"borning" poems
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is not a poem. This is about a poem.
Poems require words. This poem does not require words.
This poem requires memories' muscles.
This poem requires what is called colloquially love.
Learn that what we share here is not poetry.
Your poetic senses that produce the words that mark you present
are but surgical tools to extract, release the whole and the parts of you that help shape that single sense borning in your chest that defines you at any particular moment.
Quæ est mater Laureat.
She is the Mother Laureate.
She is the boundary you must learn to cross to be more than a re-arranger of letters and alphabets, but a translator of the human essence and fill our veins with the a sense of awe and wonder felt when we read each other and think aloud,
"yes, exactly, that was and is precisely what I was feeling."
She is the glue that keeps us sticking here, sticking together, each of us sticking to it.
You do not know her?
No worries, she will find you when you least expect it, perhaps
when you need it.
This is not a poem. This is a human who's a poem.
Understand the difference and then you may begin a journey
that has no destination other than weaving the connective tissue that makes us anticipating excited when we log on.
Happy Birthday Mother Poet Laureate!
I do not think I can write a better not poem for you.
Forgive me then, if going toward, I repost this every
October 24th as long as the chemical composition of
blood, God, spirit, logos or reason runs free within,
exiting as words encased in tears that formulate into
human poetry.
nattyman
P.S.There are 800 poems here with Sally in the title, and least 700 are about Sally B. If you like, please feel to free to add yours, old or new.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 12:42 PM UTC
.
(Sippy cups are for toddlers, designed to let them sip but a little sip at a time, and when it falls, the disaster is lessened.)
totally by accident is this dedicated to TL Sipple, whose introspection offers comfort to more than many.
~~~~~~~~~
*who among us has not begun the
journey's poetic, by first examining the
mirror that reflects organs internal,
flipping the reversible glass over,
for all you exposed,
it's the curse, the birthing natural,*
of the first poem
*all your life, streams bustling, streams drying, drought dying,
leaves windy flying up, but final poisoned by gravity,
come to rest and crunched under your footfalls,
but of this did you write, scrivened or scribed?
no
our first child is of our ***** where real borning does occur.
the rest too, but now, and soon thereafter,
put aside the me, and write of he and she,
the first love, always the second child,
for this the nature of the soul and ermine robe,
you elected, when you first self-selected*
I am a poet, therefore I hit send,
*and the diecast, is the first of many hot rods
piercing, invading, calling out to you,
poet,
"set me free, set me free"
then when walking in September,
the leaves un-glistening, cracking and *****
like an old person who cannot care for them self
then you lift your pen, point to the sky or to the earth,
no matter which, for both are loco parents in loco,
and the truest hardest journey begins,
looking outside in, with eyes colored by
global truths
then and only then the real journey begins,
a differing agony to be learned,
to see as others see,
to write as others have before you and me,
and in doing so, this testing travail,
will earn you, could earn you, a time grade of
pass/fail
you are the only judge in this show,
the only contestant,
what grade will you assign yourself,
what standards will you set,
until you ask,
who are the poets time idolizes?*
american idol, throw away your sippy cup, and drink from the river, from the sea, drink deep, until sated,
then begin your foolishness
readied, all over again
poet to please invisible gods,
that all can see
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
Stroking
<6:56 Am>
*this petite gesture, glorious in effect,
impervious to aging, speaks volumes
of storied nuance and sun powerful to believers,
inherent messages much refined by its singularity
all that can be, will be, transporting the living,
calming effervescence by simplest of motion implanted,
its sensory powers long lingering, instantly, uncovers
the furtive child in us all, tho well we hide it
stroking my woman’s body when errant dreams,
disturb the early morning scheming, returning a placid,
to her steady breathing, exhaling the disturbing,
erasing the fearful that wanders inside our night boundaries
stroking the cheek, of my six year old granddaughter,
pulling back the hair locks that impede her vision,
the whirlwind passes, her body sedates, and her
totality merges into mine, born, borning a Godlike oneness
these fingers air the words that my chest pervade,
there is power galore in their communicative physicality,
but nothing more powerful than skin upon skin, in motion,
continuous, circular soothing the giver and the receiver equally*
<7:09 AM>
Jun 9, 2023
Jun 9, 2023 at 7:19 AM UTC
What time is it by you?
such a complicated question,
you know
exactly
what I mean,
are you brushing your teeth,
hello or goidbye,
weeping into your pillow,
sun borning hopeful,
writing poems
a handful will brush by,
leaving your wet insides
even more dry
dissatisfied
dinner or breakfast,
day gone erased,
another wasted,
or
clock marked as
just started
and the
task of filling hours
an unwanted curse,
an incalculable calculus,
but insoluble
for there is no
their
no in,
in your life,
no
us
in the numerology of
your clock marking
time to rise
to church go
time to take
the woman out
for one more
nothing-to-say
silent dinner,
inject or flush,
bar dive,
TV mindless,
to high, to low,
to pick
right left or center,
to ***** or bandage,
to turn in,
or come of age
is it time to bed return
because you have just AM awoken,
and every any other place else is hell
no time to pay the bills,
no money, why bother,
time to worry,
why that is the only equation constant,
only the worry changes,
never the time
time to reconnoiter
a good book,
to tune the body up,
afternoon blues,
red eye time,
self
mutilation,
even verbal,
when?
D time?
deep dark
suffocation,
***** all *****
or
shower bathe,
slough off the dead cells,
clean clothes clean start,
even at midnight
what time is it by you?
time to clean mop your life,
walk in new places,
walk to the roof,
just for the view
so many answers....
this I know
it is time for an answer,
choose
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
dedicated to all of the women~poets here I love not-so-secretly
early to bed, early to rise,
stunned to sleep by a superhero trio,
sunset extraordinaire, food and drink,
but, nonetheless I am awakened
by a poem birthing,
water breaking,
now in full labor, burning borning,
inside a man's womb
full wattage, thus empowered,
the moonlight
nudges me awake at 300am
with something real
halfway between a slap and a tonguing kiss
of pure white ****** light
This night sun has an entourage
clouds in attendance,
attend-dance, exactly,
so many fawning, that the bright light
upon the water, normally a claro path,
tonight, but, just, a moon spot
smudged by the shapes of
cloud interlopers intervening
tween me and she...
(nature is female,
everybody knows that!)
yet, the night sun is so overwhelming bright
that everything is perfect outlined
edged sharp in relief,
the stand of six,
our bedroom guardians,
six oaks strong,
are quiet, at-attention still,
their leafy dress uniforms
perfectly pressed,
as I am too,
at full attention
now I understand why soldiers
award themselves oak leaf clusters
as medals of decoration, bravery
poor man's mind weak with admiration,
plots alternative W courses,
a. Walk on water as invited
b. Wake her with your tongue,
in order to put her back to sleep,
(with your tongue)
c. Write a poem with eye light
d. W-all of the above
unable to decide,
no, that's wrong,
incapable of decide,
I do the bravest act,
self-decorate myself with a
white badge of courage,
go back to sleep,
thinking I should not
drink so much wine on weekends,
but write of love and desire,
moons in July not June,
like the inner kid
wants to
and I look at the title this poem gave itself,
Full Moon Woman Life
wondering where the commas should be placed,
then realize it is all
one word
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
is it dangerous to wish
for those goods of which
are not I, are not me,
are not the breath that we breathe
upon the gentlest and free summer morning?
or the gleam of the beaks
perched humbly in the cradle
of the cuckoo's nest still adorning?
before their wings bare vulnerable
to the light of the wind and to
man and to bringing
their unsuspecting redeeming
to the order of clinging to the now;
or the we, or the me, and
the I, and the us, and
the beat
of the heart that keeps borning?
Jul 21, 2022
Jul 21, 2022 at 4:57 PM UTC
Borning as actinia blooming
Struggling, climbing, breathing
blast, mixed with deep blue
from both bottom and above
Covered by the ink of Ammonoids
Pointed by the shell of an Endoceras
Among coral reefs i chase my brothers
Under flickering star field escort my sisters
Hover amongst jaws and teeth
Flitter through tentacles and beaks
Draw lines and circles behind my tails
Trim cerulean in calming daylight beams
Peer with currents in the first beam of morning
Dwell in dark corner as the infinite indigo moaning
Watch death setting apart my kins
and years flowing by the tip of my fins
Yet cared nothing in every passing day
Still feeling strong as in my seventh ay
To the farthest side of the ocean i stray
Until age drag me to the bottom of the sea
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 4:52 PM UTC
It's near to midnight,
and the work week fright,
so let's last-raise our glass,
and be upstanding,
let the words of
sleep-steeped prose of
a younger poet
rest our heads,
leading us to wander
off to sleep,
where we meet and greet
our poems borning
in their rawest form:
*can we walk
swaying like the tide,
along the damp, moon-lit breast of the beach
and fill the empty bottles in our clenched fingers
with lavender and red ocher,
a pallet of dawn
reflecting off glass?
can we...
drape ourselves in hanging hammocks under a
wide eyed sky?
i only want to listen to the distant roar
of water attacking sand,
like soft, silk whispers in a
salt canopied bed,
crickets chirping through the night time
warmth,
and tropical, sleeping
breath
slowly unleashed.*
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
I sing again in praise of love unknown,
In ancient form, composed of stolen phrase.
This timeless moment everything is shown,
And I am forgotten in the uncounted ways
Narcissistic I's you and me and they;
Desire, embodied to be laid aside
One last of time to make the passion play:
One love to fill the emptiness inside
Whence all the horror of the endless 'me',
Lost, loveless, fearful, cruel, un-free:
That not-thing knot that I refuse to be
And am... Am not, and only dying see.
This dying borning life is always new,
And I am love and life, and I am you.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
~~~
"is it just me?"
this habitual guest,
nay, by now, alien resident,
this panting ponderous puzzlement,
so habitual, it has founded a room of its own
in a secluded space
upon mine own, contested Temple Mount
oft it strolls about the premises of me,
arm-in-arm with his pernicious cousin,
a fellow imploding interrogatory,
"what if?"
these thigh-slapping cacklers both, living off in the hollows
of the doubtful spaces they create,
cozy, corner-bounded criers, walk-abouters in thine recesses hidden
today, just one more inflection point in this man's life,
of which your are a welcomed observer,
and if but ******
then let it be of thy own self,
for well imagine we, this pesky pairing,
that never venture far or away from their companionship
of any of us
friends of friends
I have no answer for either torturous query,
this answer, unsurprising and well expected,
for these visitors from a planet pernicious,
are astronomer-logged in your own constellation,
the dimmed light they shed, sheds no light at all,
having arrived light years after they were first posed
how can I counsel thee, that their risky business
should be routine dispatched fast away to another galaxy,
for here I am failing and flailing, well into my ending years,
yet waking once more in bed,
with this uncouth pair today,
haunting mine well worn, well trod paths
*have you no guidance, no solvable words to defer
the solvable drip of doubt with which they tint our souls?*
the only defense I am aware,
is to answer-deflect them with
yet another half-inquiry, half-commandment
that resides in the wellsprings
of thine best, supplanting them,
a goal to be,
by asking a twice-harder supposition
***how can I,
this new morning glory,
this new clean babe borning,
be a better human?***
~~~
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
think of your brain as the attic
For L.B.
where the keepsakes can be divided as follows:
A. “why the heck did I keep that”
with an inner smile,
knowing all the while,
exactly forsooth but why never forsaken,
and which commemoration is
one of your future
lady-poems-in-waiting
B. “rest here, till your first time return"
is appreciated approved appropriate;
your place at the dining table
is set, and you, a new keepsake
are the guest of honor
both old friend, and newborn
there is no riding rush to gush upwards and out
but perhaps the anti-gravity slow pull of
upward percolation
lucky are you in this,
for @4:20am.
my "attic" is the basement
and these wild-eyed creatures come
sparked and sparkling,
covered in creative juices
that like a nouveau beaujolais
must be drunk immediately
and demanding joie de vivre
this bursting Butz antic was first (ha!)
described as follows in terms
less poetical,
and more
apoplectical
*“the best don’t even flow, they fall out of ya, rough and tumbling,
screaming did ya get that, are ya keeping up,
you can be the self-editing-I need-perfection roadblock or the delivery guy,
the one with the towel and the scissors,
who brings ya
a clean new baby, and/or a veggie pizza,
which ya gonna pick?”*
alas the pizza store is shuttered
in the wee morning birth borning,
so I choose natural La-Maze method for
birthing poems,
as my only option,
so says the
poet ****** @ 4:20am on 4/20/18
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 4:49 AM UTC
All this having spanned
since a borning
is the activity of Sleeper Agent
This Agent has grown Impy
of this lively drumming of clingings
It is recognised and marked as ;
distraction
an entertainment
an irreverent viewing
A clearer work must commence
an underlying detached being
Operations within the drama life
are now operations in a training ground
All these efforts are toward Project Awake
and projected life is now secondary
though useful.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 5:09 PM UTC
engaged in
sippin’
it’s a delicacy
among all the
actions we fool
humans partake
sippin’ is of a kind,
a slower breathing,
a finery of human,
tiny steps taken,
gifting balance,
perspective
one sense
at a time
sorta a purification,
a priest anointing,
oil on a king’s head,
droplet by drop,
for that is what it makes,
takes, to be royal, patient,
wisdom of consideration
my love is royal,
parceled out like
broad wide~wet~
white wake, witnessed,
verified bu synchronized
fly~sized human eyes,
tiny impartial arbiters of
finery, the lace hand~
sewn into the delicate
fabrics of our world,
skin of our lives
sipping’
is the pace
full of grace envy,
but forget to emulate
rushing to join the
waiting frustration
of endless traffic to
meetings that blab
blah blah blah, ah,
wasting brain cells
turn to my woman,
big grin, worn in a
slow borning smile,
she
says what? as if
I’m keeping a great secret,
an angonizing revealtion for
when I slow breathe out,
in drops deliberate,
giving a pledge,
a phraseology,
I~Love~You
but taking
maybe so long
an extended ten!
whole seconds, which
to her is an eternity, earning/deserving
a punch to whichever of my arms
be nearest to her body’s
heart
while I slow laugh,
sippin’ great pleasure
from a well and proper
brimming cup of joyous,
write a small sip tribute
of an another
only love poem
Sep 24, 2024
Sep 24, 2024 at 9:21 AM UTC
I still remember the day I learned that caterpillars turn into butterflies
I thought it was so beautiful,
so releasing,
brave,
inspiring
Since then they fascinate me
I used to sit on the bench
at the park near my house
and wait
to see how many butterflies
would cross my way
Sometimes, on my way to school
I encountered cocoons
And I mourned that catterpillar,
as I should
But, mainly, I got so excited to know that now it would be able to fly
Because what was dying was that life
And what was borning was freedom
However,
Only now I found out
how much do butterflies live
And they only have two weeks
Fourteen days of freedom
If you think about it
It makes perfect sense
The butterfly is me
I've had my limited acount of liberty
But the thing is
I still remember the day I learned that caterpillars turn into butterflies
But only now, I realise
that butterflies can turn
into caterpillars too
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC
Like working out
I have to read more to get my mental juices flowing
Language is weird
Not linear
I couldn't see my past so I had to fly out the atmosphere
Imagination
Imagine, my death is near
The roses have risen but time finds its way until the end
Nothing beats a teens ambition to fit in like a trend
and LIKE LIKE LIKE LIKE LIKE
it ALL gets boring
\this got really borning my fineghsr are;nt even toucing the right lettersss anymore amshhaha
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 1:04 AM UTC
This is where it ends
Goodbye.
This in new beginning
We ran like silly girls
Us children
You and I
Silly not I not girls
Nor boys
Just silly spirits
Singing
In the dawn.
It is time you say
"I love you",
Beyond time I told you so.
This landscape we painted,
Created, new
The only thing
Made in 14 billion years...
Our uniqueness blinking
A long ago star
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 1:35 AM UTC
write, don't read
but some guy on the subway
he got up next to me
he said
write poems not letters
& it felt like a crowning and borning but my god
it still hurt like hell
nobody better know me
nobody better think they own me
I am so freakin mean
I have half a killed
so many men
this is my simple
confession
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 9:48 PM UTC