"dampening" poems
MS
Multiple Scleriosis
Aka Miserable Self
"Listen to your body"
Says MS nurse
Your mind keeps going
Burning sensations intermittent
Stabing and shooting in arms and legs
Crawling in your head
Numbness in your ***
Forget fullness
Wobbling stumberling
Fear
Pregablin *****
Dampening your fuesed nerves
Limping dragging
"rest"
Says MS nurse
Mind keeps going
Days are half days
Taken up by sleep
Fear
Weakness
Dropping
Numbness
"pace yourself "
says MS nurse
Mind keeps going
job half done
Delegate
Let go
"Use your alternative technology "
Says MS nurse
Mind keeps going
Stick
Mixer
Steamer
Robotic vacuum cleaner
Hose
Wheelchair
Automatic car
It's challenging Managing Self
Be kinder to yourself
Kindness rules
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 6:38 AM UTC
Vision obscured by soft misty rain dampening harsh city lights
spilling slippery from storefronts and traffic train
shimmering upon pavements
between steps and stains.
soft misty rain
don't I know you?
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
There are worse places to be
There are better
Avenues of everything I’ve ever dreamt of
Stretch out before me like a baby’s crumpled arms
Rugs pave the broken road
Soothing the wavy maze of souks and bazaars
Covered in blemishes
Riddled with secret treasures
Untameable animals scour the pathways
Searching for forgotten scraps
Shadows live in contrast to the midday sun
Hiding fallen beggars
Lying twisted on the ground
Juxtaposition of beauty and pain unfolds
Poised in the blameless blue sky
A tower rises over the horizon
Desperation pours out of every cracked brick
And a prayer floats out to the market
It is perfection, of a kind.
The streets are not innocent
They have seen and heard and felt
Every wrong in the world
Afternoon heat of the square suffocates me
I’m lost in an array of people and materials
Drowning in the swirling language
Eyes stinging amongst the dusty chaos
Rain
Eats away the market’s life,
Dampening red-hot brick walls.
Corrupted skies cry.
There are worse places to be
There are better
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 8:41 AM UTC
The bright sun’s rays
Are dappled as they strike
The manicured greensward.
He, tall, lithe, teeth all aglow
In cream slacks and pastel blouson,
She, fair and fairylike in acres of shimmering gauze,
Alight from the auto
At the site of their ‘manger al fresco’
Let us call them Justin and Jocelyn.
The basket is heavy
No matter.
He lifts it clear to carry
She gasps, he grins.
In minutes the scene is set
The rug, the plates, the glasses
The pate, the cold chicken,
The fruit….the wine.
He deflowers a bottle of Moselle,
Wishing it were her.
Guessing as much she blushes.
Ants retreat to nests
Wasps attack alternate targets
Flies zoom elsewhere to feed.
And all the while the sun
The golden sun continues to dapple.
The rain is not quite horizontal
As Joe and Judy
Run from the bus stop
To the stony beach.
Not quite horizontal
But driven off the sea it tastes salty.
He, ordinary, average, in a dampening grey mackintosh.
She, hair bleached in a sister’s frock and jacket
Holding hands,
And hold each a sandwich
Cellophane wrapped.
Squatting against the seawall
They eat.
Wet eyes flash bright signals.
Joe has a small thermos
Its vegetable soup,
And somehow a hardboiled egg appears,
To share.
The rain continues its attack.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
the tears end as quickly as they begin,
but the waterfall within me rages on,
stealing away with my insides
and dampening every last spark of life.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
*Your silence is like blizzards
Dampening the passionate fire
Numbing all emotions*
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
Every Child Not every Child
Has known God, Has known God,
Not the God of names, All no-named, especially Gods,
Not the God of don’ts, No don’ts, only one do.
Not the God who ever No Life, surviving is weird,
Anything weird, Anything good, beyond belief,
But the God who only But this God speaks not-a-word,
knows four words and vocabulary of wet, dampening silence,
keeps repeating them, no repetition or explaining required,
saying: saying (nothing, only raining tears:):
“Come dance with Me.” “Rain is water, life,”
Come Dance. Come Survive,. Dance in Rain.
