"denominated" poems
1739
Some say goodnight—at night—
I say goodnight by day—
Good-bye—the Going utter me—
Goodnight, I still reply—
For parting, that is night,
And presence, simply dawn—
Itself, the purple on the height
Denominated morn.
9.3k
“is this the hill I want to die on?”
there are certain questions I ask myself
filters, lines in the mental sands, rubicons, so denominated by me.
which loosely translated means is this battle worthy of dying,
fighting over?
the question comes so frequently I wonder what’s wrong with me.
always instigated by a human being and every one quick to the draw
I ask the question twice -
most times
once to them. then to myself
by now my children know,
to ask themselves first,
so once is enough
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
71
A throe upon the features—
A hurry in the breath—
An ecstasy of parting
Denominated “Death”—
An anguish at the mention
Which when to patience grown,
I’ve known permission given
To rejoin its own.
1.3k
for Beau
this mixte bag of nutty facts,
compote of this's and that's,
fragrant but yucky tasting potpourri,
sordid assortment of
seemingly unseemly
random collection of
facts, whoppers,
recipes and formulae, and his 'n her
stories (my fav!)
useless motorized drivel,
running around my head
that you have with me creme-filled,
data conglomerated,
transformed by mongol hordes of grey cells
urged on, nay transformed,
by **** and beer into
a magnificent miscellaneous mile of jumble,
virtuous and verifiable grab bag of
ever so humble,
tuneful melodies of a medley of
snatches and patches
of Jagger and Liszt,
a verifiable pastiche of
vital and downright dumb
Factors and Factoids,
I thank you suchly muchly
musta taken years, maybe even
decades to collect and codify,
this assemblage of verifiable factoids,
after-all, took you twelve to
feed me in eye dropper ingestible quantities!
though with Wiki this and Wiki that,
I coulda save us all some time,
and since it is all on the Internet,
and any way 99% I forgot
like a cell phone number
no matter, I can reads and counts
and writes term papers downloaded,
but caught my eye you wrote
of a mutton stew denominated as
hotchpotch,
but we variant truants,
ici, aux Etats-Unis, on dit
and spell our salmagundi as
hodgepodge
but in summary summation,
thanks for teaching me creative thinking,
for without this skill,
I would but be,
a tool
of Wikipedia
and not its creator
P.S. It's gadzooks,
not gad zooks,
according to Wikitionary,
even them Oxford fellas agree,
tee hee,
you could look it up
on the internetsky,
Teach....
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 5:50 AM UTC
*when I turned eighteen
sadness filled my cups,
for carefree was now gone,
laying side by side
with all my companion figurines,
off to rest in a boy's toy chest
in a backyard cemetery hid,
certainty assured
all that I was, so far,
all that I will be,
uncalming coming forevermore,
unwilling borne upon
the newly time redesigned,
heavy load shoulders of adult responsibility
when I turned thirty,
sadder now by the means and meaning of accumulation,
having thrice now measured the length of a stick of life,
denominated as a decade,
wiser now that the children underfoot,
certainty assured,
would have to pay
bills of lading for cargoes,
not of their own choosing,
indeed, selected unwisely,
by men like me, and men before,
all too old or too gone,
to be prosecuted now for the
short sightedness of reckless timidity
when I turned fifty,
the shoulders slightly stooped and gently curved,
my gait and pace slowed by weight,
pockets laden with undesired memories,
unfinished arguments,
dreams that morphed and morted into
failed schemes that with the
certainty assured,
the tallied ache of known losses
will always weigh greater
than the
unknown of opportune
now with seventy,
so near, onrushing to the sounds
of old men and their noisy excuses
of babbling, ironical,
eerie similar to the parental smiling hushing
of a newborn's squeaking,
a youthful brook,
happily to an open sea arushing,
hurrying in the fullness of innocence to
it's demise
the line of sight to the horizon,
far shorter now than ere before,
with greater certainty assured,
that near my god than thee,
my sadness daren't hope to dissipate, nor lift
as once it did,
an early morn mist rising off the river,
freshly sun burnished, then miracle banished,
sacrificing itself as a hopeful oracle of a new born day
recurring haunted words
like rest, best and tried,
the only legacy remaining to gift,
but one thing yet measures a comforts,
a red cross blanket round the shoulders thrown that with
certainty assured,
the marvy joy of life all in,
be our given right to err and learn wisdom at our own pace
so here I freely confess
with wry, sly smile that we
proved ourselves to be
victims of our unintended tendencies,
successful in being*
all too human
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 7:35 PM UTC
I see the lot, denominated in slots, automated in spots, weakest to the plot, and I'm not, convinced it is wrong, nor minced in my longing for a song, a song to the sum, to the sun, to the one unto the ones unto none, nada, nothing, but a hum from beyond, a rumbling from a haunt, stumbling from a heart, belonging to a spark that departed a long-long time ago, where it started, and I'll go-go back there for the harp, for the halo, for the art of it, standing on the stars, apart, but a part of it, I'll go for the horns, for the dark, and for the parts discarded, I will, try my hardest, to remain in progress, a battery that charges for the harvest of the starkest of the larvae unto the fiercest flies, unto spider webs in fragile skies, finite lines up high, where I'll die knowing I flew, die knowing the truth, the use, the abuse, the ruse, the heights of my sight, igniting in the lie, in the cries, so distant now, but a distinctive growl from yesteryear's child so mild, so wild as to be outed by a new sound, so profound as to drown the complexity out, and simply shout from anyone's mouth, reading out-loud and clear, my cloud, my thoughts, my fear, left right here on a single space, where I placed it and saved it away in the seventh day of this resting case, that is all but closed, a screen saver transposed as knowns exposed, and I'm aroused in knowing the doubts are clothed in lace, soaked on display for my placation's of our days, the daze, hazily grazing on the safe, the fates, locked in a slate, for later placement to a shape, I'm hate, wrapped in a hopeful taste, waiting for a saying to say it all, ~ I'm spaced.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
~for all the old poets,
especially one so denominated, my old faithful friend…~
<>
the
THEY,
emboldened and italicized,
are whispering and whimpering,
even
whining
that I’ve gone
wimpy,
lost possess of mine
facilities and faculties,
no longer able and capable
to command, demand, in hand,
import
a decent poem
from & in the English language(s) to
purport,
lost my edges,
hide behind the hedges
of inconsequential ancestral
and incestual rhymes,
these
THEY
do oft appear as voices in my
now emptied and unemployed head,
but familiarity breeds contemporary
contretemps of contempt,
for they are remiss,
in dismiss when the eyelids
flutter,
the noble temporal lobes
mutter,
*’tis thy~thyme ole man,
for spillage of your*
FPOTD
(first poem of the day)
thus kneecapping the cancer
of a restless dark hour period
where failures and faults,
of lines
crossed and uncrossed,
bear you to pieces,
bare your lifetime
laundry list
of pulsing, palpable,
fulminating and always ruminating faults
of which penance cannot be bought
by the bags of pennies and sordid assorted coins
that THEY
will find in the back bottom of thine closets,
along with the manuscripts
of the discarded and forlorn,
unloved and unpublished poems that you chose
to have buried with you,
lest you think that
eternal rest
will best
them voices,
they will accompany you
to permafrost of forever dark,
their once and future demise,
a travesty of
justice…
enough.
lists of to do’s;
the exercise of delaying death
for one more day,
by trodding on the treadmill
that postpones the inevitable
that can
always tun longer and faster
and cannot be outdone, outrun,
but
this poem
disgorged and disbanded,
it’s bytes,
will not bite mark me
in the forever future
*their bytes are alive now,
free to be chomped and well chewed,
and once fully digested,
be return to our Mother
Earth*
where some disclaimed poems
go to be buried
within it’s eternity
Apr 21, 2024
Apr 21, 2024 at 10:16 AM UTC
It seems unsolvable
Completely
Improbable
An equation
With no answer
They tell me to add pounds
But they add more doubt
Subtract self-hate
But all I do
Is lose myself in the problem
Beauty standards?
I’m on the bottom
I’m a fraction
Denominated by ideals of
Perfection
Numerated by my
Own demons
Like pi
I’m irrational
However I am not infinite
Only temporary
Average me out
Calorie count
Weight in pounds
Calculate the BMI
But
My
Inverse
Operation
Can’t be ignorable
Trying to find a semblance
Of self control
Factor it out
Solve for x
What piece
Of the puzzle
Did they forget
When they wrote my
Problem
Keep subtracting
I’m shrinking
Prime number
Divide me
By my own weight
Half of a person
Less than the other
Negative exponent
In a positive
Expression
Graph it out
Linear equation
You don’t need
A computer
To see the
Decrease in
Motivation
3D?
More like 2 dimensions
Paper thin with
Pencil markings
Multiple choice?
More like multiple guess
Balance the scale
Life is a short answer question
Sum it up
In a few words
It’s the beauty equation
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
The pure core of The Donald,
that is when he's stripped down
to his essential essence much like
the very last doll in the Russian doll
set-up where one reveals another is
colored green & has pictures of
Washington, Hamilton, & Jackson
includes a religious proclamation
together with some esoteric Masonic
or such magic pyramid with an all-seeing
floating eye & an eagle grasping vegetation
in its claws as curious almost tantric circles
overhead & Latin sayings abound all tattooed
& water-marked to stop counterfeiters
& numbered & in series & signatures
& bold, bold numbers ...
the core of The Donald is denominated & in
the very greenest of greens.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 9:27 PM UTC
First came the pioneer
Who’s first glance preceded
Any other aspect of hers
She thought was needed
So she came short
Of wit and of strength
Which she had, but had left
And put her life at arm’s length
Next came the savant
Who’s past bore her soul
Her lion’s den rose above
And claimed her whole
She could all but escape
The temor it left
Which made the trail
That lay her to rest
Third came the loyalist
Dismissed as an outcast
Yet she found a place
Amongst the other Three fast
But it wasn’t enough
To keep up
So her way was made crawling
Fruitfully but deficiently
Last came the dreamer
Denominated rash yet elegiac
She wasn’t the cub expected
For they were frankly a fallback
Born to diligence and discipline
But turned to hiraeth and lies
She sought out the moon
The stars, the seas and the sky
She took her time to raise her flesh
And examine stories beneath
Of what could’ve been, what could be
If only she escaped the heath
That was what the Four planned to do
Yet outside came out only Two
And the One who best survived
Was the one who didn’t let her life
Deprive her of what could’ve been
Power erupting from her skin
She wrapped a hand around it’s wrist
And let go.
It took the fury of years
Blood, sweat and tears
To escape the heath
And the years left that lay beneath
If she weren’t to leave
If she were to grieve
The loss of her future history
And find defeat in victory
Then would her flame still flicker?
My doubt gets thicker
She isn’t a poet, merely a girl
Unable to find her place in that world
And as she recalled a wise woman saying
‘There’s escape in escaping’
Aug 11, 2025
Aug 11, 2025 at 2:36 PM UTC
Forever then came like a battle
out of a parade, chaos out a
celebration, color out a prism
All banded, separate, but one,
None more colorful or known,
a gathering of none,
black as the moonless night, hovering above, cold seen but invisible as icicles on a caves entrance, utterances
High and low voices forming no words but a guttural instinct and a glow from heaven
Or below?
As sects, theological participants disbanded became part of it all a half soul half soup conglomeration of writhing
Arms legs and hearts unwoven their denominations woke up
To stare at the awakening the unknown.
Who knows what they said.
Or felt or clutched.
As they faded back into the cathedrals of dust.
Feb 11, 2021
Feb 11, 2021 at 11:33 PM UTC