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Ginamarie Engels May 2010
CPU
Microsoft "WURD"
slang font.
i know your type.
you like Arial.
you dig Arial Black cause there's no Arial White.
she wears a size 0.
invisible to the eye.
she's from Georgia.
print her out on white paper.
she'll be prettier than Courier New Times New Roman.
her Impact on Felix Titling will be extravagant.
she'll put him under a spell with her Book Antiqua.
you'll give up on her and take a train through the Terminal towards Tahoma in the "Golden State"
you'll come across Verdana who is a size 12.
bold as you are, you'll ask why she tries to underline her beauty by showing off her colon(:) .
and you ask her why women are always cranky before they get their period (.) ?


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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
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Kailee Sometimes Jun 2013
I’m never ever going to get any work done sitting at a computer
rather than with a pen in my hand and a thought on my mind.
In Arial black I will waste away my time
by sitting on a website designed to keep my mouth shut and my eyes glued
to the glowing screen of the worlds media, that I don’t really care about,
but yet I care too much about.
I open all of the tabs and write down very few words
and what ever happened to writing complete and utter nonsense
just for the hell of it?
And why did I ever open this laptop to write a poem
that will be cut off by a website calling for me to look at its pretty pictures
and witty text posts.
And why will this drivel make me feel so **** happy
when all it does is waste my time and lower my grades
and destroy my self esteem
that has already been mostly deleted?
Why do I decide to waste all of these moments with wishes
when I could go out and make them realities?
I sit on this computer and stare at the blankness of other peoples thoughts
and mock the imbeciles for wasting all of their time coming up with stupid rhymes
and sarcastic remarks that they think are hilarious ,
but really they are pointless.
And though I laugh at their foolishness;
they are no worse
than I.
Michael Hill Oct 2016
Sweet little Arial
came home to find her mother lying on the floor
she gave her a shake
pushed on her chest
but nothing woke her up.

So she laid in her arms
started to cry
as  Arial  spoke these words.

"Hold me mama
don't leave me
I'll stay right here by your side
as long as I am here
your soul can not depart
stay away from the light"

But as the hours went
her mothers skin went cold
her arm pulled away.

Arial stayed laid with her mother
until she was taken away and laid down to rest
never will she feel her mothers touch again
forever she will feel the pain
i love writing emotional poems to me i have a nag for it
ln Oct 2017
generation d
generation depressed bold, underlined, size 12, arial
generation death is no longer a want it's a need, look at the eyebags this education chose to breed
generation dizzy this tequila doesn't burn as much as your name on the tip of my tongue does
generation dish your depression jokes on a platter, serve it warm, cold, frozen - whatever makes you laugh goes, right?
generation dobby is not a ******* free elf

generation dopamine, because honestly, where the **** is mine
Anecandu Sep 2016
Fragmented pieces of scarlet memories,
trees of stout arms reaching.... affection the fruit it carries,
Mauvey plumes sprout this golden harvest of my imagination.
I'm drawn to taste commitment's nectar of delicious dedication.

Hear now the sitars melody, notes in Arial Black on Milky White,
I climbed the apple tree in this garden of light,
The colorful wind melodiously blowing a heretic hero's demise,
Though shaken my grasp prevailed the prize.

Alas through and through my vantage point reveals a view,
The floating dislocated memories on a river of silky love,
That rise and brush the teardrops from my cheeks,
Then spirit away like frightened doves.
K Balachandran Feb 2016
A tailor bird, though busy wanted to stitch the best
of clothes for me to wear , in a fair, getting nearer,
so thankful, I was, though it'd hardly fit a man
of my size, I bow my head, overwhelming is her love!

The swift, I always admire for her speed, promises
to take me for an arial tour, 100 km an hour, no less
all 148gm, of love is she !though I appreciate that,hardy can
I fly with this tiny parcel of energy, many a kin whose love
again is hard to reciprocate, unless I realize we all are one.
"Wildest dreams"-Taylor Swift
Many birds, closer to heart; remember the unconditional love received with a brimming heart..
Henry Brooke Jul 2014
A black ball of grime,
two legs sticking out
of the top.
Gooey and all covered
in slime, it's silently bleeding
and cannot stop will not stop.
Farrell the adventures,?
Farwell the friends that made
his arial travels shorter,?
his stare is not with us
anymore?he has forgot 
whatever friends?there ever was ?

Dead Pigeon. ?

Tossed like a pile of ****.t?
ran over a couple dozen of times ?
by tires and people's kicks.?
But he is dead he just won't ?react,
someone please do ?something! ?

Dead Pigeon. ?

The bird deserves a burial ?
he is calling at me
with ?his glossy eyes:
?asking me to help
?but I can't?
Dead Pigeon?
But he still lives!
?His eyes, veiled,
bloodshot and?black,
point at the gutter?as if to say: ?
Oh the Horror! ?**The Horror!
I feel ashamed for humans
beth winters Nov 2010
she's not an artist, the only reason you say that is she eats less than 400 calories a day, without counting. she wears scarves and gloves in the summer-time: inside. her life mission is to categorize the vowels into three levels of hell. so far, she's found purgatory inside the tiny bowl she uses for an ash tray.
once, she spray-painted the wall that she passes on her way to the collective mailbox. it reads "send me peace signs in the shape of dying swans. love, me". she types exactly two words daily, ten point arial font.
she crashes funerals by wearing the only rainbow item in her closet. it made the local news one night, but her name turned inside out in people's throats and they ate without realizing they were different.
her eyes are green.
she sleeps on her back, straw-faced and shrinking.
she faked her own death to see if anyone would notice; then posted it on youtube. three months and 603 views later, she shot herself at an anti-abortion rally. they buried her with the reams of paper reading fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat.
eerin means a small grey owl.

the repetition of fox hat is supposed to be in arial, but i can't do that here.
Ma Cherie Jan 2017
The great Green Mountains,
up where the tallest evergreens grow,
stretching,
upward an outward,
toward the heavens,
a perimeter of boundaries,
where white iridescent angels,
can drift,

Touching the clouds,
in winds of change coming,
gathered together sheltering storms,
alongside barren maples
and birches,
with shriveled others aging,
gracefully,
bowing down to winter's bone,
and ready for Spring's solstice.

When,
in surging solar winds,
upward of,
a million miles an hour,
40 hours after leaving their sun,
raining in an big bright ariel shower,
emphasizing their greatness,
in an eerie tranquility,
behind a diffused hazy luster,
a distant soft moon light,
in a beautiful Glory Shining.

Silvery satin ribbons,
and celadon green bends,
as colors wait pensive to create
in messages it then sends,
a heavenly landscape,
for their part in the prism ballet,
these arial acrobats,
yearn to touch tips on sturdy cutouts,
of tall old aging trees,

Dancing into ever-changing,
multifaceted soft,
an inspiring hues,
an shifting in the breeze
they move above,
in a mystical rhythm,
a dark and mysterious,
black smoke rises
in between rays,
in the opaque darkest hour,
for the creation of,
a spiritual backdrop,
mysterious feeling power
in the magnificent,
Magnetic Midnight.

The darker the sky,
the brighter the light,
for an otherworldly setting,
as colors merge and ignite
while they mix the palate again,
I am lost in silent reverie,
for the forces that dance there in that blackness,

Awe-inspiring,
breathtakingly beautiful,
alien,
frightening,
imparting comforting wisdom,
it is everything an so exciting,
and healing to your soul,
like a hauntingly familiar sound,
of
music to your ears.

moving like in an immensely,
active native conga,
while flitting eiree,
ghosts of glaciers perform,
when fueled folklore beckon,
swirling magic colors
in a perfect moving storm
these beauties from frozen skies,
spraying snow & tossing sparks,
as their created stars,
saturate the deep,
as their tears are shed,
in big butterfly kisses,

playfully floating,
in lovely little fine wisps,
of cirrus smudges of pure refractions,
bending in rarified veils of light,
into a seamless,
shimmering skyscape.

A hiding crystal clear,
deep Alice blue sky,
now fading,
as colors are now blending,
from azure into darkest denim,
then turning periwinkle,
stretching out,
into auroral archways,
dusted in a tangerine glow
in transitioning brushstrokes,
gently cover impressionistic sketches,
evolving into luminism,
on an endless open canvas.

As I paint the words,
where I sit there quietly,
respectfully awaiting answers,
as clouds and moonlight smear,
into watercolor scenery,
using up each angel tear
an intimate engagement occurs,
the passion of nature,
is sublime,
just perfectly,
these synchronized sky swimmers ,
becoming one

As a stormy sun is forcing,
red light dancers,
holding torches,
colliding and becoming excited,
edging themselves,
these powerful ominous portents,
becoming the framework.

Around a fantastic fluorescent show,
the cast wearing blushing pink,
and wild viola purples,
tinged in chartreuse green,
basking in beauty,
where hope lies,
in these colors I've never ever seen, since,
transcending skies of tomorrow,
into an age old masterpiece,
waiting patiently for this,
spiritual journey,
to begin,
with an eager & beautiful,
dawn coming.

Where the North winds,
send a brilliant light show,
of atomic wonders,
in watery pirouettes,
of shaped effects,
& teardrops sacrificed,
swirl in spirits of harmony,
completely memorizing,
I am transfixed,
an astonishing feat,
of brilliant pigments,
smudged into,
the mysterious lightness,
my drifters heart wanders,
melded into atmospheric colors,
we can only wish to see in this lifetime.

Where life seeds now
glide,
on the giving winds,
and Eagles and hawks can,
applaud this much beauty way up there.

This place,
a heavenly firmament,
where all the sacred souls come to die,
  where all the very, very, wise end up,
where they all spend their eternal lives,
young and old alike,
eventually they all retire here,
bringing us hope or warnings,
a chance at redemption,
striking hot iron in a glow,
metallic bits,
stars form,
restless,

Sighing, awaiting,
  a gifted chance to share with us,
along with all the parished,
souls and spirits,
playfully transforming,
from native garb,
mocassin covered feet,
change into favorite animals,
stomping on the colorful floor,
a great bear,
a wolf,
a beluga whale,
a soaring raptor,
not wanting for anything,
walking in Native American circles,
to the sounds of long silent drums,
morphing & shape shifting,

Again,
and again,
and again,
where rain shadows dance,
in ancient skies,
celestial bodies are illuminated,
reflecting the fire circles,
from where distant oceans shore,
take me there...ancestors
take me there once more,

As night slowly declines,
as daylight seeps through cracks,
bleeding into tomorrow,
to fly again to share what they must,
they pray and worship their God,
and they trust..

And Aurora Borealis is her name.

Cherie Nolan © 2016
Listen to Time to turn the tide by Millpond Moon  global warming is affecting this gift....writing this made me cry ....for our sacred Earth.  This is a meaningful piece I had to dig deep in old studies and in my beliefs this was BREATHTAKINGLY beautiful Aurora Borealis a few years ago. This is about stars, this place- Vermont, Heaven, angels and death or coming omens. Peace - Vermont
(I watched my video again in astonishment.)
I hope you all are well n happy. I'm OK....
Dorothy A Nov 2010
From a bird's-eye view
I bet those feathered creatures
don't envy us

They must look down
from their arial dance
and pity us

We scurry about in
our cities and towns like mice,
as if we are caught up in a maze

Rats chasing after
a prized piece of cheese
in a hectic world

Bumping into one another
in a rush to get to a destination
that is slowly doing us in

How I wish to soar on bird wings
To be rid of this rat race,
finding my way out of the maze
eric schuman Jul 2010
A hypothermic
jungle, limbs removed.

Garbled mating
songs and silences.

Arial view:
Technicolor.
Black and gray.
Black.

Silences.
Silence.

Was that a flower?
No, a candy wrapper.
No, a rotting fingernail.
PoorLionNotKing Dec 2015
Hey there Cinderella
watch your every step
for every path you take
is only made of glass.

Wake up Briar Rose
the fairies dance
and the dragons burn
while you slumber on.

Be careful Snow White
don't trust those who
bitterly believe
in only what they see.

Let it go Rapunzel
there's a world out there
once upon a discovery
a time to remember.

Don't hide Mulan
sleep is not worth the stay
better to fight to die
than left behind to cry.

Goodbye Arial
don't lose your song
while leaving your home
with your heart by your side.
Pen Lux Aug 2010
Thinking that someone loves you is better than nothing,
but what people don't realize is that it was all pokes at jokes
and I bet he smokes,
or knows I do
and doesn't like the smell,
or the way I breathe out,
or how the rings come from my mouth
and are never on my fingers.

And I have paper cuts on those same fingers
that want to be in your hair,
and your body,
(all of it),
and I hope you want them there,
because that's exactly where they'll be
if we ever meet.

The dirt buried in my prints
will leave marks on you like a million hands and feet,
drenched in paint and smeared over your temple.

I bet you don't care what I look like,
or that I have a Van Gough pin,
or that people like to write my name.
I'm glad you like to listen,
and that you're smooth with words,
so I can fall asleep to the sound of your golden text.

I never thought I would like an arial view,
or that I would fall in love with strings of it
all laced together into a perfect fabric,
(or web).

I hope that you're not allergic to sound,
or jelly beans,
because I want to see you cry and smile at the same time.
Stargazer Nov 2012
Once lover

Now unclickable Facebook user



Your name exists in an unknown dimension

neat black with Arial font

As familiar as strange

Making no sense
Alexander Coy Apr 2016
Marcus,

I left a message on your answering machine
but you have yet to respond. It's been
two weeks, perhaps more. I lost count.

At the moment, the streaks have accelerated
and multiplied. They resemble an arial view of
cyclists competing in the Tour de France; they're
like multitudes of ***** pennies vying for that one
eternal slot.

Hey, man. At least I tried. I'm drained of all that
is sacred. The me you knew as a child, is still that
innocent figure left standing by the door. Except
this time, he's not coming back anymore.

I guess you could say I'm finally free.

How silly it is to depend on such modern
machinery. Man has come this far just to end up abandoned.
And yet  man is constantly searching for a self to wrap up
in a tidy little package; to display for the entire world to see.

I thought I'd drop by, in the form
of random sequences; this present motion
is like a ballon being released from it's
needy little string. The desire was always
following me around, but now
I'm fathoms deep in the sky;

Drowning happily.

Marcus, if you find the time
to put aside the nuclear children
and wife. Please call back,

so we can have that man to man

talk you promised for so

many years.
Sarah Pitman Apr 2013
I like the way your name looks,
in Times New Roman,
in Comic Sans.
I like the way it looks in
Thames, Condensed,
and Arial (bold or italicized.)
I like the way your name looks
scrawled across papers and note books
and I like the way
your name looks next to mine.
© Sarah Pitman 2013
Courtesy of Marx (albeit Zeppo,
Harpo, Groucho, and Chico), whose
acts (along Seuss iz Zacks Fifth
Avenue) brought generations of
laughter to Vaudeville, and then
the Silver Screen adlibbed, linkedin,
and ransacked skits zoid material
Bing very loosely based on his best
known writings (Oh *** Yet Of The

Masses) by Karl Marx (no relation
to Bros Grin), and Friedrich Engels
whar they **** instrumental qua
Cingular Capitalone political philosophy
paradigm as spit, and (shoe) shining,
seducing, and salivating players trans

formed Msn Netzero Linkedin Petsmart
Aleck outlook and pinterest, when their
collective insight did cents how masses
(i.e. bourgeois) took a rakish (otherwise)
up standing Norwegian bachelor farmer
for comic relief to break monotony of
agrarian obligations, and serve up one

heaping healthy portion per production,
sans whatever whims would crop
up by infusing thespian showdown
incorporating commune nic cache shun
(disproportionate) app peals studded terrain
with locked havens avast re shtetl ment.

Hoi Polloi re: common folk in sore need
of distraction and belief in a brighter side
of life, than saliva dehydrating brute nose
to the grindstone pathetic existence, yoked
as oxen to plows, where plodding tattered

shod feet scraped a pencil thin line, whence,
seeds sprinkled into futile ruts forecast angry
birds to shutterfly, twittering like bada$$
beastie boys Dharma bumming while On
The Tyellow Brick Road.

Inn ascent bystanders avian avatars initially
supposedly sprung from ergot, mushroom
and/or **** spores, whereas the myth of
one mortal idol (Matthew Scott Harris) did
rival Vladimir Ilich (frequently corrupted into

I gotta n itch) Lenin, where alien archeologists
from outer limits of the twilight zone unearthed
(com) bust stubble rubble yes likeness of Guy
Richie Rich Noir, whose couture, the best skid
row wardrobe.

He sported longish wavy (fluffy when washed
once every fort McHenry night), which character
wrist ticks evoked Chaplinesque down on his
luck Dickensian doddering dude, who cast an

immediate vagabond er dishabille, he happened
to be plenti none the poorer and ranked near
top Facebook listing of Forbes Plenty Of Fish
list, and whose trivial pursuit with flickr ring
idea to GoLong.

As a poet by fashioning his adversity into discord
ant clumps of clichés, facsimiles, idiomatic limply
mixed metaphors in a per verse manner reflecting a
discombobulated egghead delivered an ova night
fashionable fame, though syrup prize zing lee met
with profound success, and bore fruit of the loom

(one of his countless “FAKE” offspring’s begotten
unbeknownst to him iz this schlepper) constitutes
this blimey dorky and fluky guy, whose weakness
when communicating about extemporaneously usually
leaves the reader like totally tubularly confused like
ha cool and totally tubularly groovy man.
JR Falk Apr 2016
I'm trying to muster up the words to say to you,
the words that could make or break everything we've built.
The words are fighting to cross my lips.
Two years we've been in this cycle,
falling in and out of one another.
A connection that has refused to die,
surviving one another's heartaches like an old friend.
It never mattered how long it was between conversations.
We always picked up right where we left,
only each time,
a little bit older.
This time though, I fell
a little bit deeper.
I can feel your sigh through the speaker of my phone,
feel your lips part as you struggle for words.
I try to keep my eyes dry as my nerves raise,
breaths deepen.
My lips are dry.
Confessions like this are meant to be personal;
confessions like this are meant to be said face to face.
Massapequa and Mukwonago do not face each other.
They don't so much as touch,
which is what makes this so tough.
Your stunning brown eyes that smile more than your lips aren't what stares back at me when I look at your name on my screen.
Only the text.
Only the arial font, black against the blue speech bubbles.
To know what it would feel like to say these words to your face would be
knowing how to make this work.
But time and money are not on our side.

When you told me you loved me,
you told me it was different.
You told me you tell everyone you love them but it's empty.
I asked how I was different,
and all you told me is the first thought you'd have should
we ever meet
would be to kiss me.
You told me the first thing you'd do
would be to ensure we were connected more than ever:
lips
to
**lips.
3:18pm
04/05/2016
Ron Gavalik Dec 2018
I’m trying  <!DOCTYPE html>
<html> Baby, I’m trying <head>
<!-- HTML Codes by Quackit.com -->
I’m trying <title> to see through
all the weeds "width=device-width">
<style> of our modern landscape
but I know my search {:left;background}
is a futile effort.{font-family:Arial, sans-serif}
{font-family:Georgia, serif} This is our world
now, and I’m just trying ;14px;font
</style>
to see
</head>
through
<body>
the madness
</body>
of the weeds.

-Ron </head> Gavalik </body>
Kira Mar 2014
My wallpaper
is an arial shot of my city
City where I ran, swam and flew
Whose walls, lanes and aging generations
hold my secrets
till the silent approach of eternity

And I see, from the top
As god would have, those days -
crosses where we met
Still backgrounds, and two dots flickering
Everything begins to flicker now,
and I close my eyes shut

There I was,
there was she
I had her
and she had me
But back then, we thought of far
and today we got there
Thousands of miles,
and many unshared experiences apart

It was so simple
It was right there, in front of me

But the unknown future,
the master planner,
so cleverly makes us choose
Between what we have
and what we might
Staring high on a cold starry night,
but lusting within, that warm red light

One wish, O' sweet destiny
Let me go back
and hold her near, up so close
Let me go back
and join her lovely shadows
Anna-Marie Rose Feb 2017
Here is the truth for all to see,
I cant be the mommy my kids need.
Broken down by a battle that haunts me night and day.
Having the courage to give them a better life..  Is the true definition of unconditional love..
Knowing that I cant be the mommy they need is a scary thing .

But letting them have a chance of a
Normal life is
The only thing

I know to do..
Being saddened and depressed is
A reality that may come with this choice.

I just hope that one day my kids will understand and respect this decision
And forgive me for not there..

Know that I love them and will never stop.
Mersadie lynm black your my eldest and i love you so to the moon and back.
Maxwell orion howard my middle one
Mommy loves you so much she is hoping you u will understand
I have weaknesses but I always think of you
and Molly ann cowan my little angel i love you so
..
Your smile will brighten the world
And lastly
Stormee rose
You Are to be born in 39 days
I love you also I hope you know
Giving you to Arial so she can bea mommy is the best gift you get..
Your our littlest miracle
Cant wait to meet you and kiss you so light..
As I hand you to your new mommy
Its a honor to be the reason you all get to be alive .. Each of you are special
And mommy will be here when the day comes to explain and hope You understand the reasons
I couldn't be the mommy you all need..
Unconditional love is what I give to you the chance to become all you can be and grow up to
Be amazing adults!
By Annamarie rose newell
December 9th 2016
Elizabeth Kelly Dec 2021
I read a beautiful poem once by a poet named Mary Oliver
(My uncle will tear out pages of The New Yorker sometimes and keep them in a box  the way some people of a certain age do)
called The Poet With His Face in His Hands.

“You want to cry out for your mistakes,” she says rightly and wisely, “But to tell the truth the world doesn’t need any more of that sound.”

Mary Oliver tells me (she has my attention now, she speaks directly to me, my face in my hands) that if I’m going to do it anyway, that I should travel far away from civilization where I won’t bug anyone, a noisy place, like a waterfall or the Internet, where I can scream unheard, a tree falling in the forest. Where I can “drip with despair” unobserved by nature her very self.

Mary Oliver doesn’t want to hear it.

So I go.
I take my hiking boots and my entire supply of shame, guilt, rage, doubt,
Fear
I slip it all into a secret compartment just behind my ribs
And we set off together past the city limits to the wastes.
They’re crushing me, the wretched fruit of my faulty design. Too heavy to go on tonight.

I quietly wish Mary Oliver had never been featured in The New Yorker where my uncle would find her, where she would mildly wait for me to crash into her on my world tour of destruction.
I wonder into my dinner
(beans, like cowboys)
if Mary Oliver ever trekked to the waterfall, if I’ll find her there,
an etching, a manifesto.
I imagine myself stepping through, somber, monk-like, and Mary Oliver’s glowing apparition slowly gathering before me.
“You’re so cool and smart,” her energy-being murmurs,
and I wake up feeling important.

Cleveland is so grey in the winter,
my grandmother’s favorite color,
like that song.
The morning sky rides my shoulders and I feel deliciously tragic,
a broken-hearted pioneer woman, maybe, escaping into the wilderness to mourn the loss of her baby…****, too sad.

…to mourn the loss of her old mule Hank, and to find herself among the…
I look around. Generic Cleveland Trees. ****.
I wish I knew about local foliage,
everyone is impressed by a person who is At One With Nature.
I would know if I were a tragic yet somehow glowing from within pioneer woman. Head down, wondering how it can be 53 degrees on December 10th and trying not to think about the polar bears.
I soldier on.

Mary Oliver recommends traveling 40 fields and 40 dark inclines of rocks and water.
(A sweeping arial shot of me traversing the expanse, majestic hair blowing behind like Vigo Mortenssen at Helm’s Deep).

Beans again, like cowboys.

I feel good tired and wonder where a person finds quality poetic landscape like 40 fields and 40 dark inclines of rocks and water.

I didn’t really think this through.

An itch, a burn behind my ribs,
like stars,
like cravings.

A peek.

Just one! Just one, Mary Oliver,
just a ****,
they’ve been in there for days with so little attention.

No one answers, inevitably.
No one’s there, just me, always just me, alone with all of my worst days in the dark in the woods.  

Just one peek.

I wake up and its bright as hell.
What the ****.
What is the point of trees if they don’t dramatically block out the sun at your lowest moment?
The sun.
I squint and automatically say a little thank you,
the sun is so rare in the winter.
A ritual in the cold light.

I flash in, awash with readiness
It’s sudden
Something is coming or something was here but my stomach hollows out like a fake-out gut punch

Was here
Something was here, last night, it’s surrounding me on all sides
Yes that’s right, I remember and Im sorry for the remembering because I’m creative
and before I can stop myself
I’m swallowed whole into the darkness
Just like I wanted.

It’s a struggle,
The swirling absence of light from last nights indulgent, masochistic self-harm parade has expanded like smoke to fill the third space of my body. I am 2 dimensional, a 3rd grade drawing of a person, flat and scribbley, a poor representation.

They always come back.
Sure as eggs.
Sure as taxes.
The greatest hits, everyone was there,
Ripe and healthy,
My well tended heirloom misery, dismal in the garden and aching to stretch its creeping vines.
A vessel to feed on, a disciple,
Bleeding on the alter of self sacrifice, oh happy dagger, ecstatic drag over the open mouths of those cherry coals. Faithless and perfect. Crimson crisp is a broken spirit,
Brittle like nails, and sleep, and ego.

My friends, too, wars within wars. Pale and desperate. Trauma-bonded and aging faster than their parents did, who bought a house, who had three kids, who saved for college. Wars within wars. Shame, guilt, rage, doubt, fear. Pain. So much pain.

I’m lost.
I’m lost in the ******* woods and this poison smoke so black so black it’s in my eyes burning my throat my lungs swirling now sure as eggs sure as taxes I repent I release my will please it’s crushing me I can’t make it Mary Oliver, you shining city on the hill, where are you, Im losing, Im alone, alone, no one knows
Not a cowboy, or a pioneer, or a ranger, or a monk in a waterfall cave.

I’m a poet with my ****** face in my hands.
I’M THE POET WITH MY FACE IN MY HANDS AND I WILL NOT FEAR CRYING ALOUD FOR MY MISTAKES.

They come then. Every one of them, as I knew they would, just outside the gate and waiting ravenously  
My endless flaws  
Powerful and obstinate in their glaring humanity
The constellations of hurt snaking from the roots of my well kept garden
Barbed and bound to everyone I ever loved. The horned monsters of unresolved trauma and the ego machine

Deafening static roar, mechanical swarm of devouring plague locusts
descending upon the 40 fields
Oh here, oh now
In the dark of course
Where else but the smoking vessel of my brokenness
I want to laugh at myself for constructing a cliche within my own self reckoning
Choking on my own toxic exhaust and crying  and choking
This is hysteria, I think
Blurred and muffled on the edge of the hole, a ******* slurring descent, it’s there if I want it
I could dive in and

Mary Oliver.

What is happening,
What the ****, Mary Oliver?
Of whom I’ve never seen a photo,
who is crowning now from the bubbling tar pit, who has chosen this  moment to reveal herself, a nice touch.
She rises from the epicenter of my chaos
Like a blinding beacon of holographic light
(Again I check in with myself that it’s weird she is holographic, why is she made of rainbows)
Beautiful and terrible and 10000 feet high
My mighty dragon. What an entrance.

I laugh again, of course Rainbow Bright  is my big bad, how did I not see this coming, the final girl against the final girl, myself against my greatest self betrayal
She is me
She is arbitrary denial
She is suppression and avoidance
She is vying for approval
For attention
Validation
Every embarrassing moment and every unbidden 3am attack of self loathing.  
Shame and guilt and doubt and rage and fear.
She is my pain, this awful manifestation, this truly depressing personification of all of my absolute *******…

MARY OLIVER I AM THE POET WITH MY HEAD IN MY HANDS

Blink

Blink blink

She turns and sweeps down
And grabs me tightly, ****, oh god you have a nest dont you?

Through the air and I’m wet and dripping and…
is this a cave?

An etching, I have to find something
Something
A manifesto
I desperately search and my teapot is boiling, boiling, boiling over

And there behind that jubilation and water fun
I find no trace of Mary Oliver, who is me and I am her

There in that moment when nothing has been gained and my body begins to release from its own tension and collapse into itself from exhaustion and despair
I notice the air
Fresh and cool and fragrant and something else too
My dragon, far from slain, squirming a little inside me, feeling prodded and suspicious of this quenching.
At least we had this moment
Oh it’s you
Oh god it’s me

And finally then,
I throw my head back

And wail.
What he does who plants a tree!
O he plants
The seeds of
A better Earth
A peaceful abode
For sweet arial
Creatures
The best place
To nurture
The mother Melody
Of Mother Nature
From these creatures!
He who plants a tree
Infuses a cylinder
Of unending supply
Of life to this planet!
He plants cool shade
And tender rain
Soulful Melody
And sweet grain;
He who plants a tree
Not only with goodness
But also loyalty
Doesn't just add someone
To his family
But beyond it
Does Civic good
Under hood!
In the hollows of that
Mighty being
Lies the blessing hand
Of Him
He who plants a tree
Does so much
Do you see!
Trees are indeed our friends!
And the most essential ones!
Nothing May 2018
One ray-less day I will see it,
My name
Writing in Arial print
Pleasurable and slink in the
Obituary
Ah...yeah...exhaustion as previously related awoke from extensive frantically grabbing handy anchor rites, while aswirl within a vortex of time stream. Nonetheless, aye did manage to get a sneak peak at my future twenty two years from now.

     Let young-bloods zip (per) across milieu of spatial time fifth dimension! No more coming and going back to the the future! Just by the amazing Grace (slick ride on a outdated Jefferson Aeroplane) found this beastie boy pitched thru of an unforgettable journey, now among familiar village people, who comprise his literati culture club. This doggone rough draft (written a tad more'n one score years from present) summarily sketches mein kempf among a raft taking heads, sans family, especially goo goo dolls grand kin.

     This veritable unknown widower felt the mood of nostalgia, hence he took a mental stroll back many decades where at sat at the laughably now primitive macbook. He wistfully experiences snippets of flashbacks pertaining to his rather bland humdrum life.

     The recurrent pallor of despair hung like a virtual "iron curtain" shutting out capacity to enjoy life to the max. Social anxiety the pernicious pet peeve that induced much chunk of time to be voluntarily shuttered inside a soundproof stainless steel bunker carved deep within the bowels of the earth. Oft times longevity seems like a curse with unforgettable past...

(particularly prepubescent days of yore –
revenant sans deep pressed matinee with grim reaper hid as alloy

well…sit back and enjoy this vignette –
many moons since mine being a boy
a core sampled striated fragment
of existence from a Semitic goy
my life in the year twenty forty ah hoy
interspersed with a sprinkling of joy
some re: dears may bow out
and i.e. averse to this lyrical ploy.

     I celebrated my eighty first birthday this past January thirteenth. Just nineteen more journeys for the big bright wheel in the sky to turn before this curmudgeon reaches centennial milestone. The coterie of grandchildren (Arial, Castellar, Cooper Black, Georgia, Pristina, Ravie, Rockwell and Vivaldi) apprised me as their favorite Zayda...

— The End —