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Rated: 13+ · Book · Writing.Com · #1149750
A new decade of musings from poetry to what inspires.
I've read poetry that opened my eyes, realize now mine have been closed when I write.

The drive north is easier than south in summer.

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

A new start for an old blog -- replaced by "Black Hole ๐Ÿ’ซ๐ŸŒ‘ SuperNova Afterglow , now at capacity as of 2018, focused on specific writing projects and goals:

Black Hole ๐Ÿ’ซ๐ŸŒ‘ SuperNova Afterglow   (13+)
The case for a black writer in full on Super Nova here. Black hole or write dwarf forming?
#1300042 by Brian Keith compton

Having no specific aim going forward...

I've hammered away at this glass with forefinger since resurrecting in 2014. I'm always ready to say too weary. Compulsion compels me, instigation informs, and still here I am...bright, full of light and dark, revealing hidden colors and shapes. That was before...
I hear what you are saying...but especiallly...what you are not.
Yes, I struggle. But I'm getting through it. How are you?

I've gone by other aliases. People remind me of that. Sometimes restrained, it's hard to understand what I write. It will be clear some day. Hard to hide what's in my heart. I'm making no apologies going forward for my feelings. Not interested in the trap of stereotypes. Not sure how we'll feel about that.

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 that I've figured out the ever changing rules of your game, you take the ball away, no longer engage me to play. You pay a price for this kind of friendship. I lose, I guess.

Previous ... -1- 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 ... Next
May 28, 2020 at 9:44pm
May 28, 2020 at 9:44pm
Restrict me, ban me, censor me
I implore
My freedom of speech heretofore
My right to expression
muffled like a mask against a deadly disease:

the misuse of words

formed by
a one man army with a propaganda campaign
against a redacting overlord and
deemed by you, the owner of said business,
Necessary to suppress
with a corporate right
to snub me
snuff out what you see, er,
I'm sorry, your fact checkers...


you could
implore indifference
don't react, stay
these words of his/mine won't play
but Twitter, the President
of our U.S.A.
what a snit, hey?

he can just sign legislation
to may this all go away?

Well, I could have some fun
thinking I could mix up a batch
a potion of words and hurl
at your expense
but I've grown tired of you
and of making a self-defense...

so, sign the executive order
which to him seems
'turnabout is fair play'
this is a democracy
and I can sue your pants off?
if I don't get me way?

You're putting a cap on that right, Don?

We'll see.

Just a poem made up in a flash and will likely forget about for a few days.
Interesting, though. Freedom of speech is not good for some businesses, I gue-ess. {that's a lilting syllable, right there, that was. uh-ha.)
May 23, 2020 at 11:53am
May 23, 2020 at 11:53am
from the man brandishing a gun to
the boy dangling swung legs from the tailgate
of his father's produce truck
images entangled in cop talk and
sentimentalism of things fictionalized
by the sequestered fool speeding through
these parallel portals to realize neither
and both exist in him
until the day he dies until a magic gun
does materialize
in his incapable hands.

when is father coming back?
he was never there to begin with, boy
when do the police come?
you have to commit a crime to get acknowledged

so, without handcuffs I write and
without the heart of a boy or a parent arriving
aimless I plunder on through these words yearning
to find some meaning.

what a useless place I thrive in

just more word soup to stir

do you think there will ever be a point?
um, you don't have to answer hypotheticals
May 16, 2020 at 2:20pm
May 16, 2020 at 2:20pm

Is it wrong I want to be left alone until
I donโ€™t want to be left alone until
Iโ€™ve had enough of you, go back into hiding until
my heart and head are ready to repeat
the whole charade, the whole masquerade?

I love you dearly, sweetly I do
I love you near me, quietly will do
I love the idea of you until
You open your mouth and formed words
tumble out of that pretty little head

I hold my firm finger to your lips
or kiss them instead
Pressure is best for two locked
in silence, engulfed by passion

I said I loved the idea of you
I spared you my words but gave you
my mouth, exhumed my soul within
Let me have these moments now
to reflect upon you in silence until...

May 16, 2020 at 12:29pm
May 16, 2020 at 12:29pm
I know it's beautiful outside
so why isn't it beautiful within
as I'm looking out this window
through your portal, a mirror
reflecting back on me...?

let the honeybee eat cake, eh Marie?
though, you probably didn't say it.
thresh every dandelion and daring
wildflower brightly infecting vision
at the break of Spring, the first Saturday
get your fat ass on the saddle
of that oil-spitting, smoke-spewing
red rider grating silent air-waves

spray the remaining 'noxious' weed
with your molecular destabilizing blasts,
sparing perfect green from invaders,
spare the colony of Arian blades
from the shade of those pesky,
multi-armed giants towering above,
daring compare to, a lush carpet
for tender bare feet so nimble,
dare shadow dutiful tulips arriving,
bordering on perfect, multi-colored
symmetry of pretty maids in a row
that somehow sprung up; despite
the wayward pollen you so desperately
avoid, need collected, inseminate
these things that bring us outdoors.

meh. I will work on later.
May 16, 2020 at 11:10am
May 16, 2020 at 11:10am
I hope you know darling
I can't be the wild garden butterfly
haphazardly flapping white wings
before your aromatic hyacinth,
lily of the valley bell sprays,
amid spring tulips daring symmetry
and other hand-me-down heirlooms
longing my tender hands weed, divide,
surround your beautiful, wide eyes
envisioning eternal symphony, nearing
like infinity, in an instant taken
by storm, gnawing rodents and bespecked
insects with voracious appetites.

I'll be white-winged wherever you are,
flowing but separating from our past
to move beyond, fading forgotten into
the blue, clouded vault of mystery --
beyond the dust of towering pine
swaying, judging -- and below the ground
with soil ever-loving, always nurturing
our shared desire of blooms sprouting,
and graceful garden butterflies showing.

The most beautiful melody at memorial
you can't hear is playing in my ears
while we share a bench alone eternally.
You clutch my hand as if knowing my
suffering here in silence on earth,
while we stay together, apart, or in
bed each night as you tenderly clutch
my soul's remains. My eyes are only
for the spinning ceiling fan whooshing away
sounds repeating in my tiresome head,
eroding guilt I cannot fully love you
until I know you celebrate me again.

I've come to realize I broke the vision
you had for me, of a silent knight
long ago, when the white steed suddenly
died at your distressed feet...when
you realized I was now the helpless one,
and you would have to shoulder me
from then and beyond every tomorrow
until I'm ash scattered on breezes
landing me in the hopeful, morning bed
with delightful things I never had eyes
to appreciate, like your longing
for my soul's return to you, darling. *Butterfly2W*

"Dirt Buffet (It Is Your Fault)

Tell me I don't belong among you; give me a real reason and I swear if it's honest, fair and true, I'll go.
May 15, 2020 at 10:04am
May 15, 2020 at 10:04am
In a field of words, I haphazardly harvest life's little treasures.
Unkempt, sprawling verses I carry home, falling out of pants pockets,
to shove In a tall glass from your cupboard; hoping you'll fill with water.

from "Flowers

Antithetical ๐Ÿ“ Jottings  (13+)
A new decade of musings from poetry to what inspires.
#1149750 by Brian Keith compton
May 12, 2020 at 12:06pm
May 12, 2020 at 12:06pm
Real Men Wear Masks (not fear)

They stack their apathy like corpses at Auschwitz
to burn and/or bulldoze in the ground --
bare faced men standing six feet apart
like apparitions, eye me from a safe distance

at Fleet Farm.

I may be asymptomatic; you're the fearful,
as the division stands among the flannel-clad
who won't touch hand sanitizer at check out,
but reach for gas cans in the back of pickups

to vigorously rub.




#realmenwearmasks #WearAMask
May 11, 2020 at 9:24pm
May 11, 2020 at 9:24pm
You might not be long for this world.
Never seen so tragic a tale.
Letโ€™s get our breath , take a moment. Exhale.

I spied a child of two roar. I held
a wonder at four who never feared but soared.
I tailed you at your insistence
it your first dance, swung by
Daddyโ€™s able arms abandoned
to prance about that gymnasium floor.

But elementary dreams faded, broken.
In my arms it was seldom spoken
whether you knew the words or
could reveal a heart not meant to mend
for hands feebly making self-amends.

I wanted to leave you gleaming
In shuttered world now streaming
Before I hit that golden horizon
I wonder

written about my fifteen year old she/he kid who's left us all wondering how this is all going to play out after anti-depressants and eventually adderol.
May 11, 2020 at 9:13pm
May 11, 2020 at 9:13pm
something I shared with ๐ŸŒ˜ Darleen ๐ŸŒ’ one her message board called "Feed me a Line!. let's see who comes up with something first...

She kissed a dead man on the mouth
in his eleventh hour,
before time ran out
to win her affection.
She held his face in her hands,
guided his lips to hers,
and they fully compressed...

actually inspired by a 2010 Australian flick featuring Peter Dinklage courting a woman he'd never met with a letter he wrote to appease a promise to his dying wife to seek love and not be alone.

Antithetical ๐Ÿ“ Jottings  (13+)
A new decade of musings from poetry to what inspires.
#1149750 by Brian Keith compton
May 11, 2020 at 9:02am
May 11, 2020 at 9:02am
By the tall window he sipped coffee,
never letting go of the handle while
caressing the cup with the other hand,
where it hovered over the receiving plate.

I watched him from the alcove of my
work area, where I scanned for tables
to bus and patrons needing a refill;
though, it was the waitresses' job.

I did it for the pony-tailed blonde
with nylon skirt that pleasingly slid
up her long thighs, whenever she reached
beneath the heat lamps for orders.

I served her because she could speak
to a lonely dishwasher's heart with
warm words eliding every so tenderly
over each bird-sung syllable until her break.

He sat in the same window booth most
everyday I worked and only ordered
the java that seemed sustain him enough
to go on reveries viewing a warm scene.

Did I mention that I knew him, felt
compelled to serve him, knowing some
universal thing that linked us. His name
was Ken, my brother's father-in-law.

We nodded acknowledgment of one another
most days, before I started assisting
Sarah, who took her breaks, today with
Bill, the other dishwasher, out back.

I watched Lisa cover tables, but not
for this girl who spun my dizzied heart,
that needed her warming words when I
covered her area on that day when

Ken slumped in his booth and stopped
peering out the tall window, while I
wondered if anyone was going to check
to see if the divorced man was okay.

I stood in my alcove, and in horrified
silence, as the ambulance drove away,
never moving, never gesticulating,
to this day wondering if I have

it in me to cover tables for Sarah.
If I could just hear the words spoken
Can I warm that up for you? once
in the years it took since quit that job.

Bill grew old. Sarah aged, too. Lisa
is a grandmother and I'm with Ken
today, and never mind where I've been.
I've never known the meaning of warm.

May 3, 2020 at 10:51am
May 3, 2020 at 10:51am
Summer Silencer

He needed an automatic life silencer
from the moment his own screams
pierced the dense skull, rooted
in its stem to the core
until he was hollow --
A boy alone
in tent
warmed in dark
swaddled him in --
With musty old pillows
that sometimes produced
a curious insect crawling across
his pale head perusing comics
or colorful Sunday section
at their woodland camp
beneath the pinnings
on the clothesline
where he hid
from them
all day

When supper was called he would hesitate
until a quilt peeled back produced her
expectant face and light behind it
as she repeated her words lovingly
Time to eat
Not a command, a call
to face the snarling man
at their table
When he wasn't there
life outside the silencer continued --
By the creek, spying for frogs --
Under the apple viewing bees
serenading pink buds --
Along the power line that made a trail --
rugged properties connected

Strawberries would sometimes hide
beneath red and green leaves
still too early for maturation
for a child who could remember
a happy man who drove their
green truck bouncing them --
unbelted on saddled stead --
over uneven terrain
to collect wood discarded
by yellow hat utility workers busied
with clearing their trail

With small lungs he drank in
wafting vapors --
gasoline and oil mixed
with summer air. Ears inhaled
tempered buzzing from
a one-horsepower propelled blade
chained, decisively ripping
trunks into stackable pieces
handed up to load where
he obediently stood inside
the paint-worn, metal bed
He would push down
oversized work gloves
from finger tip to palms repeatedly
The morning soaked his face
in their clearing where he wished lay
beside harvested timber --
tightly packed by him --
load approved by the cutter

They would return to wedge and split
stack and earn lemonade
on the tailgate
He would eventually learn
buzzings produced by cutters
were not always as even
as hewn wood

After the last meal
before sundown
he spent one more hour
dreaming inside
a temporary lair --
imagining a new man
to court his mother --
One who'd rub his head
when he passed
share a good word --
Who'd let him lay
next to him in the easy chair
(before too big to share)
read the castoffs
of Sunday sections
until breakfast
at the table in their den
off the kitchen
where she prepared
and called her loving
mealtime phrases

And before the last clothespin dropped --
the final blanket folded up
and stored in the cabin --
He took one look
into the sky
he missed
and sighed
Walking toward
the idling green truck
he glimpsed a man he had
not seen all weekend, who smiled
The man who taught how to
clip blankets to wire lines
with pins, he recognized
Good thing automatic
life silencers
have pins.

more edits pending

Antithetical ๐Ÿ“ Jottings  (13+)
A new decade of musings from poetry to what inspires.
#1149750 by Brian Keith compton
May 1, 2020 at 10:06am
May 1, 2020 at 10:06am
the light show                                                                                          

in curved flair                                                                                          
fireflies dust twilight                                                                                          
beneath the willow bends.                                                                                          
hairy branches dangle like chimes.                                                                                          
we marvel resplendent, imbued flight                                                                                          
aware the horizon inhales beams                                                                                          
grasping the surface                                                                                          
firing final flares                                                                                          
  the harsh porch light intercedes                                                                      
a clutched pitcher merges                                                                                          
with the black. gulping lemonade                                                                                          
on a smooth swing, we snuggle                                                                                          
in shared comfort, search                                                                                          
a clear vault for glow                                                                                          
twinkling warm                                                                                          
until sun up.                                                                                          

first edited 5.8.20
new edit 5.25.20
April 30, 2020 at 7:48pm
April 30, 2020 at 7:48pm
Tell me your truths
and where mine should apply
I've used them as patches
on these dry eyes

Share your secrets
and what I should divulge
mine trapped in Tupperware
sealing a dull head

You seem to know it all
Your easy demeanor instructs
how I should behave
repose in your presence

Any last words before parting?
You have better things instead?
Drop your knowledge like bombs
Demolish the already dead

What sport in that?
I have a few more coins
to toss in this parking meter
My car idles at your walk

I write poems that make no sense
It's a cathartic, rambling word soup
I snicker as you struggle discern
meaningless words like allegory

Tables turned

4.1.20 origin
4.30.20 revised and expanded
April 30, 2020 at 7:43pm
April 30, 2020 at 7:43pm
Tanka -Calico

your calico heaves
from bed, gray, arthritic form,
no proud tail to swish,
with clear blue eyes buttoned tight
sunbathes on the floor

Tanka -Mastodon

stoic mastodon
chiseled gray in dirt, extinct.
long, curved tusks battled
buried with its long trumpet
a proboscis stilled

I donโ€™t typically write these. These were constructed a few days back.
April 28, 2020 at 10:34pm
April 28, 2020 at 10:34pm
whenever dad hammered two-by-fours,
he reused nails pulled from old wood,
which became my job,
         flattening the curved spines
of rusted, metal gents
with their slightly tilted hats
         i couldn't correct.

but as their chiropractor,
                   each postured between thumb
and forefinger, plying
any flat surface --
         the work bench, cement driveway
         or walk, against a post or tree
or simply another piece of wood --
my instrument took aim,
became more true.
i learned not to flail
like a god of thunder, but
strike harder than a gentle
tap, tap, tapping --
awkwardly roll, pin and strike
roll, pin, strike!
hopeful they wouldn't squirm,
hopeful i could produce enough
before dad caught up, comment:
what's the hold up?
take away my pride, left
to devour oozing blood.

the deft maestro, in up-tempo,
whacked away unflinchingly,
smoothing stubborn,
little pegs, as he
rap, rap, rapped them
right into flat boards,
erecting a right frame
in under half a day --
would stand up a shed
or dog house, even lay
a garden bed for mom's
tiger lilies,
while I
a raw

Brian K. Compton

I got the idea for flatten the curve and went in a non-pandemic direction with it, since I have better handle on memories from childhood than imagination about how communities are trying to social distance and not overwhelm hospitals.

Maybe, I'll take another stab at flatten the curve another day.
April 26, 2020 at 1:35pm
April 26, 2020 at 1:35pm
gypsy tree

in my youth
hidden on the hill
where my father would hunt deer
wild game
and me
on the tree hidden
slow, undulating wings.
hundreds, if not thousands of Gypsy moths
reminding of black and yellow fungi
clasping tree corpses
on a nearby logging trail.
but, age cannot rediscover that tree
hoping to glimpse
a timeless revision
hewn from an old stump.
a decaying mind
harvested by vexing gypsies
that grew in me
flew from my room
truth eaten
spare a few words eulogizing.

fleeting, fleeting, we're all fleeting and holding onto this ride before it stops.


still working on. only one type of punctuation for now
April 25, 2020 at 4:01pm
April 25, 2020 at 4:01pm
No immortality, no dignity in crawling
Across your sand, bedraggled,
Clutching coin to toss in your receptacle,
Hard-earned byproduct of toil like waste.

April 25, 2020 at 3:51pm
April 25, 2020 at 3:51pm
After 3 A.M.

I don't want to rise this early
Cats' stirred will want breakfast
A prisoner to these covers
I would rather not ruffle
but lie awake, try not think
of all unsaid
A mind burdened could
dutifully make coffee instead
But the machine would deliver
a light sleeper too soon
for her own journey today

So I contemplate moments
of happiness, turn off dread
The moon gentle glows
just beneath my head
where the pines rise
from a broken frame
where the black has led
escape from another dawn
The glass reflects too much within

I roll from this bed
seek solace in the coldest room
shrouded with footrest garb
draping burdened shoulders
The corner hutch reveals
cola to mix with rum
Lubricate dark haste in sin?
To this screen instead
bent fingers crawl, ache
characters dance in dim light
I'm not getting any more sleep
after 3 a.m.

I've stopped trying to make sense of it all.

5.1.20 revised, completed
April 25, 2020 at 3:42pm
April 25, 2020 at 3:42pm
These Dying Seasons

When they release redacted files
do they preserve a pristine copy?
Is our past so corruptible, as
ink upon paper by scribes who die
with knowledge that could free
our souls from guilt and shame,
stashed away by forefathers,
propped by Machiavellian visions
for a sour world sucked
like gumdrops by candy-loving
occupants with fillings deep
to the nerves, stored in cheeks
like wintering rodents housed
in an aging oak dropping dead
branches on acidic earth, killing
a once lush, green lawn. The mower
uses less gas in these dying seasons.

Redact away,
if a poet won't self-censor.


The reason why it's almost all one sentence? You can't guess?
April 25, 2020 at 10:51am
April 25, 2020 at 10:51am
The Process Of Plants (rewrite)
For My Brother, Michael

Do you suppose when they dug that hole in the ground
our seed would last, outgrow them?
sprawl across a fertile bed, mingle
with the other leafy greens?
wither in winter, poisoned by noxious weeds, befouled by creatures whose intentions to pluck us bare, spared?
emboldened by the rigor of our farmerโ€™s tiller, nutrient-rich fertilizers and chemical sprays?
to linger to this day in a sunny patch?

Our roots grasp terra, tightโ€”formed a place alone
where we cluster our main stock beneath the soil,
buried so deep, the spade could never reach.
I see you across the landscape, my brother, firm as me.
We only share the tender droplets and dying radiance now
to sate our needs. And I realize,
our experience as seeds to stalk to root
split us apart in independence.
Iโ€™ll die without knowing you truly before a final frost
or hopeful harvest --
can only dream in a green village, our organs composted
in the same pile where we die to breathe again.

4.15.20 rw

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