"acknowledgment" poems
348
I dreaded that first Robin, so,
But He is mastered, now,
I’m accustomed to Him grown,
He hurts a little, though—
I thought If I could only live
Till that first Shout got by—
Not all Pianos in the Woods
Had power to mangle me—
I dared not meet the Daffodils—
For fear their Yellow Gown
Would pierce me with a fashion
So foreign to my own—
I wished the Grass would hurry—
So—when ’twas time to see—
He’d be too tall, the tallest one
Could stretch—to look at me—
I could not bear the Bees should come,
I wished they’d stay away
In those dim countries where they go,
What word had they, for me?
They’re here, though; not a creature failed—
No Blossom stayed away
In gentle deference to me—
The Queen of Calvary—
Each one salutes me, as he goes,
And I, my childish Plumes,
Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment
Of their unthinking Drums—
14.6k
Don't ignore me
I'm standing right in front of you
My heart still beats
And yet you stare right through it
Like I'm not even there
I beg for your acknowledgment
Still you don't listen
I feel like I don't exist
Life becomes meaningless
And still
You ignore me
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 4:38 AM UTC
simplicity is
an acknowledgment of love
in diminished light.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
Poems on a Mirror
~for Glenn Currier~
you don’t know me
I don’t know you;
poems on a mirror I ken
truly well
poems on the mirror saved, and then,
comme the seasoning of leave-falling,
poems dropping and drained...the post-it glue loosened by
the daily heat of watery tears,
making a space for
this one, for you...
there are poems and they arrive with fresh arrogance,
each an arrow demanding your all as a target regardless
of what the shooter really thinks or wants, other than
obedient acknowledgment and their self-loving flattery
but some render where no rendering should be allowed
those are the ones affixed - ones you chose to join the chosen,
slapped onto mirrors - so many that they almost
cover complete your image from presentation
almost only because these poems are yours, you,
they’re the truly accurate reflection even if not your words,
indeed especially because they’re not yours
but they start your day as a poem should
and in doing so,
become you
What a Hall of Fame, to be a poem on Glenn’s Hall of Mirrors
go pick the plums...
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
Thinking, Pondering, Wondering
What’s wrong with me, am I too nice? Are my friend’s right?
For I heard this phrase for so long
Junior year to be exact.
Are you gay, you **** bro are you straight?
(Is what I heard)
Are you crazy, **** them hoes
(Is what they said)
Go out and get that bread
It’s all coming back to me.
Too nice
Is what I’m characterized as
Never the one to go out and get it.
What you going to with it?
You gonna to hit that, tap that
Because if you don’t I surely will pull that cap back
In to reality
Snap, it’s all coming back to me.
See I’ve had my time of deception and deceit
For now I’m grown and just want to take a seat
Relax and think
Blind to see that special someone for me.
But, in this world there’s no room for that
All society wants you to do is have babies,
Be poor, struggling
Oh, that’s a class act.
But for me, I don’t belong
Others strung along like a puppeteer singing their favorite song
Bounce that *** Twerk that
Is what our women are suppose to know
But, who is the one to show
All the beauty and potential they possess
Progress into women of success.
Too bad none of them will ever see that.
Most of them will be on their backs, thrusting
While the eyes of the Lord watching, as his child
Is no longer is his little girl.
Too Nice
Ponder at the fact that nice guys finish last
Where are the gentlemen, the ones that take women
Out on dates, but their afraid to actual settle down
Thinking I’ll look like a clown when my homies find out.
Sincerity and acknowledgment are things of the past.
Now days, saying ***** and *** is what’s going to get you past
In life, I learned that you can’t make everyone happy
But, if I can make most then that makes me happy.
Gratitude and simple thank you is all I ask
A little kerseys and small “how do” will do for I don’t ask for much
Friendship, Loyalty, and Respect
F.L.R.
But, how can that get you so far, because in this world no one cares about
Your feelings.
Phssst, what were you thinking?
I was thinking that for once, just once nice guys wouldn’t finish last.
Be glad while you have me for who know how long I’m a stay
TOO NICE
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 6:04 PM UTC
Who do you call when your brain is on fire?
When sunshine strips
begin to fade from the bed sheets,
And you find, yet again,
That you've allowed a day's worth of stability
To deconstruct itself.
For a while, a silhouette you will remain,
Chasing the origin of light,
Only to fall into the one thing blocking it.
What happens when a brain is burnt out?
Drawing out breaths that latch to the cold air,
When you stand with weary muscles,
A title wrapped around your forehead,
And a frustration festering.
Holding close to the last remaining memories,
Of security, of solidarity, of purity.
Losing yourself to yourself,
Costs less and less each time.
When do you decide a brain needs fixing?
When the ride home is full of regret,
And your legs cannot stop shaking.
A miserable night will be swept under the rug,
So dogear the scripture you spoke belligerently,
And the world will suddenly seem small.
A breakdown happens when most needed.
A breakthrough happens when least expected.
How do you fix a brain?
Probably, the day without questioning it all,
Will be the day you figure the most out.
If we can get a mixed up mind to settle,
Then the first thing to learn would
Be the acknowledgment of a new, better life.
We will all survive our demanding brains,
if only someone will show us the way,
Will someone please show us the way,
Before another brain is ignited?
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 7:59 PM UTC
There lives a woman who
Seems mystical, even mythical
--It is true--
Because she is biblical;
Rarer than a precious jewel.
She is virtuous
She is loyal
She is courteous...
She is royal.
She shines brilliantly, like a star cluster trapped inside a room.
She glistens like jubilant sun rays dancing atop the ocean.
The wind of her voice sets inspiration in motion,
Like a sonic boom.
She is powerful.
She is virtuous,
Who is worthy? Just
Wonder & coil
In a corner & toil
As you ponder this.
And honor this
Acknowledgment,
Because she is royal.
Don't dare compare her to the likes of
Nefertiti or Isis.
They are not so estimable,
You couldn't buy her even with a million zeros before the decimal,
Because...
She is priceless.
So the King adorned her,
Because the King adores her.
She is beautiful, so they say,
But such a meager word could not suffice,
Because her true charm emanates like waves
In the ardent expression of her practice of life.
And from her mind and her soul.
Her precious heart--more precious than gold--
Looks like a kaleidoscope of rare gems,
Darting dazzling colors; the spectrum in whole.
Diamonds die in comparison,
Hand her a diadem...
She is special
She is jovial
She is gentle
She is royal.
She is not haughty,
Nor does she flaunt like worldly wenches do.
She tells girls who've been told they're peasants they can be a princess too.
She is not naughty,
Nor does she taunt like wanton vixens do...
Because she is godly.
Yes, indeed there lives a woman who
Seems mystical, even mythical
--But it is true--
She is virtuous,
She is royal...
She is you.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
We do not pine for just one day
where the markets, morality, or technology
tune themselves in perfect harmony
We say the future's now
if we unite in just one way:
**the acknowledgment that we have the will and machinery
to feed, clothe, house, and heal
every human being**
Who cares if they find a wage
Let's "let anyone follow their dreams"
be the creed of Earthlings
I'll have much more a fun time
going to my neighbor's for beers
if they spent their days doing
what their inner child intended
Pipe dream, much?
Acknowledgment our task's a process
another must, even when we feel so close
What's your story
other than the idea that authority's some natural right?
The Government and the Propertied
Working together or against each other
forever in eternity
(the Capitalists are the biggest Marxist narrow minds
who refuse to hear Karlo's ending)
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
Towards the surface remain my concerns.
The sun will shine on all my problems.
Entering my mind in a state of stillness.
As powerful as that might be.
Will it set my fidgeting free.
It's time to leave that all behind.
Searching to find the wondrous grape vine.
To eat with the acknowledgment of peace and happiness.
The water is in harmony to the song of the whales.
To sink deep naturally without any fails.
I wish I could hug it even though it flows around me.
From the cosmos I must shine through my enlightened chi.
Lifted from all the negativity.
I've found what rescues and saves.
The voices travel with the wind and aids the singing waves.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
Hail to my King
but only I bow the lowest.
Only is it, I, that bows the longest
and with all my faith, loyalty and love.
What do I get in return?
Maybe, perhaps, on his good days
a look of acknowledgment
for all my time of dedication.
Hail to my King
his brilliance will cast you under
his smile will have you hypnotized.
Alas, I still wait
pray
beg
for his attention.
Up there he stands
on the pedestal I made for him.
Basking in the glory I shower him with,
he has no idea.
Hail to my King
No. actually, don't.
He is my King.
My King with no crown
he is ordinary, like you and me.
Do not hail my King
he will love you, he will steal your heart.
Then, he will hurt you, ruthlessly.
Unknowingly.
And that, there...is the worst pain
and still I hail him.
I hail My King
with all my faith, loyalty and love.
Hail to my King
and to him I shall return.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
He empowers me
Has me feeling I can conquer anything
Do I love him?
No,
But a certain kind of respect
And a clear sign of acknowledgment
Must be given
When he speaks
And when he listens.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 5:48 PM UTC
Dissappeared as if a dark cloud decayed the body in a matter of miliseconds and disposed of it somewhere unknown. Never did I see a single sign of being psychologically sick. Not one piece of evidence to prove her existence. Multiple memories of her wither away slowly. No discernment to the delphian disappearance. Very vague memories of her, perhaps she was a vision. Maybe, just maybe my imagination had gone too far with my mind. No! Her disappearance was real; but due to her irrelevance, and exodus she was forgotten in the conscious mind of others. Maybe its time that I finally forget about the phantom that haunts my memories, and makes me question my sanity. Gone she is, and gone she will be. So the acknowledgment of her existence is Irrelevant. She is now, and forever has and will be nonexistent. -V.H.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
People praise geniuses
like they praise trophies
after all that hard work
they are put in a shelf
where they will dust until that shelf is destroy
or until they are needed for entertainment
being drain from their polish
The trophy has no identity
It is own by society
only to be use again and again.
Some trophies accept their fate
others glamour in the sunlight where they reflect all light
being seen in the world as special
while being treated as **** at the end
and for all it's genius an all it's glory
It wasn't smart enough to break free.
I guess what all geniuses and trophies are missing is
Acknowledgment of True Self
As a genius is just a human being and a trophy, a scrap a metal
both made from the same old atoms.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
Without acknowledgment
The warrior has no foe
His war remains within
The only casualty
His spirit
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 6:32 PM UTC
every so often
they threw the seal a fish
though it was only a small fish
the seal would jump for joy
he would wiggle his fins
his nose, his eyes
his space coming alive
and from his landing
he would dive into the water
with the youthfulness of a pup
diving after that little silver
like it was for the first time
his eyes wider than the moon
as he streaked across the pool
with pent up
exuberance
so graceful
and in rhythm
his back to the spectators
but not really
as his moon peeks through
the surface
back towards the smiles
the cheers, the applause
it meant the world to him
receiving
the acceptance
and acknowledgment
the likes, the love
the words from the butterflies
descending on his blooms
for
he sees and hears
feels their touches
his splashes of fate
leaving his face golden
and beholden
in the face of sorrow
he circles back to the surface
pockets of bubbles rising
like his love for the audience
that little silver
wiggles of his daily grace
now his sustenance
his nose, his eyes
his shrill coming alive
and now back at his landing
animated
and blessed
his moon shining at the spectators
and in all sincerity
he lets out an arf, arf, arf
intonations
and sublimity
dancing in the moonlight
thankyou
Logan Robertson
10/14/2018
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 11:23 PM UTC
timing is probably the most important thing
in the entire universe
when you really think about it -
it's like when a certain record comes out
and it defines that entire era
of your life
like the summer of 2001 when I was nine,
in the car with my dad on a hot summer day
and he stumbled upon "I'm Like A Bird" on one of the stations,
and we turned it up, rolled the windows down,
and we knew that that song would always be
ours.
and it's truly just so crucial to our existence,
the timing of things -
like when I met this beautiful person on the internet
who soon after became my best friend
and turned my whole life around. but the timing of it
was perfect and had i not met her right on that day of that month
of that year, i probably would not be remotely close
to who i am today.
and I already know that this summer is going to be associated
with Daft Punk's 'Random Access Memories', with "Get Lucky" blaring loud
on every stereo in the city,
it will remind me of Eisley's album, "Currents", and the song "On My Balcony"
by the band, Flunk.
Six months from now when I look back on the summer of 2013,
I will think of those songs and those records,
I will think of how hard I was trying to stay afloat and become
a better person, for nobody but myself,
and how good of a job I was doing with the action
of letting go of things that were toxic for me.
I will think of blonde hair and dancing in the rain, hot sweaty shifts
running around a crowded restaurant, being sad about how much time
I still have left until I get to see my favourite person again, and I will think of
boredom and sunburns and bad poems and love and hope and willingness
to overcome fear. And music. So much music.
This isn't really a poem but more of a very lengthy acknowledgment
regarding the importance of timing, especially perfect timing,
and how even bad timing is usually disguised as
perfect timing in the end.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
High ground
I concede to you
in the disproportion of a time allotted to you
for the choice of robe to grace
a glorified cameo around your flesh
like a sheet designated for an overthrowing
in an honorary statue's unveiling
Liturgy is looming in the bathroom
already hot-boxed in the metal waterfall's
mist of moisture and the mountain range of bubbles
I have settled comfortably into in wait
High ground
awaits your hallowed prance
into the concealed languish of your man's
dangling imagination
I salute you with incentive
through a lowering of eyes made necessary
by your towering above my horizontal soak
I'm beseeching you to wield royal sway
over the humility of my reclined posture
with the hidden scepter of your body
fated to dictate the pace of my
anticipated knighting
The gentle thud of fabric on linoleum
incites a turning of my head to take in
the litany of parts available to my
frenetic feels and jumbled focus
Stationary in your naked smile of proximity
you extend to me excessive time to entertain options
as I coat myself in lukewarm opportunities
and rise to meet you for a bathing in my excess wetness
I accelerate my exit to negate the bubbled tribuataries
sliding to the floor to meet the remnants of your mystery
The wall is cold and you protrude
haplessly to meet the rapid chilling of my undried frame
Warmth is of the essence
Fingers split your hair in celebration
of our uniform heights and I feel you slouch
signalling our first hint of friction
and a twitch in my diviner of your cradle of essential warmth
Do you realize you now rescind creative license?
Or have you filled the snare of your intentions?
Now your balance shivers in the mercy
of my curled leg of leverage
and an coiled arm collecting your ambrosial attributes
like an ice cream scoop
Uniform heights allowing eye contact
makes optional the visual acknowledgment
of my elastic hunting in the smooth field of your breast
with a dancing thumb
I connect and latch onto what is now
our binding axis and shuffle eye contact
with the universal rhythm of a pelvic power ballad
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
at what point in your life do you realize the futility of chasing the elusive
acknowledging all your past love stories are tragedies
stillborns, held briefly, remembered daily, for the rest of your life
to meet the paragon that matches your impossible list of requirements
the odds are against you, possible, just highly improbable
to find the unicorn on a merry-go-round of painted, wooden horses
mindlessly, repeating the cycle, searching for the one, in a universe of stars
how many times must you be pulverized in the online emotional meat grinder
craving the unconditional love, acknowledgment, validation of prince charming
to be kissed, caressed, cherished by the bad boy on the harley
romantic love is a dangerous illusion, a mirage in the desert, la fata morgana in your heart
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 5:58 PM UTC
.*pre-scriptum alternatives... either a bus-driver... or a garbage-man... ha ha... Leibniz... was a ******* librarian!*
a zookeeper,
a warden in a prison...
or some obscure,
accolade role
in an asylum...
i'm being pushed the role
of a chemistry teacher...
mind you... i know that the best
way to pet cats,
is to "ignore" them,
let them play their
solipsistic hide & seek game
with plain view of the target...
but i'm thinking of 3 dream jobs...
horticulture isn't an option...
must be the sort of man
with a floral pattern
rather than a sky-scraper
in my underwear
to provide gender
exclusive role play...
whatever the hell the means...
but teaching children
chemistry?
d'ah ****
i want to be on the forefront...
a gorilla zookeeper,
a prison warden,
an accolade
for what's the upper tier
of nursing,
namely, inside an asylum...
but i won't ever get a chance
to prospect myself for such roles...
hence the poetry...
given that i'm a chronic drunk
in England, but a sober
sparrow in Poland...
come to think of it...
i'm ever only drunk,
when i start talking...
alone, drinking?
i can catch a judge
play-thing sober...
but those are my dream
jobs...
and in all three instances...
none, are advertised for
potential applicants...
like a safe pass into a business of
past, trans-generational funeral homes...
just like they said:
it's not what you know,
it's who you know -
unless of course there's a merger,
and you're thinking
about emperor Nero stabbing
himself in the neck...
within the confines of a self
acknowledgment, "question".
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
Men clad cleanly, polished boots and bowler hats,
Women wearing short skirts or long dress,
Boys no longer boys deny their old,
With rock and rap, skate shoes; how bold!
Indifferently they carry on,
I am you, and you are him,
She is fat and she is slim,
Registered in heads dead depth,
As we pretend to see no man who chokes on crystal ****
Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who cram these city streets;
A glance is but acknowledgment,
As all shuffle in quick feet.
To say the least, we will pay none,
To those who are not us;
To say the least, we think we've won,
Ignore the drunk mans fuss.
Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who view in black-and-white;
No middle-ground perceives a frown,
As they sleep amid streetlights.
The morning rush and nightly blitz,
As people scurry too,
Destinations, dealing smiles;
Self-help books to start anew.
As talk through text, online, or phone,
Dominates the daze,
Indifferently, ignore eachother,
"Nothing need be said inside this maze."
The CEO, he acts as King,
With peasants treated well;
Their brains blunted to buried states,
"He's bad; but he'll get his due in hell."
Everyday they rise early,
To catch the mornings speed;
"I do this by the clock because,
A life, so rich, I'll lead."
"Conforming kills the mindless soul,
To fight off human urge;"
You're free, yet unaware of this,
So conforming, you won't purge.
Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who, like zombies, follow sway,
A human hand on island sand,
'I saw him not,' or so I say.
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 9:17 PM UTC
These are the kind of thoughts that I feel like I need to swallow
because they're on a level of pathetic that I can't even admit to myself.
It's that level of pathetic that really makes a person naked.
The deep dark corners of a person.
It's the trigger of the first tear.
And it all boils down to you.
Your simple acknowledgment of self scares me.
Your self-awareness kills me because
it brings you closer to realizing
that you can do better than me.
*And then what do I do
with this epic love I feel for you?*
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:04 AM UTC
I’m sorry I shut you out and blamed you for my own undoing,
You see I have this cloud that hangs above my head and I had begun
To call it home.
My thoughts and feelings got lost somewhere in the condensation phase,
And I trapped them there, only allowing occasional acknowledgment of the pain
I was in, doing as much as I could so as not to show if or how I had been affected by it,
For I am my own prisoner of sorts.
I let you in my cell to feed me water and gruel, but when you asked to spend the night
I immediately pushed you out and handcuffed myself to
The illusion of accomplishment, for lo and behold, I was there supposedly
Protecting myself, abandoning you before you could abandon me.
Over time, my pride turned to boredom which turned to anger which turned
To loneliness, and I had to place the blame upon someone’s shoulders.
There were no mirrors in my cell, so I chose to blame you
For I had forgotten that I even existed.
Your kindness cut into the unripe parts of me, the parts that were not ready
To be handled so gently, where breathing is slow,
Where each time you blink is like having a windshield wiper wash away the rain
From a car so clarity can enter your veins and visceral rearview mirrors.
I unraveled while you were away, I cried over my million losses while I counted
Your continual successes, I was envious of you,
Gradually falling silent to the truth of everything that had once surrounded me.
I was afraid you no longer loved me, for I no longer wished to be loved
Nor did I feel deserving of it.
That wish was strong and I fell down a long and narrow well
Where you were not waiting for me when I finally reached the bottom.
I stayed there awhile, beneath my cloud, locked in my cell,
With the murky water and unforgiving gruel.
You called down to me from the top, your voice
Your voice
Your voice
Oh but how could I possibly forget?
That voice.
It never left,
It never lied.
I can’t promise you I won’t fall down here again,
For my heart is stubborn and I still haven’t learned
The art of removing that which has been engraved
On this selfish mind.
But for now,
I wish to stay.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
Honestly every time you think of me my ears begin to ring, as if this life decides to make me aware that somewhere out there in the thickness of the air you have displaced the sacred woven fabrics of time and space, they have just been shaken, and the waves of your thoughts ripple straight through this world to settle within me, my acknowledgment of this is simple, I say ah, there you are, i am glad you are here, in fact I have missed you. Your are my old friend, I have been through many doors, my feet have stepped over many different places, I have been in the presence of God and Devils and have lived through the changing times and seasons of my life and in each of my many moments of pain and sorrow and while in the grips of my sometimes child like wonder I have carried the joy of you, of knowing you, of being close to you within my heart, through the many dark valleys I have wandered through and up each mountain that I have been forced to climb, you are with me. You are my compass that leads me back to myself, you are my water when I am dieing of thirst, you are my shade tree when I am weary and you are my love when I feel alone. This to me is a wonder that I have tried to understand from the very moment you chose to give me your love. I have turned the miracle of your devotion to me over in my heart, I have examined it from every angle with the eye of my mind and still I am forced each time to concede that I have no way of understanding this thing you call your love and because I can find no reason for you giving this precious gift so freely into my hands i am sometimes overwhelmed by it. Your love can enter a room like a lion or it can be as gentle as a breeze but each time I witness the evidence of your spirit I am given back a piece of myself and I feel whole again, I feel peace that I had almost forgotten, You remind me of what life can really be, because I so often forget the simple miracle of being here beside you in time. Many days I forget to simply breath, and I am caught up in the sorrow of life's obstacles, there are days when everything and everyone seems to be too close to me and I become angry, and sad, and self involved, I forget myself and become lost in the worries of being. You help me to lose my selfish pity, and you bring me back to the foundation of my mind. There I find the truth I once knew so completely, that life is only what I make it out to be, and that my happiness can be found in something as simple as your eyes.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
my hidden shames
are an excellent source of moral fibre,
nurturing, but not nutritious.
we coexist in a quiet
mutual acknowledgment,
coexisting but un-categorizable,
nonetheless,
among my oldest cohorts,
their singular coordinated characteristic,
they are mine alone,
not meant to be shared.
But they will someday
make an excellent poem.
Mon jan 2 2023
6:47am
@here
———————————————————-
the askew
are my oldest companion,
dating back to my naissance,
faithful, eternal, but single-minded,
with a rueful sense of humor,
of course,
refer to my relatively plentiful hairs
inherited from my mother’ genetics.
a morning chore,
to return their antics
to an adult,
dignified pose,
plenty sufficient to be be brushed,
straight back,
the preferred orderly compose,
of older men
who cannot waste time
with foolishness,
the excessive vanities of
curls, parts and pompadours,
and yet,
every day they wake me with
ridicule, mockery, by presenting
themselves.to me,
as if electrocuted,
each
hair raising itself
pointing to the heaven,
whence
their true Creator resides.
no amount of product
persuasive,
they do what they must do,
akimbo, askew,
with inordinate amount of
malice aforethought and
a venomous sense of
hairy (and now hoary)
absurdity .
a splash of water,
a handful of rigorous brush strokes,
returns order
and the pretense of a serious mien,
an adult demeanor.
But their purpose accomplished,
they have reminded me of the
absurdity of human vanity,
to humble myself
before forces
more powerful
than human self-aggrandizement
by accentuating
our human foibles.
7:13am
same time & place
——————————————-
morning prayers are
always
a trilogy
the rounded evenness of three,
provides the necessary gravitas
of sufficiency,
three being
not too short,
not too long,
not too quick,
just three right,
to impart
the seriousness
of gratitude
for having gained
another day upon earth,
with it,
many multitudes of
chances to share
thankfulness,
kindness,
yes,
& love too,
and to write,
one more poem
encapsulating
all of the above.
7:35am
same day
same place,
same cup of coffee
Jan 3, 2023
Jan 3, 2023 at 9:17 AM UTC
She breathes out deeply
with worn out lungs, tired lips,
still expecting those couple hundred faceless friends to say something,
to even acknowledge her.
Of course,
she doesn't know what gives her the right to deserve their attention,
neither does she understand the concept that she,
like others,
happens just to be another face upon faces.
A penny amongst pennies
thrown carelessly into a pool of broken wishes.
Yet, despite the impression her cold experienced smile
still brushing the innocent minds of her
so called 'friends'
would happen to give.
She is, still wishing.
And it's the wish, the one day,
the just maybe that makes all the difference.
See that's the beauty of a wish,
it's something with no value,
it can not be swapped,
sold nor created.
And thus it's such that an acknowledgment,
a simple 'Hello',
can still be held as a wish,
despite it's shockingly slim chances of happening
without
actual. social. intervention.
Why are we wishing?
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC