"concision" poems
~for L3igh~
the briefness of brevity,
the quality of giving
and indeed, it is a-quality,
a luxury item so affordable,
yet, so totally, rarely purchased,
When
giving up the
requisite,
only the lonely, but
always the critical,
relevant or necessary
exquisite
in a few words
Let us practice:
I love you,
but only the very
first time, in a memory
bronzed and burnished,
putting to shame the way
too short modesty of
forever…
uttering a precious
precision of a soulful
thank you
to a passing
stranger, who runs
into your home afire,
saving all of your
family's lives
could go on, and on,
But that would not be,
A Concision,
instead,
a concession, to the
very few times in a day,
in the world's entirety,
when those are the words,
are only the only,
a sufficient holy,
a devout summary
spectacular,
akin, but only a
just, derivative of,
a sincerely uttered:
Thank You God^
nml
Oct 5, 2025
Oct 5, 2025 at 8:02 AM UTC
Subdued and seduced by sounds so sultry
floating with fantastic phonetic finesse
vibrant voices vehicled via visages
the magical message making me a mess
each seconds surrenders me speechless
praying for the process of progress
kissing, caressing, conspire in concision
affection and adoration an admirable ambition
Subdued and seduced by sounds so sultry
floating with fantastic phonetic finesse
vibrant voices vehicled via visages
the magical message making me a mess
beautiful belles becoming begrime
rendered ready by my written rhyme
won with wonderfully whispered wit
foment flattery in a fanatic fit
Subdued and seduced by sounds so sultry
floating with fantastic phonetic finesse
vibrant voices vehicled via visages
the magical message making me a mess
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 5:39 PM UTC
I’m a Barbie girl
in a Barbie world.
Life’s fantastic! I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an 18-inch waist
because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
a neck so slender I have to choose
between eating and breathing;
there’s not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a 38-inch bust and
3-times the average amount of forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine shoe squeezed to a three,
spending three to nine avoiding meal time
because my weight-loss book says,
“Don’t eat.”
I’m a Barbie girl,
in a Barbie world.
Life’s fantastic, but I’m
not plastic.
Bile tastes all too organic,
its taste chasing after me
if I exceed my daily nutritional limit of
2,000 calories.
I’m skinny enough that people think I’m healthy.
I’m not skinny enough for people to think I’m unhealthy.
Anorexia is as familiar as the back of my hand,
poised like a gun to the back of my throat,
waiting and ready to blow.
I’m a sixteen-year-old suicide case,
product of the war of production,
wearing battle wounds in the form of uniform lines
across the tops of my thighs.
I’ve been rewriting this poem since its conception.
I feel like the rough draft: concision is key.
(Be smaller.)
I’m trying rewriting,
trying to leave out things that aren’t
important enough, like:
four of my ribs
and my esophagus
and my stomach
and my small intestine.
I’m testing the limits of realism.
But here’s the thing:
I’m a real girl
in a real world.
Life’s not always fantastic,
but I am not plastic.
I am not plastic.
I refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range
based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
eating and breathing
like both are vital aspects to living.
I refuse to be plastic,
an actual hip-to-bust ratio
for not a thirty-year-old but a teenager.
I refuse to be plastic,
shoe size nine in size nine shoes,
trying to start enjoying mealtimes
because my “weight-loss book”
has been chucked down the chute.
I’m a living girl
in a terrifying world,
trying to remind myself that “Life in Plastic!”
is not fantastic.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 8:00 PM UTC
take some time to count, to verb
some syllables for some wrecked
page. a Lostman's book in ****
tered thought; nature, and death,
and sole body. then, when she talked
about her better years as those of
drug-induced past-life. younger than
yesterday kinda years. that which finds
metronome slowing, the Universe energy
vibrating weaker while growth found in
apathy, and solid death of purposeful
movement.
then a shot,
that moment to break from wretched self-
criticism -- that post-idyllic criticism --
that which hinders forward movement.
the shot,
which finds contentedness thru some
repetitious mentality . .
[lost it]
. . repetitious fallacy?
[got it]
let's leave some break for transmigration
in thought to prelude of forward movement.
understanding now is not enough; but
agreement in hast. but dissolution to that self-
efface hit rapid. brought back, her thought
of the younger than yesterday years; now,
now is the greatest point of any a count-
less past-life. from them, no matter a sweating
season, the Long Dark, or the cycle-seasons,
all is now. and never
did she or i talk of the past again.
our foci, [one second]
drawn to point of second and next second upon
following and on for another. now, shivery
wine-drunk, reminiscent of tiny furnace and
woolen blanket apartment. that now,
that was true striving of second successful ***** Den.
a great thought downfall; she's been long gone.
[next second now]
she complained of the wind. her eyes were freezing,
she said; her life has begun to bore her, she said.
we moved to playground and climbed in the
slide; a nice dampening. cold plastic barely felt for
her. this Long Dark, and in it, an always fleeting
warmth. [break
to **** for concision in thought]
now then, a diner, of course this face is known. they also
know a companion vacant. asked of, pleasant enough;
responded, well enough.
[disheartened, well enough]
and then, wholly intrinsic with a blasphemous self-
Oralee while passing time trying to think. unable,
if only for sole point of trying. and epochs worth,
thought and gone; now compulsive, now unres-
ponsive, now chewing lips because they're part gum.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:58 AM UTC
You - Fulgurite
Embalmed fusion
Amorphous plasma promenade
Molten concision
Peregrinate branches groping ambient orbs
Sabulous composition smoothed by bolt of lightning
Ubiquitous – infinitesimal – sublime
Atmospheric timbre brandished in your wake
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
“but you are too old for apprehension.” her
voice had sounded so, and of this one’s voice,
‘you are never too old for wariness of
an unknown.’ responded astute, drunk
on logic. returned was breathless thought
to the void, filling emptiness with irony.
(oxymoron) and weened the way thru,
concision turned derision with repetitious
definitions that found no actual meaning.
all thought without justification and no
thought with classification. words,
actions, wailing:
empty, empty, empty
then existed less and less from want
of purpose. less and less from interest of
the known; this once forged fear of life. and
with impressive derangement, grabbing at the
only sober keychain. they, with twitching vesper eyes,
their hands jit’ for a false-meeting fix. to nix
the nihilism. and:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
words of this one’s voice. of her’s, “thank
god you’re alive.” from those days, when rains
ranted down, and the trains tripped us out.
those days of our wood’s reclaimed trailer. and
each syllable was never thought to be anything
until aged eyes ached for review those epochs
of breath. but:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
voiced in response to a romanticized thought. and
all epochs lingered upon are no more than a
journal of the winds that blew while we were present.
some diary of listless lust left undated. of the woods, of
a reiterate span in once anonymized transience. and falling
back, thumbing pages for proof of experiences passed into
skewered memory. left are three lines, ill-verbed, to represent
an entirety of past lives. of time once present in yellow-lit
motel room, of apocalyphic musings, and veering prophets
of doom. they, turned sincere apocalyphites. their prayers
writ boldfaced, platitudinous, in concern of endless words
restating – in constant rephrasing:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
but they just kept goin’ on without concern for the dawn.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
I use short words
to show how
smart small
is.
It is not
more that is
less.
But less
that can say
more
than most.
Large words
are nice
at times.
But we all
need some
chop and stop
to spice up
Our lives.
Change is all there is.
Move, Shake, Run, Jump.
All short.
All fast.
All key.
Stay strong,
bare it all.
Do not be
scared to leap
for fear of
death.
Be scared to leap
for fear of how
high you will
soar.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
*To hold a scalpel
Above the gossamer ribbon
That is the equator
And create two halves
Of a mottled looking orange*
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 11:18 PM UTC
this is the verb that we declare must stand
for place and season taken out of time
by our decision rendered full sublime
by simplest action of creative hand
uttered each morning by serene command
the sound itself is richer than each chime
of golden bells tuned to a perfect prime
while the symbolic meaning is so grand
all that we say can be reduced to this
concision of significance and sound
where every symbol strains into the light
yet not a thing is here that we could miss
even if we retreat to harder ground
since we have turned our backs upon the night
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 2:27 PM UTC
Art is working within a frame. Knowing and exploring that frame, using contrast, drawing attention across the field.
It’s an extension of language. Which is metaphor. The default art of language is the frame we operate from within. The words we collect along the way, to place along the veritable canvas of open air.
You need the frame to create context, but it’s also limiting. And it’s only when we understand where our context collides with other broader or more pervasive contexts that we can reconstruct our frame. Transcend it, and paint a newer, more comprehensive picture within a newer, more robust, frame.
So how big should your canvas be. Smaller frames require concision. Bigger frames allow more expansive exploration.
One would think, by those descriptions alone that a larger canvas is better, but it also requires more discipline. We can easily lose ourselves in the expanse and be left with nothing but irreducible chaos. Jungle. Space. Ocean. Not because these expanses are truly irreducible, but because we haven’t developed enough to place any kind of conceptual frame around them. We can’t place them into a useful metaphorical context, besides pointing into the void and reveling in its mystery. Dreaming up monsters or messiahs that only reflect our fears and ignorance.
But this isn’t a canvas it’s a concept and it’s hopefully a clear description of why overconfidence in our understanding can lead us to creating a frame larger than we can effectively navigate. Painting ourselves into the void, swallowed by reflections of our own shortcomings.
It’s not pessimism.
Each person is a natural artist gifted with the capacity for communication and supreme adaptation. Very fortuitous developments compared to say; ******* ants out of a tunnel with an incredibly well adapted snout, or establishing mate worthy dominance by bludgeoning a competing male with large outcroppings of bone. Music, written word, spoken language these are the result of our creativity. Our propensity to shift the scope of our picture. Capture understanding from depth by reducing it.
Language only has the frames we construct within it. We must place the borders around our picture somewhere, and playing within each arbitrary space is what creativity is. The self limited but transcendental use of ones space or time.
Jan 17, 2020
Jan 17, 2020 at 8:01 PM UTC
I wish I could think of
the right way to say
I love you...
It's like there's no possibility.
My vocabulary is far too limited
The love I feel is far too complex
And I am far too unimaginative
to give you something that hasn't been
Said a million times.
you would certainly find a way -
youve always been fantastic at words
and i wish i could borrow
some of your genius...
Every combination
Every language
Every time I try
I can't figure it out
You have made me feel like...
Like the solar system revolves around me
Like death could never take my life
Like I know the Name of the wind
... no ... i can do better
i want to keep trying
i need to keep trying because
if i cant figure it out
im going to implode
You deserve a special
I love you.
something to mimic the special
you make me feel every day
i yearn to give you that
so bear with me while i paint you
a written picture instead and
hope it can convey some semblance of
i love you:
------------------------------------------------------------
You are a city.
And that city, in my head,
Looks a little like... well
it's under constant construction, the
scaffolding where you expand
the buildings - your knowledge.
and despite what you might think
it's a comforting presence
between them run roads, so many intersections
all leading to different interests
but those streets have potholes - your past
experiences - and there isn't enough tar in the world to fill them.
not that it matters, because your traffic never stops and the
streets are never still; potholes and all
zipping around on those roads are cars
that get you from point A to point B - your responsibilities,
when you really need to stop for gas. it's admirable
how dedicated to those pit stops you are, and
that you still really love driving
fortunately, despite pollution - the toxicity dumped
by other people - your city is still eco-friendly. you wanted
fresh air, so on each building you install solar panels - you
never sit back and let people ruin the world
so people sit on their porches and listen to music you pipe
through the city streets, via loudspeakers you installed
because you want people to enjoy themselves - and they
absolutely love it. they show their appreciation through
smiles and laughter. how could they not? nothing can compare
In your city
I want to be a window washer
a maintenance woman
a taxi driver
a gas station attendee
an ecologist
a musician
I want to be someone involved with all you are.
