"alternatively" poems
A Close friend said "The Perfect Woman"
is much like a shark.
if I am greeted in this ocean,
by a woman
I will allow her to look at me with all primal intent.
splay my wrist open and watch her
as she smells the little turn of blood
floating now in spirals between us
I'll have done it not for the pain, or shock
but for the honesty.
to watch a creature struggling to hold onto their facade
and the tears that start to bloom in the pink
above their sharp teeth.
Look, I know sharks don't cry.
it's not about the crying,
I crave the visceral emotion.
want to give my body to the indulgence
the electric moment where
I feel them feel conflicted
with my whole body
feel their suffering and internal struggle
in my entire manic smile
tight cheeked
all eyes on them like a paid performer
or Alternatively,
I would give them all this passion,
my body in anticipation of their opening
clenching to their masks,
They Devour me.
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 12:27 AM UTC
how do you paint water, or clouds?
I could read poetry for the brief,
of my of remaining life, however brief,
and never be satiated, of love,
and streams of water,
never stilled, always running
in patterns that exist,
but for milliseconds,
admired by clouds born in, of,
a moment of re-formation that
is perpetuity long:
unending shape shifting,
like the freedom of flowing water
currents, forming, reforming and unthinkable, nay,
inconceivable that human eyes
or their spoken words
could capture their
shiny white foamy essence
But of love,
that we can do, paint, design, recreate its
endless loops of undulations, like the radiating circularity
of a pebble dropped gently
to its burial sight in a quiet pond.
Humans know, understand and excel at clasping and grasping
at the synapsing of human cells from differing bodies:
the exogenous erogenous of human touch that like the clouds
and the water,
who
could paint that,
who capable of capturing
said sensations that wrack
and enliven the body with invisible
interior chemical reactions. I
cannot.
Thankfully better men and women have treatised their entreaties to the powers of the universe and been rewarded with the skilled delicacy of weaving human tapestries, the milliseconds of connectivity, eclectic and electrifying of different currents and differing amperage’s forming and reforming like water moving, just like the clouds changing in response to the externalities of wind and gravity and all the forces of nature that encourage us to study
and stare at these flows,
hoping to entrance them into standing still for but a moment, and instead, mesmerizing us into standing motionless for hours in awe of their freedom.
Love’s undulations too mesmerizing, and freezing us into
place, or alternatively
caucus to run endlessly arms extending,
flying though not airborne,
rocketing us upwards while feet never budging,
but finding good wards, masterful metaphors to recreate and thus to share the fabulous mystery of this thing we know as love.
2:58AM
Friday
jul 22 (jewel 22) of the 23rd year of the 21st Century.
O.L.P.
Jul 21, 2023
Jul 21, 2023 at 3:05 AM UTC
Don't worry, I won't tell her about you.
Don't worry, her first word will always be "Mama".
Don't worry, I won't tell her about your deep love for strawberry milkshakes.
Though, she refuses to have milk in everything but strawberry shakes.
Don't worry, I won't bother telling her how good you were at volleyball,
I would tell her its a good sport to play.
Don't worry, I won't bother telling her science fictions are great,
I ask her to just give any of them from the shelf, a read.
Don't worry, I won't bother telling her that she can't bunk classes.
Because she is allowed to but, also read her textbooks later.
Though, she doesn't know how pridefully your attendance used to drop, then.
Don't worry, I won't bother not going to movies with her and yeah, she can choose them,
alternatively.
Don't worry, I won't bother her to grow up.
She can always have brownies and chocolate ice cream in the middle of the night.
Though, she doesn't know how you used to be lectured for doing the same.
Don't worry, I won't bother asking her to learn singing,
she loves Jazz dancing.
Though you never stopped moving your feet, to those Irish beats.
Don't worry, I won't bother saying how blowing bubbles and balloons were your favorite pass time.
It's her 16th birthday and all she wants is the party hall to be crowded with red and white balloons.
Don't worry, I won't bother telling her that black is the color.
I tell her that she can always wear black to dates and sometimes, they work out really well.
Don't worry, I won't bother asking her to give me a call
every once in a while.
Because she loves writing letters and mailing them to me.
Little does she know, about your handwritten notes that still hold a place in my diary.
Don't worry, I won't question her choices.
But, will for sure forbid her from falling for a man like you,
who will soon fall for someone new.
Oh did I forget to tell you, she writes too.
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 7:59 AM UTC
_las mujeres nacen de la tierra en la gloria de la más alta_
dys·to·pi·an/disˈtōpēən/adjective: dystopian:
relating to or denoting an imagined place
or state in which everything is unpleasant or bad,
typically a totalitarian or environmentally degraded one;
_"the dystopian future of a society bereft of reason"_
noun: dystopian; plural noun: dystopians:
a person who advocates or describes
an imagined place or state in which
everything is unpleasant or bad;
"a lot of things those dystopians feared did not come true"
[A dystopia from the Greek δυσ- "bad" & τόπος "place";
alternatively, _cacotopia, kakotopia_],
or simply anti-utopia; a community or society
that is undesirable or frightening; It is translated
as "not-good place" & is an antonym of utopia,
a term coined by Sir Thomas More
par·a·dise/ˈperəˌdīs/noun
noun: paradise; plural noun: paradises
in some religions; heaven as the ultimate abode of the just,
heaven, the kingdom of heaven, the heavenly kingdom,
Elysium, the Elysian Fields, Valhalla, Avalon;
"the souls in paradise"
the abode of Adam and Eve before the Fall
in the biblical account of Creation;
the Garden of Eden/noun: Paradise, Eden
"Adam and Eve's expulsion from Paradise"
an ideal or idyllic place or State;
"the surrounding countryside is a streetwalker's paradise"
Utopia, Shangri-La, heaven, idyll, nirvana;
"a tropical paradise"
bliss, heaven, ecstasy, delight, joy,
happiness, nirvana, heaven on earth
_a ********** who seeks customers on the street_
"this is sheer paradise!"
Middle English: from Old French paradis,
via ecclesiastical Latin from Greek paradeisos
‘enclosed royal park,’ from Avestan pairidaēza ‘enclosure, park.’
_Superficies terræ puella_
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
<>
for the early morning teach
<>
she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed,
in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse,
yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch,
until you accidentally once again path cross,
she provides a precision mathematical status update
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
it is 1:38AM for you,
the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour
when the night ether has prematurely worn off,
rising time close but not nearly close enough,
a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate,
and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain
instead you turn on some belle string musique,
a Grande Messe des Morts,
a chorus,
singing a high mass for the dead,
while opening all your various email luggage and baggage,
smiling as you read a poetess's message of
laughter behind tears
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
and Mississippi ******
your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional
Grenada grenade cocktail,
flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's
gentling sleep sounds,
has you writing your own protest poem,
your very own,
oy vey, grande messe,
about lives that were supposed to be
pictures of perfect artistry
and for but a word or two,
instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down,
and indeed,
leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up
alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking,
smiling recall
Laurel and Hardy's summary definition
of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures:
"Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !"
but 38% worse?
not an even-steven rounded up 40%,
should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach?
or more accurately, more mathematically,
138% of what was writ before?
and you recall your older, prior words
about the love hate affair between
you poet,
and the beauty of written brevity
(her style)
and you give her this then,
this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification,
word attentiveness, a summary of your readings
of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of
pained poetry,
it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient,
a summarizing phrase that opens
and yet
briefly encapsulates all that
you are feeling for her
"thinking of you"
or the 38% larger version thereof -
***"Well, here's another 38% more
nice poetic mess
you've gotten me into!"***
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
I could be a writer,
breathing life into words,
I could be a musician,
turning emotions into song,
I could be an artist,
coaxing being into the inanimate,
I could be a poet,
awakening the dormant within,
I could be...
or,
alternatively,
I can be.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 6:08 PM UTC
I skip, across a streaming, upon random~laid
flat and comfortable flat flagstone stepping stones,
from poet to poet, color to color, poem to poem,
Auden to Whitman, Schuyler to
myself, a dingaling notion, an errant word,
the here to there, all randoms, yet,
oval chain linked all,
a question posed, an answer unknown,
a reference to an old Italian myth,
and there, and here, a body,
comes to rest,
& also,
comes to rest…
<>
led not by the nose, but the single fingered
tip that guides across a landscape patterned
painting, lost but never a loser, each implants,
each imbibes, and the H&H^ alternatively
rumbles, pounds, vibrato burns erratically,
and the difference between a life in love,
and a life in poetry,
is not a line dividing,
but a path combining,
and the only sign
upon the road,
is never a reddened "stop!"
always just a soft lavender, so tender, inquiring,
requiring, deep thoughts and reckless abandonment,
the only guide inspired when ecstatic adrift in
a season, a sea, any one of nature's designed
unlimited
schemata's of vista creations,
is this, simply stated:
What?
<>
postscript
6:27 Sabbath Sep 27
nyc
after a sunrise glorious, where
the windows eastern facing
make an irresistible irrational
pattern of golden yellow reflecting,
mirrors, and
after reading much,
and so I too, reflect, vista, vista,
what do you see, I see…What?
after reading a poem by James Schuyler,
entitled (yes, we are)
"What"^^
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 7:47 AM UTC
A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos.
I am earless with music.
Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows-
foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution,
air freshener and the outside
sweet at my back
all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke
blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference.
There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor
born partially of personal encounter and-
nestled in the hive mind of social experience.
A distillation of regret and remorse,
of lonely,
of irrelevance;
this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears,
eaten by rust.
Four cans of beans,
kidneys,
in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells
melting into other curves
and I swerve close and around guiltily,
noting you only as the source of this pungent spring.
You are smiling apologies
ignorant of my apparent inhumanity-
blind to my selfish hands..
Pinioning belly flesh,
flattening,
reaching
and gaining attendance from a better man
retrieving every dropped can.
I’m retreating,
shaken,
tense to alternatively slacken.
My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign
and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream,
moving from shampoo to conditioner,
the whole store is infected with smell.
Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind-
don’t look
**don’t
look**
I can sense little else but dread
drawing closer
you are now crouched so close I’m gagging,
taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood
roiling in rot,
currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you
fumbling
with my electric ears,
surfacing
in a breath of Amish silence
broken with simple request
and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of
that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body
that she is excluded and I don’t know why.
I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk,
over childish lady bugs framed by yellow
or dots of red alternating to black,
an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 1:42 AM UTC
right now i'm thinking
about angry older gals
at the supermarket,
i'm thinking: shave the bush,
start a razor "wildfire"...
let's see your neck and your
chin, shave off that beard...
the crazy much older than
your supermarket attendees
are dropping the word
viking while you shop
for whiskey, onions and
tomatoes,
even the security guard is
looking at you funny...
your excuse of:
i became bored of shaving
is not going to work
on these women,
in their late 50s,
making all the talk the talk
and the talk being
small talk and
trebling in: i really just came
in here for a purchase,
i don't have the ***** to
do the small talk...
of course that's always besides
the point...
viking?!
how about a
zimmer frame?
god, small talk kills me,
i don't know how to make a chair out
of it to sit on for much longer than
feel comfortable longer
than 5 minutes on it...
and there's always one of these women
in the supermarket,
she just knows small-talk -
kleinsprechen...
while i know the großsprechen -
alternatively: stille (silence);
but she just insists upon
her solipsisms,
and she does so perfectly,
she talks, and even manages to reply
for me...
at least a monologue of
a madman is less claustrophobic
when you spot a solipsistic woman in
her antics,
at least the madman in his
monologue feeds you not claustrophobia...
given he's so self-engrossed in
imaginative cursor workings...
a madman's monologue never
morphs into a solipsistic claustrophobia
intimidation, notably within the guise
of women...
i'd prefer a madman oblivious to
me in his externalised monologue,
than a woman in a supermarket,
oblivious to her solipsistic take on dialogue
intimidation by restraining the other
in a pseudo-claustrophobia;
that famous echo chamber...
please, throw me into the cushioned
room with a madman, i'd rather hear
his monologue,
than her attempt at
a dialogue in a supermarket!
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 10:33 PM UTC
today i learnt that 3am is witching hour
i think back to the 3ams we spent together
our thoughts growing louder
as the world grew silent
witches would have had nothing on me
with you, my fears remained shrunken
a rock, a stone, a gem
my rock, my stone, my gem
remember how i picked at your mind
remember how you learnt my idiosyncrasies
remembering intimacies and depth
remembering limits and being apart
‘patience is a virtue’
i never understood that till i saw it reflected in you
but then again, patience. . .
the very thing that made me tear us apart
we used to fit ourselves into each other’s schedules, like puzzle pieces
now remote acquaintances at the very least
strangers and driftwood
torn apart, all on my part
consider this a shout to an endless void
a scream into an abyss
a plea to your heart
all that you will never witness
but if i ever cross your mind even for a millisecond
do accept my last selfish request
promise they’ll be good thoughts
or maybe, at the very most, promise you’ll call
after all 3am was always ours
two of us fending against the dark
an incessant, hopeful memory (yet one of my favourites)
3am will always be ours
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 8:54 AM UTC
What if the way I feel is wrong?
What if everything is too strong — or alternatively, too weak?
I feel too much of everything I think. I hope.
I never want to not feel.
Sometimes there are days when I don’t feel much. But even on those days I ache to feel something.
That’s the scary part. That I possess the potential to be blank. To not have thoughts or ideas, passions or desires.
That terrifies me.
Odd that my biggest fear is something I so often encounter in the minds of everyone I meet.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
Sobriety,
with regards to me,
who would've thought I'd've thunk it.
Cavalier,
*** wine or beer,
if you gave me a drink I'd've drunk it.
Alternatively,
a biscuit with tea,
and I'll contemplate life while I dunk it.
Mar 15, 2021
Mar 15, 2021 at 7:25 AM UTC
*Age, couldn't ever wither her, her flamboyance
baffled and attracted, alternatively, a poetic thunder,
this phenomenal woman engaged life and death alike
so see her at this age, was a wonder, what a presence!
her lips proclaimed through red glow of lipstick, aloud
"Kiss me death, I'll give myself at the last breath"
Why do we hold life close to our chest, seeing her zest
if one asks her, her laughter would answer well to that puzzle,
all this passionate living is for the experience to share,
to surrender, before death that will take her through the dark hole
that connect the eons to the white hole at the other end.
Birth and death, doors to and from a stage, living an intoxicated dance.
They take her coffin, along the street, grief stricken , gone mute
dance, dance her voice instigates in silence, wildly they dance.*
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
From the Tower of Babel,
Being chiselled in stone,
Come forth new commandments
To appease the throngs.
One through three
Remain the same,
Following a change
In the demigod's name.
Numbers five through ten
Need some twerking,
Alternatively,
They weren't working.
Lie, cheat, con and steal,
Whatever works
To seal the deal.
Covet women and neighbour's goods,
Stay west of Eden's pussyhoods.
Number four stands alone,
The command is clear:
Honour the unborn, not the Mom.
After a frantic panic,
Babel collapsed in pitiful spite;
Its ruins scattered
On the western Atlantic.
Our world continued to spin,
Because we were resolved
To sin.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 11:43 AM UTC
children play with lots of toys
that help them find their passion -
or what isn’t their passion -
a little girl may dress up dolls
and find a love of fashion design
or a little boy may play with cars
and dream about driving nascar.
alternatively
a little girl may play a game of operation
and decide she never wants to be a doctor
or a little boy may play on a sports team
and realize he never wants to be an athlete.
me? i’m not the little girl
finding her dreams or dislikes.
i’m the one being used by boys
to find what they don’t like in a girl.
i’m not a person to them, i’m a toy.
they use what they like,
critique my flaws,
and return me saying
i’m just not what they really wanted.
no concern for my emotions,
only worried about using me
until i’ve served my purpose
of helping them find
what they don’t want in a girl
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 3:54 AM UTC
i mean, who the hell needs an individualised
orchestra? Mozart doesn't, Beethoven doesn't,
Chopin and Liszt is all piano
so never mind the punk renegade violinist...
how the Indians or the Chinese orchestrated
a population of a billion is staggering,
western powers ********** blanks by comparison,
it's like a body and a virus, translated
with optometry the way we say things,
Sanskrit or the Beijing Ouija - looking at it
is like ingesting the Swiss champagne miracle - nausea
or alternatively lysergia -
it's ******* me up acquiring this tongue
given the history of celebrated colonialism -
proof of the Hackney populace being solely
Caribbean - what a desecrate groundwork to begin with,
maybe Irish maybe Scout maybe Scot,
on the word of honour dynamic pledging
conveniences with the Vatican - look
no further, we're naturalised sadists, football matches
and the sickbed eventualists rather than
evangelists, former nonsense reductionistists...
so they preached their Darwinism exactly against
the theologically roundabout of the pyramids
and the celestial intervention - but expected
nil barbarism... kingly kindness was at least
the expected norm, but if you preach Darwinism
you'll hardly convene on kindness as
the standard norm of expression -
track 12 of the beach boys' pet sounds is elevator music,
i'll be honest... pop music drama of
the band... you never hear of it with orchestras;
the point of genius: you're not really there,
absentee, you do the sacrifice, and make others
make the dough for the bread that's a house and
a family of four, e.g; and just by petting
cats i learned that all animals, petted or wild,
are naturally / intrinsically autistic.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
Bucket List
By Harriet-Tecumsah Watt
**What's left when it's done
No more to cross off with glee
No more to choose from**
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/648367/bucket-list
~~~~~~~
never write angry,
wise counsel for most,
but not this holy ****** off
poet~person
I am your bucket,
I am on your list,
or I better be,
and don't be thinking,
my dearest poetess,
that you are all done,
till we meet in the park,
ass-freezing,
beneath the Golden Gate Bridge.
You, my Hamlet,
always questioning and
annoyingly annoying
keeping me ego-honest,
Ergo
you are on my
the toppiest ten of my numerous
bucket list
of lists,
and I ain't crossing you off,
no way, no how.
Word-slapping your face,
frustrated and infuriated,
Watt is left for needy me
in a world with no
rhymeslut
broke, busted, disgusted,
life can't be trusted,
so take your disruptive crying poetry,
bring to me in NYC,
and I'll take you to poetry slams,
tango parties, a real Chinatown,
blow smoke up your nose, Waltz step on your toes,
drink with you in Central Park at five am,
visit half a dozen museums,
take you to the ballet,
and then you can maybe,
cross a few to-do's
off of our mutual
intersections.
write poem lines together alternately,
hell, even post-modern alternatively,
if that is watt it takes to slap the
Most Uncommon Sensibity
into a woman asking an
A+ stupid question
you are one of gods most
hauntingly lovely gifts
to me,
and I ain't giving you back,
NFW
No-red-me-likey-heart for
Watt's "I'm All Done Bucket List" poem,
just me bucking the trend,
just a lightening bolt to send
up your sorry-for-me ***
and a private, tender,
missive.
I'll come to you if you feeling blue,
but
get this straight my Indian chief-girl,
no matter where or when,
you better have yourself
Sequoia tree hugging me,
list unchecked,
and not till then
can we toss,
our lists,
in the trash bucket
they belong in.
Am I clear?
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
Things you won't hear from God:
- I'm sorry we are experiencing a higher number of calls than usual.
You may wish to call back later.
- All of our operators are dealing with other petitioners. We will be with you as soon as someone becomes available.
- Your call is important to us, please wait or alternatively go to our website at www dot onbendedknee (all one word) dot GOD dot heaven, where you will find lots of useful information.
- Listen carefully to the following options.
Press 1 if you are the desperate parent of a child under one.
Press 2 for all other requests.
- I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understood that. Did you say, "HEEELLLPP!!!"?
- Our office is now closed. Our operating hours are from 9 am to 5 pm. Thank you for calling.
Things you will hear from God:
"Welcome. I've been expecting you. What's on your heart?"
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 5:40 PM UTC
At a table set for two,
in a quiet corner,
they sit across;
an emotional sun
sets acrimoniously
behind them.
She goes on munching
something in silence,
never once lifting her face,
to make the picture perfect.
He sits there, like dumbstruck
not a single moment
taking eyes off her pretty face,
as if, she'd vanish if he does.
Entwined in a
mutually absorbing deliquescence?
Or each one beyond
the reach of other's mind?
Over a cup of coffee
going too cold, to drink now
an intrusive character
idling on the table next
staring alternatively at both
inanely wonder:
"The beginning or the end?"
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 8:28 AM UTC
"I'm ugly" said the ugly man,
who enjoys poetry but doesn't
feel like there are any longer,
more beautiful words put
down by dead men that would
describe him more perfectly.
And to said poets romantic
disappointment; it did not pain
him anymore. As it never did.
And thus,
he is nothing to write further about.
The poem about the ugly man ends
here.
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC
.you could possibly rewrite the sudoku puzzle, using letters, i.e., to replace 4, 6, 8, 9... with D, b, B and P... alternatively the lowercase b with Q.
. i really have to stop borrowing
from the Zen concept
of ensō - with what the "circle"
represents -
namely? heihō, i.e. the "square" -
namely, what comes after
absolute enlightenment,
strength, elegance, the universe,
and mu (the void) -
i.e., alternatively: the nu, or?
the filling...
heihō is an elevated noun
denoting a sudoku puzzle...
it begins with the key and lock
analogy, borrowed from greek:
Φ (insert the key)
θ (turn it, open the door,
and subsequently enter) -
all sudoku puzzles begin like so...
□ that becomes Φ, θ
that becomes #
that subsequently becomes ■ -
after many instances of
—, |, / and \ considerations...
this idea only came to mind,
bothered by an obstruction
on the 10,050 puzzle...
0 0 0
0 4 2
1 3 9
2 7 5
4 6 8
8 9 4
3 2 0 } these three blanks
0 0 7 i was concerned with...
1 0 0
0 0 5
0 6 0
___________
x y z
___________
( 6 5 1 )
( 5 1 6 )
( 1 ) **** no alternatives...
and given there's a fractional choice,
conundrum, i.e. there are only
two viable choices?
well? neither.
the solution? i had to be patient with it,
after all, it's akin to Zen "circle"
concept, namely?
you can't make a mistake -
given you're using such, "primitive"
tools as a pen on paper...
5 8 6 4 3 9 2 1 7
7 4 2 1 6 8 3 9 5
9 1 3 5 7 2 8 6 4
1 3 9 7 2 4 5 ζ 6
2 7 5 3 8 6 9 γ 1
4 6 8 9 5 1 7 3 2
8 9 4 2 1 5 χ 7 3
3 2 1 6 9 7 4 5 8
6 5 7 8 4 3 1 2 9
yet this wasn't the pinnacle of
the evening...
some "madwoman", singing,
in the night... the most beautiful songs...
it was hard not to listen,
given she went on for about 3 hours...
kept singing and singing...
sometimes giving
a frivolous explanation to someone
trying to interrupt her...
a woman in love...
just kept singing and singing...
defiantly english -
i can't recall the last time
i heard a woman sing so beautifully -
not armed, standing behind
a microphone, on a stage -
with a band behind her...
this girl's voice had but one stage:
the night -
and her backing band?
simply the moon;
and an appreciative audience of one...
moi.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
If I never were to hear your name again
You'd join the now-stagnant cesspool of men
Who wish they'd never kissed my spine
Men with whom I've flirted
At the expense of myself and them
Why couldn't I have been more patient?
In choosing a suitable soil
Before dabbling in the Delicate art
Of planting a Seed and offering it water?
Alternatively,
Perhaps these brief interactions
Have meant something more than so many "fragile" (fruitless) disappointments
Could they instead be documented
As some of our formative experiences
Ones of transcendental self-discovery
Research and Study in preparation for the Gardens Ahead?
Sun and water help the Plants to grow
Up
and
Out
But an attentive Gardener must provide organization and mindfulness
Plant, Animal, Mineral
Under proper conditions, a dazzling heart can be formed from coal
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
It's cold.
I can't feel my fingers
Or my toes
For now
Just my extremities are frozen
But my frozen fingertips
And my frozen feet
Are telling me
Screaming to me
Fall is here!
I turn on the heat
Take off my clothes
And grab a towel
Leap in to the tub and
With the quick twist of two knobs
BLAST
Comes the water from the shower head
Spitting as hot as it can
Steam instantly leaps off of my body
And with it my feeling of chill
As my vision clouds
And the scalding drops
Bonce off my skin
Heat spreads to every inch of me
Tickling
As its small feet
Travel across my body
In the wake of its coming it brings
(as it always does)
Peace of mind
And creative thoughtfulness
Alternatively with each step
Each tingle
Is a piece of ice
Leaving me
In it's place replaced
With warmth
And comfort
Every second that passes is different
Quiet
Listen to the million droplets
Dive bombing the tile
No thoughts.
In the next second,
A crowd of reporters enter my head
Each louder than the last
Each trying to make themselves heard
"What does the future hold?"
"How will you get there?"
"What makes a man?"
"Are you smart enough?"
"Are you strong enough?"
"Do you care enough?"
"Are you ready for the world?"
"Is the world ready for you?"
"Are you anything really for it to be ready for at all?"
Some are answered
Most aren't
But all are heard
And then in the next second
The buzzing crowd leaves for a while
And is replaced by the sound of the shower head
SHHHHHH
Stop worrying
SHHHHHH
Stop thinking
SHHHHHH
Just stand and enjoy
This heated reprieve
From the cold outside
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 6:18 PM UTC