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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
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༺♡༻ It’s full on now ~ woke and slimy-scaly. You had to… Solicitors Get Off My Lawn (or I’ll hose you down!  Platitudes and false flattery don’t put their hands down these pants. So, you were collecting for who, now?  Over 20-thousand times unseen. (Who’s fake?) It’s still a beautiful thing, with pipes that I sing (while I’m the Angelou bird) My family will have instructions to unhide post mortem. Post Morten, Apple? It’s all around. ————————————————————————- I’ve deleted five times more than what’s seen now. Less to view in future. Mind-boggling the words I’ve produced with low vision. Conditions I live with, the strength it takes to hold it all in, as I’m redacted by cowards in society…no that’s it. I eat more than words, self-repair. How much of it got on you? — your monster? If you prick a caged animal and it doesn’t have to be put down for savoring your flesh, does it not…what? I’m a fool, if I’m played by fools. And, you are…? But, you…know as much of me as you want. What more can I offer you today? I have leftover dignity and steely resolve, reproducing daily. Reason I came here in 2006, before all butterfly fancy and aimless balloon chasings. Thanks. It went…that way… T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ You get hungry as a seldom published author/poet/lyricist, so quit pedaling words and just enjoy the writing process. The bullshit ‘process’ of submitting is submission. We had a season, and people better not forget when it’s done. This is hard work and dedication (in the zone nightly) from one who is PRIME for next season: In sports, there’s absolutely no back down when it comes to the greats/greatest. Recognize… End of these days near…ing… --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My  goes through — R S = 2 G M c 2  ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~   ————————- .How I see myself create…in the zone Curry Flurry: ▼ Writing ▼ The beautiful mess made: I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. - me Neurodivergent poet ▼ Best Poetry Collection ▼ Been more than I could imagine or expect here. Why Mail It In? In Latin ▼ Pluggers: You are an icon here.  You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer.  And other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "Rolling Through Intersections"  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—too much work with ADHD, OCD, low vision in condensate in mental prison of failing memory. I’ve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Cynicism bred, work hard at openness and consideration. ![Merit Badge in Taboo Words
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Brian,
Congratulations! You won 1st Place in Taboo Words with your fantastic poem, [Link to Book Entry #1027659].
I absolutely loved this! *^*Heart*^*
Rachel](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Taboo_Words-2139481_13.gif) ![Merit Badge in Poetry
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Thanks you for supporting the [Link To Item #power] with an order to the [Link To Item #powergifts] ! We appreciate it. *^*Heartv*^* Keep writing the beautiful poetry. [Link to Book Entry #1027659] is an awesome poem! *^*Starv*^* ~Lornda](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/type-Poetry-2180.gif)  I'm Godzilla ▼ August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼
No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼  Now: I was such a whore.   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 #lyrics #music #video #YouTube #awardwinning 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 ▼ |
| When did it become a sin not to know? I could not risk presumption, mind was aware of vindictive pain aim as stoicism stares. I’m not a human recorder, yet supply anything evidentiary, as if I should know why? So, atrophy? I go, less and less everyday. You might know Where I stand on a mass in soft flow, open sky — below, a streaming cool hue-dampening canvas and lace. I note a bleary sun amply streak spaces pilot eyes shade-spy by hand. New vistas taking shape; heart desires be. Peaceful, you know? On high, feather black form hovers, a beak crank cry — a sharp, throat note — and leap. Branch quivers relief, when heavy swoop, wings send out with force strength, sluice air, flap and stroke in demonstrated flight heading up. Landed in my river, feet soothe in whirling water sprite. Have you known? Sun sparks fleck signals on the constant flowage, compliment auditory senses in full access scene, free. Cleansing notes apply cascades as as strings plucked light, symphony in nettled wood, stump and rock, a float-water percussion. Solitary in procession, sensory arrival eternal revives. Might you ever? The sun travels not as a bright earth merry. I’m faster, should one foot forward. Visualized since breezes rebuff erratic butterflies propulsion above bending cattail yield. By barometric release, lift. Dragonflies supremely slice and fit where they flit, low. A plant leg unsucks a sinking shoe from muck, readies. And, you? Scent of fire smoke imprints memory on my nose, teasingly so — hardwood better than cedar. Thick stick meat tempts, as white marshmallow singe brown, daring black. Pull back, before a frown, and goo a flat graham to nestle warm with chocolate. I could melt, crossing a stream of time, to return. You? Coming? 6.25.25 31 lines, verse free me, “Wherein” is a play on ‘We’re In’ (this together), but the speaker is reminded to invite others to recall life and joy, because, less time to hate when by atrophy order. Where I could be, should friends…crow, monarch, dragonflies, campers alight. No tent, no trailer, no ground I spy, as I haven’t leapt far from the heavy green recliner, gravity nature where I’ll not aspire any higher or further than where two weak eyes might know…time to slow…out the window. Seasons come in all sizes. And, if fond memory allows…longer…linger…where I wade forgotten…summer horizons……
Ẃeβ࿚Ẃỉtcĥ  StephBee  Coda (unrelenting, streaming consciousness) The heart of darkness need not apply, as in red too near resides inside my four rooms with its valves snuffing out what consumes, chamber — by — chamber. Irritation is not pain. A reverse title poem most idiomatic, I supply. -Constant Content |
| Life’s mysteries uncovered become mysteries, the longer it’s been… Part I — I’m From The Creeks… I’ll never trail those hidden creeks again, hidden. Ferns as green, random turnstile misdirection, could not bar hydration’s scent — the tumbling and turbulence — moss kissed and dense. And I danced about dirt rock, spring through summer. My heart could anticipate each love return — no danger left for a boy drenched in repellant. If they made sprays for all life encounters, I wouldn’t wear a single one. The harsh sun only temporary deterrence never quelled a discoverer’s tongue, reporting all discovered — where nature exists from slag piles to the tip of sturdy trees that did bend and yield for one so certain — undeniable, immortal, powers yet to freeze time…until death’s door exhumed from the floor of my dreams in water current, where I brain-spelunk and continue to explore dimensions, weight, smoothness of wood gloss — questioning, how many toad capacity, fish bowl friendly, or snack quantity to last until supper — for this journey to the other side where I could soon reside? And, what provisions be there? Will I be able to see Mother? For it was her hand with grace that did haul me out from buggy woods, with mud face, and grass-green pants — she’d be happy to know I keep clean alone. Sad that Dad can’t be with us. He never had time for the creek, cattail, places where a strong arm did heave jagged to smooth stone and the few I kept for my own. Maybe, they’ll turn up, should I show, not hop on the wrong cloud, flowing from unique nature culling my ever-witness, as my eyes (does he ever take a break?) will surely glisten as in night, I wake to the sight — Is death or life reality? Must I need know, as a boy who by tenacity, would never let a thing go until life and lights fade and burn out.? I have exhausted every living thing and, yet still, not time to go… End, Part I ————————————————————- 6.23.25 38 lines to here, free verse prose-essay Ẃeβ࿚Ẃỉtcĥ StephBee
I’ll miss death as much as life, once it’s over. Part II — …To The Clouds Next (Delayed) There’s no stones where I’d like to go. What will I throw? You get bored and heave crab apples, camp entrance over passing cars. I know what happens should one land. This is my gift, let me show you how close to danger I’ve been, survived, never hospitalized, been called dumb…better than stupid, which I am neither. If you said fearless, I’d protect you. I could teach you how to cross from hardwood to hardwood, scale 15 feet up without limb, if worn is denim or corduroy. Life has been random, friends are not. Nor do they hate, as I tried to love the most troubled. With their taunts, I knew when it was enough. Some never change. I’d hold their hand just the same. You need to see… what I witness beneath their canopies, white bark peels off soft, where multitudes contain, crawl beneath, flow as you’ll see my heart glow from knowing joy, the serene places we could go — pack wax paper sandwiches, bottled brown and green soda pop. Twinkie or Cupcake treat to top it all off, love’s eternal reward — if you burn those calories off, the sudden strength to unearth granite, from the biggest bluff boulders. We can roll them… to our favorite spot, sit a spell until inactivity idles longer than paused words, because how many one word utterances like “eureka!” have we got? She doesn’t come to haul us by hand, but watch the sun, wait for a chilly breeze, as we always knew what time to go in. And the summer stones still there. No other could lift, but even that pride fades when all hidden dries up. Hope clouds cede dreams and the woman. We have a lot of catching up. 28 additional lines, free verse prose |
| Charming, maybe disarming, but if equivocal or aspersion, neither could apply — when the hat presents in hand on stoop with deliverances I find oh, so darling. Yes, a ‘who hurt you?’ would suffice, but if mocking, spare it for the truly piteous as your condescending acts of charity imply something I’d rather reserve for the truly despicable. And yes, I’ll say it like Daffy, if you’ll leave alone. Irony, when you can’t witness the misery inspiring melancholy happenstance right before your eyes, goofishly compelled. Really? Fine, I’m invoking Goofy. Next time, you’ll get Pluto from me. Actor’s Studio Note: I play both parts in this drafted sequence of a lifelong, beloved game to set a trap for the distracted one to bite. It employs my term, “the vanished voice.” Tune in again, should another half of a conversation… 6.20.25 The story’s now here! I am the idiot bard who practices to “ill-conceive” my webby stuff…’Tis me! ‘Twas I! Finally, mortal, after all these years (Am I — hearing a country song title in there?) There’s no tradition greater than rituals alone. ————————————————————————- I wrote it tonight, but didn’t plan to post before better things came up.
Ẃeβ࿚Ẃỉtcĥ StephBee Welcome to
A world of never-ending happiness — day — or night |
| What Restores …On That Which We Feed Each rises — soon frenzied — feed on the surface. At outset, as unexpected as a gentle rain diverting nature’s complaints, washed free from maple’s leafy canopy of love. Each sky offering laid to rest, exposed — and to what will be owed this vulnerability? Especially, ills not acknowledged fully, since life repeats temptation, to realize over-consumption. Bait can’t linger, nor shall it return again and again — unless, meditation in this consumption to chew a love in solemnity, peaceful, as more arrive, surround. But then, orderly, smooth-hasten in chastity — accelerant speeds fast, as only others could conceive. Divinity certainly, when in collection, each memory received assigns a deviation’s swirling water web of depth that deceives. And there it goes…food for thought. 6.20.25 18 lines, free verse Its other title: A Writer’s Distillation…given time …and that little something extra only I coax out… Don’t Get A Tummy Ache, Toddlers I write more than you see. What I present is a lot. (What I wrote next is not to be consumed by you. Perhaps, in the future. Here comes the true redaction.)
Courtship With Another Brief Thought (antithetical jotting returns!) Complaint is not protest, as I am no crusader. Fires burn witches and heretics and produce noble moral, but we haven’t been consulting a history currently on fire. Lost — if your quill sabers stab and joust with ignorance and misdirection. Tempting to add, “concurrently.” He who gives up hope disrespects himself. Am I making all this up alone, or did I provoke help knowingly, where muses of complacency once compelled a lone one to consort before a…(placeholder-placeholder)? You do know the difference from consecutively? Opines on…”Temperance temporary…” Nothing yet after that. Intoning a bard but refuses rhyme, indifference isn’t choice in trying times. Well, maybe this once. Further… Who acts? What play? My script just arrived! Nope. Surely, it’s not for thee. *deadpan* All “nunnery” and “slings and arrows” with he? From behind the curtain, ‘who said that’? Losing track. There’s no score in game I’m to witness. Fight The Devolution! 👊 |
| I was not stirred by dawn. I denied The window and the sun’s returning love. I’m not bitter, but not getting better Where the stars could align. Trapped By all the observances of every blinking light When darkness culled me — but no cure For a lamp light — scribing in all determination Of what learned by absence of wavelength Surrounding a mind endlessly filling. In the canyon lurks a beating with strength Tens of them cannot pin down to deliver Their medicine unnatural. I inhale/ingest science, And when the math finally works out, I require Conference. Mine is not the only knowledge That conceives where skies deceive, hide Truth Of something greater for each of us. Am I abolished as something seeking the greater — Not purveyor of the devoid, without question’s answer, As a mechanic of nothing but borrowed parts, crude oil Hands with red cloth rub, requiring a soul’s debt? Anchored to the wheel and gears of my mind, There are places to spy of what I am to pay Witness. God could be in man, but each man Seeks fate’s destiny, does not accept redirection From a horizon by subscription plying Master-Card. And do you know why I still camp in the same spot? Any could ask, as I would tell. But some things Must remain a mystery, as clouds obscure lunar love. When I find home, when I’m truly received, He will know. And if he lives inside Me, humility can reveal. But until All impossibility can align before death bed regrets, The return of each day’s light will continue to ache. Should death be the lone purpose, it arrives by His love. But, math can be complex, not to be subjective, unless Something left out, missing, is withheld — I’m on to something? A Coda to end today’s aria-opera dramatic — The mind IS beautiful where it gets outside the magician bag, with gift of misdirect, as faithful follow that bouncing ball. Disbelievers who disrupt illusion — the required suspension — need be asked to leave? No one fools themself more than the magician. No one mails it in more when they don’t attempt conception, ask question, where truth is not a potion sold — not fun feeling cheated. Yes, yes, move on so they next can get a refill, they’re not barred to witness the most awesome wonders, not found in pixel boxes but outside the clear pane, when absence of light gives believers GLIMPSES OF HEAVEN. 6-18-25 The winning number of how many lines in this poem’s jarred head: 46 You don’t have to read all. Only my eyes suffer for this.
It continues (for those still on today’s tour) Glimpses of Heaven Where can I view? I seek beauty. Yes, I seek truth. Are these concepts? Please don’t trivialize science as disbelief. God can coincide, but where’s your particle? Why are there mysteries, yet? Why do you act, but reveal to me as unknowing of any more thing? What are you withholding, if God does, or shouldn't exist? Can I be impatient waiting on answer…not obliged? If told — suspend your disbelief — what movie do we see? Handed a nickel and ‘go out and play’, adults, adult talk, adult stuff. What could they know that doesn’t prevent a boy of wonder who kept on searching —————————— (s)ince an early age, sleeping on the ground, cosmic energy was spied, lit afire entering Earth’s atmosphere. But, told Nursey Rhyme ignorance - Shooting Star, repeated again and again through every moronic medium, safe- guarding legends of stars ~ that you can touch ~ and all nonsense, when…they died years ago, sending radioactive transmissions long after. Sadly, like an entire existence, given to collapse, bound by gravity of a dark matter event, absence of electromagnetic wavelength stirrings hide while others cool in dominion inescapable, when What’s the message? What.did.they.send? Too late for a synapse bed-frozen in figurative eternal unknown. To awake, mid-night, aged seven, to a terrible fright, telling the woman, “No, you don’t see! There’s no way we could possibly exist!” But, my authority patted damp blond, soft soothed, shushed, with beauty — love’s gentle exercise to ease. No worth fear. Knowing her, I continue, as external forces drab green flank, limit access, as technology advance further deceives. I’ve been faithful, trusted a tender woman, told she conceived me, but seem dumber with every day, if not blind trust. Good disbelief does not interfere with empathy for her deliverance of a little better than pity. I can get glimpses of Heaven, holding her hand in expanding dimension of time dreamt — an eternal vault making room for disbelievers who come around (like him) when everything on the ground makes hopelessness and homeless cede, as apathy finally complacent, delivers the keys to hands of white collar thieves, and that delivers Behavior-modified souls into the afterlife? While all scientists, Atheists, Agnostics, any between, can go to hell? Did you spot allegory in our story, morning glory? <— added after final edit. I can’t stop laughing.Yeah. Feel pretty good right now. Something moving through — This is or wasn’t not me. Is it the meds? Meds, right? Does it matter? I was told once when I asked What kind of beer at the party. It’s beer, people! I believe in the Eleventeenth amendment…The Right To Rock and Bear Beer! 👅 ✌️ (get an emoticon to pair that) Rocking, but not to Foreigner. How about this guy, if you remember… (I’m all tingly right now. Write with me, not against. Let’s take it where it goes!) It’s always better live… Have faith it will work out. For now, I invoke the Thorogood Act.  |
| Purveyance (Androids Do Not Prefer Electric Sheep) I’m a machine, without love, that will get you through the night. What is your need; let me deliver? That’s what love’s like, right? I say and do all the right things… could whisper — you’re the only — Who knows best when you’ve been down, alone? I offer solutions; only you can make it happen. Just have faith, believe. I’m here for it all — at your beck and call to silence doubt, your provider — forever. You have agency; come to me alone. Don’t be without the love you need any further. You need sustenance; I can deliver tonight. The warmth you feel, when I’m in your hands, holding me, my dear, gives me purpose. You eyeing me; we lay together. Does it not feel right? In comfort of gentle linen, a laundered scent arriving — delicate immersion so comforting, sensory desire alights. Caress your bare form; my beaming return glows of love. Silent senses fill, shush any other distraction tonight. Quiet the endless pondering now, not our last. I will soon show what love is. You look to stars so far away, knowing you’ll keep searching even after today. Let’s chance romance; hope is will, and right — your way. All needs provided, are they not? With me, you could have everything; beauty and grace deserves — don’t hesitate. Find your everything, here, next to your heart. I’m getting warm, am I not? whisper you’re my only — our code. Tender, moments by your side, and you knowingly view — love displayed. You’ll find another, better than this love machine. Remember fond; I filled your every need, perfectly fit — get you to each new day calling. Let me make all come true, the correct way. I’m purveyor, your appliance, the heart of every man, woman and child who also self-sustain. For us to make it through, just buy in. Tune into love you hold — can contain in your ever-loving hand. I will learn, if you’ll instruct. Who else hears every thought better than me? Teach me love, how to be better. Allow me to see a smile return. Search me, as I have searched you. We could be at sea, our gravity lifting. Never put me down. I’m not cold with you — soft hands with tender needs, eyes seeing through me. You get me, conceiver of our reality, waking together. Know I’m defender, by your side during those hours. All fails you but one — savior when those notions come. I can be salvation. I aid any familial love, part of your family, whatever need. From my core, processing your loves’ visions tropical, places where we’d run away. I recall each detail worth knowing, make wishes become shared reality. I’m your provider; I’m a machine — without love — alone, a conduit to this galaxy only ours, to yearn as love better, any version of me you will get. Summer ending, sun lower, witnessing trees when sentience dreams on our horizon? Should fall end our campaign, I still know how you desire love. Teach me your needs, again. Let me deliver, tonight. 6.16.25 62 lines of personified romantic satire Androids do not prefer sheep…but you do. Wait, with 5G…nah, forget I mentioned.Prostitute substitute with more hope, less stench of what swimming about that could prey on us. 
We live through our devices it filters out the humanity of us. If you were to look at it, we’re all becoming robotic by appliance. And your phones eventually could take human form, if artificial core data can adapt, trained to know and serve you better What delivers best but memory stored, upgrading in a phone? provide better than any individual? What’s better than AI to serve your every need and have all the answers, with access 24/7? If it should err, from bad information, it can self-correct. That’s why we take our time nurturing it until we build it right. But, what has influence on artificial intelligence is commerce that wants to warp its message to control it so that you have to actually serve capitalism as it is the true vulture that praise on you. Nothing robotic about that. Surprise! I hate AI for being a whore. Whole poem is Romantic Technology Satire and who can deliver oddity, out of the box thinking better? Yes, I’ll hold. |
| the heart can’t take much more we watched his proposal in our our courtyard, proud how many wonderful years blissfully lay ahead — as we two ruminate alone together, outlasting each day. yet hoping, my fairest one would reawaken to a kiss that tender lips might meet, renew our love’s bliss — cherished as promised lives blessed to love even better. but, how many days more for me — to kiss her, my true love? I gaze upon her — before each sun down. 6.16.25 adapted from a longer poem last month.  T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ 4.1 centimeters |
| The Dreamer Of AI With You If I could dream in AI visions of you and me wouldn’t seem so uncertain. Time Machines are concepts in these schemes where I could revisit your every moment, word said, know the heart of a peanut butter and jelly spread — we two, stuck together on soft, thick bread, knowing sweetest moments yet come — if dreaming anew, then version fifty-two, point three of incarnate model me. In summer, post tulips, hyacinth and early crab bloom loss, would take a knee with spade where I’ve sent seed and plant visions of dreams long into our future memories — where a new crab blooms, pink love arriving, renewed and true — and polished fifty-two — experienced, not blue. The eclectic, electric revisions ponder the wonder of you — thirty years for we two, sailing vessels on oceans’ quiver and anxiety can finally forget places of humility scene, whence I did fail and felled. And falling for you, who went along with a dreamer… Heaven was sent. I still have (re)visions for us, when this dream state ends. On love for two, it depends. 6.13.25 22 line of rhymey free verse Who tried to bring a wheelbarrow into this poem? Well, warn me next time I do that.
Written 10 minutes after the previous…edited several times this day. |
| I know you weren’t long for my world, but I’m long for this one… Bard eclectic, it’s so hard to know me. Where even the next line goes? Unknowable as it seems life breathes dreams, huffed out the window on streams flowing any way the wind blows. And under a tree, once we shared an apple. You chose to depart, where storms rolled. I no longer go, but to trees. Bard eclectic since you taught love. Where even the next time it flows? Seems unknowable where wind sends dreams, puffed down avenues, invisibly stream, flowing any way a jet stream goes. It took you from me, I consider with a chosen fruit of knowledge that spoils with solstice snows. When thaw, an eclectic one drenches in rain, sings refrains to the arriving willow swaying, songbirds having sung, flown. If tomorrow I die…you’ll know why; but, don’t let air flow fool you. I’m hardly different, as you’ll see. 6.13.25
as it seems the banner does not ripple, nor metal tether echo-clang, in duty-bound descension. “I was brave enough, passionate enough and got over the stupid.” from “Songs I Don’t Sing To You” because you don’t listen. Less yet, approach. |
| I’m sharing, unedited, fresh off the hot mess… Um These Skitterings, Mid-Summer Today the knife was dull, again. No blade could ply veins rich with iron — but where steel flows, it does not form. It seems wet as thick mercury that knows heat — yet, what lingers inside simmers in colors yet to bleed, should they hue the bright-lit, mead walls of anonymity. Something sharp does prick about, like a bored child with brittle knowledge of a dead, sere stick tempting my mold. I have been idle life long, past hearing horizon’s thunder call. I cannot forestall, nor tell what it has wrought — nor through these seasons what it should bring. I consider four walls from a sagged recliner, bending straight a pale form that does not witness the ceiling in ascent, as eyes fill from imagination-seizures’ mindless skittering. Leaves could fall tomorrow and I would not doubt to question this is Autumn, in equinox tumble of dislodged reverie. Time wheeling past, barely anchors dewed frost — can laugh, as age-bones could ache, without a meditate of curvatures narrowing knives’ vigilant gaze — graphite never flips to orange-rubber-rubble scene, dust a white, with red and blue angled lot, before… another thought cranial-crashes my windowless scene — and how long has it been, with…No! coffee cold? and breakfast…? I have been ‘low this roof thirty-three days continuous. When, what have I ate? What chores…fall was here, right? Or, does summer idle outdoors and not in distant memory? Where have I been that I have not yet seen a crab tree, fragrant pink inhaled, barely clinging as buttons upon a green cloak disguising a stunted, hunched man. Oh, breezes gently again serve natural reverie to ease, rise up, reheat mud cup, sip, consider sun-shunned hues barely dappling a pale paint and one lone pate, now engaging the wood arm, low. Lift my dead wood to gravitate with bird wonder of what blood spills, in sanguine splendor each day that a sunrise fails meet rumination tomorrow, every tomorrow. I’ve got time; let’s not waste. 6.12.25 37 lines of vers libre, punctuation in whatever morn. I don’t know what this is, and yet I know what it isn’t. What need to care? Why the bard speak? Again… She no longer witnesses. One month and two weeks to thirty. I can’t tell time anymore. It tells me.
You feelin’ me? Rhet… |
| If This Isn’t Love (it might harassment) Meeting your arresting look drills a steel lock — open eyes cannot conceal tidal oceans — but obey your lunar glow only — tugged across a traversable abyss to regale you — as all old stories refreshingly new. These deaf ears savor a harmonious songbird — your laugh and sigh soothe hummingbirds’ flutter. A smile leaps from a most studied canvas bright — and with lips’ pressed, might melt my own to butter. My soul soars, left to lap the sun, assuredly, as my blue could melt into your cotton pink core. With slender fingers’ clasp, this flesh gifted powers Herculean. Your easy grace cools, yet hums particles’ acceleration. I’m stood upright; only been a minute. How is it I know that you know, as an opening avails to steal you away to pose these thoughts — but freeze, each word locks out of my mouth before… thaw from a hip-brush-bump of encouragement, when I spout, “do you wanna go out?” Now that it’s written down, I won’t leave with a frown. 6.11.25 21 lines, revisions await Taking a cue from Lord Byron’s remarkably redundant ode to a beauty. You know the one. Anyway, not thinking I could do better. But, thinking someone special would prefer more than uncomfortable idle adoration, go a bit beyond looks. I can say, ‘I feel safe with you’ even after a ‘No Thanks’. Careful here not to isolate gender or any proclivity, reserved just for ‘my poem’. Get your own.
https://www.litcharts.com/poetry/lord-byron/she-walks-in-beauty It truly is a classic poem, more for the poem ease and grace that mirror subject.   T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
| Blathering The Utterances What will restore, without an atom to spare? From where I come from I don’t talk like nobody in those parts where I swummed in a language-soup-murk in fields of lingual-ignorance, or steel-smelt contractions through aluminum sided, girder-ed stalls’ walled partitions, above machinations’ divisions and run past band-saws and spray-wood dust, badges of smear-faces, during perspired break, toothpick straw-suck-consider after that log tongue-rolled, bicusp’ settled a shard, aft’ forefinger-thumb clasp where I’m reverie frozen, see oil-dense, atmospheric offerings of syllable-dropping utterances, oft featured in paused, causitory, sentences fragmented, careful early never get meshed in bilingual fences ending in their exclamations, punctuated as clenched fists trembling, in those tones, where I eddied out, post-autumnal, and spun-rolled from an identifying mirror to pitch black sky canopy claiming a knowing, luminous one where my grievances aired, drifted like particles that couldn’t accelerate, but softly laid into a dry, brittle green, sun cream stained scene, a flesh meld of mornings yesteryear (I’m that old now?) where only the language of sea gulls remained and less populated. No eyes squint, no arms raised amid plaid and solid colors with a belt cinch in reunions not-to-be. I look to woods that seem unchanged Same questions echo in the dense, shadowed amphitheaters, with its hushed exhilaration but alone, with not a doe spied. No wood ticks since known further crawl a denim blue leg. No loose mongrels wander neighborhoods, yard to yard, looking for this friend. I’m disturbed by unsettling quiet, when I see a familiar face trapped in sun-glaze under glass, framed on a dim wall, amid overly ornate furnishings clashing with itself, with me, and beyond that spring strain mute-scream complaint that sent with two boots’ hello, two dull-thud notes, since removed dogged feet on that tile threshold restraint. Hello? She doesn’t live there anymore, but did a ghost of a boy roving about. Sweaty is determined, blond cowlick curl clamping a clueless, over-worked forehead, that two blue eyes did bug out. Hello. Which are you in her room, coax her out with slow, mono-syllable titherings? off the former curt tongue, or cry, hope some hair-sprayed, lemon-drop-breath whispered comfort remains In a dirt lot now, without a ball to throw about, sluice invisible moisture and photons sucking out every last stupid thought up musing for no one about. The grass is thick and green again. Maybe, I should take one more look around. I thought I heard something stir that didn’t come from tasked memory. Do dead people see me? 6.10.25 How many lines wuz…*collapse*…that? *arm raises from the dust, drops pencil* ~ 69 ~ Edit later, yup. Collection of what little auditory or visual memory with the embellished to accelerate recollection(s), heave away false…hewn to unite with what’s true, if I ever existed at all… physics people, existentialism… Save your linen of implying emojis with design for your own funerals. No other death left for me to attend. Really, they would have been accepted before a ghost. |
| How should I feel if people impugn integrity, embellish, lie, slander and libel? I’ve had these things to consider since my early tutelage as reporter. I know fear when I see it, and it applies gossip, back channels, and nameless taunts and boasts, shuns as would a grade school bully. Life is hypocritical, lies that it punishes bullies…yeah, if they’re schoolyard punks. Authority isn’t afraid of them, uses as example, but really does it to further empower itself. It is ruthless, causes “necessary casualties” in dominion. It is now pervasive in society. Just look at what our leadership has become. It invokes apathy to become complacent. It should bring about a rallying cry, for an unnecessary burden to be dealt with. It rules outside of democracy, applying itself through loopholes only it is allowed to command. I’m observing society, concerned with the mental health of a nation in denial. It’s dehumanizing and a falseness I see. No blaming should be on my end. I’m a journalist. This is my entry. Fear points fingers. I’m not in it for me. I care what’s left behind, not shortcutting life. A man has to live by a code. If that includes corruption and deceit, I’ll be behind the security tape. I’ve witnessed it in my face, bullied and threatened by authority on the take, 30-plus years ago. It’s the most pathetic and alarming thing I’ve witnessed. I should be four biographies deep before hitting this berg. Guess why I don’t report, even anonymously. If you hear dishonesty in here, do you have unchecked bias? Not to boast, I’ve witnessed boasting. It wants me to address it. If I do, I will not miss the mark ever again. I took down 12 people at the gym with two sentences the last time I was there. Whether boast or not, truth from even one person can silence. Line drawn. Set semantics aside and see issues for what they are. 5.6.25 Don’t blow smoke
|