Hafiz (1320-1389). Lipstadt (20~21st Century)
May 6, 2023
May 6, 2023 at 3:17 PM UTC
I'm afraid.
Simple as that.
Just irrational fear.
Complex in the cracks.
The dark envelops me.
Blinding me and quickening my heart.
Even though a game, I start to scream.
Trying to rip this closet door apart.
The tears dampening my face.
My breathing changing pace.
My mind plays games just like the others.
I cant even steady my hands.
Then light.
Sweet, forgiving, white knight in the form of a filament.
I wipe my face, realizing the blood that covered my fingers.
Where was this savior that had been sent?
His smell lingers.
He stood tall.
Dark.
Faceless.
His hand brushes my face,
My neck,
*****
I look up to see a familiar, yet unnamed, face.
His pernicious smirk haunts me.
Swift air brushes past my face followed by sharp sting.
He leans into me, his lips touching my ear,
His tone is sarcastic and grave.
"Welcome back, slave"
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 11:05 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
it turns out
Mother Nature is
just as indecisive
as the rest of us
it seemed that
she had finished
with her winter
her day-long frosts
and biting winds
no longer the need
to cocoon oneself
in protective layers
when venturing out
for nothing more than
a bottle of milk
of down-stuffed coats
and twice-wrapped scarves
woollen hats
and thermal socks
it felt like
we had moved on
our spring had arrived
just in time
we could enjoy
the brisk early mornings
despite their chill
safe in the knowledge
that the gentle touch
of afternoon warmth
would shortly follow
the biggest setback
to be expected
was an intermittent
morning-to-evening downpour
dampening our anticipation
though only temporarily
of any plans we had made
until the puddles were dry
or had drained away
it may have been
a false start
but i'm loathe to say
we were tricked
or call it
an outright lie
those brightened days
were a welcome change
enjoyed by all
we were simply
carried away by
the primaveral allusions
lulling us enough
to forget the cold
and its significance
catching us unprepared
and exposed
like those delicate flowers
so recently bloomed
buried for now
beneath this weight
of snow
Mar 10, 2023
Mar 10, 2023 at 11:29 AM UTC
There’s not much left to write about
Happiness and sadness are gone
Instead, I’ve traversed the subjects
And they all left me fighting a scream.
Anxiety’s clutched at my heartstrings
Dampening, muting their song
But now I’m going to break free
And dive into life headlong.
I’ll play videogames and write some poems
And do all the things that I miss
For while once this was time-wasting, never
Shall I waste a day anxious for this.
I guess anxiety’s got its perks, but
The one thing it gets me to do
Is work ‘till I have no more work, but
I had nothing to do at all, so I’m blue.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
Her fingers were covered in corn.
the corn after chewing, broken
pierced, churned- it could spread as butter
thick on stale toast, if needed
"it's fine, don't you worry, we'll get you all cleaned up"
she stared indifferently
Strings dangled from her mouth, unswept
full of necessary greens ---"mhm there there, this will give
you so much energy" --- drags of breath,
half inhale half choke. nothing to look forward to,
not the next soaking glob, not the cursing woman
in the bathroom, not the spill of light to her eyes
Where are the ladles, Did you check on it? The key? Just moved, most the suitcases aren't there yet. Remember to bring the Did you check on it? pay attention. Have you seen my grand kids?
who are you?
Sunday's are for the active ones
The games down the hall are too far. Why worry with legs, if she could just adjust to the left
the world could sag into an ongoing dream- No demands, no games, no movement.
The nurses hair net had more presence than the splotch of gray against her peeling itchy scalp. Drool leaked from leather lips, dampening the collar of her two month sticky blouse. Arms curled and locked,displaying under the wax skin cranberry patches-
she never wiped them off. Always the soft murmer of
a snore, always the smell of unbrushed teeth and hampers.
"Did you touch those where don't touch me scott scott scott leave my things alone thevenin I need a stop lying I want to go scott, scott? scott. I can't remember any"
I said my name four times before she heard me, knew me
I fixed her pillow and my sister marked off the day on the calendar.
We told her about school, the marching band, each word
filled with forced enthusiasm. She bobbed her head in circles, lazily
rolling her eyes, the curtain shading the empty space. We spent 30 minutes precisely.
