mark-upright
Psalms 37:37 / / Mark the man of integrity, / and behold the upright; / for there is a future for / the man of peace. / / there is no perfect man, / there are the simple, the plain, / the whole of himself, / just so, contented in who he is, / needs not be, better than... / / then he is on way to / upright, up and right / for the shades are clarified, / and those troublesome grays, / somehow have answers / / his end is not peace, / his start, finish, / and all that is in between / one and the sane, / in simplicity comes / a joy of acceptance, / and therein is his path
she writes, someone nameless, but an upright woman,
no false poet she
+=+=+=+=+=
I don't always understand my own poetry,
how could I decipher yours if ever?:
"Yours poetry seeks
to grasp, hide and peek,
strong/weak/out-front/meek.
It charms like a snake
a wake of ideas,
with innuendo, yet it's sublime,
a bell that chimes,
a walk in hell,
a credo a charm,
two-arms to keep one warm"
----
this will be kept
with my important papers,
in envelope marked
tombstone epitaph
the plain meanings
unsubtle, for spoken in one language,
but the inter~facing ganglia are twisted,
contused by a swelling,
of the inner!contras
of a swirling clash of impossibilities
how can a simple piety poet,
be so faceted, that leaves himself,
so twisted, torn, stillborn, into silence,
trying to resolve these
opposite dictions!
aye,
perhaps,
thst is why he writes,
so often and so rarely,
a thousand attempts to fathom
himself,
only adding more layers to unravel
in his bathtub of gin of
many explanations
then,
lets us travel,
under the arch to meet,
shall we say,
New Year's Day?
the flights will be cheap,
no one presses their divine intuition
and risks flying on the first of the year,
possibly using up,
all of their seven lives,
on one roll of the dice
yes, this, likes he, likes he,
we will need 24 hours to untangle
this two to tango infraction
of why, two should never to meet,
one could be ugly, or foul smelling,
a misrepented
sinner man,
or just another misrepresentative,
a plain vanilla pickle of a unit of human timed
hasty wasted
or
odds are even,
thst he will to the wrong town be going,
many a city,
after all, are notched
for their are magnificent arches everywhere,
but if beneath it,
you spot,
him soapbox spaking,
making ditties while standing
on just one leg, while to sky reaching,
if that should pleasure you,
you will know instinctually
what needs doing!
to unravel him,
will require
twenty fingers,
twenty toes,
a scalpel, many bandaids,
four lips, two noses,
even suturing where
the connection
however improbable,
requires
a deeper connection,
and probably
some unwinding
cosmetic
and cosmic
surgery
but
check first,
he's got a round trip ticket,
in his front left-sided pocket
in. cade he needs
right-away-returning,
though you might just want his
two arms, for sentimental reasons,
for other purposes
to stop him from writing further
Sep 24, 2025
Sep 24, 2025 at 1:55 PM UTC
''When I am down and, oh my soul, so weary,
When troubles come and my heart burdened be,
Then, I am still and wait here in the silence
Until You come and sit awhile with me.”
<>
not hidden, for I reside in my accustomed spot,
but my face reveals a dispirited demeanor,
so most leave me alone, but not in peace,
late June, and the world less-than-august
These burdens which are weighty mighty.
are like weights in a trainer's vest,
while they can be removed,
only additions arrive, as screws
tightened to increase the threshold of
consternation and persistent pain insistent
the silenced aura within which I sit most patiently,
becomes both jailer and friend,
while I await your salvation arrival,
amidst tales of others who preceded me in this
waiting game predicament, most unsuccessfully,
admixed with stories of one or two
rewarded...
a tease, a stringy tale of hope, an endurance test,
to make my heart even more burdened be,
though wearied, yet unsuccmbed,
for I have seen you, existence verified,
and my patience knows no limits,
awaiting the cool of fall,
when the breezes bear and bare your scent,
and hints your returning presence,
changes the very meaning of
awhile
Jul 8, 2025
Jul 8, 2025 at 11:45 PM UTC
“my heart burdened be”
<>
When I am down and, oh my soul, so weary,
When troubles come and my heart burdened be,
Then, I am still and wait here in the silence
Until You come and sit awhile with me.”
<>
not hidden, in my accustomed spot,
but my face reveals a dispirited demeanor,
so most leave me alone, but not in peace,
Late August, and the world less-than-august
Aug 17, 2024
Aug 17, 2024 at 9:20 AM UTC
“When I am down and, oh my soul, so weary
When troubles come, my heart burdened
Then, I am still and wait here in the silence
Until You come and sit awhile with me.”
<>
here I wait,
no peace to be had,
the sky has hazed me
Aug 17, 2024
Aug 17, 2024 at 8:51 AM UTC
my father had a
sense of humor,
and high hopes
for his first born son.
almost named me
Short ‘n Sweet,
cause that is how
most like life.
thot about calling me,
**** You,**
cause that is what
most deserve to be told.
but he didn’t want
no blowback, so he he
stuck me with this name,
Mark Upright.
all I gotta say is this
and it’s short & sweet:
Dad, take note,
**** you,
my middle finger,
for you, see it,
marked upright.
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 10:12 AM UTC
she confounds me with sweet raisins and nuts, accolades oh so
high the caloric content....
***”Yours [poetry], is subtle,
that seek to grasp, hide and peek,
strong/weak/out-front/meek.
It charms like a snake a wake of ideas,
with innuendo, yet it's sublime,
a bell that chimes, a walk in hell,
a credo a charm, two-arms to keep one warm”***
~
**** your praise, cursed encouragement,
leave me well enough to my audience of
the occasional stumbled on, the accidental tourists,
the who few nick my cheek when they randomly seek
a few minutes aside, an at-last-last-chance peek,
giving us both, the reader and criminal, pause,
the pause of
‘who wrote this?’
and it’s innate counter-mate of wonder,
when to my attention brought,
‘did I write this?’
**** praise, poisonous snakes only need apply,
the wake of my ship so quickly dissipates
upon the unmapped, unending Sea of New Poets,
where the 99% just drown the first time round,
and the remaining survivors glory in fame so fleeting,
‘twere not for the unburied of the internet, their zombies
would too be shipwrecked, ungiving, undead...
a credo? not I.
a credo requires preaching, acolytes according a poet succored reams
of accusative praise, all such leads to ******* up to the egoland
where failures reside alone gleeful pride, and goes to die on bouquets
faded from by over caressing their petals, to floor dropped, in silent admiration, the imagined bells of hell ringing only in the ears
of the delusional deluded
my maturity existential, let it be forgotten, troubling no one,
a new audience of one, owning tickets of broken mirrored pieces,
my layers peeled back, this imagery unrecognized, not I, not I,
for fainted be, the poison of pride denied, for my writings writ
by an accursed one, long since buried in the faint ashes of
lost glorious forgotteness
~
but humbled nonetheless and it is the finale,
“two arms to keep one warm,”
with an elixir of words ear whispered,
**** you know my weakness, and now
my bravado erased by your single touch prophesied
Dec 1, 2019
Dec 1, 2019 at 12:07 PM UTC
***your admirers are unlimited by geography or name,
but only by unlimited limits of imagination***
~~~
~for Albert’s wife~
~~~
the tattoos on my body, a complete list
of my 7 names^ stolen/shared with a heavenly human,
the ******* pretending he/it got no skin in the game
but that is a poem for another time...
you thank me for being a “follower”
unnecessary for your admirers are unlimited
by geography or name,
only by imagination,
a yet to b found,
unfound Cern particle
whatever name you/I choose,
what we/me love about your poems,
flora, fauna, the human cuppa,
the patient touching,
is that you write what your eyes feel,
yet, it is I doing the seeing
for that
follow you kicking and screaming,
happil
your /us
babe in arms
~~~
Apr 17, 2019
Apr 17, 2019 at 2:05 PM UTC
therefore, thereafter, impossible wisdom
add to life
reduce simplify anticipate estimate and create,
purposed all by addiction to addition
a construct, a concert, of constant query,
is my next possess, my finger extended,
is my hand wrapping a gainful employ,
is for goodness all the days of my life
my next breath, my next detailed act
a greater or lesser, a contribution bettor,
an enlargement of the bottom line netter,
therefore and forever thereafter,
this impossible wisdom,
the arc of addition to the supply of oxygen,
the goodness gas, lies in the subtracting
of the unnecessary excess, by moderation at the limit,
all the days of our lives, especially the nights
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 10:48 PM UTC
The World Requires Edmund Black’s Random Acts of Doughnut Kindness (1/36)
Edmund!
