"discernable" poems
There is no need for
discernable lines
in the moment
I am content.
there is no need for anything.
but the moment.
naked & anxiously
awaiting reawakening
& my hands betray me
by shaking & blantantly saying
you've swayed me
it's crazy.
today I created nothing
& I am wasted anything
& everything.
but it's okay.
the mosaic is
a face faded
in the foreground.
this is fair ground.
today I'll walk on air
today I'll float on clouds
today I'll foam at the mouth
then I'll roll around
in my beloved filth
that you brought about.
be proud,
I can't be without it.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 8:27 AM UTC
Difference involves a discernable set of identifiable concepts, where soft cheese can be wrapped in cosmetic triangulations.
I know that electricity is a paradoxical commodity, where black diamonds resonate with something which is dissimilar to the larger expectations of society.
Like I said: miscellaneous conceptions of mature virility are evident to three-sided arguments. Aren’t they? There are three sides to every savoury story.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 1:16 AM UTC
The raindrips are dropping outside for a change,
some way I still feel them draining through my decrepit veins.
Thunderous applause for the storms that wage,
The wars that I've paid for with my strayful ways, day after day.
Come now,
Come play in the swaying waves forming aside my imminent lines,
The ones that play and play on,
Bouncing and rebounding around inside my mind(s).
Tip, typing away,
Fueled by the fires outside this time.
Each of these rampant keys seal away the pains that fray these frail heartstrings.
Filling the gutters with the utterances that speak the futile fightings,
Flying through the air,
With the nimbus lighting my way through the faintest of nighttime scenes,
Hoping these barely discernable dreams are the ones that will see me through the day.
Easing my restless heart with the chaos rains that thunder and pour,
They sway my mind to sleep.
Pray,
that it will all be over soon,
or perhaps,
even today.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 9:06 PM UTC
What is the point in
Poignancy?
*Fragment,
you tell me.
Another one in paragraph three.*
What do words matter?
I have spelled love with Lilacs instead of an “L”
I have drawn the curve of my “O” with the chill of a
Sweeping breeze.
A “V” can only appear as the violet of a
sparkling sky, or I will be unable to read it,
and every “E” will amount to nothing more than
emptiness if the voice it has been given
does not epitomize song.
*Comma-splice,
Replace it with a semicolon.*
I am trying live freely.
I want to breathe in color,
to inhale an orange Savannah sky
And exhale green which
shows through the translucent dew
of grass.
*Unnecessary use of description.
Limit it, Lidiah. Limit it.*
My fingers itch with the ferocity of
A vengeful army.
They are waiting to trample pages with
The lead of my pencil, the bayonet
of a Revolutionary-War-era rifle.
The word limit sounds like tragedy.
A single word that can somehow act as
a precursor,
To the death of passion.
Your words have put you in a box.
People always say
“Actions speak louder than words.”
In a way that is true.
But I also know it to be
a tremendous piece of fiction.
*Lidiah,
Please watch your run-ons.*
Why can our words and our actions
not be the same thing?
Isn’t the act of speaking,
the act of raising your voice,
the act of being heard,
isn’t that an action?
*Lidiah,
how many times do I have to remind you?
Clarification throughout.*
Why have we decided that our words
Mean nothing more than
stepping stones on the road to action?
When did we decide that our voices
which rise like clarion calls,
forever instilling our promises,
are to be left on silent?
Precious jewels set into rings.
Poison in a water tank.
*Lidiah,
what you say is irrelevant
if your MLA bibliography isn’t in
alphabetical order.*
Our words are our actions.
They mean the same.
Words are the distinctions of our beliefs
Illustrations of our personas
They are not mosquitos to be slapped away
and forgotten.
*Lidiah,
paragraph five is too long.
Stop rambling.
Be concise.*
Please tell me,
what is the point of being concise?
*Lidiah,
stop rambling.*
Why do we let justification
equate to useless rambling?
*Lidiah,
you have to detach yourself from the narrative.*
Feelings mean more
than a couple of sentences.
More than a good or a bad.
A mad or a sad.
Comma-splice
What about ferocity?
Never end with a preposition.
What about passion?
Replace this with a conjunctive adverb.
What about the discernable strife
that follows even indifference?
What about that?
*Lidiah,
what is the point of
Poignancy?*
What are we without it?
What does the human soul matter
if we have forsaken the parts of ourselves that
remind us of what a soul is for?
*Lidiah,
you will never be heard
if you do not learn to follow the rules*.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 1:04 AM UTC
I don't have perfect hair
I'm not 6'2 & 190 pounds
I don't have bright teeth or a six pack
my eyes don't shine through a darkened room
and I'm far from photogenic
I forget more things than I remember
I have no special skills or discernable talents
my skin is pale and full of holes scars and ink
I feel uncomfortable out of place & awkward
in almost almost all social situations
I'm slightly paranoid & always afraid someone somewhere
is judging me
I rarely get anything on the first try & I often lose faith
before I accomplish what I've set out to do
I'm my own toughest critic & believe that
I'm average at best if even that
I may not be all that I'm supposed to be
but I might be everything you may never find
in someone else
so with all of my flaws faults & shortcomings
of which there are many
my heart still beats
and I can still manage
to love you all the same
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 1:21 AM UTC
Karma was a dancer
at the Déjà Vu,
trading fantasies a few days a week
for ***** crumpled bills and
then living the dream on her days off.
That was before I knew her.
Before she faded just a little.
Which is not to say
that she was no longer beautiful
with her mermaid hair,
the color somewhere between
phosphorescent amber and
burning chestnut brown,
down to her *** and falling all around
her painfully sensuous curves.
The faint pucker lines 'round her mouth,
that liver spot,
a slight, barely discernable paunch,
I could see such things, too but
they only endeared me to
the façade of some silly notion
a kin to forever.
We would stay up late,
even on the weeknights,
wine silly and
**** chatty.
She would dance
and I would tell her
****** poems in exchange.
It seemed like a good trade
to me but the truth is,
she was being shorted in the deal.
We said,
I love you
but I’m not sure we knew
that we didn’t really have that
to offer one another.
Both of us had sold more
than we had ever bargained for
long before we met.
When money ran thin and
times grew hard
she split.
Hope still stops by on occasion.
(She was a dancer, too).
But it seems a bit easier to distinguish
differences between the faux
and the genuine these days.
She doesn’t stay long.
I like to blame it all on Karma
despite knowing that I was just never
quite frugal or savvy enough to afford more than a few perfume-drenched moments at the foot of the stage.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
Delirium Tremens
Off the wall my feverish demons jump
And skirt about the edges of the room
Mocking my sleeplessness with levity
While I coil like a snake in a fiendish tomb
Cold sweat like clear lava bubbles
On my brow and down my spine
Muffled thumps or shrieking wails
Discernable sounds of an evil kind
Half in sleep or haphazard flight
Malevolent tentacles cleave me down
Tormented by these Hellish frights
In catacombs black, stuffy underground
I flail my limbs in futile dispute
At luminous eyes of a Satanic hound
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
Grimsby, a murky wee northerly town
And lousy with houses of seedy renown
The ladies wear only a loose fitting gown
Transactions are furtive and quick
And every street corner is coated in brass
With a ****** for every discernable class
In a spectrum of hues and selection of mass
All awaiting a dip of the wick
Diseases are spreading and taking a hold
With pimples and blisters and, finally, mould
But just when the punters are starting to fold
A saviour arrives in the nick
Doctor McNaughty, King of the Kink
And his brothel of many surprises
A welcoming smile, a comfortable bed
And some help with whatever arises
The rooms are fantastic, the ropes are elastic
With feathery leather and spikes
It wanders the street on mechanical feet
And it scoops up the punters it likes
There’s something to suit almost every wish
With strawberries and freshly whipped cream in a dish
There’s a bucket of springs and a kettle of fish
And the manacles, shackles and chains
A selection of ******* and optional clamps
There’re pulleys, tackle and half-pipe ramps
A physio suite for reduction of cramps
And the treatment of ****** strains
A marshmallow room with a candyfloss bed
And hookers of platinum, purple and red
And for those who are hankering after the dead
There’s a room full of human remains
Doctor McNaughty, Lord of the *****
A magical, mystical ****
With wonders galore behind every door
And occasional chicken or gimp
His visits are brief, but of major relief
To the multitude often attending
Then he’s off in a flash with a bundle of cash
He so loves a happy ending
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 6:25 AM UTC
Something un-discernable
just beyond my mind’s eye
a feeling I can’t quite place
meanders, ethereal as
early morning mist
swirling through woods
delicate as ink on
ancient parchment
written with reed
by a chinese monk
beautiful in the way
only sadness
can be
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 3:44 AM UTC
Caught in the realm of a far greater society,
she would never taste true love on earth,
so she would have to travel.
