"credentials" poems
Found myself at a dental clinic...
He was the best there was.
Unorthodox and eccentric,
But to the specialised craft, he was boss.
Ran through the bits and bobs
Like any normally would.
The poking and prodding and the mandible X-rays.
Everything cold and clinical, so was the mood.
Strange was what happened next...
Specialist and I then stood facing each other.
He leaned close and pressed his palms against my rib cage.
Held them there over a few breaths before it was over.
Then a brief chat, small talk initiated by the man.
Bespectacled and exceedingly chatty, small in stature.
Talks of politics and odd human behaviours...
What started off as friendly turned into a heated banter.
I then realised that along with his decorated credentials,
Was his propensity to be condescending and arrogant.
Him being the best, I thought I could let it all slide,
But soon enough I opted out of being a willing participant.
Couldn't stand his abrasive cockiness!
I snapped out of being cordial and passive thought.
I wanted him to just stop talking!
I went, "Well, are you going to fix my teeth or not?!"
He was stunned momentarily...
I suppose he hadn't seen that coming.
Then his features softened to a blank
I could almost read the unspoken words he was conjuring.
With an exasperated sigh of resignation,
He uttered his next words swollen with regret
"There's no need...for you only have four years left."
It dawned upon me that my timer has been set.
And then I woke up...
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."
And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.
But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.
They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.
Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.
So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.
And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.
Feb 18, 2025
Feb 18, 2025 at 2:11 AM UTC
for vicki who loves this poem for the best reason ever: just does...
<•>
read a thousand love stories,
pause, rest awhile,
read ten thousand more,
and then deny equality.
If you ask for no more than you can give,
you ask for not enough
love is imbalance not an equation,
with a single solution
love has both constants and variable factors
so you write of tribulations and tributes
so you write of lamentations and liftings
you think you are on the same page
perhaps
but do we not all read at different paces?
one of you is solid, one is dotted and dashed
one of you is straight, one is bent, forever curving
when you think you are
in balance
in the same place
in syncopation
perhaps you are for a moment
a calculus of one point on a trajectory
and you say I can only ask for what I give
and am given
and no more,
you have miscalculated
this flux
flummoxed
when the old terrain is flayed flat
but thru the windshield you see the
plateau ends, the geography unknown,
when you see unknown
when you seek the unknown
when you give from places you did not know
you had to give from
when you kiss a hand
for twenty minutes more than than the one minute you intended
when you give more than is asked
when you ask for more than you can you think you can give
the imbalance that is the only concert
the imbalance that is the the only constant
how do I know this?
what are my credentials?
you are not a teenage girl,
what matters of what you know, recall of these matters?
I am who I am
a diversity of man and manner;
I am past prime and in decline
but this I know
for having failed ten thousand poem times
you must ask for more than one can give
but that's not fair!
silly one, still wretched confused,
even after one hundred thousand poem times
you must ask of
yourself
more than you can give
and ask no less
demand no less
a body in emotion is not a body in rest
when the imbalance is too great or insufficient
then you write a poem
look in the mirror that cannot lie
and move
on
or
move off
begin to ask
yourself
to whom may I give myself
more than is asked.
then you have finally asked
the correct solution to the
unsolvable equation
---
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
They say a dog chooses it’s Master
and i believe a submissive does too.
Because just moments within meeting him,
i swear I already knew.
Set aside any criteria
and any particular credentials.
That something you can’t quite put your finger on,
Is one of my fundamentals.
I let him look inside my soul,
i show him I’m a dreamer.
Already he’s controlling me
and has altered my demeanour.
My logic screams inside me NO!
-Don’t sell your soul to the devil.
But my senses scream inside me YES...
“In his presence you will revel! “
The more we talk, the more I feared
as he changed my personality.
Yet further i delve into his aura,
although anticipating fatality.
Throwing caution to the wind,
i ignored my logic mind,
Ready to give him all of me,
til he suddenly declined.
Confusion strikes, I feel a loss.
Not knowing what I’ve done.
He tells me you’re not serious
and only seeking bedroom fun.
I don’t know how to prove myself,
wondering if this is just a test.
One day he’s here, the next he’s not.
I feel so... Dispossessed? !
I’d usually give up once rejected
but I know I must persist.
My inner sub is telling me
she needs him to exist.
You see jus moments within meeting him,
something was oh so very prominent.
I’m sure he doesn’t know it yet,
but he’s destined to be my
DOMINANT.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 1:42 PM UTC
“It’s a Girl.” They said,
Destined to go to her ‘own’ home one day,
As if she is born into a strangers home.
Marriage has its own time,
Why make her birth seem like a crime?
Do give her the unconditional love but don’t consider her a bad luck.
“Who will bring forward the family name? She will bring only a shame”, they said
Destined to go to her ‘own’ home one day,
As if she is born into a strangers home.
If that were the case,
Ashamed are parents who gave birth to,
Kalpana Chawla, Asha Roy, Arundhati Battacharya and many more.
Worried about the family name?
Bring her out of the shallow box,
Filled with your narrow thoughts,
Help her reach her full potential,
Then watch the family name gain credentials.
“Do what he tells you to.” They said,
That is your house,
He is your everything.
From her, kings are born,
From her, woman is born,
Without her, there would be nobody at all,
So why then do we make her a slave?
Likes, shares, tweets and re-tweets can only do so much…
Empower your thoughts and not just the woman,
Teach your son to respect the girls,
Allow your daughters to reach their passion,
Then watch the empowerment take action.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 1:15 PM UTC
And they asked me
"Are you down to **** Or do you prefer friends with benefits?
Either way there would never be any emotions involved", they say
I said "no, I don’t want any of those things"
Their faces started to change
My guards are high up and they suddenly wanted the chase
But "seriously no", I reiterated
"I don’t want my body to be used in any of your fantasies
It’s not that I haven’t tried any of those things you are imagining right now
I have been there, I have done that
Far too many times than the acceptable number
But I am not ashamed, I am not proud either"
Some of them turned their backs on me due to their dismay
“You shouldn’t really be here” they say
But I am just looking for someone to talk to
This is something that they really cannot accept
I know that my credentials fill your heads with imagination
My photos burn your souls alive
And my words linger in your minds
I have you all trapped under my finger tips
You all want me, but I don’t want you
I am sorry, but not in that way
Because I have been there, I have done that
Far too many times than the acceptable number
But I am not ashamed, I am not proud either
Because I know my worth
And none of you deserves my
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
step one: find someone with the correct qualifications. make sure he has taken the correct courses and has credentials.
step two: if your lawyer has a double major in medicine, run away.
step three: he is a person, not a house. do not treat him as such. don’t begin to use his bones as beams and his heart as a generator.
step four: you are a person, and just because you have legal issues doesn’t take away from that statement. you are a person, not a project. make sure your lawyer realizes this too.
step five: if he tries to fix you, run away. go back to step one and pay extra attention to step two.
step six: doctors are bad news. stay away from them at all costs, even if they are a good lawyer too.
step seven: don’t try to fix him either, even if he needs the help. he needs the help, but he’ll never actually accept it.
step eight: he’s just a boy. not an angel, not a superhero, not a saviour, not a lawyer, not a doctor, not a repairman.
step nine: he is not a song. don’t make him a song. he is not a song. don’t compare him to “broken crown” by mumford and sons or “ice” by lights.
step ten: if you need legal advice, a professional works but ultimately a convicted girl is the best advice.
step eleven: whatever you do, don’t hurt him because you’re afraid of being hurt.
step twelve: don’t give him your sharps. save yourself. you don’t need him.
step thirteen: don’t **** yourself because he doesn’t care.
step fourteen: he cares.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 9:07 AM UTC
you listen to what passes for the TV news
you read some
but not all
of social media views
you notice that
despite all internationalism
it‘s mostly old sensationalism
combined with more or less suggestive speculations about
how many people may have died in forest fires
to what imaginable depths the president aspires
whether the North Koreans have more rockets
despite the wonderful achievements
of the national superdealer
who of the leader‘s staff might be the next
to lose her job or his credentials
etc. etc.
