pitch-black-god-8 - Hello Poetry

As I am an older gent, am I, who appreciates the finer finds of god's inventional interventions, acknowledges though born by theft of mine bone, all creatures feline, I admittedly knowledge this only heightens their aromatic scintiilating Je ne sais quoi, that being how one says in French "I don't what it is exactly, but I loves me some a lot!" but I play favorites, and her name is inscribed in my rapidly aging brain, which by the bye, is a poor excuse for writing such a lame po-em but what the heck, lucky you, gets to smoke the chaff & wheat

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Sep 4, 2025

Sep 4, 2025 at 2:02 PM UTC

Missouri (Grand)Mammas

As I am an older gent, am I, who appreciates the finer finds of god's inventional interventions, acknowledges though born by theft of mine bone, all creatures feline, I admittedly knowledge this only heightens their aromatic scintiilating Je ne sais quoi, that being how one says in French "I don't what it is exactly, but I loves me some a lot!" but I play favorites, and her name is inscribed in my rapidly aging brain, which by the bye, is a poor excuse for writing such a lame po-em but what the heck, lucky you, gets to smoke the chaff & wheat

16

Indeed this important and yet impotent word, sometimes hurled with mighty scorn, or quiet whispered ruefully reflectively, empowering, yet so weakly confessional, that it is a word equally reveling in overarching wonder, or a summarizing a simplicity of inability, to surrender by weak agreement… indeed, that selfsame word, indeed, I’ve employed usage unthinkingly casually, mis-appreciating its power of causality, used so often in poems, slipping it in to the hilt, succinct dagger of irony, killing easily, and yet only 17 thousand poems of the mega-thousands here, have been designated with the honorific #indeed

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Jan 20, 2024

Jan 20, 2024 at 2:30 PM UTC

#Indeed

Indeed this important and yet impotent word, sometimes hurled with mighty scorn, or quiet whispered ruefully reflectively, empowering, yet so weakly confessional, that it is a word equally reveling in overarching wonder, or a summarizing a simplicity of inability, to surrender by weak agreement… indeed, that selfsame word, indeed, I’ve employed usage unthinkingly casually, mis-appreciating its power of causality, used so often in poems, slipping it in to the hilt, succinct dagger of irony, killing easily, and yet only 17 thousand poems of the mega-thousands here, have been designated with the honorific #indeed

20

CAIN By Ariana Reines The city was humming gently under me Like an adolescent quaffing deeply from the cup of righteousness Out of practice with my own world I was looking at how someone else saw it Longer than I realized Longer than I care to admit Those goggles left a mark on me Then I stared at my own face An invitation came with my face To melancholy while Nature Purred at the edges of my perception And before me lay a broad road Enjoining me to do of myself and make Of myself according to the American Tradition. Secretly I felt and knew Things I had not perceived my body Turning into secrets. In other words I did not notice the mechanism By which something within me noted My experiences and apprehensions of ‘the truth’ Would not be met with favor if I spoke them Which is not to say one speaks only to find favor Only that unreciprocated realities have a boring Way of haunting the cells Pulling them somehow down Like the countenance of Cain Which fell one day and never rose Again, and the fall of his face Rhymed with the fall out of Eden Leading to the first murder and the invention Of cities, where we now find ourselves Each tower the ghost of a farmer Who failed to meet the favor of the Lord <|> Anne Boyer is a poet and an essayist. Her memoir about cancer and care, “The Undying,” won a 2020 Pulitzer Prize for general nonfiction. Ariana Reines is a poet, a performing artist and a playwright from Salem, Mass. “A Sand Book” won the 2020 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award. She runs Invisible College, a study hall for poetry, sacred texts and the arts. This poem is from her next book, “The Rose.”

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Sep 23, 2023

Sep 23, 2023 at 10:24 AM UTC

Cain by By Ariana Reines

CAIN By Ariana Reines The city was humming gently under me Like an adolescent quaffing deeply from the cup of righteousness Out of practice with my own world I was looking at how someone else saw it Longer than I realized Longer than I care to admit Those goggles left a mark on me Then I stared at my own face An invitation came with my face To melancholy while Nature Purred at the edges of my perception And before me lay a broad road Enjoining me to do of myself and make Of myself according to the American Tradition. Secretly I felt and knew Things I had not perceived my body Turning into secrets. In other words I did not notice the mechanism By which something within me noted My experiences and apprehensions of ‘the truth’ Would not be met with favor if I spoke them Which is not to say one speaks only to find favor Only that unreciprocated realities have a boring Way of haunting the cells Pulling them somehow down Like the countenance of Cain Which fell one day and never rose Again, and the fall of his face Rhymed with the fall out of Eden Leading to the first murder and the invention Of cities, where we now find ourselves Each tower the ghost of a farmer Who failed to meet the favor of the Lord <|> Anne Boyer is a poet and an essayist. Her memoir about cancer and care, “The Undying,” won a 2020 Pulitzer Prize for general nonfiction. Ariana Reines is a poet, a performing artist and a playwright from Salem, Mass. “A Sand Book” won the 2020 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award. She runs Invisible College, a study hall for poetry, sacred texts and the arts. This poem is from her next book, “The Rose.”

38

“leave ‘em laughing when you go”^ it appears that Ogden Poet and Joni Songster have ganged up on poor Pitch Black to remind that he who laughs best, is he who laugh hardest at himself, and their vanity fair the bathroom mirror chips in with a chiding chortle, spasming him so hard, mirror cracks! right about where the smiling mouth and laughing rolling tears intersect, under the nose, landing in an open braying mouth “Laughter is the corrective force which prevents us from becoming cranks” just a most excellent reminder that gods come and go, taste in deities is just another fashion item*

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Jul 7, 2020

Jul 7, 2020 at 8:19 AM UTC

leave ‘em laughing when you go” (especially yourself)

“leave ‘em laughing when you go”^ it appears that Ogden Poet and Joni Songster have ganged up on poor Pitch Black to remind that he who laughs best, is he who laugh hardest at himself, and their vanity fair the bathroom mirror chips in with a chiding chortle, spasming him so hard, mirror cracks! right about where the smiling mouth and laughing rolling tears intersect, under the nose, landing in an open braying mouth “Laughter is the corrective force which prevents us from becoming cranks” just a most excellent reminder that gods come and go, taste in deities is just another fashion item*

25

when we breakup it will be over *** and money, and cloudy tummy overcast days sans sun my depression, my quickness to anger at the too man(y) ******** in this world, the 100% surety of her long held opinions, but none of these be the pea, the osprey feather be the breaking point it will come when I smash her Apple Watch and EarPods which are a volcano between us killing the spontaneity, the ramblings of lovers conversing,

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Jan 12, 2020

Jan 12, 2020 at 12:45 PM UTC

*** money and Earpods

when we breakup it will be over *** and money, and cloudy tummy overcast days sans sun my depression, my quickness to anger at the too man(y) ******** in this world, the 100% surety of her long held opinions, but none of these be the pea, the osprey feather be the breaking point it will come when I smash her Apple Watch and EarPods which are a volcano between us killing the spontaneity, the ramblings of lovers conversing,

12

~ dark early pre-dawn body suspended between the-dark ochre earth tones of night, and the teal pealing notes of warning of an impending morning, signs aborning, me rising with urgency of the leaden half deaden, torn from the bed casket to venture into a different kind of twi-lights, nature demanding both intake and outtake, a restoration of balance but first a bumbling wobbling, the body as carnival bumper car, installing soon-to-be-bruising for later examination-exhumation, lurching from handhold crevices in the walls like crazy cliff climbers, my balance disturbed, eyes try tearing apart the sticky glue of night, my sense of direction keeping me from free falling into green glass edges of glass tables, barely, and not always, red cuts evidentiary “my balance disturbed” words fresh formed, and a poem expulsion required to balance the unjust scales of spirit soul and the body cage, patch an negotiated agreement between warring cousins, just a twenty four hour ceasefire to retrieve the wounded and the corpses unfounded in the small copses of false shelter, like my ancestors expelled from Spain, making escape to be strangers in strange lands, or remain hidden in place neath disguises of clothes of new poems, prayers for old and new gods this new poem comes quick like a young man making first love, for the poem has been written by thousands nights of practicing, so ready for quick retrieving in a smattering of a few minutes, expulsion expulsion what a perfect verbiage to capture the night terrors, the differentials, the procession path between what was and what will be, when my balance restored and this poem’s completion installation in the body of my work, as a nail disguised in the works of my body, entering by command of the pitch black gods

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May 21, 2019

May 21, 2019 at 8:42 AM UTC

my balance disturbed, night terrors

~ dark early pre-dawn body suspended between the-dark ochre earth tones of night, and the teal pealing notes of warning of an impending morning, signs aborning, me rising with urgency of the leaden half deaden, torn from the bed casket to venture into a different kind of twi-lights, nature demanding both intake and outtake, a restoration of balance but first a bumbling wobbling, the body as carnival bumper car, installing soon-to-be-bruising for later examination-exhumation, lurching from handhold crevices in the walls like crazy cliff climbers, my balance disturbed, eyes try tearing apart the sticky glue of night, my sense of direction keeping me from free falling into green glass edges of glass tables, barely, and not always, red cuts evidentiary “my balance disturbed” words fresh formed, and a poem expulsion required to balance the unjust scales of spirit soul and the body cage, patch an negotiated agreement between warring cousins, just a twenty four hour ceasefire to retrieve the wounded and the corpses unfounded in the small copses of false shelter, like my ancestors expelled from Spain, making escape to be strangers in strange lands, or remain hidden in place neath disguises of clothes of new poems, prayers for old and new gods this new poem comes quick like a young man making first love, for the poem has been written by thousands nights of practicing, so ready for quick retrieving in a smattering of a few minutes, expulsion expulsion what a perfect verbiage to capture the night terrors, the differentials, the procession path between what was and what will be, when my balance restored and this poem’s completion installation in the body of my work, as a nail disguised in the works of my body, entering by command of the pitch black gods

30

while the debate goes on and on, as to which country has the longest, continuous democratic parliament, have it on on good authority that the subject above, is it better to love your kids too much than not enough? was the first among all temporal discussions ever held, despite periodic tabling, the debate remains unresolved, the question unsettled even after 1000 years+ of argumentation when over time, Universal Adult Suffrage finally came to be, the debate became renewable, enflamed, divisive most contentiously, various coming down on each side of a point of view topically since mother, father and child, i.e. pretty much everyone, definitionally, claimed total expertise, and sparing the rod was deemed by most to be illegally, no plebiscite, amendment or ballot initiative was resolved resolutely, the beat goes on continuously as new children reach voting age, sagaciously repeating their view, personally my view? I’ve tried both and failed equally so I’ve little to contribute, so let it be stated in manner unequivocally, the sweet sensibility says too well, but helicopters crash and monied snowplows run over other both their own and others better deserving, leaving all of them buried in snow piles street side, while those who blame their faults on insufficient love, are later most demanding more attention than any, having becoming painfully hardy, by being treated hard about, hard on themselves and worse to others everyone knows the answer to this question for themselves but I’ll leave you with this, permitting a child to fail is a winning strategy, as long as there is no legal limit regarding the amount or frequency on lifetime hugging

0

Mar 28, 2019

Mar 28, 2019 at 2:14 AM UTC

is it better to love your kids too much than not enough?

while the debate goes on and on, as to which country has the longest, continuous democratic parliament, have it on on good authority that the subject above, is it better to love your kids too much than not enough? was the first among all temporal discussions ever held, despite periodic tabling, the debate remains unresolved, the question unsettled even after 1000 years+ of argumentation when over time, Universal Adult Suffrage finally came to be, the debate became renewable, enflamed, divisive most contentiously, various coming down on each side of a point of view topically since mother, father and child, i.e. pretty much everyone, definitionally, claimed total expertise, and sparing the rod was deemed by most to be illegally, no plebiscite, amendment or ballot initiative was resolved resolutely, the beat goes on continuously as new children reach voting age, sagaciously repeating their view, personally my view? I’ve tried both and failed equally so I’ve little to contribute, so let it be stated in manner unequivocally, the sweet sensibility says too well, but helicopters crash and monied snowplows run over other both their own and others better deserving, leaving all of them buried in snow piles street side, while those who blame their faults on insufficient love, are later most demanding more attention than any, having becoming painfully hardy, by being treated hard about, hard on themselves and worse to others everyone knows the answer to this question for themselves but I’ll leave you with this, permitting a child to fail is a winning strategy, as long as there is no legal limit regarding the amount or frequency on lifetime hugging

35

I. the smell of sad odorless colorless like ***** similar familiar sidewinder effects, musty invasive, it has no specificity, no locale centrale, well closeted, saddling sadding, in place, plain sighted better to toy our lives, pervades persists, worse lingers, impervious to sprays and even everyone’s good literature (even Will S’s), good wishes good intentions and mood prayers to the nearest lay god on duty at the spiritual emergency room on weekends, still stink don’t think that this poem is for you; solely for the writer, your doppelgänger ****** your mirror’s inside hiding out place, I, who has your sadness smell into my skin cells creepily crept waft woof and warp wet weft-woven into the sad receptacles hidden in my head’s cubbies and the palms of my tree hands-covering face there are cures so wonderful and inexpensive but unavailable at the local Rite Aid, though they are the right aid recoverable, so closer than close, so close that the internist cannot prescribe them because he must inject himself first because the live bacteria in the antidote can **** all this odor lays down bamboo-strong roots; to eradicate you must dig down deep, six feet perhaps more, with heavy earth moving equipment, uproot at the source, follow sad always all-the-way down and the root great god gone, but the saddest truth stench odor yet present***

0

Dec 1, 2018

Dec 1, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC

I. the smell of sad

I. the smell of sad odorless colorless like ***** similar familiar sidewinder effects, musty invasive, it has no specificity, no locale centrale, well closeted, saddling sadding, in place, plain sighted better to toy our lives, pervades persists, worse lingers, impervious to sprays and even everyone’s good literature (even Will S’s), good wishes good intentions and mood prayers to the nearest lay god on duty at the spiritual emergency room on weekends, still stink don’t think that this poem is for you; solely for the writer, your doppelgänger ****** your mirror’s inside hiding out place, I, who has your sadness smell into my skin cells creepily crept waft woof and warp wet weft-woven into the sad receptacles hidden in my head’s cubbies and the palms of my tree hands-covering face there are cures so wonderful and inexpensive but unavailable at the local Rite Aid, though they are the right aid recoverable, so closer than close, so close that the internist cannot prescribe them because he must inject himself first because the live bacteria in the antidote can **** all this odor lays down bamboo-strong roots; to eradicate you must dig down deep, six feet perhaps more, with heavy earth moving equipment, uproot at the source, follow sad always all-the-way down and the root great god gone, but the saddest truth stench odor yet present***

29

~a question of a thousand dreams~^ “Where are you going now my love? Where will you be tomorrow? Will you bring me happiness? Will you bring me sorrow? All the questions of a thousand dreams, what you do and what you see” this one composes itself for all dreams go unremembered the first, the thousandth, the every in between, erased by the push button of opening eyes but dreams come, marching in, saints mining the raw materiel the quartermaster has stored, awaiting requisition by an unarmed unnamed corp, witnessed but never seen these dreams wisped soft willow budded, tempting taunting, leaving nothing but unanswered questions that colored come in black and white elementary clues, a pillow indentation, single hair that stretches across the sea between two pillows that is blonde or red but certainly unmine, dregs of soured sentiment linger like the aftertaste of too many coffees and stainless steel beers heated summers breezes give no succor or relief, and the rain following gives no pleasure, for now you are hot and soaked, but somewhere in there a dream is part replayed, and eyes widening in major league surprise, the question acknowledged, the dreams quest hinted she has gone, neither happiness or sorrow will she provide on the morrow, no toweling of your wet hair fair, and you awake sweat besotted, it is not rain, just pain, and it is only one dream a thousand times repeated and what you do and what you see is the abraded night ahead, and you bitter laugh, for there is no more other than to think, the question answered, and you beg relief by uttering “perchance to dream” 3:49 pm see the notes!! someone accuses me of Plagiarism because I did not acknowledge that the quote in marks and Italics was from a famous song written 39 years ago so here is my response to “just saying” congratulations on ******* me off and yes I agree, you do not know the rules “#1: Quotation Marks Are for Quoting People—Verbatim Perhaps it should go without saying, but quotation marks are for quoting people. Quoting doesn’t mean summarizing or paraphrasing; it means repeating exactly what someone said. If you put double quotes around a phrase, your reader will often assume that someone, somewhere, said that exact phrase or sentence.“ http://thevisualcommunicationguy.com/2013/09/11/10-things-you-really-need-to-know-about-quotation-marks/

0

Aug 3, 2018

Aug 3, 2018 at 3:59 PM UTC

a question of a thousand dreams

~a question of a thousand dreams~^ “Where are you going now my love? Where will you be tomorrow? Will you bring me happiness? Will you bring me sorrow? All the questions of a thousand dreams, what you do and what you see” this one composes itself for all dreams go unremembered the first, the thousandth, the every in between, erased by the push button of opening eyes but dreams come, marching in, saints mining the raw materiel the quartermaster has stored, awaiting requisition by an unarmed unnamed corp, witnessed but never seen these dreams wisped soft willow budded, tempting taunting, leaving nothing but unanswered questions that colored come in black and white elementary clues, a pillow indentation, single hair that stretches across the sea between two pillows that is blonde or red but certainly unmine, dregs of soured sentiment linger like the aftertaste of too many coffees and stainless steel beers heated summers breezes give no succor or relief, and the rain following gives no pleasure, for now you are hot and soaked, but somewhere in there a dream is part replayed, and eyes widening in major league surprise, the question acknowledged, the dreams quest hinted she has gone, neither happiness or sorrow will she provide on the morrow, no toweling of your wet hair fair, and you awake sweat besotted, it is not rain, just pain, and it is only one dream a thousand times repeated and what you do and what you see is the abraded night ahead, and you bitter laugh, for there is no more other than to think, the question answered, and you beg relief by uttering “perchance to dream” 3:49 pm see the notes!! someone accuses me of Plagiarism because I did not acknowledge that the quote in marks and Italics was from a famous song written 39 years ago so here is my response to “just saying” congratulations on ******* me off and yes I agree, you do not know the rules “#1: Quotation Marks Are for Quoting People—Verbatim Perhaps it should go without saying, but quotation marks are for quoting people. Quoting doesn’t mean summarizing or paraphrasing; it means repeating exactly what someone said. If you put double quotes around a phrase, your reader will often assume that someone, somewhere, said that exact phrase or sentence.“ http://thevisualcommunicationguy.com/2013/09/11/10-things-you-really-need-to-know-about-quotation-marks/

47

are you generally happy? a semi-innocuous query now actualized as a two sided bladed poker, hot stabbing me smack dab in the chests hollow crown bullseye, continuously, as in all life long, and eternal longing for a “yes” it fits inside a pubescent aged wound that refreshes with every breath; a life long struggle for an accurate definition, be a general of genuine happy, that alone would deliver, bringing on bright day satisfaction as a human, one operates on parallel continuums; slide slipping on well oiled poles that over the years, their lengths, increasing with add-on extender poles formed by twisty turny slips and falls of sundered hearts and sad loves, marriages nicknamed Titanic, children found and lost, complications responsibilities that are denied meeting the words “The End” a life that many would envy, questioning what’s wrong with you dude, are you blinded to the riches yours, reality is shoulders permanently bent, a spine that’s held together by spit and solder and curved by wearying wearing longing for a straightness that is also called crooked unobtainable and a piece of a peace that comes and goes like a highway billboard that you pass too fast to be fully read the body is corroding and worser yet to come and that’s a hand you selected - luck of the self-selecting-drawing - the opioids of the mind offers are rejected the clarity of painful self exploration valued overall - the place where the poems come from, and go to die, a landscape of a scene repeatedly visualized but never been and never left, the crazy contradictions come in two flavors; vanilla smiles and chocolate weeping of tears that have etched pathways cheek-chiseled the city is a struggling strife for most, the next red line on the side of the measuring cup and everyone has a cell, a credit card, and a measuring cup <•> here I stop can’t finish someone missing alerts me to their real worlds troubles making my complaints super superficial but the silent running of the stilleto cuts shallow repeated hourly the cut color, pitch black

0

May 26, 2018

May 26, 2018 at 2:05 PM UTC

are you generally happy?

are you generally happy? a semi-innocuous query now actualized as a two sided bladed poker, hot stabbing me smack dab in the chests hollow crown bullseye, continuously, as in all life long, and eternal longing for a “yes” it fits inside a pubescent aged wound that refreshes with every breath; a life long struggle for an accurate definition, be a general of genuine happy, that alone would deliver, bringing on bright day satisfaction as a human, one operates on parallel continuums; slide slipping on well oiled poles that over the years, their lengths, increasing with add-on extender poles formed by twisty turny slips and falls of sundered hearts and sad loves, marriages nicknamed Titanic, children found and lost, complications responsibilities that are denied meeting the words “The End” a life that many would envy, questioning what’s wrong with you dude, are you blinded to the riches yours, reality is shoulders permanently bent, a spine that’s held together by spit and solder and curved by wearying wearing longing for a straightness that is also called crooked unobtainable and a piece of a peace that comes and goes like a highway billboard that you pass too fast to be fully read the body is corroding and worser yet to come and that’s a hand you selected - luck of the self-selecting-drawing - the opioids of the mind offers are rejected the clarity of painful self exploration valued overall - the place where the poems come from, and go to die, a landscape of a scene repeatedly visualized but never been and never left, the crazy contradictions come in two flavors; vanilla smiles and chocolate weeping of tears that have etched pathways cheek-chiseled the city is a struggling strife for most, the next red line on the side of the measuring cup and everyone has a cell, a credit card, and a measuring cup <•> here I stop can’t finish someone missing alerts me to their real worlds troubles making my complaints super superficial but the silent running of the stilleto cuts shallow repeated hourly the cut color, pitch black

54