Samsungs sorrow was held somewhere deep
within her forgotten past.
She fretted over the little things
she never got to do
and lost herself in replaying
every single angle.
Endless nights of tossing and turning
and revisiting feelings
through her subconscious left her lost to panic,
alone and in the dark.
She could hardly ever make out a discernable song
but none the less it was played,
by a man four billion light years away,
who she would never actually know.
From head to toe electrified,
and sanctified by reason
the ever knowing thought bot senses
wrinkles in that fabric that we knitted.
Call the tailor and get him sewing
for mans to good to be ****
And there we leave the nameless patterns
of neural activity sufficiently spoken for.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 5:57 AM UTC
the sun is setting across the pond
silhouetting the tree line
with its golden fire
mirroring on the water
rippling with the wind
seems the catfish are getting big
"I wonder how much
my granddaughter has grown?"
the clouds are scribbled in wisps
no discernable shapes to ponder
such a lonely sky
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 1:22 AM UTC
There are two sides to this,
this mess.
Two completely different reflections in a funhouse mirror.
There’s the part of me that hears you
Hears your sweet words
And sees your full, gorging desires.
Your dark eyes haunt me as I brush my teeth and feed my cat.
They are a twisted trick, seducing me to hopes and dreams.
Of us.
And I stare back into the mirror. And there’s the part of me that
plays along and continues to talk about romantic scenarios of us.
As if they’re actually going to happen.
This is the enlongated, blurry, barely discernable reflection of something
that doesn’t even exist yet.
And then there’s the squat, fat, ugly reflection.
The truth.
The truth is you’re going to smash these mirrors one day.
For good.
And I’ll be standing among these shattered ideals,
cursing your name and digging my nails into my palms.
But you won’t know me.
You won’t recognize the real, heart and blood girl standing before you.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 3:45 AM UTC
If you should come upon a painting by Mark Rothko in a museum -
I'll assume you are not one of those billionaires who has one hanging on the dining room wall, or hidden away in a secret room behind the bookcase -
but either way, do not just look at the painting or you will see nothing.
Well, except color. You will see color. Rothko loved color.
But wait a while and you will begin to hear it whisper its secrets:
How lives are layered upon lives;
how painful sacrifices
get buried beneath petty ambitions and lies
and joys and succes as well-
oh, and perhaps another layer or two of color.
Each generation scrapes the parchment clean
and blithely scribes new marks on its surface -
confident that they will not forget the lessons
that seem so absurdly obvious.
Empires disappear beneath overgrown vines
and dieties who, drunk on the blood of virgins
would feast on the hearts of conquered warrors
but now shuffle past each other
with oblivious nods, grousing about the food,
wait for the day someone remembers their names.
Listen and perhaps you will learn
how every layer of life is a forgotten secret
discernable only by its subtle influence
on the layers that are built up above it.
If not. There is always the color. Rothko loved color.
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
Let’s play Name That Goon.
How many can you get right?
Someone you see every day
In the news, in plain sight.
The first one looks very much
Like a troll doll but larger.
He brags about how much
Money he has in his larder.
But, his blather does not
Include many discernable facts.
He’s about half of the man
He stands on stage and acts.
The second one is a talker
In a very vaunted arena.
He seems as incapable of truth
As a citizen named Fiorina.
He’s been faking his credentials
And his skin has darkened.
He’s orange, so one wonders
If the old KKK has harkened.
The third one was a big cheese
And he was a big deal once
Until his mouth and behavior
Proved him to be a dunce.
But not before his crew
And his ineptitude managed
To leave the country *******
And semi-permanently damaged.
The fourth was the third’s pal
In all those dastardly deeds
That any tale well scripted
Or any tragedy needs.
He made a bundle for him
And all of his colluding pals.
Maybe he thought that might
Make him attractive to the gals.
The next one is the queen
Of the Washington crazies.
She might make a bigger fool
Of herself, but she’s too lazy
And as stupid as a box of lint.
She opens mouth and convinces.
Every time she speechifies
The entire country winces.
So, now we have done it
We have played Name That Goon.
If this glib poet doesn’t choke
We can have more real soon.
So, you all play nice and have fun
At your next political gathering.
And keep track of who is who
And what they are all blathering.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
Friday
as reminder
of how cruel the time.
(Invariability)
Of how intractable the wind and weather.
(Inevitability)
I cry the cry of the reformed mean spirited;
the once-unholy-then-unholy-again;
the backslid.
It's been so long since I've sinned,
come short of the glory,
come at all (costs)
It would feel good to make a fist again.
Please render me in subtle shades
when you paint me into your masterpiece;
barely discernable from the canvas.
A ghost in achromatic acrylics.
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 12:06 AM UTC
and love of winter,
found absent though
i do not lament it –
i lament the loss of my ****
lament as the sun rises.
and acts of valor,
acts of ********** or –suasion,
trail’d off as words
spew forth in riptide.
forth to recreate, to wipe clean.
and censured nods exchange,
we met not eyes, you were
only in my vision’s drift. in my
field of autonomous response.
and in repose at end of day,
all my colors in restful
form. harmonious form.
substantiated form.
and discernable of madness,
reparable non-sense to draw
some drifting vision.
to draw upon jaded gaze
cloak’d defensive.
and i wander the thoughts,
i wander the right
emptiness in your eyes.
and i wander on.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 3:26 AM UTC
Give me another
Minute alone with you
Give me another
Kiss on the lips
I want to feel that
Future/present
Collision feeling
I want to feel like
I have plans again
*when i was 6
i learned to float on my back
eyes closed against the sun
and i zoned out floating
made it all the way to the middle
of carlisle lake
where i woke up
but couldn't swim yet
so i treaded water and
floated away
eyes closed under the sun again*
Give me another
Dinner in a tiny college kitchen
Give me another
Twin-bed-sleepless night
I want to feel that
Flying bullet/speeding train/sound barrier
Breaking feeling
I want to feel like
I don't have to make plans
I want to feel like
All roads lead in the same directon
Like I don't need directions
Like you're my direction
I feel like a cartographer
Lost in space
floating
In no discernable direction
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Poetry in free verse
Doesn't need to rhyme
Or have any
Discernable structure.
It is
The best kind
For aspiring writers
Who lack
Eloquence,
Such as
Myself.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
Her voice is sweeter than its path.
With so many berry leaves latticed
into the chain-link fence,
it sounds like millions of feathers
tinkling.
Her eyes are in Arizona,
in impacted zones of clay knuckles
punching their way outwards
into the redwood bone of the earth.
Her smell is wet limestone; baked apples; hungry petunias.
And the sound they make is a train,
a reveille
moving away.
Heather tells me about a recent trip to Los Angeles;
about forms of travel
that don't move on tracks,
where there is no discernable distance.
I tell her I have been here all along;
I know where you have been
and how you sound there.
I know the heathers of the world
by the berry in your mouth.
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 5:48 PM UTC
A dove descends,
Wings flapping, each beat discernable,
Like an annunciation.
The idea, an immaculate conception,
Untainted, pure and blessed,
A secular epiphany raised to deity,
And behold,
The nativity of verse.
Heavy,
In the midst of countless skulls;
No eyes, lips or ears.
I am the father
Trusting I will die before my child,
Believing it will outlive me
To shade the world.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 8:23 AM UTC
Moorland skies and breaking dawn clouds,
forcing the weak sunlight through the barren trees.
Crows with no particular places dart from one copse to the other.
Flying above your head, tearing the morning skies into shreds.
Elusive mists on the undulating lanscapes give peeks of field stubble or dark grass.
Nearer, the feel of the five bar gate
Is damp and slimy with the dew,
The rough wood barely discernable
Until the warmth of your hand gives up enough heat to release its underlying texture.
To the right the west seems still asleep,
Unaware of the fingers of the sun's rays inching closer.
Sliding through gateways,
Over ponds and into unexpected windows.
To the east its almost day,
Cool yellow light weaving it's way through or past the trees,
Hedges, odd building and rests at your feet.
Bowed in reverence as if to hand you this day on a platter saying, '
'This day is my gift to you, enjoy.'
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 6:42 AM UTC
Take me to the movies
Sophia said
and so you did
and sat at the back
and was looking forward
to seeing the film
one you’d heard
quite a bit about
but Sophia
had other ideas
and they involved
trying to get
into your pants
or running her hand
along your thigh
in the darkness
or kissing your cheek
and whispering words
in her broken English
the Polish accent
still discernable
beneath the words
and rushing breath
and you only went out with her
because she’d been
pestering your
for weeks
or throwing you
on the beds
of the old folks
in the care home
while they were downstairs
in the lounge having lunch
or sleeping themselves
into a late death
and she said
why don’t you put
your hand on my thigh
the Polish sound
hanging on to each
spoken word
why don’t you try
and place your hand here
and she pulled
your hand into
the heaven
between her thighs
and as you looked up
some soldier in the film
was falling dead
blood oozing
from many wounds
and there was you
in dangerous territory
trying to stay alive
fighting the temptation
and she saying
afterwards we go back
to my place
if my parents are out
and you flushed
and hot
hoped to God
they were not.
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 2:31 AM UTC
tis been quite a while since;
now that im back im at a loss
a loss for words, a little
clueless perhaps-- for some
reason i havent brought myself
to write til now. why now i
do not know. a calling-- no,
a brief revival, i say; a sudden
puff of air fought its way through
to the rusted innards of this
heaving engine… a momentary
spark, brief in its intensity but
eternal in that its light travels
ceaselessly; the legacy of a
blunt yet nevertheless discernable
moment of passion, barely visible
but somehow, just somehow, twas there.
Jul 6, 2020
Jul 6, 2020 at 7:50 AM UTC
sitting by your bed
waiting for the waiting
to cease
my, heart a lump,
within my breast.
watches for your beat
barely discernable and frail.
so many things left unsaid
misunderstood, misread.
but there is love
mother to child
child to mother
there was love
you fade, each breath
a small farewell
each tear i shed a plea for
forgiveness
as i wait and witness
there is love and forgiveness
here carrying one home
and another to release
a burden .... forgiven.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
There comes that moment of sudden awareness
When you raise your head and see the bigger picture
See the links between everything in your life
And make the connection that makes the most sense to you
My connection will be different to yours
Some will see undeniable proof that the Earth is flat.
Others will see a plan of salvation lay out for them.
It does not matter about absolute Truths.
Chasing such is absurd
Because if no one can see it
Nor perceive it
Then does it really exist?
All people see are their own truths instead
Ascribing meaning to the Chaos
That's the 'real connection between us all
The interconnectness of all things lay in the connections we all make
We are all bending reality ever so slightly to fit the narrative we have crafted for ourselves
Telling ourselves stories to make sense of everything - and we all have stories
I will not seek solutions by a judicious study of the discernable reality, looking for The Truth.
I will act and create my own reality
Until eventually, everything connects.
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 2:47 PM UTC