"conceding" poems
I
To-night, a first movement, a pulse,
As if the rain in bogland gathered head
To slip and flood: a bog-burst,
A **** breaking open the ferny bed.
Your back is a firm line of eastern coast
And arms and legs are thrown
Beyond your gradual hills. I caress
The heaving province where our past has grown.
I am the tall kingdom over your shoulder
That you would neither cajole nor ignore.
Conquest is a lie. I grow older
Conceding your half-independent shore
Within whose borders now my legacy
Culminates inexorably.
II
And I am still imperially
Male, leaving you with pain,
The rending process in the colony,
The battering ram, the boom burst from within.
The act sprouted an obsinate fifth column
Whose stance is growing unilateral.
His heart beneath your heart is a wardrum
Mustering force. His parasitical
And ignorant little fists already
Beat at your borders and I know they're cocked
At me across the water. No treaty
I foresee will salve completely your tracked
And stretchmarked body, the big pain
That leaves you raw, like opened ground, again
4.6k
Raindrops part with lover's walk
beneath the dreary skies.
A secret shared of our desires
the bond between the eyes.
Fingers clasped with racing hearts
their footsteps briefly pause.
He turns and gentle lifts her face,
a breath, he deeply draws.
He speaks to her of love so deep
which time cannot affect.
The only union of its kind
no mortal can deject.
And since the test of time has passed
conceding, she reveals.
Her soul is ever bound to his
and through a kiss conceals.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 12:48 AM UTC
Night flower blossoming
Beneath the summer sky
Petal parasols unfurling
Throughout June and July
She was born under the moon
Nocturnal butterfly
Pollinated by pale moths
To live one day then die
Moonflower blooms in warmth
Her short season’s end nigh
Shriveling once the frost sets in
And conceding to the ice
Moonblossom rich in scent
A true pleasure to stand by
Her short-lived sweet fragrance
Would all surely vivify
Mar 1, 2021
Mar 1, 2021 at 5:43 AM UTC
to sit across from you, conceding
thoughts
sprinkled with cookies of a rare chocolate chip type
looking on
as you take a last bite
and time
jealousy strikes the clock
-we must move on-
Yet I cannot deny
an Ode to that little piece
hated and adored at once
that one piece that soft
so quietly crumbled
from your lips
without reaching mine
sweetness tasted
of an imagined first kiss
in the flight of thought
and time
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 2:35 PM UTC
~and for Harlan, who loved this one best~
*"for tandem is the ever-changing, graying color of their fierce attached tenacity"
waking/walking in
careful pacing regular lock steps,
like new cadets, counting cadence,
in perfect silent, almost motionless,
except for the minuscule quivering of
slightly parted moving lips
these two elders,
still now plebes,
freshmen
but of a latter, graduated stage,
demonstrating robustly
the slow shuffle-along,
a well practiced dance conjured
'in tandem'
her arm, crooked in his,
his other hand,
in protective custody of a
knight's armored chain glove
encasing hers,
he, shuffling just,
a precise, intended half-a-beat slower
lest she ever think
that she, ever be a drag upon him
hair, his,
threaded with daily,
new arriving grays,
proudly accepted
as the privilege of
graceful aging
hers,
disguised with periodic outings,
outings for the hidings of life's bookmarks,
conceding nothing ever to
time's lunatic desire to separate them
modest in dress,
styling hints of pasts' elegant,
the man's hat defiant,
daringly jaunty angled,
a small scarf to handbag knotted,
matching his Windsor knotted tie
the passers-by, all smile,
the signal charm of an
end game processional,
thinking so sweet,
yet mine eyes detect more,
something
hardy and radical
a fierce, fierce fierceness,
both fighters in the resistance,
armed with tandem tenacity,
ground given,
but only inches surrendered,
wounds resisted by
scar skin toughened
by the caress of ions bonding
under the pressure
of atomic level mutuality
worn out,
well past Purple Hearts,
no capitulation feared,
to the ever changing,
enemies' new disguises,
they,
a two person platoon,
each,
having the other's back
and I burst into tears on the street,
a train of out loud moans,
even groans emitted,
like a string of perfect pearls
breaking,
clattering on an asphalt terrain
weeping
not
from visions of the inevitable,
sighing
not
from the certitude of a
cycle's uptime ending*
but jealous furious by this reminder delightful,
angry at myself, for having lost so many wasted years,
mine, the loss greatest, for absent was the
fierce tenacity of tandem
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 8:41 PM UTC
It's not about going back
to the start.
It should be about
pausing,
rewinding
and going back to a point
where things made sense.
It's about understanding
why they mattered then.
And think if they still do.
If acceptance is
securing personal victory
by conceding,
then I accept.
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 9:26 AM UTC
Our world was built to control us impeding our ability to thrive,
induced into a system designed for wealth, power, and lies.
Most of us end up broken enslaved for what little we have,
the enemy divides our family as we follow another false flag.
A price is paid for not conceding to an affirmation worth repeating,
as our minds are all but defeated our souls are lost in a hidden war.
History repeats itself as we are kept under control,
when we accept defeat, we allow the enemy to grow.
I was a victim just like you as degenerates overtook my home,
life in the wake of calamity, cast on a pile of innocent bones.
I am not the one you want to convene because I question everything,
I am just a voice of honesty who was finally set free.
Who finally broke through the construct of lies,
the lies we were taught to believe in the construct of humanity.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
We are not the voice to elect a king
We are anonymous
I am not the one you want to convene because I question everything
I am just a voice of honesty as degenerates overtake my home
Life in the wake of calamity cast on a pile of bones
It’s the new order of the ages, welcome to the end of days
The beast controls our lives impeding our ability to thrive
induced into a system designed for wealth, power, and lies
A price is paid for not conceding to an affirmation worth repeating
as I join the enlightened ones and wage a massive war
A circularity that deviates from its path is not a circle anymore
They will invoke internal and external threats
then establish many secret prisons
Slowly restricting the freedom of the
Press while surveying ordinary citizens
Chem-trails from government jets
will be dismissed as urban legends
Mandatory vaccinations
designed to lower urban intelligence
Radio-frequency identification chips
mandatory for men, women, and children
Man-made global pandemics
separated for segregated sterilization
Espionage becomes the new word for criticism
And dissent will be the new word for treason
In the name of self-preservation
they will subvert the rule of law
We are broken beyond repair, slaves for all we have
As they divide our families, we ignore another false flag
As history repeats, we are kept under control
But we are not the voices to elect a king
because we are anonymous
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 4:07 AM UTC
#
*There is a love, deeply embedded into
fear's reverence.. and what we fear most,
is the threat of annihilation.. yet, is not
that, which is within the deep hooks of
annihilation's looming leer, that which
is also the very seeds sown-- giving way
to the very firstfruits of Life-Anew..
within itself?
So then, is not death's very fear,
in itself, a conceding to the inevitability
of Love's unfolding conquer?
The condemnation-shadow, so unfairly
placed into you, at such a tender
young age, has run amok for so many
unrestrained years within your beautiful
spirit, and body.. is no longer
an end-all..
or catch-all,
But is now, but a spring-board; albeit,
fear-driven.. into that (finally, Beautiful-one)
which brings Life.. directly out of death--
Not with the annihilation of the very Death..
(which gave you Magic) but through its own,
very power to draw us towards Love,
through its own, very fear (respect) of that Love..
does not then, death.. through Love, become upheld?
So how then can the condemnation within you, be bad
except that it be allowed to, for life.. keep you
hidden in shadow? Is not then Love's Light, the
very thing that creates Shadow's, shadow, therefore
exposing Shadow's nature by bringing forth,
its own shadow.. leaving the vulnerable rawness of
condemnation, exposed..
Hence, the horrendous sting of Love's truth.. yet also,
through the Faith-increasing training of experience alone,
is the strengthening into resilience the beautiful, war-torn
Spirit that has become able to begin to finally.. take in, Love.
This is where you are now at, beautiful girl. While under
condemnation's death-hold, you have hated me for so long
that the love.. mixed with fear.. became its own natural
concession into Life, itself-- giving way to the Magical
falling-off of the scales that have covered those beautiful
eyes of yours for so long
Bring your Death, beautiful-one. Through your Faith, it is
established.. and then made, Complete. The giftedness, borne
from the deep, catacombs of Death's Unholy Hold, come forth
in fullness.. into fruition.. as you pass from Death, into Life--
right here.. in the land of the Living.
The Death you have known, does not fall off at the gate
as you pass through it.. but instead, through the newness
of your beautiful eye's, Life View.. Death's previous Unholiness
becomes instantly, Holy.
I am in love with the death that is in you. From its hold,
were born every Magical gift that I love so much, in you..
and while in your presence.. will forever
take my breath away.
Welcome to my life, Beautiful one.*
#
Nov 4, 2021
Nov 4, 2021 at 10:00 PM UTC
Who’s to say how
He might come back for a second
inhumanely heaped-up helping,
if we grant that immensity
of our assumption He did come
kingly first into this inside-
out size from a do-you-miss-me-
yet’s mirthfully mythical realm
I have seen Him
lurking in a particle-board fine
finish on the thin outer membranes
of our estranged and better faces;
He’s Higgs-boson omnipresent,
but far too theoretical
for our broadly practical, turned-
away gazes to rediscover
There He is now
rising in the favela’s gap-
toothed grins with fabulously naughty
corners this glee-pawed grandpa twists
using cur jests his ***** charges
imagine as flightless quarrels
grey-hooded pigeons would gaggle
were they over-stuffed on golden grain
And there again
on a Calcutta mound’s cluttered
conic end, smog-like He slowly lifts
with the crust-gnawed, razor-wire crimps
of a soup-can’s unconsummated lid
as dainty fingers crawl in toward
a gelatinous glob still clinging
to the powerful pretense it’s meat
And there once more,
conceding oms, He restless flickers
at the margins of blocky beige
Beijing screens as crisply clicked clacks
circumnavigate the darkling
smooth patches and spit-spark a few
conscious drips to squiggle out from
the babble of noxious red seas
Emerged, this welp
won’t toddle off to dribble-stain
the dressy linens of a made-up
nanny’s well-mannered and ornate
evil; it will curl up instead,
a swaddled yawn with no yearn to
suckle under His real mother’s
gaping wide and grungy bloused best
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 11:04 AM UTC
after Alexandra Leaving, a song by Leonard Cohen
<>
to go where?
to a city self-consuming in madness,
giving every excuse to stay, and yet,
it came to me just now when the poet
must be leaving his redoubt, with doubt,
and return to the concrete and anomie
of a different kind of splendid isolation
when the last leaf meanders slow down
to the battlefield, and the falling terminado,
and the tree branches are stick figures, each
finger pointing skyward in an j’accusing manner,
accussing & conceding defeat, begging for mercy,
their pleadings too much for me to bare and bury
when green has been wiped clean, and deleted
from the dictionary of colors, my moth eaten soul,
can no longer be granted a stay of execution by
merely looking at the landscape and seascape
to admire their friendly contrasting schemes,
their installation in me of the awe of a visual
quietude, that was an astonishing injection
not truly appreciated till now, too late and
still early, the awe colorations of nature’s vibrancy
The gods have come, my soul hoisted upon their
broad shoulders, the dead-appearing tree branches
can no longer keep their poet safe, hold him back from
meeting his fate; now, he too is a leaving but
floating upward, unlike like the fallen crowds that have
come to rest upon the soil that born them, now to be buried,
all saying: Goodbye Island Poet leaving,
Island Poet
has no poem, no good understanding, no vision,
had no plan, no foresight, only a hope against hope,
that safety was/is not seasonal, Van Morrison reminds,
“These are the days of endless summer,”are memories,
to be held onto tightly, until when if I pass muster, angels
will return to my island abode, where my natural friends
will greet me again, with a flowering and new births,
and The Island Poet can once again revel in ideas in words like
future, sanity, when boarding the ferry with a one way ticket smile.
Sep 2, 2024
Sep 2, 2024 at 2:23 AM UTC
coffee stain memories (an aging love)
our dozen or so mugs,
all white, her color of choice,
accumulating stains of black-brown coffee
that the dishwasher poetically concedes,
a decade plus of drinking, now, oh-now,
****** and can’t be removed
the lips of some are chipped,
the lips of some are chapped,
but they remain employed
for first coffee is a demonstrable
affectation of affection that losing
would be costly
*but one of us soto voce, quietly whispers
the radical ionized idea,
shouldn’t we replace,
this should-not is an update, a cognition of
a bridge too far,
both agreeing, both conceding the symbolism,
the heart acknowledges a momentary thrombosis,
for the losing turnover is a winless loss*
messaging in and about,
an aging staining love losing
~
A no ki tov tuesday poem
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 11:40 AM UTC
*Like the sin of lust, greed, is a need,
however unlike my need for you
greed turns my desire for your touch
your kiss, your caress to lust, to a greed of more.
Lust and greed are twins in the land of sin.
Sins of excess.
Rapacious, covetous, guaranteed to
succeed in tricking you into conceding them as a need.
Dante's, penitents were bound and laid face down on the ground.
Perhaps my greed of you exceeds the sin itself,
inordinate desire feeds my greed, that in turn
changes to lust*
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
**Topsy and Turvy, hassled and harried
jostled among a jungle of jumble,
so busy they beavered, in search of a bauble
upon all the shelves, so deftly they delved,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.
They ambled and rambled, so giddy they gambolled
and sought for that trivial trinket or trifle,
they rummaged and rifled, their eagerness stifled,
through struggle, they strived, from nine until five,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.
Staunch but stressed, their zest so hard pressed
for until discovered, found and recovered,
they muttered and spluttered, and audibly uttered
within the lair of the piffling frippary,
... persuing that piece of paltry frivolity.
Now flagging, they floundered, not finding the foible
in shambles they rambled, revealing reluctance,
and ceding, conceding, they threw in the towel
on trembling, tottering knees they now tumbled,
... out of the lair, of the piffling frippary.
... ... ...**
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
All the color
Stained away
Drained AwayFrom around
My monochromatic core
Becoming an abstract memory
Spreading
In a screaming ,raging silence
All across.....
....This sad and pock marked floor
In shades of grey
I make my way ...past
The last ....ornamental
Bit of sanity
I find..... before
I slip into the mist
Of uninspired ,hard wired
Usurpers....
.....of all
That lay ahead
Where dreams die
As the ordained
Squeeze hard ..then discard
Any evidencerary consideration
Left
Beyond the veil
Of the awaiting mist
Obscurity wilting away
The ubiqitous absence
That latest wisp
Of wide appeal ...for those of us
Who allow ourselves
To be drained of all color
Amid the abstract disregard
Of who we were in our own way
Conceding to become
unhearlded
retreating ghosts
Of monochromatic grey
Unadorned bits of sanity
Saluting as we pass by
On our own ....on our way
Not even credited
With the abstract decor
Left behind us ....
On the now even sadder
Pock marked floor
As it hears the screaming ,raging silence
As it's echo fades away ,lost ,ghostly pale
Absorbed ....
By the grey mist....
..... beyond the awaiting veil !
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 5:29 AM UTC
for mine own Yocum
<>
a strange parting shot,
that we are are the refuse
upon this island Earth,
the very last item on some being's
weekly grocery list,
a list composed 'illions of years ago,
of things that could be worthy of
"creating"
this thought sticks to my soul,
like a rosé pink colored
NYC street'd, well chewed,
gum piece
adheres to my sole
the musical companion to this ecrivez,
a sinfonia for strings politely begs to differ,
while a hard covered book
dances me over to Texas,
Dudamel conducts Barber,
all making the question of
man as an afterthought
in a divine master plan for a planet,
seems almost recklessly absurdly nonsensical
then
my cell buzzes me back to this
******** hell earth
seven more cops shot, three dead
down in the bayou of Baton Rouge,
on a sabbath Sunday morning
rouge red now assumes,
takes on a different
notation colorations,
to my bleeding eyes,
delivering importations
of headaches confusion rampage,
red rage
the amplification of the worst of we,
afterthought creatures surely,
why "create a destroyer,"
an absurd contradictory term,
so we are gift wrapped
beneath the misleading approbation -
human
there is no nobility in our savagery,
or dare I sneer and say,
in our humanity
you cannot seal a wound with music
you cannot revive the dead with a poem ear-whispered
sitting beneath the tree shade
of my privileged place,
my surrounding world is
bay blue and grass green,
my vision myopic,
I am a self-centered,
microscopic collection of red cells
conceding to you Sargeant,
this designer of the human form,
who wrought it from
soiled earth and excess rib bone,
had a peculiar sense of humor,
a comedian full of
malice aforethought,
for are we not
the final joke,
for someone's bemusement
we must have come last,
because you always
want to leave them
laughing
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 6:36 PM UTC
The red orange sky
Turns to purple glass
The sun recedes
And the light does pass
Far away and beyond
The curve of the Earth
Conceding to the stars
Their nightly worth
Yet the moon is absent
Unseen on high
Missing from orbit
In the great night sky
And it has been for ages
On this long since strange world
Where once it was near
Now to the void has been hurled
Where it drifts unaware
In thoughtless still dreams
Biding infinite time
While it happily beams
For a few or great many
In distant aeons to come
Will bask in the light
That it stole from all suns
Feb 13, 2024
Feb 13, 2024 at 6:56 AM UTC
It may be demons you're fighting,
But it's angels dying.
