"depending" poems
Summer days and heatwaves
Sweat pouring down our skin
Working hard no time to rest
From the time the day begins.
Bailing hay without a shade
Not a single cloud insight
Gathering all the barely corn
We work until the night.
we have a little hideaway
A place down in the vale
Its where we drink some scrumpy
Along with beer and ale.
We while away an hour or more
Depending on how we feel
We rest and take it easy
No sound from the tractors wheel.
Now tomorrow is another day
Our work load it will keep
We may be striming hedge grows
Or we may be shearing sheep.
But we really are not bothered
We've been farmers far too long
We carry out our dutys
And sometimes with a song.
Our lives are hard but simple
We are living the country life
Away from the city and the fumes
From cars and such alike.
You see we have this hideaway
A little place down in the vale
So come along and join us
At the end of a farmers day
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 9:13 AM UTC
Sometimes I feel, like a fatherless child,
Gone astray, depending on old unreliable me,
Sometimes I feel, like a fatherless child,
Lord why am I struggling,
Why am I struggling when I'm free
Sometimes I feel, like a fatherless child,
Wake up and I'm crying,
Feels like I'm running out of time,
Sometimes I feel,
like a fatherless child,
That which I want to do I don't do,
But that which I don't want to do
Lord I do it all the time
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 7:00 PM UTC
Growth prevaded by a soil of emotions, rain of memories engraving the seed for a flower awaiting to bloom, the gift of life in a moving motion of time, forming and structuring the inner beauty of one,
Over years the spring of this beauty blossoms depending on the deeds, deepest wishes such as kindness and intuitions majestically,
A righteous soul will truly stand proud in the sun, alike a helianthus,
A trecious persons flower will be dead, as if it was drought, burnt in the heat of summer, the sweet aroma of life will still fill the air,
Caught in endless change of a devils distorted, desperate working,
The servants have the chance to either change for the better or to be ruined in their transient existence, fading into the dust they came of,
Beauty cast in the heart remains forever with enough care and work,
So this flower shall never rot, as long as it is protected with a desire and will to do good, to be gentle and truthful, thoughtful and wise,
Compassion, greatness and deep loving concern are a fertilizer,
Spread this kindness and you may have planted the seed for another beautiful child of the earth; A precious flower
~ Umi
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 7:48 PM UTC
Since you've been away
I've trailed the wake of the clouds
Just crumbling clay...
That lay in the shade that enshrouds
Depending on the ifs and mays.
Wake up, my love...
Since you haven't been here
The sky did nothing but only sang
Ambient translations of mocks and jeers
As the green blades of earth bared their fangs
Mischievous songs that I've held dear.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been gone
I've realised that I'm not moving
And you too, haven't moved since last dawn
A reality all too disheartening
Bits of me all cut up and sawn.
Wake up my love...
Since you've been missing
I am never whole, and never will
A lifetime of endless chasing
Bottomless jar without a seal
Void clustered emptiness in need of filling.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been absent
I could only hope for this lungful
To lead me to subsequent
Ones that taste like bitter pills encapsuled.
Mind full of drugs running rampant.
Wake up, my love...
Since you wouldn't have known
What these days are like...
Time induced tumours have grown
The hours impale with temporal spikes...
Inseminating malignant thoughts soon to be sown.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been away
I'm a player hoping for a fair game
Nonetheless still crumbling clay...
That lay in the dark just the same
Choking on the what ifs and what mays.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
"sly wordplay, it glows, feels like a shimmering address, half warning and half blessing, really alive with cadence"
read Kiki Dresden poetry^
once more into the sea trench divide,
I dive to devise,
Your provoking comment,
demands my full attention,
you divert me from struggling with
ginger & clay,
a contra concept
that molds and enflames,
yet strikes overtly sweet,
it does not
come so easy
as this playful notion
But
your words deserve the
attention immédiate
atenção imediata
that births this script,
tumbling forth in an instantly
instantaneously
me student, you mistress~master,
schooling me on sublimity subliminal,
capturing the capering
stylistic that bursts forth from within,
that my fingertips provide,
while my brain connives & connivers
continuously
you overlay analytics
that never are to me
revealed,
the what and wherefore
of the whom
hiding within
of the im~perpetuity impish essence of
i m p ishness
by charmingly doing me, not once,
but many times better
here a spillage:
an observational ditty,
dressed in a tux,
most formally,
to render the greatest
wordplay
ever invented
t,
the uniqueness of a simple
thank you
my favorite poem
a forever for ever,
the song that
plys and plays me
in the me
so often,
the linguists have banned the word
repeatedly
from my lexicon
so in its stead,
this all-in-one mighty steed
(verb phrase, a noun, or an adjective depending on its usage)
this phatic expression,
here disguised in
Portuguese,
muito obrigado!
muito obrigado!
muito obrigado!
nml 5:39am nyc 10/4, 10/4
Oct 4, 2025
Oct 4, 2025 at 5:44 AM UTC
Yeah I totally love being single!
You can do what you want whenever you want without obligations or having to think about anyone else you can flirt shamelessly with as many guys as you like, there is no pressure to look good for anyone I love that I have all this me time where I can spend a Saturday night reading and listening to the music I like without trying to decode mixed signals in text messages
I never have to depend on anyone but myself.
No one is stressing me out by depending on me.
I can sit by myself on the couch home alone when everyone else is out
And feel completely isolated, unloved and unlovable
I can feel so ugly and obsess over it
I can scroll through pictures of pretty celebrities and models and girls I know online bitterly wishing I looked like them and could be like them so that maybe someone would notice me and give me a chance
I can scream at the radio for playing stupid love songs
I can eat ice cream and chocolate wondering why I am such a waste of space
Thinking of all the guys who have rejected me and dropped me over the years
Have no one to love
Or who loves me
No guy I can trust with my secrets and loyalty
No one who needs me
No one to want
Or make me feel wanted
To spend nights together
Just talking
And watching movies
Being cutesy and flirty with
Lie hand in hand with
No one I can gush about to my friends
No one I can bake for
No one I can buy stuff for, just 'cause
No one I can do random couples stuff with
No one in my life
It's pretty great.
I love being single.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
But why are we so caught up on depending our happiness on others?
why can’t we be happy because we decide to?
We consistently make people our only source of happiness
and we are consistently heartbroken when they let us down...
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 2:25 AM UTC
they called me here
to this home
to this time.
I listened
I've always been a good listener.
as soon as I learned the
definition
of heed, I began.
it's my favorite word
and so I listened
and we're here
and it all just keeps working.
paying attention to the subtleties ,
the wind breeze,
the crows tease,
the bugs glowing, blue eye…
the crimson show,
the earth moved,
the air beneath this ground,
the vines lasting
stretch to protect the fruit
obviously
grown for us.
never a year before?
I truly wonder still.
when?
now, as he said.
it's now.
I'm only now.
there is nothing to await
though impatience is a mental normalcy.
our friend in the desert
made the connections.
she must have told me
though I don't
remember
hearing her.
I ramble sometimes
and listening is impaired.
of course I'm a work in progress…
it's mostly due to
depending on my memory
its impermanent in its
very nature.
now!
if I lived there, I would
have it a little easier
but I'm still scared of the dark.
one of the remaining fears,
a part of the message
sent;
called me here.
the lessons continue to
self realize
and appear, right
at my eyes,
never before
always on time.
always.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
”good night, good travels, pitch black”
depending on how one counts,
cause size matters,
do have I
one small blessing
though little do I get, more-less,
in each twenty four measuring cup,
when the sleep gas has come-for-inhaling,
lidded heavy with greatful/tearful anticipation,
it’s less than sixty seconds till
dispatched to where all poems
plead like unborn angels for
good parentage
the spoken good night ritual signaled and completed
with a perfect half turn skating axel onto ones side,
preceded by, a single solid smacking of
an innocent but flaccid, equally tired pillow,
then lost in pitch black galaxy travels
with other sleep-drunk little princes
instead of the wavering, singular word,
a traditional goodnight,
a parting and a haling simultaneous mumbling issuing,
undebated and a wish shot to all within dream-shot, a title,
“good travels”
to places where ferment the aging words under
the winemakers watchful caring eyes opening,
names or titles, same difference, for the newborn babes
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 11:31 AM UTC
*We are all painters
Holding a color palette
Conceiving a painting
It’s how we mix the colors
Depending on our imagination
Whether we paint happiness
Or scenes of saddened gray
Situations yield the paintings
Sometimes splashing all colors
Or else black colors gloom
Universe has mostly dark energy
Yet, we have found our colors
To paint our abode, we inhabit
No matter, colors of joy and sorrow
We celebrate all colors
We are all painters, wielding the brush
To create new colors of hope*
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
I have been going to the track for so
long that
all the employees know
me,
and now with winter here
it's dark before the last
race.
as I walk to the parking lot
the valet recognizes my
slouching gait
and before I reach him
my car is waiting for me,
lights on, engine warm.
the other patrons
(still waiting)
ask,
"who the hell is that
guy?"
I slip the valet a
tip, the size depending upon the
luck of the
day (and my luck has been amazingly
good lately)
and I then am in the machine and out on
the street
as the horses break
from the gate.
I drive east down Century Blvd.
turning on the radio to get the result of that
last race.
at first the announcer is concerned only with
bad weather and poor freeway
conditions.
we are old friends: I have listened to his
voice for decades but,
of course, the time will finally come
when neither one of us will need to
clip our toenails or
heed the complaints of our
women any longer.
meanwhile, there is a certain rhythm
to the essentials that now need
attending to.
I light my cigarette
check the dashboard
adjust the seat and
weave between a Volks and a Fiat.
as flecks of rain spatter the
windshield
I decide not to die just
yet:
this good life just smells too
sweet.
9k
As I sit here, at the dining room table and stare over decaf coffee at the screen on my Mac
my eyes are drawn, once and awhile, to the picture sitting on the buffet in the butler's pantry.
Before we continue you should know that "butler's pantry" in this case
means the "third bedroom" that we saw in the listing on Realtor dot com before we bought the house and that,
in the usual real estate-ese, is an optimistic label at best.
But I was talking about the picture.
The picture sits, slightly askew, in a carved wooden bowl given to us by my wife's boss
as a housewarming present.
It, the bowl I mean, came with salad tongs or forks,
depending on what it is that you call them,
made of water buffalo horn.
They sit in the bowl too and,
although she'd never admit it,
I know that the thought of serving salad with water buffalo horn salad forks...
lets just say.....
doesn't appeal to my wife.
Right, the picture....
It sits in on the buffet,
in the carved wooden bowl,
next to another wood bowl.
This one full of carved wood fruits and vegetables,
which evidently, includes sugar cane.
When my wife's dad moved from his house to an assisted living facility
the kids, my wife, her brother and sister, took turns going down to help him move.
My wife was the last and dad insisted that
someone
"had" to take the fruit.
But, the picture....
It, and the wooden bowls full of fruit and unused salad forks,
are surrounded by both faux and real glassware
and placemats
which all sit perched
on the top of the buffet as precariously as refugees
and all of their belongings
on the deck and roof of an overloaded fishing boat
chugging from their homeland
to some place that is hopefully better.
The picture...
It was painted by my father-in-law and,
of all the others we have in the house,
is one of my favorites.
It sits on the buffet, askew in the carved wooden bowl with the horn salad forks,
amid polycarbonate and glass drink ware,
and placemats,
unframed for some reason.
All of his other works came framed
but this is one he did not...
and did I mention that it is one of my favorites?
I like his choices of frames on all of the other pictures we have,
but this is just canvas, stretched over a frame,
sitting in that carved African wooden bowl
with those salad forks made from water buffalo horn
on the buffet next to the other wood bowl full of wooden fruits and vegetables,
and wooden sugar cane,
in the butler's pantry.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 9:51 AM UTC
Words do not echo.
Words do not cry.
Words do not,
Identify.
Scrambled and stirred,
Frozen and baked.
Pulled when needed,
Eaten to be fed.
Pieced together,
Black or white,
Laugh or fight,
Wrong or right.
A sound is bound by key,
A picture by color pigments,
Emotions chemically,
But words contain,
Everything,
And absolutely,
Nothing.
The same word
Can be
Completely
Different,
Depending who, what, how
When it was read
Or written.
What if every word,
Was positive in meaning?
Harmless,
Could not
Destroy feelings.
Words have no senses.
Words have no bounds.
No touch, sight, taste, or smell.
Words have no sound.
Words have no sound.
Unless read aloud.
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
Evil might creep in different forms Depending on what's going on around ... It might come in the shape Of a hand-gun or In other shapes ... If it is a hand-gun ,then It means satanic and ugly Simply because if it is in a coward's hand , It means there will an inevitable crime and Innocent victims too ... All ugly evil-doers end in jails , hanged ,or In the corners' trash cans ... ___________________________________________________________________
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
I guess I'm just tired.
I'm tired of crying,
of all the whining, ******** and moaning.
I'm tired of yelling,
screaming at the world in an effort to be heard when no one actually wants to listen.
I'm tired of being upset,
of being so sad that my entire chest aches each time the memories replay in my head.
I'm tired of pretending,
of playing a game in which I'm all right,
of wearing a mask to convince others they don't need to waste their time on me.
I'm tired of being alone,
of being so lonely I can hear my heart breaking,
of the quiet so silent that I can hear my hurried pulse as though I actually have somewhere to be.
I'm tired of being angry,
blaming others for what I'm going through,
telling myself that it's not my fault, it's theirs,
claiming that no one is at fault when it's all mine.
I'm tired of feeling crazy,
like there's no rational explanation for what I'm going through,
like no one else can understand what I'm going through.
I'm tired of feeling stuck,
like I can't move on,
like I can't go anywhere but down the hole, swallowed up by the misery and sadness.
I'm tired of needing help,
depending on others for survival,
of depending on the pills I swallow each day as if they're finally going to help me,
as if today they'll change their minds and actually make things better.
I'm tired of remembering,
knowing that you moved on long ago,
that you never really gave a ****
that you would rather die than see me again.
I'm tired of missing people,
of missing pieces of my heart,
as though one day they're just going to come back on a whim,
suddenly giving a **** about me again.
I'm tired of feeling worthless,
told over and over again by the actions of others that I mean nothing.
I'm tired of feeling empty inside,
feeling my heart beating in an empty cavity,
knowing there's no more emotions that will enter my system,
knowing that my emotions have long ago abandoned me.
I'm tired of not being able to just let go,
even though I know that you're never going to give a ****
even though I know you're going to do nothing to me but hurt me more.
I'm tired of wishing I could start over,
of praying to God that He'd let me begin anew,
that He'd give me a second chance.
I'm tired of dreaming of a life I will never have,
of those perfect moments that will never be mine because I have never been enough.
But most of all, I'm just tired of being tired.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
I've never done a challenge before, but I've been thinking on writing a poem about what kind of Pokemon I would be. I guess this would be more for the nerd-type people here. But I challenge others to write what kind of Pokemon they would be. Let me know if you accept so I can check it out.
If I Were A Pokemon....
I would be a Ditto.
I'm Ditto because I'm a different person depending on who I'm with.
I tend to transform into what others like.
I become what they want to see out of me.
Whether that means always joking around,
Being a little extra sad,
Talking "like a Christian",
Or talking like a "normal" person my age.
I will become whatever you want just to make you happy,
Because it doesn't matter who I really am.
I'm Ditto
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 6:42 PM UTC
What better human quality than generosity?
They say sharing is caring, who could disagree?
Sharing bread, sharing bed, sharing deep intimacy
Sharing souls, sharing hearts, sharing vulnerability
But a world without sharing is a world that stopped caring
Without care, love will fade and cause lack of compassion
Division of humankind, is what causes war of nations
Borders are border line, they impede freedom of roaming
Don’t you think it’s absurd how people will decide
How much they’ll share with you,
How much they’ll care for you
Depending on where you’re born or you reside
Whilst the truth is that we share - the same entire planet
Borders caused our division - and used us all as puppets
To get richer and be better than those outside our borders
Made us greedy, made us needy to increase our own possessions
Some might think sharing means - losing parts of what is yours
But where true love persists - all that is mine is also yours
Sharing doesn’t halve happiness; you’ll see it multiplies it
Possession is what grows greed and the bad weeds that surround it
Dec 15, 2021
Dec 15, 2021 at 5:26 PM UTC
Organic has touch,
Metal outlasts.
Organic has sound,
Metal just echoes.
Organic has cushion,
For emotions within.
Metal stays strong,
Can take the toughest hits.
Organic has taste,
Depending what it ate.
Metal vibrates,
To try to imitate.
Organic has colors,
Metal has paint.
Organic forgets,
Metal just waits.
Organic fades,
Metal floats in gray.
Organic needs air,
To sustain health.
But Metal stays,
Right near our chests.
Organic craves,
As Metal engraves.
Organic understands,
Metal just learns.
Organic has a name,
Metal has a brand.
But for some reason,
Found more in our hands.
Keep organic close,
And to metal stand.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 11:43 AM UTC
Life is full of mischief and artful trickery
The way through never made easy for the foolhardy
Misleading gestures only employed to solely distract
Left up to you to decipher and hopefully extract
Experiences teach much, had you only been accepting and learning
That a dove could be made to appear; out of thin air, out of nothing
When the road ahead offers no more than mere misdirections
Altered trajectories stemming from convenient misinterpretations
Your cards may have been dealt revealing astonishing outcomes
"Not the hand you get but the game you play," said some
Depending on deft wrists and a flick of the wand
Overnight you'll wake to find that a new day had dawned
Only would happen if into the wind you hadn't spat
Hope would emerge like a hare out of a top hat
The play on light and shadow, nothing short of dramatic
You volunteer onstage, accompanied by apprehension and suspenseful music
Faced with an eager audience; you realise that alone you stand
Be not surprised to learn that love is life's sleight of hand...
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
Sometimes there’s a line
that we have to respect
because we can’t forget
those who raised us
made us
Sometimes there’s a line
we cannot ignore
because of certain morals
we were born with
live within
Sometimes there’s a line
we shouldn’t cross, but do
because of who we are
as we don’t realize
everyone’s line
is measured
differently.
Sometimes there’s
a line
that nobody thought
to cross
until…someone does
& then
the masses either crucify or celebritize
depending on pop-culture references.
There’s always a line
somewhere,
we just
have to
choose
where
we
want
to be
aligned.
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
She was like quantum physics
Entanglement with each other
The collapse of thoughts depending on the best possible answer
Metaphoric of its position with an arrow
Camouflage like a shadow
With wheels like bone marrow
The demon that brings torment
The wolf in sheep clothing without consent
Lilith in a differnet form that drains men that makes her uniform
The things that makes you brain storm
Victims of her demise, things that makes her rise.
Things that brings you a surpise.
The rose that stays in its soil that requires water to bloom.
The woman with fangs in the tomb that brings you doom.
The witch with a broom that seeks for a groom.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 1:36 AM UTC
I peruse exhibits through the modern art museum
Nails hammered into wood
And trash strewn on the floor
I couldn't help thinking
What the **** is this ****
These can't be the champions of modern art
Moonlight and Arrival morphed my empathy and perspective
The theater is fine
Music is there for those inclined to discover it
So what about visual art?
I know a few things for certain
Nails hammered into wood never changed my perspective
Nor does seeing a garbage can in a museum affect my empathy
Trash is not art
Trash is trash
Waste meant to be thrown in the proper receptacles
So as not to obstruct our view of true beauty
I will concede that
Beauty can be found in everything
Depending on analyzation variation
But those that live an examined life
Constantly see silver linings and sour grapes
Experiencing comfort in tundras to the point of banality
Those visions are much more interesting
in their organic state anyway
As opposed to an interpersonal expression of the seemingly obvious
So what to hang in an art gallery?
I have my own opinions
At this point in time
No visuals elicit more emotions
Than dank memes
When I'm consuming art
Questions are innate in my consumption
Is this a vessel for empathy?
Is this examining the human condition?
Dank memes meet those criteria
Satirizing the powerful
Highlighting emotions and virtues in ourselves
That we're either proud or ashamed of
Memes share a common thread with poetry
In the sense that everybody can create memes
Or be a poet
I get the impression that
Universality of art diminishes it's importance
In the minds of patrons
There's an element of truth to that
But what makes art special is quality
And what makes art truly special is high quality
And that's what belongs in museums
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 11:23 PM UTC
The gift of giving indiscriminately
is a gift we should give indiscriminately
There's a secret to a good life and here's the key
The path to happiness is generosity
Happiness doesn't dilute when you give it away
and it constitutes in everything you say
You can literally have your cake and eat it
depending exactly on how you treat it
take it, use it, split it, pass it on
every time you do that it will be twice as strong
happiness is a virus we need to learn to spread
a pandemic of the head
A vaccine shot straight to the heart
infecting you with a flying start
secret to the deeper hidden meaning of living
that happiness is caused by indiscriminate giving.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 9:04 AM UTC
The power of Averages,
it means a lot
if you can
understand Means, a lot.
Assuming a Normal Distribution,
A Standard Deviation, or σ
defines where about 68% of the data falls;
roughly 34% above and below the Mean.
Two Standard Deviations
defines where a further 28% of data lies;
14% above and below 1σ and -1σ.
Positive 1-Sigma is one Standard Deviation above the Mean
Negative 1-Sigma is one below;
The range from -2σ to 2σ includes 96% of data.
The implications are astounding.
Within 3 Standard Deviations, one finds 99.7% of the data;
Within 4σ, 99.9%, 5σ, 99.999%,
the remainder are generally outliers and other improbable results.
To illustrate:
Suppose we had a group of 100 people,
and we wish to determine average height:
If our Mean height ends up being, say, 180 cm,
with a Standard Deviation of 20cm,
We can suppose that of 100 people, on average,
with a certain Margin of Error that is inversely proportionate to our Sample Size, or n
(for sake of argument, the Probable Error, or γ, is 13.49cm)
4 are taller than 220cm
14 are between 200cm and 220cm
68 are between 160cm and 200cm
14 are from 140cm to 160cm
4 are shorter than 140cm
--
Statistics is the parent of Probability;
Statistics is the Art and Science of Forecast,
Statistics paves the way for modern Science
Statistics is a powerful weapon in the fight against Ignorance
Statistics, however, are generally and intentionally misrepresented and thus misunderstood.
For increasingly accurate figures,
one must have a larger Sample Size
and a Sample group that is a representative subgroup
of the Whole
*This is intentionally abused
by most of the News
you read or see each day on Paper and Screens alike.*
If a "Statistical analysis" does not include at least
Margin of Error or Probable Error,
Mean (Average), Standard Deviation, and Sample Size
do not take it as accurate.
Depending on the source,
it could even be deliberately malicious.
Arm yourself with Knowledge.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC