"directional" poems
*** is like a game of bridge
How you play is jointly planned
But, if your partner isn’t reliable
You must count, on a good hand
DISCLAIMER
My partner in bridge
Can be a women or a man
My partner in ***
Also can
But, for self gratification
We each, must use our own hand
WIZDUMBs BY JA 628
P.S. for QTWABoOty -your one directional conversation, only leaves you talking to yourself. Do you really like yourself that much.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
.
Cohesion has been fragmented,
merely an old dissolved memory.
A shroud darker than pitch black
heralds the omni-directional strangler,
seeking to crush the fragile neck
and slowly asphyxiate the minds reality.
The turbulence of mute non-existence,
trapped in an endless glass sphere,
a cold snow-globe paper weight,
screaming for the end of the world.
Terror dissipates all common sense,
the inner head explodes and implodes.
A wracked skeleton of fevered flesh,
the violated remains,
beautiful and torn,
left,
when the butterflies of darkness
******
the fire.
© Pagan Paul (2017/19)
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 7:15 PM UTC
Pythagoras taught that reality was
but one among an infinite number
now u've got the quantum multiverse;
& Pythagoras thought of it first, saying
all it amounted to was a line leading to
& through a point, like a thread through
a needle; & so the Universe was
stitched together like a multi-directional
dream catcher; excluding no area
in space & miracles taking place
when the strings
are manipulated according to preset
patterns or improvised designs;
what else did the ancient ancients
do that make ur high-tech gadgets
look like the simple-minded toys
that they in truth are; the ancients
told time by the movement of the
sun & shadows & communicated
w/ unseen higher spirits, conferred
w/ still higher spirits, higher than
those both above & below; spirits
taking the form of sacred prostitutes
& poets, geniuses every one of them
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 12:30 AM UTC
I love her.
Basic in it's being.
As such is the keeping of it.
A thesis to the "ins" and "outs."
The "ups" and "downs."
The "all abouts."
An equation of this and that.
In direct proportion to the simplicity of directional momentum...
So do we conclude,
equal complexity
to that which was not spoken.
To that which was kept.
Only relenting to a factor of time.
From which
the variable of existence
can evolve itself.
In and of itself.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
One story may change the world someday. One that will revolutionize the steady constants of how everyday aspects judges itself too harshly. Never finding the solve of anti pressure release syndromes. Plot is plot. Ideas are always outspoken. Even if one or the other hasn’t agreed. Won’t change the facts given to the recipient who may have already judged the opposing two. Without running through what they have already been about. Futuristic plot devices aren’t important. As it may not even exist. Storytelling being a futuristic realization to knowing something before it happens. Feelings clawing thought processes. Thought processes trying to equalize the incoming rush of emotions that rise and fall. Feelings being a different breed centered in the middle of the steady constant. Revolutionizing what you already know. Blind to see it through. Thought processes aren’t too judging. Except when you start to trust feelings too much. A jealous implication arises. Knowing what you already know before it happens. Is no different then how one already figured it out. Feelings handle it with care. Thought processes stuck in the mud. A puppy without any directional skills. A master never telling its true flaws if it couldn’t understand itself to begin with. Jealousy is rising even more. A fixed implication is becoming more dominant. Revolutionizing the main flaw more and more. Nothing is without equal if you never give it a chance. Feeling the way through all the clutter. Clutter not being your fault. You were molded by the pressure of what storytelling has made you into. Plot devices center these focuses without thinking outside itself. Your only to blame, when subjects apart of your judging becomes too sterile for you to notice anymore. Drying out the process of trusting something with care. Becoming one who is blind to never looking outside itself again! Becoming the stick in the mud. How does one avoid? Easy! Storytelling being a futuristic realization! PS… Don’t claim what you already know!
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 11:18 PM UTC
1:12:25 9:20am nyc
Exactly, how far is it to you?
this is more than mere question,
or a rhetorical poem title discard,
consider it an interrogatory of
the first order, a debate raging
with every word successfully
affixed from brain to fingertips,
from my breathing to your heart,
how far is it exactly, pray tell me,
how these cords of words find you,
are your lips bending up in a smile,
need me a weather report, air quality,
wind gusts vitals vital to yo! estimate
how fast & conditions they’ll require survive/arrive in your eyesight well
and be friended
feed me the data, Heart Rate, Blood Pressure,
SpO2, so I’ll know what condition your
condition is in, adjust my words accordingly,
send to this distance back to me awaiting,
the necessary facts & figures to provide the finger stroke directional, do you need whispers or emboldened bold face to arouse the a spirit flagging, a shoulder shaking, a dozen red lipped chords of
kisses and sweet everthings, that do not
dissolve, dissipate or disappear instantly,
but can be stored in a Ziploc bag, refrigerated,
ready for gorging and disgorging, repeatedly,
as needed, synchronized slow or hard, fast
or soft, wet or dry. sweet or salty, savory
or a blended mixture, an adjustable concoction depending
on distance, time of day,
tell me,
the stuff that you accept
with open willingness,
or just begrudgingly
all adjustable
all shaped to
your individuality
elastic flexible
but the schedule
filling up fast
so we can mutual
squeeze into each others
empire of empty
so,
***Exactly, how far is it to you,
to where you are being***?
Jan 12, 2025
Jan 12, 2025 at 2:48 PM UTC
She thinks if she travels to foreign lands- even if
it is only by dating an ethnic man- that she can
scale the high walls of the borders between what she
was taught and who she hopes she is.
Having followed blindly her predestination programmed life
she can’t resist taking squinted peeks through the
tiny open slits of vision, hoping to find her true self.
“You are losing the faith!” her anxious mother warns
as though to do so would be an inherent flaw,
not a conscious choice.
But Mother’s own faith
has been slipping through her hands for the past
30 years, and only that promised salvation can save
her from the indiscretions that fill the non-rapturous void
left-behind by mister Christian-right-wing-man.
Taught well by mother, father, and god, that men
must be assessed in a purely logical fashion,
“Agree on finances and childrearing and you will
have happily ever.”
But she feels fake, and does not know how
to peel the plastic wrap off her personality.
You can see its bindings in the way her eyes implore you
and how she clasps her hands on her lap by rote.
She is the pink peg in the Hasbro Game of Life car
with guilt trip road blocks, detours and poorly folded
directional maps. Spinning the wheel in search of tour guides:
What should I read? What should I think?
But that only gives her new mind instructors.
Perhaps instead of foreign languages and foreign lands,
the verity lies in the realization that mother
probably feels fake too.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
.
The serpent around my eye
in perpetuity eating its tail.
A sigil to represent fluidity,
sheds its skin to no avail.
The Truths play around my head in loops eternal,
infinite possibilities of ***********
fractal gems cavorting in lustrous oceans,
that cleanse an hours disgrace.
Pan-Dimensional
and Omni-Directional
Truths are connecting.
Ouroboros, protector of the Tree of Life,
his apple is the gift of Knowledge.
Are those tempted weak and futile?
or hungry for the secrets of Cronos.
The fruit of Wisdom picked, and devoured,
in the garden quest for clarity.
And the serpent around my eye,
like a monocle allowing sight,
flows Truths into my mind,
reflecting matrices taken to flight.
© Pagan Paul (09/06/17)
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 1:57 PM UTC
just before never...
*my last performance,
the words came original
and easy, unlike all its
predecessors; someone
drew me a map of my
life and times, cities,
countries, and roads
well travelled and a few,
not too. Mountains, each with
a woman’s name, who carried
care, until she couldn’t, didn’t, and
time’s weathering returned us
individually into hillocks, and then
rain eroded us back into old soil.
the broad highways and back roads,
always snaking away, fork-forcing
directional choices, usually taking the
wrong way, the easy and safe one,
and how I have come to hate those
words: easy and safe, for they
are the pill combo that leaves you
for dead, dulling the questioning
one inquires of oneself, late, reluctantly.
But there is always the unexpected.
Today I saw a sunset on the Hudson
River with a humpback whale blowing,
running beside a river ferry, plowing the
waters back and forth tween two states.
Lived by this river for s e v e n t y years,
and have seen the whales in many places,
but here, in my city, in the river of my youth,
never.
and I got the sign, message received, there
are still sights and poems to behold, arms to
embrace, youngers to guide if they’ll permit it.
so this title, these two, just before,
this day, poem, came to remind me, the
days map remains unfinished, there are lands
and voyages and poems still awaiting drawing,
and it is tomorrow, and just before tomorrow, that
recording insistent demands, and a map is just a
moment in time, until just before...never*
5:28 AM Thu Dec 10
2020 (a year deserving
of its own line and ending)
Manhattan, between two rivers.
Dec 10, 2020
Dec 10, 2020 at 5:48 AM UTC
Water is used to generate electricity
On my palms, it powers nervousness
Or nervousness stimulates the gushing of water from my palms
Better still, I will say it's a bi-directional mechanism
My drawing class was a mess
Every paper ripped before I could draw a thing
You can't imagine the stress
When your palm is another stream
I dread a handshake
Especially when my hand feels like a lake
I can't stand the expressions on people's faces
Or how they have to quickly clean their hands on their pants
Please find me an escape route
That's the struggle of sweaty palms!
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 10:07 PM UTC
Rattle my yolk control, baby.
Give me a turbulent flow.
Squeeze my needle valves, baby.
Insert your directional valve.
Come on upstream through the orifice.
Give me that viscous friction.
The discharge coefficients are ready.
Blow out your resin agent.
What's the matter, baby?
What happened to the elongated pump?
Do you need a pressure compensator?
It looks like a reducing valve.
How about a little friction
to reexhibit some rigidity.
Let's renegotiate positions
and dissipate some frigidity.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 4:23 AM UTC
She is from all directions
She is the North...
All of the wide open spaces
Crisp as the cold mountian air
She is the East...
Where the leaves fly with the wind
A warmth that surrounds you making you feel less alone
She is the South...
The sweet fragrance of the magnolia blossom
With the gracfulness of an osprey in flight
She is the West...
The smell of the ocean lingers on you
Where the sunset leaves you
speechless from it's untouchable beauty
He is a man for all seasons
He is the Winter...
The chill that hangs in the breath of the air
Frost's intricate design on a windowpane
He is the Spring...
The soft lullabies of the birds
Drops of water as you dance under the rain
He is the Summer...
A heat that burns to the touch
The longest of all days
He is the Autumn...
The sturdy tree that stands alone without his leaves
The chill that goes down your spine
when he's looking into your eyes
Complementing each other gracfully
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
we have what
we need
the internal
compass
grant it the
trust
to bring
us where
wherever we
want to be.
we have what
we need
the internal
compass
leading us
north, south
west or east.
we have what
we need
the internal
compass
the needles
pointing upward
follow the
direction
I will follow
your footsteps
if you wish to lead.
we have what
we need
the internal
compass
the directional
force lies
within us
resting internally.
we have what
we need
the internal
compass
leading our
conscious and subconscious
inside of you
inside of them
inside of every
crevice of the
earth.
the eternal compass lies within-
the seams of the universe.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
Intentional directional frequency,
dancing in multidimensional secrecy.
I follow this ancient Red Road
because it calls to me ceaselessly.
It humbles me,
more than can conceivably be.
It empowers me,
primitively and peacefully.
Graciously, like the moon pulls the sea
Interconnected irrevocably
in this spiral galaxy of spirituality.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
Does your trust know any boundaries in this seemingly plausible abode of temporal and eclectic uncertainty? I have just satisfied my appetite, yet suffer ambivalence as I contemplate those who surf the waves of marine predictability. I can only present one suggestion: Go to Tradeston and acquire perishable foods in the name of nostalgic self-indulgence.
The outer limits of our galaxy recognise multi-directional infinity as the bounce of jazz permeates the atmosphere of resigning perimeters. I have decided to ride the atomic beat and to make something tasty in my adolescent innocence, as we lurch into finality.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
~
~ for my knowing friends~
~~~
so simple the notion,
that healing's potent potions
are non-directional portents
coming at you
like a Bob Dylan, Avettt Brothers,
rhythm and rhyme,
tunes injected from the outside knowing,
from the first time
that they were residing inside,
all the time
in, on and under the skin
the conflicted battle rages between the
coursing forces of
I believe
and the low grade infection, incurable return of
faithless disbelief and irreconcilability
a parental entry knowing,
despite different routes of administration,
there is no pharmacology for a limb lost,
any prosthesis healing supplanted
from without,
never achieves
anything approaching next to normal
*but from within,
the heart can heal itself,
trying a natural bypass,
doing its imperfect best
to correct the uncorrectable,
resigned to accept the unacceptable*
the slight edge felt from
cutting a garden's new growth for replanting
an act of belief in the future,
witnessing a sunset's nightly color sky's return rebirthing,
knowing, admitting to oneself,
that miraculously better than all ever seen prior are
medicines that come from the outside,
and inward bound daily injections,
they are:
*"healing, from the inside out...
