"descriptors" poems
My mind was pulsing
with endless subtly shaded descriptors
and shockwave verbs,
when a pop-up alert flashed
red and yellow and blue…
YOU HAVE ONLY 9 WORDS LEFT !
ACT NOW !!!
YOUR LIFETIME ALLOTMENT IS 20,000,000,010 WRITTEN WORDS,
AND.........YOU HAVE USED 20,000,000,001.
ACT NOW OR LOSE YOUR RIGHT TO WRITE FOREVER!
BUT WAIT !!!!!!
COMPLETE THE SIMPLE FORM BELOW IN THE NEXT 60 SECONDS
AND WE’LL DOUBLE YOU TO 40 BILLION MORE.
IMAGINE ALL THE SHIMMERING ADJECTIVES, THICK NOUNS,
CLEVER ADVERBS AND PITHY PRONOUNS YOU WILL HAVE!!!!!!!!!
Panicking, I clicked on the form
and furiously typed …
William Shakespeare
10 Henley Street Village South
Statford Upon . . . . . .
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 7:29 AM UTC
Stored up enough,
but the energy now takes on its
own purpose.
If only I could draw;
I'd create picture books
on exactly what the ending looks like.
Rough sketches left collecting
for many months,
before I ever once thought of putting
color to them.
The why, would be as mind trancing
as tracing catch phrases into the many
levels of dust accumulated.
I'd write something so cliché, like,
"With this oily finger I remove the collection of time."
or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut
through time."
I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget
where I left off, and distract myself
again with writing.
A small recluse emotion of mine
objects viciously, but my attention to every
words incentive laced meaning would
leave the visual to again rest unchanged,
not colored.
So's the plight of one who likes to think
himself an artist. There's that scandalous
narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up,
reminding you just how beautiful your words
are, and how small in intellect those who
don't get it are.
Upon that shelf your pictures sit.
I can only write as a narrator,
because our "philosopher,"
"philanthropist of word volley, our
genius of word play,"
is once again too caught up in the
descriptors to finish the real
picture.
Not that this idea will stand the
test of time, but I do believe more
writers will commit suicide, selfishly
of course.
Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing
so enigmatically that no one gets
your "deep soul."
While upon that shelf,
within a fiber of your overrun
writer's ego, there's a drawing begging
to be finished, colored, maybe even
shared.
But just where does it reside?
Did the alternate you place it
in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found?
If it's too early it just can't be worth it,
can it?
He'll have to learn to put down the pen,
rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers,
set up an easel, squeeze out some paint,
and realize there are other mediums
where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations.
Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist,
sweeping arm, no words, images
are now your letter blocks to construct with.
Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen.
Stop being so foolish "Writer man,"
if your ego clings too sharply to words,
simply remind it,
"This could be another pen name."
"...I love that idea, what would it be?"
"Narcissist Ugly."
"So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
I leafed through the DSM this morning
diagnosing every ******* person in my life
incessent character flaws,
maladaptive responses
that ache in my mind,
and shatter my "normal"
expectancies of human behavior
In all of the descriptors
"has a strong desire to be the center of attention"
"is often inappropriately provocative or sexually seductive"
"Exhibits odd or eccentrive appearance/behavior"
"Seeks excitement and stiumulation, often acting on impulse"
the only person I could really diagnose
was me your therapist
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
I hear the world is full of pain,
Flooding, terror, acid rain;
Music, theatre, laughs and art,
Whiskey, coffee, beer and darts,
Rainbows, glaciers, hiking trails;
Rare Pepes and EPIC FAILs,
Overwatch and Pokemon Go;
Donald Trump and Bernie Bros;
Dreams, and Drugs, and Rock n' Roll,
Dharma, Love, and the eternal soul,
The Holy Quran and the Higgs boson
Tajwid in Geneva, QFT in Tehran.
Yet day by day I sit and type
Edit, grep, compile, pipe
All that a system smoothly might run
Ashes to Ashes, Zero to One
'''
npm install; grunt &; restart nginx
docker run -d me/interests; pkill sleep; pkill ***
nice 14 nutrition; rm /etc/cron.daily/exercise
pkill -STOP judgment; scp foodler:'**/{burger,fries}' ~
'''
It's rather ironic that this metal you see,
Seems quite a better multitasker than me
Whereas It stops its world to switch one task for others
My open descriptors always overflow my buffers
Whereas it take new patches with a simple 'apt-get'
My resolve for upgrades I quite often forget
And when its health checks fail, we regrow the ASG
But my self won't reboot. et memento mori.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
Is this a power hierarchy?
Does our dueling footwork
Convince us to
Lock into some sort of
Competitive symmetry,
Twisting into your
Mashed potato minefield with
Doo *** , doo dad laden
Dancing shoes?
Gimme your
Electronic sympathy, baby,
Infiltrate the airwaves with
Piercing eye contact and
Tremourous finger tip brushes.
Is my informality coming through?
Have I communicated with
Unlocked elbows and
Megaphone ears that not only
My body but universe
Lives here and in you?
Orient yourself to me,
I task while asking you to
Take off your straight jacket and
Stay a while. Unlock your
Pandora 's box so your
Monsters can meet mine,
Mirrored in different shades of
Shock and shame, operating under
Varied hues of the same name.
Lean into me, let your
Shoulders slender and shimmy to a
Tenderizing touch, the
Objects under your skin collapsing
To the 4/4 timed battle
Between form and perception.
The ingestion of the
Metaphor is the message, and
The tongue regards a tune
Differently than a taste.
Face symmetrical, nostrils work,
The blooming waste of consumption
Centered on the top right corner of
Your cheekbones.
I can't help but grab the
Slight upswing in the tone
Of your voice and spin it around;
Let's swing, darling.
I'd like to take your descriptors
On a date to the dance floor.
How long can we keep this up until meaning has waltzed out the door?
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
My Woman, My Partner
we need today it seems identifiers moreover,
as we slice, dissect, and categorize the W’s of our
individual experience,
by defining ourselves as pieces of categories
Today, woke with this title-to-be-poem in my head,
My Woman, My Partner
I like particular, individuating descriptors that distinguish
rather than categorize, summary’s that capture the
roomy broad and small strokes, the subtleties of capturing~
encompassing an image total, and yet intuitively tasting and
comprehending the depths and flavoring of our totality,
a combinatory humanity
my choice was My Woman, which was comprehensive
and distinguished, yet upon consultation with said person,
for pre-authorization approval, it was returned to me with
an engine-heart additive, that was both a word that denotes a
binding, ties, equality, and takes it to another, even ever
highest level,
*this essay on how I came to title this poem, well, is the poem
in its entirety, it is the process, the point, the summary and the
minutiae of all I wished to convey.*
Sunday Aug 13 8:03 AM
Aug 13, 2023
Aug 13, 2023 at 8:11 AM UTC
Sleepless nights I dream of things
that seems to be, initially
fantasies of a boy
These dreams tend to focus me
on what I want and who I am
Role models and mentors help to shape
who you see so casually
So casual I seem to be
but my mind races frantically
Suave and cool are not my descriptors
although my shell tends to be
That shell hides me from view
to show a more likeable me
But hides the true me
Behind a wall of ********
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 5:17 AM UTC
You move like a snake
silently, smoothly, along soft and
from morning dew wet grass.
I found your shed skin beside the lake,
a trace, a mark to follow
already drunk of your sweet fragrance.
There you wait for me on the edge of the woods
but your are a chameleon: every tree, leaf, whisper
of air says your name, hide you, then expose you in twister
and I’m in trance, exhausted of search.
I lean my body on the nearest birch to rest, your alertness
to test.
And there you come,
gorgeous in all your beauty to ****** me with flickering
fiery licks of the tongue that glides over my skin, biting my chin.
I shed my dress, with sky’s bless
Love and Earth, Eden in birth of our desire
endless and restless.
Lake ripples, burbles in sweet aches of waves
upon the gravy shore.
I wake up. I see your peaceful face resting beside mine.
You are a dream of the realm unseen.
There are no descriptors to describe my adore.
I bend to kiss you and hurry to pick up the clothes from the floor.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 5:28 AM UTC
I am not a poet.
I have read many poems.
Beautiful, touching,
Clever and meaningful.
I don't use lovely analogies
Or powerful descriptors.
I write lists.
Clear, concise ideas.
I don't leave space
For the reader's interpretations.
No open wandering paths
For them to meander along.
Everything is clearly defined.
With passages precisely laid out
To direst the reader to
EXACTLY what is being said.
Sometimes when a poem wafts into my head
It is more poetic.
But then as I put pent to paper
Only the skeleton remains.
Even this poem
Had a better feel in my head.
Yet another thing to feel
Inadequate about.
I am not trying to wallow
In self-pity (yet again).
I am just not a poet.
I would like to know what I am.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 6:40 AM UTC
early morn (5:00am) scanning, scrolling,
unrehearsed searching and the question
appears in a “loves that got away” column,
*(why do all these descriptors start eith S,
I think I know!)*
and off on another self-effacing, investigative determination, a mental biopsy of another hopeless cause,
that results in poems too long
though the body and mind are rested,
with six hours of uninterrupted sleep,
and volumes of dreams,
the quest bags a burr in the bed,
(yes, rhymes with head)
but n o t h i n g pops in with a grin,
and a bell ring, stating presumptuously,
why that’s me
and the fault failure fear
in me
engorges
this really distresses,
with & in a deep sense of awful,
how can I not recall this momentous
illustrative precious precision
proof of why life is worth living,
and worser still,
don’t I get to choose,
isn't this an interrogatory,
suitable for a pre-provided
Multiple Choice Answer?
a pause to collect myself from a
falling into a hole of nefarious negativity spiraling,
*suddenly
recalling so many
kind and gentle touching brushes
of your comments re my poetry,
which provoked warm tears*
^***and one more tine,
poetry has saved
a life***^
5:37am Saturday 2-15-25
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 5:47 AM UTC
fidelity, understanding
empathy, caring unconditionally
failing descriptors of life's most sought feeling
reason, felt as purpose for existence—love
time spent seeking, sadness at depriving
either youthful bliss or aged wisdom
emotion's hold unconstrained by seniority
consuming our hopes and dreams
those which drive drawn breath
found true amongst family
in peer only seldom
never a nation, only the few
love guiding all, the
key to a perfect civilization
to create a people of programmed emotion
woven strands
DNA's complex beauty
reduced to binary code's rigidity
heartstring circuit wiring
free will replaced by java script exception
not soul but operating system's disaffection
mechanical allegiance
an imperfect love found in robotic adherence
fealty unfettered
good intention forced subjection
creation resultant a society hollow in perfection
an empty hull of truth
love lacking substance, fictitious in merit
absent the tribulation
the moon by which the sun's effect strengthened
loyalty absolute the greater plan
stalwart and without grievance
love free of expectation
a golden emotion impossible to automate
true love organic by nature
fluid in its implementation
dynamic and unpredictable
to understand the value of light
a man must lose himself in the night
a hard road to learn the better way
by the world's cold we might
know a Kingly castle's warmth
the answer to evil's allowance
free will to choose our citizenship
a nation whose flag represents
the most excellent way
meaningless without choice
left led by our own feeble perception
too oft to misunderstand His intention
a perfect love made perfect by imperfection
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
I picked up my blue and red, beaten up copy of Merriam- Webster and flipped to page 328 where the word “racism” was.
How nice it would be to take an eraser and remove this word from every copy, every edition, every page 328 of every Merriam- Webster’s dictionary.
Would the word go away if I could do that?
Would the conservation of ink that would no longer be needed somehow help to permanently delete this word from the minds of the world as well?
I’d like to think eliminating this word from print would make it go away, but we all know that just because something isn’t pressed into the delicate fibers of sheets upon sheets of paper doesn’t mean that it still isn’t out there, engrained into the part of our brains that picks up vocabulary the way an infant learns how to speak.
Words like racism live on inside the minds of people,
not just on paper.
The more we say the word aloud, let our tongues create the formation that’s necessary to produce the sound that is a product from this combination of vowels and consonants, the more we make it real.
If one person can remove it from their speech, and urge one more person to follow their lead, perhaps over time the word- and the act- can be gone completely.
But it takes more than just not saying “racism” and it’s various forms, it takes consciously stopping yourself from using any color as a description of someone.
Why does it have to be a black man?
Why does someone have to a white woman?
Remove the word racism from your mouth and it’ll fade from your brain; remove descriptors from a person and they’re no longer a depiction, they’re just a person.
Just a man.
Just a woman.
Just a human being living, breathing, and sharing this land that we all call
home.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
you are all bouncing elbows
and awkward knees
with crinkly eyes
and imperfect teeth
,
gelled up hair
and turned in toes
yet you have shot me
like an arrow from your bow
;
its easy to admit
though it seems out of place-
you are the Sun in the Spring
as it warms on my face
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 11:42 PM UTC
Peak experiences are now
Flashes of allusions;
The universality thing,
But not spiritual or metaphysical,
The minute and grand have equality,
Or none are equal.
The tree is free from adjectives,
A birdsong nest is superfluous.
Nest will suffice.
When I hear your name
We are together again.
I can't pass a hedge
Without remembering the push,
The old gap;
It's the push.
There's the poem.
The push.
Each thought a particle,
All particles experiences.
Try it now. No descriptors.
Eyes. Airplane. Clouds.
(but the story continues):
Airplane. Sunshine. Kiss.
(there's the peak)
Each word a peak experience.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 8:36 PM UTC
time spent, not wasted,
out of doors tasted
some experiences priceless,
are better
away from anything wireless
on any sunny day,
a light breeze plays,
with the leaves,
all for one and one for all
it is a free-for-fall until ... you
take a wee one for a walk
in the woods, on a path,
over a bridge and along
a stream.
What a dreamy day it was,
the crunch of leaves under-
foot, the oooohs and aaaaahs,
and various descriptors,
in a language I long forgot,
that of a fifteen month old
pink coated naturalist,
who points with fingers
or her fist,
who squats down to
study the million leaves
in reach, looking for the
one that needs the most help
or a kiss to feel better,
God, You sure make beautiful
weather and a passing grade on granddaughters!
(said with tongue and cheek as she can touch more leaves
than I can take away....)
Up hill and down, by the creek and away,
up by the hairy animals that make her say,
woof-woof in mockery as they guard
the yard
with the chain ink fence
then finally we turn for home
where every pole and tree within
in reach has to be touched like
it has the magical powers of a garden gnome
(let me guess, you have never heard that before)
the wind and rush of traffic at our
back as we spent the walk, not wasting
any time, for she will never be
this
young again. Nor will I.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
A need that twists
cabled and gripping
To be needed.
A war between
"I shouldn'ts" and "but I have tos"
Where am I in all of this?
The identity of a woman
with ten thousand strong hearts
and breaths
All of it deflated by another
Who appears to need oxygen MORE
Need need need
Kneed Kneed Kneed
until I'm contorted into a
better reflection of yourself.
Unrecognizable am I
I look like the surface of correspondence
Here I am!
Always.
I am
The soul mate
to your dreams and
descriptors and
hurt and
tears and
all that you've ever wanted to change in your life.
And you'll swear on all that you stand for
that we are closer than anyone you've ever known
But if you were to recite one fact about me
The room would be quiet and empty.
A need to be needed.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC
Isn't it easy to write during these times,
And difficult to write on these times,
Without ripping off figurative comparisons.
I want to use wasteland
But I'd be the one compared,
And that won't work. That's not my intent.
Besides, Townsend and T.S. worked it.
There are the platinum choices
Like Satan, Lucifer, or Legionnaire.
But Milton has his scent all over these,
And the Bible invented them.
Those times.
These times.
Apocalypse, or any version thereof,
Would surely bring Brando to mind,
And Kurtz's heart of darkness.
There are inspiring descriptors like,
Cataclysm, devastation and destruction.
Well-represented in cinema
Since Birth of a Nation.
Now there's irony.
As much as Holocaust would be perfect to plagiarize,
I, nor anyone else, should ever attempt,
(And it would be a vain glory attempt at best)
To use this singular word
In an analogy for anything, ever again.
Ever!
Unless absolutely necessary.
Unless someone we know gets stupid.
Then more stupid.
Then stupider.
Then most stupid.
And finally,
Not with a whimper, but a bang.
I falter.
Not exactly plagiarism is it?
Shouldn't be repeated either.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 10:44 AM UTC
In this world we come in contact with many people
But there are some
With the artistry of language
There is a kind of humor that only a wordsmith articulates
A kind of intimacy that only a metaphor can tell
A type of eroticism that the presence of its descriptors
Elicit transcendent flames
And the absence of its poetry leaves it ordinary
And there is something about those people who live instinctively
Knowing that their choice of words can
Capture an experience
Encompass an emotion
Bring it to life and let it fascinate
And those people are my starlight
My still night and moon
Those people are my sunlight
My energy and ocean
They breathe me
Feed me
Surge through me
And identify me
And I am drawn to them
By something bigger than myself, inevitably, we see into one another
Understanding the life within the bonding
Is wordless
But would not exist otherwise.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 6:55 AM UTC
Did you ever ask
how long it takes to write
you out of every verse
and all the lines and pages
crumpled in the wastebin
and beads in your hair
and lips drawn like mannequins
and some unsavory sounds
muffled and escaping under the door
Tap tap slap with accent
and headache and eyeroll
while matching shirts stain
in the same exact places
and the low powerhouse hum
hovers somewhere between C and D flat
while beachy melody traipses
over mutual bored expressions
Everything is borrowed, have you ever
built anything with your hands?
Why so soft and exhausted,
you ***** Why don't you stand and fight back?
Unknown monsters disappear
into shadows and thick smoke
leaving a trail of tired descriptors
and false intention
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
Starved glutton
Hopeful pessimist
Cognizant ignoramus
Overeducated fool
I am a roiling sea of paradoxes
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
I will speak interms of confusing metaphors and allegorical descriptors
for You will never know what I mean,
and I will never know what I mean,
all You and I will ever know is what is said
Beyond that thou art which is not
Who I am and what I am is anybody's guess,
Where I am is in poetry,
when I am is poetry
How and why I am is a poet.
an artist chosen by this art
A puppet of words that string me along,
That dangle my reflection on the scene.
and What's this scene?
The dream of this stage, an age to redeem this day, this momentary cage of sound and phonetics, playing on the morphemes, that sort these informants into proteins that fire the works of this neural chemistry.
A cosmic tapestry... And I've lost the plot of this pointless exercise in passing the time as I pass this chime down to the last rhyme.
With no point but a line, a single continuous line that's only sometimes audible.
With no beginning and no end but always a middle.
A halfway mark between now and then
Half and half all the way to infinity,
Trapped in this trinity plus one.
The subject, the object and the verb plus all the fillers in between,
Adding the jective into obviously obnoxious obstancy.
Abstracting words from subtracting the colors of birds...
Man I really don't know when to stop.
Nor does he, when he spots the plot that keeps the inserting eye from searching the skys to admiring this fly.
Zipping in and out of space, never able to pin it down between his chopsticks.
So maybe I should stop this
Right here, left now and take flight,
Tata bye.
Oct 21, 2020
Oct 21, 2020 at 12:13 PM UTC
All descriptors
And ideas of self
Fade like the days spent walking
Down the path of possibly
And time
Time lasts just as surely
As it waits for no man named me
Hence why
Is the question which I ask myself
Must I try and be
When I've already become
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 6:35 PM UTC