#ts
"Sometimes I look up at the stars at night
And say,
Take me somewhere else, somewhere so far away I don't even remember this place
And let me look upon the face of the whole entire human Race
And find contentment in the insignificant things
Like a little Childs Laugh
Or tripping on the Trail Path
Before Steadying Myself With A Staff
And Thinking I Could've Fallen
But Didn't
And Then Think Back To The Time I Did
And Think Back To The Time We Played In The Spring Water
And Dried Off Inside
And Lived To Have Fun
Until the Fun Was Love
Because Of Age Approaching
And The Love Turned Sour
Obsessive and Reproaching
But I Still Loved You
As A Child
But Now I Am A Man
And Your Likely With Children
And I Have Been Seared By The Sting Of Silence
That Finds Solace In the Old Memories
And Wishes To Go Back To Them
Until The Thought That Things Could Be Better Now
If I Want Them To Be
I Could Have My Own
Slice Of Heaven
My Only Fear
Is
It Wouldn't Be The Same
And My Mind Might Convince Me It's Cheating To Let Go
Until I Find Joy In New Beginnings
Like the First Day Of School
Which Can Be Every Day
If We Let It Exist
And Resonate In It
And Realize We're All In the Same Boat
And Eat My Breakfast With A Smile On My Face
And Think Back to Playing Soccer On The Beach
Or Something Kind I Did A long Time Ago
That I Had Forgotten
And Giving You a Hug.
And Sleep
And In Dreams Return to the Stars, that Blind me
And I Wake up
In This Place, I Never Want To Leave
Until I realize,
The Real Game is Real Life
And The Strife And The Failures and The Mistakes Make The Rewards So Fitting
And I Take A Sip Of Tea
And Pretend I'm Jorge Luis Borges
Or Einstein, Or some Genius
And Then Remember, I'm Just Human
But I Can Create Wonderful Things
And My Greatest Strength
Is What The Next Day Brings...
A Memory from the Future
Watermarked In Time
May 24
May 24, 2026 at 6:05 PM UTC
Skinwalkers walk the earth to-night.
Skinwalkers walk; some trip and fall.
The Skinwalker Moon is blood-red-bright—
Skinwalkers walk to the Skinwalker Ball.
Until the Skinwalker Moon appears
They make their toilette and take their repose.
Skinwalkers live on human fears
And heads and hearts and fingers and toes.
If it happens the sun is shining bright
You would say they were waiting for night to fall:
They are resting and saving themselves to be right
For the Skinwalker Moon and the Skinwalker Ball.
Mar 2
Mar 2, 2026 at 7:16 PM UTC
But I know…
this blending of a warped (time) continuum,
the future resting on shaky table legs,
errors of habitual inconsistency,
one on top of a prior, on top of…
we pursue regrets, misdeeds, theorizing
that we can fix the wobbly mess we instigated,
that can we smooth the ruckus that
the unknown in surety is bonded to be
surly serve up buffet style,
we help ourselves to troubles so attractive,
like rice thrown at a wedding, dead seeds of
messes yet to come
*old regrets freshly regretted, for we waste
not even
what we wanted then
even now!
for we do not proper value the passing of each momentary,
but weep and mourn the entirety of years corrupted by
wrong-headed mish-mash of longings,
swift stupid inexcusable acts of impulsive weaknesses permitted,
so that we dust
the dust encasing artificial flowers,
that are so faded that the dust mispermits one
to fool themselves
that they were once ,
burnt orange vibrant,*
like the optimism of a sunny day gone and hoped for
just once more
yes, I know why…
<><> <>
**Burnt Norton by T.S.Eliot
**
“Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
All time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden.
My words echo
,
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
<><><><>>
postscript
the rushing to my ever nearer demise
the dust suffocates,
the regrettables
have no half life,
and I dust,
I know
if I do not,
I choke…
Dec 30, 2023
Dec 30, 2023 at 8:39 AM UTC
Seldom are the streets quiet
The children age by the window light
Outside it is spring
March brings the turning of the cold
The adults fester and rot, feeding themselves to their resting places
Wicked things brew far and wide
Sizzling and spewing like acid dissolving bone and flesh
The morning moon glimmering
Time has burned itself to the wax
Everyone is meandering their minds
Searching for a smooth door handle to grasp
There are doors but none to open
There are windows but none to peer out of
There are cars but no one to steer them
This is the apocalypse
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 3:35 AM UTC
She says she has an opening
At 9:15 a.m. Thursday morning.
Whose permission do I need
To respond to what is essentially
My own request, my own persistence,
My own action. Do I regret it
Or don’t I?
Do I dare to eat this peach?
Do I dare to bring this moment--
At 9:15 Thursday morning--
To its crisis?
Will the mermaids still not sing to me
When I become less willing to drown,
Or will they sing louder than for
Anyone else, for want of that
Which they cannot have?
I will arrive at 9:15 a.m.
On Thursday morning
With the bottoms of my trousers rolled,
Not to dip my feet into the
Misleadingly temperate waters,
But to show a counselor
The over-worn, many-colored
And many-patterned
Socks that I wear
Much too often,
And she will tell me
It’s warm enough outside
To just wear sandals.
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 7:05 PM UTC
I breathe in until I feel like my lungs might explode. I tighten my neck muscels and before I can think - My entire body is tense.
I'm trying to supress it. It has ruined so much but I will not let it ruin another moment...
I grind my teeth trying to supress it further, not realizing that grinding my teeth ... was a tic too.
Letting my mind slip for a second; I come to find that I have failed - once again
I flick my head, blink my eyes violently - turning the day into a stop motion movie - Once again I already know the plot.
Everything is moving in slowmotion around me - my body moving too fast to hold it in I fail - once again my body is dancing to a beat that is not mine.
I feel the pain in my neck. It is sore from giving into the neverending urge - once again it is strained from constant twitching and has been for god knows how long.
I try to ignore the pain and focus on supressing what's coming next, but being distracted by the pain I fail - once again I flick my head and exhale as fast as humanly possible. The exhale doesn't come alone - it never does. A pallette of sounds escape my mouth.
It was not me making those sounds, but the lungs affected by the pain are mine.
I feel the cycle starting over - once again.
It goes through me like a wave of energy.
I have been robbed of the control over my own body - once again.
The power to fight back has ... vanished.
I go to bed early but sleep late; battling this force with every shard of energy I could possibly have left - Once again leaving me exhausted enough to finally sleep, despite the constant twitching.
They say it's a chemical imbalance in my brain.
Too much dopamine is released.
As far as I'm concerned dopamine is a "Feel good hormone", so why does it make me so miserable?
I lay here thinking about when this cycle will end?
And when it finally does end, when will it restart? - Once again...
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 7:28 PM UTC
Does the true being of self to consciousness cling
Disappearing suddenly when reality so elusive sings
Pride covet words in anticipation of the ultimate ascension
Daring to imperil it all for ink and pen
Ignoring the warnings
A poets world rarely mentioned
We discard with little effort what imparts to us conventionality and vague interest
Desiring instead to reminisce on that which tortures and haunts us
It is by choice we reside freely and roam in unknown dimensions
Artists of our experiences
A poets world rarely mentioned
Many will condemn with ridicule and scorn
Those who exist in the universe of the word
As we climb the stairs to the dreamworld
Closed to those deficit in imagination
Only the ingenious may enter
Virtuosos of the mind and heart
A poets world rarely mentioned
@ copyright Tammy M Darby Dec. 29, 2018.
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 9:22 AM UTC
Perhaps in time, I will understand love,
How our separate bodies are to become one,
Perhaps in time, I will understand
How I never could love you,
While loving you.
Perhaps.
Perhaps.
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 8:14 PM UTC
I twitch
I shout
Without thinking
I move
I make noise
I don’t have any control
I ****
I yelp
Without thinking
I flick
I whimper
I never had control
I jump
I yell
Without thinking
I twist
I scream
I’ll never have control
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 8:17 PM UTC
I wake up
head ****
shoulder roll
tongue click
I get ready for school
head ****
head ****
groan
I get on the bus
oi
whimper
I put on my headphones
arm ****
People stare
oi
I suppress
They build
The minutes drag on
Like an itch they can’t be ignored
The bus can’t go fast enough
They’re pushing up
We arrive at school
They’re going to escape
I run off the bus
They begin to explode
head ****
arm ****
I distance myself from the students
oi
arm ****
head ****
head ****
groan
tongue click
tongue click
whimper
They stare
shoulder roll
arm ****
shoulder roll
whimper
oi
oi
Everyday I tic and twitch
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 10:35 PM UTC
Amber is the color of your energy,
I know I understand you,
bonded from paternal love, so naturally,
A soft melody, Your reasons, a lot of,
times you learned, fueled by experience,
your guidance for me, it's furious,
You're gone now, with a part of me
We can't find common ground,
we agree to burn it down,
We play it like a game,
Too late, we realize that's lame,
the needing in our compass is trembling,
your words hurt, an eminent sting,
Now I see all the futility,
of resisting all these jaded realities,
Don't burn what can't be rebuilt,
your mind is a million miles away,
your heart in the same place,
fix the day, before you separate,
Now I've hit the ground running,
these lessons I find so cunning,
The ice we skate is getting pretty thin,
The water is getting warm, go ahead, swim,
I miss you dad, and this is how I say
goodbye, I know you cannot stay,
The years start coming, and they don't stop,
Anxiety's the worry on top,
I know I let you down,
but I'm just a slave to the night,
I know I gave you hell through the years,
I know you've shed countless tears,
and I know you have countless tears.
But now there's a single truth.
There's you in everything I do,
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 12:47 AM UTC
T.S. Elliot reminds me that I don't have to rhyme,
Every line,
or,
be on time, in measure,
Or attitude,
Or make sense,
Or only write when I'm depressed,
Or sad or angry.
Which is good,
Because I, (and I'm not being sarcastic),
honestly feel fine
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:51 AM UTC
Out by the Strange Creek a little drunk,
I built a tower of stone, an imaginary throne,
I pondered of power and sat on a stump,
The moon hung like an old friend from up above,
There were many around, laughing and happy,
A few on the guitar sounded a little sappy,
Tents dotted the river, and I dipped my tows in the sand,
The stars up above illuminated the camp but not the bands,
Too many drugs made there way around,
back in the woods everyone gathered around a stage,
and jammed the music, they blazed,
for themselves, their future, but mostly the present,
Their bodies swayed, in a daze,
Acid, **** liquor and E
Oh boy, it was a party,
but the last bit of my sober self,
turned inwards and the whole of me felt,
the seven chakras flowing through me,
connecting me to infinity,
We partied for three days, acid babies littered the place,
We drank for our mistakes, and listened to The Machine,
The wall flowing through me,
We freed our bodies, and our souls to the void,
On the last night we were over joyed,
But now that I'm leaving I feel it slipping away
My crown chakra back into the haze,
My mind's eye back into a cage,
My throat chakra back underneath,
My heart chakra feels only grief,
My solar plexus can't handle a nexus,
My sacral is fine though, trust me,
But my roots,
They don't even trust me
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 12:58 AM UTC
Let's stay in this prison of blankets
and un-remember our meaning
to this existence.
I have walked all the parks
and I have swam in all the seas.
I have slow-danced in all the bars.
I have seen all the cosmic dreams.
My bones are tired of adventure.
My soul is tired of the new.
Let's ignore the changing colors and trends.
Let's arrest ourselves in this bed.
Somewhere where the jazz is fine
and smooth kids wanna spend time,
I had lost my ignorance and my pride.
Patience bit me. I grew a mind.
The world is a vampire and we only knew
after a thousand cups of coffee
and a thousand classrooms.
Let's forget. Let's die.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
I thought
we were the players.
But
why am I
the one
being played?
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
She was the heartbeat of desire,
while I was a dry upper crust of a writer.
She was the Flamingo, fluid with grace.
I was just a stiff member with a bank teller’s face.
I lay with the lady as a matter of course
We woke up the next morning with all innocence lost.
I married Viv then and in London remained
where J. Alfred Prufrock cemented my fame.
It was between the two wars, when poets still mattered
Though the world of our birth was bruised beaten and tattered.
Viv had many needs that I couldn’t fulfill
Her one infidelity rankles me still.
The silence between us grew as loud as the Bourse.
Though our pairing proved barren, we never divorced.
My footsteps were haunted by this girl with my name.
I resolved we should part. My friends thought her insane.
Maurice, her brother, signed to have her committed.
I saw her just once, a perfunctory visit.
She was young when she died, just turned Fifty Eight.
My fate would be different, I had longer to wait.
Of the man that I might have been, little remained
She made me a poet, my dry soul she claimed
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
November is the cruelest month, destroying
What once was for what will be
The snow will stalk our dreams, hoping
To fill the emptiness of another summer’s end
Earth will forget the dead
As I forget what it was to be a student
Labour fuels my hours, surviving
One year to the next, a broken man
Where is the Spring I once knew so well?
Where is my heart in this cruel world?
Where is time but in these broken images?
Memory is insufficient to be my food
The wind howls and I am the trees
Who have endured so much, again and again
The famous shadows on the ground mean nothing
They are what they were, darkness spreading
These unreal cities are all the same
With their cosmopolitan jargon and anonymity
Each trying to out duel the next, competition
In the workplace, in the dating market
One must be so careful these days
Friends depart without a trace, elders die
Families get divided, partners divorce
The winter dawn has its own beauty
A short and infrequent storm, the bloom
Of white to carpet our weary feet
On roads of fate, sometimes without shelters
Without kindred souls who know us deeply
The synthetic atmospheres of urban life
A society of white walkers, whose truth
Only mimics the fallen empires of liberty
The false figures of unemployment rates
Which do not count those who have given up
Indebted states, welfare states, police states
And the persistent rumour that democracy is dead.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 7:18 AM UTC