abecedarian - Hello Poetry

Airplane WiFi by Sherman Alexie A poem written on Alaska Air Flight 2108 OCT 31 READ IN APP LISTEN TO POST · 1:13 30,000 feet above my reservation, I call down to my tribal childhood and the Indian boy that I was looks up to see me flying through the blue. Who could’ve predicted that I’d get paid so well to tell my tales? My grandmother once said that I’d always be the oddest one, the grandson who was born with a suitcase in his hand. But, no matter the glories found on the road, I’m often a lonely traveler because my stories and poems about my family can take me so far away from home.

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Oct 31, 2025

Oct 31, 2025 at 4:08 PM UTC

Airplane WiFi by Sherman Alexie

Airplane WiFi by Sherman Alexie A poem written on Alaska Air Flight 2108 OCT 31 READ IN APP LISTEN TO POST · 1:13 30,000 feet above my reservation, I call down to my tribal childhood and the Indian boy that I was looks up to see me flying through the blue. Who could’ve predicted that I’d get paid so well to tell my tales? My grandmother once said that I’d always be the oddest one, the grandson who was born with a suitcase in his hand. But, no matter the glories found on the road, I’m often a lonely traveler because my stories and poems about my family can take me so far away from home.

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and knowing this, he slow steals it away, all fine, remembering all those details, slow, then steady, then regularized, and finally, not caring, just knowing what is needed, worth it, desired, and prioritizing the heart and heads emotions, to process our interactions in to a single weave of multi colored fabric, one day silk, next cotton, even scratchy wool serves a purpose, but it is the skin, the skin that notches that sparking, after talking, when you them truly, for the first time, and you say hey! you part your hair down the middle, and so engrossed, did not notice, how it falls just over each corner's eye, and that is so engaging, so teasingly attractive I, smitten, suddenly struck silent, I remember the why, I remember the very instant, the exact first, the opening bursting, when our eyes met, and we smiled exactly the same way, halfway, opening both thinking we could be, we could be, we could be a be...

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Oct 30, 2025

Oct 30, 2025 at 11:22 AM UTC

one of the great gifts God has given us is memory

and knowing this, he slow steals it away, all fine, remembering all those details, slow, then steady, then regularized, and finally, not caring, just knowing what is needed, worth it, desired, and prioritizing the heart and heads emotions, to process our interactions in to a single weave of multi colored fabric, one day silk, next cotton, even scratchy wool serves a purpose, but it is the skin, the skin that notches that sparking, after talking, when you them truly, for the first time, and you say hey! you part your hair down the middle, and so engrossed, did not notice, how it falls just over each corner's eye, and that is so engaging, so teasingly attractive I, smitten, suddenly struck silent, I remember the why, I remember the very instant, the exact first, the opening bursting, when our eyes met, and we smiled exactly the same way, halfway, opening both thinking we could be, we could be, we could be a be...

26

"*How could I live without metaphors? To call things by their names, not to drown in longings, not to color them, to make shapes less painful?*"^ ><<>< this quest, this verse curses my drifting senses. now all attentions, the outlined shapes that haunt, daunt, lacking ****** substance, just wafers and wines symbolic, to defer away the many pointy fingers, hands of nothing but forefingers aiming exactly at our temple's temple stating most factually, J'accuse shadows are metaphors, images meta-stasizing into what ever you believe, what you think you meta~need to see, in the dark late of the light of our soul's night, so you right of, you write of seasonal changes, hardly illusory, failing to note, that when you wrote: How could I live without metaphors? the answer metaphorical+historical, for the question is only rhetorical for you know~knew that once we know the name to everything, we will no longer want them, but only to write of them in idealized metaphors so we can sleep~dream on, perchance while the restoration of the imagination is our brain sourcing new things that seek, crave, to satisfy our urgent needs to describe, define, our every fractional moment

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Oct 2, 2025

Oct 2, 2025 at 4:27 PM UTC

How could I live without metaphors?

"*How could I live without metaphors? To call things by their names, not to drown in longings, not to color them, to make shapes less painful?*"^ ><<>< this quest, this verse curses my drifting senses. now all attentions, the outlined shapes that haunt, daunt, lacking ****** substance, just wafers and wines symbolic, to defer away the many pointy fingers, hands of nothing but forefingers aiming exactly at our temple's temple stating most factually, J'accuse shadows are metaphors, images meta-stasizing into what ever you believe, what you think you meta~need to see, in the dark late of the light of our soul's night, so you right of, you write of seasonal changes, hardly illusory, failing to note, that when you wrote: How could I live without metaphors? the answer metaphorical+historical, for the question is only rhetorical for you know~knew that once we know the name to everything, we will no longer want them, but only to write of them in idealized metaphors so we can sleep~dream on, perchance while the restoration of the imagination is our brain sourcing new things that seek, crave, to satisfy our urgent needs to describe, define, our every fractional moment

48

passion thirst hurt ephemeral physical cold heat hunger water walking brutally real physical skin colors words spontaneous devious planned desire desired, physical concrete parchment thin muscled strong catch a caught physical making creating cresting cannot live without physical electric shocking eclectic varied realized why? stop here? eyed fingered tongue tasted, ear sensual dreamt famous buried tragic comedic gaming played unsafe at any speed languorous fire immolating physical chest pains, incurable incumbent to possess otherwise, death fingernails poking knuckle kissing lips wetting blood exchanging oh yeah physical foreign native young old permanently temporary infinitely finite definitely unending nowhere no expression dying dreams best better agonizing agonizing unrequited offer everything receive shoulder colder than hell defensive offensive cape laid walk on me chivalry until we hold each others fingers knotted until I stroke your hair unexpectedly, until we agree to hell with all the rest until we say the say the same thing simultaneously until we come together when we have satisfied each and every one of the above, freely confess know nothing of love but the picayune details that make us greater greater than greater, greatest, then and only then we, might have a few clues

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Sep 16, 2025

Sep 16, 2025 at 9:47 AM UTC

revised riposte: know nothing of "love"

passion thirst hurt ephemeral physical cold heat hunger water walking brutally real physical skin colors words spontaneous devious planned desire desired, physical concrete parchment thin muscled strong catch a caught physical making creating cresting cannot live without physical electric shocking eclectic varied realized why? stop here? eyed fingered tongue tasted, ear sensual dreamt famous buried tragic comedic gaming played unsafe at any speed languorous fire immolating physical chest pains, incurable incumbent to possess otherwise, death fingernails poking knuckle kissing lips wetting blood exchanging oh yeah physical foreign native young old permanently temporary infinitely finite definitely unending nowhere no expression dying dreams best better agonizing agonizing unrequited offer everything receive shoulder colder than hell defensive offensive cape laid walk on me chivalry until we hold each others fingers knotted until I stroke your hair unexpectedly, until we agree to hell with all the rest until we say the say the same thing simultaneously until we come together when we have satisfied each and every one of the above, freely confess know nothing of love but the picayune details that make us greater greater than greater, greatest, then and only then we, might have a few clues

87

“the irrepressible impossibility of not-writing” not my phraseology, cut/saved/pasted from the tens of thousands of words my eyes imbibe daily, waiting for a Fulfillment Center to deliver a perfectly completed poem matching, equal to the Ah Ha! uttered when he first read them, understanding the need, the surging urging when a chest concaving with irrepressible bursting purpose, just has-to hasty expel, never considering the possibility that I, I do not have something worthy of stating, right now, an inside insight...

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Aug 25, 2020

Aug 25, 2020 at 4:16 PM UTC

“the irrepressible impossibility of not-writing“

“the irrepressible impossibility of not-writing” not my phraseology, cut/saved/pasted from the tens of thousands of words my eyes imbibe daily, waiting for a Fulfillment Center to deliver a perfectly completed poem matching, equal to the Ah Ha! uttered when he first read them, understanding the need, the surging urging when a chest concaving with irrepressible bursting purpose, just has-to hasty expel, never considering the possibility that I, I do not have something worthy of stating, right now, an inside insight...

7

**for all who understand perfectly why perfection can never be, and Adriana Barreiros~** <> Todays new millionth sunrise bids me stand, observe the river traffic from my kitchen window, accept that my takings are debts, a few, even paid back, yet, most still owed, for the origins of all my poems, are oddly and oddity old, unoriginal, second, third handed as I look through the eyes of the dead, and yours too, this my unoriginal, original sin.... (pretending I am a poet)

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Jul 4, 2020

Jul 4, 2020 at 3:33 PM UTC

Todays new millionth sunrise bids me stand,

**for all who understand perfectly why perfection can never be, and Adriana Barreiros~** <> Todays new millionth sunrise bids me stand, observe the river traffic from my kitchen window, accept that my takings are debts, a few, even paid back, yet, most still owed, for the origins of all my poems, are oddly and oddity old, unoriginal, second, third handed as I look through the eyes of the dead, and yours too, this my unoriginal, original sin.... (pretending I am a poet)

16

*“your arrhythmic rhymes, skinflint perspectives, this is what I ask, what I need, what you can give, what is in your possess, what you need to unburden, making me better for making you lessened” * <> she offers me this, a way out to more, a way in to lessen, knock on heavens door, a suggest tendered, treaty of mutual arms-ments-to-be? perhaps is my answer, utter the skinflints perspective, maybe it is no treat, this treaty, but a rad road well traveled to mutually assured destruction, the intended embrace of unintended consequences

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Jun 3, 2020

Jun 3, 2020 at 11:48 AM UTC

arrhythmic rhymes, skinflint perspectives

*“your arrhythmic rhymes, skinflint perspectives, this is what I ask, what I need, what you can give, what is in your possess, what you need to unburden, making me better for making you lessened” * <> she offers me this, a way out to more, a way in to lessen, knock on heavens door, a suggest tendered, treaty of mutual arms-ments-to-be? perhaps is my answer, utter the skinflints perspective, maybe it is no treat, this treaty, but a rad road well traveled to mutually assured destruction, the intended embrace of unintended consequences

