"composted" poems
A follow on poem to 'In the Sunroom (Suicide)" (1)
writ many years later...
~For MWK~
<>
A stray thought. a burring burrowing, thorny tawny:
A wish, yet to get, but vetted for each of us.
*This within, this redoubt, a contemplative oasis,
my indoor poet's nookery rookery sanctuary
each one, each is, deserves, all, one such,
a place holy filled, with lice and dirt of a life,
strained and trained for emission and transmission
of the best of the worst, and the triumphant emergent commission of
our individualized most excellent fresh best
where crumbs of apple crisp pie solidify, vanilla bean ice cream
melt offsets the oven heated warmth, and from this interactive
contrasts combative,
a poem pie reborn, newly disguised, familiar words,
yet unheard and before this very never,
went unspoken and now goes forth
svelte and unbroken
*rhymes of yore, forgot from a before, but making up the walls
of the here and now,
a sunroom to spread out the lit lights of egress and entrance,
of fire door no exits that now are chiseled closed,
lock in, lock up, and somehow, one, stills to learn from
the stilling quiet solitude.
to penetrate the prostrate kneeling grinning grief,
how to expel and spell the words
that grant
relief
visit my sunroom, though no fiction.
the sun rays *********** create the friction
of that which cannot ever be withered nor contained,
and your mouth opens wide and a poem birthed and delivered,
pastiche paste composted of truth and dreams of fiction, fine diction,
with a shrug, a smile, a satisfaction extracted extraordinary,
you garner moments of satisfaction but cloud cover returns,
and the process of sunrise exposition recommences,
and one revisits the elemental sequencing of
all the predecessor pain, but this time,
for gain, for gain,
<>
written this sabbath Saturday
12:38am EST
Sat Aug 2
2025
in the sunroom,
on Shelter Island
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 12:59 AM UTC
A tragedy miles of time away,
The anguish almost forgotten:
But pain is a stubborn stain;
Counselling never washes it away,
New love never smothers it.
Like a stubborn ****
It is always there,
Rooted in composted memories,
Finding nourishment in the briefest recollections.
The slightest trigger allowing it to briefly blossom.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
Shot a rabbit two days ago, it was a good shot taken at distance from height. The rabbit died instantly, it had been digging holes in my lawns, it had to go.
I watched it die and I had cause to ponder the death from a religious angle, where believers say we go to another place when we die?
I know where this rabbit went, he went into my vegetable garden, buried deep with all the other varmints and critters that have crossed my path.
Over the years we, (my wife and I), have turned that patch of barren volcanic ash into a wondrous source of lettuce, potatoes, onions, rhubarb, tomatoes and leek..by adding the carbonaceous remnants of not only these creatures but of composted vegetation, seaweed and selected fertilizers. We also grow the most beautiful roses and deliahs and crysanthemums you will ever come across.
And do you know...in the dark of night other little rabbits and bugs and things come out and nibble those very creations...unaware that they are completing the circle of being.
This is the true spirit of creation, as I see it, where deep in the garden, the motes of nutrition transmogrify beneficially from one entity to another, eventually, for the common good of all.
This is the basis of my belief. Feet on the ground...
What is....most definately is!
M.
Taranaki NZ
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 3:32 PM UTC
she wanted my soul
so I cut off a finger,
noting that this little pinky offering,
came from the same hand,
who, who went to the market
to buy her a love poem
all her own, because,
it was from the self same hand
that wrote:
*who, can cut a soul into pieces,
no one!
so one will still ask you,
who!
who will love you
in whole poems,
that are both past and future tensed
composite composted,
from words overly overused,
but still foolishly feeling brand new
when referencing you,
so you can believe with new fool-thinking,
this is your sole composition*
she wanted my heart,
applauded her determination,
gave her one eye to see me instead better,
so the visions she essays, to write,
like when I sit down to write
of women I’ve loved but!
they do not come from my heart pieces,
but from inside insight from of parts
that are blind to everything
but raucous untamable invisible desire
she asked me for all the world’s wisdom,
while standing on one legging,
I simply said, here I am,
telling you I’ll love you the way you requested,
if only to be loved in return
so with one eye and one leg,
you will observe, two is not more
than the sum of the parts of one love,
as I count to ten on my nine fingers
fingers that wrote of love not enough,
no matter how many he gave up
she wanted my brainiac left hemisphere,
said, sure,
the left side of me is where the baby poems
are created, and then angel-released when ready,
when needed, now that I
see you’re needy for pieces,
but still mistaken that pieces can be reconstructed into
a whole with spit and spirit
and an overarching imagination -
no!
the whole comes from only a holy place extracted
from the hole-in-one that is my entirety
give me then your utter essence,
the place of you
I, only I know exists, must exist,
but cannot touch to see
where you keep it hidden
from all the women who love you,
better than you even love yourself
if you want that, then collect it,
for it exists and lives on
in every woman that asked for nothing,
but was rewarded with more
than a thousand poems,
stored in stars, for her,
to be creamed and cleansed,
when she plucked them
from the night in the galaxy where exist
love poems, only
to she-one shone-shine
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 1:48 PM UTC
troll tooth
oger toe
flow stupid
fistful of shiny carbon lattice wilt
and a composted halo too
beautifully torn derivatives slid
from this orifice
oven timer set fer
office space wasted
noob cubed
these are exponential times we're livin in, sim
yer prolly obsolete, so tap the banner below
for more there's more
trends friend then interrogate
unfriend those has-been's for the win dim
naked lightbulbs swing from
threadbare strings faster than light plus **** too
there's ***** adorno
how right you were
this **** is almost criminal
art narcs on
the hole a' truth
so help me dog
im
the hominid
that stood up
this fiction.
slipstream hoolahoop no-show
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
i.
eyes on fire ,
i lit a match and
watched you burn
i don’t know how long i stayed
sitting down
.
ii.
when angels were still alive ,
did they look at
the clouds ,?
do they remember how they
died
?
iii.
my skin peels in the green grass —
composted , the
fence rots and the sun
shines gold ,
this is what they call
"giving back."
iv.
blue tears leak
like petals down your cheeks .
.
everyone cries with you.
//
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 9:40 PM UTC
Rejected by a few more friends
Just thrown out like the trash
I'm falling and i see no end
Expecting a big crash
They used to all give me support
They used to to have my back
And now the facts they do contort
They stabbed me in the back
I am so sad and ******* mad
Why can't they let me be
I didn't do anything bad
Yet they've abandoned me
Bad enough that i was ghosted
And left without my group
Now I'm left to be composted
While trying to recoup
They used to like my company
They used to sing my praise
Now most of them won't talk to me
Alone in my malaise
I keep losing so many friend
Forgotten, lost in time
I really wish this **** would end
But ghosted one more time.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 1:46 AM UTC
She dreams in
wild green vines
that coddle and comfort
until they choke.
Her beautiful intent
grows so wickedly and ends
brown, withered, and withdrawn—
rotted roots that no longer
hold promise.
Not even a silent one
for the sun that once
kept her alive.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
Children in lust.
Riding rhythms with their stilt limbs
throwing their bodies
in a manner belonging to the young.
Youth clouds the mind
it rains out its brilliance
in the form of something
opposed from both ends.
They attach blinders to their offspring
narrowing the vision.
They pluck dreams
like nourishment from a tree.
Composted into “usefulness”
the children remain,
stubbornly concealed within
hiding in shadows.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 11:21 PM UTC
At the time as the leaves turned colour
a hushed slither of an acquaintance
brushed by as Autumn rising.
Healing beneath his tongue
He tasted Marchpane again .
Dazed by the impending changes,
temporarily taking stock.
At the time as the wind stood still
he found his trusted keys
for his Autumnal hut
and opening its door
he felt a rush for those
composted stored Tubers and rare cuttings
as they awaited his thoughts
an outpouring
his selection an inspired command.......
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
Interesting that we older men now flag our own decline
Composted in this shameful ruse enacted over time.
We point to prime examples of our keynote men of age
De Niro, Keitel, Clooney, Hurt…all class acts, on the stage.
Take Clarkson, Rush, O’Toole and Bean…they brim like vintage wine,
Having come to terms with baldness and the sagging paunch decline.
Like them, we’ve learned the lesson of absurdity of life,
Where the trick to aged contentedness, is to pacify the wife.
An awareness of fragility in that pending death is near,
Is offset by the peace of mind of subdued *** and beer.
We say, to Hell with gradual fade of hairline, health and wealth
When a crystal glass of single malt can smooth it all by stealth.
So quell the racing, thudding heart, lean back in wisdom’s shine,
Secure in that with shaky hand…We can still quaff vintage wine.
And should the youth lose patience with a hesitancy there
We can usually still their arrogance with a knowing senior stare,
And should there be a question of a competency still?
Remind them their tomorrow too.. is running fast downhill.
Don’t sweat it with the walker, for it all arrives too soon
And sweetly on the wireless there was Perry Como’s croon,
Take comfort in the fact that soon they’ll put us out to grass
When oblivion comes creeping in Altzheimers foggy clasp.
To tabulate the good and bad within this lifetime’s span
Leaves the negatives predominant, should truth reveal her hand,
It becomes a bit obsessive when the mind’s allowed to dwell
For around the corner, probably, …. is a one way trip to Hell.
M.
Pukehana Paradise
Auckland NZ
May 7 2014
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
my work sprouts from the simplest indeterminate sense
depicting more than verge death organisms
freshly ground expectations are composted alongside considered
traditions
allowing our vigorous grip of normalcy to disperse
changing infancy energy into visceral landscapes of amplified color
a falling into rest
where we can blossom into our own embodied environments
Nov 5, 2020
Nov 5, 2020 at 7:30 PM UTC
too far gone, his mind filled with a fungus that contorted poetic verses to bold lines and symphonies of sobs, he realized his mind could never be composted: used, created into something better. he realized that it would decompose to a frail carcass of what he used to be and the vultures of society could pick out all of the bones of what he'd hoped to become.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
I'm so sure
there is a world out there
for me, in which
you are not the sole light source,
or the green leafy gaps
in the trees. Where
the composted earth-
warm and crumbled
under my feet- is not
you. A place
where you do not live
in the foam
on the ocean waves
or in the hollow of the conch
shells.
It's a 4AM start
on the sofa, still drunk
and heading to bed.
And you're there,
in the hallway.
So I rub my eyes and know
you'll be gone when
I take down
my hands.
I press my fingers into the sockets
and say
"I miss you"
I can smell you as if you're there
keep my eyes closed for two more
minutes, breathing.
Then I let go
and go to bed.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
my words aimed down the scope as heated blankets feel more like frostbite when hurriedly fired.
what if benevolence is not an adequate source of heat when the power lines topple?
when these ideas run rampant, they are an uncontrollable current-
a social trend picking at gnarled vines of dead skin,
a pair of open eyelids constantly looking at the only two pictures of you still saved on the cloud-
the remnants of your sapphire eyelids cutting my brick femurs like passive ash.
what if my words immortalized your fluttering agility-
a glass universally unbreakable?
what if the punctuation composted your faith like fresh coffee grounds in a drought-stricken garden?
would you aim once more,
or would the circuit breaker gather dust?
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 12:00 AM UTC
We play with minds
but the mind plays us
don't use it enough
only when convenient
or when it's too late
when we've been suckered
bamboozled into thinking
too much about nothing
The only reason you are here
is to be composted
Recycled into something
that will in all hopes last forever...
Oct 8, 2020
Oct 8, 2020 at 12:55 AM UTC
while driving up the coast on rt. 101 the other day
i happened to look out of the passenger window
and saw this
weird
patch of sea
that was -still- and utterly
p l a c i d.
ebb and flow had become
static nebula mirror,
penetrating the
apparent
blue sky lie; and my sad looking eyes,
were, now, less observing:
looking through
g l a s s melt
and: my rotted heart composted forth
the most beautiful lilies wi l t ing;
its petals falling
upward
into the glinting red circle circled in the mirror below it.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 4:59 PM UTC
Moving Home during a monsoon
Summers turns to Autumn for advice
Stuff begins to Fall
Sinking into the season,
We break up
Another winter heart break
Gets composted slow roasting
Fertile for Spring
Unless I keep adding waste to the pile...
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 2:11 PM UTC
Putting pieces of books together
Hidden messages between pages of composted life
Last poem, his greatest work
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC