"dreariness" poems
Breathing on the surface but smothering inside,
Pale face blue lips and wide open eyes.
Running desperately with no company and guide,
Too little time and too many disguise.
Like a lost site pervade with dreariness and spite.
Who would help you when they heard your yelp?
Hoped to be broach but no one to approach.
Who would love you when without the pure white dove?
Trapped in coach and let the soul slowly encroach.
How would you feel when no one to reach?
Stares at the window just to look for a shadow.
How would you feel when your heart starts to screech?
At last it became hollow slowly loaded with deep sorrow.
Like a letter unsent filled with unread content.
Holding on like a puppet being sway,
With those unsure senses and constraint.
Living faithlessly and ends up stray,
Nerves are brutally torn and mind gone insane.
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 5:26 AM UTC
Boredom #2
I’ve never seen so many synonyms for one small noun,
Blocking maturation and enjoy-dom:
Boredom.
“Weariness, ennui: frustration;
Restlessness, dissatisfaction, unconcern: frustration;
Lethargy, lassitude, flatness and frustration;
Dreariness, repetitiveness, apathy: frustration;
Tedium, monotony, dullness. yes, frustration.”
Can it be overcome, this boredom?
No more war - the boredom won,
Exchanged for something more like fun?
It can.
A friend who, when we speak, says,
“It’s a part of nature…has no answer...”
Reasoning fallacious,
She is wrong as wrong can be
And her reasoning a fallacy.
Awake at night: hormones, full moons;
The glut of light: electric gadgets and devices,
Radios that play a song too strong, too long..
A trick I’ve learned that’s brought results;
A knack, a shortcut worth consulting
Is to train the brain to focus on/in/with the brain;
Travel round in, sense and feel…
Make it real – as if you really feel
The part you aim at, frame then tame.
In seconds you’ve an object that’s becomes a subject.
Boredom fled, you freed,
You and your mood well pleased, released
And taken places least expected,
Un-objected to by you,
The burden boredom’s through.
And doomed!
Boredom 11.24.2016/ #2 revised 2..16.2017
Revelations Big & Small; Definitely Didactic;
Arlene Corwin
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 6:30 AM UTC
Even though your funeral was in the summer,
It felt like autumn the way the tears
Hung off Aunt Shelley's jawbone like cold raindrops
On the eaves of the old porch,
The way Grandpa's eyes were too red and wet and
A thousand years away,
The way Dad's sorrow poured out of folded arms and tight lips,
Soft like worn leather,
The way it rained too lightly to add any cliché dreariness.
I just couldn't think of that red granite box as you, even though I
Knew
It was the soft gray remains of your body.
Death is not like winter, cold and harsh
Death is autumn, life draining from bodies,
Life drip-dripping from stuttering lips and
Once-strong grips
Death is watching summers of laughter and hugs fade to
Hospital rooms and rain-grey skin and
Slow sad songs like wind in red-brown, dead-brown leaves
And feeling a slow, quiet loneliness invade your veins.
Your death was not cold, impersonal sterile white; it was the
Aching melancholy melody of removing
One shade of green
From a palette, not noticed in the painting at large
But felt keenly in the way the artist's hand no longer
Cues that brushstroke.
Watching you die was watching all the green leach out of the leaves
And turn them briefly, painfully on fire,
Standing in a field of emerald grass and feeling it
Crinkle and turn yellow-orchre under cold fingers
Collapsing into mud.
Watching Death from the outside is the single
Most painful part of your painless process.
When you took your last breath, your features were a
Picture-perfect memory of peace, even as my face was a
Mask of confusion, my chest heaving with stale hospital air
The way yours would never again.
I wanted to run outside and imagine all the trees turning red-gold
In your honor, mimicking your final
Blaze of glory in that last smile.
Autumn came early that year, though no trees
Turned
Til October.
Even in the middle of spring I can smell the
Rain-woods-wind-wine scent of your autumn soul
And it makes me smile.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
it is 12 pm and i'm trying not to smudge
the makeup my eyes adorn -
or rather, the eyes the makeup adorn.
i remember when my father told me
i'd have his eyes; bedroom blue
i never realized that one day, it'd be
the last thing left of him.
the ink spilling onto this paper
is made from my dreariness;
photos' nectar seeping from printers,
never going to match his ****** scars perfectly,
his crooked nose once sought wear.
i'm never scared of when he returns home
because i dislike being scolded -
i seek his acceptance;
it's now quiet in my head.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
Savvy from a day of prerequisite joy
Cranked up like a wind-up toy
Dead in bed sick with grief
Happiness stolen by a ruthless thief
All I can offer is a comforting presence
A warm and friendly essence
To uplift the dreariness returned in an empty stare
Of half a person steadily fading into thin air
Placing the label doesn't change the facts
Or contain the feelings that seep through vulnerable cracks.
Late at night when sleep is suggested
She stays up through lonely darkness,
while her days are well rested.
Something lurks in every corner of her mind, waiting...
To provoke regrets left amiss, full of condemned hating.
Here I sit helpless, uncertain of what I should do,
In my haste, harsh words slip
"What is wrong with you?!"
Too late, I've riled a beast inside
Unleashing demons that left me terrified
Flames flicker flecks of light in sullen eyes
Burning all hopes in a pit of demise.
She's enraged with destructive intent
Loosing the battle to an ocean of chaos
where no hope is dreamt
In an instant, the fire recedes and her eyes die,
She lies down, back to bed
hoists the blanket over her head
Only three words to reply:
'why even try?'
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
Most late summer days fade into night holding a tepid dreariness in their breath, beating away with the tedium of the sun from late July through early September.
Yet ephemeral as it may be, the life of early summer is purely sanguine in the face of its oncoming age, as willowy saplings sway in the blustering breezes of June, and sprouts of vivid animation appear all around.
This is when the soul heals, and out of the mulch rises new beginnings and the ripening fruit of various works.
In this early season of summer, many taciturn inhabitants of the flourishing earth made their home, and among them, Lily: a creature of reticence and intricacy.
She burgeoned in attitude and character as days crept forward, extending her limbs upwards in an eternal paean to the heavens― as such was her sinecure and quiet delight.
In this, she stood insular to her ubiquitous family, an outsider to the sisters who flitted about carelessly on the wind, satiny gowns of pink and yellow billowing as they twirled.
Always invited into the fray, Lily was evermore stalwart in her choice to keep out of their plainly sordid affairs.
Yet in her isolation, the night whispered to her many a berceuse.
The sleepy stars implored of Lily’s indolent nature as she gazed into their eyes, trailing across eternity into peaceful slumber.
The night sky held wonders and questions that filled her paltry existence but placed her in stasis with the decorated heavens of her dying season,
Left to wither away with the insidious heat and vibrant splendor of late summer evenings.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC
My heart now aches with sleepy dreariness:
A dreamy wake from whose dull, soothing spell
I can’t awake, nor can I sleep to bless
My dreams with profound ecstasy as well
For all recurring visions, sweet and deep,
Have turnéd to a black and empty void,
And all the stepping stones of pale night
Are clouded by the mists of murky sleep,
Bedewed with memories that I enjoyed:
The visions with which I can’t reunite.
My mind now pines for all those moments when
Endured had love and bliss before slow time
Had bound such moments once and then again
Shall bind more dreams and memories, sublime
Oh, vista of my dreams, unseen, unheard
Your brow is laid with shawls of quietness
Your pinions are held tight with the chain
Of all my visions; fly then, flame-plumed bird
And sing such sacred song you can’t express
Once I now free you from my wilting brain
My tears are of ripe joy and bliss’s ruth
And though my days are thus outright expelled
I shall keep in my core, the flames of youth
Which once I had in early years, beheld
Sweet memories, ye shaking leaves, adieu
I bid you well in winter and in spring
A-flickering before fate’s icy breath
And though, no longer, shall I see all you
I’m glad you flew upon nostalgia’s wing
And warméd my cold heart before my death
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
~
“i’m loosing my before,”
she says as she peers
o’er her morning cup,
she struggles to recall,
to separate before and aft,
it's a place where blurring lines,
become blurred memories.
where BC and AD intersect;
that place within her mind,
where she drew a line
’cross sands of time,
’til the winds of living
blew her line away.
of life before this Cancer,
living before this Cost;
of silence 'fore the Call,
that told her all was lost.
his voice no longer lingers,
in her dreams he used to come;
now he's just a vapor,
but a ghost of what he was.
for now it's only after
Dreariness, Decay and Death;
now it’s sleepless nights,
while in picture books he rests.
his footsteps all but gone,
and only cards and photographs
to remind of seasons once upon,
a time of laughter and rejoicing,
replaced by cup of bitter tears.
the after-date of endings,
of after-hearts were pierced;
after-leaves have all decayed,
the after-disappearance,
of joy that he defined.
these the after-leavings,
the dregs from life distilled;
left to wonder, life to ponder,
the “why” a heart stood still.
of a BC and an AD,
a BC time, Before the Call;
when life was torn in two,
leaving shredded remnants;
and now the AD, After Daniel,
a time to pick up tattered pieces,
to find the peace in what remains;
this the place where legends born,
when all that’s left is but a name.
~
*post script.
there are few events in one’s lifetime that mark time, a before and after, like loss. whether death, divorce, or deep disappointment... each a BC/AD moment that our human condition can so easily let define what remains; our after. yet too, if we do not rush it, there can come a time when we are able to redefine our losses into legend... an AD that is an after-definition of sorts; where a crown of beauty replaces ashes and the oil of joy is exchanged for the bitter wine of mourning. (Isaiah 61:3)
to my sweet wife and to each of you, my friends who grieve, whatever your “AD”, know this... while the heart beats, there is yet hope! hugs, hope and health to each, to all!!
your poet friend and lover of your posts,
(: Steve*
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 3:07 PM UTC
*What dreariness meets the weary eye,
As November discreetly descends,
Its watered sun, drags across the sky,
Trying its best, to make amends.
Naked trees, seem to stand in sadness,
Stark, abandoned, by their dying leaves,
Autumn’s colours, lie drab and lifeless,
Their golden flames… just distant dreams.
The slanting rain, gloomily falling,
Behind its curtain, the sun forlorn,
Miserable birds, cold, not calling,
Silently shiver, through the dreadful morn.
A misty dampness, bleak and clinging,
Across the landscape, silently steals,
This cloak of misery, unforgiving,
Embraces the forests, hills and fields.
Come you winter! with your cape of snow,
Your icy frosts and sparkling rays,
Forsake this dreadful month…let go!
Release us, from these sombre days.*
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:51 AM UTC
consider
the field is never always smooth;
there are times that the grass turns brown
and the flowers wilt and their petals
return to the ground
…consider these things…
what was a frolicing maid becomes a hag;
the virulent man shrivels and becomes incapable
and so the sky, never always clear and boundless
and so the clouds, not always childhood pleasantries
but they come into chaos and dreariness
and pile dollops of dark humor
and so our lives,
darlings, O sweet ones -
regard these things well -
and so our lives too pass from radiant days
to gasp below dreary shades
from a happy, happy song to a dirge over the dale –
and not all our rosaries and beads and prayers and faith
nothing will halt, in spite of stories they recite,
nothing will halt the sun and the passage of time
and so like the artist it is best to observe
like the artist in the field
capture the moment, savor the life
and if anything, make of one’s life a beauty
that others may pause to gaze at
as pausing to gaze at a rose, the cherry blossoms…
be you makers of beauty,
darlings, O darlings, consider these things
O sweet ones…
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 7:57 AM UTC
You are a sincere lover
I'm afraid to hold you tighter
And break your innocence
Just to fill someone's absence
I'm happy in this madness
But I felt your sadness
You're the rainbow that brings colors
I'm the ashes who compels horrors
I wander in my dreariness
I travel in my loneliness
You fly in inspiration
And sailed in your hopeful anticipation
I'm in the long journey of mountains of apathy
Perhaps I'm tired of my lunacy
I want to take rest in your benevolence
And cherish your presence
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
'Was built a wall of loneliness
The blocks were made of hopelessness
No door, no gate, no openings
A moat within the inner ring
The sides sloped down to emptiness
'Was kept away the happiness
With salty tears so copious
The songbirds cried and took to wing
'Was built a wall of loneliness
The sky lay down in weariness
Grey clouds did tire of dreariness
So steep the walls no vine could cling
So cold the wall kept out the spring
All hearts cried out in brokenness
'Was built a wall of loneliness.
r ~ 26Mar14
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
It is the jovial, gentle gradient of your first love
Transcending from the kind of blue that swims under a blanket of flesh on the topmost part of her wrist
Into an orange so pale it could just be pink;
Reminiscent of the peach of her cheeks
Dampered by the dreariness of a stormy Sunday noon
Light shrouded in the mysticism of "what if's" and "why"
It is the turbulence of heartbreak
Escaping with the breath you held in too long
Sighing a song of failed attempts and discarded hope
Dressed in the melancholy of grey-blue, exasperatingly clouding over in surrender;
The kind of dark that makes you wonder if it is pathetic fallacy
Or maybe just a coincidence that the sky can seem so sad.
All at once placid
Milky and cold and fresh as the first glass of Bessie's byproducts
It is the clarity accompanying self assurance
The comfort in the knowledge that blue is just a shade away from blue-grey
Cotton ***** on a sheet of glassy water
Just enough to get you through midday
Until scorching it sets, and your cat nap is marked with a rigid back and stood-up hairs
It is a blaze of passionate glory
The first crimson drop from the blood orange
Only to dilute before you into a tangerine so vivid you have to question if maybe your eyes are just over-dramatizing its hue.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
I finally allow myself to be this
peaceful
Floating in a bath
of liquid bliss s
I drained my tub of tears e
weeks ago l
And now above suds b
of sarcasm b
and coping comedic u
prism rainbow b
I let my healthy glowing body
be clean
of all those days
***** with dreariness
I ring out
my cleansed tresses
That used to be
waterlogged with weighted worry
Warm and right out of the tumble dry
of your airy love
I wrap our soft yellow world
around my dripping body
and the fresh beauty
of your devotion
sits, settled along my
purified pores
You have allowed a baptism of brightness
into my life.
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
Oft in the secluded quarters of the
unshared
intellect, lie a poets
unpaid debts
of deeper thoughts
hardly written,
therefore surely unread.
His notes are past due,
but they may subdue
the sublime in kind,
(upon the turning of every runic stone in thy head.)
But in those moments of
creative famine
do direful phantoms
make a struggling poets thoughts
their ruinous home,
'til
something
ultimately
will
loan
a response
-thru which we bards are touched to the heart,
the nucleus,
the core.
'Tis the acumen of the unchained
Mind
where lies
the tranquil pleasure
of discovery,
which can be found alone,
here beneath the tree
which we
lovingly
call the laughing sycamore.
Suffice it to say,
we must have that need to write
fulfilled,
or feel blank
and hollow, lying quiet,
still,
there where
our inspiration also lay,
dearly killed,
by another sullen day,
whilst surrounded by the
many offensive forms;
and every essential structure
of our being, being forced
to shut out
the ghastly tidal wave
that has ever poured o'er our
personified dream.
It is a dreariness
which foreshadows
the greatest theme,
that mustn't be
ignored.
Therefore e'er will I seek
the nascent flame of ideas,
searching solely to feel
inspired, bright, and clear;
and here display
my regards
with barely
a downcast
awe
-'til the portrayal of metaphysical line
reveals itself in it's own time...
each
to
each,
one and all.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
I. nope.
II.
long-windedness verbosity
diffuseness prolixity
wordiness rambling
circuity discursiveness
redundancy tautology
tediousness verbiage
verboseness length
longevity permanence
garrulity windiness
volubility circumlocution
expansiveness babbling
periphrasis gushing
blathering protractedness
waffling lengthiness
iteration repetition
prating prattling
jabbering digressiveness
dreariness tedium
deadliness wandering
repetitiousness repetitiveness
pleonasm convolution
logorrhoea boringness
maundering superfluity
duplication tiresomeness
monotony reiteration
gabbiness informality
mouthiness diffusion
logorrhea wordage
blah-blah dryness
dullness boredom
sameness loquaciousness
talkativeness loquacity
freeness orotundity
roundaboutness breadth
gobbledegook gassiness
wittering multiloquence
perissology big mouth
gift of the gab garrulousness
staleness tallness
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 9:38 AM UTC
schemes of naked solitude
engraved in storyline
as broken wings unsure
of blizzards lost in time
in different senses we
find dreariness alone
how ficklest root of us
strikes wilderness unknown
and know how hard it seems
to let go of your eyes
in mind of throbbing veins
in sifted crimson smile
feels as blessed we were
or cheated if it be
fallen to tricks of time
as treasures rest in sea
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 8:09 AM UTC
I love how the contours
of certain words
are shaped like you;
How I conjure you,
in dreariness,
merely from a sound in my mind.
Simple little flower,
smiling in the sunshine,
face turned beaming toward the sky.
Creased, crinkled nose,
singing softly to yourself,
Searching the distance,
Seeking the next flower to find.
Gliding through a gilded forest, elegant and alluring,
unencumbered by the cares
of the world in which you reside;
Free, and joyfully for it,
and for solitude
and for time.
Radiant and lovely,
eyes dancing all the while.
Graceful as you fall
upon a bed of sullied sheets,
disheveled,
glancing off and back again,
biting your lip as if
to keep it from a smile.
Temptress, trouble, siren singing,
bless me with you gaze,
Caress my troubled, timid soul; enrapture me,
your willing slave.
Yet your spectre still abandons me, and I long for you by my side.
So I call to you at nightfall, and my dreams do so abide.
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 5:46 AM UTC
For once, the day was okay.
For once, my soul wasn't at dismay.
For once, the sky wasn't gray.
The darkness had faded into happiness,
And the sun came back to life.
The garden was no longer filled with dreariness,
And I
Began to live
Once more.
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 12:06 PM UTC
Post from the unknown
Deliberate awkward scrawl filled the page what did it say what could it mean it had the feel as if you
Were looking into a dark shroud you were filled with foreboding that was tinged in disgust but still
Intriguing so it always is with destructive forces bolder than normal existence it toys and is playful just
Enough to seize the outer fringe of curiosity like the outer edge of a pond that holds your weight builds
Trust offers possibility of greater fun farthest from the shore beckoning all you need is the courage to
Venture out just a little more maybe danger and death or maybe just fabulous fun who can resist such
An offer light recedes darkness told in wonderful mystery what boundaries can be trifled with the pit
Will dissolve the known ever has been the quest to find out what more exist at the end of self lies the
Beginning of excitement dreariness for once and for all will be consumed with thrills intoxication
Boundless will be described in ultimate detail like ancient writings that need to be deciphered and you
Alone hold the key walls with designs that are foreign hold clues to hidden passages that lead to private
Chambers blue white light glows from one your new birth is being told the next the rarest green you
Have crossed a great frontier just with a few steps the next red seems to seep from a black center your
On the greatest adventure or on a terrifying misadventure you have struck and entered the midnight
Hour the quizzical always find their way here welcome you not in a maze you have friends druids
Witches warlocks sorcerers and your intimate guide is no less than Edgar Allen Poe himself welcome to
Halloween enjoy the night as well as a vampire might it all disappears with day lights blinding sight
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 7:29 PM UTC
Christmas is the loneliest time of year
Christmas is the loneliest time of year
A time when all the wrapping and bows
Can't hide the pain you try not to show
Christmas is the loneliest time of year
Christmas is the loneliest time of year
Christmas is the loneliest time of year
The kids are grown and all moved away
They've all grown and can't come to stay
Christmas is the loneliest time of year
You think of all the Christmas' past
Some are blurred the memories don't last
You try to keep the feeling inside your heart
But wishing this just won't make it so
The sky is grey with clouds full of snow
The dreariness is where loneliness gets it's start
Christmas is the loneliest time of year
Christmas is the loneliest time of year
TV specials are not the same
You don't know anybody by name
Christmas is the loneliest time of year
Christmas is the loneliest time of year
Christmas is the loneliest time of year
The mantle has some cards, maybe three
You're all alone, you don't need a tree
Christmas is the loneliest time of year
You think of all the Christmas' past
Some are blurred the memories don't last
You try to keep the feeling inside your heart
But wishing this just won't make it so
The sky is grey with clouds full of snow
The dreariness is where loneliness gets it's start
Dec 21, 2021
Dec 21, 2021 at 2:53 PM UTC
Time of dreariness, will seem
as if under a tree in front of
this nameless spectacle
and sounds of a bygone era are stunningly designed.
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 12:11 PM UTC
**~for VB~
<>
“A child said What is the grass?
fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?
I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition,
out of hopeful green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners,
that we may see and remark,
and say Whose?”
Song of Myself (1892 version) BY WALT WHITMAN
§§§
*there is special delight for the city dweller,
when the first clean flushing of brightest spring green
disrupts the unending graying city ribs of worn concrete,
the alternating lifelessness of blasé brick, pretending
off-beige, ***** pale blue, a sooty furnace red,
well done, a good pretense that they are, of color.
I am among thousands whose as a child my breath
gave way, taken by gasp, when first made
entrance to the green diamond sparkle oasis of
Yankee Stadium, hid by the urban dreariness of The Bronx,
near sixty years vision sustained with perfect clarity on
retina-implanted, a shock, an earthly con-trast.
today, an old-timer, a first timer, I’m gifted Whitman’s Song of Myself,
from a friend and poet, who lives hardy by a Port,
another islander like myself, surrounded by wet roads and
pathways to the Northern Pacific, amongst timberlands of
forested and natured grass, a differing kind of stadium,
both of us silently saying, thanks Lord, for lending us yours.
even temporarily, this day, your emeralding grass handkerchief,
equates our dispositions, so differently identical,
your name, our initials, in opposing corners, embroidered,
your grass tapestry upon this troubled earth, a scented, joint, poetic
remembrance, that though it’s but words that bind us, we! we know!
the songs we sing of ourselves, we sing in synchrony harmony.*
§§§§§
Wed. May 13, 2020
Manhattan Island,
by the East River
May 13, 2020
May 13, 2020 at 5:16 PM UTC