"confirming" poems
Went to my magwinya lady today,
she's contained at the canteens on north campus,
As she rose up her left eye was bluish ****** grey,
A lump in my throat formed not as big as the one on her face,
my eyes secreted their salty solution,
my mind quickly processed confusion,
"M-m-m-m-may i-i-i p-p-lease have five magwinyas"
She smirked at my muttered utterance as she began to fill the thin transparent plastic with the oily flour-filled *****
I reluctantly asked "What happened to your eye?"
She responded in Xhosa reasonably assuming my common cocoa coating meant our tongues matched until I told her otherwise.
Eventually she simply said, "Fight".
I said, "you got in to a fight?"
She said "Mmm".
I went over to my banana lady and said the magwinya lady has a black eye and she casually claimed, "Her boyfriend beat her yesterday."
Confirming what my teary eyes and lumpy throat knew to be true when I saw my sweet magwinya lady with a swollen eye ****** grey and blue.
Frustrated at the nothing I could do.
Powerlessly pirched on a brown bench as the black sparrows chirped pleading for a piece of my last magwinya,
Should I tell her to escape?
Is that even my place?
How many black eyes are blotched on this bruised land i, a fearful foreigner, trace?
I'll bury my brain in my book,
somewhat cowardly crook,
I'll see what i saw but take no second look,
like a camel's head in the sand,
I'll timidly tell myself these things are just too hard to understand.
Nov 3, 2021
Nov 3, 2021 at 6:43 AM UTC
the count starts now (tired of tired)
I read your outcry at 3:00am
posted on Facebook
you are
tired of tired
sick of sick
the only question, will it ever end...
rise this day, start another way...
count your blessing
count against all odds
for there are more than merely one
use both hands
both hands chested to feel the heart thrusting,
for living is a wondrous blessing unique
an unbelievable to believe than so many beats,
born and borne,
by you, a strength unequaled,
you a richness possessed
count that one first.
count my hands holding your shoulders.
count that as two, one for me, one for you.
more? more.
mirror. find the tiny light in each eye against a yellow backdrop.
add two more. for they are a sparking confidence of confirming.
you felt the heart thrumming
go back, feel the breathing warmth breaching forth.
add another. for now known you can never ever be cold.
wash the face, wash away the caution that sleep leaves,
the coverlet of fear that fears you not to dare,
amazing that tap water plain is sacred when it
miracle breaks you out and anoints thy forehead with pure oil like the kings of yore, be a kingly human being.
go out. do not return
until one act of kind is performed and
count that as a thousand blessed, a sum recurring recounted
walk humble and the path will always appear.
walk contented for you can be both king and servant,
there is no difference - you must be both to be the other
one.
and if you still cannot raise the head,
call me.
that would be a blessing for me
and I will hear your blessings sounds mine merge,
dear friend and no more stranger,
that is the simplest definition of our learning to count to
infinity
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 4:33 AM UTC
Am I jealous?, I don’t know.
Maybe yes but partly no,
Am I jealous?, I don’t think so,
Feelings I want to let go.
I really don’t know why,
Things are meant to be a lie,
I just don’t get it how,
Things are made now.
A part of me is denying,
The other part is confirming,
Maybe yes, maybe no,
Feelings I don’t know.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 6:21 AM UTC
A silhouette of some kind
That appeared and vanished
At the end of what seemed a horizon
A silhouette of a creature
That left behind the day
And just so simply vanished…
With a sigh I defy
The fact of what I saw
And had written it away as a memory
A memory that I had made to be as a figment of my imagination that I had formed in this gloomy day..
And with a chuckle I cleared my throat
And moved on…
But I couldn't sleep
For that night
The moon so lavishly
Without a care
As though without a thought
Stood
Shimmering in the sky beautifully
Instantly revealing that what I had seen this morn..
And with a feeling
That seemed as though this night would never end
I walk up and ask
That if not impossible
Can you tell me who you are?
I wonder A beast, a spirit, a demon, an angel, a monster….
You do not speak
And I start to dream
And for some reason… with every minute that I spend
Staring at you
I begin to fall in love..
Oh god.. help me..
For it seems that
I have once again begun to feel…
And as I try to avoid
And as I try to move
It seems that
I cannot get myself to keep away..
From connecting myself to you…
In a way that will never break away..
Oh how a bitter day has made its way
For a simple silhouette now soaked and stripped
Completely transparent with nothing in its way
A silhouette of black and white
Completely stripped down
As though wishing to die
And as the day goes by
You seem slightly in sight
I try to move on and walk away
But wherever I go
I seem to find you somewhere..
And unfavorably
I gaze at this
Lilac horizon
When all of a sudden
..What happened?
The clouds seem to have disappeared
And you are no nowhere in sight
Yet under a cloudless sky falls a downpour
Indefinitely in sight
Confirming I hadn't just gone blind..
It seems that I have just realized
That I had fallen in love with something otherworldly
I fell in love much more that I should have..
And now that you aren't in sight
I am lost Without a path to walk
I don’t know what to do
But why Even though we didn't speak
Even though we would just meet
Why does your absence
Create such a transparency within me…
And so I whisper good-bye, even if just for myself
Thinking that you were not but a figment of my imagination all this while
A tear drops As I take a step forward
A miserable and helpless man I was
What a miserable and helpless man I am…..
I fell in love with something unknown
I fell in love more gently that I thought
Such a tasteless romance..
To fall in love with something I do not know
To fall in love with something I do not understand
And as the hours go by
I begin to cry
I begin to cry
I request for a prayer
I request for a wish
"Give her a soul
Give her a body
Tell me she was real
TELL ME SHE WAS REAL ….please”
A silhouette so dark
A silhouette silent
Invisible and dark
As though never existent
Flying away
Flying away
And without knowing what you are
It seems I had completely fallen in love
A love so gentle…
A love so tasteless…
I fell in love with nothing but a presence
Of something I didn't know
Of something I didn't understand.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
No one wrote me love songs
No one gave me peace
And no one showered me in happiness
More than you before you ceased.
But no one shouted hatred
No one gave me tears
And no one ****** my dreams in darkness
More than you, confirming fears.
Now no one writes me love songs...
And no one gives me rest...
But no one drives me insane
And that's why separation is best.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
[1:24 AM, 8/26/2016] +91 77085 85412: (Typing message on whatsapp)
A boy meets girl.. gets her attraction..
thinks to speak.. touch.. make her his better half..!
She says yes..!
Both gets together.. coffee shops.. movies.. parks.. pubs.. clubs.. beaches.. parties.. having a lot of fun.. touches each.. enjoying..
nice love story ryt... !
Stop ther..
did u see any love inbetween themm..
noo i didn't.. i saw two people having fun that isn't love..
then how are we thinking its a love story..
look at this story now..
A boy meets girl.. thinks she's cute..
both speaks after few vague looks.. texts..
looking at their phone contacts thinking to call each..
more texts more calls.. rare meets.. one fine day confirming love..
some day later..
feeling faded out from it..
she reminds him.. he reminds her.. few texts..
he s feeling ****** off of her..
she then speaks someday.. he melts for her voice.. he melts at her images.. he melts when thinking her..!
He s getting confused.. thinking her.. calling her.. messaging her.. ! Hoping everything will b fine.. i see some love in this now
[1:25 AM, 8/26/2016] +91 77085 85412: And he types a crazy crazy big story in the middle of the night for her and she surprises him by being online! *** shes awake**!!
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 3:46 AM UTC
a birthday poem for S.
perhaps, this is the responsibility, the purposeful gentility,
that poetry engenders, that thwarts the impulse to anger,
guiding away, finding a way, to temper the temper, to out
and joust away our basest, our first, but never our foremost
nor finest, succinct instinct, yet terrible human nonetheless...