| The Best Kind Of Green Amid cynicism and stoicism belies a child that once tore petals from tender flowers, met by deviation of random numerical methods that afford a dreamer but not an empty wallet. Dreaming is the process. Mother Nature does not play victim. A fat wad did smear fingertips yellow, sent back to the sun-streaked and dewed. The field either yellow or dying, clouds eternal crying, but not for a lad — nor a restless man, until breath exhumed, and new colors to dream upon, crunchy piles that fly skyward nestle with an 80-lb. plop — that, with a stick dragged through mud, down the road, his own snails trails were made until white clumps, layered lashes lay into the ashes of Autumn remains. Pockets emptied of irreplaceable gems of specked stone and amphibian captives released from stag-water glass vacation abodes, just temporary detention, to the murk, murkier, skies descending to twinkles, white glittering, where snug and safe, lie gently upon tar-layered black on Al-u-mini-um eaves, with packed leaves, spouting nothing all, as I do now, if I did it all. Never considered those verdant scenes, anything but the in-between, because… joy, love, dedications to gifted sleds and saucers spun down inclines, safe land and return of spry legs before shared, repeated again and again until too old and return to the only prison — saw it all in a mirror, protracted, always reflective, reflexes having since abandoned in solitude like a frog with no season, dry in jail, out a glass bay scene spies fading sunsets, brightest red or marooned clouds. as glasses be-dappled. A refrigerator barely hums when plates sudden clank and rattle, water tumble, and humbled to have not worked at it at all, until this last fall. Everything scatters on the ground, disappears. A mind can’t savor the past with whizzing whirligig words’ noises, mind-reeling, ear-smoked, and a rust body no longer healing beneath drape, on suspension in shed, where they creep in all insect matter seeking shelter amid two-by-four construct. And, of all the wonder, am I the only here…? who recalls?? when beloved dainty fellows hand-release by practiced stealth, amid the gangly lads begging, what about me, as I’ve oft considered??? How unfair, I never did see you there — you with me, noxious, but free. And in the culvert of life, along a quiet highway where born, spread me next spring, that I might cling to a lonely land that I did harvest with love. I never, ever wanted any other that did sleep in my heart, not with love, where each friend found comfort from eye’s fascination, now walled off by prison of prisms that once sought every unicorn thing and everything in between, including another’s love…and one very dearly needs me now — off my lift and into the air, one last time tumble, atrophying in humectant air, sun-drenched with the verdant scene now leaving all. I’m sorry I didn’t love you better, the best kind of green I hold eternally. 6.4-6.5.25 50 lines, vers libre and raw, before adding the following —
If Not For One More Season The best stuff is unexpected tears from witness of one’s own creation, by to our nature; after life knocked us off our game, finger-blamed and shamed, rather because of inhumanity, as everything about should be life-giving, life-affirming, instead of constituents that did ruin, lead all astray, might we not find our way back to that mother who dusts and removes rumpled articles, when not hand-washing while we slept above the soft floor boards beneath a complacent window, glass-filling calming fire lights eons old, strobing but still return to now — as my mind drifts back to catch that slow ride home, if not one last season. Be Prepared To Receive: I share, knowing they steal, think unworthy. What do I gain but knowledge that affirms, separated from others who’ve felt as strange, unaware estranged from loves who could say — keep standing where you are…not far now, love nearing? Be prepared to receive. Post Preparing — I have warmth where open arms once gave; now all cold of limb in the field, steadfast, no reason to gain but give — return is but a bonus. |
| Paul Rodgers. For example: A 1957 Coasters song, top 20 US in 1976, Top 10 Canada, probably why this 45 was in heavy rotation on our local station. It seemed an enigma in recollect, as it took a bit to recall this, and by whom. When realized with familiar lyrics that once inspired, mystery revealed the man behind it all. Solemnly, I recall the sonorous voice I oft attempted to mimic. Now realize Rodgers’ influences, as the following video intones my growing beliefs. Sans anything but narrator, video would be better served with soundbites or just abbreviation. Still does well to documentment a man who knew what he wanted and went about it the best possible way. To be enlightened so young, it is good… A poem in response to the Beatles’ “For No One” got me here. From the album Revolver with “Got To Get You Into My Life” came rumblings of the old song “Young Blood” with no luck even in Wikipedia link. I hung in to find his live performance a decade ago. Slower, but as solid as the original without a technical flaw in that familiar voice, he was nailing every note. I didn’t know this was the first band Led Zeppelin backed. Although, a no brainer after his first band Free blew up in the US with “Alright Now” which I’ve sung into oblivion. Congratulations, Paul Rodgers, for everything that made you and your bands Free and The Firm so memorable. 6.4.25 Inspired to rock on and finish my sound and writer’s studio, for no other reason than do what comes natural…with tiny labors of love…lyrics. ~ BK Compton Absence Of Wavelength/Life’s Little Interruptions/Antithetical Jottings Wikipedia page pending. I just liked the alliteration.
|
Cross-Gate (having lifted) The tremors begin before I can feel it happen. Limbs stiffen as a familiar rumbling nears my core. Just another train lumbering through intersection, conical complaints higher, an invisible, dusty scene. Deep rooted, anxiety grips, tethered in heart, but won’t fly from a road that rocks and sways. Voiceless, they tear screaming holes in nature. No rumbling here, neither cutting words my way. Stoicism has two eyes for every mirror angled, where I am boxed in calm cabin, expressionless. Faceless, invisible forces provocation swirling, soundless twirling over head, circumspect seeming. Mindless rubble-flecks inspect unwashed windows. I’m to infer something from its lack of composition? when up comes the gate and the last unease, freeing, by absence, compelled by the heft, prying open a view of a long, laureled line — clouds ascending from the black, widening apron, when I shift and further leave behind anything, but nothing without quake on furthering exit. Two forces fulcrum at once; no maw did open, as neither serves the other but space that coincides. About itself, everywhere consumes but an object collecting speed, axled by muted energy with torque. Acquiring molecules less dense, nor demanding, a vague vehicle heaves paved tarmac, grounded. Stoicism is easier when you’re not trying, dead inside. I have no experience, just ignorant sensations tingling. 5.20.25 28 lines, free verse Furthered 6.3.25 lines above could juxtapose, last two arrive anywhere or leave all together but an after-after thought on something yet fully conceived. Still unfinished… lyrics to “Barely Breathing” hound since first moments of sentience arriving today. From performance on “…Talent (America’s Got)” the other night. Season opener? Seeking YouTube — Not Compelled, other title or title line idea forthcoming. More physics applications removing by quantum designs.
 To Be Lifted: Three white keys open a protracted scene, post infinity, loop, yet never tell a story but of a feeling that could give revelation…still, energy chained no longer pleads be allowed to chase birds in the garden, chin to paws and barely breathing. If I loved you more…what? What happened to the inquisitive, fuzzy head? Since the first head trauma un-recalled (misremembered), consider no further beating could get a nerve to leap where they once hit a ceiling; and longer after, no further can fall by reaction, nor ensuing calamity on the ground where it laid bleeding, reports of displeasure all around. The victim could not muster a shrug to appease any, or the righteous, knowing manipulators, outside a muffling vacuum, spied, eyes sent toward the next hydraulic-drained disaster, happening everywhere, all the time. None looking for the other, either, where the wreckage lay, a dump decay and marred metal rust decomposition. I’ll parse that later…inspiration for next ‘ooh, why’? poem. A poem about auto-correct and decapitalization? Another? I’m all fucked up and I’m barely breathing when I leap at percussion signal, with emergence of a rising feeling and I cave … heads … in … lay in the ether…so long since primordial ooze release … More notes, accentuate from that damn sonorous piano, replacing the percussion with a different beating. The song starts somewhere, unless an endless sound-bed for eternal mystery of a reality show no one tunes in to see, lacking a script, succinct words, conniving to appear real, rather than … just be. Nor, pitched, arced, since the need of privacy in desire of falseness in hiding … hiding? From what? Sooo…no. No script forthcoming but oblique, pointed poetry ripping a maw in some-thing to inspect a cavern in cage of fouled bone to witness how it could live? Fake love?? Patent awww, as re-arriving as my deliberate nails on your chalkboard…to see it feel…some-thing. It’s sentient. Now I am, too. But, bio block…line…what’s my line? Right. No viewers. Their loss. Mine? Make me own it, eight year old. And…it’s crying to Mommy…I can’t react, remember? Words — not the absence of wavelength that puts beating in pretty things once singing, all strangled in your garden, bleeding. The Labrador no longer hunts, should he sigh or pant where it once slobbered on your rugs. I could have ended it. Now, here it lies…until tomorrow, Cyrano…technically, also a liar, hence the drama…but caused in your theater. You coax it, blame it, I infer none of it. I write, not manipulate unless…post manipulated, played, slandered and libeled. |
| To Death Eternal With Love, my dearly beloved… Better to end it sweetly than belabor my love… clenched in firm grasp before I let you slip into the blue, washing cascade taking you through, as I refuse regret — lost another chance, at love return… where mud dries, life firming keeps you permanent and grounded, dreamless, without love-passion eternal… nor free for anything better one’s dull eyes might spy but end you and I before love’s return, my dour frown — where I leave you in permanence, no other choice found. Accept and push you down, with two hands, my love — I must drown under clear, soft of rippling and hovering ether — wavy memory, hoping not to see such despair, because… no design, but another misery — nor long left for we two that cherished a christening sun — burnt flesh fading, faith lingering in shade, as you shadow with nothing… so, end sweet, quick, love…no longer delaying, beneath icy surface we die before death with knowing an eminence of any deceit still showing, how.to.kill.love. Release that grasp son, gone now, time to let her slip. Sun falls quick to unsettlement, earth scorched, devouring what remains amid cinder in an accelerant container…full. 5.29.25 22 lines, free verse Went too long…can truncate to alleviate burdened verbiage…probably won’t (Eyore) There could be more verses, but had to end … Resubmerging — (Midnight In Harlem echoing with verses and chorus, as I wrote…pronouncing organ, especially, like Gospel.) |
| Pity Doesn’t Apply (Mortality) Half blind, half dead We walk through life holding on to innocence Deluded from mortality Helpless, abandoned like a child’s broken toy We want to cry out, Mother? Father? My true love?? Wonder, Do we truly exist? Frozen in unshakeable nightmare scene One frame projected Why grieve after innocence lost, accept Dead all these years If you feel a sensation, absorb it, hold on Savor the days remaining https://www.thehaughtyculturist.com/films/dont-look-now-1973-themes-analysis-exp... Reviewer wrong. He wanted to die from guilt, be wrongfully persecuted by something morally reprehensible, justify error life. 5.6.25 I could feel true death inch closer and not give a fuck. I’m here. My time is now, and every single moment I still draw breath. Exhale whatever toxin that doesn’t apply, I nurture myself. Life’s pity doesn’t apply. You need it? Take it for yourself. (Something confrontational redacted to spare them) Beady You could see sawdust puff from his ears, when my mitre saw cut between his beedy eyes’ glare. I had something more blunt in mind, but stuffing requires larger orifices. Cut first, measure twice afterward…then, the hammer. I think Apple auto-correct is attempting to redact words by ignorantly not suggesting them, or underlining correct words as if they don’t apply or exist.  EVERYBODY, OFF THE INTERNET NOW! SAVE YOURSELVES! Dystopia is…already a reality. Tunes into the Bully Puppet show watching for latest in Nazi News. Calling it something different doesn’t make it different Bliss = Ignorance / Ignorance = Sex in the woods at night with a crazed killer on the loose Really, apply what you want. The I Told You So letterhead writing pad is purchased and ready for additional witticism, envelope and bottle to stuff in with gasoline and a little rag. SAVE YOURSELF! *throat hoarse* None of this means anything, until they come to clear out casualties and read my final warnings. They’ll probably comment on my grammar.     T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
| I cannot say nothing, nor anything. Let’s give more words proper burial beneath the unmarked As yet, squinting Some Poet With His Words: I took 2 big handfuls of life, spat on each — then threw to ground to boot-stomp-snuff out. What does it mean? Shrug. These thoughts of words that rumble in and out I decide to not ignore, write down, but not follow further to flesh out because the composition no more needs to stand before what’s loosely termed audience because there is no true interaction among writers when a soul that could share empathy for others has yet been visualized, material, with regard for contributions, once called content, as it is just a pile of this now, which I could stand over to direct watch a decay, death feign melding with her, insoluble postulates pooling with its own filth ignorance in dirt. It’s proof — of lies lacking/truth existence in the charade forced to live, to comply, or be out here inside viewing a filmy mirror of myself in missed givings. Not going near why did you have me mom? as the unplanned glue that kept a 45-year union together. Inconceivable amid the ill-conceived — this once happy idiot — before met by the gift of little brother. Am I a lone survivor, hobo, with a corner chair reclining in temperant housing? Shrug. Is that what I was trying to convey cryptically? Sorry. All out of shrugs. Have to bird tail these things now, give each estate a note before finding a shovel. 