I ask you questions
To get answers
And to better understand
So I don't seem nervous;
Yet I am still uneasy
Because I am prepared to fail
Rather than succeed.

If we are not proud of something,
Then we would never have said aloud
What it was we did not, do not,
Or will not take pride in,
Refusing recognition
For the humility of a given circumstance.

No matter the desire to be open to all things,
We are always a close-minded people;
After all, does skin not enwrap
The sinuses of our imagination, thinking, and what we allow
To enter our cognition?

We are an opposite, contrary people:
We want our summers cool
And our winters warm.
Who's not to say
There already has been a global warming
Taking effect
In the forecast of fantasy?

I’m not mad,
I’m not mean,
Unlike the dual-colored monster:
The Big Blue-Green.

The Blue Green’s not orange
And especially not yellow,
Because he’s as irate
As the red of the rainbow.

Don’t call that Blue-Green pink
And definitely not purple,
Or prepare to give into
A raging Blue-Green whirlpool.

All the other colors
Turn faint white
As they cower before
The Blue-Green’s might.

What can the Blue-Green do?
It’s only two colors.
Ah, that’s the Blue-Green’s trick
To entrap some fellers.

The Blue-Green doesn’t dye,
Nor lives as a vision to glance,
But it’s the fear inside you
Whipping its lance.

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose ***** snow has lain,
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me
But only God can make a tree.

Get out!
Stop ruining my life!
Your words, they destroy my future,
Like a bullet, bomb, knife.
In other words
Shut up

Though words plainly expand the levitation of gases,
I still feel a twitch in my nerves when you talk,
Like anything I have ever said was meaningless;
Yet, when I express that your speech bothers my sensory system,
I feel a guilt
That I am the one who changed you
For my own satisfaction.
Why do I cater to myself
Instead of I who am more considerate?

A masters in disasters?
A bachelor as a chancellor?
A Ph.D. in you and me?
When can it stop, this silly slop
Of pun exposed to everyone?

A pioneer
Is one to plunge its own nature
Into the unknown unnatural,
Such as Daniel Boone and the woods,
Or a **** sprouting
Between the crannies of gravel.

I, as a kid,
Always imagined being a video game character
And hoped to gain abilities
That would shock the world.
Although that's considered a fantasia of some sort,
It's not too far off
From the fantasia of reality:
That we can imagine change.
And after imagining,
Accepting and beginning that change.

America, America
Your forests dense and lush;
And yet they are so quiet,
Like they told everything "hush"!

America, America
Some of her rivers calm and blue;
They are extensive and reach out
To places near you!

America, America,
Your people intelligent and brave;
Some of us are so adventurous,
We camp out in a cave!

America, America,
How your mountains may vary;
Some may be rocky, some may be snowcapped,
Some may be extraordinary!

Alas, I have finished,
There is no more for me to say;
But always remember,
There is no place like the USA!

I never was a fan
Of buckling in a van
And sitting
To mostly go
Where I never wanted.

I never found it a thrill
Scrunching my body
In every vehicle my grandparents leased
Every time my family and I would visit.
And, isn’t it ironic
How I’m the middle child of my family
And the middle seat in the back would always be available
Especially for me?

Traveling on a road
For more than an hour
Feels like a breeze after a time.
But somehow the shorter car rides
Seem to take forever,
The basic mile perceptually elongated.
Just my luck.

Everything I have done,
Every activity my parents rode me too
Required my AIS
And patience toward whichever parent
Navigated.

I almost begin to believe
That traffic roads have a treadmill mechanism
To illusion travel and make one believe
That the wheels spin forward,
But I think they lag atop the same gravel
Much too long for my patience and time.

As I crave for a hurry in life
When time slowly fumbles,
I wonder if I would get to where I want to be faster
If I took the wheel.

Hey it's just Brian.  Again, know I should be posting just poetry, but I just want to let you who are following me and those outside who have seen my poetry know that I sincerely appreciate it!!!!! :)  This is a blessing to be able to relate to writers/viewers like you all as distant as virtuality may make it seem.  Just wanted to extend a bigger appreciation; I know I should thank each one of you individually instead of being lazy and sending out one message for all like most bogus automation does, but be assured I am grateful to be connected to others who have some affinity for writing and particularly poetry.  And shout out to the maker of this site Emily; Emily, this site means more to a person like me than you'll ever know.  This is a great site and I hope it stands as long as possible.  Anyway, just me; poetry on, peoples! :D  Also, I really apologize for not remaining true to my word in saying that I would read more poetry outside of mine than post more of mine; it's just that when I have ideas in mind I have an anxious tendency to want to make the idea come to life in text before I  lose it, but know that I am not inconsiderate about the mass collection of poetry that extends far beyond what I have contributed (if it's a contribution at all) to this site.  Maybe I shouldn't promise, but I will try my best to remember and see more of the poetry from the greater poetry community.  For it's better and should be better for me to give than to give for greedy gain. Peace Carolingian-script bards! ;)

After seconds of cranium rehearsal,
I think I know how I will say what I want,
Until it happens far from how I planned to say it.
****, it sounded so much better in my head.

Me: “Father, I think I would like to pray my own way.”
Priest: “Ha okay (sarcasm), whatever you say, Brian.”
(Priest continues about in ignorance of commentary)
Priest (beginning Vespers): “O God, come to my assistance…”
Me: (beginning Vespers) "O ****, here we go again..."
(Grudgingly submits)

Not to make too many other announcements, but I recently came across this meditation in my inbox by Fr. Richard Rohr, a Franciscan author, who talks more deeply about spirituality on his site called Center for Action and Contemplation.  The reason why I share Richard Rohr's name today is because his meditation for today ties spirituality and poetry together, which I had to share with this poetry-rich online community!!  I apologize if it seems too "Christianized" for those who  have other beliefs, but I encourage all to keep the poetry topic in mind more as I am not seeking to promote any outside or irrelevant source on this site.  To access the specific meditation on poetry from the CAC, here is the link:  https://cac.org/poetry-2018-05-22/     If anyone experiences trouble in accessing the meditation write-up, let me know.  Peace fellow poets! :D

To me, poetry is easier written
Than read.
If reading poetry is more difficult
To come by,
Why do I read poetry still?
See, that is the point:
It’s when I don’t understand a poem
That I want to read on.
For poetry proclaims
That there will always be those quirks in life
Which will never be understood fully
Unless we confront the author for which the work came to be.

If a picture’s worth a thousand words,
Then a window contains a library.
A window is set apart
From any canvas or oil painting.
You can see artistic scenes through a window,
Unlike most other art forms, which, of course, can be windows,
But they lack an outside,
A tangible and believable portal,
Sustaining the natural need of an environmental presence
Even within closed confines.
A student seated in a classroom with windows
Is more likely to gaze out a window
(Imagining escape, perhaps?)
Than to glance at even the best possible art around the interior space.
One purpose of art is escape,
And windows are a visual escape from where we are,
Luring us with the bait of what stares beyond.
Like all art, be a steward to windows,
Keep them clean and free from breath fogs.
Be grateful that a window
Gives you a view and protection from any disturbance
That may hinder your admiration.
Take advantage of a windows feature:
Open them up!
Feel the wind of the art on the other side!

There stands a mental tendency
To match a certain emotion
With a particular person
And call it ordinary.

At some point in time,
That person’s usual emotion
With take a detour,
Blinding the eye with unrecognition.

Somehow and in some way,
Someone will be bothered
By the sudden shift
Of what seemed to be emotional normalcy before.

If it’s too good to be true,
Then guilt will press the one affected
With the motivation to bring back
What was before.

When it seems that the world
Returns to its original axis of position
And that person acts like themselves again,
We rejoice that what was seen as a dream
Was fleeting,
Because as long as pain tampers bone,
We’re still on our way.

Sorry for not making this entry a poem, but I thought I would take the time to spread that, if you ARE or if YOU KNOW OF anyone in middle school or high school who likes writing poetry (or prose/essays), please consider checking out/having them check out this poetry contest website: https://www.poeticpower.com/index.php?page=students

No joke, I have been published by this company before, and even if you are not the final winner, whoever enters can still at least be published in the book that comes out seasonally.  For more information, please see the site or I can try to answer questions about it (no promises, though, considering I haven't been active on that site since...well...high school lol).  Thank you!