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(116)
Rated: 18+ · Book · Spiritual · #1149750
10k views, 2x BestPoetryCollection. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind
I’m disabled by more than blindness.

Writing: Like one of those adventure games where you go off questing in different directions but you don’t advance in life. Pretty medallions sought for words/my soul, slow burnt. Full of misdirects, right back at the start, but still quest with thirst.

Life of turmoil produces stuff like this. Not going to call it beautiful agony…it gets a bit uglier. Minced words too pungent. If they take time to notice, must be doing something right.

scripturam in hoc non mutamus, quia stultus es et differentiam nescies.

(hic)

The beautiful mess you made:
I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost
         |
I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. - me

Neurodivergent poet seeks love without that fart in the room between us. Honesty without mincing words has come with a price for those juggling the hot my takes on what’s ‘truth’ (here’s some oven mitts). Best to stay clear of those surrounded by moat rules.

Real dialogue is accepted.

Wasn’t as open at first about recent diagnosis on spectrum with ADHD (complicated by PTSD, life of brain traumas). Been suggested by doctors of late I might want another brain scan (since 12/4/17…blogged).

This poet’s words collect, arrange on a kaleidoscope spectrum. The experience of discovery through writing is the truest reward that has allowed me to grow and learn who/what I am — what other people get naturally, immediately, while I stomp around in it.

Been blessed, but pushing it — envelope, world and all inhabitants away. Push buttons, find boundaries to trip traps. No clue why cat curiosity, living in your dark. (Bored, perhaps?)

Now and then, push dirt out of this hole; someone/thing/entity might envision me how I need to be viewed (if I knew what that was). Cryptic, yes. Try living in my dark, find comfort amid strange, virtual, wonderful walls that tower above, tempt me to scale.

Been more than I could imagine or expect here. But, achievements aren’t going on a LinkedIn wall *Think*. I dig deeper than I should, often without forethought. Aimless words, brave or veiled cowardice, flinchingly flung, inadvertently hit targets? Get a ‘back off’ shoulder shot when asking your motivations here. Not fair?

No prize to eye; not incentivized. Dealt the worst two cards before the flop, do best with what’s in hand.



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

It’s like plugging myself, but using other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "Poetic Referendum(s) On Life"
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 BrianKC with apologies, Mother


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 ... 12 13 14 15 -16- 17 18 19 20 21 ... Next
April 19, 2022 at 5:19pm
April 19, 2022 at 5:19pm
#1031017
After the x-ray and before the adjustment,
he slid the negative over the clapboard light,
with two hands, and said, 'do you have problems
with your back?' which puzzled me. Duh. White crust
caked the unaligned column of disks, revealing
a 'very arthritic' back with my 'congenital fusion'
at the 'atlas' and 'two fused vertebrae near the coccyx'.
My own doing. I envisioned winter on Mahjong tiles.
Not the takeaway, as my focus was on his amazement,
repeating two times, 'you have perfect hips', later
told to my wife as, ‘always knew I had a perfect ass.'


4.19.22

it's true *Bigsmile*. number four on my list.*Think*
sharing this knowledge on world web? Not hairy.
and it's smooth.

I'm just going to stop talking about my writing and start in on my anatomy...

"My Penis" 

don't know what I should feel more ashamed about. *Glass5*
wife tells me she couldn't stop staring at my hands and forearms the other day. knew she wasn’t listening.
April 17, 2022 at 7:56am
April 17, 2022 at 7:56am
#1030870
My bay window acts as a cage,
where they flit inside puzzled limbs
of an anticipant crab,
that stoic shuns a stiff blast without bend
but for brittle stems sent.
In an instant,
dawn tittered melody becomes a din.
A sparked sun no longer ekes out
beneath dimming clouds.

Mrs. Red Breast fat flops down
on dull turf. Plump puffed, she stops,
cocked head, darts side-to-side.
A skip-hop dance, pauses, bounces back.
Nothing yanked, heavily she flutters up
to the budding maple’s rigid arm.