She was more than I realized.
I never knew she had horseback riding, violin playing days. She traveled and hiked. We could have been close. Unraveling with the mystery, I felt the lateness of my curiosity.
It was 30 minutes precisely, always.
We acted as strangers, reciting routine and wishing each other a happy day and a quiet love you
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
Daydreamer thinking this world is something it's not.
Standing on stairs made out of air, climbing higher and higher with his eyes closed and his hands behind his back.
With the dark drying up everywhere behind him.
His dreams brighten up this world that does not know it's black.
The daydreamer is fighting off this fog that is trying to tear his mind out from him and not even knowing.
Daydreamers battling with there eyes closed softly.
Trying to forget the ugliest days, and making the day blossom in their mind till the day is bright with a incomprehensible glow masking all the gray and loneliness.
The daydreamer holds on to the hope that everything will be alright someday.
Never dampening that hope, but feeds it with their Anticipation on what the future may bring.
Daydreamer is the only one when they close their eyes it's not dark, it's not dim, it's bright.
And not only seeing the light as an adventure and a reality, but also the dark.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
Ink drying
as my well self
realizes how much
I mean this
need this -
the weaving,
the bleeding;
the needing
dampening future happiness
each step tripped backwards;
like the sounds you hear
or feel
when there's only silence,
or truth
to settle in
with the mush
or pile
or illusion,
dream
of something that
came too soon -
things I don't need
anymore;
My tear jerking
Prince,
reaching, mmm,
a push too far
without reason
or real love
enough to
set me free -
release me
from these dark clouds
of your little,
play-dream;
plucked your last pedal;
tasmanian devil
fiddling with my grace;
How cruel have I been
in your deepness?
I want you, baby,
but I need you not
to keep this steady pace;
deeperdeeperdeeper
in not being afraid
to sleep in this empty house
we built together -
but dare I
pull myself out?
God be with you, too.
Cold and dry.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 10:42 PM UTC
The tiny droplets of rain created constellations in my slowly dampening hair.
Little stars, scattered with the most pleasant randomness one could wish for.
Magic was all around me.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
When my sister played Clair de Lune
I’d go into her room and sit on the floor
with my ear to the side of the piano
so close that the sound would fill my mind
with the image of the long, coiled strings
vibrating, glowing golden in the darkened box.
I could hear my sister’s feet dampening
and undampening the pedals, muting the
strings, then letting them ring, resonating,
one note overlaying another, could hear
the creak of her piano stool and smell the
smell of wood dust, like old sheet music,
and my ear would pulse, almost hurting
from the sound of the hammers striking steel.
And I would begin to imagine things,
different things each time:
my aunt in a blue flowered house dress
standing in her kitchen holding a jar
of homemade pickles, her thin white hair
always in tight pin curls.
Or I’d be alone, in a long, softly lit hallway,
the walls covered with wainscotting and
lavender striped wall paper yellowing
near the ceiling. At the far end of the hallway,
a solarium, and beyond that a balcony
glimmering in sunlight.
Or I’d be in a field with small, white flowers
bowing with the weeds rhythmically
and sensing that I was
loved by someone.
And it would be that my sister’s
fingers were pounding deep into
my chest, and always, always
by the end of the piece
I’d ask her to play it one more time.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
Tears of creation
fall from the overcast blanketing
of the billowy, white fields overhead,
blended with a requiem
that only the absence of dawn could manifest,
and kissed upon
by the ever-fluorescent canvases
of smoke, and flame
that carelessly intrude
upon the horizon.
Oh,
how fastidious is the misting
that blesses this premature day,
invoking a spontaneity
within the mundane clockworkings
that symbolically define
the average,
the everyday
and the norm.
Glorious is this sight to behold.
Not only by our soulpanes,
but through the remainder;
our entire spectrum of sensory awareness
that we are so gifted to have received,
yet,
rarely do their values go little more
than depreciated.
The refreshment
that quenches our starving skin,
and slowly enfilms us
with the caressings of unrequited purity.
The dampening of the air
that perpetually enthralls
even the most tolerant
resisters to aroma.
The crispness;
unadulterated,
and without perversions of the modern day;
enrapturous are the resonant entrails of the strata
that ever so gently envelop,
and awaken our slumbering buds.
And finally,
but without conviction,
the resound of symphonic harmony,
abound with the alluring enchantment
that,
in seamless refrain,
could only be achieved
by such a reverent miracle of nature.
These are the moments in which I revel.
And blessed be Her,
who benevolently grants us
with such an immaculance
of cornerless beauty.
Graceful, and sacred is the oasis in the sky.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 6:52 PM UTC
Like when they found the chariot
wheels at the bottom of the
Red Sea so was I surprised
at the faint reaching of the
fig tree, clinging to life amidst
so much dust, as it reached
ever upward in an infinite dance,
unaware of its eventual wanweird fate.
But I tracked on, crunching through
the ancient dirt, scrolls strapped
upon my back, coarse leather digging
through my camel's hair robes, sandy
grit forced in the gaps of
my toes. I cracked the locusts
and devoured them, dampening their bitterness
with the sweet warming explosion of
wild honey. So with bound Pleiades
above me, I gave witness to
Jerusalem, saying "After me will come
one more powerful than I, the
thongs of whose sandals I am
not worthy to stoop down and
untie." And I took them into
the Jordan and made them new
men. As the chill waters numbed
their muscles, their hairs pricked up
like gooseflesh, the night echoing with
splashing water and murmured voices. But
slowly the people trickled away, back
to the twang of lutes, their
ladles of soups, and I was
left alone, sitting, contemplating, always waiting.
So I sent forth the ravens,
carrying my message, to meet at
the Brookhollow no matter the obstruction,
to come by wagon or camel,
no matter of rain or flood.
But they were stubborn and prideful,
and would be moved from their
couches probably by no less than
one of Archimedes' great battleship levers,
and even then with massive groaning
like the coarse wooden hulls of
those monolithic ships. Because the sweet
taste of pastries is lodged upon
their tongues, keeping them occupied with
this world instead of the next.
So here I'll stay, always waiting.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
Longing the curse of
Human Satisfaction
I clear my throat
Remembering the madness of a storming boat
The whipping winds
Introduced a chaos
That infinity even had to question
Correcting confidences like a teacher would the troublemaker
Insanity rides high,
Protecting itself from women
That they thought they knew at the time
But soon discovered
They wouldn't even lend'em a dime
I lost track of something way back when
But now see that I was never young
Just not strong enough to grip the gun
Forgetful through shallow puddles of dampening and soggy
Love
I try to structure these thoughts
But only produce
Ashy white doves
For the fire inside all of us is burning hard and eternal
There is no hope that can forever float
So in these times after alabaster marble shiners
And politicians pinching pennies naked in front of camera's
A policemen whispers to a friend he hates the leader
And soon is bludgeoned and branded a freak
Forever dead dreams in a child's mind is the place I wish to be
Away from the hanging school halls
Away from the broken bottle battalions
A place directed towards indirectness
Where mystery lightly grips its boot heels
Ready to flee at any chance given to thee
Startling laughter rests in the ears of men un-hearing
Obsessed pig tail wearing women
Upset the gifted girl a la two first names
Swinging herself madly and wildly
With words she herself cannot even understand or control
But Oh the traces of mastery and genius with clouded perceptions
Of shadows contemplating Aristotle easily
For the barman is asking for the tab now
And the lonesome nights I knew before
Still await me once again
As the same dead knights rest in books
On high ancient shelves
In dusty far away nooks
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 11:34 AM UTC
Do no harm.
Leave the war-plane frame of reference
to other puzzle pieces.
We are naked.
We are not.
We are not certain of which
monologue to begin.
So we chant in
unified panting
etching legends
out of rhymes.
Do no harm.
Do no harm.
It matters now that the growing telephones
are charged like neglected
poisons of dampening redials.
Truth is gaining wisdom like
groups of formatted crosses
jumping like splinters
of margarine jars.
We are naked.
We are not.
We are one with living and prepared
for the drying of the hands.
Clean me up and leave me outside.
Sun gone but wind remaining.
Do no harm.
Do no harm.
Do no harm.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 9:22 AM UTC
His words crash around us, his miserable dark dampening everyone’s light. Your blue eyes roll high, then low, letting his hanger catch on your shoulders. I protest, claim love and want hope, but he’s well prepared; bible, violence, and stereotype in hand.
At first, he locked his anger up tight, disguised the resentment, fought the archaic nature of his values, the great expanse of his hatred, hidden. He kept it in, fought it, failed to understand it. Finally, internal battle lost, he started leaking. Any hope for happiness killed by a diet of frozen pizza, polish sausage, and spaghetti westerns. He respects men who don’t respect women, loathes anyone who dares to think or feel more than necessary.
His eyes shift, and a creeping moustache has begun above his upper lip, framing a mouth spewing misunderstanding. You say: He makes everyone miserable. He says: Its all the cigarettes and alchohol they’ve been using. You shake your head, knowing an argument only spreads the contagion and inflames the rash.
I forget, ask him how he knows so much about things he’s never done. “You don’t have to try it to know,” He replies, the creeping moustache more and more evident. I roll my eyes, lay back and listen as he preaches theories about women he’s never known, never had. How many times can he fail to realize he’s no better than anyone else. He preaches God and Christianity, but hates more than anyone, has no hope, or faith, or love, and lacks any shadow of compassion. He’s filled with violence and anger, yet claims to follow a God of love.
He’s not tough, or hardened, or experienced, he’s afraid. Afraid to love, to lose, to understand, to hope, to accept, because it means a change. It means growing up, throwing out comic books, drawing mor than Batman, finding friends who are real, feeling the pain, understanding the gravity, and embracing it all.
Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 3:52 PM UTC
Not only do I look at the cup as half empty
It contains poison
Lost my positive outlook a long time ago
Humor hides my broken feelings
Having breakdown inside though
Full of darkness dampening my mood
No light to cancel it out
On the verge of hyperventilation
Tears fall of sorrow and doubt
I am hollow
Fighting restless itch
Tried pulverizing negativity
No matter which weapons I arm myself with
Is too abundant to expel from my body
My voice quiet and unsure
Words are stronger than stone
I am told I should look on the bright side of things
Stormy weather is all I've ever known
Heard silence when needing comfort
Snowed when I longed for the warmth of the sun
Witnessed those I care about
Walk out door one by one
Wasted hours weeping in vain
Knowing tears would not change the past
I was foolish enough to get my hopes up
Despite the fact good things rarely last
I lost optimism the older I grew
Cannot find silver linings anymore
The partially filled glass knocked off the table
It's completely empty on the floor
Aug 13, 2021
Aug 13, 2021 at 10:22 AM UTC
I dream
dark and quietly
They bellow,
the twisted sighs of laborers
adrift a midsummer's lullaby,
because their eyes are a collage of uncertainty
I want to scatter them,
find them washed up on a desolate shore,
uncork them
decode the message inside,
The monarch's sea ebbs
black and thick and drips
on a satellite,
a power struggle between stillness
and the busy orbit of our minds.
All the sin the king commits
is revealed in the innocent, sapphire tears
of his children,
dampening his shadow.
Youthful hearts aflame, chasing illusions,
They won't challenge the stories,
not anymore.
We dream this night,
a never-ending cycle.
I feel us here
under the twisting tree of life,
any soul seeking nourishment from leaky roots:
We are your child's laughter.
We are your fear of death.
Let us dance upon your lilies,
let the flies handle the rest.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
Loose clouds, sink dreams of sunny days and sunny ways,
They are the front runners the fore tellers, driven
before the wind of the next wave of water falling
from the sky and from my eye.
It is a SIGN, It is a SIGN, I tell you don't wear a target out
when Scuds are about, It is a sign of bad weather and my doom.
DOOM I say! Falls fool and Winters wimp, blown in my haggard face!
Seeing Scuds (a loose vapory missile, leading the bad weather)
at my doorsteps, dampening my foot falls, scud after scud,
more bad weather, dark clouds, I bend into the wind
head down so I won't drown and the Scuds can't see my eyes,
That I have given up, hide oh hooded head
and given in, I use my umbrella to hide behind,
will I or it survive the wind?
until spring rings in, with summer.
.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC