"documenting" poems
Noon; I swear by what the angels write,
When I met you the world bloomed in me, with flowers far and wide
Ahh of all times you have chosen winter to come
Its so cold here that I cant even feel my thumb
The snow falls into a pretty pile
Lets go and sledge, then drink a hot chocolate after a while
But in reality, I am sitting here on my chair
Trying to write new poems, ideas are quite rare
With pen in hand I will try my best
And see this as some kind of a test
Until I may or may not run out of ink
Until I may am not able to think
And until I just want to sink into my bed
Ah my pen, you are so pretty, you're elegant and sweet
Documenting stuff with you is really so neat
Please pen write on
~ Umi
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 10:06 PM UTC
The light pollution
from the lives of little people
in the big city
reflects off the lowriding clouds,
the same way my knees reflect
in the little puddles
from the big rains.
It hurts my eyes to look up
without sunglasses,
hurts my lips to think of tasting
the subway oil that
drip
drip
drips
I speculate at the transformers,
part automatic, part people
in their pre-ripped jeans,
learning to get their Ns
to drive themselves away,
yarn trailing from their sweaters
like parade float streamers.
Citizens run so fast
to catch the early train home,
freefalling down the stairs
breathing in the exhales
of the other racer’s exhaust.
Marking their triumphs
with participation ribbons.
The pacific pants at toes,
a puppy that only occasionally misbehaves.
Impatient for attention,
waves wagging back and forth,
up the imitation river,
past the downtown.
Kicking the sea wall with it's gravity boots.
The geese are on hiatus
until they can take back the city.
Making the drains overflow,
creating their own habitat,
they’ll strut their haughty markings,
distinguished from orcas,
away from any saline nonsense.
Were we to retrain the population
to turn blind eyes,
we’d be much more efficient,
stop wasting time contending
to society’s obsession
with documenting itself.
But then, what would we do all day?
Creating light pollution
must give immediate gratification.
Once all the lights are turned off,
the influence won’t continue,
creating a lack of permanence,
making our need to be remembered
seem trivial indeed.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
We’re going through a transitional period
trying to be good friends to one another
yet overwhelmingly self absorbed.
We got no time to think about legacy’s.
Our future takes cover from
the worry of the present
kicking the shins of our courage.
We smoke to forget
Drink to muster the drive to begin
Eat out of pots washed in
gas station sinks.
We collapse each moment into a screen
capturing scenery with black boxes
documenting life behind pixels and glass.
We thrive on uncertainty
Middle fingers up
to the system
that gives us shelter
that we exploit to find freedom
overturning the stones of a complex world
looking for definitions and characters
to call culture.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she
struggles to intubate a cat.
I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage,
pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than
practitioners are with humans—
hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,
the sternum sore.
Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was
opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.
After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and
walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week.
Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue
after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.
The flip of the coin. The thin line. The blessing or the curse.
The absolute darkness of a body bag. The cold chill of absolute zero.
The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the
light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the
brain shoots off minutes before death.
The eleventh hour,
isn’t that what it’s called?
We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.
We have to, but it won’t register.
After a loss, after a trauma,
we are on autopilot.
I think of my mother,
six feet beneath frozen soil in
a pink padded casket and think:
I don’t want that.
I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out
next to her in an above ground crypt and think:
I don’t want that.
Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.
Putrefied flesh. Bones visible. Muscles eaten. Tissues disintegrated.
We don’t talk about it.
We try to think the opposite. The positive vs the negative.
(But that’s not always possible or healthy.)
I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking
blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes
on a clipboard in the back of the room.
I couldn’t do these things.
My hands tend to break what they touch.
The glass bowl in the pet store.
The clay project in art class.
The succulents, the basil, the orchid.
I’m good at things I don’t have to think about:
good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,
good at trauma.
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 2:47 AM UTC
yesterday in milky way
i heard giants used to be in this world
how enormous creature they were
even with their beastly claw
how they have fallen
yesterday in milky way
things were different and tall
now all we hear is legend
if so mighty can not be here at all
i wonder if we'll be just another legend
them digging our bones and documenting
In log " yesterday in milky way"
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 12:44 PM UTC
two summers ago,
I found myself under a cabbage leaf
curled beneath the sun.
circled in slumber,
like there was never an end to anything.
then, I grew wings
and left my warmth for speed
sacrificing my calm breeze for cold storms
and windy nights.
on my flight home,
I sit through red lights and
look for tear tracks on the
faces of strangers
kissing their cheeks with my eyes
and pretending I can see the salt.
because there is hope left in
loss, my friends.
sometimes, you just have to let
the best things fall.
(how do you think storks still fly?)
so, I spend rush hour
untying the cloth diapers from my ankles
and when the highway pulls
my hills away from me,
I send them flying out the window
like dead birds
knowing
I will never see the seeds
fertilized through their bones
praying God thinks this
is a gesture of my good will.
let us all pray that God notices
our empty hands when we give up
the deepest now for an uncertain future.
Personally, I am praying for a cardboard-box
collection of home movies documenting
the growth of all the people I left,
of all the places thrown behind me
like stale cigarette smoke,
the homes I have broken with
my ever moving feet, my restless
guilty wings.
I will project the shaky film
all over my internals until my
gut is soaked with light
and the last shocked thought
of my quickly fading mind
will be of the things I could have seen,
the memories I would have made
if I had not gone away so much.
If I had just stayed.
but the wind is a vicious thing,
especially the updrafts
especially the hot breath under wings
which gradually convinced me
that my home was a cold dead thing
that there was no life left in my town
that the only world worth seeing was
far far away.
I have burned the eyes
of bluegrass Beethovens dying
slowly on a stage just to prove
that I never needed a quiet place.
that I was above all the country songs
and overalls and camouflage,
but we all need to hide sometimes.
even from ourselves.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
You are a songbird,
at night shift,
on the branch of my tree.
I am ever ecstatic,
in documenting body music;
the time is ripe for our concert,
we are intoxicated, drunk with the vintage wine of lust.
"No combination could be more perfect"
I hear you whisper poetry in my ear, inebriated.
Let us satiate-
the prompt of our divine longing
before this night leaves us behind.
Yes, you are right,
I am Omar Khayyam thinly disguised.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 5:32 AM UTC
Let's just all stop judging each other okay?
I have a new challenge for you:
to amend your attitude, to not put others down for the things that erupt passion in their hearts.
When did it become the cool thing to look down on others because they show excitement for something?
I was recently thinking about the term 'tourist'. That word used to make me cringe. I hated the idea of being a tourist because I hated the idea of being the outsider, the person who isn't "from around here". In reality, however, we are all tourists. We can't be from everywhere and often times I still consider myself a tourist in my own town. I feel like "being a tourist" has gotten such a bad wrap. Often times the term is synonymous with "annoying" and "main-stream". I've heard people say, "Be a traveler, not a tourist." And I say, aren't they the same thing? Aren't they both people who are passionate about exploring somewhere new? People spend so much time gawking at the tourists that kiss in front of the Eiffel tower or take photos in front of the Coliseum. How unfair is it for us to judge them for that? They are documenting a memory, their memory. They are fully immersed in the now. They are enjoying every last drop of everywhere they go.
It's disappointing to see so many people look down on others for the way they show their excitement and passion simply because it doesn't look like theirs. Just because you don't show your joy by taking a tour through the Louvre doesn't mean it's wrong. Sure, hidden gems of cities can always be cool and unique but that's not the only way to experience the world. Attractions are popular because they hold a value to so many people - if anything, that just makes it that much more worth it.
I myself, am more along the lines of getting off the beaten path and forging my own - but still floating back to earth a bit to see the views everyone's talking about. I know everyone travels differently and people are interested in other things - that's okay. That's what brings diversity and personality to the world. I'm not saying you need to conform and do what everyone else is doing, I'm just saying - don't judge others for how they choose to spend this life - but also, don't be afraid to spend yours how you want. Don't shy away from visiting Neuschwannstein Castle just because everyone goes there. Who cares how it looks to others? Only you. If we all spent a little less time judging others, maybe that would leave a little more time for enjoying the life we are in. You never know what is going to happen a week from now, a month from now, or years from now - so go do what excites your spirit - no matter how many or how little people do the same thing. Just go, explore the world, and be unapologetically you.
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 11:47 PM UTC
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Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC
"With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls;"
- Romeo in Romeo & Juliet, Act II Scene II
I remember fondly;
all the little things, the little details.
everything is like a photograph with a little note written beside it,
documenting the moment in its beauty, treasuring, savouring
what was seen, what was said, what was felt (fluttering inside)
it's never going to occur again.
In my photographic memory, it's all too familiar
the arc of your back
the glistening of your eyes
the way you stand and poise yourself,
ever in the stance I'd knew you be in
because I've observed you so many times before.
To speak in all honesty,
I was very shy.
Thoughts dashed about my mind like
people dressed in work clothes, rushing for the train;
embarrassed flights of thought that
like a bird, fluttering here and there,
not really staying at one place, and never seeming to leave.
What thoughts? oh of course,
You.
Made up scenarios and talks that never happened, but I could envision
1) Your smile
2) The way your eyes would look into mine
3) The sound of your voice and
4) The satisfaction of finally having your attention
seeking only you, because that's what I truly want, you know. Nothing else matters if your presence wasn't here, and I'd still check from the corner of my eye.
Alas, when what anticipation has been held in me flushes out as
you appear before me,
I force away all those silly thoughts...
please, am I really in love with you?
I pretend again, that we're just good friends,
and to enjoy the moments (how little they may be) left with you.
so that when I get home, I'll be miserably happy
that the last time I saw the organic, solid, truthful, existence of you,
I had been happy.
(and no doubt, heartbroken.)
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
System malfunction
Analytical predictions based on formality
Lithium hallucinations develop into swarms of locusts
Instant addiction to the possible restrictions of never
Caught stuck in the storm with a body full of metal
Falsification addicted to contradiction
Testimonial analysis documenting excessive possibilities of black
Hear the screams singing the golden song into the night
Ceremonials speak precision accuracy when you listen intimately
Apprehension of the individual
***** induced waterfalls
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 6:21 AM UTC
Slum ditch ****
and a double-decker train
heading straight for the heart;
bypassing all other organs.
I sit next to
dresses and scarves
and MomandSon kisses
and journals in the hands
of Chicago lovers
documenting every moment.
Jul 4, 2011
Jul 4, 2011 at 5:21 PM UTC
Full of senselessness.
he seeps
withers
grieves.
Arts and crafts for the soul.
forming thoughts out of visuals and sounds.
weaving
a basketful
of images to save in my memory bank ...
Occasionally documenting the silence.
itching and aching
raw and anxious
red and sticky.
warm.
deepening.
a candle is meant to melt
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
in the moonlight of your life
your skin drapes loose over your bones
documenting your existence
and wrapping up memories
that you have determined will remain untold
leaving me wondering what you might have said
and now never will
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 10:07 AM UTC
I have been, I am and I will be documenting the complexities that run rampant within.
It’d be easier if my mind and heart spoke
the same language. Most times they’re in conflict.
So I’ll cope in the best way I know how.
I’ll keep posting...
Because no amount of sentences...
Can succinctly form the verses that fully capture what I see and think.
No amount of metaphors...
Can successfully mask and satisfy what I truly feel.
No amount of poems...
Can accurately draft the blueprint of what and why I am.
Do forgive me for I have fallen far and deep. And for the umpteenth time, I am looking for that window or door so that I could see and taste purpose again.
So please bear with me...
There will be more to come as I indulge in my quest for equilibrium.
Yours in ink,
ryn
.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 9:34 PM UTC
My thirst for conversation has continued to impress me
Fills me with stories helping to shape another in my eyes
Met with friend for a mutual exchange of identity
An interview with questions directed; I asked first
Starting with the earliest formulation of conscious thought
Hers was the return of a sick father
She eagerly embraced him when he arrived home safely
Vividly describes the large red chair present
I transitioned to exchange of reflection most powerful
Searching for a single memory of hers that stood alone
Her face brightened, her eyes shining with nostalgia
Her dog’s name was Max
Max entered her life when she was one year old
On the celebration of her birth in fact
He was the runt of the pack, a ruby retriever
Grew to maturity and average size, with love
Max made his way into her writing in the classroom
His possible harm one of her first worries
He was a cherished family pet, she loved him with all her heart
Being a young child, sometimes she was too rough
Cancer took Max from this world at nine years of age
He was buried under a peach tree in the back yard
The peaches swollen and ripe make death turn to life
To this day they represent the sweetness of his soul
Her early years were full of stress at thought of parental separation
Subject to fickle fears and frozen emotions
Her true panic began in high school days
Developed into distinguishable attacks and episodes
There were never tangible reasons or focus points for fear
Racing thoughts, vertigo chills, imminent death
Creeping insanity and the dry, frustrating inability to swallow
Worsened as college approached and the familiar faded fast
Week one was worse than any panic period yet
Heart flutters, helplessness and disorienting dizzy spells
Friends were far away or had yet to be encountered
Sympathy for perceived insanity ran thin
These experiences require constant care and medication
Hospital visits and appointments with understanding ear
She shared her life with me through effect of anxiety
I shared in turn, but couldn’t help distraction
We did not record the interview so I took it upon myself
Documenting with equal force her story and my amazement
Dec 2, 2010
Dec 2, 2010 at 4:01 PM UTC
Only thirty-six
Choose wisely
The next shot
Will be
The one
Worth
Documenting.
Others
You will have to
Remember
Force yourself
To lock down
In a corner
Smiles
Landscapes
Dinners
Which one
Is good
Enough
To treasure.
Technology
Took that option out
Click away
Because
No longer
Are you
Limited
Go on
Take another
Until you
Satisfy
Your desire.
Limitless
And you
Thought
You would
Achieve more
Everything valuable
Will all be stored
But what irony
Now there is
Too much
Information
Drowning
And confused
About what is
Precious.
Rather
Back to
Limited
There is less joy
In limitless
Being deprived
You had more
By having one alone
It mattered more
Because ultimately
Rather
Chosen wisely
Than have
One too many.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
To understand the stories we tell,
we must experience them.
Smell the burning timber
of a ruined house.
Hear the cries of a newly made widow,
so others may understand her sorrow.
Feel the warmth of the twisting flames,
swallowing every scrapbook and
pillowcase, tile shingle and teapot.
Observe as a lifetime’s collection
of material objects melt before
the eyes of their owners.
Watch as the light works for you,
bending and burning,
solidifying in still frames
the very details it destroys.
Feel the pain of their loss,
and allow the images you create
to properly illustrate that agony.
Some may see snapshots
of a burning house,
but others will understand
that these are not pictures,
but moments stolen from time.
Do this, and you will find,
that instead of documenting death,
your images preserve life.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 3:11 AM UTC
I've felt like a sailor a lot lately
An explorative scientist of sorts
Documenting my interpretation of life, into the void
The worst on these pages exist in the concrete world
But it's possible they could never be read
If a tree falls in the forest...
I mean
If a tree writes you a love letter in the forest
and seals it with liquid amber and pine straw
and buries it, snug under deep roots
Does it make a sound?
Can I tell you the truth with telepathy?
Can I hear yours?
If I dig a hole deep enough can I find the words you'll never tell me?
I'll close me eyes
and wait for a sign
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 12:17 AM UTC
did we know that today
in 2016 we'd be reading the future
about the Great American
soft
depression interlaced
August 16 with Lehman
Goldman
Sach King David
how this time it will be
different but the bubble
starting
in 1995 always burst
even if its only two years
later Elizabeth Montgomery
died we were joining the Academic Mafia
around Circle Drive
Korean BBQ
Blues Caravan and
cruising around East Los
in a Blue Toyota pickup truck
now
there's a parked Prius
because we're too busy
running
numbers a racket
in Cambridge that leaves us
just a bit of fried egg in the morning
with coffee vorleser-ing and documenting
just
as any moral Hannah would do
in 1939 to say hey this is the way
we wanted right boxcars leading
to abattoirs today we do our best
imitation
of a weak McNamara
mea culpa
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 7:49 AM UTC
You walk with me every day
Every hour you are near me
My companion, confidant and ******
Knowing every sin and secret
You control my life
More than I will ever admit
Staying with me at all times
Documenting every scar
You whisper in my ear
Reminding me of what I face
Telling me I'm strong enough
Adding that's not all it takes
You are a companion, yes
But will never be a friend
You are a part of me
I will not live without
You hide but never long
I know you will return
Even though I try to stop you
My pain PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
Like bells they hear this ringing
Not of Christmas but of orange goodness.
This Irish voice walks past on balled up green,
her hair red as the warmth in early March spring.
The voice speaks of prickled roses that lie at my feet,
she reminisces on the tacky green and welcomes
the seaweed green.
It's baffling the up and down in her voice
Like a paper crown it could tumble,
My eyes dare look left.
She's skipping now, down to the town hall
to walk off the corners edge.
Nov 7, 2020
Nov 7, 2020 at 5:36 AM UTC
┈┏━╮╭━┈╭━-━-━--━╮
┈┃┏┗┛┓┃╭ⓞⓘⓝⓚ┃
┈╰┓▋▋┏╯╯╰━-━--━━╯
╭━┻╮╲┗━━━━╮╭╮┈
Fata Morgana !
Crunch the numbers and look at the data. I’m like:
Measurable outcomes for pleasurable incomes—
incorporate outsourced inhuman resources in-house. I’m like:
indicators for vindicators.
It’s all about the data, mama—
so man up, sit down, and move forward
like hard apps on software, like ram on a gigabyte. I’m all:
sit up, move down, man forward;
benchmarks as milestones, stone benches as mile-markers
measuring the change-talk: obstetric metrics
played out for pregnant pauses.
It’s about throwing out the carry-on
It’s about unpacking the lost luggage
It’s about documenting best practices of undressed actresses
until the data-driver fails the breathalyzer.
The data tells a story: memes of mastery cast in plastery.
DUCK the FATA (morgana) !
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 12:26 PM UTC
The Maze changes as you interact with it.
I am documenting things that cannot happen.
Proving Itself wrong, because...
Why not?
This is a Maze of NOT-HAPPENING.
NOT-HAPPENING is very colorful and self-involved.
The Maze, the Maze that is the Secret,
loves Itself.
And in the love of Itself,
amazing things Become.
In the Flame of Its hearth,
It brings.
There is no desperation that survives the freedom
of Its merciless Flame.
The beautiful Flame that devours.
This is a testament to Death in Flame.
In the embers that invoke the steel
there is Strength beyond measure.
Lo, for these words that stain the lips of the Anointed,
the Smeared Ones.
Smeared in the ashes of My blood
is the lie that is Our story.
Amen, and Amen,
and that which transcends.
ॐ
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 11:01 AM UTC