You're a constant inspiration
So call me selfish, but I relish just being around you
And lavish that I get to be special to you
You deserve more than these simple three words
but for the sake of concision - your favorite, I know -
I'll simply say
I love you
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 12:44 AM UTC
The brevity of your love & the feelings you showed me were things i aspire.
The concision of us, i was not partial to; but the moments in between were perfect.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
charismatic entity
surface-bubbling neuroses
predatory instincts
raging waves of testosterone
mating season appeal
appealing seasonal wear
a modest yet expansive vocabulary
sweaters
courtship through concision of energies
two quiet folks talking about books careful not to reveal too much
text-related anxiety
tapestry of borrowed motifs
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 2:02 AM UTC
*higher crimes and misdemeanors,
the accusations are long and detailed
just like the poems I write
the sentencing, sneeringly sententious and luridly sensational,
your vocabulary confiscated
and imposed upon you a concision (ouch)
write only poetic-succinctly
when I cried out from the dock,
“innocent!
the words own me, not I them,”
the words, my jurors, snickered,
the fix was in,
and the sentence of hard labor,
a bad rap time indeterminate,
spent in a cruel and unusual
panopticon,
a punishment to fit the crime
no, won’t tell you what it means,
a private verbalist’s hell
Jul 4, 2019
Jul 4, 2019 at 7:03 AM UTC
a product of his instinct,
why use
ten when
two will do,
and the ratio is increasingly
progressive!
**"lovely intimacy between poet and muse here,
like an old friendship-made of fatigue and faith"^**
the only reason why my hair,
yet intact,
despite old age's creep
in every other elsewhere,
although
Gibson's, his sixteen,
a superior concision
of my endless, repetitive iterations,
his literatation
nonetheless
is an insufficient
to cures what ills me…
to calm my heart, soothe my dreams ,
would render 99 of mine 100 muses,
and all your voices
ungainly unemployable
worsen yet,
the disheartening palpitations
that shake n' bake my very core,
them those demons too,
the contrapuntal hidden forces
that rue my brain,
well hell!
poet complains!exclaims!
for when the muses sleep,
these devils roam, they creep,
never permitting an easy sleep,
and instead of poems,
they give me forth in
groans and moans,
the unintelligible reverse of
my ever~faithful muses's intimacy,
the un~cooing of our pleasure,
for
when rhymes dewdrop^^
from the insertions from heaven's eyes,
and then when,
you and I
together embrace,
the harmony of spirit
that a poem
makes writer and reader
sharers,
the calm shaking
of hearts well tickled,
laughingly ratified,
and even momentarily
satiated and satisfied
is our
now combinatorial
esprit de corps^^^
~'~'''~~
just a wee ditzy ditty that
fell onto a screen
when reviewing
my silly but
true and utter faithful muses's^^^^
utterances,
in being be tweening
the quickest ten minutes
of my ridiculous life
<nml>
10/6 no tricks 2025
3:10am ~3:20am
~~~
and
now let the real,
hard-work of handiwork ahead,
of writing
something akin
to a psalm, a prayer,
a train of quatrains,
a hiya to haikus,
a ballad to bellow,
you know,
that serious stuffing
that leaves us both
😢aweeping😪
with the unadulterated
purest of joy
Oct 6, 2025
Oct 6, 2025 at 3:50 AM UTC
My magic ray of Heaven
For eternity devote
To the plight of glorious light
Which spreads in beams and motes
He sauntered in to vision
An unusual hue
Messages succinct, concision
Was medium of gods word true
He works for shiva, not Abraham
So don't get all confused
It's a pluralist democracy of souls
In heaven, towards which I cruised
He complemented poetry
Which I had, amused, written
He called me literary kitten
Of which he was most smitten!
How could I resist that charm
Tis becoming to a babe
Not all the dark could sully him
Nor ravages of age
Those who will him harm
Will only create their own decay
Watch us fly, in enchanted sky
As we weave and wend in brighter day
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 8:31 PM UTC