands trembled but did not bridge a division growing without and I could smell everything with a grease-fried, crisp tongue, skewered. Oxygen rained on a weathered, soft canopy. Moist and humid, loss resurrected my soft spine, straightened at shoulder, spanning out to search your grace, touch skin in dark, when I woke. I have yet to find you in these forest nights. 2.17.23 New title a little too contrived, on the nose, poem all together too confusing, some or all of the preceding? I went live before I had a satisfying edit…not sated yet. |
The Quiet Quirks Of Grown Up Kittens There’s no one here to laugh when I walk down the hallway towards the bathroom and see a pair of green eyes gleam from the sometimes habitué in shadowed dark above the edge of our bathtub and say “hey bud, I see you’re in your fortress of solitude.“ so much of me is wasted, words that drift into the paint of these walls, gathering above my head, unabsorbed. The walls or the words? Does it matter? 2.11.23 Some Refrain In The Membrane: I’m gonna fill up that blog Fill up that, fill up that Fill up that blog… with every last remaining thought I’m long past due time to stop seeing therapists who won’t meet me in their office I’ve got a simple blog with few replies that will suffice
A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that. |
unpreserved something, something, neurodivergent whenever the words swirl a storm inside my head they attach like snowflakes in the upper atmosphere before they fall heavy as eyelashes weave within the white without sound without hesitation enveloped and forgotten and onto the next unique batch of crystals forming, reforming isotopes of a beautifully ignorant mind that cannot possibly construct two thoughts alike as properly parsed patterns so others will understand — know the beautiful torment submerged skies prepare until the next gas station fill up of frosted bakery fresh perked java I'll idle in my bed I'll idle in my head I'll idle 'til I'm dead if i can avoid each of you, and forget every beautiful snowfall dreams that melt unpreserved unbonded by words of yours. 2.10.23 30 lines, or 32 if we count title and caption free verse why can't i paint a picture of my pain for you so you can grieve for me, so i know it's okay for me to weep, too. about impetus on another momentary soul search happenstance ▼ sounding a bit fatalistic as a neurotypical ▼ much ado about snowflakes ▼ |
Our house shook. You -- comforted by lightning and thunder Grounded, struck by the flashes. Rattled like the large window panes, My weak putty and blade could apply. Years saturated, stagnant water trapped in our walls, released a torment… Plaster Carpet Wood Sogged. When we tried to repair despair regret we lived so careless ignorant. And there’s still rumbling Building As you delight in coming event We could burn But this hollow house full of oxygen smolders squashes a spark No blaze forthcoming. Our house shook. I’m unsettled and can’t settle noise inside four walls My roof overhead could tumble down. 2.10.23 Bit more epic than ventured. Something I’ve been working on last few days, not a spurious offering. I forget the impetus but get the pulse, with each word building into…something? https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/sog |
Master Of Flies no innocence spared I know who or what I’ll hunt when humanity devolves. I do not wait. I choose not to idle, to be struck first. The time to wonder is before a world on fire. Sticks sharp, traps ready will set. Blood they’ll thirst. I’ll not crave. Mind nightly maps each coming conflict and possible outcomes. Glass will be dull, deep shoved in cavernous heads. None will mount sticks. Flies will not feast where I flourish, but on red streets of my victims. They die by my hand. I’m undead, killed by them lifelong. I spared breath for muscle. Sinew strong, I’ll flex and strike again and again. No graves for them. They left me in rubble. I hide in ruby. Will rise from boulder crushed to pebble and dust. Life grinds, even now. The end could be near. Sharpen your sticks. You think you have just cause to fight, to the teeth? To your death? I have no use for you as you for a master after I was dead. 2.6.23 A Grindhouse Joint Revisiting “Lord Of The Flies” day after tormenting day and making my mind up about something. |
Penguins, with their black and white tuxedo appearance, always look like they’re ready to impress the ladies. But for Adelie and Gentoo penguins, they also need the perfect pebble to seal the deal. These penguins live on rocky shores and prize these small stones to build their nests during mating season. During courtship, a male penguin will find the smoothest pebble to give to a female as a gift. If she likes the offering, she’ll place it in the nest and the two will continue building up their little pebble mound in preparation for the eggs. Of course, “pebble envy” remains a problem for some male penguins who just can’t find the right rock on their own. Instead, they will steal the best-looking pebbles from another penguin and pawn them off as their own. For some species of whale, songs are their romantic gesture of choice. Whales rely heavily on sound to communicate in the water. And when mating season rolls around, male humpback whales will belt out amorous tunes to woo a female. Some research even suggests that males will start to weave complex syntax into songs to convey more information to a potential mate. But, there are always other males ready to imitate successful song styles to win over their own crushes. Sea otters lie on their backs when they’re in need of a deep doze, but their prone position also creates the perfect excuse to hold paws with their significant otter. Sea otters will either grab on to each other, or wrap themselves up in kelp, to keep from drifting apart at sea while they rest. But, it’s not all hearts and roses when it comes to mating season. Sea otters are polygynous, meaning a single male can mate with several females. This usually results in fierce competition between males to land a female. Reproduction for seahorses is a delicate dance in which males and females aim to be perfectly in sync with each other. Studies have shown that seahorse couples will court for several hours, swimming side by side to mirror each other’s movements. The longer two partners are together, the more successful they become at breeding. After mating, the male prepares to do what very few animals, including humans, are capable of doing for their lady. Male seahorses will carry up to 1,500 eggs in his pouch for about 45 days, leaving the females to relax until her babies are ready to be born. Monogamous French angelfish are rarely without each other: In fact, they’re almost always observed in pairs. Together, they must jointly defend their feeding territory from other hungry fishes, showing that teamwork helps build stronger bonds with your loved one. If they happen to drift apart, their reunion involves behavior known as “carouseling,” circling around each other as a kind of greeting. Maybe this will inspire you to poeticize a sea creature…like the Penguin…this month, here:
Hope to see you there. https://oceana.org/blog/sea-creatures-keep-love-alive-romantic-gestures/ |
It's February forgive me for not dining on the buffet that is addictive chocolate severed blooms destined to wither in heart shaped vases, stored in dark, hidden coves of souls for months, to years, but...unrelated... Hollowgraphic Socialism bad. Capitalism good? Socialism bad? Capitalism good. Been bouncing ideals on my tender knee mindlessly ignorantly eternally Farmers need 4 dollars for a crated Styrofoam carton of eggs Electric cars no go in this climate prone to snow Can you bounce that? Too heavy. Get out of the way. Where am I going with this? Don’t speak to them? Don’t speak to me. Candy for them. Liquor for me? Interactive role play. Candy crushed? Live internally? Don’t live in this reality, because we're all pawns in a holo- graphic universe try chewing on that? and what the hell is that supposed to mean? when we are made of chocolate when we die as red roses? we brightly ingest we burn for surprise of wondrous, torment of perfect, dilated eyes we fail and find dirt? sorry, it had to end this way this is only the beginning of the end i could have sworn I was real i really thought you were, too who am i to say? i'm no cosmologist or physicist but practicing behaviorist winding my way through the sewage to get to dry dust. this must be survival? 2.3.23 something random and epic (like the shared song) that's pasted from multiple poetic efforts that come up short on own, lacking a hook like the vocal warbling of the nice TTB singer lady. I can add, edit or delete later, since this is all real and yet not. No, feels kinda dun. and that's about as heavy as it gets...add whatever emoji to dumb down as I sundown (sorry, I tried). Can't make it better. Is this where the poem ends? Or did it end on me when you stopped reading?? my apologies to Tedeschi Trucks. Blog space is limited. |
Ollie Ollie oxen free. Physi-physi-ognomy Bright sparkle our dead wood. Catch homunculi if I could. Over over red rover. The ball hides in the clover. On which side of the house Will I catch myself a mouse. Cans now kicked down lonely road. Burden, an invisible load. No games or friends again today. Mothers called them all away. 12 lines, traditional rhyming 1.28.23 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olly_olly_oxen_free Physiognomy ▼ Homunculus ▼ |
The truck is broken it’s snowing Alex needs the car for work tonight the truck stays in the garage tonight can’t employ it on these roads maybe we’ll give Alex a ride to work engine light appeared on the truck this morning and the roads are a mess don’t want Alex in the ditch again with that car I’m done paying to repair this truck supposed to get us through another winter can less afford risk to Alex in that car why can’t I trust a truck? what peril new snow on roads? what good is a car that fails, too? how are you and your aging truck? how’s the weather? how am I to care for that boy and these vehicles? I should buy something new We should move from this zone Alex needs to be on his own I could get him a truck move to Arizona with a car that has its share of repairs, too have you seen truck prices? this weather? this debt growing each day and night? I remember when I wasn’t ready to grow up when cars weren’t equipped for these roads when dad always bailed me out, or you 1.27.23 |
i view you as if for the last is it the last? i listen light heart tightening clutched for you i yearn hold holographic vision before revision i touch soft singular screen pixeled vision fading i savor again as you go out licked light on my porch joined cinnamon stick stirs a black tea in rockers reclined, rest dust creeps sour eyes stung, as night hung to bed shall i dream of you instead? 1.24.23 does it end here? there's always a parting shot. the past will be repast will be past in this paste thickening 2.14.23 edited structure with couplets primarily instead of consistent three-line stanzas to eliminate need for punctuation in places calling for it. does it end here comment added as two lines. |
We Are False I am false I like to say we so I don’t feel alone but I am alone We are false 1.7.23 |