in short
the world has mostly shrunk
to domestic politics and power games
plus a few places on the globe where
U.S. soldiers still are dying
in order to protect their country‘s interests
in oil, assorted mineral resources
or allies of political expedience
or a few thousand refugees from countries plagued
by persecution or dictators are
marching for weeks to claim asylum
in the home of the brave and the free
under the statue of liberty
only to discover that they are seen
as an invasion threatening
that blesséd city upon a hill
visions have grown smaller
more petty voices dominate the talk
a nation made of immigrants
faced with the poor who flee from their oppressors
decides to close its borders to the immigrants‘ next wave
oblivious of the times when they themselves
still searching for a better life
found a new place where they felt safe
led by the statue‘s torch that shone its light
upon a poet‘s words of welcome:
"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC
When the music's over
When the music's over, yeah
When the music's over
Turn out the lights
Turn out the lights
Turn out the lights, yeah
When the music's over
When the music's over
When the music's over
Turn out the lights
Turn out the lights
Turn out the lights
For the music is your special friend
Dance on fire as it intends
Music is your only friend
Until the end
Until the end
Until the end
Cancel my subscription to the Resurrection
Send my credentials to the House of Detention
I got some friends inside
The face in the mirror won't stop
The girl in the window won't drop
A feast of friends
"Alive!" she cried
Waitin' for me
Outside!
Before I sink
Into the big sleep
I want to hear
I want to hear
The scream of the butterfly
Come back, baby
Back into my arm
We're gettin' tired of hangin' around
Waitin' around with our heads to the ground
I hear a very gentle sound
Very near yet very far
Very soft, yeah, very clear
Come today, come today
What have they done to the earth?
What have they done to our fair sister?
Ravaged and plundered and ripped her and bit her
Stuck her with knives in the side of the dawn
And tied her with fences and dragged her down
I hear a very gentle sound
With your ear down to the ground
We want the world and we want it...
We want the world and we want it...
Now
Now?
Now!
Persian night, babe
See the light, babe
Save us!
Jesus!
Save us!
So when the music's over
When the music's over, yeah
When the music's over
Turn out the lights
Turn out the lights
Turn out the lights
Well the music is your special friend
Dance on fire as it intends
Music is your only friend
Until the end
Until the end
Until the end!
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
We are not free
We are slaves to the system
When we as for help
You just pretend to listen
But when we speak out
We as individuals are shut put
So go ahead and tell me where you went to college
Looking down the barrel of a loaded gun, which is your knowledge
You tell me that I don't have potential
I don't give a **** about your god **** credentials
But still
You shove it down my throat
expecting me not to choke
you expect me to listen to you
when you won't even listen to me
Now here I am
What if you heard that the next day I chose the rope instead of the books
Do you feel how wrong this looks
What would you do then?
Would you still be sipping drinks in your den
Or would you realized that you should have handed me a piece of paper and a pen
STILL
You continue to feed the flame
So I say **** the system
They won't listen
Jan 2, 2011
Jan 2, 2011 at 5:24 PM UTC
FIRST
Be it a girl, or one of the boys,
It is scarlet all over its avoirdupois,
It is red, it is boiled; could the obstetrician
Have possibly been a lobstertrician?
His degrees and credentials were hunky-dory,
But how's for an infantile inventory?
Here's the prodigy, here's the miracle!
Whether its head is oval or spherical,
You rejoice to find it has only one,
Having dreaded a two-headed daughter or son;
Here's the phenomenon all complete,
It's got two hands, it's got two feet,
Only natural, but pleasing, because
For months you have dreamed of flippers or claws.
Furthermore, it is fully equipped:
Fingers and toes with nails are tipped;
It's even got eyes, and a mouth clear cut;
When the mouth comes open the eyes go shut,
When the eyes go shut, the breath is loosed
And the presence of lungs can be deduced.
Let the rockets flash and the cannon thunder,
This child is a marvel, a matchless wonder.
A staggering child, a child astounding,
Dazzling, diaperless, dumbfounding,
Stupendous, miraculous, unsurpassed,
A child to stagger and flabbergast,
Bright as a button, sharp as a thorn,
And the only perfect one ever born.
SECOND
Arrived this evening at half-past nine.
Everybody is doing fine.
Is it a boy, or quite the reverse?
You can call in the morning and ask the nurse.
3.4k
Like many other Christians,
I’m living here on Earth temporarily;
ask to see my “spiritual green card” -
For my citizenship is with Christ’s eternity.
Being a stranger in a foreign land
makes me a heavenly ambassador,
serving a lifelong assignment
on a Godly pilgrimage as His sojourner.
Earth is not my final home -
For I strive to overcome temptations of Earth;
found in my identity with Christ
is the true measure of my worth.
For those who are unsure,
The Bible is my eternal passport
that provides my credentials
until I’m present in Heaven’s court.
Author Notes:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2010, All rights reserved.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 6:03 AM UTC
We are America.
We are the coffin fillers.
We are the grocers of death.
We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
The bomb opens like a shoebox.
And the child?
The child is certainly not yawning.
And the woman?
The woman is bathing her heart.
It has been torn out of her
and as a last act
she is rinsing it off in the river.
This is the death market.
America,
where are your credentials?
2.7k
what makes you feel granted
manhandling my memories
stirring up my experience
diagnosing with no credentials
gaslighting feelings of fear
forcing to question what happened
mind entering a storm
chaos now runs free roam
flashbacks and dreams
dialogue and overwhelming voices
speaking over another
talking me into a box
leaving me there alone
he pulls the chain around it
and imprisons me with a lock
my teeth chatter when I’m anxious
body starts to shake
hands begin to clench
skin feels wave of heat
and I start to feel faint
stomach tells me I’m in danger
heart throbbing in concert with a clock
my face emotionless and stale
as I try to mask what puts me in more danger
of not feeling collected and vulnerable
trusted if I break a sweat they’ll see
make a sudden movement and touch
touch my soft skin marked with scars
I question which body part is next
as I sit in a freezing shock
that limits my movement
ability to think
and speak
as hands go and *****
I scream so loud
but nobody hears me
I am silent
lips unmoved
internal thoughts crying
there is so much to say
but I can’t get myself to speak
and I want those ***** hands off
but I can’t seem to move
body paralyzed
I start unpacking this to the darkness
never to be opened for my safety
throwing away the feelings
destroying what it felt like
is better than keeping it alive
so please
don’t touch me like that
Aug 2, 2020
Aug 2, 2020 at 3:35 AM UTC
Long bus journeys,
Pouring rain. Soaked to the bone,
Hunger pains.
Its already dark out,
Almost six. Waiting for the bus,
I feel so sick.
I'm alone. I'm so alone.
I'm off the bus, its seven
According to my phone.
Walking in the miserable dark,
Down the familiar path,
I'm dreading "home", Detention please take me back.
I get in the door, get yelled at and go up the stairs.
I'll just rest my head, I wake up to my alarm.
I'm lying in bed.
I panic. My homework. It wasn't done last night
I'm crying, if i tell the truth they'll think I'm lying,
Its not alright.
I didn't forget. I didn't forget,
To them I lied and said the opposite.
They said "All the chances I gave you I regret"
"Just do your homework"
Do you not think i try? My essays are incomplete cause i stay up half the night, being yelled at.
"PLEASE EXCUSE AMELIA FOR NOT FINDING THE TIME TO DO, TWO MATHS PROBLEMS IN BETWEEN BEING EMOTIONALLY ABUSED"
So you give me MD after MD, saying it will "help" me.
To you I'm just another wasted youth with potential thats lazy,
I deserve no credentials because my work and attitude is hazy.
You must think that I dont care ,
But really I do, I'm trying I swear.
I cant fit school into my schedule.
Dear school, I really had fun,
With my friends, and now I'm almost done.
But you didn't help,all you did to me was yell.
You don't know me,im just a name and number on paper.
But perhaps my experiences would shock you like a tazer.
Stop being rude to your students, we all have our own ****
Be nice instead, we all struggle a good bit, be nice dont pretend.
Yours unfortunately, Amelia
The End.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC
You always talk about how you conquer
lay women of all types and credentials
figure it out that you are a ***** of a man
and pieces you have shattered along
promising empty and delayed dreams
get your sick **** to sleep for a while
and treat your girlfriend right and good
because she is a queen and deserves love
Don’t fool yourself in this age dear friend
As your flag posts don’t really matter
because you still remain so cold and lonely
shallow and always disrupted to grow
as your oats floats with the melting snow
watching all your friends leave you behind
wanting, groaning, moaning and frowning
It’s like some sort of a Piscean crises
crushes of addiction and utter mind games
When will it stop, come to a halt dear friend
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 5:24 AM UTC
What boots it, thy virtue,
What profit thy parts,
While one thing thou lackest,
The art of all arts!
The only credentials,
Passport to success,
Opens castle and parlor,—
Address, man, Address.
The maiden in danger
Was saved by the swain,
His stout arm restored her
To Broadway again:
The maid would reward him,—
Gay company come,—
They laugh, she laughs with them,
He is moonstruck and dumb.
This clenches the bargain,
Sails out of the bay,
Gets the vote in the Senate,
Spite of Webster and Clay;
Has for genius no mercy,
For speeches no heed,—
It lurks in the eyebeam,
It leaps to its deed.
Church, tavern, and market,
Bed and board it will sway;
It has no to-morrow,
It ends with to-day.
2.5k
the Republican Party
have the best candidate
to run for President
on that November date
patriotic and loyal
are her glowing attributes
she'll competently lead America
with great repute
her grasp on foreign policy
is second to none
she's got a domestic agenda
which is number one
Americans will be served well
under her stewardship
they'll have an excellent person
steering the ship
the White House needs
a woman of her grace
she'll bring fresh air
to the legislative space
ballots will not be wasted
on this lady's latitude
all fifty states must vote
for her rectitude
she'll uphold the constitution
of the USA
as the forefathers meant it
to be this way
Condoleezza Rice has all
the credentials that are required
and she'll be a President
who will be admired
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC
You are not cute Poem
3/5/2014
“You are cute.”
No.
Cute is a creature,
A little woodland chipmunk,
And I have news for you.
I don’t eat acorns or live my life in that wrong tree you’re barking up.
I’m not the poster child of a PETA campaign.
No.
Cute is a bow on a neatly packaged gift.
One with some fancy pattern.
And I have news for you.
There is nothing neat about this package, nor is it seasonal,
It won’t arrive on your doorstep for a special occasion.
I’m packaged with so many deep layers you couldn’t have it open in time for next year’s Christmas.
No.
Cute is young and unprofessional.
A little child playing with toys.
And I have news for you.
I’m not your toy.
You can’t pick me up to play, at your convenience, to then drop me on the floor forgotten.
And I’m a grown *** man – nothing cute about hangovers, hair loss, bills to pay, and unwashed laundry.
No.
Cute is not what we should aim for.
Cute is a one-liner and I am a Master’s Thesis.
Cute is what you’ll say before you cruise me online, ***** me, and then you’ll try to use me.
I’ll tell you what is cute though – you feeding me such a shallow compliment,
When really you should be treating me to the five-course conversation.
Ask me about my credentials darling,
Bachelors Degree with double majors,
working on law school and a PhD.
And finally, No.
I’m not **** *** ***** ‘tool,’ ‘trick,’ or **** either…
That’s only on Tuesdays.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
a liar once told me that i write good poetry
i laughed and continued drinking,
the sudden rush of despair, the wicked beast, the dry pages
the man had no credentials
but he persisted, declaring me an inspiration
like seeing a strand of hair attract a magnet
or amber jewels lolling in a dimly lit case
imagination is a felony, i wagered as i poured another
a combustion i know like the back of my hands
i told him i dreamt of a morgue where everyone i ever loved
sat upright as sunflowers, declaring their love for the sun
and of a newspaper rife with disease and the passion of a janitor
there is a raccoon near a river somewhere cleaning an apple
with a heart as big as an artist in drunken euphoria
taking better care of it than me when i sit down at a typewriter
it's wearing a cape just like edgar allen poe
and having better conversation with an oak tree than i've ever had at a party
about the sunday crossword puzzle he completed
yesterday i drank myself into a masquerade ball
arriving in a limousine being driven by a bearded mickey mantle
i was the guest of honor, sword fighting on table tops
and lecturing the guests about shakespeare through a garbage disposal
while a horse played backgammon with my father's brother
and there was a girl there behind the facade of an owl
who danced like the wind and everlasting light
and no one could stop her or look her in the eye
i am the only connection between my mind and the paper
merely a vessel, a john boat clearly breaching it's depth
either drowning like a fish in a sand dune or
being bounced like a baby on the knee of god
slavery, i call it, and hand him a glass of warm bourbon
as the splashing of my journal pages slap my crushed trachea
the typewriter is padlocked and painted over with cement
the metamorphosis trapped inside a bullet, boiling with sheer fury
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
quanta is better understood outside of physics,
on a grander scale -
quantum is a quality suggestion that
makes two (to, too) things auto-suggestive
as pertaining in the matter -
never mind - take the concept of quanta
out of physics and you get
a man readying himself for a controlled
coma having his wisdom teeth removed,
with the anaesθetician asking about
the readers' digest, the patient replying
quo vadis? / dokąd idziesz? then
the great sleep plateau - 'where are you going?'
puts any man off, whether boxer,
or paediatrician - ****** lays dead floored
for a minute, plays the dog game: play dead,
tongue hanging ready for a guillotine.
CHOP! and there goes the tail of a Doberman
(jamnik / dachshund on stilts)
and a ρoττł-
y
woo woo woo chim chimney
cha cha cha ooh
the rotting wail - rottweiler -
-ειλερ;
you never mention the u with the v due to
the chisel ease, then again, you don't
say double-o'h but say double u -
too shay frowning at a shave;
****** i'll make your language my playground
given all these post-colonial ***** aiming
for a signature and credentials,
this **** could pass the London brigade,
but take it to York, it would be a massacre
of a bureaucratic lapse of credentials...
a viking invasion more-or-less;
oh **** quantum physics, Charles Dickens
and the Victorian Era - Jack the Ripper the antonym,
both are the desired cages of energy requiring expression
to make testimony that such an age existed,
a particular congregate of expression, never universal,
boxes and pockets, however much inside one
is a question of your dietary requirement,
quantum physics is better explained with history
than hard science, and atoms, or the craze of subs,
people need a bigger picture, not everyone own
a ******* microscope or a telescope,
teach quantum physics using history:
Philippe Augustus of France mattered,
at the Battle of Bouvines - Otto IV? not so much.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 7:45 PM UTC
she posts her credentials
privately, to just you,
in the din of a currently popular
university barroom
and you dressed in your
pick up best,
plumes of all male grinning,
reeking in thinking -
oh yeah!
va va voom,
lucky
laughs and liquor,
cheap 3.2 Ohio beers on tap,
come super highway fast via
as my finger flick be wagging
to an attentive bartender
who recognizes,
a new venture worth
his investing in a newly forming
gene pool of the
collegial world of what you children
can google as
The Sixities
you see, she says,
she is minor famous,
had two minutes in a movie
called Woodstock,
instantly recalled distinctively,
which you honor with
a dozen roses rising of
very cool
and a few daisies of
wow
so young,
she's hitch hiking thru life,
karma, ying and yang, Sagittarius and
Hesse's Siddharta,
a little ****** break out back,
our lives have intersected in
Cleveland in 1969,
and there is no question unanswered,
your bed, is her bed,
this night
you puzzle yourself,
memory recycler,
why in 2015,
you celebrate a one stand,
a single strand
excavated from
the meta data of your brain
tonight,
from among a hundred lifetimes previous
*Why Woodstock Woman Wonder
and you do,
why, wonder,
have you stayed with me so long,
that your face is indelible tattooed,
easy extracted from ancient cells
risen by this
dawn's early light?*
are you pining old man,
are you dying old man,
trying to write it all down
before the insurance company
grumpily has to pay up?
this carefree woman, no,
young forever girl,
looking up to you
asking where can she crash tonight,
answered in a single guttural
exclamation sensation,
with me babe,
with me baby
fifty years later,
crashing you,
crashing with you,
with roses and daisies that never died
wonder where she is today,
a grandmother multiple,
or sleeping gone from an overdose
of stuff you occasionally fooled around with,
or are you spending another night
in your tripping life,
with another
one night man*
no answers given,
but it is, it was,
a single dot on the trail of dots and dashes,
the existential Camus moments of
of two ordinaries that intersected,
however briefly,
and you wonder,
not why, but if,
*Woodstock Woman,
do you remember me?
I need you to,
I want you to,
explain better
why we are crashing together
one more time*
~~~
August 20, 2015
5:32am
nyc
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 1:05 PM UTC
read a thousand love stories,
pause, rest awhile,
read ten thousand more,
and then deny equality.
If you ask for no more than you can give,
you ask for not enough
love is imbalance not an equation,
with a single solution
love has both constants and variable factors
so you write of tribulations and tributes
so you write of lamentations and liftings
you think you are on the same page
perhaps
but do we not all read at different paces?
one of you is solid, one is dotted and dashed
one of you is straight, one is bent, forever curving
when you think you are
in balance
in the same place
in syncopation
perhaps you are for a moment
a calculus of one point on a trajectory
and you say I can only ask for what I give
and am given
and no more,
you have miscalculated
this flux
flummoxed
when the old terrain is flayed flat
but thru the windshield you see the
plateau ends, the geography unknown,
when you see unknown
when you seek the unknown
when you give from places you did not know
you had to give from
when you kiss a hand
for twenty minutes more than than the one minute you intended
when you give more than is asked
when you ask for more than you can you think you can give
the imbalance is the only concert
the imbalance is the the only constant
how do I know this?
what are my credentials?
you are not a teenage girl,
what matters of what you know of these matters?
I am who I am
a diversity of man and manner
I am past prime and in decline
but this I know
for having failed ten thousand poem times
you must ask for more than one can give
but that's not fair!
silly one, still wretched confused,
even after one hundred
thousand poem times
you must ask of
yourself
more than you can give
and ask no less
demand no less
a body in emotion is not a body in rest
when the imbalance is too great or insufficient
then you write a poem
look in the mirror that cannot lie
and move
on
or
move
off
and begin to ask
yourself
to whom may I give myself
more than is asked
then you have finally asked
the correct solution to the
unsolvable equation
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 3:47 AM UTC
You call me alarmist
Because I say what I have heard.
You call me socialist
As if it were a ***** word.
You call me communist
Like this is nineteen fifty two.
You make an epithet
Of anyone who contradicts you.
You call me coward
Because I hate war so much.
You call people ******
If men should hug or touch.
You call people terrorists
If they don't worship your way.
You seem to hate the poor
Wish they would just go away.
You have a list of names
You use instead of using specifics.
You have a list of behaviors
You consider to be extra terrific
Like making fun of races
And calling starving people losers.
Make laws against cannabis
While you are a bunch of boozers.
You use Christianity
Like membership in the Rotary.
Won't take your credentials
To be verified by a legal notary.
You hide your profits
And brag about your successes
And become homicidal
If you get anything but yesses.
It's a sick world you sell
With your hate filled speeches.
Surely this is not what
Your spiritual leader teaches.
There is so much disdain
And even evil in what you do.
Let us all hope and pray
Our kids don't turn out like you.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 1:47 PM UTC
I am not disposable.
That's a fact, it's non-negotiable.
A fact, which right now you smirk at-
but I am not a servant, and
you're certainly not an aristocrat.
I am not expendable.
I wish proper etiquette was injectable,
because that's a vaccine you desperately need.
Caring and truly caring-
you need to learn the difference between those two things.
I am not nonessential.
You think you know me inside and out,
but you don't have the right credentials.
I try to understand your motives,
but your thoughts are cryptic and confidential.
I am not unnecessary.
You make yourself into two faces-
the object of all my affection, and my greatest adversary.
This situation is just a coal mine-
your treating me like I am these things is the canary.
These things are what I am not.
I should be paramount in your life.
Through your own actions you've proven these are all I am to you,
You've unsheathed a backstabbing knife.
I am here to stay.
Though you've nonchalantly tried to toss me away,
you will learn someday,
that I am not disposable.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC