"authoring" poems
***a morning conversation
with surprising anecdotes
of unique explorations..
reported confrontations
by science practitioners'
sudden dates with death..
now authoring testimonies
of their dimensional truth..
much comfort growing
from ample recordings of
bright tunnel experience..
let us now inquire
are these flashing NDE's
consciousness leaps..?
might they point
to death's vital role..
at last finding
real self-awareness..
life in this moment..?
asking then..
is not each breath
our moment experience
of near death...?***
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 12:11 PM UTC
The transparent roof covered her from sudden precipitation
Ice pellets pelting the ground around as she waited for the bus
The shufflers and grumblers huddled in the booth for cover share
Riddled with cold holes from liquid ***********
Look at them, she thought
Untold stories in a crowd
Grey figures among the concrete and the puddles
Blank pages thickening unread novels
Returning home to stagnant plots and forgettable characters
On the auto she scanned the library for research-relevant titles
A fairy tale cuddled publicly, all lips and hands and smiles
An anthology with stained sections and shredded, well-worn binding
Scribbled frantically to transfer himself to more unpublished page
Give up, she wanted to scream
Paper dies and no one reads
No longer did she believe in hidden literary gems
Far too many friends had rushed their tales
Conclusions writ in sharpie slop
Conclude she had in pencil but the writing hand would never stop
Not for cramps of authoring nor material that she lacked
Not until the cover closed
From which there was no flipping back
Perhaps I am an article, she thought
Meant to be short and skimmed
A brief point to be made and greater issue slapped within
She wondered something dreadful then, a tremor in her bones
She never understood the other chapters, stories, poems
Reflecting in her epilogue, would she even know her own?
My pen was never full
I am illiterate
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 10:40 AM UTC
Light & Dark, Dramatically So Vast!
Serene and Chaotic, Creates lasting Beats!
Omnipotent Open Sea, Time is Mast!
Current Dimensions Thrice, Soon More Sheets!
Due Time Align up All, Boarding the Plane!
All Events Become Forgotten, No Matter!
Leaders Do Distract to Miss it a ****** Shame!
Speed of Light, Energy shall Universally Scatter!
Material Ether Now In Vibrations, To Come Will Wave Intense!
Liers, Authoring Mayhem and Divisions, True is Love and Light!
Gaze to the Heavens While War Incisions, Shall Be a Sight Immense!
Soon be Such Astronomical Situations:Make Your Mind, Demise or Might?!?
-Joshua Vincens
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 8:54 AM UTC
you are authentic
you are authoring truth
you are your story
but you're telling it, too
it is clear to me
you have work to do
but please,
write me in
when that chapter
is through
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 4:49 PM UTC
I don't think I'll write about how your hair flows in the wind
And how I worship it like the flag of my country
I'm not going to write about how your dark eyes fill me with vigor
And how they turn my dark soul white
I'm not authoring a poem about your voice
Filling the air with the sweet notes from Apollo's lyre
I'm not going to pen down anything about your sweet smile
The smile that can end wars and famine
I won't write you for Valentine's
I might reconsider it though
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 11:00 AM UTC
There's a being seated
at the window...the breaking
ends of perception mothering
their pearl.
Its prayerful poise electrifies
the passing light of day...
hideous and beautiful
blending blindly.
Purple with majesty, as a distant
mountaintop crammed through
the eye of a needle...pointedly
soul through the driftings of its
original score.
Unlit senses that can't place
their miraculous conveyance...
entering and exiting the same window
simultaneously.
Aware that it's aware...there are troubles
in paradise of only supreme Authoring,
as latent creation forthwith heartbreak.
Pounding its very chest...with oceanic
spanning--faces upon faces of The Deep,
Diane Arbus photoing a featureless form.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
Key after key, letters clamor onto my screen
In valiant effort to create that never before seen
Braces and brackets, colons semi or not
It's taking some time, patience and thought
A picture, painted by ten thousand letters
Divinely presented with wonderful CSS headers
And more, this picture will be able to do
For its features will be far from few
Talk to another, quickly and fast
Chat in groups, to make relationships last
Co-authoring easier with dynamic group editing...?
Assuming it all works, I'm still hoping and betting!
Wave after wave, this beach will come together
I'll be darned if I have to say never
The sun will rise, and so too a poet
Where they'll certainly smile, I just know it!
This digital sea by which I float,
a long voyage that awaits this boat
One where I will design the pristine shore
Bringing poet passengers, more and more
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 9:13 PM UTC
it can be hard to assess necessity in a cesspit,
calculating and scouring different ways to find respite.
it can be hard to commit time against the heart.
finding access to hiatus just to breathe,
it's never been easy to be lazarus.
unsure of consequence, skirting bereavement,
reborn doesn't necessarily imply previous demise,
what's almost new cannot be considered unwhole,
nor can it be trusted as a reprise.
it's an artful venture to learn the cadence of presence,
not an effort or a movement, but something of a lucid sweven,
something nestled in the stitching of the seventh heaven.
autonomously authoring my perception,
desecularizing my intense intent and conception.
understand that the brain is a somatosensory mech pilot,
no shame, no rhythm, just an absently-go-lucky organism,
chasing imaginary crystalline butterflies into the background,
thriving in the quietness, malaprop to say forever semper-vivus.
i consume my need to separate ideas as fuel for philomathematics,
pioneering new tactics, new habits, through acts of active practice,
emphatically denouncing the topical, the maladroit, the labels,
let me sing my own mantra,
humming to the hymn of my own humble tantra.
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 6:12 AM UTC
not content
to wander down to the park
with other old men
sit on the invariably gnarled benches
swap stories
from whatever past
they think they can remember
mostly all fabrications
and of course
they talk about me
shaking their heads and whisper
he thinks he’s a poet
they all have a subdued hearty laugh
because a real laugh
might cause some to choke up
it’s the emphysema
don’t you know
the thing is
old men’s gossip turns me off
while they think
I sit in The Hovel
and brood
I am constantly busy
writing
I have my poems
they help to sustain me
I just finished co-authoring a novel
"Magical"
I live in worlds they have
no notion of
true, they get to see more nature
than do I
but I get to see the world
through my dreams
I turn into the written word
©January 20, 2015 / Jerry Pat Bolton
Elin Saari has lived with terror no woman should ever have to endure. Devlin Grimm, the man she fell hard for turned out to be so cruel to her she began to silently call him Satan. The years spent with Satan were so severe she truly felt she had no mind of her own. Still, something inside of her made her make the break and she filed for divorce. Satan upped the ante and she had to run to get away from him. Wherever she went he would find her and harass her. She was at her wits end when something profound happened. Through the magic of a strange necklace she began to receive messages, until desperately she tried to summon whoever was trying to contact her. Touch Starlin' walked into her life and explained who he was and how closely connected they were. Touch took charge of trying to rid Satan – the name she had started calling him was closer to the truth that she could have ever known. Satan follows them wherever they go and Elin begins to doubt Touch's Powers.
PASTE INTO YOUR BROWSER . . .
http://www.lulu.com/shop/jerry-bolton/magical/paperback/product-21981708.html
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 7:25 AM UTC
Hips calligraphic lithe alive
Serifs flare up immortal coil
Her mouth speaks to me
Between my legs
A language draped in ebony curtain
Unknown and inscrutable
Rising up
Mounting me
Her fingers splayed on my chest
enter me
Five pens
Now digging
Pecks taut
Flecks of red burst
Tattooed unspeakables writ
Her stare penetrates mine
Authoring my little demise
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 6:12 PM UTC
another multiple account holder
has made Cello Poetry his
abode
where he's posting under many
a different authoring
code
he was initially known as
Brando
Build
then he added a few more
to his prospering
guild
the syndication now hosts
Slick Shaz, Fruity Rot and
Tuppence
which is quite an extensive
confluence
what title will he choose
next
his whole charade has got
right out of
context
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 10:13 PM UTC
I was born in Africa
A sweet but bitter home
Crafted out in beauty and splendor.
A place by nature
Dash in wealth and bliss
Yet, it's ruined by monumental penury.
A place that has fallen into the rut of laziness,
Having fertile acres and hectares
Yet, starvation knows its name -
billowing: "Africa, Africa"
Oh, what a pity!
Africa is where
I was born
A continent that has its glorious hope
Held by the uncertain hand of fate
Authoring for it a very sad story.
A continent full of heads
That are conquered by the West
Heads that are void of positive thoughts for their continent.
Africa, Africa, Africa
Oh, it is a landmass that's venerable
Virtually every border in it
Is opened to deadly sicknesses
like ears unclosed to good news.
Africa is tagged
"POVERTY-STRICKEN CONTINENT"
But this is the place I was born.
Here, we hail thieves
Here, impunity thrives
Here, we celebrate deceivers
Here, the complexion of our skins reflects the color of our minds.
Black, black, black
Here, we don't think positively
Here, ignorance befriends our minds
And so, our minds are used against us
As the greatest weapons of our oppressors.
Ah, but this is the place
I was born: Africa!
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 10:17 AM UTC
If only I'd found love in something that never loved before.
The stars, shimmering off moonlit rivers, would sing for us,
Walking hand in hand, beside you.
Authoring the pages of our laughter,
You would covet words never spoken from your searching eyes, your reaching fingers.
Songs and poetry would flow from the ballpoint fingers we interlace.
But this love is naught found in reality,
Only found in death.
The textbook mind with unmistakable power,
The chapped lips continually trembling.
The beast locking doorknobs and car handles,
The creature shaping children's nightmares.
In death, where nothing exists but itself,
His sweeping arms would blanket the civilian he desires,
No arguments,
Death receives his utmost wishes entirely
always.
Death would cradle his lover in passion.
Death's infatuation would match no other man in the entirety of human existence.
Death would linger with each wisp of life escaping his lovers body,
Sipping them through his curled tongue like tobacco smoke.
Death would never lose his lover,
Death would find his lover in eternity and reincarnate her into flesh again,
The most bloodless cycle of all.
If only I'd found love in something that never loved before.
But this love is naught found in reality,
Only found in death,
The most bloodless cycle of all.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC
1
flumine stretches to the small of her back
as the clock slowly runs off from
twilight to midnight
perfect time for assault but undeclared
say when tugging of hair to expose
the jugular -- that is where you plunge
the message
when biting the lip becomes
predatory, when sweat is the telling
trace putting the clandestine, ******
or easily when hold becomes grip
else it was just estrangement face to face
in the dark, cannot remember features
only textures -- walled up message tongued in all fours as if a crucifix or idle
penitence
2
whoever was steering was just
teaching how to hate, treats as open and
easy target, mapping out what to sequester
and authoring silence as acquiescence.
first trust is given and is thrusting deeper
in hollow grievance. we have no use for it
and so we take it as the first step
out of the door keeping love unharmed
only to be taken in unmindful of its implosion.
3
we then have damage portrayals as if
we have a long divide, or a grueling history,
hit from our blinded sides.
a man from another country could have taken you from this juncture,
but he is somewhere lugging objects
he has no use for in a haul that was meant to
drift him away from sheer possibility
and so we remain here, a promise that things will start to exact relevance, until then
we remain, waiting for our smoke to
dissipate when the last fizz of fire is sounded.
4
you do to me what i do to you
as if polarities are clear reversals
and then back again with hope
so i drink from your mouth what i have
given as your body depletes, your fingers
crenelate as you rebuild your stronghold,
my emptiness a catchbasin of all the
rain growing inside you, your body swollen,
ready to burst and after that
perhaps, forgive.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 2:38 AM UTC
Are you seeing this?
This is why the home.
Because sometimes you have to be a part of someone else's story in order to be able to write your own.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 6:40 PM UTC
I cough when I lie,
it's like the idea of deceiving you is sickening.
I don't make eye contact when I exaggerate,
I don't want to be able to tell if you see through the story I'm spinning.
I want so desperately for you to see me and love me for who I am, not for whatever picture of myself I paint.
I feel like I see you, the real you, when you focus on something or someone else and forget to compose yourself for me.
I wish I could just say "I see you, and you're beautiful".
I crave authenticity, yet keep authoring falsity.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 6:19 PM UTC
Jumbled mix
miracles
mirages
echoes
and self delusion
Who is authoring the other delusions
And who the non-delusion
(if non-delusion exists)
?
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
the ill-tempered autumn wind does little to sway an evergreen
whose timber column rings thus of doggedness unseen.
there may have been moments when leaves would wither here and there,
but its blanket of foliage has fought to keep its verdant hue--
whether caught in snow or shaken by pelting rain,
whether trampled undue by the trudging of time
or battered somehow by a certain bane...
the fact is, he's been here for so long:
he's taken after the colors of her writing pens
like mixed laundry bleeding its red unto a wash of white linens--
alas, sometimes I find myself lying beneath the boardwalk
drowning in her songs and sifting through a gallery of her smiles.
this has been the most meaningful three quarters of any year
i have had the privilege of co-authoring with someone so dear.
Sep 20, 2023
Sep 20, 2023 at 12:15 PM UTC