18

~for r, just because~ *put her in my mouth and she became my mouth. put myself inside her and she became my insides out. spill good words on her belly, licked & laced us together, then came my poetry.* ***on elbow, she claimed coauthor-ship, demanded her name above mine.*** I smiled, answering most matter-of-factly, surely they’re your creations, you-a-ruler, procreator, foremost, first, the ABCedarian the muse goddess of alphabets, all that is poetic divine mistress to thousands I’m mortal, your transcriber, copyist, alphabetically seconded, merest mere, the ABEcedarian I’m rudimentary without you, lost midst the masses o’poets nameless. *She snorted, said **“sounds like poetic ******** to me”**** but returned to her sleepy heaven, mumbling most contentedly.*

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May 23, 2020

May 23, 2020 at 7:47 AM UTC

put her in my mouth (gods and poets)

~for r, just because~ *put her in my mouth and she became my mouth. put myself inside her and she became my insides out. spill good words on her belly, licked & laced us together, then came my poetry.* ***on elbow, she claimed coauthor-ship, demanded her name above mine.*** I smiled, answering most matter-of-factly, surely they’re your creations, you-a-ruler, procreator, foremost, first, the ABCedarian the muse goddess of alphabets, all that is poetic divine mistress to thousands I’m mortal, your transcriber, copyist, alphabetically seconded, merest mere, the ABEcedarian I’m rudimentary without you, lost midst the masses o’poets nameless. *She snorted, said **“sounds like poetic ******** to me”**** but returned to her sleepy heaven, mumbling most contentedly.*

22

<> “Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,) You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books, You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.” Song of Myself (1892 version) by WALT WHITMAN §§§ *These admonitions are the ten conditionals commandments of straight talk, boy, you’ve spent a life lessening and lesson-learning and all laid before you for taking, gaining, but for what? for naught? Start this day, having spent my night with you, possessing less than what is my now completed, this, my unfinished commencement, provisioned, a simultaneous beginning and finishing, emptying a void of fulfilling questioning. What does this life desire of me, that it granted and then removed, the knowledge of perfection? leaving me striving, writhing, shivering unceasingly, in my saddened, bursting, hacking and hackneyed chest. I walk the same cobblestone streets, observing the descendants of your ancestral tugs portaging, paying homage to East River tides, carrying those goods, the origins of all poems, from where? to where? unknown, but always past our conjoined eyes. And yet do I look, with our merged eyes, filtered by a century’s discoloration, forgive me Walt, for now recalling sights that you first observed, that I witness first hand, 100 and fifty years later, sharing a stolen wisdom with you. Todays new millionth sunrise bids me stand, observe the river traffic from my kitchen window, accept that my takings are debts, a few, even paid back, yet, most still owed, for the origins of all my poems, are oddly and oddity old, unoriginal, second, third handed as I look through the eyes of the dead, and yours too, this my unoriginal, original sin.... (pretending I am a poet) §§§§§ 6:24AM Manhattan Island, By the East River Thu. May 14, 2020

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May 14, 2020

May 14, 2020 at 8:33 AM UTC

After Whitman: “and you shall possess the origin of all poems“

<> “Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,) You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books, You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.” Song of Myself (1892 version) by WALT WHITMAN §§§ *These admonitions are the ten conditionals commandments of straight talk, boy, you’ve spent a life lessening and lesson-learning and all laid before you for taking, gaining, but for what? for naught? Start this day, having spent my night with you, possessing less than what is my now completed, this, my unfinished commencement, provisioned, a simultaneous beginning and finishing, emptying a void of fulfilling questioning. What does this life desire of me, that it granted and then removed, the knowledge of perfection? leaving me striving, writhing, shivering unceasingly, in my saddened, bursting, hacking and hackneyed chest. I walk the same cobblestone streets, observing the descendants of your ancestral tugs portaging, paying homage to East River tides, carrying those goods, the origins of all poems, from where? to where? unknown, but always past our conjoined eyes. And yet do I look, with our merged eyes, filtered by a century’s discoloration, forgive me Walt, for now recalling sights that you first observed, that I witness first hand, 100 and fifty years later, sharing a stolen wisdom with you. Todays new millionth sunrise bids me stand, observe the river traffic from my kitchen window, accept that my takings are debts, a few, even paid back, yet, most still owed, for the origins of all my poems, are oddly and oddity old, unoriginal, second, third handed as I look through the eyes of the dead, and yours too, this my unoriginal, original sin.... (pretending I am a poet) §§§§§ 6:24AM Manhattan Island, By the East River Thu. May 14, 2020

69

upon the thick chill of modern life she reflects, drawing over the body, a thin blanket of cashmere, how it miraculously denies the chilling, its darkening physicality I, I listen in non-responsive, full attentiveness, thinking perhaps a poem she is demanding, “we all need more miracle blankets in our lives”

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May 21, 2019

May 21, 2019 at 8:36 AM UTC

the thin miracle blanket

upon the thick chill of modern life she reflects, drawing over the body, a thin blanket of cashmere, how it miraculously denies the chilling, its darkening physicality I, I listen in non-responsive, full attentiveness, thinking perhaps a poem she is demanding, “we all need more miracle blankets in our lives”

9