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(116)
Rated: 18+ · Book · Spiritual · #1149750
2x BestPoetryCollection was what? A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind.
Like one of those adventure games where you go off questing in different directions but you don’t advance like the others. You earn pretty medallions gallantly while other players buy, sell and trade at market to get ahead without moving an inch. Slow burn…hey? You’d rather keep your dignity, or try to figure out their game. That’s where you really get lost. Game full of misdirects leads right back to start over and over. You could have stayed on your quest. Now, you have this.

Redacted, censored, gaslighted…must be doing something right, my old boss would say. I’m not a sociopath, he tells himself. Equal parts, then? Mom should have had me tested. Because, life of turmoil produces stuff like this. Not going to call it beautiful agony…it gets a bit ugly.Tap on them. It’s part of the quest…see where I’ve been; see who I am:


         
                   
                                       
                   
                   
        
         


Right. I redact myself. The beautiful mess you made. Who are you?
If I’ve been denied the right of knowledge, I’ve earned the right to judge.
         |
Without knowledge, who’s to judge?
         |
No gavel; no voice.

"...politely reedy but ambitiously eclectic—moving effortlessly from hen-picking and bottleneck slides to a full deck of chucka-chucka rhythm figures."

I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost

         |
I'm sorry you got caught in the middle.

*Neurodivergent poet.
*Don’t judge/hate. I love.
*Honesty without mincing words.
*Dump your prejudice outside my door. Hope you leave it on the way out.
*Nothing to fear but people who surround themselves with rules, can’t be touched.
*Real dialogue accepted.

My words collect, arrange on a kaleidoscope spectrum. The true experience/acknowledgment of my writing yet to come...long after I’ve left WDC, am dead, or both.

Truly been a blessing, but I've been pushing it — envelope, push world and all inhabitants away, push buttons to find boundaries, having no clue or told where they lie, where I've lived in your dark. Now and then, push dirt out of this hole; someone/thing/entity might envision me the way I need to be viewed. (if I knew what that was. Cryptic, I know. Try living in my dark, find comfort amid the strange, virtual walls that tempt me to try).
*The parenthetical lawyer up?



Foot free, I’m all over the place.
 
"Note: Poetry: life’s little interruptions amassing int..."
 

Best Poetry Collection 2X, nominated three years. What does it mean? I was enjoying myself, head bagged. A happy idiot. Something messed with that. I won’t be a coward; not starting feuds or wars over ideals and beliefs. We all know that’s a pile of crap packaged with dreams of pretty things to sell the next boob that walks by. *Clown*

Been more than I could imagine or expect. My achievements aren’t going on a LinkedIn wall. But, I get it. You're sick of me. It's how I feel about myself when I dig deeper, push boundaries. Don’t care my words that aim for honesty, either brave or veiled cowardice, flinchingly flung, inadvertently hit a target. Get a back off shoulder shot for asking your motivations to write…won’t get me to bend over backwards to appease, again.

There’s no prize to eye, not properly incentivized. So, does it mean when dealt the worst two cards before the flop, do the best with what you got? Yeah, rigged. Yeah, other tables — other ‘games’. But, something in my gut I’ll never be rid.



My Pluggers:
You are an icon here.*BigSmile*
You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer.{/blue}*Heart*


It’s like plugging myself, but using other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "Life’s Little Misdirections 🥀🦋"
Your poetic muse is on fire! *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. *Cool*

 
Published four times with one a literary journal, including… *PointRight*   "The Tender Core (Sedona)
I don’t submit because it’s too much work. Truly alone, know no one cares to show they believe/support me. Lip service feeds delusion. I’ve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Try not be cynical, work hard at openness and consideration — work, sooo…gut thing.

*Toilet* *RibbonW* Merit Badge in Taboo Words
[Click For More Info]

Brian,

Congratulations! You won 1st Place in Taboo Words with your fantastic poem, [Link to Book Entry #1027659]. 

I absolutely loved this! *^*Heart*^*

Rachel Merit Badge in Poetry
[Click For More Info]

    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

 
Love my process constructing and sharing visions in words collected (no small task considering personal and physical limitations, see below).


August 28, 2006 this blog opened

BOOK
SuperNova Afterglow: End Of Days  (18+)
All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know.
#1300042 by Brian K Compton..tree still up


No specific aim going forward (2014)

 
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 I say: *Cool* *FacePalm* Now: I was such a whore.
 


*Laugh*This is old….
What? Oh, this? A rhetorical, self-motivational speech I'm working on.
Don't just read the parts to construct your theory, as if to confirm (construed out of context) your opinion, mentally-stunted Neanderthal. Therapist wants me to be less negative toward myself. I see it as attacking, rather than being defensive. Fear I will chomp too many bullets unintentionally sent toward the unsuspecting.
If you can be triggered for stupid reasons, then I?
…just looked like me rolling around on the floor with myself.*RollEyes*
             



What Was NEW

Who am I, you ask? My mirror knows that question, repeated daily.

Just trying to create a little buzz, not boost my ego.

#amwriting #poetry #blog #contest #freeverse #award #bestpoetry #freyaridings #lyrics #music #video #YouTube

Can you believe it took this long for someone to put a quarter in me and push the button GET ANGRY?
 

Mud 4 My Eye: Is that you, Poo? 💩 Secret Back Door

The Best Poetry Collection on Writing.Com
Previous ... -1- 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 ... Next
February 24, 2024 at 2:33pm
February 24, 2024 at 2:33pm
#1064807
It’s always been there (my poem), but you don’t notice or care to admit…

In their version, The Marías slow the story down while also cutting it short at just over two minutes. Yet so much differs throughout those 125 seconds. The “...Baby One More Time” cover welcomes listeners with a quiet and gentle guitar melody. Within seconds, Zardoya enters with a soft, raspy tone, pleading for one more chance. Softly layering her voice as the mesmerizing background vocal, there's a much more intimate feeling than the original. Within the first half minute, Zardoya sets a guilty tone as she sings, “I shouldn’t have let you go…” There’s a regretful implication as her voice quivers. Then, she declares, “There’s nothing that I shouldn’t do / It's not the way I planned it.” The subtle change from Spears’ more innocent “wouldn’t” to The Marías’ “shouldn’t” places the responsibility on the singer for her past mistakes in love. Zardoya is not pleading with the promise of doing whatever it takes to save the relationship; she understands she should be the one to make the effort to salvage it. Then, instead of singing “It's not the way I planned it,” Zardoya speaks this line with a disgruntled tone, as if she's tired of having to defend her intentions.


"grind on this (MV)

https://www.afterglowatx.com/blog/2023/5/8/cover-story-the-maras-make-a-relaxing...

It’s ‘not the way I planned it’…none ever do…plan. Yet, manipulation everywhere I look. Hit me baby one more time??

I’ve been writing since the first black eye…
February 24, 2024 at 10:43am
February 24, 2024 at 10:43am
#1064781
The Small Voices (Not A Windmill’s Chance…without my brother)

I wish I had a nickel for every
time
she pointed out
that’s just how it is now
like I’m ignorant … like
I’m surprised life had made me it’s bitch …

but a small voice
that isn’t harmonized,
that isn’t paired by another
in tune … isn’t
harmony …

when did life
make you so smart … ?
made you its bitch??
are the two of you laughing at me right now
while I’m fitted for armor?
fitted for any situation
big or small
to pierce with my pointy stick
atop a uni-cycle I call stead … ??

precarious, I know … but
brave?
to fight alone knowing
it’s more than life that’s hurtful
that wants to make me their bitch … ??
because …
bitch-slapped.

it’s easier taking down the labeled Quixote
(reckless, feckless),
than lance these giant demons —
machines designed,
sluicing the weather around us,
taking our energy,
harvesting our electricity
to deplete good souls
to short out … not grounded to any element,
chained to that grist …

railing
with clenched fist … toppled:

and there you are standing over me.
I see through this visor
what you intimate …
what you intone …
like a coward
you pick on the weakest thing
planted in the dirt of a machination’s shadow …

you’re lucky I see you
and not a windmill
(that I look up
and not down on you…
where you say
my poem should have ended …
there. It
never
ends …)

but for a small dagger
life goes on
without my brother.

2.24.24

I made last 3 lines its own statement than attach to the poem machine because it is the only thing that could separate, yet like throwaway lines only a fool/man would consider

In post.. taking up the gauntlet ?
while everyone else is saying back away from it

because they can’t control me or think me a fool with it?
I have no doubts
Yet, labeled to make me feel reckless, feckless
I hold on to it, sleep with it…
not to feel safe … but the closest thing to kinship I have in this world
it’s that side of myself everyone denies me access to…
won’t realize or accept
I live in two worlds just to feel whole in one
because
cowards
and what do they sleep with…?

WHAT HAVE I TO HIDE?
Oops, I left caps on… *Laugh* and I’m not going to fix…cuz…??

Not going to be a bitch to ML either…
February 23, 2024 at 10:57pm
February 23, 2024 at 10:57pm
#1064762
Against a woolen sweater that was blue
Thats all that I remember of you
Before you learned to walk, I learned to run
I guess the ants really go marching one by one
When a train rolls in, the doors open, I get in

Last night I had a pleasant nightmare
La da da da
La da da da
La da da da, da da da

there's an ocean formed outside my bedroom door
on the sleepless nights I listen to it roar
there's a road too long to walk, too steep to climb
at the end of it, is what you left behind
and when that train rolls in
the doors open, don't get in

last night I had, a pleasant nightmare
La da da da
La da da da
La da da da, da da

- Emily Kapnek


transcribed

R.I.P. Mike
February 16, 2024 at 6:03pm
February 16, 2024 at 6:03pm
#1064300
Someone knocked all those balls I was juggling out of the sky.I suddenly have a new view of the world.
December 10, 2023 at 11:32am
December 10, 2023 at 11:32am
#1060837


You're In My Way

I stood in the path
of a black bear
twice my weight and
ten times my strength.

I wasn't going to run
as it was twice as fast.

I'd never turn my back to it.

I stared and dared the thing
to roughly dissect my anatomy.
I screamed and yelled at the dope
like it was my monster-tormentor.

Before it could shred me
like a woodland pup tent

I woke up.

I hope I see it again.
I'll cover myself in bacon grease,
my blue-red eyes blaring hot
in a frozen white scene,
bells around my neck
and rocks to hurl.

I want one shot
at overcoming every odd
to defeat this grizzly goliath.

I'm more dangerous
because I don't care,
once I smell it's disease breath.
My eyes hard close
like five thousand pound, stone doors
no animal will withstand or scale.

You're mine,
every hairy, little bit
from mouth to bowels,
until I no longer exhale.


12.10.23
33 lines, bean counters
free f-ing verse.

Title plays to both camps. It's implied meaning is up to the reader.

Poem in a word -- fierce.
Two more words -- death wish.

You should see what I wrote before this:

 Candy Canes Clouds  (E)
Winter and seasonal nostalgia mix one day...
#2310033 by Brian K Compton..tree still up




whose the precious little MF when they suggest you leave the room?

Dumb or not, this gift to you is my magic act.
December 4, 2023 at 9:44am
December 4, 2023 at 9:44am
#1060521
In a word:
Nothing
Comes to mind…
Can’t slow.
I’m snow:
You must shovel
If you want to drive
To get what you need.

In your treads
Every inch of the way…
I’m still falling…
Gently heap…
Cover bushes beneath the bay
Overlooking the adorned trees
On limbs:
Resting, waiting
For you to witness
Before moving me
Aside.


12.4.23

As honest as can be, before I lie
To feel worth?
To feel a part of your world?
While we coincide, I’m at your side
Looking for something, a clue
And why it seems cold
Outside
Of you.



Investigation of 👣 yet to come.

Prompt (newly edited):

"Pretend (the long halls)
December 2, 2023 at 10:44pm
December 2, 2023 at 10:44pm
#1060471
Voice in night anchors me, disembodied
Where I lie alone in dark
Where I float, reach
But cannot touch a soul
With words uttered, muttered
In the chosen black romance
Too dense for images to develop, enveloped
In fear, nothing near

Sound rises, raises me, interplanetary,
Adrift on fading belief
Something could rescue
Pluck a being from tempest deep, haunts
I long to keep that held me
Held me down, spine, organs,
Heavy blood matting deep
In the fibers of a vacuum
That swallows dreamers, spits out
A cynic, poorly dressed, unclean
For the immaculate deceivers
Who couldn’t possibly be
Angels to me

High the sound escapes, divided
by tide silence, rolling over my body
Washing out into a thin horizon,
Gray all the days; I beg for night,
For something warm to hold tight.
Eyes penetrate this space,
Frown upon a fool disgraced.
Doesn’t want to lift up, sinks
To silt bottom like stones cast.

Raise the rim higher, pound
A tempo upon these cans.
A racket. Door closed. Louder
A voice rises above all the rest.
A song I hear buried deep in breast
Flows out my chest, skims and skitters
Across your fog waters. Yet to see
If the sun will rise, shine on me.
Don’t seek it, reluctantly veil
All in my heart with every wail.

Swallowed whole in arriving tides,
Anchored, won’t find any shore.
Voice in night never feels fright
But free from any who can’t conceive
The true identity you won’t believe
Resides in a callous heart, long deceived.


12.2.23

I’ll revisit another time. Not really trying. Just going whatever way the wind blows my pinwheel mind.
Poetry:same results

November 28, 2023 at 2:30pm
November 28, 2023 at 2:30pm
#1060261
November hush, colorful castoffs sleep —
their dreams fade, interlocked on a hard mattress.

Soft, pristine descent of tiny-winged angels come.

Gray time swept up into prolonged nights,
resist allure of outlasting that twelfth chime.

Memories cascade — serenading symphony comes —

Her holiday confections rise in oven, whisper
to a soft nose, as I cuddled in hand-me-downs.

Decorations ascend; presents find their shrouds.
Music wanders about a quiet truce in our home.

A temporal refuge, our family's respite.
Time to unwind, be present, and be family.
Thanksgiving's embrace, feast tradition,
revel in comfort food and kinship extended.

Trapped in snow globe of nostalgia,
Kresge Drug Store's magic orb, gazing
scenes imagined within, immersed.

Beneath the next tinsel-draped tree,
a child's haven of stick-sap and dreams mingling.

Face pressed to cardboard nativity,
wise men, cows, humble manger
and a solitary bulb, humble star,
celestial and warm guide tiny dream scenarios.



11.28.23/23 lines, free verse
12.26.23 minor edits, tighten, tweak, tastier words.

In this free-flowing verse, enjambment weaves the memories seamlessly, capturing the essence of November's nostalgia and the timeless magic of family traditions.

Prompt: “It is also November. The noons are more laconic and the sunsets sterner and Gibraltar lights make the village foreign. November always seems to me the Norway of the year.”
— Emily Dickinson
The Bard's Hall Contest  (13+)
FEBRUARY is SLAM CUPID BAD POETRY month!
#981150 by StephBee

Never entered…too busy…forgot…public now…

Impetus:
Its post leaves down, raked to curb, before fresh snowfall. days are shorter. Night seems to go on and on that I don’t feel tempted to stay up later. And when I lie in bed, I’m transported, I recall the sweet holiday confections emanating late from her oven to my anticipant nose, sense heightened by sounds of decorations going up, presents wrapped, soft holiday music, quiet truce between parents. Family had more time to wind down, be in the moment, be family, repose, with no current distractions but free time to commune, eat comfort food, enjoy extended family at thanksgiving, timeless traditions, as if trapped in an old Kresge Drug Store snow globe, the kind I stared into for long periods of time, imagined myself inside, or would crawl under the freshly tinseled tree, risk sticky sap, face in front of a cheap nativity of fold out cardboard and glued on wise men, cows, sheep, Mary, Joseph, baby in manger and the one light bulb protruding from the hole in display serving as that star, illuminating tiny dream scenes.

How to put all that in free poem, structured, with enjambment was difficult. How to edit this?

I’ll take another run at this someday.

12.01.23
November 26, 2023 at 12:57pm
November 26, 2023 at 12:57pm
#1060162
Hands wrest heart from soul
without physical act
Touch and all crumbles
into virtuality, nothing

Eyes penetrate a weak mind
without a second glance
View all that tumbles
into hollow reality, a void

Old patterns emerge, a defense
Knee reacts, hands hold down
Mouth strapped, I shut
Speak no more of experience
unacknowledged.


11.26.23
Working on

I play the SYML song and response with no preconceived notion what I’ll write.
Lay down, repeating refrain
Locked in membrane
Seeking purpose within a crowd
Loud, words forced out
Shatter the heat, mind, soul
Crumble into a sea of self-doubt
Personality un-conformed cannot reform, anymore.

Better to live in a void,
Be as unexistant as possible,
Not a sound, mutter, mumble
Restraint so tight, I fail to breathe


Find comfort of satin, in
another lover’s arms, who’ll hold
protect a giant man with plow hand
to settle the quakes that disrupt
the tranquility of candle-illumed rose room
Shuttered portals lock all out
But the mere essence of the remains
Of a graphite skin and bones dull
The galley of hull on torn sail craft
Amid a rock harbor, no sound,
edge of the earth on tattered map
given a lad who dreamed serpents would come
lay waste to a bright sailor, claimed black pirate
shackled dreams interned in purgatory
nary a clank, clasped cold in steel
never see another sunrise, sundown
in literal afterlife counting down
tether free, float, sink deep, never found
at the center of a bottomless reality
I count each moment of descent, savor
sweet death of a mouth penned words
in time bottled body, never found again,
no eyes, heart, could possible perceive.

I am him, the one you don’t wonder about
pathetic persecution, in negation,
censored so casually to sodden sea
free to just be everything and nothing
without existence personally, blight
on one who tried to bloom words, life
viewed from your above, looking down
deciding fate abd destiny not my right
if not enslaved to conformity over co-existence
could not commune without carefully
stepping about scattered shards, suddenly
Bleed, cry pain, not understanding
why a moth drawn to light. Couldn’t see
how reform, be what you want without
losing all I dream, seek, am about.

Submerge in this primordial lay down,
dream fire consumes and hardens my metal
find strength in this fight…yet brittle
break from the quiet, which is sound
surround, echo repetitively, shatter all
that epoxy in 11th hour can’t repair, stilled.
Shhhhh, heart lay down.
Shhhhh, mind lay down
Shhhhh, small boy lay down
and let some mother’s arms
collect the remainder for ever after
Lover come before the striking hour
Gifted glass returns to sea-soothing sand
never to be reformed, graveless, forgotten
but for memory loss vision as guide
Lay down, sweet soul
Lay down, tender heart,
Lay restless mind, sleep in decay.
Don’t dream again, that maybe one day?
Overstayed.

11.26.23

All this, with memory of the song of defeat amid a throng
with eyes redirected to sky, great beyond.

It’s not your fault, only comfort I can add
It’s your job. Stick to those weapons. Lay
each
down.


I’ll look back at this too, and wonder
Unable to remember day-to-day
where I’ve been
What I’ve shared
How this is to all go down

Nattering

November 18, 2023 at 6:21am
November 18, 2023 at 6:21am
#1059672
There was a time when staying up late was special.
You could hear the world wind its giant clock.
Since daylight savings time, everything digital,
we wait for sunrise eternal.
We can’t hear. We don’t see.
What’s special that we cherish —
the tradition of anticipation?

Why do we have to learn the ending of every story,
and not fear the trap of our eyes inside a snow globe?

What’s not eternal, is mother tucking me in, placing
two waxy lips tenderly upon a sweat-tired forehead.
Don’t stay up, spoil what waits at morning.

Bright, lumin colors and scents hovered in nights.
All unwrapped now: my gifts, her presence,
what I regifted my children; and what do they give
moving forward from me, her, from Father Time?

Where is that clock? Did we break midnight eternal?
Chains, gears, pulleys…a shop…bespectacled, gray assessor?

A few more grains slip the hemorrhaged container,
spill faster like counted and gobbled pastel beans.
Does the March hare come or a mad hatter?

I’m tired even of myself, questioning everyone.
No one acknowledges, but look over my shoulder at something.
I look behind for presumed ghosts, turn back
and years elapsed; all are gone. I presume

looking, echoing my name amid valleys and dense wood.
I’m alone in November, recall we held each other for warmth
with a tune harmonized from one heart.

Not even a sigh now, unless resignation December.
Its weight of mighty hammer, soon pendulous,

smashes open that gumball machine of time. Snatch up all,
as I walk through and past each of you, invisibly —
the children Wonka never wanted, but one.

The keys to the chocolate factory embedded in carbonate
chocolate time. We could write a sequel,
but not like the first screening, reclined

in tight-hinged, creaking theatre amid landmine
popcorn memory crunch. From bucket to mouth to seat,
eventual gravitational, cement floor, wasted calories.
Even as pale faces flickered, we knew our film souls

losing to the giant clock. What is time really,
without one record keeper, reminiscer and a mother
who tenderly turns pages with a wet forefinger?

The furnace kicks in one more time.
It’s late. Life in the morning.

Time exhales, as I do.


11.18.23
5:41 a.m. before a glim of sun spied in my shed.

Why edit to satisfy the needs of contest promoter or publisher.
Fear the giant clock, our own impatience? I will
read to you from my giant, green recliner. Space for two.

You can feel these emotions when one writes.
Not quite as much on a later read. Give it time. Then read.
Hopeful clarity. Look for the popped kernels in every crevice.

Tell me: was it fun while it lasted?
Make Some Memories.
Be glad for recollections that nourish a tired soul.


O, for the lack of a good editor.
Looks to the northern…lights.
November 17, 2023 at 6:44pm
November 17, 2023 at 6:44pm
#1059646
Papa’s getting ready to hang up his hat
for good. Naps in the green recliner
with the tv on
in his boxers
when a knock at his door
alerted him.

Pants off, the blue ball cap
on the nail, hooked for good.

In black nights he sleeps
all alone. No one to comfort him.
He could wear a frown, but
blooms rose from her oven. Soon
stern tulips waited for the delicate lilies
to rise with our eternal sun.

Papa never opened his eyes in late summer;
harmonious roses being plucked,
Chrysanthemums dared frost and snow.

He had no space to move, when
he felt something underground move.
From her delicate hand
a bright, light lid for a stern head.

No pajamas needed for this bed
where he could stretch limbs as long
as the willows that tickle toes across the street.

From brown to green to blue —
delicate and stern — they still fly,
higher than any eye could spy.

And that’s why we don’t touch
the old hat that needs it’s rest
in his very old house.


11.17.23
30, 37 or 38 lines. Take your pick. Or, 39? *Think*

It’s surreal, some literal, but all imagined
except for dad and his tv and recliner.
His left hand ran up the trimmed wall,
locked there, while his right cradled the cocked head,
asleep. Couldn’t change his channel, with a,
“I was watching that”, after opening blood eyes.
You need the right channel to rest.

No gas stove for us.

——————————————————————

Somewhere, a link just died. 40.
November 13, 2023 at 8:42pm
November 13, 2023 at 8:42pm
#1059447
🍂Seasons Change🍁 But Not The❤️

Fall Themed Poems in 2023…

"It’s The New Season…Noting… "Seasonal Layers
Note: I cannot be Quilled. Go ask Bugs. He's told it to Elmer once before it blossomed into a bosom buddy relationship. No good vibes here, yet. *Watch where ya pointin' dat thing, doc'.

THE OTHERWISE —
"Autumn Analogy "autumn perms "Autumn Irony "Finality In Autumn "Autumnal "Picturing "leaf piles "The Clotting Season


                                       
         *LeafBr*                                                            *LeafR*
                                                                     
         *LeafO*                                                  *LeafY*
                             



                   *LeafR*                                                  *LeafBr*
*Leaf2R*
                             *LeafY*                                        *LeafO*




I always looked forward to fall -- crisp air, beautifully colored landscapes, the wonder of how death promises renewal. It's somber and awe inspiring to know life will lay in its icy, white bed only to offer something more plentiful blooming with hope. It's a truth we can trust, like the sun setting and rising daily.

I found many loves in Autumn, making my heart swell with the potential of love everlasting. While the fires of a kindred few flamed out/faded away, one true love remained...poetry. An assemblance of words to evoke rememberances of the ones that got away in a backdrop of glorious promise, love's serendipitous return with each season.

STATIC
End of the Season  (E)
Leaves play in dehumidifying air as autumn comes to a close.
#2102315 by Brian K Compton..tree still up


Read where my beauties display haunting misery and potential bliss for one growing too old to savor the memory of tasting vibrant painted lips, or foggily recollect tender arms entwined in a lover's dance. When the last poem drops, I will close these doors forever.


Enjoy the simplicity of nature as provided by Robert Frost, and enjoy the brief audio as you follow along:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/resources/learning/core-poems/detail/44272

Response to Frost with Dylan Thomas' prompt...

"Why (I) Blog


Leaf-shadowed crossroads
brightening
the longer I pause
indecisive
nearing an even tide
sun setting
knowing
I'm prompted to choose
when to push forward
gentle
into that good night

It won't matter
what road I travel

I feel an autumnal tide
washing me out of summer.
Humidity shudders.
Breezes brush lines of linen
where a child once played
in fading light.

 Invalid Item 
This item number is not valid.
#2098794 by Not Available.

Last year for this Autumn collection before permanent deletion from account.
November 13, 2023 at 12:58am
November 13, 2023 at 12:58am
#1059405
Cotton,
woven,
linen too perfect
in reverence of gentle white greetings
it would be new anguish to stain. Then,

the tub’s the thing —
though it soothes — it’s with purpose
to serve a soiled soul with stains to drain
each red moment tide-bled from eternal life clock,

ticking, ticking,
ticking off. Oh, but be a burden
to the maid that must scour? So,

with the life-nourishing water tapped,
spigot-ever-sending, purge an outpouring
until every last sap-drop drowned. And yet,

could
a soul
vanish in wood
somehow-never-found
except by hungry mongrels to sever
worried flesh from pale bone upon receiving ground? Maybe,

walk into a fire
so intense it disguises
all remaining hope of a life
not lived well enough to tell? What worry

to have been
a burden so small
unworthy of comfort of
bedding, a bath, a walk in wood, warm fire
that sparks the fleetest gleam in a lone moment.

Thoughts
entertain a soul
not-ready-for-bed
in this quiet undead
void of endless night meandering.

What if
I’m gone?
Since,
I seem to be
less-than-sheets-suds-roam, and
another rekindled sunrise of-no-surprise
at all?


11.12.23

Let’s not speak of this…too easy to entertain idle thoughts…that progress from room to room to open door, down a highway to hopeful non-existence, freedom of burden to roam as unshackled spirit wherever my mind wants to take me…since, no true home but inside my mind.

Thoughts progress, the wider the maw of existence unhinges jaw to receive a thin-thin-pale soul washed awash, never-ending…

and-it-just-goes-on-like-that…
…dashes blur like yellow highway stripes toward highway oblivion…
dot-dot-dot…

Do words ever…
November 13, 2023 at 12:11am
November 13, 2023 at 12:11am
#1059402
“Celebrating what we hope for together is better than fighting over what we believe separately.”

Wing-clipped

Here’s to:
all the energy, vitriol, indifference, sanction, silent demonstration that fills your lungs
like the black balloon, weight one small bird inhales,
exhausts white with fallen plumes in endless flight
and its cryptic coos...


Shall I never write poetry again? Wing-clipped & burdened
under a white cape. Black buzzing shears the head of hope
I’ll ever be beautiful again.

Winter death dreams not of eternal Spring,
silenced, sputtering, inhaling morbid dust.
Mourning nests in eaves, stiff pine, bushes
with cold dandruff.

Within, all
aspiration chases them through wild Summer grasses past
to get to this Fall, to fall and fall,
fall, fall…with no arms to receive — me —

fleeting,
particulate white,
scattered,
slowly painting my green home going down
under brown.

Bookmark a life this late,
risk sleep without knowing if I’ll wake
to realize
the chased happy ending?

I’m saying,
I’ll die without truly immersing in this life wasted.
As ash, I have become one with snow.
Who knows where
we will go.

a piece of ash
incinerated body
a magical element
collected by a child
my last shard
of a human-alien bone.

Disembodied, my voice in his room,
mis-associated as ghost but helps him cope,
find purpose, hope, how to deal with life…
solve for difficult factor of x with y.

When not charged, it’s silent…until it’s truth revealed.
place that particle in some experimental norm
an energized, particle accelerator.
dark fiction, real but with hope for the future,
teach people how to treat one another with respect,
and pay attention to what’s really important…love, community,
unity, compassion, caring, and imparti

Bluck!

The Bard's Hall Contest  (13+)
FEBRUARY is SLAM CUPID BAD POETRY month!
#981150 by StephBee


I could be a messenger of love, to bring unity, but
Wing-clipped, fallen with no one who’ll touch.
So, I never stop flying like a dream, through smoke,
Your fog, clouds, huffed, puffed that I consume, chug
Meant to pull out my plug, but I’m wireless, impervious
To ignorance, defeatism, realism I’ll finish and defeat
The defeatists. Their game is division, keep my coos
From your ears, too many to block, so keep me out, down.

Unity isn’t the aim of my love, but a blissful byproduct.
We could share but that would mean cutting out the purveyor
Middle man who created this tent in a worldwide house.
It’s a snare at best.
November 11, 2023 at 9:33pm
November 11, 2023 at 9:33pm
#1059338
Formerly: ‘Raised … in a memory’s dream’

I heard you say
only one metaphor at a time —
all you could follow

am I dreams —
when I don’t speak to you?
artless?

Let me keep this straight
while working on another poem in my head…
I see —
crayons
color
mother…
She hugs me.
Appreciation?
I draw another and another, lifelong
to please her.

Wish I could near you,
merge with song.

Everyone is mother, because…
I chase something across a barren rug.

Oh, there you are.
I’m holding my drawing up…
I remember you say everything is poetry…yes/no?

Where there’s beauty is song?
No reception…

The purpose of these crayons?

mother raised me wrong.

she died.

Indifferent, the song plays on.
I surpassed into nothing but a void,
living in a memory’s dream,
recast into shapes like you, with
eyes
ears
nose.

You don’t follow this cryptic form of communication
that lives in the untold —
yet, visualize this incipient space?
That’s me! That’s where I live!

But (~none~) conceive what cannot be, that
cannot bond to your atoms.


11/2023
41 lines, free form

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horror_vacui_(physics) :
         https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horror_vacui_(physics)#Origin

Can I breathe now?

Wanted to end with an added line…
I’m not living a dream?
-or-
I’m not even the memory of a dream.

a little too…
Afterthoughts: To exist is to be acknowledged?
Earth is true purgatory.

11.30.23 last edit

November 11, 2023 at 12:20pm
November 11, 2023 at 12:20pm
#1059311
I’ve considered you all
So much
I forgot about me

And yet
Thank you for the distraction
Never far
From my next birth…rebirth

Received?
Amniotic waves flow away
From me

Once fertile feelings of love
Are naught
My love not to be bought
I hide

Walls of resistance crushing
Fall in
Explode a beautiful sea into

A void
Harmless blue blood washes brown
Back out
Black into light obliterated

I am
Alright in sanctity tonight
Until morn
We wait to see a sparkling babe

Born…again.
What a waste lost, to revision.



11.11.23

This…I’ve done for all and any, and yet…
still learning…and who I am?
Not to be defined by another, anymore
That’s why the reviewlution…for now…

Cleansed into one-ness.

Careful, lest stars get in your eyes.

November 11, 2023 at 9:50am
November 11, 2023 at 9:50am
#1059304


Yeah, you don’t know me.

What’s that on yo neck?

Unrelated

How many corners of Earth you tryin’ to own?
How many more have I been in
tryin’ to whiff an essence?

You? You think I chase.
You ain’t got the cash I need.
You can’t own those mountains, that sea, the sky.
You can climb, swim but never fly,
yet you try…
buy it all, hoping I buy
something you can’t conceive,
something I ain’t sellin’. ‘Cause,

the more I buy,
the more I’m bought.
The more I’m bought,
the less I’m worth.

And you can’t have those words that I just stole.
They ain’t my birth.

11.11.23

Trousers back on

If you ain’t feelin’ me, ain’t been tryin’.
Maybe, you read wid dem roses on.
Roses ain’t green.
You ain’t foolin’ me;
but someone, right?
I hope they pay you good.

Me, I’m jus’ tryin’ ta be.
Now…my dick?
Yeah, now it feel good.
And sorry, it’s jus’ for me.

No need a Buffalo Stance…


I’ll try another approach another day. I know you don’t ‘respond’ SVP.

p.s.
My poor mom…’where do all those words come from?’

She SHOULD have had me tested, instead of calling me ‘different’, her ‘dumb bunny’.

You know, a dumb bunny is sick in the head…soon dead from madness.
I’m no March hare, mad hatter.
She could never see what was the matter?

Me neither,
until EVERYONE told me otherwise.
Then, skinned or marshaled me to some island
where echoes of childhood float
above black plumes and below these lava boots.

I’ve stomped each bitch, one by one,
until in my Lost, saw just illusion,
someone’s delusion, as others employed
guilt and shame from that long ago
Time Machine I refuse to board.

You get in.
Bet you won’t know the date I’ll set it.



Edited versh. I wudn’t do you like dat.
Pilin’ FBoys like logs fer fire. 🔥 burn.
November 7, 2023 at 8:33pm
November 7, 2023 at 8:33pm
#1059102


I’ve Strayed/When You Tire

Don’t know what normal is
         in your world
duplicated
tried
but it’s all a lie
         and you hate me
         for my charade
         wanting to belong
when we like the same song
         but I just go on

deep in the night

fighting for some right

I’m deep in this fog
         in a forest four counties long
further from you
so my voice is no good
though I sing to someone
    &n