"blundering" poems
when i fall,
i don't just fall in love.
clumsily, i stumble
down and then i land
awkwardly and graceless,
stuttering utterly at the foot
of a handsome man,
blundering an apology
out of breath, ineptly
embarrassed about
my shaky hands,
clambering
to dust myself off,
all the while, i try,
desperately, to stand
wishing i could disappear,
i rise as quickly as i can
waving off any helping hand
so he doesn't see
how incredibly stupid
i must be
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 7:45 AM UTC
I don't know who you are
I don't know what you do
I don't know where you are
But I know that
You have wrecked me
Mentally, psychologically and socially
Rendering me incoherent in speech
And incapable of action
Reduced to a blundering mass
Of bloated bones and sinew
Ready to collapse like a pack of cards
At the slightest hint of a crisis
I don't know who you are
I don't know what you do
I don't know where you are
But I know that
You have wrecked me
And you shall pay dearly for it
Whether it be death by a thousand cuts
Or a pill of cyanide in your cup of tea
Or a bullet right in your temple
Or a mighty fall from the tallest tower
Or a bite from a venomous serpent
Or a decapitation by the mighty guillotine
Or even, having your soul ****** out
From your filthy mouth
I don't know who you are
I don't know what you do
I don't know where you are
But I know that
You have wrecked me
And I shall not rest
Until I finish you, once and for all
And the world is rid, of your menace
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 5:51 AM UTC
It's a still morning, quiet and cloudy
the kind of grey day I like best;
they'll be here soon, the little kids first,
creeping up to try and frighten me,
then the tall young men, the slim boy
with the marvellous smile, the dark girl
subtle and secret; and the others,
the parents, my children, my friends —
and I think: these truly are my weather
my grey mornings and my rain at night,
my sparkling afternoons and my birdcall at daylight;
they are my game of hide and seek, my song
that flies from a high window. They are
my dragonflies dancing on silver water.
Without them I cannot move forward, I am
a broken signpost, a train fetched up on
a small siding, a dry voice buzzing in the ears;
for they are also my blunders
and my forgiveness for blundering,
my road to the stars and my seagrass chair
in the sun. They fly where I cannot follow
and I — I am their branch, their tree.
My song is of the generations, it echoes
the old dialogue of the years; it is the tribal
chorus that no one may sing alone.
7.6k
*The thoughts in my head uncertain
My heart hides behind a curtain
And to those of you who know
I can think of no greater foe
For when my head is filled with grief
I can not think to start a beef
I only wish I could know all
And not make such a blundering fall
For my words left unspoken
I only ask for one simple token
Of love
Understanding
Compassion
Loyalty
And most of all...
A friend like you*
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
the air is clammy, and my hair is on end.
the shades have drawn but my curtains are open.
the looming creature crawls across the sky, lurking nearer.
such swift summer heat disappearing instantly.
the leaves crunch, crawl, and scrape.
out there, i would fear the booms and grumbles.
out there, the blundering weather has bounded into the yard.
the gloomy, depressing clouds are larger than ever and weigh down the air.
however.
i’m at peace.
a new discussion arises between myself and a friend, or maybe no friend at all, but a discussion all the same.
i find comfort here.
i seek refuge when otherwise not needed.
But the boisterous bazaar begins to recede, barely able to hear, the crowd keeps crawling across the sky.
as quickly as it started, i find myself longing for another reason to feel comfort-another reason to seek refuge…
For here, i feel comfort.
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 11:39 AM UTC
Betrayed
Belittled
Baking, burning between battles.
Blundering, blustering
Begging by bribing.
Bribing by begging.
Best?
Bottom.
Boastful, bragging baboon.
Bye.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 9:15 AM UTC
JESUS emptied the devils of one man into forty hogs and the hogs took the edge of a high rock and dropped off and down into the sea: a mob.
The sheep on the hills of Australia, blundering fourfooted in the sunset mist to the dark, they go one way, they hunt one sleep, they find one pocket of grass for all.
Karnak? Pyramids? Sphinx paws tall as a coolie? Tombs kept for kings and sacred cows? A mob.
Young roast pigs and naked dancing girls of Belshazzar, the room where a thousand sat guzzling when a hand wrote: Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin? A mob.
The honeycomb of green that won the sun as the Hanging Gardens of Nineveh, flew to its shape at the hands of a mob that followed the fingers of Nebuchadnezzar: a mob of one hand and one plan.
Stones of a circle of hills at Athens, staircases of a mountain in Peru, scattered clans of marble dragons in China: each a mob on the rim of a sunrise: hammers and wagons have them now.
Locks and gates of Panama? The Union Pacific crossing deserts and tunneling mountains? The Woolworth on land and the Titanic at sea? Lighthouses blinking a coast line from Labrador to Key West? Pigiron bars piled on a barge whistling in a fog off Sheboygan? A mob: hammers and wagons have them to-morrow.
The mob? A typhoon tearing loose an island from thousand-year moorings and bastions, shooting a volcanic ash with a fire tongue that licks up cities and peoples. Layers of worms eating rocks and forming loam and valley floors for potatoes, wheat, watermelons.
The mob? A jag of lightning, a geyser, a gravel mass loosening...
The mob ... kills or builds ... the mob is Attila or Ghengis Khan, the mob is Napoleon, Lincoln.
I am born in the mob-I die in the mob-the same goes for you-I don't care who you are.
I cross the sheets of fire in No Man's land for you, my brother-I slip a steel tooth into your throat, you my brother-I die for you and I **** you-It is a twisted and gnarled thing, a crimson wool:
One more arch of stars,
In the night of our mist,
In the night of our tears.
2.4k
I have yet to manifest all I am,
Like the prolonged discovery
Of a well known secret.
Here's a free grand tour
Around here special guest,
I would very much like it
If you stuck to my side
Like a sidekick.
I, the heroic tour guide
Of so many surreal wonders,
And darling oh my--
The setting sun sat beside
Two bottomless candles whistling.
Before you knew it,
Their identities were indistinguishable,
In their fervid resplendence.
Frank motives are held back,
Control is so fallibly crass.
What would happen if the
Suppressor were to collapse?
We would expand,
Like we toiled for.
Originally written 2/27/11
Revised 10/19/14
(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC
Are these tears of blundering laughter
or heckles of contempt
that spirit on these haggard few
to rhapsodise our era’s curtain calls?
They who brought us mounting debt and conscientiousness
which seems only to be healed in the appeasing fluorescence
of 24-hour supermarkets and the purgatory
of weekends spent at home?
Such stifling, nervous coughs
are head as responses of
today’s domestic questionnaires
Gung-ho reformative advances
and calls to “pull up our socks”
Mixed with the state-sponsored fortune-telling
Rationed out to boys languishing on the dole.
Which All falsely transpires,
intimidatingly revealed as being
About as appealing as vacuum cleaners for the soul
aimed at the resolutely bored to tears.
Despite our fears
the sun will come streaming again
through fresh fir trees
which decorate contemplative, sheltered lanes.
These last, frostbitten years
seek replacement with halcyon days
in order to suspend dogmatic disbelief.
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves:
Pessimism is ****
Even in the most roaring of times
we remained despondent and calculated.
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
*delicate swirls
abstract motif
dainty spirals*
I.
I see you as a wide sheet of fabric
Beautiful, paisley pattern
Highlighting your odd qualities
That I love, more than you could get.
How you shimmer and shine
So well.
II.
Yet, I knew not that there exists -
Very quietly bold and calmly geometric;
Another sheet beneath this visible one
A layer concealed, that only my oblivion feels.
How you shiver and hide
So well.
III.
So, as I learn and delve and discover
Burrowing passages and intense pathways
A myriad of tunnels within tunnels
Where is the real you?
How alone; thought I knew you
So well.
IV.
Am I thus lost?
Blinded so by the light in your patterns....
[said in one breath:
so, I try to brush ever lightly over artefacts of your stained existence,
ensuring I leave no trace of me...
there I go making a new layer (for me)
only to see...another layer....and yet
another....]
layer upon
layer upon
layer upon
layer upon....
layerrrr.
V.
Into the icy face of wind, words are flung
Only, they come back...messier!
Disaster.....blast the blundering heart in dusty chokes
Love thrives not in intemperate climes.
At which point did you let your voice die?
Perhaps you hide in fear, of suffering alone....
So long.
VI.
There stands a figure in the circle of light....lonesome
We hover near the highly-charged cosmos of chance
Daring the winds to take us, off guard
To glide away on impossible parades....
S T, 28 April 2013
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
Learning from inside-out, crouched, how do I tie this double-knot?
Acoustic ambience bouncing around in the space between my ears
Creating songs the shape of you,
sea of sadness.
Melancholic temple,
where you have gone to worship all your life,
is burning to the ground in great, blundering flames.
Was it you
who nearly drowned
last June?
Was it you
who never
ever
let them
forget?
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
Fumble in the dark,
Become a tangled, clumsy mess,
Then laugh at it all hysterically-
Oh how deeply I relish Awkwardness
Awkwardness in love,
In little things I do- in everything I do,
The 'neat and clean' ones won't get it,
But it's known to us blundering fools
That tidily cutting slices of cake
And eating them in plates with spoons
Comes nowhere close to devouring cream
In fistfuls and untamed scoops,
And licking the blueberry syrup
As it trickles down your hand,
And fighting over the part
With most icing,
Getting some on your cheeks in return.
Shyly wiping it away from your lover's face
With a tissue comes nowhere close
To kissing it off his skin,
Don't you think?
Awkwardness is real,
Proof that we are alive, not merely living,
So, taste the deliciousness of it,
Let go, and dig in!
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
It is a fallacy we all believe.
As we vehemently exclaim six words
to prove the chastity of our thoughts,
to fill our pride with self-validation,
to ratify our existence with falsehoods.
"The Devil made me do it!"
"The Devil made me do it!"
I bitterly laugh at your blundering gaucherie,
as you lay blame on an eons old transgression,
as you smote the sinnerman flying with flames,
as you called him out for your own actions
impassioned by heresy.
Impassioned by heresy
You sought to relieve yourself from perdition;
brought upon by perjury declared,
brought upon by authenticated truths,
brought upon by the duplicity,
of your favored reverent ideologies.
Of your favored reverent ideologies
which is to laud your skirmish against evil
in order to remove yourself from auburn eternity,
in order to induct you as a citizen of argent fields,
in order to orchestrate contempt towards another?
Is there no truth to you?
Is there no truth to you
now that perfidy imputes your entirety?
as you declaim in front of paradise lost,
as you coerce to regain what is rightfully deprived,
as you throng duress by intoning your delusion:
"The Devil made me do it!"
"The Devil made me do it!"
Its recurrence is maddening to Him
while you, in all your sentience, chose to act unbecoming,
while the celestials perched on your shoulder bawl,
while He that you blame does absolutely nothing.
It is a fallacy we all believe.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC
That I'll never feel again, that the numbness I've enbalmed myself in might never wash off.
That I'll never find a place where I belong, that I'll always be an outcast, an outlier.
That I'm too different, that people will never be able to accept both me and my endless flaws.
That I'll never extinguish the fire of bitterness and regret that burns endlessly in my hardened heart.
That I'll never be articulate again, that one day my witty words will fail me and my blundering words will completely take over.
That I'll never feel confidence, that I'll never be able to look past my exterior, my vessel.
That I'll never feel the warm light of affection and love, that the clouds of poisonous lonliness will consume me with fatal lesions that seep out scorn and desperation.
That I'll never be able to forgive, that I'll never be able to forget. That my decisions will haunt my psyche forever, ever present.
That I'll always be mediocre, that I'll always settle.
That I'll always be misunderstood and mistreated. That I'll never be some-ones perfect fit.
That I'll always hide behind cynisim and sarcasm. That my sharp blunt words will come back to tear at me.
That I'll always be this way.
I'm worried that life has broken me in ways that are irrepairable.
I'm worried that I will remain this way. Damaged, insecure and broken.
Yes, wounds tend to heal. But what happens when you are ruined inside and out?
Not in a dramatic way, in an honest way. Visable scars cover me.
I'm worried that the marks, ****** cuts and scabbing blemishes will be my albatross and that it will consume me.
I'm worried.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
"Are you deaf, Father William!" the young man said,
"Did you hear what I told you just now?
"Excuse me for shouting! Don't waggle your head
"Like a blundering, sleepy old cow!
"A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town,
"Is my friend, so I beg to remark:
"Do you think she'd be pleased if a book were sent down
"Entitled 'The Hunt of the Snark?'"
"Pack it up in brown paper!" the old man cried,
"And seal it with olive-and-dove.
"I command you to do it!" he added with pride,
"Nor forget, my good fellow to send her beside
"Easter Greetings, and give her my love."
1.4k
I cannot help but lament at
The futility of being a word-weaver,
As I try and search for the
Perfect topic that could steer
My blundering, fumbling conversation
With you to something more than ordinary
Alas, hours pass and I fail miserably, so,
Dejected, I lucidly write about it on Hello Poetry.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
This week I have been mostly petrified,
and in between such periods I have been jelly.
Do you remember the action of freeze and thaw?
Surely you do, it’s the one clear spot
in the fogged grey landscape of your old school geography.
Well that is the state of me.
I am eroding.
When this process began I cannot tell,
I only know that it continues.
I like to think that the fragments of my self
are at least collecting somewhere,
perhaps in my socks.
If I had the will I might tip out the sediment nightly
and store it in a glass jar by the bed.
I am of course losing weight,
though not so much weight as gravitas.
Conventional scales won’t register the change
as I have tried to explain to my doctor,
but he smiles the smile of an indulgent uncle
then writes me another little green ticket
for little blue pills.
When the last essential ballast is crumbled and gone
Into that that jar, nicely striped,
my substance will rise
like a cheap balloon, leaving
something empty and indifferent
and insensitive.
Hooray is what I say!
I, or that thing that is I minus self,
might at last succeed by blundering on into money regardless,
by making the right decisions.
Judgement is right because there’s no backchat inside
to say otherwise.
Bring it on.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 5:32 PM UTC
Despair
rears it's ugly head
Beware
When eyes go read
Thoughts are flying
Through my mind
That answer
I still can't find
Bumbling and blundering
While blissfully blind
I'm hurt
I'm crying
I'm broken
Inside my hearts whithers
I have nothing more to say
Maybe a bullet
Will take it all away
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 8:41 PM UTC
That early morning ****** air tasted pure
birds began to rise singing.
The veil of the night lifted for a new dawn
a cockerel then crowed.
Fields still green trees standing unscathed
land yet unpaved!
Untouched by developers or planners curse
a tranquil reminder.
How the countryside was before the building
took natures beauty away
I remember that unblemished infinity gaze
through the natural haze!
With a clear surveillance of the distant landscape
creatures in their habitats.
Still undisturbed of man's advances in evidence
without his blundering hand.
When machines came to carve up hills and dales
lost forever lands and trails!
Lose respect of the environment sacrifice the future!
The Foureyed Poet.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 7:48 PM UTC
Little white love, your way you've taken;
Now I am left alone, alone.
Little white love, my heart's forsaken.
(Whom shall I get by telephone?)
Well do I know there's no returning;
Once you go out, it's done, it's done.
All of my days are gray with yearning.
(Nevertheless, a girl needs fun.)
Little white love, perplexed and weary,
Sadly your banner fluttered down.
Sullen the days, and dreary, dreary.
(Which of the boys is still in town?)
Radiant and sure, you came a-flying;
Puzzled, you left on lagging feet.
Slow in my breast, my heart is dying.
(Nevertheless, a girl must eat.)
Little white love, I hailed you gladly;
Now I must wave you out of sight.
Ah, but you used me badly, badly.
(Who'd like to take me out tonight?)
All of the blundering words I've spoken,
Little white love, forgive, forgive.
Once you went out, my heart fell, broken.
(Nevertheless, a girl must live.)
1.1k
This tuesday April 25th in the year of the lord 2017
being in a good, good mood & wishing to send love
& solidarity to all innocent living beings upon this
fragile lonesome earth I hereby declare my complete
& undying love for the lowly but almost beyond magnificent
Praying Mantis,
that sweet & oh so delicate creature,
that green being which rests so tranquil upon twig & branch
legs as hands, as in prayer, as pleading, attentive & so, so
quiet,
All Power to the small green creatures & all recognition of
their undeniable right to walk this earth in peace & joy as
any of us oh so arrogant two-legged blundering creatures
supposedly made in god's image,
I have seen god in the form of the Mantis, & sure enough
its beauty & light is beyond magnificent.
Beam that love now.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 12:10 PM UTC
THE EARTH WAS STILL
AS IT SWIRLED AROUND ME
A HAZE OF ASH AND DREAMS
A BURN VICTIM OF AN UNREALIZED FANTASY
SCREAMING IN TWISTED EXCSTASY
AS MY FACES MELTED AND PETRIFIED
FROZEN FOR A LIFE ALIEN RECTIFIED
WITH A SHARP OBSIDIAN *****
TO DELIVER ME REMADE
HE SCRAWLED AND CLAWED HIS WAY TO ME
HIS WORLD ENTIRE, AS THOUGH I COULD SEE
MY LOVER ONCE DELAYED
BY GRIEF AND ASHES, A MISTAKEN AIDE
OF THE LOST GODSPOKE MEN
HE TOLD THEM TO LEAVE HIM DIRE
THAT HIS PASSION WOULD CARRY HIM THROUGH MUCK AND MIRE
FIERY INTO THE REALM ABANDONED CRIES
WRAPPED IN THE DUSTY ORGANZA LIES
HE SEEMED LIKE AN EYELESS CREATURE
BLUNDERING HIS WAY, A BLIND BEESHECHER
SEARCHING FOR LOVE WHERE THERE WAS ONLY
A MAELSTROM OF LONGING
REBORN IN HIS GRAVE OF PROPHETS AND GRIEF
A SOLDIER SENT ONCE TO TEACH
THE FIRE SCORCHING AND TWISTING MY SHROUD
AS HIS WORLD WENT TUMBLING, BROKEN AND PROUD
TORN IN HIS WAKE OF GRACE
AND WHEN MY BODY HE FOUND ENCASED
IN GLASS, AS THOUGH A TRUE LOVE AWAITS
BUT WHAT HE COULD NOT ENKINDLE IN HIS HEART
WAS WHAT WOULD RIP THE GLASS APART
LOST IN OBSIDIAN IN ASH AND GLASS
A SHALLOW PRISON
OF LOSING AND LOVE AND
THE SPACE BETWEEN US
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 8:09 PM UTC
Stifling sentences from mind to pen to paper
Blundering from word to word
Forcing friend and foe to collaborate to hold together,
hand in hand a story to be told
But sometimes that art, those wells, grow old
So I dig and I dig for a fountain to come forth
And with it the words with which to refresh both mind and soul
A laborious task, too large to ask
Of one who isn't entirely mad
But no need for worry because I am that
I'll find the fountain of words.
Elusive, exclusive, entirely too much
A passionate flow, a particular touch
Extensively existing in the minds of those persisting
To indulge in the sweet words that flow from mind to pen to paper
To taste and sample the selected assortment
Fastidiously arranged as if awaiting atonement
Expressions from the fountain I've found it.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
Forwarded impact
Tampering with instructions
Designed to distract
Simple extraction
Of a words retraction
Windowed to sounds
When insanity surrounds
Where can I find
Where they draw the line
Intimately confined
To the criminally designed
Rebellion to the failed
Melting the walls
Of those jailed
Bored in governing planets
Murderous, supernova
We now live
In blundering expansion
Forwarded impact
Tampering with instructions
Designed to distract
Jan 7, 2010
Jan 7, 2010 at 7:00 AM UTC