And people like me caught in-between.
Good intentions you're laying,
But the path you are paving?
Not sure if it leads where you think.
And I 'm not saying you're wrong.
I'm not claiming I'm right.
Not conceding that there's one or the other.
I just want you to wait,
Halt your raging crusade,
Before one thing leads to another.
So caught up in the ends
That you forgo twists and bends,
And turn a blind eye to the means.
You have something to prove,
But much more to lose.
There is time: you're still green.
And while there are battles worth picking,
And wars worth pursuing,
How you fight matters just as much as who wins.
So just take a breath,
And take stock of what's left,
Before you can't turn back because you're too far in.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
I am not testifying my emotion with the poetry, I am
atoning to it.
I write about God like a friend but we
Haven't been speaking.
I confess my sins to
Whoever will play the part.
When I write about how quiet the moon has been,
I am saying I'm sorry.
My lack of honesty is writers-block.
I crave all of the hurt. I
Torture myself into unhappiness.
I have this habit of starting things I don't
Finish and they're usually letters
Bursting with nameless blame.
I shut down in the middle of
My emotions because they are too loud, I substitute
all of my connections for a painless quiet.
I am cold because it is easier than being warm,
Than getting burned, than being honest. I am cold
because it is easier than saying that
I am selfish in love. I drain, consume
devour everything that touches me and I
Don't know how to stop taking.
When I write about how I am scared that
Love and violence sound the same from an empty bed, I am saying I'm sorry.
I am not presenting my pain with the poetry,
I am conceding to it.
I can't take a pen to paper without punishing myself with the ink.
When I write about a fence with vines encasing the wood,
About neglect, about a garden full of overgrown weeds and
A cold house, I am saying
Forgive me.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 3:24 AM UTC
When all the world’s ablaze
I will hold you loosely
Loosen our tenure
Of life in qualm
In daze
Of longing
Of something better
Feel.
However pale with every yawning
Know that you are freeing
See that you are slipping
Distant
Within my reach
Finally conceding
All of life lived being
All of tumultuous jeering
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 12:32 PM UTC
Love.
It's such an easy word to scoff at.
We are born with our parents
nursing us on it.
With promises of never letting
that well run dry.
We live the rest of our lives
dedicated to finding that love in another person.
To discover that true, pure chemistry with someone.
As much as I hate to admit it
I want all of this and more.
I'm only human.
I just can't break out of this cage.
A cage built on a foundation of
ignorance, Jesus, loneliness, and hate.
That must be what a tiger feels like.
Living everyday enclosed by thick glass walls
watching everyone else live the life you want.
To be able to walk outside
with my fingers interlocked with the person I care about most
Without being stared at
Without being told it's unhealthy
Without having bibles thrown at us.
I'd ask my parents to make me free
But they'd just swallow the key
So I'd stay in there forever.
Because letting me breathe the outside air
would be conceding to what their upbringings told them.
It would be admitting that their baby boy is abnormal.
Somehow they didn't get me the memo
that I can't share my love the same way the normal people can.
That I'll never be able to feel the soft skin of my own child
or be able to hang a piece of paper on my wall
announcing my promise to keep my love forever.
You know, it's not like
I ever wanted to be in here.
I didn't choose to be trapped.
I didn't choose to have my life criticized and nitpicked.
I didn't choose to feel like a pariah.
If there was any choice involved
It certainly wouldn't be this.
I spend my life screaming
and pounding the glass
hoping people hear me but
really wanting to hit hard enough
to shatter some of the glass
and let the shards meet my skin
so I can feel something other than
guilt
shame
and embarrassment.
For now, I just stand hear
Wishing, hoping, needing
Someone to see me.
Someone to hear me.
Someone to find a key
And free me.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
always woke up with nothing to say to her
not a thing.
we slept in rooms separate,
but she would bust in on me,
occasionally, to have an occasion,
never knocking, just door pounding,
just to annoy, just to see
if I still cared, hoping to revoke
what passed for pseudo-serenity.
some times entireties
would pass
before you had the energies
to swing
your legs over the
side of the day~bed,
conceding, white flag surrendering,
losing the commencing-avoidance of
the start-of-the-day battle of
pseudo-existence.
hoping against hope
you don't meet,
hoping against hope
she doesn't say accidentally,
good morning.
so you don't have to
Lincoln~Douglas debate,
aerate, concentrate, orate,
how to answer without bitterness
intended to maim.
knowing you could not e'er possess
a good morning, day, night,
by definition, by ruling of the
gods in charge of never.
sometimes you made it out
of the apartment that had
no ingress,
only egress,
happy happy no converse.
used to go to a Barnes & Noble,
get a refillable endless Starbucks,
from open to closing.
read all day, sitting with strangers,
till my **** hurt so bad,
didn't think I could walk again.
now and then,
smiled at the ladies,
tho nothing could come of it,
nothing ever did.
she never asked me
where I egressed too.
didn't care, that was better
for sanitizing my pseudo-sanity.
came home cautiously,
door opening silently
in case I was home prematurely,
she still there.
sometimes you wake up with nothing to say
to yourself.
that is even worse,
cause the meaning clear,
breaking point is near.
have a picture of me from those days.
a cellphone photo I took myself,
of course.
serious, bearded, short haired,
red eyed, unfiltered.
Sometimes I think I will banner it,
so you can tap into a part of me
that words just cannot do injustice to,
more than was already done.
here, while composing,
I fell asleep.
tired?
maybe. maybe,
sometimes you just don't want to remember.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
My favorite poem
is the next one, yet to be,
that I shall write....
Once, I wrote:
*a flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one^*
When asked again,
I still thus answer
For everything I have ever writ,
flawed,
even if the imperfection,
minor,
the clarity, not the pristine perfect
I sought
Digging mining refining...
this process endless,
a life long condition of being
human
It is therefore and ironically godlike,
unchangingly immutable,
this, the divine spark within me,
my nizotz,
unceasingly immutable
in search of the flawless poem,
my favorite-yet-to-be, to be
my favorite poem
is the next one I shall write....
and the one there after,
until the flawless one is either created
or found, bound, full formed
or
until the inkwell empty,
the mind black blot dimmed,
the eyes yellowed-weakened,
the lips, white parched beyond repair,
whichever comes last,
conceding,
the last poem, perforce, must suffice.
Dayenu
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
parse and praise the phrase,
checkerboard fraction,
appréhendé immédiatement,
a poem title!
put aside to marinate,
stamped "will not expire,"
doing the research legwork,
**** it is a real thing!
toujours,
where the best words and titles come from,
if one listens well
romantic notions swell the chest,
all the love affairs over so many decades,
all checkerboard games
with Kings a-crowning and Queens a-moaning,
poet, no way, never planned ahead,
always lost by a fractious split,
more than a fractional loss,
losing
most triumphantly!
each lover took and left a fraction behind,
a numerator, a denominator, never a whole number,
for then there would be no poetry need
you want,
have need for
une idée fixe
whom I should be, but i could be a
multiple choice answer
a three scoop ice cream treat,
or perhaps, a mix of forty favorered flavors
a new one,
chaque coup,
why not?
our first disagreement
both of us wish to nominate the other to be the nominator
the denominator is a definition of what is the whole
because i am gracious,
foolish and less than whole
already
I concede cause I am in already in retreat,
conceding comes supernaturally nowadays,
so move me forward on the checkerboard
and triple jump me, and any way
I am pas de nom
we close today with an American
yay...
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 2:48 PM UTC
In my head again
fighting a battle
I know I can't win.
Shut down or stand up,
never good enough.
Insecurities.
Conceding no more,
hesitation gone,
I've settled the score.
Look in the mirror,
dismiss my disguise.
Fierce and Strong I rise.
Dec 1, 2019
Dec 1, 2019 at 12:18 AM UTC