"concretely" poems
fem in isms,
i imagine Sapphic eyes:
bad *** advert coruscates elite
fairness sensing slavish blind
in gestate calm affirm
in genders More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors--
O harsh judgement foiled,
as a foil, as unknown truth
foil-doubles in the brow,
abject symmetry to systemize
a fertile lack of sterile barrenness,
i am a mediatrix rend,
nirwaan, hijra wonderment aside
from transemotion's ground swells
demeaning to be understood.
i celebrate and face the same
to be what paperwork tests being
normal being, freely chosen
atom each belonging moves
an asterisk of paths
of mutate art of nature social darwin maze.
i imagine Sapphic eyes,
ginko soft they pile up all cobble
memories themselves concretely
cloistered fame
spray of salty waves,
macho screams symbol
for dismissal ease
for tearing at an inner unsaid war
with lists offense of proper taste
to what posterity intends
an undulation womblike seeming nourish safety sounds.
i imagine Sapphic eyes
past
debauched
meanderings
where hyster-clarity rejoins its titular
and reliable escapisms curl the lips
of maleness found
here and there smile sneer love
i imagine Sapphic eyes
linguistic pirouettes
congest that wisdom nonetheless
the moment passed on to a
feigning truth in pretty rhyme
ornamenting time with fine meter fine
vernacular chimes peter in
to juggle perspectival paradox,
redichotomize the twilight idols,
resolve the conflict like a dawn
Aurora,
i imagine Sapphic eyes
running plastic with Alaskan wolves,
toga floats to snow
to let us see the purest fairness form
a ****** circle,
Hypatia ascends from tenebrous grave,
Impregnable of Eye is pregnant now
with Wollstonecraft revered
in liberation's fount
families held exemplar gaze of
Taylor, ****** Cady,
Anthony resanctified
to vote entitlement's
empathic origins, waxen mold
of nascent categories,
narrow hands spread wide to panoply anew
the manifest evolve in true unknowns
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
Accomplishment
Milestones
Completion...of a step
What does it mean to be done
Is there such a thing?
Sometimes the moment of doneness passes by
Invisible
Revealed only in hindsight
Savor the moments
Of completion
Accomplishment
Being done
Even if only of this step
The best laid plans can always go awry
So celebrate along the way
Celebrate the effort
The intention
The support you receive
Doneness as you expected may never come to pass
If it does
You will more concretely see
all the steps it took to get there
Either way
We all benefit
From celebrating milestones
All the steps along the way
Whether that means dreaming an idea
Or completing a voyage
Across a sea
Intact
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 8:24 PM UTC
You ask me how I find the time,
But time is not the issue,
For they, are all prepared, needing only recognition,
For they, are all in readiness, needing only composition
I see a toddler swaying, see him to disaster lurching,
Somehow avoided with last second seer-like swerving,
Ten times in a ten foot walk across a patio,
My eyes code red at the incredible risk/reward ratio,
It is nature at it most incredible, miraculous, ordinariness
A young girl of ten wears a pocketbook across her forearm,
In the style of an elderly woman, as she plays with Barbie,
Tho her body immature, her psyche, says note my
Iconology, her accoutrement, texts a message subtly,
I am preteen, I am near woman, treat me accordingly
Dueling iPads in bed is a poem in my head,
rhymes accurate of screen reflections of an
X factor that stimulates my cerebral cortex.
Verbal ointment that I posses can't fix a flat tire,
but sets me up for a personal review, self awareness
Gone mad and with finger, on gas station floor,
In the grime, words are realized/written concretely,
what my heart speaks freely
Within each day, miracles present themselves,
Gauntlets thrown, note them well and be justified,
Visions, external to my physical self,
Yet product of internal chemical reactions
That blow through my veins, swirling,
Word leaves, on a November weekend,
Windswept from a thousand directions,
So you ask me how I find the time,
The question proper be amended,
How do the times find me,
How do I know them,
And why, do I share them
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
ginko soft they pile, strewn on cobble
memories themselves concretely devised
cloister inward, revise, revise, revise:
debauched meanderings fully marble
escapes to curl the lip, adorable
here and there, whether smile sneer incise
linguistic pirouettes or paler lies
congest that wisdom indefinable --
the moment past moves on to feigning truth
with pretty rhyme, for ornamenting time
with myths to filter in an Avalon,
juggle perspectival paradoxic ruth
with fine meter fine, vernacular chimes,
and resolve the conflict like a dawn
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 9:47 AM UTC
trapped beneath a fitted rubber sheet
a lump in the mattress
suffocating on
rancid latex sweat
and yesterday's dried fluids
who were they
the nameless in the dark
this one smelled of popcorn
that on howled in delight
a collage of senseless noise
scented by cats and Ajax
leftovers always go bad
Chuck-will's-widow
in the tree by the window
it must be after midnight
though noon looks the same
in this cage that gives just enough
to torture with possibilities
of breaking free
freedom is overrated
roses stain glass
with the bloodletting
of thorny mishaps
blurred by smeared wounds
ain't life grand
when love ceases to be a goal
how can one find what is
utterly indefinable
if it cannot be decisively named
it cannot be concretely attained
then again, love's fluidity
is its charm
no hard edges
ebbing and flowing
elusive and longing
**** me latex blind
unseen and used
by those who never did mind
a lumpy mattress
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
Sprouting from a loamy soil
a small green leaf does toil
Working its way above the earth
Stretching out, to shake off dirt
Upon arrival, does the Sun
grant it Life, it has begun
Per single word, upon a page
it's gift to Man, belies its age
It bleeds upon parchment white
and dances in the pale moon light
as the world begins to mellow
so dies the parchment, turns to yellow
Here it comes, this digital age
where mathematical genius is Mage
Electricity feeds upon our brains
Riding currents with glittered reigns
Gifting of our temporal lobe
Emotions waiting to implode
Hark, the buzz of midnight writ
behind glass screens, magically lit
are words that are concretely bound
in empty ether, rooting for ground
Soothing are the songs of Soul
that find they're way from a hole
If nothing ever comes, but Hope
Our words are but a slippery slope
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
Here is the object, the object of my heart,
With a description, let us start,
A subtle depiction, let the vague depart.
Travelling through my mind I am a seer.
I’m in love with an idea,
This idea is an untouchable spectre,
And with my intuitive detector,
I detect its origin, it’s in my soul,
But now with the desire coming in,
Coming in in bounds and flicks and one mighty roll,
I remember what the silence stole,
The silence of this concept,
And I reflect, on the reason why no answer is coming,
I must stave off this crumbling,
Crumbling of my heart, must keep it beating and drumming.
Oh why is it so unforthcoming?
Because I can’t imagine the words of another,
It would only be another word from my mind.
And I find, and I discover,
This idea is love with intricacy,
Such a delectable delicacy.
I feel it in its immediacy,
Concretely. But initially, lacking intimacy.
Where do I turn to find such a thing?
A connection beyond the cogitations,
With passionate love to bring,
A reflection of my desideration’s.
Consecrations of the heartbeats,
Longing is strong and hope never retreats.
You can do no wrong with love in your being,
That is what the world needs
For us to sow seeds,
But that’s not what I’m seeing,
I gander but do not witness,
The sprouts of love and peace,
Let’s plant them in the stillness,
And feel the release,
The seed that will grow,
Soon they will show,
And grow in emotive ways,
It never decays,
Come on now let’s increase,
All of our compassion and empathy,
We are not each other enemy.
A sudden caprice,
I feel it now and it is correct,
It’s helping me to connect.
And we need that so much more than you think,
For when we’re all gone and others remain,
The world will drink,
Our blood and our sweat and our pain.
It’s time to regain,
Our courage, let us stand tall,
And let forgiveness enthrall.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 5:59 PM UTC
Freedom is simply a façade to the fact that we are all slaves to ourselves.
Beauty is only genuine in our material creations.
Beauty is something that we have conjured in our polluted minds,
as a stepping stone for hope of something better and concretely pleasing.
Oasis’s were created to give us peace of mind from the terrors of the rest of the world,
but while we sit and admire the soft billow of the wind,
and the gentle grace displayed by the adolescent creatures that appear out of the creek,
the tornado of destruction lives on inside each and every one of our forlorn and despair ridden souls,
creating what is the rest of a fearful society,
fretting the day they carry their misery over to the realm of the next.
Benevolence is foreign.
So disperse yourself if you wish in blissful ignorance,
worrying only about the direction of the cool breeze that playfully tassels your strands,
but dare ye turn blind to the authentic substance this cruel cycle of life and existence,
understanding will never become native in your heart.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
*this feeling of emptiness,
this state of being,
isn’t a conflict between feeling dead and alive.
it’s more an ethereal, metaphysical
sensation of not really being here.
in the past two years I’ve changed identities more often
than I have had the chance to find out whether the mould fits.
I’m adaptable, for sure.
disciplining my thoughts and personalities
towards serving productive ends.
I know how to give people the me they want -
the happy, loving, family me;
the productive, efficient, smart me;
the me that’s gotten her **** together;
the me who has her life in order.
but I feel amorphous.
shapeless.
less and less
anthropomorphic.
less and less
concretely human.
as I focus on the tangible accomplishments,
on numbers and approving looks.
as I condition myself in a certain way
to succeed, I feel like I’m losing
something concretely human.
an element of constancy
in my personality, a key indicator of
concrete humanness.
it’s not that I’m spineless -
I know how
the world values the opinionated, the fiercely independent.
I just feel
faceless.
shapeless. no identity. no humanness.
no concrete indicator that
I’m actually here, in the real world.
that me existing as me - whoever she is -
counts for something.*
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 9:49 AM UTC
***You ask me how I find the time,
But time is not the issue,
For they, are all prepared, needing only recognition,
For they, are all in readiness, needing only composition***
I see a toddler swaying, see him to disaster lurching,
Somehow avoided with last second seer-like swerving,
Ten times in a ten foot walk across a pool's patio,
My eyes code red at the incredible risk/reward ratio,
It is nature at it most incredible, miraculous ordinariness
A young girl of ten wears a pocketbook across her forearm,
In the style of an elderly woman, as she plays with Barbie,
Tho her body immature, her psyche, says note my
Iconology, her accoutrement, texts a message subtly,
I am preteen, I am near woman, treat me accordingly
Dueling iPads in bed is a poem in my head,
rhymes accurate of screen reflections of an
X factor that stimulates my cerebral cortex
Verbal ointment that I posses can't fix a flat tire,
yet sets me up for a personal review, a self awareness,
Gone mad, I am, and with finger, on a gas station floor,
In the grime, words are realized/written concretely,
what my heart speaks freely
Within each day, miracles present themselves,
Gauntlets thrown, note them well and be justified,
Visions, external to my physical self,
Yet product of internal chemical reactions
That blow through my veins, swirling,
Word leaves, on a November weekend,
Windswept from a thousand directions,
***So you ask me how I find the time,
The question proper be amended,
How do the times find me,
How do I know them,
And why, do I share them***
<>
May 21, 2013
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
Unmotivated by mundane
I mirrored minds Meta-
Contrived cognition was the condition
To compose concretely the matterful agenda
Lines are only written
When stimulating inhibition
So I brewed up a prescription
To allow me a peace of mind
Branching out like a child
During the first day of school
I pondered intently a question
Already dismissed by fools
Last lucid breath lingers
Is it inception or indifference
Fitting finale or frightening fallacy
Eloquently exposed, exemption of esperance
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
If I ever have children
I’ll teach them about god
On
Family road trips
In a mini-van
With a candy wrapper carpet
And warm melted crayons
In the seats grand canyons
As the Arizona sun sets
Over the Copper State
Where you could almost swear
It was the red dusted desert
Painting the sky
Rain-less-bows of color
With broken butte brush stroke
Across the restless desert
As you twist around in your seat-belted
Body of eight years old
To the rearview window
Of an AC blasted
Softly singing stereo
Escaping out gaping windows
Leaving nothing behind
But a heatwave
Trying to settle down
Tire teased dust
For the evening stretch ahead
That you think might never end
As if god was using the road as a string
He had tied tightly to the family car
Carving the way though
Salty cactuses drinking licks of sand left by
Dirt devils dancing across the graves of
Lizards
Who pretended they didn't exist
But couldn’t fool the hawks
Who watched and waited
For more than just a lost tail
Or a forgotten story
But something clay
Concretely carved in to caves and caverns
With rock and bone
Something solid to hold on to
But my children need to know
That an existence is a slippery thing
Like the color from the buttes
As it slowly drips off the sky
And back into the sand
Leaving speckles of white
Freckling the blackness
Swirled with little
Tizzles of light
As homage to the desert moon
Whose crying stars for
Coyotes
Howling in time
To the crickets metronomic harmonies
Singing the desert back from its camouflage
Life bursting breath though
The earth cast shadows
Breathing heart beats across the land
That's just been
Brought back to living
And if I ever have children
I'll teach them
That this road will never end
At least not where we expect it to
Because god
Isn’t who
We make him to be
He
Doesn’t string us along a road
But he holds the world on a string
The End.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 12:58 PM UTC
Maybe if I defined it
I could achieve it concretely
I just want a little credit
From my own racing mind
And an OK to take a break
With out the guilty looks from inside
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
I'm a Yankee in the South
Far from where I was bo-ahn,
Th' other half of this Country stout,
But not where I'd call home.
I talk too fast and walk too fast
And speak with easy grin;
And every word that I say once
I must repeat again!
If you're black you're Black, down he-ah,
and if you're white, you're White;
I don't fit well, I'm mostly brown,
They just don't feel it's right.
I work each Sunday in the sto-ah,
I do the work of three;
Back home I went to Sunday Mass
And Godless they call me.
Godless Yank, I'm rude, I'm cold,
I started the great War -
(Not our Great War, you see, but one
that came somewhat befo-ah).
I've tried their greens, I've tried their grits,
I've had biscuits n' gravy,
Oh what I'd give for chowdah hot
Or some lobstah tasty!
I like my tea, I like it hot,
Not sickly-sweet and iced,
Brew it black and brew it strong -
No sweeter will suffice.
Well, I'm a Yankee in the South,
But I wish I'd never gone.
So in a month I'll pack me up
And home I'll be 'fore long!
I'll eat cannolli in North End,
I'll visit Fenway Pahk,
I'll watch the city glow with light
The minute it gets dahk.
I'll roam the rivers, fields and woods,
All dusted up with snow;
The northern bogs, the stony beaches,
That's what I call home!
I never should have come, I sweah,
I'll never go again;
There's plenty here to tide a girl
A hundred years and ten.
The long-sought day has dawned at last,
And now we'll sally forth,
So clear and a bit chilly, it's
A promise of the North.
We drove and drove and drove again,
And then we drove some mo-ah,
We started out at ten to six,
And now it's half-past ****
And when I'm shovelin' the snow,
Cursing potholes in the road,
I'll think of all the Southern folk
And smile at every load!
Well we're home again, we're home at last,
I won't leave anymo-ah,
I've proved without a doubt there is
Nuthin' to leave it ****
Well, I was a Yankee in the South,
It's not what I'd call nice,
And now I can concretely say
I wouldn't do it twice!
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
The loops.
Intrusion.
They permeate.
Confusion.
All the lies, they arise.
I'm advised to realize
the illusion.
I see them for exactly what they
are.
Concretely
Deceit
Disbarred from my mental radar.
you thought you had me?
ha! for a while, sure.
Now I'm reassured.
Yes it's true, you romanced me.
Entranced me - for a time.
But He has washed away your grime
from my mind.
you should walk along, forget me.
I march with a different heartbeat.
you don't fascinate me
at all.
I absolve
myself
of everything you stand for
you know what's in store.
This is war.
Mar 6, 2021
Mar 6, 2021 at 4:43 PM UTC
10 billion galaxies in the universe,
an average of 100 billion stars in each one of those.
That’s 1 billion trillion (that’s a one and 21 zeroes) of stars in the known universe.
At least 10 percent of those may have at least 1 planet;
that is 100 trillion (that’s a hundred and 18 zeroes) of planets.
There might (“might”) be about 11 billion planets similar to ours,
of those, we concretely know of about 10 (ten. One one, one zero),
that number includes us,
and we only know there’s life in one of those 10,
us;
that is a percentage of 0.000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 001
of 100 trillion.
Well, ****
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 7:15 PM UTC
Why do we keep putting ourselves down
Believing in our own lies?
How creative are we to fool ourselves with our own words
Trusting them as realities.
Following my own set of rules to destruction,
Craving for validation and people to our own happiness,
When happiness is just a state of mind not a result.
The culprit, the brainchild, the source, "thoughts".
Barriers and walls are broken
Beliefs are bent,
The mind goes to the hole of confusion,
When we realize there were no walls to begin with.
All and all being created,
Imaginatively, concretely,
Each measure of the brick
So true and so false.
Tricks and games
Manipulation and lies
All has a reason
And all with an end.
But embedded in it,
Lies a piece of wisdom
A wise reaction to the actions
An answer to our very "thoughts".
This short span of creation called "life"
Why do we tend to lead it with worry?
To inadequacy and lack of trust,
While all we have to do was just to love ourselves.
Love ourselves so much till we love every single being.
Appreciate each incapabilities as our unique traits,
Each failures as our own personalities,
Every mistakes as our biggest prizes won.
As in these lies our biggest trust to ourselves,
To the construction of our own personalities,
To the acceptance we so crave for
And also, to love and be loved.
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 10:30 AM UTC
The more concretely
you tell a story, the less --
you'll be understood.
Aug 5, 2024
Aug 5, 2024 at 4:02 AM UTC
Light, filtered by oak leaves, dances over the translucent surface of my windshield
And my windows. In this bubble, pierced by fragments of fuzzy radio
white noise, I dive beneath the surface of the sea
Surrounded by sharks zooming by, blaring bass throbbing against my ears
Then gone all too quickly.
I don’t believe I’ve ever been this calm. Driving requires a certain zen:
The menial activities of turning the wheel—
hands 10 and 2—
Pushing down right or left pedal as required,
speeding up
(Or slowing down)
The rushing, trundling, kaleidoscopic world around me.
I am omniscient. Feel the energy throbbing beneath my body, the roar of
The engine, the pure,
Unaltered power of the
Cogs and
Pistons.
I control this segment of my life absolutely, concretely. You
Could argue it’s the only thing I do control at all.
This leaves my mind free to remember, to wonder
Whether you remember, or wonder at, me.
Air conditioning, or windows down?
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
Concretely, you are gone
I am generations later
Reading Your thoughts, Your works.
I am grateful!
You give me literary sustenance
And pleasure,
Inspiration and insight...
Thank you, writers from the past!
I want to do the same,
Leave something behind...a picture,
A song, or a piece of writing; something
Concrete and tangible for posterity...
And
Will someone like me, who is still
To be born
Look over my works when I too
Are
No longer concrete?
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 3:20 AM UTC
What happens when you shower in the dark?
you can't tell the environment around you, only
the soap laddering on your skin, and the streetlight
peering into the scene.
you don't get to see your arrogance accumulating from loneliness
like soap rinse-off left to dry on the ground.
the act of showering is to be clean
but you can't concretely see your arm
so how do you get to cleaning when you can't see?
how do you continue to hold on to hope when the feeling of
the need of warmth is pushing unto every square inch on you?
when you know the moment you turn the shower off
that coldness comes rushing in.
leaving your skin prickle displaying bumps
like that of a feather-plucked chicken readying for the feast.
Now you've got to resist, and hopefully they say he would flee.
Then you step in front of a mirror, remember its dark.
meaning there is nothing to see, but the fog is there to feel
bubbling in your face, churning your skin.
you know this darkness is not good for you,
but you embrace it like well a known friend
reeling in its obscurement, applying layers of cream.
Nov 8, 2021
Nov 8, 2021 at 10:09 AM UTC
on the stairs in front of the old row house
two doors on the front between two Azaleas beautifully
displaying their grandeur
I sit non-competitive with a thing in this world
the paint flaking under my *** on the worn out tongue and groove floor
and a tilted brick post supports the roof
and I am concretely not caring
about peeling paint or the leaky roof
or the neighbor's complaining constantly how my
Gardenia bushes by the property line so full so gorgeous
voluptuously block their view
little things don't matter I sweat them off
because I got some heavy duty
anti-perspirant I cook up myself
don't tell the DEA
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 9:06 PM UTC
it's happened already, we know this, for sure
but nothing solidifies it more concretely
as when i hear you say it to your friends
it happened a year ago, completely, for sure
because when we both started acting discretely
i had already seen two different ends
one in which the path would straighten
and we'd grow the same way, as before
one in which we end up so far apart
that it wouldn't
matter
it might even have healed by now
but i didn't anticipate the third
or the fourth
or the fifth
nor the sixth
the seventh, eleventh
the eighth, the hate
the ninth, not mine
not even yours, surely
because i really care for you, and i don't want you to die
i just want us to be honest about what's left of you and i
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC