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 |   All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. |
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The Idiotic Ideate?? Formerly: New Zenith To Hell…(all started with arc as writer here from the trials of Rising Stars to Preferred Author to WDC Quills Best Poetry Collection to the falling action I feel now that settles in a white case.) Got to hustle to preserve the best of me before fully fading on that virtual horizon glowing more brilliant with each passing day to permanent nuclear winter. if people don’t get it, I don’t need to explain it. We kill all that’s beautiful before we question it’s purpose. So many people find it easier to think in the black and the white. God forbid you get lost straying in the gray. "Whoever fights monsters should see to it…he does not become a monster.” I’ve been to the abyss and back. Not so bad. The loneliest happy person you'd ever meet, when not the saddest person who needs to be alone. In an ever-changing world, we need to handle topics at the ready. If you roll over and give in to the narrative without lending a voice of your own, you might as well hand over your civil liberties. We have voices that should connect to true conscience and spirit for honest and open discourse. Why feel so redacted? Unify on issues and put drama aside. Open minds require complete objectivity. If none need apply, question the unbendable sources for answer. If you knee-jerk react to every issue lurking out there that clutches your neck, you fall victim to your own ignorance born from a life of apathy (no doubt) in pathetic cries of injustice. Just writing what I feel without the narrative-altering mind f---ing with my head. [MY Chorus] In your house, I long to be Room by room, patiently I'll wait for you there, like a stone I'll wait for you there, alone "It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe indefinitely." "You are all better than you think you are, you are just designed not to believe it when you hear it from yourself." ![Merit Badge in Second Time Around Contest
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Congratulations on winning the Grand Overall Prize in [Link To Item #2164876] with your beautiful poem, [Link to Book Entry #933358]. This poem really moved me. Great writing!
Rachel *^*Heartv*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Second_Time_Around_Contest-2164963_14.gif)    "...lasting art is never anything more than a mathematical expression of the relations that exist between the internal and the external, the self [le moi] and the world." -Jean Metzinger I'm in love with carefully chosen words, arranged just so, audible, edible, to inhale. I attempt to post new poems and epiphanies daily with some links to what inspires. I am legally blind with a rare, genetic form of glaucoma. I'm described as "end stage" after two successful surgeries, still subject to further vision loss. Cataracts complicating matters. Writing Can get strenuous but seldom deters what yearns to emerge, despite a documented history of depression and recently diagnosed ADHD and undefinable social disorders and/or PTSD. My recent poetry:
Sometimes epiphanies about my insights on writing and life and what goes on... Making sense of life is maddening. Why do I need to know, when truth may not actually exist? Learning to accept would be a better pursuit? Flailing about in my own mediocrity, hoping to bust out. I am visible. You can put a face with a name. I would like to see other writers, too. Fiction is what you write, not who you are. Reinventing myself. I couldn't continue on the path I was on and needed a fresh start. This time around I want to put the focus on writing and the world outside of this community as it affects my life. I realize now that I have been baring my chest a bit more, as when young. fake me much more boring and unliberated than the real me. A world arriving as silent as that blossom in your garden that I told you about... |
| My Locomotive I am caught between 'Thinks too much,' 'doesn't think enough.' I 'worry too much' about my own problems I'm told by sources, not enough about yours, perhaps, the urban lower-class. Choose wisely these words: my ignorant lexicon borne out of a 12-year-old body, handed down generations. I don't understand me, now that I'm confused about you. Should I walk amongst you, introduce myself, see if we can be in my middle ground? Inside, I swing wildly like that pendulum, unlike a metronome, never finding rhythm. Should I be more sensitive to your kind? Who laid these tracks between us? I long trailed a rail in brilliant wonderment, no guide and no purpose. Who should hold my hand, lest I fall or meet with some fateful train come to remove me? Am I so insensitive I cannot understand the needs of another while I sit here in my kitchen chair, grocery bags yet unpacked in sweltering summer heat of doubt and discontentment? Why am I idle staring out this unwashed window thinking, believing I have clear vision? I'm surrounded by my belongings, trapped by limited beliefs. Why can't I touch you, lay hand upon your back, unknowing if the gesture would be well received? Even in my most frustrated state, I never hated anyone but myself. Am I to blame for feeling this way? I don't blame you. I don't denounce them. The only shame I feel now is for me while longing for my locomotive. Not necessarily the context of the poem, but... "Prejudice is when a person negatively pre-judges another person or group without getting to know the beliefs, thoughts, and feelings behind their words and actions. A person of any racial group can be prejudiced towards a person of any other racial group. There is no power dynamic involved. Bigotry is stronger than prejudice, a more severe mindset and often accompanied by discriminatory behavior. It’s arrogant and mean-spirited, but requires neither systems nor power to engage in. Racism is the system that allows the racial group that’s already in power to retain power. Since arriving on U.S. soil white people have used their power to create preferential access to survival rights and resources (housing, education, jobs, voting, citizenship, food, health, legal protection, etc.) for white people while simultaneously impeding people of color’s access to these same rights and resources.Though “reverse racism” is a term I sometimes hear, it has never existed in America. White people are the only racial group to have ever established and retained power in the United States." Source: http://www.debbyirving.com/qa/are-prejudice-bigotryand-racism-the-same-thing/ Poem inspired by unimaginative thought about racism which I know everything and nothing about, depending on who you ask. Hard to live my own reality with my own fiction because I rely heavily upon faulty wiring affecting perception and memory. Electrician will be here between the hours of now until the end of my time. That's not true! He made it all up! He's a robot trying to spam us with his evil thinking. How can you take a serious subject and be contemptibly funny? Reference pendulum. Emphasis 'loco' motives. And, writing is a distraction so I don't get stuff done around the house, causing her pendulum to become wildly erratic. |
| Nominative My predicate nominative could be anything that defines -- a liter left of soul is still an ocean. No stone could skip my body until time ends for me, the stone and my flinger. Unless, I'm ash? Then, I'm a heap. It would be possible to be forever, even if just a granule of bone remains. Scatter my last message by invisible forces. I'll cling to your hearts, somehow. You won't know I'm there dreaming, imagining a way to be the nominative in young hearts -- fertile in minds, futile in flesh. I'm not defined by, but limited from, you unless my truth can be accepted... then, I am not? (begs the question mark...etre?) https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sorites_paradox And not to be...nominative: http://paulegre.free.fr/Vagueness/abstracts/fletcher.pdf Imagination grew as I continued to chase, after I sought definition of 'parse' Is this what poets do? To be?? A beautiful mind is still terrible to taste? |
| What if I woke you told you I'm sad I can't sleep that the little man doesn't shout help him count sheep What if I rustle stir in our still bed I can't chase visions recurring in my head What if I recommitted my love for you at the oddest hour like I intimated that one time over margaritas before I remembered their imploring power to forget ......go back to sleep ............wait until tomorrow ..................when the slate is clean The eraser holds the dust Impetus ▼ Eraser = memory collector |
| White Noise (a work in progress) The echo of the terrier's bark hammers silence hints at strolling strangers with silent dogs nearing the curb (shaded by oak and ash becoming erect sundials) beneath an otherwise vacant sky, since the 6:30 arrival soared over my sleepy roof beyond expectant pines (barely wavering) on a cool morning. I didn't think there was a need to keep freon flowing before I opened that window. Comfortable weather should be accompanied by ear plugs before throwing open the sash. |
| We're doomed to fail when our family prescribes it. -Me I'm caught between who I am and who I could/need to be and there's little room for negotiation. I don't see a mediator. I see disappointed looks or indifference like I'm invisible or meaningless or something in that gray, dull area where I'm told to stand, but I fidget. I don't want to wait, yet no other place to be. My tether is my life, the way I live it, this limbo I haven't mastered before I can move on to the next dance. And there's no one patient enough who will teach me. What do I do with my hands? I'm asking because my pockets want to know. Restrictive |
| ...you'd be wrong The ideas I compose in my head you won’t hear I’ll sing them a eulogy to your puzzled face before they near one decibel Mutter soft raging giant within Hunker in your cave with moist walls amid the faded ancient scrawlings unseen, indecipherable (sometimes, even to me) musings dripping stalactites (icicles of wisdom) forming labyrinths of libraries in solace fall yet like crystal drops to dark puddles waiting to be stepped in before permafrost. If you thought you understood... |
| Their Voices Cure the Dead Faint their echoes over the grass beneath lofty pine reverberate generations lost. sway Dark heart illuminates: wonder small faces eyes of tormentors love then hate fragility of one longing their invite play among us. Faint old heart begs try again. Trees whisper words bend down I cannot comprehend. Live here, now. Just look ahead. Faint earth revealed toss me in Please love me before I'm dead. |
| If I ever shave the shadowed silver-blond blades (piercing upside-down collaborators) I'll be serious or bored. But, only in theory will I remove cropped castoffs that cling to the bowl each night. I cannot wash away memory of the unseen reminders to the wife delusion I'm going blind growing old. |
| Something writ 12/17/17 and certain not posted in blog here: (Brief Candle) There will be no aisle to wade trough expectant guests No podium for an orator (a lifetime spent opining to a silent wall) And no tuxedo for this theatric event Fictional But a suit, a headstone and some dirt at least Come bury me? -- the brief candle |
| Dropping kids off at summer camp today. Wrote this during our last outing by placid water... A placid lake .....Sated with flat stone .....-----Dreams flung ~~~~~Waves skipped Now a dry bed |
| What Would Blake Say About Innocence Lost Today? How do you describe Not wanting To spoil, waste Innocence Yet can't look away As it is plundered Lost, hoping It survives mankind Stronger, More resilient, Teaching us, The exuberant, Of triumph, Peaking glory, Only to settle back With the ordinary, Admire another More pristine, Graceful, waiting... Will she fall To lay with all of us, Rot on the forest floor Among psychotropic berries, Hidden salamander, Toads that will give you warts (Don't touch), Or rise taller, grand? The way we were meant Until the fire? From the perspective gained from the ground looking at all those rising up...soaring, in fact? It might be my children one day, or a contemporary. Maybe, I'm just a flower (I feel I blossom from time to time), because I'm certainly not one who soared and crumbled to earth. Only a few can become a part of an awesome petrified forest. Ran out of analogous fluid (sap). Must...stop. |
| About Me, About Her? There was a time Her body fit On my burdened torso Nose to nose Her eyes penetrated The crystal blue chasms Explored, sought truth Within vacant vistas Reflected While deflecting But I believed in her quest. My dreams, my hopes Were not mine And nothing like The vision she inherited Seeped in blood Beyond What one lonely man Could possess. https://www.newscientist.com/article/dn6355-babies-prefer-to-gaze-upon-beautiful... |
| Aloofish I'm not good in these social circles Standoffish, aloofish A dry fish As they greet with smiles Arms outstretched Hugs Jealous is the fish Why doesn't that come naturally To one so scaly, Bulge-eyed Peering sideways glances Can't wrap a head around What it's seeing Translate If I touch someone It's going to mean something Earthquaking, Time-transcendant, Meaningful embraces If they'll have Aloofish, foolish, Dry-eyed and cold. Come on. Say it: One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish. That's what I'm thinking, upon rereading. |
| She knitted, crocheted, tatted a mound -- gifted, worn, forgotten, forlorn. But, that did not diminish love in lotion-soft, leather hands -- in two criss-crossing, blue-metallic needles or silver shuttle, worn, forgotten in a pile of belongings boxed, opened by a man not her son at a thrift store in the winter of 2001. I still wonder about dad who died later that year. Worn, forgotten without the warmth she could give, not realizing it resided in the hallway beneath framed tapestry, her Last Supper, in a dresser drawer packed to brim. When I thought of everything I have written, all that pours out from me, I'm reminded of mom on the couch with her crafts, watching TV and not understanding the discipline, not understanding the dedication to something that produced so much without encouragement or appreciation. Why do we do it? I'm a bit of a narcissist where mom was not. Maybe, there's no comparison. She was the true craftsman while I am lost. |
| Bumble You stirred my heart, moved on to another -- the fresh scent, your lingering dust, burdens my core, an echoing epicenter of longing and grief Fresh breezes send reminders, ravage memory. My thin anchor wavers in gales and swells of rainwater. Eyes dry before frost and rapture to dark heaven without your return. |
| Linguistically functional isosyllabist by prosody, vers libre. |
| I imagine a woman who looks after the elderly and how they might feel for their caretaker: Elderly or Blind, Near The Door Snuff the candle in my hall pocket silver from my heart -- my cluttered attic your destiny pillage. Spare not a memory before I die. Strange framed faces stare back as I puzzle pieces of memory carried out in the night under long coats and over-sized bags. Don't forget the plug on that sweet exit. Relief. |
Poetry is an improvised dance arrived from years watching, yearning while swaying in restricted garb to each inspiring melody until one day the extended hand begs cut loose to your favorite song. |
| I am from You should make a plan As if I didn't have one And I'm from worry That my idle time is not worthy of those Whose plans are deemed meritorious Who feel uncelebrated by the likes of swine... I idle in shit like a pig on a Sunday Do not serve a greater purpose Fear to offend the unproclaimed master Who allows me to wallow in what I call purpose... My cesspool, my life, I guess. 9.26.18 |
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In the Falkland Islands, internet is very limited and very expensive. The place I'm currently staying only lets me use it in the middle of the night, so when I have to get up at 3 am to check my texts (no cell service to the US here unless I'm on the internet) or WdC, I don't do nearly as much as I used to. 
I currently have 2 very long emails I still need to get to from several days ago. Anyway, I miss everyone, but I also miss sleep, so there's that. 
Have you spoken to the doctor about your vision problems lately? I know there are special glasses for it because I have to wear them to read much ever since the brain injury. It's part of why I now only listen to audiobooks instead of reading regular books. It took 8 years for anyone to diagnose it because I have a brain injury and while one might think it would be obvious to me that I see double, it wasn't. Partly, my brain does a fair job of compensating. But also, partly, you use your brain to realize and understand that the 2 images you constantly see are double vision and something you should mention to your eye doctor. Since my brain was damaged, even basic things like that can escape me. 
I never once thought to mention it, even with annual eye exams in the Army and an exam every 2 years at the VA. Though, in my defense, since it happens in something like 41% of people with a brain injury, it should have been discovered by an eye doctor much sooner. 
I know doing that activity is a CRAP TON of work. But you made a difference in lives, not just his, but for all the people he's reviewed since. 
Well done! 
