<<     January    
Archive RSS
Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1149750
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 Super Nova Afterglow, now at capacity as of 2018, focused on specific writing projects and goals:

Black Hole Super Nova Afterglow  (13+)
Blog just doubled in size. Full on Super Nova. Stay tuned for a full black hole.
#1300042 by Master Of Isolationism Brian

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.


You can't just read the parts that confirm (or can be construed as such out of context) your opinion of me, you mentally-stunted Neanderthal.
What? Oh, that? It's just a, ah, self-motivational speech I've been working on.
What? Yes, I should try to make it less negative. *RollEyes*
Previous ... -1- 2 ... Next
January 31, 2020 at 8:43pm
January 31, 2020 at 8:43pm
This Car Makes Sudden Stops

The car lurched
When I threw the column gear
Without slowing
To stop.
The cup holder claimed my hot beverage
My head spared from dash and windshield
By hard neck,
Anchored to a spine,
Always shoulder-harnessed
To imitation leather
Bucket seats.


The running car awaits
Further instruction.
I see a road
Through glass tinted enough,
But dirty
From neglect.
I see a passenger side floor,
Refuse --
Castoffs consumed,
Always remains.

But road.
What road?
And where have I been?
It's somewhere near dark.
Have I realized yet?
I never enjoy
Finding a side drive,
Make another Y turn,
Redirect this gaze toward home.

What's home?
January 30, 2020 at 12:15pm
January 30, 2020 at 12:15pm
purpose of bread bags

winter of '69 snowfall
so great,
thawed a torrent.
I was a puddle jumper,
breaking ice dams;
rerouting the flow
in boots not made for icy slush.
so, my dad saved bread bags
to place over my feet.
I heaved each
wiggling truant
inside the leaky rubbers,
to help him
remove snow and ice
from the drive.
January 30, 2020 at 11:18am
January 30, 2020 at 11:18am
In the empty chat room a poet writes;
His name a blaze by cursor pulsing,
as he taps characters to life.
In the empty chat room,
only he witnesses the echoes of his musings.
Wall bled dry of color flooded.
Squalls of tears burst forth,
Hush in a pool unstirred
Where they drown in pale,
Purposeless pixels.

January 28, 2020 at 7:50am
January 28, 2020 at 7:50am
This obtuse, underground language
You forced me speak; irksome,
I know --
Like the minds of children,
Unable to express to the busied parent,
In crisis, un-counseled
Un-able to form sen-ten-ces
Your ears disavow.
Not ready,
Never prepared to give answers --
A language you haven't mastered.
So, you set me down,
Regret yet having me?

These languages;
One learned, the other unreasoned,
Linger beneath tongues
Tied, idiocentric.
I hide in the wall closet,
Build forts with good blankets
In your home
Mortgaged; tied
To offspring like me
Who won't grow up fast enough,
Move out.

January 28, 2020 at 7:15am
January 28, 2020 at 7:15am
Like entering your craft that you emotionally invest a personal part of yourself before critics and judges and anticipate awards (the least of which is acknowledgement)...

Dear Me: Attune Your Heart  (ASR)
2020 seems like an appropriate year for renewed vision.
#2211442 by Master Of Isolationism Brian

I'm sorry if I'm obtuse. Such is the language of poet's indirectly inferring their meaning for you to ponder...or not (for the indifferent).

January 27, 2020 at 12:04pm
January 27, 2020 at 12:04pm
Fog nestled low in this snow
Curls about like ghosts
In dark, dull, iterated morn.
Street lamps glow on them,
Reveal unexpected eagerness --
My whim to merge in those drifts.

Winter lingers longer than shadows.

Disabusing coffee laps my lips.
I cannot savor hot brew, so
I cast one hypnotic eye out
This fluorescent-smeared scene.
Steam ascends divisive glass.
Ghosts haunt this home.

With spring will come the dew.
But, will I rise from my bed?

January 26, 2020 at 3:40pm
January 26, 2020 at 3:40pm

I put no pearls in your clutch.
In my gear do not dive
For baubles deep in my chest --
Exhale where I recline
On temperate gold-grained shore,
Sipping shaken fare.
Cool fruits ground alive glide,
Paint my nubile tongue.

Aware of seagulls eternal yearnings,
Winds high in palms
Synchronize with churning waves --
Whitecaps rolling, lulling,
Rolling, lulling

Beach towel draped on
My white, horizontal plane,
I admire thinly disguised
Bronze skin smooth ambling
Toward destinations I long be --
Not here
With you
When you need twenty-five hundred words

This isn't paradise
Where be-frecked snots suck
Juice from a box that miss
A wasp-hovered drum.
Shrill shrieks and splashes
Spear air beneath
Diving board groans.

This isn't what I signed on for --
Cold blasts remind
It's a short season
No one even ice skates
When winter comes

I need a new publisher.

I get that it falls apart. Another day when my head is not wracked with...ugh.
January 26, 2020 at 3:00pm
January 26, 2020 at 3:00pm
Escapes on my horizon,
From my drowning vessel.
Lifts the young heart,
Overinflated, floating Dreams.

You were my liquid
Glowing --
Energy for a weak heart

Inhaled, an addictive drug.
Exhaled, wasted by many.

I wasted a chance
If you could not be contained,

Too precious to possess.
I sought in dark recess.
Eluded my dull eyes.
Gone as time flies.

Where are you now my dark
Will I ever posses you

Subtitle: my obit for you
January 26, 2020 at 1:19am
January 26, 2020 at 1:19am
Coins (Hidden Spaces)

The first coin you coveted
A touchstone gleaming
With restored memory
Visions of a child who dared dream
Stowed away from grim reality
In a wall closet
Blanket fort with
Marshmallow cookie treats
Comics and pillows
A flashlight with dying batteries
Sending signals
To another dreamer
Who would clutch
Round silver
And the proper reading material
Hidden in sheltered dreams.

Not true finish to the initial inspiration from this. Just thinking how clutching a few coins felt special as a kid. Coins seemed more valuable than paper currency. The associated nostalgia is how I liked to burrow someplace with prized possessions and be hidden. I don't know why I finished showing as a shared experience. Though, I did sometimes with a playmate or little brother.
January 25, 2020 at 12:33am
January 25, 2020 at 12:33am
Fragments of my mind
Tattooed on matchbook covers
from borrowed pens heeding
An obedient hand clutching
stabbing at the heart of dreams
Fragments of memories
Of scrawled pleadings cover
A nightstand, fill drawers
With forgotten reminders
Stabbing at my heart through my head
What was I thinking?

I digress

I know I promised
Write you an opus
You're kind not to note
One man not a symphony
There will be no performance today
Postponed, when rhythms returning
Beg this composer sing your hymns
At a solemn podium
In vacuous theatre.
And the marquee read?
January 21, 2020 at 4:51pm
January 21, 2020 at 4:51pm
Prose and Dead Men

Tiger-striped flannel and matching ball cap,
if slid askew, would remind living family
of the old man --
sitting on the tailgate of his blue Ford,
sheltered amid flocked customers
and other vegetable growers. Cracking wise
in the corner parking lot of the local farmer’s market,
his hat true -- angled in the locked position,
a habit I suppose from serving in military.
Nicknamed Big John, missed death as a sentry in Guam
by just one hour --
relieved of post before another throat slit,
a nameless brother in arms I would not learn
until I was a man. I scribbled these musings
in secret journals, hollow words spun
in my corner booth for hours at mic’ed readings
where no one peruses the printed commitments
amid pregnant pauses.
My endless voice scratchings echo an arena choked --
with tears in my eyes not for him
but some liberal heart bleeding, actualize the purpose of

Flexible on where to go with this. Irony of a life lived transcribed by a life not lived in his shadow.
January 21, 2020 at 4:30pm
January 21, 2020 at 4:30pm

In our soft wood
His wedge drove
Deft swung the sledge gleaming
Through the heart
Cleaving each hewn member
The trunk of our maple --
Core dismembered and stacked
One by one
Burned to ash, lost
In the fires of memory --
Buried beneath bare,
Frozen earth

I wanted to expand, expound on this, but thought, maybe I shouldn't.
January 19, 2020 at 2:56am
January 19, 2020 at 2:56am
Thanks to Roseille ♥
I can dislodge this concept of a poem that has been rolling about the back of my head. Now that we're driving Alex back to school, timing couldn't be more appropriate:

Sorry, About Life

There's a boy
Who wouldn't eat his green beans
So we also heated
Sweet and juicy canned corn
With every meal
At the table
Rarely cleared to be set
With knife    and fork          and spoon.
Then, one day
He moved out
And life has been a buffet
Of green beans since.

We apologize only
For the corn.

I'd also like to thank WCW. *BigSmile*
Title undecided

Keep/remove 'his' from second line?
Not much depends on that pronoun. Think🤔

January 18, 2020 at 4:10pm
January 18, 2020 at 4:10pm
Thank you Roseille ♥ for remembering me with this kind bestowment.

Alone With My Lioness

Clearing the white drive
Hymns unsung from
My pink core
Black exhaust
I hope the last exhaled
About the housecat
Envious of his revered lioness
Who alone
Does not know
His devotion as she lies
Obscured amid
Tall, dried grass and stick

The heavy blade wielded,
Idle, props beneath my weight

From the clean drive
Songs unrevealed linger
In my heavy lungs
Black with regret
I haven't told you
About her yet
Lingering about
This brilliant event
Blinds my dry eyes
Yearn to view a blue vault
But only view a long street
As the snowplow comes.

It's about longing to commit fully to writing, thinking about telling her what I wrestle with, knowing she will not accept putting my word games above responsibilities that function to serve family first...comparatively, as I shovel the drive after a big snowfall. Lioness = writing craft (also borrowing from a love triangle in Netflix show 'Sex Education'. Snowplow is ominous.
January 16, 2020 at 6:39am
January 16, 2020 at 6:39am
My ignorance must please you:
Flail arms, squirm, unable
To appease
One who'd apply their bejeweled
paper crown.
I'm strong enough
Run a marathon but
Not bendable enough
To ply your obstacle course.

As you sit high,
Or swing legs down,
From your mocking perch
(Steel cage of bars),
Saliva drips from your perched tongue;
Venom to me.

I lace my sneakers
For another run
Through this playground
(Your kingdom)
Knowing the race
Is already won.

But who is the victor
As I prepare for the world,
Leave behind a nemesis
Teeter-tottering with no one?
January 16, 2020 at 6:20am
January 16, 2020 at 6:20am
Smashing eggshell into
The side of a red, teflon pan
Over moderate heat, not hot enough.
Skull imploding, already dead
At evaporation point --
My nuclear winter --
Fried remains inside
Man-made, coated steel.
I slither and fry, yellow
At the core, a baby
Who never arrived --
Just one of 12 crated,
Carried home from that morgue
called the grocery store.
January 13, 2020 at 10:04pm
January 13, 2020 at 10:04pm
I've been freebasingforming my poetry, again...

Get My Drink On (Before It's Gone)

I know I'm supposed to sound sophisticated,
Like I know my way around the bar --
Advanced past margaritas and 7&7s
To savor rye whisky from a jar.
As I sip discount bourbon
With Dr. Pepper from hydro flask,
I have to ponder then ask;
When did I stop drinking diet beer,
The kind commercials touted?
And what's this hard seltzer in a can
That tastes like overripe melon water?

I'm dared to mix Monster with UV vodka,
Stir Kombucha with spiced rum.
Yet, where is the fun?
If there's no party to tout these drinks at,
No memory aftermath --
Just a garbage puke bath?

I imagine, because
I'm at home in bed after 50,
Getting my solemn buzz on;
Though I'm ready to party 'til dawn,
I'll view celebrities responsibly drink,
Watch my waistline, I think.
I'll still be pretty at 60, but
I still need to eat. Have you heard
About these low-carb, whole-wheat wraps...?
Meh, who gives a crap.
January 13, 2020 at 8:44pm
January 13, 2020 at 8:44pm
As I hold you over the water
I say
Better learn to swim
My little pebble --
Your dreaming center
Hollow or hard core?
Be like driftwood, though
I know the untested result.
Waters swift could rage,
Roll you ashore --
Your destiny to meet
With another pebble and more.
Be happy
I do not cast you further out,
Test your ability
To find a home --

Because you are my pebble --

I place you where
The waves obey
The white moon,
Glowing with
My eternal love.
Hope you roll home soon
With stories to tell.

He starts his second semester of college. Hope it goes better than the first.
January 12, 2020 at 8:49am
January 12, 2020 at 8:49am
This short story is really a mystery to some who've reviewed. I clued in those who wanted to know it's meaning. I could have been more obvious, at least with the ending. I reworded the description line and will tell you he is monologuing to a therapist. There's still one vague element to the story that helps explain his behavior, if you'll explore.

It's not long or cumbersome to read. I could use a different font:

The Prankster  (ASR)
Things a boy does to make people laugh only serve to appease himself and cope with grief.
#1195045 by Master Of Isolationism Brian

January 12, 2020 at 7:44am
January 12, 2020 at 7:44am
          Merit Badge in Shadows and Light
[Click For More Info]

Hi Brian,

Congratulations on winning 2nd Place in  [Link To Item #shadows]  with your fantastic poem, [Link to Book Entry #973217].


Behind The Harvester

I was handed his other pair of boots that were too big
for me, crusted with dirt inside. I shoved them on over
white socks before we walked behind the farmer's harvester,

collecting neglected potatoes in gunny sacks like charity.
Not lucky enough to be shadowed by tall, wispy pines
to one side of the field, we gathered in the striations gold

we could sell from the tail-gate of our Ford for five cents
a pound. Unless the spuds weren't good enough, boiled
in a pot with cabbage and carrots. Shriveled, a few stored

in the root cellar, sprouting tubers like pale arms and legs,
before planting in our own backyard next season, when
I'd learn to hoe and dream of my own work boots.

from a childhood memory
12 lines

33 Entries · *Magnify*
Page of 2 · 20 per page   < >
Previous ... -1- 2 ... Next
© Copyright 2020 Master Of Isolationism Brian (UN: ripglaedr3 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Master Of Isolationism Brian has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Log in to Leave Feedback
Not a Member?
Signup right now, for free!
All accounts include:
*Bullet* FREE Email @Writing.Com!
*Bullet* FREE Portfolio Services!
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1149750