*a friend mutual on HP
sent me your poem below
asking me to respond appropriately,
close the tale, he said,
and that I would understand,
thinking by being marked,
I had some expertise in the matter
perhaps you are unaware that the world
exists only because there are at least thirty six^
righteous men on the earth and
personally believe,
there are more
who they are, a well kept secret,
but secrets tend to leak so...
only one,
Mr. Edmund,
employs a dozen doughnuts
(chocolate frosted)
to follow through
on the most important
commandment human
love thy neighbor
with a dozen holies
I’m told that like certain loaves of bread,
a dozen doughnuts
now have along with
wine and water
a place in the repertoire of the selector of the
thirty six
which needs noting,
a dozen
is 1/3 of thirty six
sometimes the answers are in the wholes of the holiest!*
<•>
Edmund black
Jul 15
My Perfect Morning
The climate in the
World may change
But it will never
Change me
not for a moment
I truly have the most
amazing life ,
Couldn’t be any better
I get up every morning
Next to this gorgeous
amazing woman
Get my morning kiss
Maybe a few morning kisses
in my open mouth
If you get my drift
Cause you know I’m in love
Sit back in the back patio porch
Listening to Mother Nature’s
Performance
while reading hellopoetry
Few minutes later
I told my lady I had to
Go run some errands
Not realizing yet
What’s up ahead,
Arrived and
While in line at Chrispy kreme’s
A little boy about 5 years of age
Loosing his mind over some
Chocolate frosted
Mother and father told him
They couldn’t afford it
They were only there for coffee
Little boy started
crying hysterically
My Heart Cries out for him
And chivalrously I’ve waited
in line right behind them
Just couldn’t allow
That to take place
I told dad if it was okay
I would love to buy the boy
a dozen chocolate frosted
He accepted and gave
me a hand shake
Mom teared up and dad
wouldn’t Stop thinking me
I hate seeing good
People like this
But anyway,
What an awesome moment
A moment of love sharing
And here’s the most
Amazing part of
my early morning outside
Of my morning kisses
I got the longest hug
From the little man
A handshake
From dad
And a kiss on the cheek
From mom
What can be any better
Than the life I live
I do what I want
And it’s mostly
Helping other people
That’s all that matters.
Having meanings in
Other people’s lives
Fulfills me ,
And what more
Can I say ,
My perfect
Morning
I live life
For the inexplicable
Moment
Life is love and love
Always gives
ALWAYS
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 2:56 PM UTC
|**“lead into gold, good into dear, mortal into immortal”
(where poems come from)”**|
you charged me
with crimes three times three,
sorcery and witchcraft and doing god’s work
plead guilty three times three
not that I was successful,
but a complex, candied marvelous failure
not in my possession, the sorcerers spell,
my dross and wordy dregs all sit sidelined,
perchance perhaps,
if you search with a leaden patience inhuman,
you might just find a minuscule golden vein there’d unmined
turning good into dear, an “anyone can do it” miracle,
when you whisper with just one kiss those forever words,
don’t be afraid, say it low and slow, I love you,
and
“I only want to be with you”
and dare it to be become dear
mortal into immortal, an order tall, for one knows his
hiding places for all too human pockmarked weak,
but having been charged and found in guilt,
no one proffered evidence but they wanted a unambiguous
unanimous verdict and proof is such an old fashioned truth notion
happy accept your accusations and since confession is
the best soul medicine, with glee, here and now reveal
how immortality is achievable
breathe poems constantly instantly throughout
the orifices in the skin cells and
pore’d orifices you were god given;
it is how we immortals communicate
with what cannot be seen,
yet drunken heard when spoke aloud
taste the poems in and on tongues you can’t comprehend,
the sounds fly skyward after infiltrating your eyes,
then you can see your own immortality anointed rising
all nonsense you plead,
indeed,
only immortals truly cherish and envy the
human ability to create
nonsense, the place
where poems come from
*******
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 2:31 PM UTC