Tangled (fanciful) Flight I held your knotted tail flat cotton flow with wind whipping me wound and bound teething a tether seething struggle in frantic flight fight for futuristic visions heralded horizons headlong hopeful to climb your crafted kite surf bright breezes in twittered twilight tearful to ascend as near as far as this will go to whatever heaven now exists attached to your rope soothing tassel twirling twisted up, tangled verses sung, flung to vacuous clouds where are my ears? here is your clown should we descend gently to Aramis ground who is the tapestry? how heavy as a rug what strength wind to take flight in black? eyes fear even the imaginary delude reality tickling red demons bite false flesh carry off as food thought that sailed away before buried soft in sand. 40 lines free verse 1.16.23 1.24.23 major structure and grammar edits Aramis ▼ |
i'm in my hole in my box in the ground approximately six feet down because i've dug and dug decades long waiting for a long dirt nap but there's frost and cardboard won't suffice i'll be ice before spring thaws i'm in my garage be-dimmed with hammer and nails and do it yourself coffin kit knotted pine in gray heaps hovers over cement dry on two-by-fours and there are instructions this may take awhile but eventually I'll be fine when it's time if we ever know when that is, and if i'll need help lowering down for now my hole is a time share i rent 52 weeks a year hope the earth doesn't swallow up before then they all mock me like Moses the flood already came and went I'm just waiting for the next 1.14.23 137 words of free verse. not long. not long like 30 lines sounds. Dew Drop Edit ▼ from 'living in the margins of minutia', an as-yet, ill-conceived book title of aspiring averageness. I've gone through periods of this before. There are spats of blog entries with endless nattering of thought after thought of what did I mean by that? let the exploration end again this morning at the drug cabinet, topped with the usual dose of caffeine. |
my neurodivergent brain spins like a wobbly top counter-clockwise is there a law (of motion) against that? it seems 'contraindicated', yet I cannot get an 'amen'... like punctuation now stands outside quotation marks. be inclusive — exclusive is the new normal as cheerleaders and jocks once ruled courts and lunch rooms of high-school-dom that was dumb i shouldn't have added that strike that too late for me save yourself go to another room before i babble on any further my wash is already spun and did not include detergent no detergent for this? post-apocalyptic title? 1.13.22 I swear, all the time i wrote, only one song looped in brain: Heat Lightning Lyrics ▼ standing in the fields of neverland a book not forthcoming as none will read or this? so i should be fine. but i won't scrub, sooo. these are not the words I prepped to pen this morning: "Note: Assumption based information can shake the found..." my writing goes down a slippery slide, exiting with all hope of plans for what I would write or conclude writing and sending on for consideration, another day wasted in the washroom of my brain. the abridged version is actually here: "Note: abridged version of morning: my neurodivergent br..." I really need the tires rotated, or to just fall off. Poem 2 (like song No. 2 - short) like driving a car around a corner on two wheels at perilous speed distributing just enough weight to avoid flipping over and not sending the car flat to four wheels (what fun in that) until the bend meets the straight away. even then, its tempting to keep going to see in swerving, free-wheeling mastery how far i can take my two ton friend for a walk down desolate, country highway without serving my brains to the asphalt. first thought (constructing) when I woke and couldn't go back to sleep until I arrived here to 'jot down', 'flesh out', unable to imagine a better forum to dispense hyper-extended, manic logic that serves like two pills for unwinding, over-processing head. look ma! no glasses. need to hydrate same day as above “Blur” reference |
Can you follow this? I run to the river, bright gushing, receeding on banks delivering smallest offspring, fuzzy. They follow mother, but you don't follow me to the bench in mellow sun. Patient. I must be patient. They leave on a stream, paddle soft, obedient, glide unlike me, awkward straining to see what's so important that you can't come to this trough, drink in images I hoped you'd see, that we could share together. Trees hang low on this path. You follow now, paces behind. I point to this or that. I've been wondering, what if you stopped noticing me. I'm not small, fuzzy, gliding but sinking in muck sucking my shoes to shore. Can't get close enough to capture one image satisfactory enough for you, for ‘Ah, that's nice.' You know the sun fades. Air chills early in spring. No jacket, you turn back at earliest dusk when molecules somehow absorb twilight-soothing-aura. Who can I choose to share tiny little moments, not as important as messages with tiny images’ gleam on a palmed instrument? I think it's time to go home. I want to be alone, not to look at distraction, but hide in reeds from a world that needs undivided attention. Dishes, laundry, clean bathroom and ready to mow the lawn all summer long, without you on the stoop, gazing inward. You don't see me sweat without someone to know my devotion and need of return. 10.12.23 |
I don't normally write these: SILENT NIGHT Savoring her holiday confection, baked Into shapely culinary perfection, Love melts in watering mouths with each bite. Each precisely portioned or severed slice Neatly adorns her colorful, festive platter Taken out each season from that relic cabinet. Nestled in quiet of arm chair with loaded plate, I settle warm to bathe in tinsel-absorbed state, Groggily drift, dream of toothsome treats digested -- Hot or cool, salty yet sweet, tender and tasty, Tradition lives on from oil-soiled recipe cards. 11 lines, Christmas Acrostic
December, 2022 |