perhaps, this is where we hide, neath our carnival masque,
our-would-be better selves, and struggle in this, this intensity intentional,
the season's change is subtly blatant, not obvious 'cept to those
who have a front seat, a well worn Adirondack chair in the nook
where the airy breeze offers fruits of words so easy, pluck words
as easy as breathing, and the slight gradation change, in the light and
temperature, and yet, the suns cares not, for it still warms my body,
though lower and slower, nonetheless, when the heat invades my soul, confirming my, our, existence,
burning off the fog of our contradictory confusions,
and eliciting an unsolicited
"thank you god"
for my, our personal miracle of re~birthing
and better comprehending,
that other
miracle we can embrace
never enough
loving kindness
sun~mon
sep 14~15
twenty twenty five
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 8:33 AM UTC
F
M
Agender
Androgyne
Androgynous
Bigender
Cis
Cisgender
Cisgender female
Cisgender male
FTM
Gender fluid
Gender non-confirming
Gender questioning
Gender variant
Gender queer
Intersex
MTF
Neither
Neurosis
Non binary
Other
Pan gender
Trans
Trans*
Trans female
Trans* female
Trans male
Trans* male
Trans feminine
Trans musculine
Transgender
Transgender female
Transgender male
Transgender musculine
Transgender feminine
***********
*********** female
*********** male
Two spirit
And
"Turquoise green tertiary spirited Eskimo"
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 6:33 AM UTC
......was a freezing morning.
no rooster woke me....i opened
my eyes at first light of dawn,
sipped hot coffee....my thoughts,
recalling....traveling, with the swirling steam...
turkey wasn't done yet,
but, hours before, table was already set...
while awaiting guests,
I leant on the counter...my head, to rest,
i looked outside the small window
and was greeted by a full moon, aglow...
there was so much food on the table...weariness
was healed by laughter...conversations touched
on weather, politics, food...they refused to end,
glasses sparkled with bubbly wine....sliced meat
was arranged on a big tray...baked sweet potato
with caramel smelled, tasted good...broccoli rave
was green and spicy...i didn't know potato salad
could taste good without meat!....coffee and pies
came next.....the dogs, communicated with their
eyes and paws...socializing, too, like their masters,
i saw what was left, after slicing the plump roasted
fowl...a skeleton, still with thick strands of meat, and
the palatable stuffing made with onions and prunes.
dishes were washed, kitchen was back in order,
after showering....everyone rushed to their beds,
yet, i had to peep out the window, one last time...
the full moon, still was upon us...confirming its
presence....a long time witness to the moments
we celebrate........encouraging our moods,
our thoughts.....our hearts.......even when
it's not a thanksgiving night..
Sally
Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
November 23, 2018
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
that which used to take ten minutes
now takes an hour or
two
something's that used to take an hour or
two,
now take ten minutes, give or
take,
(mostly I do the taking)
(or as the little voice whispers, the mostly
faking)
betcha you'd like to which is what
and what is which being bewitched,
I ain't spilling no beans
cause I value my insanity's privacy,
and I don't got to give that up just yet
but if you want the worst of what little I got left,
unhappily I will approach the old muse
begging me giving me something to use,
bad she turns away bad she say
*"You all tricked out,
you wares worn,
ye old styles from yester last month
you been styled by
H&M;
30 days max,
then
ring in the new, and if all sold,
or none-at-all,
too bad for you*
then you gotta decide:
wear a watch
or watch the wearing
with small
pleasures sighed,
confirming, night-moves,
gonna
Keep On Keeping On
Living
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 2:31 AM UTC
Think of the first moment you knew. Think of the diagnosis. The strings of meaningless letters - OCD, Bipolar disorder, Xanax, Lamictal. Think of the year you wasted confirming that, yes, you are, in fact, sad. Think of the year after that that it took to get help. Think of the time you could’ve spent teaching or running or doing anything but telling yourself that you’d leave your room in just five more minutes. Think of all the times you tried to cut yourself but couldn’t because you “aren’t that person anymore.” Tell me, would someone who’s “not that person” need to constantly remind themselves? Think of the happiest moment of your life. Now, realize that Bipolar Disorder gets worse as you get older. Think of that happiest moment and realize that you may never feel that good again. Think of the songs you tried to write. Think of the poems and screenplays and suicide notes you tried to write. Think of your mom, think of your dad. Think of your mom and dad crying. Think of your mom and dad moving on. Think of them not thinking about you much anymore. Realize that dead is dead no matter how much someone thinks about you. Think about killing yourself anyway. Think of it often. Shine the idea like your favorite ******* mirror. Think about taking medication. Anxiety makes it so hard to use your telephone which makes it almost impossible to get medication. Think of medication like you think of death: permanent. Think of permanence like you think of a brick. The brick you always see smashing your face attached to a disembodied hand. Think, ******* think of sunlight. Your brain will try to make it burn you but just think of sunlight. Fall in love with it daily, even when you can’t see it. Even when it’s just a mythological creature your mother told you about so you’d sleep. Think about sleep. How asleep, you are perfect just like the child you were and still are. Think about the stories you tell yourself so next year doesn’t seem so far away. Think about the story. Think about the story of the sun if you die. It dies too.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
Save thyself and come down
From the cross
Likewise also the chief priests
Mocking said amongst themselves
With the scribes he saved other's
Himself he cannot save
Let Christ the king of Israel
Descend now from the cross
That we may see and believe
And they that were crucified with him reviled him
And when the sixth hour was come there was darkness
Over the whole of the land until the ninth hour
And at the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice
Saying Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani? Which is being interpreted as
My God My God why hast thou forsaken me?
And entering into the sepulchre they saw a young man
Sitting on the right side clothed in a long white garment
And they were affrighted and he said unto them be not affrighted
Now when Jesus was risen early in the first day of the week
He appeared first to Mary Magdalene out of whom he had cast seven devils and when she told them that he had had been with him as they mourned and wept and they heard he was alive believed not
And he said unto them go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature he that believeth and is baptized shall be saved but he that believeth not shall be ****** and these signs shall follow them that believe and in my name shall thy cast out devils they shall speak with new tongues they shall take up serpents and if they drink deadly things it shall not hurt them they shall lay hands on the sick and they shall recover so then
after the Lord had spoken unto them he was received up into heaven and sat on the right side of God and they went forth and preached every where the Lord working with them and confirming the words with signs following Amen.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
Recently, in the "New York Times,"
An op-ed essay has hit the press,
Thus causing the president
To send out vicious tweets in distress.
Claiming to be a senior White House
Official, the writer wants to let
The people know that even though
Trump is unhinged, not to fret.
Because Trump is ill-informed,
Impulsive, and given to constant lying,
He can't be trusted to handle the job,
Which to many is terrifying.
He's impetuous, adversarial,
Reckless, petty, and quick to revile.
Any good has happened DESPITE
And not BECAUSE of his leadership style.
The writer insists that our knowing
One special thing will lessen the gloom:
Even though Trump is a mess,
Luckily, there are "adults in the room."
Thwarting the president's misguided
Impulses is the task
Of these "adults," each of whom
Has to hide behind a mask.
To publish the piece anonymously
Some people feel is wrong.
But, hey, it only confirms something
That we have known all along.
-by Bob B (9-6-18)
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 1:26 PM UTC
an oval antique photograph
from the century just passed
six youthful brothers
must be sunday dressed
exuding life and promise
facing forward all in line
symmetry pervading
sister mary in their center
on the photos right
a startling recognition
an image seen before
colins great grandfather
raymond often ray
in features and a gaze
seemed as colin
would have stood
photo has a crease
fading but still clear
now with photos recent
privileged to compare
colin next to ray
both fully present
yet a gaze away
rays gaze anticipating
army time in paris
fortune seeking in the west
fortunes to be found
four generations branching
to colin and beyond
colins gaze capturing
a journey now beginning
does he see montana paris
or the stars
repeating patterns forward
reflect photographic truth
music completes the pattern
with colorings of sound
rays trumpet and harmonica
introducing a guitar
which colin has absorbed
thus in his confirmation
new dimensions
now foreseen
confirming four generations
reflecting many more
expanding light and love
carrying our gratitude
for the glimpse
an old photograph
favored us
to find
(poem written for my grandson's
confirmation....)
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
They began without notice, in the city of Mombasa
By the Al shabab shooting baby Osinya in the head,
Killed the mother, leaving a slug stuck in Osinya’s head
Killing and mauling many others macabrously,
Killing for no other reason, but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
They had initially lynched the West Gate Mall
In Nairobi, killing the aged and seasoned darling
Of African poetry and true fountain of peace
The dearest Kofi Awonor, in full watch of his son,
Confirming a trail of the ghastly curse of fate and death
That totted him arduously from his home in the west
Of the tropical gulag that makes the land of Africa
From where the terror maestro ; Boko haram reign scot free
Mayheming, Killing, ****** and kidnapping harmless virgins
Killing For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
They have now killed fifty peasants in Mpeketon town,
****** them in circles to puncture their virginity
and brutally kidnapping those that are not *****
Using the AK 47 and the Ak 74 to shoot and ****
Without reason nor course but failure of mind
Botched down by authenticity of holy diversity
Heavenly packaged in God’s idea of tribe,
Uhm! An African man with a gun is a brute of brutes,
Giving an African a gun is simple mess of the world
In to helter-skelter poise tilting peace higgledy-piggledy,
Killing one another like animals premised by Charles Darwin
As overtly seen in the warring Congo and CAR,
Where Africans **** one another in a stupid dint,
To ape Rwanda or no! To outshine the Jewish Massacre
In the Ammonium chambers of fuehrer Adolf ******
This stupid Africans baser than wild beasts,
Who told you that your greatness will come
from killing your neighbours; the fellow peasants?
These African men are the modern homoguerrillus,
Which one call cheap war making man
They and **** ! **** **** **** **** **** ****
For no other reason but faith and tribe,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
Gunshots of the gunmen in Africa are not
A song of the caged bird, no whatsoever,
They are cowardly maneuvers of the weak
As the weak and cowards rarely forgive,
They arm themselves to the teeth
With deadly weapons from Russia or wherever
Only to shoot and **** the old and malnourished
Peasant women, killing the likes of baby Osinya
Shooting a suckling baby to prove your heroism,
These African men are really a Whiteman’s burden,
They **** their fellows from cockcrow to chick roost
For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
~for Verlie Burroughs, a ‘fellow’ islander poet with a sense of human humor~
walking the reservoir on a warm spring day,
Central Park littered with tourists and pale face,
fellow islanders, all of non-Algonquin Indian descent
released from Rikers Island (of course) Prison,
six month sentence served
behind bars of winter grayscale skies
and snowy steel and grey prison everything
an out-of-townsfolk young lady passes me in a pink t-shirt,
where humans these lazy days declare their entire philosophy,
“I’d rather live on an island”
and thus a poem commissioned
well, rather brought forth from the chilled, deep waters surrounding the brain where winter vegetables rooted but cannot surface,
the iced ground frozen impermitting bodies to be buried,
no war and death monument foundations to be poured,
flower-powered poems unable to pierce as well,
even with the upwards ****** of cesarean birth
and or, one last push and me begging
breathe
winter strangled
but I walked today
the Central Park reservoir and
all I got was that stupid t-shirt provocation
with
tulips and daffodils, dogwood and magnolias, and
cherry blossoms confirming,
it’s okay today to write of
islands and shoreline once more,
of
boundaries now and again
though the idea had prior brief transversed
the thought canal, was struck into action
when realized suddenly a dawning -
a l l m y l i f e, I h a v e l i v e d o n a n i s l a n d
counting backwards seven decades with a
collegial exception, of living by a great lake,
which is but an island in reverse,
poet *** prophet had to always walk on water to get home
<•>
my poems are travelogues,
not pretty words and tonguing talk,
sorry not,
more tales than wagging tongue wordy tails
but dumbstruck by the ocean notion that I live by the
grace of an Ocean that waits patiently to reclaim my island,
stealing my unborn poem children and
tried with a Sandy haired girl a few years ago
hurry home to scribe, and imbibe,
write upon its streetscape
with colored chalk and
upon it once more,
the concrete paths and
a reservoir dirt path surrounding and shorelines
that are all the shaping of me
all my life, and Neverland realized
I am a seagull disguised as human*
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 11:25 PM UTC
Blue
a soothing hue
with varying complexions
like that of each open sky
bountiful clouds
an energetic sun
and
magnificent rainbows
complimenting it
Blue
a soothing hue
cascading its spectrum
of light
and coolness
onto the earth
drawing many
to its canopy
Blue
a soothing hue
like that of the Nile
serene sounds of historic waters
flowing a great distance
confirming its majesty
and embracing sanctuary
If the color blue is so
why are so many in Sudan blue
why are so many in Sudan dying
why are so many in Sudan *****
why are so many in Sudan weeping
If the color blue is so
why is Sudan blue
why is Sudan worried
why is Sudan being terrorized
why is Sudan fighting back
If the color blue is so
why is Sudan's peaceful protesters being attacked
why are courageous women speaking out
If the color blue is so
why are tears falling from
natives' eyes
filling up an iconic river
as they mourn the ******
of their mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters
remembering good times
dear ones' smiles, hearts, kisses,
words,
their love and mercy expressed
Blue
a soothing hue
yet we need know why
yet we're obligated to think why
yet we must talk why
Sudan is blue
Jun 19, 2019
Jun 19, 2019 at 12:14 PM UTC
Sorry it ended up like this.
Me out here, still wrapped up warm in my vestigial garment of flesh.
You in there, naked amongst your primitive ancestors like the youngest adult at a wedding, mingling awkwardly, embarrassed.
I wonder how you died. Your ribs look like they have been fixed back together after some kind of trauma.
A car crash maybe?
Maybe you struggled with long term illness, rotting before you ripened like a sickly bud in a wet spring.
However it happened your bronze plaque states it was untimely and therefore probably tragic. '(A young woman)' I read, not so much discovering but confirming what I already knew to be true when I first laid eyes first met yours across the crowded room.
You stand about as tall as me, your shining off white cheeks delicate as fine china. Staring out of you glass cabinet, you seem to beg not to be judged alongside your distant relatives, your slumping neighbors.
Fragile and sweet, you radiate a quiet dignity. It isn't hard to imagine the thin layer of blood, skin and fibrous tissue that it would take to make you beautiful again.
I plunge my hand through that glass portal, soft folds of meat transposed to brittle bone and back again, unifying you world with the mortal
It was obvious that you were beautiful, and involuntarily I envy the one who held you and kissed you last.
I wonder if anyone ever wrote a poem for you when you were alive.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:08 AM UTC
“and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.”
Walt Whitman
<>
having recently been on standby for a permanent-entry residency visa
to over & just beyond death’s door, Walt’s prescient prescription strikes my broken breastbone even harder much, than the persistent
periodic pains confirming the breaking and the healing
of this man’s mending of the human centric poetic *****
for this warped heart mine, now rejoicingly rejiggered with some threads and wires to deliver a new but fresh bloodied wisdom,
begs me, eggs me to torrent word streams, but Whitman’s wisdom cautions a new slowness, the wisdom of mortality’s hot breath urges careful consideration of every letter that my second chance, consignment shop flesh, eagerly embraces, to both prescribe and proscribe inside-insights tween the deafening sounds of eyelashes beating synchronized to the revived heart rates rapid renewal and
last second-chances….
torn tween minute torso sensations and the running silence of
a new battery’s internal rapid intervals, the silent timing gaps tween beats leaves-just-enough-space to ask over and over again,
from whence will come my richest fluency? (1)
at 300am, I lay carefully caressing and chewing well each transitory
thought, absent the former energetic ability to just spill,
though highly desired,
now requires, like me,
steady re-piecing together
the steady drumbeat of now-nearer-my-god-than-thee Titanic reflections
demands a slowing rapidity
this I thought before and now ken, even and ever better, that our primary endeavor shall always be the giving, the disbursement of the act of love…for therein lies the healing of each, and wet eyes,
make necessarily concluding this poem about nothing and everything
and I comprehend Walt’s dictum:
my very flesh is a poem,
every sensation a lyric,
every breath taken and returned to the atmosphere
so unconsciously
are my oldest
and newest
3:00 AM poetry companions
Aug 18, 2023
Aug 18, 2023 at 4:41 PM UTC
Classroom Discussion
Raucous noise vibrates across
The surface of my ear
Not daring to enter and disrupt
The train of thought
That processes as a machine
Turning, creating, assembling
The wheel of thought spinning round the axle
-------A **** on the rope, a pull on the subconscious
The pulley recognizes the intrusion of an applied force
The wheels halt, as if rust jeopardizes its advance.
The thoughts scatter, a snapped electrical wire snaking in shock;
a cooper waving current racing back to a reality
through black rubber nerves.
The noise registers,
confirming the split of a once continuous wire
Insignificant words- not quite processing,
failing to relay information,
refusing to form a sentence,
still trapped in a realm of limbo
wanting to return to the rhythm of a reverie.
Slipping, falling
the mind surrenders, the electricity dies.
Materializing in a classroom
The cage for intellectual minds
Discussing about.
From one world to another - act, adapt
The bright scientific lights burn
The eyes of the dreamer
Who creates from the dark,
Objects exposed, judged, determined.
No place for the dreamer, who loves
warping reality.
Within the metal box this reality is set.
Bars on the window, an indestructible verticality
Plastic seats, beige, blue, cold
Sit this way, look up, right, like that.
You are my animals now speak, raise a hand,
perform a trick, tell me what I want to hear,
Speak my language of intelligence, be my machine.
May 2, 2011
May 2, 2011 at 5:11 AM UTC
I halfheartedly grasped the ledge
Peering indecisively over the edge
Wondering perhaps in all seriousness if I should let go
A freefall of the mind is what they call it '
And if you do not experience it
Why and how could you possibly comment
And in all honesty, say it is an emotion you know?
A little less grew my grip on the edge
Taking momentary notice of the crumbling ledge
My mind wanders into a place where all is nothingness
And nothingness is the norm
I let my mind freefall as they call it
Into oblivion and time dissolved it
Finding myself very comfortable in this environment
I wished never to return
So I concocted a simple cunning game
Whenever spoken to by the seemingly sane
Smiling wickedly
Into nodding confirming faces
I repeat these words
A freefall of the mind is what they call it '
And if you haven't experienced it
How could you possibly comment
And in all honesty, say it is an emotion you know?
@ copyright Tammy M Darby Nov. 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 5:27 PM UTC
Every time my father is late from the front line
Sickness strikes my mother
and I tour with her the hospitals of Najaf.
I write to him ‘come back to us now,
Make your sergeant read my words: I am about to die’.
He returns my letter, laughing:
‘We are the amusement of the blindman’.
Oh, you River of Jasim, you tore my years
Between my father’s assumed victories
And my mother’s wishes in the emergency room;
They used to plant hope in her mind
By sticking on the glass door,
Two notices confirming: (awaiting death certificate).
Her heart ages so fast
And I ***** from hearing the chants.
Every time the presenter says ‘Victory is on the horizon’,
My grandmothers’ eyes rise to the ceiling -
She hides a mocking smile.
With rage I scream at the screen ‘no victory’s coming’.
She whispers: ‘god is generous’.
‘You sound like my father when I asked for new toys’.
She quietens and we contend,
Awaiting his return before a new battle,
Fearing that a last fight may end the life of a dove.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
1268
Confirming All who analyze
In the Opinion fair
That Eloquence is when the Heart
Has not a Voice to spare—
2.4k
Sudden intimacies
Old missed opportunities
And a
Woman who should've known
Exactly when I'm not my own.
She strikes like a viper,
Shoots to **** like a ******
And she
Quickly has disappeared
Confirming what I had most feared.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
I felt an unusual twinge in my neck
as I turned toward you.
Heavy breathing signaled morning sleep
as my arm reached across your palpitating belly.
These casual cuddles, typical of the start of our day
emit a warmth unlike sunrays or furnace heat.
No use to wake you or tease apart your legs
for seldom do we play.
That may come after morning news is devoured,
bananas peeled and different morning hungers eased.
Now i rise to consume small pellets of brown, pink,
grey and white chemicals compounded to keep me alive.
There is a stillness downstairs with greetings from a well-worn chair
contoured to support my soul.
Blades whirl overhead churning a breeze
my face accepts upon my forehead.
Now is my time of meditation, my attempt to
listen to whatever god pervades this universe.
There will be no answers, no jolts of insight or revelations,
only small particles of peace to cover my disquiet.
You will lumber down steps with effort accentuated by creaks
and moans that are more pronounced each day.
Our lips will touch confirming both obligation and willingness
to walk beside each other.
I wonder if you think there could be more?
Could each gaze toward one another be longer?
Could I unbutton myself enough to see or would you scold me
for such an unrepressed display?
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC