"bemusedly" poems
there were things
i had never imagined
i would understand
be; experience
and gape bemusedly at my
unbelieving ambiguous eyes
in the unnoticeably clear
smiling mirror of the bathroom.
things such as
being a creep
the creep whose wandering eye
wanders just a wee bit longer.
A microsecond length of
the not-understood, the suspicious,the dubious
the curious sometimes,
but really mostly nefarious lunatic, perhaps...?
the creep whose teeth clench into a
smile.
the lips parting
but only
Mendaciously...perhaps..?
the creep who peers into me
like a god
scouring my precious little secrets
my hurt points,
my loci of scandalous innocuous things
meant to be inside of me
for my self.
the creep who infringes
on my warm bed
of Safety.
***
********
erectile dysfunction
sneer
******
*****
me
father
mother
weirdity
all the complexes
that make you Feel
like a spider
whose web is shattered with
but an uncaring finger.
power.
Uncaring Callousness
terrifying in it's brutality
intent ,
and things beyond .
the creep peers in.
but i was only trying
to make friends.
a bit too hard , perhaps...?
oh the creeps of the world
i understand thy plight
the fact that you never understand
what you are
doing
but only after it has passed
that the black hole irises
of un-understanding visages
come to you
to inform you
that you have been
a creep, the Creep.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
one morning, Jack awoke with a distinct feeling
that something was not quite right.
as he peeled his eyes from a crusty sleep
his suspicions were further aroused by a marked loss
of sight from his right eye
as though he was peering through
a thick charcoal jungle
he clutched his hand towards his face
and was alarmed to find
a rather substantial lock of hairs
protruding from his right eyebrow.
wondering if perhaps he might
still be in a world of waking dreams
where one couldn’t really trust one’s intuitions,
he wandered over to the light switch,
flicked it on/off a couple of times.
having reached the conclusion that
he was definitely not dreaming,
and that his retinas
(or his left one, at least)
were definitely receptive to fluctuating light levels
he made his way to the bathroom
to inspect his face, with one hand
bemusedly fondling his recently grown eye-brow fringe.
in the bathroom he stumbled
across his wife sitting on the toilet.
on catching sight of her hairy husband,
she let out a deranged scream.
"darling, you'll alarm the neighbours" said Jack.
but his wife, who did not seem
to be sufficiently worried about
alarming the neighbours,
or anyone in her resident universe
continued to make strange warbling noises.
so, Jack instead decided to study
his growth in the kitchen sink.
although not made from
exemplary reflective material,
the sink was able to confirm
his impression that his right eyebrow had,
overnight, been subject to an alarming rate of growth.
his wife appeared in the doorway.
“I’m sorry for screaming.
it was only because I thought you were a pirate”
she said. and though he knew
that this was just one in many
of a long string of inter-marital lies
that bounced between them,
he let it pass. a decision having
been decided upon in perhaps
not the most democratic manner possible,
Jack's wife fetched the kitchen scissors
from the drawer by the dishwasher.
as she snipped away, chunks of black
fell soft like feathers from sunburnt wings
and landed on the Lino.
Jack felt inexplicably sad.
they went off to work as usual,
and no one noticed
the jagged edge of his once pirated-eyebrow.
Apr 19, 2012
Apr 19, 2012 at 5:11 AM UTC
transitional times
*midst the ordinaries, not paying close attention,
the yet to be baked batter of chatter while driving past the familiar,
a plain pasta with butter conversation,
the human carbohydrates of our racing consuming energy,
she slips me up, by slipping in two words,
her icing on the cake phrasing
"transitional times"
pull over to the side of Menantic Road
in the early of the late afternoon, Saturday's reclining sunlight,
question her closely, CIA taping her words to my brain:
did she mean the late afternoon hours of our lives when
reflection of sun sprinkles on our bay voyages us as voyeurs
past the old longings and into the future recalling?
perhaps, the au contraire, the steady stepping,
sneaking away of the sheltering night so that the earth's
inhabitants and organs may be revived in yellow golden greens of damp grasses and the whiteness of a Sunday's fresh milk?
of course, of course, the times when the horizon calls,
saying come to me, cross the transition to the newness
of everything, in the ages and days of celebration of
unfamiliar entrances?*
No, no, she answers, bemusedly grinning,
not everything is a poem,
you thieving wordsmith, simply did I observe
that having an extra pair of sunglasses in the car for
transitional times
was a good idea!
*pulling back on the road that goes past the
Tuck Ice Cream Shoppe, the island treasure hunt Dump, the ordinary homes on the range, all along the way to the boatyard where are kept and stored and stockpiled each summer colored sunset evening along with the drinkable French pink Rose wines and gleaming yellow Sancerre and golden ales of Nantucket,
I think to myself,*
nuh uh,
*every transition,
every glorious mindless conversation,
even in the town dump,
treasures in each word, in everything, especially the
extra extra-ordinaries,
is a poem*
June 25. 2017
5:20am
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
I have been wearing a bracelet of green beads bought from a charity,
With a thin gray circular disc (a severe charm!) attached,
Upon which the word GROWTH in blunt font is raised.
And then, beneath that, what I assume to be
The symbol for GROWTH in the script of some dialect:
It looks like a roughly scratched “T,” somewhat like a dagger.
As I go throughout my day the circle brushes my wrist;
If it were sharper it could lightly cut the skin.
In odd moments I’ve shaken the beads and repositioned
The charm so it laid flat against the back of my hand,
As though I could absorb the sentiment.
It would be a little indulgent on its own,
But in the chaos of my current days I do it bemusedly.
Lately I have been thinking of how personalities encounter history
And are changed. Does the person shape history or does history
Shape the person? There has to be cosmic selection
At work for some—obviously Voltaire, for example, was made for the French, For the Enlightenment! But time breaks over all of us
Totally. Time shapes us interestingly. The craziness and force
Of everything I’ve brushed up against lately has surprised me,
And worn me down somewhat.
I was surprised, too, sliding on the bracelet for the first time,
when I saw the big green beads interrupted by
The charm's message.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 8:03 PM UTC
Watching you, I felt chill winds of springtime blow
Among white cherry trees and purple sprays -
Saw the lost gardens amid the scents of long ago
Of the last lands whose lids are closed in final days.
Pressing flowers into the leaves and loneliness
Kneeling to the mud or delving for the sand
Quiet frames of countenance and loveliness
I longed to comfort you and take your hand
And catch your eyes and gaze at you my lost girl
In wonder at the years now left in beauty’s stead
And you would laugh and say ‘Kind Sir’ and twirl -
Tossing bemusedly your wise angelic head.
Only time divides our souls – and time is on our side
And those who went before will leave the window wide.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
~another love poem~
In the thousands of years of Earth’s foregoing,
marking the reign of humans, all seek sapience,
knowing full well, neither first or last am I to mark
this day’s commencement with a need, a desiring,
to notate this not unusual but definitively unique
calendar notation with a tribute, neither requested
but freely given to the person who lies beside me.
*Did I wake commanded or so compelled to scrabble
a collection of words, sequences, initially disordered,
into a shape, to chisel these sendings of a chest into a
living disbursement, a statute, a marbleized creature,
that empties and releases a sensory disposition rumbling
into a messy, mediocre utterance of sentience while they
sleep quiet, pockmarked by dreamed mumblings, dreaming?*
No, I did not.
News headlines come demanding see me, insistent that
I am urgency, but one displaced by the next, making them
instantly stale by pealing replacements. This poem, a self-
appointed task is now eased, spent and spurted into an
lifespan of a length unknown and untold. Here I end, ceased
and resisting, demurring, desisting another stanza, The hour
approaches the seventh hour before noon, rising time. Go now.
*The choring chords of fibrous tasks that stitch existence into
a sustaining impertinent permanence, list-crossing-off, a-nagging.
The itches of living, ask for scratching, 1st cup of coffee making,
but smile bemusedly that this first and freshest to do, newly added,
is done, dispatched with a line-sworded satisfying crossing off.
She sleeps on, while I soon to rise and quiet paddle to the
kitchen where kept the utensils for sustenance,*
I am contented, miraculously, simultaneous,
emptied and fulfilled.
4-14-2021
NYC
7:18am
Apr 14, 2022
Apr 14, 2022 at 7:30 AM UTC
~but, yet, another love poem~
In the thousands of years of Earth’s foregoing,
marking the reign of humans, all seeking sapience,
full well knowing, neither first or last am I to mark
this day’s commencement with a need, a desiring,
to notate this not unusual but definitively unique
calendar entrance with a tribute, neither requested,
but freely given to the person who lies beside me.
*Did I wake commanded or so compelled to scrabble
a collection of words, sequences, initially disordered,
into a shape, to chisel these sendings of a chest into a
living disbursement, a marbleized breathing creature,
that empties and releases a sensory disposition rambling,
rumbling into a messy, utterance of sentience while they
sleep quiet, pockmarked by dreamed mumblings, dreaming?*
No, I did not.
News headlines come demanding see me, insistent that
I am urgency, but one displaced by the next, making them
instantly stale by pealing replacements.
This poem, a self- appointed task is now eased, story spent and spurted into a lifespan of a length unknown and untold. But, and yet, here I end, ceased and not resisting, demurring, desisting another stanza, The hour approaches the seventh hour after midnight, rising time.
Go now.
*The choring chords of fibrous tasks that stitch existence into
a sustaining impertinent permanence, list-crossing-off, a-nagging.
The itches of living, ask for scratching, 1st cup of coffee making,
but smile bemusedly that this first and freshest to do, newly added,
is done, dispatched with a line-sworded satisfying crossing off.
She sleeps on, while I soon to rise and quiet paddle to the
kitchen where kept the utensils for sustenance,*
But, and yet, I am contented, miraculously, simultaneous,
emptied and fulfilled.
4-14-2021
NYC
7:18am
Jun 26, 2022
Jun 26, 2022 at 6:15 PM UTC
How to read an evolving novel form
of witnessed am-usement,
think with a poet like yourself,
become remused, bemusedly
free, but for the cost of your attention,
freely paid, and freely taken on the come,
come to see how it all ends, in real life.
/poems/popular/
or /latest/
read down the stack, find
sacred knowledge muses use to rate
treasures that force a full blown what if…
Read any poet who rates being
in your hearted pile of impressive works,
hellopoetry.com/handle/poems/popular/
take the mind, let it be in you,
read each word chosen on the fly,
pause, rethink, the stacking algorithm,
most read pieces, past tension piling on,
it was good, as it's, so
and on, people's choices, random,
right on, reasoning rationality,
what's a minute's worth of musing,
precious, indeed, taken time, used,
is all time is for, others read first,
to pass on noticeably new, mere ifery,
used to make common sense used to read
wildly unorthodox translations of basic,
towb ra
good and evil, OOPs, flaw interpreted,
beautiful adversity, face to face,
true, real yes, first novel knowing
tell me a story, tell no lie, boys,
will be boys, until sense
common as all get out,
comes to account
for idle words,
used to get by those wasted years,
to when, beyond
what ever hell are you now,
thinking, y'gotta carry on, squint
to have the eyes stretching time, now,
we have seen it done
https://hellopoetry.com/MK/poems/latest
did it today,
put me through a blizzard on this year's hottest day.
Sep 5, 2024
Sep 5, 2024 at 5:23 PM UTC
for Richard Shepherd who wrote to tell me
one of my babies, (1) made him:
“Oh my, speechless”
my stated aim, my purposed gain,
is to write of only love poetry,
oh too human am I, going astray
the most human contributory trick,
is when “she,” temptation,
oft cajoles,
“this way please” and I easygoing
and submit obligingly
your words spontaneous, mark &
make me, likewise spit out gratitude
of words simple, informing you that
you are too, too kind, then pause reflective
does such a thing even exist?
bemusedly, smiling silent at my silliness,
as I debate~contemplate, the potent notion if kindness can ever be measured as in excess, by what measuring cup system could we
contrive to ascertain if there be lines drawn,
for the most best of human attributes?
it is Monday Morning and such silly peculiarities have no busily business populating my gray matter, but compulsory
demands state forthright you cannot retreat
from this windrowed wonderland hedgerow,
for when seeing these deep waters,
can easy sink a poet
for a funking, dunking, nay, a drowning!
but I am only dancing around the edges
of a fire upon the beach, and gingerly admit
that there is no limitation to this conceptual,
can we be too human, could one ever not say
your loving, your essences~senses fragrant,
are airborne and therefore unlimited,
beneath this shared sky~sphere.
yet never my intent
to rob a human of
the power of speech
*but this statement of de~unlimited awe
too much,
and therefore my understanding deepens,
when and what a heart feels
is without definition,
without lineage,
every time reborn,
and my loving of your kind words,
overflowing will be my
principled purpose
this day
that every person whose path
intersects mine,
shall be greeted with
the tools in my possession,
which thanks to you,
are identified as an undefined
unlimited
too, too much
kindness
and my one job is to
be a proof
of this
raison d'être
for all ofour
existences*
this hen issue
now resolved,
be a lovely
au naturel love poem
and obedient
to my
only truest mission
Nov 25, 2024
Nov 25, 2024 at 10:55 AM UTC