just as it was meant to be!"*
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 10:41 AM UTC
Changing at an alter
As to fault my state of mind
Less permanent when pursued
Captured perfect when the blame is all mine
So I'll peek over the dawn after rising
Soon as night time colors fade
A grieving child am I after consequence
Blaming only the loss of my ways
To perfect would it be as to stumble
Over the cross heirs tangled sight
Falling then into an oyster
Where I am harbored from piercing day light
Maybe the sun I wish to blame
For tumbling off my sheltered road
No such denial shall reprove the yielded dream
A directional view no longer can I hold
When released I'll have faulted pursued self defeat
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 10:54 AM UTC
"Read between the lines," they say.
And I watched you stand there; a living, breathing
existence of lines.
You walked right up to me. Lines are moving dots.
Your being is a point in motion.
I looked at your face to see the bold lines
under your eyes and above your brows—the ones
that made me think of your strength and masculinity.
They are all an aspiring bravado exuded on your face
with your years of experience and hard work.
I love the curved lines of your eyes and lips too
as you smiled at me as I called your name.
Sometimes, I owe my success of finding you in crowds
to your tall height and I freeze whenever I do:
Vertical lines can stop eye movement.
Your dancing also catches my attention.
Did you know every part of your body consists of
dynamic and action-oriented lines?
You.
An important line in my life.
Highly directional, and I now know
where to go to
when I draw or write
the edges of my love.
| LINES | ENDING II |
Lines act as borders
between ideas and concepts.
They also tell me
to "never cross the line."
It goes the same for my mind
which draws your existence
in front of me, in Picasso style:
the single, drunk and confused
line.
Or those psychic lines that your eyes
connect to mine. I feel them there,
when you're not really looking at me
in person.
Lines allow you to quickly visualize
an object, or someone, with a minimum
of time, space and material.
But all I wanted was to feel
your hand in mine forever.
And all the lines I've ever written
about you and for you
will queue up to lines
of waiting, unrequited feelings.
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 6:45 AM UTC
the light is red
8:01am is the time I see your right directional
we meet here on the corner of Crosby and Abbey
you are always dressed for daily labor
collars pressed to perfection
your make up even rivals Cleopatra
I spy from your rear-view
it is glimpse into your reality
I long for eyes to embrace
with it a smile
but, I turn with each glance
this a forbidden chance
a full 3 minutes of a pure dream
then you turn right,
and I left
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 9:45 AM UTC
You--softly spoken entrant whose voice
bore holes afire, gave and took utterance in wilds
of will.
Obscured by the liminal impasse of distances,
elements commingled--you, the God/Goddess
of each in schizoidal break.
Passions outstretched to vanquished winds,
nestled in the directional roughhouse of you.
Sodden in sweat, limbs quake to receive one
another...well-versed nerves know the crucial
importance of our meeting.
Hence, the Foundation of the World--
space time's admixture beholds Truth take in
its fictions.
Its footprints burst the bubble of a mirage in
the deep of desert.
Whenever flesh and bone ran over their
spinning perimeter, lanced by the shock of
gravity...the firmament dissolved its maya.
We withstand our cosmic segway, we lock eyes...
chalk down the Seven Wonders to One.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC
Everyday, A New Person
Stop! Lest you think,
This is some poem, of a nature serious
I warn you with supercilious contempt
This is a mischance, a contretemps,
This is a dumb poem, like Suntan Lotion^
Inspired by that silliness's Broadway success,
About how everyday, I awake,
A New Person,
With a new designer hair styling
O Yeah, I gotta grip the sink counter,
When I see how my pillow friends^^
Have revenged themselves the night prior,
Upon awakening, I contemplate suicide by pills
But more labor saving for the undertaker I usually choose
Setting One's Hair On Fire
It be awful, it be ridiculous
That my hair defies gravity
Standing straight up,
After a night of lying down,
This is the product of rocking out to the
Hardest of hard rock n' roll.
Now I am a man,
Re hair and grooming I ain't usually
Prioritizing and swooning,
But get this,
It takes a tube daily,
Of alcoholic gel,
To get my pop,
To do the 'lie flat down flop'
When my woman strokes my hair,
She doesn't think I notice,
How she subtle slides her hand down my shirted arm,
To dispose of the newly acquired kitchen grease,
I sometimes, on really bad hair days,
Need to employ to encapture my Grayed Fleece
No faking joke, my mind out strokes
When I look at what handiwork
Has worked me over,
Multi-directional, punk sensational,
I swear it also has changed colors!
No unrequited love, just requited hate
For my torqued, drugged, twisted hairy fate,
Two minutes to write this idiotic ditty,
Ten minutes to nerve to open my eyes to look twice
At what the hairie fairies mischievously hath wrought,
Is unbalanced, demand a recount, a fair fight sought
Soon it will be clear, if you think this poem amusing,
Be in readiness for an Ode to the Haircut upcoming,
Be in readiness for an opera, entitled naturally,
Get Thee To The Barber of First Avenue
As soon as I get the nerve to leave the bedroom.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
Left is right... ...Because right is left... Except how does one or the other directional scenarios fair against the opposing opposites (that is themselves when conjoining as one "unifying whole")? Both directional options are just supposed to detour (each other) one way or the other (while seemingly going around each other again and again through countless twists and turns operable for success)! While also maximizing a different route, altogether! It's what makes paving a simulated pathway (so too speak) in order to free up space for the simulated pathway to give a better instruction manual about which way to properly (the next time around) carve my "simulated pathway"?!
PS... ("Which way"...) ...Is NO truer stated governing way!
Aug 3, 2020
Aug 3, 2020 at 7:36 PM UTC
Terrified of the terrain ahead of me
Marveled by this mysterious map
I take a quick peak out the window
And see a cactus poking its eyes at me
Tumbleweeds occasionally cross the street
Reminding my conscience to not fall asleep
I'm driven until the end of my road
But where my road goes, I do not know
The turning of my wheels is starting to give
The engine under my hood is too old to live
Broken,
Lost
A twisted brain,
An empty trunk
No one around to ask for advice
No directional reference from the map itself
Frustrated,
Nearly hopeless
You kick the hub cab of your wheel in anger
It falls off and you find a hidden note,
"Become ridden with hope."
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC
For now I know I must -
Tame the timidity,
Of my mind.
Channelize the kinetics;
Into a beam of energy,
Directional and definite!
Cutting the crap,
Of unnecessary detail;
Delivering a crisper form!
For now I know I must -
Sharpen the vision,
Of my mind.
Seeing beyond the clutter,
And the shown;
Into a picture,
I know and want to admire!
For now I know I must -
Delve into the depths,
Of my mind.
Revealing the chaos of the form,
Organizing it in symmetry;
Pleasant to trace and redraw,
A canvass of memory;
That shall adorn,
The museum of my life!
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 12:31 AM UTC
I once heard about a great Labyrinth built upon cheese
Where the rats scampered around spreading disease
They bicker and squander and take as they please
All fighting and searching for just a taste of the cheese
The Great Labyrinth was crafted some ages ago
By its own inhabitants, who all too well know
That despite their choices and where they choose to go
The cheese, they so desperately seek is merely a show
But the stench of the cheese fills every crack in the walls
So the desire grows unbearably to search through the halls
There’s an endless amount of signs and directional calls
The constant cornucopia of white noise leads to perpetual falls
Some believe they have the answer, where cheese you may find
Some only pretend, to simply toy with your mind
Others give you advice, to try to be kind
But most lie, so they can take what you’ve signed
The ones who quit searching, are the ones who have found
That the cheese is buried deep below ground
But, these same rats dare not make a sound
For, if they ALL knew, the Great Labyrinth would crumble all around
I once escaped a Great Labyrinth built upon dreams
Where everyone believed, but nothing was as it seems
And try as you might to calm the deafening screams
Everyone struggled and schemed for just a taste of their dreams
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:09 PM UTC