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T R Wingfield Sep 2019
Will it or won't it?
Statistically its the same.
It seems the odds don't change no matter how unlikely is the thing.
Will it to be or don't, but don't wait to hear an answer.
To be or not to be
Is not really that important.
Its not even the question.
If "to be" was how it's supposed to be, how come "not to be" is an option?
So how do I "not to be,"
if I think therefore I am, and do I believe that I am even if I think it?
And where am I when I don't believe in myself and my convictions?
Does it even matter what I think when I can't be sure if I exist? And if I might not be then what am I still doing here, when I could not be?
Should I stay or should I go?
But could I go and no one know?
And why bother leaving
when I know that if I go
it might be that no one would even miss me?
Might as well just stay here where my odds are 50/50.
"People don't think it be like it is, but it do"
-Oscar Gamble

Not sure where this one was headed, but I guess it got there. Or maybe it didn't. It feel like it's a poor attempt to obfuscate a simple thought through too many words. I guess everything in the sketch is t always good, but it's better than nothing, which is mostly what I've been writing...
T R Wingfield Dec 2019
God, for me,
is a selfish thing.
I only want him there to blame,
Or to ask him for that
Which I cannot seem
To produce for myself by other means.

And yet, for me,
To disbelieve is equally
A selfish thing.
To pretend that I have come this far
Without some kind
Of Divine intervention...

How could this be,
considering
The sheer stupidity of my decisions
The risks I took
with my own wellbeing;
the utter disregard

So it is and must be
that god, for me,
Is looking out regardless.
There must be some plan
regarding me
or else I'd have been disposed of.

Does this mean
I am a chosen one?
Not just dust-
but a favorite son?
I think it must...
There's no other logical conclusion.
Oh no!



I promise I'm not actually this vain. Words came in contradictions, and I was obliged to pen them down from the ether before they got away.
T R Wingfield Jan 2017
Ours was like fireworks
in the mid-summer sky
Radiant,
       Iridescent,
                   Incredulous,
                              Alive
but the finale came suddenly, unexpectedly soon,
& the band played on,
as if nothing had changed,
as if a fountain of sparkling embers and flame
had not just erupted mere inches away.
And now,
where explosions once seared summer's sky with crackling thunderous incandescent delight
Only whispers and wisps of smoke remain,
Scattered by the breeze,
Whithered, then, by rain.
And of the evening's reveries precious little can be found:
some soured beer in crumpled cans, discarded haphazardly
surrounding a threadbare picnic bedspread
rumpled beneath the branches of an ancient live oak tree.
Dew now wet where lovers once had lain,
staring up into the night
in wonder, ignorant of such banal things
like: masquerading lust in love's robes, declaring,
"I've never loved a love as deep as the love I have for you,"
and truly being unaware of the uncanny substitute;
Or the unbridled disenchantment unleashed by abandonment
and the inevitable transience of an insufferable pain.

We ****** on bar balcony balustrades, over looking city streets.
We ditched tampons into trees rather than wait to satisfy our needs.
We left your ******* in a planter
on a patio under an eve
On purpose, So that some poor, unassuming shop-keep
Would find them
(along with cigarette butts and an empty bag of ****)
and have no choice but think to themselves,
"Did someone **** here?"
and then immediately understand the answer is
"Yes. Exuberantly!"

We defiled. every. place. we went;
giggling with glee at all of our indiscretions.

Oh how many indiscretions could there possibly be?
We shall know;
All of them!

And so we did,

And we were free.



On new years eve I carried you piggyback in your peacock blue sequined gown through the streets of our ****-soaked-gutter-of-a-town.
You were barefoot, drunk, and refusing to be told what to do,
that you had to wear your shoes,
that the streets were far to ***** and dangerous for your tender little feet- you said "Just let me be, It's fine. It wont **** me..."
then, looking at the gutter, continued,
"probably.
And these shoes already are, so..." sticking out your tongue
But I couldn't put you down.
Not in that place, not at that time.
Nor did I even want to. I could have carried you all night
(which was fortunate, because for most of itI did.)
We were declared the city's cutest couple by a stranger on the sidewalk whom we passed while galloping down the street, you, giggling, alight upon my back, running at full speed. This declaration was reaffirmed by everyone met.

A pixie, you know, will always trip you up
(they're natural pranksters you see).
Their magic is undeniable, but oh what trouble they can be.

- My toothsome little faerie - You meant trouble for me;
but what a beautiful, beguiling mess you turned out to be,

You snuck pixie dust into everywhere we went, and
Dispensed it with abandon-
Spread it like caution to the wind.
Sanctifying everything and everyone we met.
That poor city was baptized in our joy.
It's sins washed into glittering gutters,
where we lay sparkling, genuine and loved.


We broke the records that night,
all of them, known and not.

We loved harder than diamond,
than a trailer-hitch to the shin,
Deeper than the fathoms of the trenches at the bottom of the sea.

We made soulmates seem like strangers.
We spoke nonsense fluently.
We shared mind and body, food and drink,
and careless wanton play.

It was

The most
     *******
          Fun
   I've ever had
       in my life...

Probably the most that I ever will.


Every moment I was with you had
the sizzle and the tease
of a bottle-rocket, lit
and held between my teeth.

I knew that I'd get burned
If I held it to the end,
But I did it just to prove I could;
To prove to me
That I was brave enough
To be unashamed
  To be unafraid
   To be.
First draft catharsis.
Second draft refined.
Third draft- shape and tone, structure and rhyme.

I've been holding on to some very dense emotional pain relating to a relationship which, for lack of a better word, collapsed. When it did, I was buried by my depression, and sank into drug and alcohol addiction. The depression and drugs had taken there toll on the relationship, but I couldn't not understand why someone who had loved and been loved so deeply could just walk away. It took a long time to understand that it was self-preservation. And that is a hard realisation to make. Still the love we shared was enigmatic. Like nothing I've ever seen in a movie or a song or a poem. This is hardly a testament, or even a rough approximation of the experience at its finest moments, but it is a reflection. A memory. She took a piece of me when she left. One I want back desperately, but also one I know cannot be found. So I'll have to search until I find something of a similar size and shape, maybe a little larger, and cut the whole to fit.
T R Wingfield Jul 2019
Well it seems that I'm up to my old tricks again
        But this time i know the consequence
Still I cheat lie and steal just the same, and then
        I wonder why no one still calls me a friend

somehow its always the same
why even bother to change
you never feel any shame,
If you never look back and you just walk away

Well I guess that I'm back on my *******
          But this time can we pretend its different
Then I won't have to lie about where I've been
      Or what I've been doing, or who I'm with.

But if the rules stay the same
then results will never change
And if you can"t win the game
why even bother to play,

when you can just walk away?
T R Wingfield Dec 2016
Heading out west when I get my money right, got some people wanna see me, need some rocky mountain high.

Spent the last year being busted up and broke down by bad ***** bailing at just the wrong time.

Never saw the trouble coming cause it came up on me slowly from behind, and from the front, and from the left, and from right.

Never knew I'd need no night rider to hold me tight. Always thought my self a loner, nobody on my side.

Got my dog and my old truck and about 300 bucks, got a tent, a tank of gas, and no strings to keep me tied

So I'm heading out west, as fast as I can drive, going 90 miles an hour towards the dying light.

Spent my days thinking and drinking all the time, making mountains outta Mole hills so I'd have something to climb

Now I'm leaving all that ******* on the Alabama line. Leave it blowing in the wind, leave it hanging out to dry.

So I'm heading out west, as fast as I can drive, going 90 miles an hour towards the dying light.
Bad poetry is still better than no poetry, probably should have scrapped this one.
T R Wingfield Nov 2019
We agreed to call it quits when it wasn't fun anymore. And it wasn't fun anymore for a long, long while. We ignored the exit signs because an uneexpected love bloomed and so we redefined the terms of the termination because we missed the first by miles. And determination turned to depression bitterness and resentment, then misdirected rage. I didn't want to end on sadness pain and disillusionment, so I tried to patch and glue the last good bits back together But i kept ******* up and it wasn't possible to make another attempt.

All I wanted was a peaceful ending
A pleasant parting between longtime friends

We'd agreed that it wouldn't be a big thing,
A painful splitting, uneven without amends

But what I got was tragic, uncompromising static
Undeserved sadness
And the loss of my best friend

Im Sorry that I ****** up.
I thought I could do better than I did.
Inellegant First draft, but I'm sad

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1852851/arrhythmia/
T R Wingfield Mar 2017
Breathe in
   The briny bonne odeur
   Of a damsel replete.
Remember the nape of her neck
   As she lay there beside you,
   Soundly asleep.
Relinquish your body,
  Your soul, to the rubble,
  Your heart, and your mind to the street
Wring your hands and curse the heavens
The fates, The Gods
On your knees

And what of these torments
   Of This regret
   What of these torments and regret
Lain aside
Breathe in the briny bonne odeur Of a damsel replete.
Remember the nape of her neck As she lay there beside you, Soundly asleep.
Relinquish your body, Your soul, to the rubble; Your heart, and your mind to the street
Wring your hands and curse the heavens
The fates, The Gods, On your knees

And what of these torments, Of This regret
What of these torments and regret Lain aside
T R Wingfield Mar 2017
I’ve been writing an unending melody
About a woman whose countenance could set a thousand ships to sailing
Just to crash on the shore at her feet.

Porcelain skin and emerald eyes, silken hair like spun gold,  
The envy to Helen of troy could be mine were I but more bold

A goddess of perfection sublime, in her absence the world is but gray
Her beauty must Venus abide, yet abhor to this very day

So now I’ve been plotting and scheming
I’ve got a ship set to sail in the harbor; at dawn we are leaving
To steal her away from a king and his land
And she’ll be mine if she’ll take my hand

Ten thousand women could never change my mind
A harem fit for a king’
Tender, supple, and kind,
Could never draw my hand nor heart from her embrace
I’d give to her all of my days for a chance but to relish her gaze


And now I’ve been plotting and scheming
I’ve got to have her for mine; and no, I won’t settle for dreaming.
So like a thief in the night I’ve come to steal her away
And she’ll be mine by the break of day
T R Wingfield May 2017
You should believe me when I tell you,
     "I can only break your heart."
Don't believe you are the exception,
Immune to all my charms.
I'm masterful in my deception,
In that I give away my play,
In a manner that seems endearing,
Like I'm kidding when I say,
     "Don't fall in love with me."
It's not hubris, or vanity
That makes me say these things.
It's a pattern; it always happens;
Every time its the same.
Dont let me in, beneath your skin,
Don't trust me to refrain.
Foolish girls get fooled
Only to get thrown away;
Tossed aside once boredom sets in;
After depleting the thrill of the chase.
T R Wingfield Dec 2016
I thought of myself
As a phoenix
Set aflame

Now
I'm just
Ashes and Dust

Look at the mess that I've made.
I have a tendency to self-analyze. And, as often is the case, I am my own harshest critic. Often I tear myself down; sometimes I strip myself bare. I retrace my failures and the consequences of my own poor decisions. This habit is similar to prodding a canker sore with your tongue. It's painful, and does nothing to heal the would, yet it is almost impossible to refrain from doing. The nagging pain of an open sore is contrasted to the acute pain of direct contact;  but there is relief from the constant irritation in the brief intensity of addressing these sores directly. (Though counter-intuitive) It is, somehow, soothing. Perhaps by proving it could be worse. Perhaps it's just licking a wound.
T R Wingfield Jul 2019
(A Public Service anouncment)

Ahem...

We, the creatures of the night, are the rattlers of chains;
The seekers of magic; the bearers of the flame.

Howling shadows beckon and shimmer with laughter in refrain;
and the screeching darkness holds terror and wonder waiting to be claimed;
In back alley juke joints, shitholes, and diners, down sidestreets and highways, we search for the thing that sparks and ignites us, that dances and delights us, that reminds us that living is more than just work interrupted by sleep; there's excitement, adventure, pleasure, and pain.


The sun burns too bright to see the light which we contain;
yet, in the dark but a spark is as bright as any flame.
T R Wingfield May 2017
Deep beneath deepest reaches
of the furthest recess of my mind
I found a craven creature, singing,
madly clawing blind into the darkness
desperate to find a shaft of light
by which to see its tattered tethered binds 
unbound.

Screeching at its unknown captor.
Screaming to the sky.
Shrieking like a banshee being slaughtered but alive.

Bellowing, bruised, and blackened beast,
best buried deep below-
you'll never see the light of day,
Nor freedom shall you know.

Claw madly at your cavern walls;
Howl mournful;
Be untamed.
But do not expect a civil birth,
born free of shackled chains,
without first being bested
by him to whom you belong;
whose nights you terrify;
who wrote your sorrowful song
T R Wingfield May 2017
As the sun starts to go down, I stop and take a look around to try to find a place to lay my head. If I lay here on the ground and maybe shuffle these old bones around I might convince my back I've found a bed. Then, as the colors fade away, I try to think about the days when I knew peace and I could get some rest; but I never get no sleep 'cause these old ragged runnin' feet run me ragged all night in my dreams...

And in my dreams there always seems to be the same old demons chasing me; and right behind me breathing down my neck. When the get their claws in me they always brings me to my knees, rip me open, and leave me there for dead; and, as the colors fade to grey, I try to thing about the days when I knew peace, and love, and happiness. Then the faces that I see bring me back up to my knees; they get me up a going once again.

And I don't ever need no sleep 'cause these old ragged running feet can run me ragged all night if I need.
And I don't ever get no sleep 'cause these old ragged running feet, run me ragged all night in my dreams.
Lyrics to a song I wrote years ago which have never been put to paper. I was fortunate enough to recall them all the other night. So I'm writing them down this time.
T R Wingfield Jan 22
Gabby Bayou

Man this swamp is haunted
I swear to god
You can’t see the ******* but you hear em say **** through the trees
Warning you to “stay away”


You just gotta deal with all the **** there
So much ****


It’s insane


But I don’t mind a little muck and mire
I love to stomp around the swamp
Splashin’ up mud and Makin’ waves
Besides I got these hobbit feat
That don’t sink
Cuz
I’m creature of the place
And so I make my way down
To the woods that surround it
every now and then ,
And set up shop for few days

This forest is my home, you see
You cant take it away from me
I’m rooted here and moving on is
A tough play to make.
But it’s not too bad
I like it here
It’s soft and warm most days
And as long as you keep an eye on your corners
Cain’t nothing scary sneak up close
And you can usually escape

There’s dinosaurs out here, though
You hear ‘em roar some times
sneaking ‘round the thicket parts
Hunting their favorite prey


But this old lizard-skin-Leather-backed
swamp-stomping’ dragon’s
Got claws and teeth
and it don’t seem to me
much like he can be
killed no-how, anyway

So you know I ain’t afraid
“You’re out of touch
I’m outta time”

I can always show back up and it’ll be the same

You’re too old for this **** man
You ******* dinosaur
You’re the last of your kind and extinction is coming your way
It’s  just a matter of days

Maybe tomorrow
if you keep ******* off
and not looking yourself in the face

What are you doin’, man?
You still out here, cold and trying to find your way?

Listen, dude,
you got an attitude
that’s gon’ get you killed some day
You better turn around and head straight back out the same way you came in.

You can’t call this graveyard home yet,
You still got things to say;
Good livin days to live
And people who need to meet you
See your face,
Learn your ways,
Know your name,
Know your here,
And hold you dear when you do
Finally
go away
T R Wingfield Mar 2017
Pow!

On a little red flag from the barrel of this pistol
pointed poignantly at my temple, 
it grazes the flesh and draws precious little blood in a rivulet down my neck.
I'm tempted to pull the trigger again,
to see if the gag is still funny,
for if the next chamber is loaded, I'll laugh.
Loneliness is like a lake under freeze,
iced over and still,
silent,
reflective;
and hard as ******* concrete when you slip.

      Bang!

Like my head on the floor,
like the door
behind you as you left,
like the doors always in front of me.
Ones I've seen opened briefly;
enough to vaguely glimpse
the trees and sunshine on the other side waiting.
But I can't seem to find my keys.
They were just here, I swear;
they were in my ******* hand.
Where the hell did they go?
******* I'm late, I'm always late.

     Slam!

My fist through a wall that I wish was my skull,
or you heart.
The cracks in my bones are
the cracks in the ceiling
I study as I stare soundlessly, sullen.
I only ever express my anger in solitude,
and dark, where it can be hidden
by shadow, surrendered
and silently sequestered to my hearth.
My fire is burned low and I'm running out of fuel.
It's growing cold in the dwindling light,
and I know if I sleep I'll just freeze;
better to shiver and seize;
to survive, to hope to see sunrise...

     sigh...

She is rising and I'm blinded,
but I refuse not to stare directly into her shine.
She breaks binds,
brings back to life my corpse with her light.
I won't let her day slip away this time.
I was told that I would know it when I see it, and I see it
star-bright, burning brilliant in the sky.
I take aim and hold my trigger-hand high.
I'm not scared of consequences;


I'm just a little gun-shy.
(In the darkest corner of a small wooden landing at the top of the steps to the fenced back yard of a rented home currently occupied by a trio of underpaid shift workers whom, as a kindness,  have taken into their foster care a destitute stray, a man of roughly forty clearly hard worn years kneels doubled over and wailing mournfully to himself, his head tucked in and down toward his chest in an undeniably penitent posture similar to the pious prayer of those who heed the daily call, and face Mecca; Apropos of nothing, he just so happens to be faced to Mecca at this moment. This is, however, purely coincidental, as our pitiful subject here is not a man of clothe, nor one of great or even minor faith, much less a man of daily prayer or mindful meditation. Quite In contrast, He is a drinker and a drifter; drug-addicted, disaffected, dissatisfied, and dismayed. Yet he is also a dreamer, of the highest order, completely convinced of the attainability of a singular salvation of creative elucidation, a dream he has been chasing unrelentingly for more than 20  years; and which he has just this very evening seen how truly attainable it is. Merely moments ago, In a vision of clarity which came over him unwittingly, and uninitiated by anything within his purview, our vagrant interloper has seen a crystallization of artistic inspiration which envisioned all the interconnections within his disjointed philosophical treatises, which he has spent the better part of three decades composing, and in that moment he was overtaken by the sudden uninhibitable need to bleed the pressure welling-up inside his chest and his lungs began to squeeze. The noise they made directed itself toward the realm of sorrow. It is a wail of a desperation; not unlike one you might hear from a father who’s lost there cherished son, from lovers who’ve lost their lovers, and from children having a tantrum who need to eat and then to sleep, but refuse. He was at that moment all of these things in essence; a man rejected and alone, beset by turmoil of his own making, and both exhausted and famished; but this noise came joyfully, as it was the expression of something deep within him which he had recently freed; and so no effort was made to sequester or quiet the cries that he now seethes. It is simply the gasp and exhalation of soul which desperately needed to breathe.)

A soft wail arises quietly from silence to an open mouth, a single note, unbroken and controlled as much as one can control such a sound. From this beginning after a moment, almost a minute but something less, if you were to count; the wail completes with a sharp cutoff instead off dying back down. It ends, from an open mouth to clenched teeth and the tongue cutting off the sound. It makes a word but he did not consciously say it; it’s just the only word that could come…

Out.

GET OUT!
GET OUT OF ME!
Go the **** away!
I do not need you
I do not want you
I will not hold you
You have to leave
There is no place for you in here any more
Get. Out.
Get out.

GET THE **** OUT OF ME!

PLEASE!

(As he spits these curses and pleads, something moves deep with in him. he convulses and every muscle in him begins to squeeze and he feels as if he’s imploding but his eyes are about to explode out, and in this seizing state, he feels the expelled energy escape, physically, through the center of his mind and forehead, like a boiler valve exploding with steam in a movie. It goes out and up and away and silently it leaves. A calm settles over the whole scene as he stills his body, still convulsing, and then he sees swirling among the phosphors on the back of his eyelids, where it burns an impression when one stares at bright light too long, something coalesce: an impression of an Iris, pulsing and folding into itself but without edge, as if his minds eye were right in front of him. He stays there penitent and quiet and keeps his eyes closed, in order not to lose it, because whatever it is he needs to know it; what ever it is, he cannot deny he sees it. He stays perfectly still while it’s centered in his vision, as if it were a wild animal he intended not to scare away, and silently he studies it and stares and considers what has just opened in his vision and what, preceding that, had thusly broken away. Slowly realization comes, as it’s elemental name is spoken silently from behind,

         “I am the one who sees,
            I am that which drives
         I am you, and you are me
                 We are together,
                   A single being
                         but You
                  are part of me”

and upon the realization solidifying, without hesitation he addresses it, directly and in a docile tone…)

I see you
I see you there
staring back at me

I know who you are
I know you are me

It’s good to see you
I’ve missed you
Where have you been?

He lifts his head just a little, just so he’s holding it with his neck, it’s the first movement he has made beyond the minimum necessary to say the words he had to say and to expand and contract his lungs enough to breath. As he opens his eyes, the vision persists and he’s now staring at it outside of him, nestled into his unknowingly cupped and folded hands, like one would make to receive the sacrament of communion, which is ironic yet somehow perfect: for this experience is the only religious thing he’s ever felt or known or seen. Now, with eyes open, it looks to be an orb of energy without a glow, and he folds his hands closed around it as if to hold itc closing his eyes again, and he stands, with eyes closed; as yet unwilling to lose the vision and let it go. He turns slightly to the north, away from the darkness he had hidden in before and opens his eyes hopefully for the first time in ages.

He stares distantly into the foliage of a few scattered trees that occupy a greenway next to a drainage ditch called “flood street” to the people
that know, and in those last late autumn leaves still hanging on with incredulity, he sees the inner eye again, still staring back at him, and in that moment he already knows- it’s not going go, it is part of his mind, which, now that he has opened it, will be ever-present, even if unseen. He shifts his gaze over to the corner of a house not too far away and again he sees it shimmering, superimposed. It’s not external it is like a lens through which he sees, and he becomes joyful.

He lowers his eyes in peaceful pause and starts to take off his clothes, he sheds his jacket, shirt and socks, flinging them to and fro and descends the steps into the yard and squeezes the grass between his toes. He presses hard down through his feet, to let the ground know that he is there and he will not sink. His stance widens. He loosens his shoulders as he reaches down between his feet, and sets his palms flat in the grass, exhaling deeply as he folds. Then breathing deeply in and upward he raises up towards the sky stretching everything inside, reaching as high as he go, and there he sees the Cheshire smile and he greets the moonlight glow,

Hi how are you, I’m glad you’re here too

And then he begins to dance with it, in Meditative and intentional movement. He makes a show for the moonlight and the minds eye and he moves every muscle under his control, twisting and turning in soft ecstasy releasing decades of unwanted tension; finally letting all the build-up go. He lands down in the sweet smelling grass on his belly, arms folded, palms pressed to the sof, cool dirt, grass threaded between trembling fingers, and in his vision are two small flowers swaying slightly, but swaying alone, as no leaves rustle because no breeze blows. It seems to him that they danced in response to his repose, and he will remember this for the rest of his short and troubled life, though it should be a little easier now knowing what he knows.
T R Wingfield Jun 2018
What was it that i was going to say. I forget thing so quickly its kind of insane. Too often, it seems, I'm put out to shame when forced to admit ive forgotten the name of someone I've met, maybe several times, to whom I have just introduced myself again, who probably hadn't yet finished their name before I forgot who they were once again. Usually "Im sorry. My bad... I drink a lot." is enough to diffuse any awkward exchange. Still i know better, just as they do as well,and politley we continue as if nothing had changed.

They say, "third times a charm!" and with names this is true. I read somewhere doing so somehow can train your mind to the get through to the part of our brain which stores long term memories, which are physically much more permanently made, by tricking the architecture of our neural array, which allocates resources based on the way electrical currents pass though the brain, stimulating cellular structures to make proteins and lipids which then activate other part of the xell which begin breaking things down and /or mixing them up, reconfigureing the shape of some loose RNA which is read by a protein design to replicate the mirror string of code which determines what the cell will make and altering as little as a single subatomic partical of weight can then fundamentally alter what the neucleic acids say, and change everything about the properties of the gene that it was trying to translate...

But anyway, repeating the new persons name several times in conversation, or right in a row, at the outset will help you retain new information to the brain, either way it still functions kind of the same. The energy thesh-hold required to make a shot term memory important enough to save is 3 activations of the neural relays, then the neurons begin fusing together, i think, and the information is less likely to dissipate.

now i remember it was something about 'how maddening it can be to be forgetful," or something like that, but worded much better.
****, I lost it. huh... What'd you say?
#streampfconciousness#iloveourbrains#howtheydoallthisisfasinating#metabrain#thebrainsbrain #metabrains #anallwhitebadbrainstributewhichonlyreadsscholarlyanalysisofthesongslyricsoverotherwiseperfectcovers
T R Wingfield Feb 23
Mysterious Paradoxes

I just watched a man take a token from the hand of a life long friend, again! For the power of relief from poison and pride. A marker of 31 years in recovery from the hell of addiction and drink.

Face Fear
face first
fearless and thorough
from start to finish
When I face fear I’m given courage.
When I help my brother I help myself.
A third life is possible if the second try fails. Even then it’s still the first: 3 in 1 like the ghost and the sun and the father.
From our mother we are birthed
to find his guiding hand
and help others who are lost find the path and the light and the love of a life
free from the powers of persuasion of the devil and his friends.

A simple solution -

Surrender to Win!

Amen… again
And again and again,
‘Til it ends.
It begins
In a place
Among friends

One day at a time,
Everyday can be mine
If I find what I found
the very first time I tried.



Common solution
1005 old shell
11:19am
2-23-24
Notes from my second recovery meeting of the day.

Yeah man the struggle is real. I told him when I shared “… It makes me think, if you can do it for 31 years straight - I can do it for one more day.”

He gave me handshake and his number after the meeting and told me “I never did it for a single year… but I did it every day.”

I got a lot of wisdom out that room today. Wasn’t gonna make Alano on time, so I went old shell. That higher power keeps putting me right in my place I need to be every time man.

A reminder for the hard times that it’s just for today.
T R Wingfield Mar 2017
I've been meaning to say this to you,
but I've been biting my tongue for some time-
You don't have to be so afraid of me.
You don't have to hold your walls up so high.
I'm not here in siege, to tear down your defenses.
I didn't bring towers or ladders to climb.
I simply came knocking,
here at your gates,
hoping to be let in.
I caught just a glimpse of your garden,
and I would love to see it again.
I've spent the last week sober, which has not been the mode I've been in for many, many moons. Intoxicants have been a crutch for me and my writing for years- I viewed them as a gateway to the beauty of the subconscious, to the caverns of the psyche, to the ethereal plain where poignancy and truth were found. It's a hard place to find when you don't take the short cut, and it's easy to miss, even when you do. I hope I can find that je ne sais quoi of terra incognita while remaining grounded in terra firma.
T R Wingfield Dec 2016
It's my own reflection of which I'm most terrified
Because it shows me exactly who I appear to be
It may not look like who I think I am, but it's the only me the world can see

Now it's been years and years since the man in the mirror
Resembled the man I know I can be,
But it won't be long until that monster is gone,
And the world only sees who I know I can be
T R Wingfield Oct 2022
‘Cause you  never wrote any of the good parts down
You just lived ‘em
and let ‘em
s
 l
   i
     p
          
             a

                           w
                                               a                    y

You knew better
than to try to capture
the silliness in its hay day
because then you’d have
to face the facts of
the very choices
that you’d made;
and there would be no question -
whether it’s was worth it -
to waste the days by trading them
for nights of frivolity and frolicking -
Of frittering away.
What should have been,
and what is so,
and where it came from,
and who’s to blame
would all be there in Black and white,
instead of vanishing in the haze.

And in your own hand, no less;
your words,
a confession dictated day by day
of what, With your own eyes,
you did see
- All the magic and the wonderment of this tragic comedy -
through foggy lenses, bottle-thick and stained:
dreary ramblings in shadows made,
and heard and said
a many things
in drunken dangling reparteé.
{•:[\|/]:•}no one ******* cares{•:[\|/]:•}

                                          _ -====- _
                                      . + T  [ ^ ] T + .
                                   /  .•^•.    .•^•.   \
                                  |   <(•)  }  {  (•)>   |
                                  (..          /^\          ..)
                                   \* /|'_'_'_'_'|\ */
                                      \\ V         V //
                                        \\ ^----^ //
                                          \ '-''-'-''-' /
                                             * -_'_- *

                                          _ -====- _
                                      . + T  [ ^ ] T + .
                                   /  .•^•.    .•^•.   \
                                  |   <(•)  }  {  (•)>   |
                                  (..          /^\          ..)
                                   \* /|'_'_'_'_'|\ */
                                      \\ V         V //
                                        \\ ^ __ ^ //
                                          \ '-''-'-''-' /
                                             * -_''_- *

(Found beneath the body of the author, who was crushed by the weight of a megalithic stone- his writers block)
p.s. - I spent far too much time on the ascii vampire skull; but isn't it neat?
T R Wingfield Jan 2017
Castigate Sublimate
         Sanctify Indoctrinate
     Expatriate Disseminate
Proselytize Reiterate

     Reject, Deny, and Obfuscate

        Incarcerate Dehumanize
   Desensitize Decimate
        Incinerate Rejuvenate
       Simplify and Permeate
T R Wingfield Dec 2019
The music that lingers
in my mind when I awaken
is the rhythm of a life
of which I dream to live.

If I could get these symphonies
unlocked from the rooms
in which they reverberate and boom,
I would finally be who I know I should be,
but the rhythm's undone when I do come too;
I'm only ever left with the conclusion
that made my psyche break through-
A conclusion without the question,
a harmony without a melody,
a melody without rhythm,
a break without a build,
a crescendo undeserved.

I carry with me back to consciousness
no evidence of the brilliance observed;
no tally or tale or the things seen and heard.
But I know that I saw them;
I know what I heard.
I feel the rhythm inside me
and I hear the words.
I remember the beats
and the lost melodies.
Never-the-less...
they are incomplete...

just like me.

A clip of a phrase left to rattle around.
An earworm set to unheard sound.

"Dont be afraid
to get too wild"


These dreams are the compositions of some other soul
The music and musings of minds not my own
but I wonder in the early morning grey,

Do the people that I dream to be also dream of being me?

I awoke from a dream slowly
Sweet docile tones reverberating in my ears;
and as I came too with a rhythm and the words that broke through. I tried to hold onto them as long as I could do, but never can I keep them for more than a moment, maybe two.
It’s infuriating and frustrating,
because there is no way to capture the song that I heard: just the shadow of some snippet sneaking out the back door with the rest of the gang that got away already before getting caught in the midst of their thievery, when the man whom they are robbing walks in the front door

And there never has been.

I am no musical genius, but I know a good song when I hear one,
And I’ve heard such wondrous things
cascading through my dreams
Less now than before,
but I still find myself hallucinating wild bebop jazz
with muted trumpets and silky strings,
big band ballad piano swings,
deep-trance and euro-house dance floor thumpers, chaotic digital jungle themes,
indigenous rain-dance chants against primal drumming, Searing thrash metal with string burning sweeps of perfect improvisational leads, Merengue and Samba and Flamenco beats, with lyrics in languages I do not speak.

In my dreams they are full compositions, with layers and evolution and meaning; I just can't recall all the words and have not enough talent and knowledge of things to transcribe the notes in corporeal means.
Most importantly, the music of a mind’s eye or ear is not the music of the world, so I have no way to recreate the rhythms or melodies.

Mostly because I don't know where to begin.
Because the inception of the song,
in reality or dream,
is always a fugue of some other innocuous thing;
some music or rhythm that broke away from the meaning it has in the world
and echoed until it became a song I heard.


But I swear god once promised me,
In a vision unseen
that when I die, if I get to heaven,
The songbooks are waiting,
fully annotated, with lyric transcriptions printed up nice and neat, and not only can I see the compositions of these, but there are recordings of all of it. Everything!
That's the only heaven I want there to be:
The one with the words I lost in my sleep,
And the music of my hallucinations and dreams.

The soundtrack to my subconscious is something to be heard.
It’s too bad the world will never know of these things,
the mind music mingling amongst the mist of my dreams.
Such beauty deserves to be heard
By those here among us who love, live, and suffer,
who dance, cry, and sing.
But alas it is only a fantasy for me.
But it will be tremendous to finally free
the muses best work
when I inevitably meet
the maker of the muses and the music and me;
But until then the world will just have me to trust.

I promise.

It will be…

My Magnum Opus
T R Wingfield Dec 2020
Tonight, I drank
In revelry
To celebrate the life I've made;
The life that was not handed to me;
The life I was compelled to create.
Tonight I drank to you and I,
Despite the mistakes and the pain.
It's not the losses that I've suffered
Which remind me of the consequences paid;
It's the simple fact
that now,
Despite the effort that was made,
I'm left with only memories
Of days I treasured day by day.
I would not trade the ones yet coming
For any of the my other days.
But know that since you became my history,
The future will never be the same.
This is a response poem inspired by I drank by rozana
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3705809/i-drank/
T R Wingfield Jan 11
There’s something astounding
About our place here standing
on a planet circling a burning furnace
full of hydrogen atoms colliding
and fusing and slowly eating itself alive,
flaming into the light and heat and
imposition of a life giving god
casting countenance through the emptiness
and unfathomable distances of outer space
Until the day it decides it’s tired
Of All the effort it takes
to scream into the void for all time
and hold the cycle steady
so that something it’s never touched
can “count their days” and keep a schedule
based on dividing entropy
arbitrarily into increasingly small divisions
like eons and epochs and eras,
then to centuries, decades, years,
Months and  days,
down to hours and minutes and seconds, and eventually atomic rates of decay
so small and short and fleeting and transient
as to be inconsequential for them to be named.

It is the only star you see during day,
And when it hides away it’s shine
A vast dark void reveals its presence
Just behind the painted skies she illuminates with radiation from the chaotic energy that shattered atoms release and reverberate and it reflects and refracts and reveals the presence of the heavy elements it made that coalesced into small collections of elemental ***** spinning and floating and collapsing in upon themselves under minuscule but compounded atomic weight

And in its blanket black indifference
little signs of somethings distant and gigantic and ancient shine through the darkest reaches of infinite shadow and quiet solitude

5000 years ago our ancestors took a rudimentary set of lines and scribbled simple symbols on the nocturnal symphony and because they realized the points of light always passed through the same patch of sky at any given time, If you knew what lights were in what patch of sky you could figure out how to navigate great distance because the sky was ever wide and the same sky stood over every place, and no matter how far you had wandered into the wilderness or how far off track you’d floated away, you could always find a way back home, no path necessary, from any place where you had found yourself, whether you’d been trying desperately to find some sort of peace of mind of any kind, or simply running from some thing terrible or even menial, it’s all the same.

But moving south
Across the equatorial belt
Into the southern hemisphere
Sailing west away from land
Dancing north toward the horizon line
The heavens shift in subtle
Variations so the stars you might expect to find are in a completely different orientation that cannot easily be aligned
But you can always seek out the belt and dagger of the Titan Hunter of the sky. And it might confuse you as to why he seems to be there upside down or on his side. But do not worry you have not lost your bearing it’s simply a matter of of perspective from the angle which you find yourself considering your local sky.

And a flat earth theory would try to have you believe that there’s no such thing as an equatorial divide, but the fact that Orión Cartwheels across the horizon from the southern side, while  from the north he takes a strolling path across the southern horizon line, and yet he never changes his permanent position directly in the summer spring fall or winter sky, tells you somethings out there further than we can fathom and somewhere even farther is the beginning of time.
T R Wingfield Aug 2023
What If these were our last good days
We’d ever have to live,
What would be the purest way
To utilize their gift?

What if these, your last good days;
We’re passing by unclaimed?
Would knowing that you wasted them
Haunt those that still remain

What if you miss the last setting sun
Before the supernova arrives;
And in an instant, oblivion comes
To take up all our lives

What if you fall to endless sleep
in moonlit starry night,
never again to wake from sleepless
slumber to see the light.

What if these are your last good days,
Before feebleness takes your mind,
before your body breaks
upon the rocky shores of entropy and time?

If these are the Last Good Days,
Would you count them all well spent?
What if THIS is the LAST Good day?
Is wasting it worth the risk?
What if these are the last good days
you ever have to live?
What if tomorrow brings with it oblivion;
Or worse yet, a soul-crushing annui?

What if you miss the last sun setting
before the supernova arrives;
The last 8 minutes after the sun burns out
Before the darkness takes your eyes

What if you fall to sleeping endlessly
in moonlit starry night,
never again to wake from sleepless slumber to see the light.

What if these are your last good days,
Before feebleness takes your mind,
before your body breaks
upon the rocky shores of entropy and time?

If these are the Last Good Days,
Would you count them all well spent?
What if THIS is the LAST Good day?
Is wasting it worth the risk?
T R Wingfield Dec 2016
The only line
I've ever heard that worked...

"Hey girl...
            Bring your fine *** over here and let me tell you some lies"

Honesty is always the best policy I guess.
True story
T R Wingfield Jan 22
• (preface) . Ante Up •

Never Gamble with more
than you can afford to lose

• Prologue : The Deal •

From the dusty haze
between hot mirage waves
in desert air
refracting red shifted rays
of the horizonal sun
bouncing off the highway
appears an indigent itinerant
who’s seen better days,
walking alone
at a leisurely pace,
west towards sunset
and night and escape,
without baggage or burden
beyond his distempered ways.

He comes suddenly upon an unexpected place- hitherto unseen by light of day


• I:  The Flop •
     LIQUOR IN THE FRONT!
     $ POKER IN THE BACK $

The flashing neon sign proclaims
From behind the dingy pane
Of a curtained window
By a door to nowhere safe;
With a sign that hangs
Beneath it saying

Open Buy, Table Stakes,
    No Limit Hold’em
Come on in and Play!

And just underneath it
Scratched into the widow,
In an unsettling scrawl,
By a steady hand
With a razor sharp butterfly
Switchblade knife…
It says

“There’s NO LIMIT to WHAT you can WIN”

That does sound tempting
So you do go in
Everytime…
And you’re greeted with a “Hello friend!”
By a bartender standing by himself,
in an empty room,
Cuffs rolled up and forearms wet
polishing glassware and tins with a towel;
One That’s seen too many rims
and broken glasses and spilled drinks,
and blood and tears and ***** sinks
It could NOT be clean,
but “**** it,” you think,
“There Ain’t nobody in here”
And either way, the alcohol is cheap…

“Can I get you something to drink;
maybe a double whiskey, neat
Or Tonic, Lime and gin?
The game already began.
You can head on back, if you want…
They probably only played one hand.”

And he motions to a padded door lit green with red light glowing below from under the jamb.

“Should I get a drink
and play a few?” You think,
“I don’t have much to lose.
And what if …

I win?”


• II..  The Turn •

It’s a gamble, going all in
It’s a big risk to take,
But if it pays off man
*******,
You got it made

And the hand looks good,
(it always does)
But this fella’s poker face…
It is uncanny, Man
You cannot read a thing
It’s like he’s made of stone
He don’t ever tell any kinda way…

And this ******* devil always calls.
He plays his hand in every game
Never sits out a round
Throws his money down
Folds his cards, then
Sits back …

… And he waits …

… And every hand he plays,
It seems the game is strange,
In some unexpected way -  
like cards you thought you had
might not be there when you look again
But you can’t remember if, or when, it changed.
It might’ve been you just ******* seen it wrong,
But either way, the ******* card you need
is gone;
And just when you notice-
He’ll look away,
And then back at you,
As if to say,
“I call your bluff kid, turn em up.
Let’s see this hand you played.
What’re you holding
That Made you think
you could win a game
I ******* made.”

• .IİI.   The River •
You’re playing too fast and loose …
         Like you ain’t afraid
            
But you should be …
         ‘Cause You ****** up
        
Too Bad the Bet’s Been Made


• IV.:.   The Showdown •

And then He wins
An when He wins
you can’t defend the hand you held
In any way
He takes his chips and stacks em up,
He doesn’t have anything else to say.
He doesn’t gloat, he just
… ******* smiles…
And He watches your face
As you sit and you stare
and you think good and hard
about the mistake that you just made.

“Read ‘em and weep”
It’s his favorite part.
It’s his little art:
Watching a soul
get crushed…
                                  …Ugh…
“…Again?”


• Epilogue - Wanna Buy Back In? •

Never
Pay More To Play
Than What You Stand To Win
Never pay more to play than what you stand to gain.

I’m very fond of this one, but every time I read it again I feel it’s missing some little bit - just what it is I can’t put my finger on, but it seems like there’s still some part of it out there in the ether.

Does the jump to the endgame seem
Too jarring?

That’s actually where the poem
Originally began. The first draft was just the preface, part “II..” and the epilogue (though obviously worded a bit differently, and unmarred by formalist pedantry). It felt a bit too heavy handed as parable of a gamble with the devil (indeed it was written as such), and After a revision or two for color and rhyme and rhythm, I added part “I:” - which made it feel much more like a story to me, and less like a cliché (at least in my mind) - I guess it’s still a bit cliched if I’m being honest. I wanted a “smash-cut;” that felt almost cinematic. Like a short film, with a small budget trying to get enough story in without wasting time on dealing cards round and round. But it’s that cinematic bent that makes me think it’s missing a 3rd act.

Does “II..” perhaps need to be broken up? It seems like a natural break sits at “you’re playing too fast and loose.” (also, out of curiosity, who do you think that line is attributed too?)

I tried a format with a Numeral marker there but i couldn’t decide on an evolution I liked

For example, I tried:
I: , II.. , .III.
I. , II.. , III…
i.. , ii. , iii
. , : , . :
. , . . , . . .
Nothing seemed right for the third tier.

(A major revision later)
It was  almost too obvious to title chapters after the games turns… anyway. A bit of additional self aware commentary added and now I think the piece is complete… 2/22/24    3:41 am
T R Wingfield Mar 2017
If you lie to yourself enough,
Will you start to believe?
Will false justifications
Make it easier to breathe?

With your head in you hands
And your heart on your sleeve
You tell yourself "It will be alright"

Do the words whispered quietly
To yourself in the dark
Gain truth as they take flight?
No
T R Wingfield Feb 2017
If everyone just needs to be loved for who they are, then why the hell is finding someone to love so ******* hard?

Maybe its just me, but is it really that much to ask? Is it so wrong to say, "I think I might could love you if we could get past all the games."

But honesty doesn't work in these twisted troubled times, because we are all so accustomed to normalizing lies, but for my own part I'll continue to be direct and hopefully one day my approach will be correct.
You know, thinking about it, I probably write poetry because I **** at getting laid #tomuchhonesty
T R Wingfield Aug 2020
Sometimes we cant stop talking
Try as we might it’s to no avail
We've something to say about every little thing
And we've no way to be sure
that the other can tell what we mean
And it seems like we never can completely frame
The point we are trying to make before someone chimes in with a tangential observation:

     See I don't think you know
     what I mean. What I'm trying
     to say is that the very thing
     your talking about is what I
     believe but a little bit different
     in some semantic way and,
     hold on, let me just think and
    finish my thought

    and then you can speak.

And then we are coming at nothing 
from obtuse trajectories
analyzing angles of attack without regard for the whole and then there's a misunderstanding
and we start defending ourselves over a miscommunication,
your tone inflects a verbal retreat and mine strains from frustration, is read as antagonism, and then received as an attack
All of a sudden we are fighting over some misdeed that we've already tabled for the sake of you and me.

And sometimes we just can't stop talking.
Mostly it's me sometime I just can't stop talking.
T R Wingfield Sep 2019
So
        This
-                         -
Is the one I don't like,
The one I keep tucked away.
The one that always ***** things up just to have something funny to say.

-This-
Is the one I was talking about when I had nothing else to say.

This
Is the one I warned you about back when we first got together and talked everything out.

This
Is the one I try to avoid
...
At least...
In my mind, anyway.

This is what I meant when I told you I was trouble,
I warned you before-hand to keep a lookout for mistakes

The more I make,
more I keep making,
I've lost control of everything.

This
Is what I mentioned might ruin everything
T R Wingfield Jan 2017
"Stars are trying to tell me
this is something like it"

The stars are trying to tell me something, but it's something I can't hear. Or perhaps it's showing me the light but it's shining on
something I can't see. The universe is singing somewhere vast and shimmering; expanding in upon itself, growing closer, still near exploding.
Reveal my soul to me


I stare into the heavens hopeful that she'll open her inky vale, shine her countenance upon me, and bless the growing glowing trail
of star dust and darkness and love and gravity, which spins beyond the precipice.
Ever in front of me.
Celestial Symphony of Fate and wonder guide me with your melody

An Azimuth circle and chart are all that I need to guide my soul to heaven in the heart of the black nights sea
T R Wingfield Jan 2017
Are we lost to a land of too many tribes,
  Too many choices, of too many scales,
  Too many communities of which to
avail?

  Could we be better off fractured and scattered
  Left shattered like glass by the highway
  A shimmering reminder to the wayward passerby,
  All is not lost though we
Subside

  Could that we merely be torn asunder,
  Pulverized, then obliterated by ritual fire,
  Then wrung from the colluding liquified minds
  Crystaline,
      Incandescent,
          Molten
Purifide

  T­o form as before but free from parameters previously applied,
  Forgotten in the furnace of insanity and strife
  Stiffled,
      Tempered,
          Emboldend,
Refined
There is a group of words in my mind I cannot seem to seperate.  The title represents two of the interior, juxtaposed outside the form of another poem.
It begins as a rumination on the disconnect between generations and geography made so starkly apparent by the recent election, and exacerbated by the duality of social media: it can isolate and embitter an individual in and toward their local community, while at the same time connect and embolden them with a global ego/echo chamber. It sat as one stanza for many months, until I decided to share it. It seemed hollow to pose such vague commentary, and not even attempt to address it, which catalyzed its creation and completion.
T R Wingfield Dec 2019
Show me the secrets in the shadowy places that good boys and girls  should never see; like rock'n'roll rumbling in a dingy divebar-backroom, or lovers in a rain soaked alley.

Show me the secrets in the hidden places that only the lonely children can see: the shoe box treasure chests of broken shiny things, bric-a-brac in old tin cans, a cobweb covered crawlspace comicbook, or a lost love's lost love notes never sent and never seen.

Show me the secrets in the wilderness gardens that only the dreamers may dare to see: Dandelion promenades of pine needles paved over rotten leaves and treebark leading away to toadstool terraces among orchards of fiddlehead ferns and ghost pipes ascending to trumpet the day.

Show me the secrets hidden behind curtains that spirits and mediums only should see: the souls untethered and howling damnation at their veiled purgation in a dustless dimension forever unheard.
T R Wingfield Jun 2018
Before the muses all esaped, their voices used to fill my mind with too many things to ever say. Interupting each other endlessly, yelling and screaming and making a scene, each thinking their thoughts so much more important than anything else the others could posibly ever have to say. A sea of crashing caucaphony breaking in waves upon the rocky shores of a mind siezed by trying to decide who to listen to, to decipher what to take from them, if anything at all, each and every day. But the voices now are but whispers uttered from the shadows of a bedroom on the darkest nights. They had been caged, then they broke free, still contained though now released, then they escaped, and now they're free- having slipped through a crack which never got filled back in after picking up the pieces and putting them to together again.

So now the words dont come so easily as they did once, back before. Before the weakness became the very thing for which i no longer have the strength to bear the burden of its consequences, despite the pleasure of it's mistakes. The pain of losing makes it hard to see the light of everything you have to gain. And the heighth to which you rose before the crest informs how long the ride back down will take. The steepest peaks have steeper walls, and you fall much faster as you tumble uninpeded by anything, approaching terminal velocity before stopping dead as reach your fate. When you hit, theres a chance for it to give a little bit before it breaks. Sometimes, like on a trampoline, you bounce back, and walk away; Other times the world goes crashing in, colapsing underneath the very weight of all the things you carried down with you, like so many a ball and chain, revealing depths as yet unfathomable before the breach was ever made. Depths from which to reemerge seems impossible from down below; And just getting up is hard enough;  And ever harder after every fall. Harder still To walk away, much more the climb yet to be made.

It seems I never bounce back anymore... And no matter how long the fall may take, when the rock bottom hits you in the face, your mind shuts down, then hits reset and just sits there... and it waits...as long as it needs to assess the damage and make repairs that can be made to the fragile psyche your skull contained, before it shattered from the blow. As the gears come grinding to a halt, and then shudder back to life a gain, theres no telling what might come unstowed, and bang around until it breaks. Once the rhythms fall back into sync and you get yourself underway, then you can start ot realize what action you need to take. The reset button can be hard to find, and sometimes it doesnt work, or it breaks, Leaving a Jumbled mess of memory scattered everywhere there is space. And sorting through it all is treacherous theres no telling what might show its face.

Now my thoughts are interspersed with emptiness, but when they do come they flood the gates; and there never comes a warning of impending chaos on its way.  Like a Thunderclap before a Summer storm, from out of nowhere comes the crack of a lightning striking far to close for comfort no matter how far it is away. Then just as fast the stormclouds break, unleashing a deluge over the landscape. Then swirling the slipstreams they cluster and condense: And rythyms reveal themselves composed of gravity and weight, but the rhythms that i often find even more often slip away. Rarely are they ever permanent, and they always seems to change, mutating as it gets repeated, reguritated over and over again. inevitably the beauty which I thought I recognised at first, starts to seem uninteresting, like a too familiar word which all of sudden seemed awkward to say after saying it too much, and no sooner does it disinterest me than it slowly begins to fade- and as they do, they leave a broken trail of breadcrumbs eluding to the truth they once relayed, echoing from the chasm black in bits and pieces then descending back from whence they came, never to be heard again as they were when frist composed: Their rhythm and their melody the victims of the very thing they had portrayed; no sense of repeating the same thing. Yet never are the bits forever lost; merely to far away to hear or see, but quietly they linger ever on, a wave endlessly perpetuating into the distiance searching for something off which to richochet. and return, unexpected to the point of origin, whereupon its arrival its replayed.
T R Wingfield May 2017
Can you tame the unbridled misguided unrest, furiously seething, caged deep in your breast; devouring anything to come within reach. This ravenous, desperate, impotent beast seeks only release from the ******* of chains, to wander his cavernous, haunted domain.

Must you insist upon killing, in vain,
this animus spirit already restrained

The enlightenment that you so desperately crave lies buried beneath the beasts freshly dug grave. Exhume the remains, let it's death be unmade.
Resuscitate that which you fear you'll obey. The truth is the beast and yourself are the same.

See the beauty tremendous of entropy unleashed upon a life strictly structured to imitate peace. Embrace the chaos of your own destiny. Turn to the tempest, baring your teeth, and let loose the unbridled beast of the breach- unfettered, untamed, fearless and free.
First draught in notes
Can you tame the unbridled misguided unrest,
furious and seething, caged deep in your breast;
devouring anything to come within reach,
this ravenous, desperate, impotent beast

seeks only release from the ******* of chains,
to wander his cavernous, haunted domain.
Must you insist upon killing, in vain,
this spirit awakened by torturous pain?

Seek out the enlightenment you desperately crave
from quiet seclusion, not a freshly dug grave.
Find the beauty tremendous; watch entropy feed
on the stifling comfort you never did need.

Find the precipice calm, and a let silence prevail
lift your joy to the heavens and follow its trail
over mountains which seem to this mortal refrain
insurmountably treacherous, grueling terrain
T R Wingfield Jan 2017
This is a call to Arms
The time for action is now.
Our government is preparing for War
They're building walls and cutting ties
to conquer us they must divide
us from ourselves and from our world

This is a call to Arms
The time for Action is now
The board is set, and we, the Pawns, are all in our place, facing an enemy we are told to defeat,
though they appear to be identical to you and me.

This is a Call to Arms
The time for action is now
We must revolt
Lest we be sacrificed to Kings
To Queens, to Bishops
To the knights of the realm and the castles they call home.

This is a call to Arms
The time for action is now
We must band together to be heard
We will not be cannon fodder
For the frontlines of a culture War

This is a Call to Arms
The time for action is now.
Defeat looms ever closer
The Reckoning draws nigh
Will you stand and deliver
Or will you bow down and submit?
Will you face the coming adversity,
or brave the consequences
should you turn your back to it?

This is a call to arms
They've taken land and sea and air,
Poisoned them to **** us,
and then billed us for the repair.
The enemy surrounds us,
Threatening life and limb and freedom.
Demanding fealty and obedience.
Demanding tribute for the war chest,
And soldiers for the ranks,
Demanding that we pay the cost while they set price.
They want us broken, not just beaten
Only unconditional surrender will suffice

This is a call to Arms
The time for action is now
To chant the castles down
To fortify the streets
Against the tyranny and the hate,
Against powers of subjugation,
Against the evils of the world

now
The doomsday clock ticks ever closer to midnight. We must act now; so to avert catastrophe.

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1848390/sublimate-reiterate/
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1907682/gun-shy/
T R Wingfield Feb 2017
I found a coven in the woods
Amongst an oaken forest glen.
There,
hidden behind a curtain of Spanish moss,
amongst fiddlehead ferns and fungi bloom,
two of Gaia's faithful maidens
Enchanted me unwittingly, and took possession of my gaze.

A Pair of Muses
One, of the forest
One, of the sea
Both wind and fire
Equally
In opposition and in sway

Their incantations softly chanted
In a tongue to me unknown
and I listened quietly entranced,
between them in the glow
Of their cauldron hearth fire
Embers burning low

She of the forest was enigma, playfully shy,
coyly toying with the strings all men share,
And in her den, among her herbs and powders and potions  
In preperation, and prepared.
She spoke in riddles and in parable,
Both with body and with stares.

Instantly she knew me
As I had never known;
As if Devined by a mysticism,
Ancient and pure,
So sublime it startles the soul.
In her eyes,
so sweet and sincere,
simplicity and innocence obscure
A strange and intoxicating knowledge
Of the rare and deepest old
Of the world and it's great secrets-
What its darkest reaches hold.

She of the sea
Was shimmering
A specter
Against the stars
Floating

She was Waves
Of aquamarine
Blue Green
Irridescent
Obscure and reticent
Behind her ever pulsing shade

Camaflouged by her surroundings
This piscian vision lingered in relief
Over a Gilded titan mother of pearl chariot;
The Persephone Throne.
She cast her stare upon me;
My hypnotized mind laid bare,
Wiped clean of anything I had seen.
No man could know her shrine of love
Nor the secrets that she keeps,
And none ever remember;
For one cannot resist her lair

An aquarian cavern,
A haven of calm,
Rest, respite and solitude.
It's lotus blossom lantern
Heart of glowing gold
Cast in shadow upon the ceiling
Glimmering radiant refractions
of the waning day

Her ocean sings soft and sweetly,
Casting mist into the air,
And a siren's song disrupts me
Ever suddenly
She washes over me,
Unaware

And though the seven signs they showed to me clearly
Still the stars I misread
through misted eyes,
and soon I fell to dreaming without sleeping
Or so I thought, though i shall never know

In their atmosphere I relinquished this mortal coil into the haze,
And disappeared completely
For an instant, just a moment,
perhaps it was hours.
Perhaps,
it was days.

And as abruptly as rushing water to the somnambulists face
I awoke,
As a dreamer awakes
from dreaming of waking,
alone and bleary-eyed,
dreary and confused
amid my own disheveled cave.
And where they've gone, I wish to go,
But where that is, I cannot know
For I would follow them until the days
Turned forever into nights amongst
The Forest and The Waves
(Added roughly 7 years after writing this) An impression of the first time I met my lover through a friend and rereading it still takes me Back to that night and that first moment when I saw her clearly, ****** and silent watching her unfold to her friend in a conversation I couldn’t follow because they didn’t use any names or really finish any sentences. The two sat and stared at each others eyes and talked as if I wasn’t even there; and it struck me so very deeply. And I have a photo somewhere of the two of them laughing after one spilled a box of paper cones. Their names were Kristen (the waves) and Billie (the Forrest). And I love them both.
A funerary dirge
Blows in softly on the breeze
Distant and muddied by the
City Rhythm thrumming and thumping quietly between me and the revelry trumpeted bold and brassy piercing the caucaphony intermittently
Mixing melodies of bouncing horns into
A melodrama drawn in minor key

A black cat skulks the shattered streets around me underneath the shadows cast by broken rigs of steel and octane
Bouncing on dinosaur goo baked and shaped into ***** donuts filled with pressure almost explosive if released suddenly.

He meows softly from the street-
side of a broken boxwood promenade,
Unkempt and cracked, between he and I,
Sat upon the low steps of a split landing
Leading to the threshold, transom, and door of
1603 Rendon St.
Somewhere in New Orleans
during the week to be in Louisiana
- Mardi Gras -
(Deep Gras to those who know it)
the trumpeted herald of the Holy sacred Lenten season of self imposed sobriety
But here we are, all by our lonesome
just me and myself
And also Steve.


(Steve I just made up. There is no Steve. Well… not really.. kinda well. It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing…
But that’s the thing)

I put my hand out,
“Are you familiar?”
                                         Mow

Tsc tsc tsc… no that’s not your call?”
Pss Pss Pss

                            Mreooow!

“Who are you? Why are you staring at me” the miniature panther seemed to think. He won’t much come nearer, rather he skirts a radius clear about me, but he lays down lazily on the roots of a laurel oak not far, but no closer, and stares and stirs and mews a few times softly and then slinked away silently off somewhere,
as if magically, without me seeing
Him leave.


Him was familiar.
Him definitely seemed
to be a warning of something
coming;

“I hope it’s a good thing!.. “
I thought - intentionally naive -
“That’d be nice.”
“Something good, for once.”

(Like me behaving… That’d be nice to see.)

Good Ol’ Steve…

I wonder if he’ll come back later…
…and if his life is interesting.


A siren wailing in the not too distant city
Reminds me I still hear,
That I’m still here.
just out here in it
chasing dragons and meeting demons
Witnessing magical mysteries
all through the streets…
Notes from Thursday afternoon February 8th, or something
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