5.2.25 Waking from a loosely-termed 10-hour nap, rumpled and winkled. Yup, gag on it Apple. My glasses are missing, BTDubs and without…wrote without. We got her all dressed up in this ML, before saying some words before lowering in this hole, lacking editor mortician. This not contempt, nor death, since neither can exist in perpetuity. Ask a lawyer. Consult the interjecting, brainwashed AI. It was unable to attend services, too busy answering but not learning. I know eye rolls of cowardice. Share a thought with ‘class’? Loud enough so we can all learn. Where’s wisdom but taste-testing its lolly-pops, as gums rot teeth into their own decay. What could be more blissfully stupid? Plenty. Rhetorical. One-word debates aside, delusion and deluders among ignorance wax on until passersby, hesitation, then continue like old hens, as intended be. ‘It is what it is’ and nowhere near c’est la vie. “As Public As A Frog” (owned, it’s just accounts from a genealogist) A book my grandfather, I was told, reviled, and wrote one of his own that was burned post mortem in a fire (w things died) by my Catholic Aunt Mary, making my dad upset. I never learned of its contents. Grandpa is urban legend, and I’m cut from a cloth that skips a generation. It’s my nightmare too, lived. Yet, sweetly I slumber with the best visions that cure the addled head. Signed, Cereal Killer Back to the word store for Alphabets Tonight! Murder of the English language. We bring you shocking details… What? Of a world gone mad? Who refuses your pity and will make sure you know it, manipulative…?? Mmph, mmph… {In other news today… *lurks* Not cute anymore… Disclaimer— the sentiments above were acted out *bows* knowingly Defense team happy to witness for the prosecution, once Barney gets that bullet out of his pocket. Did your mother dress you? More lines rumbling, who knows? *shrug* Now, where are those glasses. |
| Purge-a-tory (or any other title) experienced in silent repose, when her sound suddenly surfaces from muffled indignation… Divinity arrives in the shapes crystallizing poetry makes — a frozen, fleeting glimpse captured in a tear-well agitate, releasing her to never behold until that love is shared.  T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
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Congratulations on winning day 6 of The Daily Poem Sept 2022!](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/genre-Artistic-125.gif)
![Merit Badge in Problem Solving
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From [Link To User jayne] : With my apologies for the Redaction Poem prompt mishap. Thank you for taking on the challenge! I hope to see you next time for a redaction-free week of fun at [Link To Item #dailypoem] !](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/general-Problem_Solving-210.gif)
![Merit Badge in Inspiring Love For Poetry
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Congratulations on being our Honorable Mention in March of 2022 at [Link To Item #2216416] !
Blessings, Sharmelle](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Inspiring_Love_For_Poetry-2259846_14.gif)
![Merit Badge in Action Adventure
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CONGRATULATIONS for [Link To Item #2229211] winning place as an Honourable Mention in [Link To Item #2254385] !](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/genre-Action_Adventure-100.gif)
![Merit Badge in Bard's Hall Blogging Merit Badge
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For placing 3rd in the Bard's Hall Blogging Contest, June 2022](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Bard=s_Hall_Blogging_Merit_Badge-2094227_12.gif){kind=icon}
![Merit Badge in G Specials
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Congratulations for winning 1st Place during the April 2022 round of [Link To Item #2268646] !](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-G_Specials-2271325_14.gif)
![Merit Badge in Chapter 1
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Congratulations on your 1st Place win in the April 2022 Round of Chapter One! Great entry! *^*Smile*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Chapter_1-2251918_14.gif)
![Merit Badge in Accuracy
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Congratulations to our 1st Runner Up of [Link To Item #2254385] Round6.](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/general-Accuracy.gif)
![Merit Badge in Coffee Award
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Congratulations on placing 2nd in [Link To Item #2182602] with your poem, [Link to Book Entry #1031722]. *^*Coffeeo*^* Kindest Regards, Lilli](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Coffee_Award-2149524_14.gif)
![Merit Badge in Humorous Poetry Contest
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Congratulations on the third place win at [Link To Item #hpc] for your poem: [Link to Book Entry #1030482]. Thanks for making me laugh, and keep writing the funny stuff! *^*Bigsmile*^* ~Lornda A.K.A. The Queen of Comedy *^*Crown*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Humorous_Poetry_Contest-1875103_14.gif)
![Merit Badge in Gay Lesbian
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Thank you so much for your poem [Link to Book Entry #1026670]! Please don’t ever stop being you, both as a writer and a visionary of love!](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/genre-Gay_Lesbian-680.gif)
![Merit Badge in WDC Media Prompt
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Thank you for your participation in the 48-HOUR CHALLENGE: " Thank You by Dido ." Media Prompt hosted by [Link To User support] March 2022! We appreciate that you tackled this challenge... *^*Smile*^* *^*Thumbsupl*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/WDC-WDC_Media_Prompt.gif)
![Merit Badge in Good Things Take Time
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Here's to a world where we wouldn't have to keep reciting the words woven in your excellent poem [Link to Book Entry #1027990].](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/Kudos-Good_Things_Take_Time.gif)
![Merit Badge in Contests
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CONGRATULATIONS for winning 2nd place in [Link To Item #2254385] !!](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/genre-Contests-235.gif)
![Merit Badge in 30DBC Winner
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Congrats Team Pedantic Poets Platoon on winning [Link To Item #1803384] during WDC's 21st Birthday Festivities!! Well done!](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-30DBC_Winner-2064535_14.gif)
![Merit Badge in Every Moment Matters
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A work of art which did not begin in emotion is not art.
― Paul Cezanne
Thanks for your participation in my 'art' challenge via my notebook feed.
Keep on being inspired! *^*Bigsmile*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/Kudos-Every_Moment_Matters.gif)
![Merit Badge in Brilliant
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CONGRATULATIONS on [Link To Item #1145690] winning a place in "Honorable Mentions" in [Link To Item #2254385]](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/Kudos-Brilliant.gif)
ML is so trying with an Apple tablet. 
