"diminishment" poems
*consciously, willfully, I wish it
quietly the Sunday, the sun day, drifts toward,
in its natural game, set, overmatched,
the foregone conclusion, nightfall diminishment
the water songfully swishes,
as the tide departs for places unknown, this then, now
the only natural authorized aural apparition,
the power boats renounce their normal noisy conditioning,
honoring their silenced, under-sail brethren,
as well as admitting their noises disfigure
the fast approaching majesty of the end of
our summer seasoning of humanity
consciously, willfully, I wish it
once again, lush is the quietude,^
now given up, surrendered and surceased to wonder,
how come I to write of these moments so oft,
thenever-ending quest to re-inscribe it on my sensibilities,
in vainglorious hopes that this stamping will last, be the last,
see me through the turgid frigidity of my Lucifer life,
come the fall, the winter, the early dark,
the daylight's brevity, the hurricane season of the mind,
that...need I say more?
consciously, willfully, I wish it
the particular white cloud formation of the moment at hand,
shall stay in place, be the capstone of my summer living vision,
become permanent part and parcel
of the sclera, the white of my eyes, and when
I will write, soon enough,
my vision white weeping clouded,
you will weep knowingly, sympathetically
consciously, willfully,
I wish for that as well*
8/27/17
6:35pm
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
I concede,
I yield,
I cave,
I give in.
My 2 weeks put themselves
in centuries ago.
I've fallen from my self-righteous high horse;
a stallion meant only for
those full of their own capability.
For so long
I've fought more than 'tooth and nail',
more than 'blood sweat and tears'.
Fought harder than 'life or death'.
I've fought to the diminishment
of my brazen,
furious soul.
Worn my own sharp
rapturous vigor for this life
down to a dull
dull syringe.
Even the most skilled,
determined ****** couldn't
tap a main line vien
with what now remains.
Dec 28, 2020
Dec 28, 2020 at 7:26 PM UTC
I shake like a drooling fool,
exhale a snore
am spent as my drizzle creeps towards her ******
The loose flesh of me weighed down upon her,
but she wasn't there
She was running through fields of fresh emerald spears,
chases the wild horses of Patagonia
never catches them as she is overrun
carried away by the stallions from behind,
blooms a water lily opens and closes over and over,
Cereus opens with the touch of the Moon over and over,
feel the dust hear the waves of trampling hooves
as her face, a tense string,
shatters into an open mouthed smile and shout of,
"I am life, and you are the most blessed of creatures, here.
I am the glamor of everything.
I am Mother Earth in this moment,
screaming, fitting, wailing, quaking, coming.
Your diminishment has made this possible.
Bathe in the spinning cradle of life,
and stay still before you retreat from it."
May 1, 2011
May 1, 2011 at 7:15 AM UTC
After the preaching’s
Done-finished
Picking at the scabs
Of our guilt,
At week's end / day of rest;
Just when we almost had it
Bygone / Forgotten
From our minds...
It's a kinder kin to amnesia
A softer fog of fugue,
A healing art of our brain farts,
Not soaking in shame's
Diminishment
Or stewing in self-helps.
"Deliver us!" (bow down genuflect)
But then again
Here we are together to gather
Uncomplainingly
Complacently listening
Absorbing every lash
Of the metaphorical whip,
To be guided back to good
Such sermons for the flawed
humans that we know
We are -- unworthy...
But willingly we suffer
The word.
Oh how to be just like
The lamb...
So now, afterwards, when we have been
Emotionally & verbally punctured
Full of hollow
We are holes unworthy
Of being
Made whole...
Or so, we've been told
"It is written."
Now then let us meet for
homily
After King James harangues us
His version of fellowship,
Let us have verbal
*********** with the word.
(Begotten?)
Perhaps over supping
Or during beer & NFL
Or some blood
Sport
Non-emasculating,
Reminding us how
Weekends roar
And Life is
Worth more
Than the inner wars
We are ourselves
Fighting.
After the sermon,
Let's have true verbal
***********
(Without be getting a shred
Of guilt)
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 5:43 AM UTC
TO HOLD AND TO OWN
Life in frantic motion
the daily round takes its toll
the mind ***** in the dirt
that but pollutes the heart –the same story retold
of man’s restlessness and craving
to hold and own
but grasps only the wind and dust
he steps back and weeps alone
this malaise—this sickening of the soul
is the summary of his diminishment
he chooses to hold and own
that which leads to his destruction and punishment
for
what’s the worth of a person
a life
that falls into the quagmire of self-dissolution?
but
there is redemption
there always is if the sufferer
is willing to let go the old—choose a new direction
end
the motion that threatens his claim
to exist and take over his will
then he will still retain a name
desire, the darkness within-
the shameless desire---the hemlock
that man drinks daily to oblivion
in larger and larger does around the clock
the day is insipid, the same humdrum
life is a field barren and forlorn
resurrection belongs only
to those who choose to be reborn
by surrendering the murky past
that has clouded him for so long
released from the pain and burden
that has plagued him—he is the new man then-brave and strong.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 9:33 AM UTC
Al is dead.
Saturday early ringtones
a warning signal,
an unexpected call,
harbinger of no good at all
Al has passed,
felled in the lobby
of a movie theater,
by sudden heart attack
did we want to come, he asked,
but I demurred
on our behalf,
having been out
every night this week
so now I have to think about that...
shoulda woulda coulda
but didn't
she sobs on my neck.
he was a good friend
to my woman,
for many years,
years of loss and discomfort
she pauses her weeping,
to punch me in the arm,
as is her wont,
warning me to lose that weight,
or else she'll **** me
more likely
says I,
to die
from repeated blows
to the right arm,
than from
my accumulated excesses,
thinking all the while,
I'm a **** good liar
so now she laughs and sobs
intermittently which is why
someone invented the word
blubbering
tears of diminishment,
a lessening in the world,
part of me expunged twice,
now that Al is gone,
in part predicted,
in part foretold
you didn't know Al?
Oh yes you did!
*"Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me."*
4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=With+each+passing+poem
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
don't hope for diminishment
it will only make your thoughts grow
in vicious perseverance
those thoughts, they are liars
and your heart can hear
their whispers of blasphemy
erupting in the many vacant rooms of your mind
as they are claimed by occupants merely sent to destroy
the rooms you cleared out
just for a brief taste of freedom
those thoughts are thieves
stealing precious pieces of your ever shifting sanity
placing them sporadically into a puzzle of discontented nonsense
don't hope for their complacency
for it is a weight too heavy for your shoulders to bear
and a prize to easy for them to gain
by reaching for heart strings to rip rather than play
-c.m.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
After the preaching is
Done-finished picking at the scabs
Of our guilt,
At week's end / day of rest;
When we almost had it gone
Forgotten
From our minds...
It's a kinder kin to amnesia
A softer fog of fugue
A healing art of our brain farts,
Not soaking in shame's
Diminishment
Or stewing in self helps
"Deliver us!" bow down genuflect
But then again
Here we are together to gather
Uncomplainingly
Complacently listening
Absorbing every lash
Of the metaphorical whip,
To be guided back to good
The sermon for the humans that we know
We are -- unworthy
But willingly we suffer
The word...
On how to be just like
The lamb...
So afterwards, when after we've been
Emotionally & verbally punctured
Full of hollow
*We are holes unworthy
Of being
Made whole...*
Or so, we've been told
It is written.
So then let us meet for homily
After King James harangues us
His version of fellowship,
Let us have verbal
*********** with the word.
Perhaps over supping
Or during beer & NFL
Or some blood
Sport
Non-emasculating
Reminding us how
Weekends roar
And Life is
Worth more
Than the inner wars
We are ourselves
Fighting.
After the sermon,
Let's have true verbal
***********
(Without a shred of guilt.)
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 11:47 PM UTC
As the fire dies
Revealing the last shred of it's light
I focused on the last burning ember
Struggling to survive in the midst of December
In awe of it's last heated fight
To keep warmth and bring life to the night
I watched as it came close to diminishment
Then quickly fed and nourished it
With the arms of trees that will only see life in spring
As for me
Life waits on nothing
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
Love is the exquisite pain
The poetry of sultry rain
in unison with our breathing
Fogging the windows
Before the hollow siroccos moan
cold grey lonely
Hallways dim
Velvet Sorrows
Blackened
Walls of the new moon
void of our lungs'
illustrations
Even now in memory's whisps
How exquisite the frame
Picturesque recollection
Polaroid for the finality of farewell
Just us / ghosts now
Without / but dust / once was
None-such eyes / dilates
Can emptiness be
Felt
En flagrante glaciers
Enflamed diminishment?
Seems the loud moments remain
Drowned the reasons of its thundering
All intentions deigned since
Defeated slump with
No dire aches
Mumbling
a corpse heavy mind
Lacking a fleet of feeling to combat self hateful
Blight
Gone in the gloom
Which is palpable like the taste of smoke
That carries warning signals to the sun
with the ****** of native drums
Going
Gone
will o' whispering past
Yet shadows are forgetful in dreams
As we are sleeping to wake
In the beams
Memory echoing from touch
Our bodies quake...
Inspired by much
Hearts rush
And still the loudest feelings remain
An old painting in its frame
Our art as body paint
heaven pouring in
You and I remain
Born not made
(To make)
Love our loudest moment :
Canvas to frame/
A window and the rain...
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
The jar is mostly empty -
Firm packed words and phrases
Taken handfuls at a time
And flung at parchment and the world
They did not boomerang to fill the void
Replenishing what was taken.