Clouds now full thick, roll in, lower
and glare at me in my recliner, my container,
as Red beelines it from her haven;
shouting she goes, the last fowl sound
before a distant grumble.

Light escapes this soft lounge
when the porch is first to report.
It strikes fast, comes again, thickly applies
as a crop duster to empty street.
A rush dashes to the corner grate.
The feck begins, ends, sends more,
as if a child grips and spins a tap.
But roof and gutters cannot conceal
echos of metal and oily black skins pelted,
now steady receiving seasonal torment.

I’ll be here for hours and reminds —
wear a thicker garment under this throw.


4.17.22
32 lines, free verse
8.14.22 revised

Title: double meaning

Taboo Words April 2022
Prompt: APRIL SHOWERS
taboo words: water, drench, weather, cold, shower
or any derivatives of these words
April 15, 2022 at 7:37pm
April 15, 2022 at 7:37pm
#1030801
1st Place - Personify Writing Contest
Merit Badge in G Specials [Click For More Info] Congratulations for winning 1st Place during the April 2022 round of [Link To Item #2268646] !
When I'm Depressed

As a band of brothers, born connected in factory,
his tedious blade cut apart our unity as we laid.
We harnessed power as a grid, so near, yet far
in cool, dark days, boxed, undelivered -- perfect
until thin Styrofoam slid from surface, captured.

We connected to a new grid, electrified, explored
by tender, sweaty hands fumbling in eerie glow.
A cherub, illuminated an insurgent, prying, plying
into portals that employed renewed rebels digitally.
In a storm room, pain and suffering, she was consumed.

A nation of brothers under palm were her depressed.
Notes played, in tunnels to realms she sought coexist,
not careful, stained and crumbed a depressed land.
Her agony growing, not a symphony, composing
anthems about identity, when in finality was a man.

Words never spoken in his room to worried parents,
he employed us. Multi-dimensional worlds collided,
broke apart. Keystrokes ever changing, erasing, returned
a dark heart's song that depressed us again and again.
Struck in agony, virtually, in this tunnel nearing victory.

Uniform with the one, we warred with other nations, fought
a battle of good versus evil. Our keys struck harmony,
melody for those who could see our deployed need.
In the real world, she is he. In this multi-verse, now
undivided, we can coexist with a world of depressed.

Stoic, rigidly we transitioned mutually, respectfully.
Solemn nights alone, beneath those sweaty hands,
tender now. Peace restored in his land of confusion.
A band of troubadours sing in key, for the heart true
in identity; contextually, characters coexist with one.


4.15.22
30 lines, free verse
 
STATIC
Personify WC - Prompt, Entries & Winners  (E)
Previous rounds' prompt, qualified entries and winners for Personify Writing Contest.
#2270464 by GERVIC 🐉 WDC Dragon Vale

APRIL 2022
Prompt Object:
COMPUTER KEYBOARD


Keyboards are molds cut apart by hand to expose molded keys, tightly pressed back together after being socketed to corresponding switches.

Idea is keyboard thinks itself a nation with keys that are depressed (double meaning) by the user composing sad anthems this nation of keyboard helps express.

idea and concept…gender dysphoria leads to transgenderism in transformative poem? A sad and lonely process where the keyboard is empathetic, helps unify the young cherub in transformation to find friends, help, support and true identity in process.

Hard to personify a keyboard without sounding silly.
April 15, 2022 at 7:22pm
April 15, 2022 at 7:22pm
#1030799
I don those small galoshes on my feet, tight
straddling a baby toe, no wiggle room, blisters grow
with each stomped puddle. brown ripples dividing,
overflow an already doused street, in my sleep.
April eternal and I'm dry and still in PJs.
I spin her good umbrella, better than mine
(broken by the wind) and lance like a fool,
stabbed like a buffoon, back pedal, stumble.
but there's nowhere dry to land, bottom wet.

inside a windbreaker house, flapping as a bird,
as if I could fly from nest to bus stop,
mid-April, when I finally appear after dark.
I see it go by and hurl a steel lunchbox,
dented too many times, tumbling an alley
from a bruised big toe. I imagine he sneers,
as passing yellow rolls, sends a toxic blast,
when I wake up, fuss and wail, in April fading.
and I'm still dry, head lowered, shuffling.

I anchor the rear seat, in a cloud, as she drives.
past scolded, arms folded, ruled for having imagination
when April weather changes and I haven't arrived.
every gnarled tree out the window glares back.
but in my paneled room, she gently slides bedside,
tousles unkempt hair, reminds I need a haircut
and get ready in April. can't feel her lips brush
my skin, pale, wrinkling, sinking in bone,
where I lay and turn to window for information.

not too many days left before break. I expect rain.


4.15/17.22
28 lines, free verse

I missed the bus a lot, a lot, especially when there were so many puddles to splash. This is a mix of childhood memory, dreams and anticipating dying with her blessing before I go...to my new school.
April 14, 2022 at 11:22am
April 14, 2022 at 11:22am
#1030708
my crown is wound tight, almost daily,
the mainspring pried by forefinger
and a thick thumb, trying to get a grip.
sometimes, i go for days in the drawer,
in the nightstand, eyes tight, mind in night.

my crown could use a spin, manually,
attuned by a dedicated one
who knows tension, tiny coils and gears
that don't need constant lubricating
but a little love, to clasp a hairy wrist.


4.14.22

I could add to this, give deeper introspect. Just thinking about wrist watches, when I had one that needed to be manually wound. How I would forget, or not wear, or lose or not care about time. And then, when I got a beautiful watch with a battery, how it was crap, never kept time and again, I would misplace it, forget it, not care about time. And now, I have a phone, a tablet, a fitbit, all places to stare that digitally are wound to a world clock so I can never be late, and I still try not to look, or care about time, but definitely feel it's tiny springs and coils inside of me wanting to rust up, erode and push back the tides of this linear thing I live inside of. Or should this be the poem?

and I should wear my glasses. that's another matter and yet the same. i'm not Bond with all these gadgets i could use to rescue myself when danger approaches. okay, still poetry. stop.
April 14, 2022 at 10:50am
April 14, 2022 at 10:50am
#1030707
Blowing up threads with word soup
you call TNT,
clearing a room before doom
from the ignorance

yours, not mine, because
this is art, poetry
and it could be sublime, or
it could be a method of reaching out

Blowing holes through rhetoric
meant to build walls
not tumble them down so
we can finally meet

on your side, not mine, because
this is art, poetry
and you should come greet
words on my wall to really consider

These words could divine a way
for you and me to be friends
I'm not taking anyone hostage
with the words I spread, though
I can conceive how you might think a threat

That is your problem, should not be mine.
But, let's wait a minute and see
if we paint a line of indifference
clearly marked just for me
so I do not cross


4.14.22

words the world today is not ready to greet with openness, fairness or honesty. Dialogue takes a back seat.
Yes, I can see you are triggered. What about me? What - about - me?
April 14, 2022 at 9:28am
April 14, 2022 at 9:28am
#1030702
Yes, I'm teaching myself to Villanelle. A1
Formulaic, puzzle in words that rhyme, b
with a scheme they conjured in wordsmith hell. A2

Poetry, meter-less, my attempt to sell. a
A1, b, A2, a, as b repeats this time. b
Yes, I'm teaching myself to Villanelle, A1

butcher language, a word chimp could tell. a
Should I trifle, prompted, what's my crime? b
with a scheme they conjured in wordsmith hell. A2

This theme is something satirical and smells. a
Pinch my nose, google, select and fill each line. b
Yes, I'm teaching myself to Villanelle, A1

while life awaits, distracted from tolling bell. a
Tempted to waste time, break form, that's my crime, b
with a scheme they conjured in wordsmith hell. A2

Away from tercet, a stanza with four lines. a
My brain in twain with no refrain drops this dime. b
Yes, I'm teaching myself to Villanelle, A1
with a scheme they conjured in wordsmith hell. A2


4.14.22
The customary 19 lines, Villanelle
it's so catchy, it's so kitschy

Everything you need to know, more than you wanted to know:
https://poets.org/glossary/villanelle

Spent half an hour last night, about a half hour this morning.
I'll take my training wheels off, as I've completed my first Villanelle.

The poem describes how it is constructed. Meter is optional, but helps, like iambic.
Let's say, if you like USA crossword puzzles, it's for you. I laid out the restricted form with rhyme scheme on the page. Capital letters mean repeat the whole line.
You might know the rudimentary instruction for rhyming a and b.

Prompt: Find a form of poetry you've never written before and both describe it and write an example.

Written for "The Whatever Contest." *Right* "The Whatever Contest -- Closed for Now" 

Word/Line Count:19

Taking a pill now. Should have worn my glasses. That's the true trick.
Took longer to edit this way.
April 13, 2022 at 5:10pm
April 13, 2022 at 5:10pm
#1030671
You changed your costume.
Do you not remember when you were spurned?
How fire doused chilled you?

You changed your tone,
making me believe you cannot absorb pain
of a memory that informed.

I long to see you eyes aflame,
because I just stopped thinking about how you
used to sing pain like fire.

It feels centuries old when burned.
Blisters leave scars that can never hide pain.
How fire did that to you.


4.13.22

Cannon's cover of On Fire For You changed.
April 13, 2022 at 4:31pm
April 13, 2022 at 4:31pm
#1030668
heat could penetrate this mantle
with a sun millions of miles away
gently disturbing molecules floating by
unanimated butterflies that don't spark
that don't light a bug in vernal scene

passion could penetrate this soul
with a moon nearer to my heart tonight
gently disturbing chemicals flowing through
unanimated cicadas that won't spark
that yet won't wake a bug for many years

and while we are on this vinyl spinning round
the sun and moon go through their phases
are not gentle, disturb, and keep floating by
they animate all that is real, except me, now
a bug trapped eternal in every stagnant season,

still dreaming return to anything better than this.


4.13.22

Not for you, or you, or you, because no one but me dreams like me, in retrograde.

I fear punctuate but appreciate sentence breaks and flow of words meted.
April 13, 2022 at 4:00pm
April 13, 2022 at 4:00pm
#1030666
Rolling grey in this gusty garden, remnants
of last year's unharvested.
Rolling about this dusty, fogged head,
last year's forgotten joys:
blue skies agleam, a simple plot radiating,
glint gutters funneling a shower’s surprise,
daffodils early return amid inhaled hyacinth
hastened, lambs of April.

Storms seldom abate this season, longing
Spring revival to release me.
Out a smeared window, ice-crust soil slogged.
Leafy beds below windows do not burst
a thirst of green tubers, rooted underground.
Sun from heaven barely shines.
Cloud skies' gloom in April darken as doom
for garden flowers perennial reprise,
won't release wary eyes from winter’s guise.


4.13.22
17 lines, free verse

Title: a call to action

2nd Place, 4.19.22 (always a bridesmaid...)
for Stormy's Poetry Newsletter
https://www.writing.com/main/newsletters/action/archives/id/11321-Jane-Kenyon.ht...
words:
grey skies April showers garden flowers spring surprise
April 10, 2022 at 2:36pm
April 10, 2022 at 2:36pm
#1030482
By unknown gravitation, levitation,
they seem migrate everywhere,
when not found heeled to head,
hung to shirt neck; toying with me,
a mindless man, be-fogged, squinting
uncorrected ability to scan a scene
piled perilously, from here to there.

Haphazard, shorn, mangled documents
wedge within, and upon, spiraled, stapled,
and glued, blue-lined pads, mingle with
half-fallen-down books, a phone not charging,
two tablets full ready & honed instruments discarded,
collecting in puzzled places as hidden 3D images
in my two-dimensional, sub-reality; when
she walks up to me, bewildered, arm stretched out
and says, 'here, you looking for these?'

It happens more often than it should. But,
no need panic, as I'm accustomed, with four more pair
still wandering, waiting (re)discovery somewhere within,
and possibly without, jungled mazes of this house.


4.10.22

formerly titled: 'Looking For These?'
run on sentences in my poetry can signify several things. in this case, anxiety and the endless game of hunting for what we have lost, need recover, including sanity.

following was typed with no aid for vision, making me think I need go on another safari, especially if I want to edit.
April 9, 2022 at 9:06pm
April 9, 2022 at 9:06pm
#1030429
don't aim for my ears.
don't aim for my ears.
don't.
I don't want to hear.
but
with your call heard above the willow,
I visualize
flowing, straw so smooth, lace
a tender chin, frame rose jowls
jutting beneath that bay of blue.

don't aim for my eyes.
don't aim your eyes
at mine. don't.
I don't want to know
that you
could really see me now,
after all these years, like this,
alone and wishing...

flow, straw so tender in willow
aims at me,
some isle of a man
who cannot run,
could not visualize your arms
open to rigid oak,
a dense wood,
that could shadow your form
if the sun had hit us
just right.

I don't want to hear hello.
I didn't want to see you go,
flow fading into night,
alight in dreams
beneath a moon's glow
a fog-head still clearly envisions.

no aim.
no aim.
no flow.
why must the moon still glow?


4.9.22
April 9, 2022 at 8:54pm
April 9, 2022 at 8:54pm
#1030427
your body may have been small
I'll never know after I heard you
glance off the bay window, though
I could go look. I don't want to.

I'm all alone and small like you
on the inside of something protective
that isn't a heart, about as big as you,
I would imagine, from melodious sound
that may have signaled a death toll

My body may have been small, but
I'll never know how hard the sound when I
glanced off big hands, thick, though
I could go look, in my hell hole.
I don't want to
know

I'm all alone,
small,
make no sound
in this giant shell
of a living man
who does not want to relive
what you go through,
struggling, possibly...now...

I'm small
let's leave it at that.


4.9.22
April 9, 2022 at 6:45pm
April 9, 2022 at 6:45pm
#1030418
Burn For This? (Will I Ever Know?)

I’m trying to say something to you in a way you never quite thought of,
hopefully handsome, that you’ll appreciate, maybe, even dream a little
about me, the way my words might form when our eyes meet, might they
dilate and flesh heat. while we may never greet or extend a hand to the other,
more personally, warm a tender back; two limbs entwine sodden torsos,
finally arrive to perfect sunrise. roots firm grasp terra we soil together,
feeling true worth, before undeniable repose;
losing the sun to moonless nights, winter a dark year alone,
yearn vernal return, early — less a lion, longing like lambs.
with tender lips kiss a finally thawed, wet glass —
kiss window pane, escape somehow through a filmy thing,
when you couldn’t look out, needed words burst a hard land,
touch hope lingering soft, in blue hearts, burning again.

Will I ever know…if I did that?


4.9.22
4.13.22 edit
April 9, 2022 at 6:24pm
April 9, 2022 at 6:24pm
#1030417
I’ve written a lot of stuff I won’t post, resist what might be temptation. But this, no qualms…

I could be somewhere between Will Smith laughing at Chris Rock’s Oscars joke
and that fist upside the comedian’s jughead jaw
to yelling
keep her name out your mouth
to weeping during an honor professing
desire to be a vessel for love.

What you get is not staged but reaction
to all that confounds.
I got to get it right.
I know when I’m baited, learned to dial it down,
step back. But, definitely,
I won’t be poned or dismissed
and have to actively figure a way to prepare and sort it
when dared…by life
and by trolls…indifferent or direct.

Will may have been in laugh mode before quickly connecting the dots
before going off.
Rock sells controversy as comedy,
but not as edge as he once was.
Rock is scripted.
Smith might not be.

If I script, I’m fake.
Got to work it real and keep the pressure on.
Be
West Philly in the house.

3.29.22

We all like to think we can relate,
know what goes on
and then crazy shit like this happens
and we walk it back.
Nope.
Got to move on.

4.9.22

The more you read me, the more you might misunderstand, judge…I’m okay with that. I’ll keep plugging away. You do you. I’m not hating. They need you to watch. I’m not like that.
April 6, 2022 at 7:17pm
April 6, 2022 at 7:17pm
#1030214
We shun what’s real, buy
over-manufactured crap
from a slick, plastic molder
with more capital, warehouses
to the stiffs walking in,
walking out; so easy,
a child could make, for pennies
on American dollars, shipped
across borders, shores. So,
lace them, and button up,
flash you fashion and grin
how clever money. Now, give.


4.6.22
April 6, 2022 at 11:56am
April 6, 2022 at 11:56am
#1030187
As I wander, cloud a divergent lane --
two paths could be taken, but I-I drift,
having harvested the succulence, in a season
fruitful, labored and dying winter white.

My essence could burst, yet, not a drop yet
to drink. Spared, until some corner field famished,
I arrive, flow free. Tread softly as I die, gentle,
knowing, better to have lived and not lost.

The only question, can you harvest a lonely dream,
as the death of me? With water rising everywhere,
surging to sea, mellow mists frost, freeze
in divergent air. Breathe free and know me there,

and from my own true path in life, what I've seen,

transparent, floating like me over hills and mounts,
a field golden sprung, edged by unfolding trees.
A crowd seeds, inspires fluttering, dust and dancing
beside a clear lake leveled, after the thaw comes.


4.6.22
21 lines, free verse

inspired by quotes of great poets to celebrate National Poetry Month:

https://www.oxford-royale.com/articles/famous-lines-poetry/

Lost ▼
April 5, 2022 at 3:01pm
April 5, 2022 at 3:01pm
#1030133
The tether thins with weather, with age
Don't let me off that leash.
Who knows where I'll roam.

The dog house is always haven here
Don't let me out of my den
Who knows where I'll roam

The collar signifies my worth, owned.
Don't ever let me go free, because
who knows where I'll roam.


The night captures its animal freed
The moon consumes my dull eyes
The stars shine for some reason why

The days erode, barely connect a life
The sun shuns my confused eyes
A lone star burns for some reason why

The endless life meanders beyond youth
The earth spins fast for slow eyes
Dirt severed, receives for some reason,
why?


4.5.22
April 4, 2022 at 11:02pm
April 4, 2022 at 11:02pm
#1030094
what does it matter?
they don’t notice a boy
who hides in shadows
past their egress in a harrowing hallway
to the rear stairs no one takes at recess...

they could access to find him
acting out last night's episodes:
from dinner table to television fare
to the hero he needs be, for others
unselfishly, brazenly acting a colorful fool,
running down his street, blue blanket,
neck-tied

on the steps, quiet, but buzzing fluorescence,
where a tall wall rises to meet the same ceiling
lingers amid potent dust never cleaned
that he puts his face right on
to feel cool, smooth laminate, cheek-tacked
when the bell torments his reality returning.

why does it matter
that they don't notice a boy
alone in the shadows with fears
blocking egress to their escape
to any exit that will do, to recess, access


4.5.22
April 3, 2022 at 8:07pm
April 3, 2022 at 8:07pm
#1030015
Bedding that soothed a sweaty head served
many purposes when I needed to avoid him
in the bunkbed or wall closet, with blanket bus
or fortress of solitude in plaster, devouring
well worn comics, and Brach's pix-a-mix
stolen from her secret stash in the cupboard.

However, in memory, no more is that sanctuary.

The freshest escape, summer day, true freedom
came beneath the clothesline with her wooden pins.
This woman who saved me from a dark cell, savior,
with bleached skin and heavy fragrance breathing
from her bosom, sheltered me within musty
comforters and quilts to never be found.

I celebrate, a solitary boy, absorbing filtered light,
within the actions of painted panels with heroes
made green, made of stone, ugly outside like
the boy dreamed his reality until soft delusion.
Wherever I tack my sheets, safely divided from him.


Quill Nominated Best Poetry Collection two consecutive years, 2020 and 2021.

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