The clotheslines of the hoi-polloi
Are burdened with the excess,
Straining in the winds of nonchalance
Exhibiting the lack of contemplation.
Do the thoughts that ride those words
Accept that they will blow away like dust.
ljm
May 8, 2021
May 8, 2021 at 1:37 PM UTC
I lay here on my lifeless bed
tormented by my demons
all i hear are voices in my head
I'm a slave to my own thoughts
and a victim to depression
all I feel is neglect
It is how Toronto was born
The rejection that kept coming my way
I'm haunted by it all night, I'm torn
I am weak
I fight a battle constantly in my own body
and I am on a losing streak
This pain. I've become numb to it
But I feel like I'm forever falling
I'm descending into a bottomless pit
I fall deeper and deeper and realize
Its not real
My mind was showing me lies
It was a trick
My mind is my enemy
It is so twisted and sick
My mind is envious of my happiness
It always finds a way to torment me
My life is just a mess
It's 4 a.m
I haven't shut my eyes
It really is a shame
I look to the ceiling and await my next punishment
I wait anxious
For my souls diminishment
-T
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 10:54 AM UTC
Bugsy's dream Operatic fountains synchronized streams
Dead music legends interpreted by cirque
glamour the eyes neon and distractions
gangster's paradise
imploded and expanded stars in the sky out shined by fluorescent sands
desert roads in summer throes
craps and snake eyes
piercingly like void venom artifice and slots easy as swallowing shots
life: a machination of mannequins
electric pulse of a new heart
as mob money mobs sincerely catering service champagne rooms
since greed barely sleeps
and lust is always hungry... it be only history now viral and industry
sin city
once only an idea, a peanut
from - y'know - "like whoa! what the frank??..."
but gotta hand it
the business took legit crooks, stashing books, making whoop...
dream getaways by blue moons
in blue pools
privacy like freedom is a pension crap toss
EXPENSIVE...
where those blind to consequence
can witness
(convertible caddy)
the highway to losing grace seeing is half believing when gambling
feels like a game, and the surroundings
rarely change.
Where the indifferent ego
Idled by self
becomes a parasitic pretender
talented liar
actor to some... walking among
the vapid vehemency of true victors & kings
brilliantly glamourized
in billboard lights
numbingly blinking hypno hyper active analogues
of high def diminishment
of common folly logic
displacia of senses
fairy-dust of forgetting (in a Benjamin straw)
duty discarded
familial responsibility a hollow weight
a close second to desperations
the hustle was once a dance
the true crime and you
metro and the fool
willing food flash floods and tour buses full
just to be had
gangster pimped out a city
called it "the table"
dubbed by sin
stole some cash
catering to our vices / service entrance in the back
"What happened in vegas...?"
some call it being had ...
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 4:37 AM UTC
After the preaching is
Done-finished
picking at the scabs
Of our guilt,
At week's end / day of rest;
When we almost had it
Bygone
Forgotten
From our minds...
It's a kinder kin to amnesia
A softer fog of fugue,
A healing art of our brain farts,
Not soaking in shame's
Diminishment
Or stewing in self helps
"Deliver us!" bow down genuflect
But then again
Here we are together to gather
Uncomplainingly
Complacently listening
Absorbing every lash
Of the metaphorical whip,
To be guided back to good
Such sermons for the flawed
humans that we know
We are -- unworthy...
But willingly we suffer
The word.
Oh how to be just like
The lamb...
So afterwards, when after we've been
Emotionally & verbally punctured
Full of hollow
We are holes unworthy
Of being
Made whole...
Or so, we've been told
"It is written."
So now then let us meet for
homily
After King James harangues us
His version of fellowship,
Let us have verbal
*********** with the word.
(Worship)
Perhaps over supping
Or during beer & NFL
Or some blood
Sport
Non-emasculating,
Reminding us how
Weekends roar
And Life is
Worth more
Than the inner wars
We are ourselves
Fighting.
After the sermon,
Let's have true verbal
***********
(Without a shred of guilt.)
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 12:10 AM UTC
The bitter self-awareness
Of the vicinity of death
Encompasses a trauma
In a shortness of the breath,
An intellectual shrinkage
Spans diminishment of time
In impending dissolution
Of this treasured life of mine.
But mortality is mine to face
A hymnal to my fears
In that acceptance breeds compassion
For the irrational disappears
A passionate observation
Paints great empathy for life,
A vividness of being,
Of consciousness run rife.
Beyond articulation,
Beyond the poets song
Lies the grail of self-possession
In a Byzantium throng
Where the veil of comprehension
Sails upon a placid sea
And the glorious-ness of living,
In bright light, descends on me.
M.
29 October 2019
@ Foxglove in the warm, Spring sunshine
Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 5:40 PM UTC