"earnestness" poems
*be ever gentle to thy words
treat them, your tools, well,
cleansing and protecting,
wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin
that they may be well conditioned and
pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous,
reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage,
they are well-intentioned to exist far longer
than your meager temporal life,
upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit
give them all respect, their fair due,
they are treasure immeasurable,
for which you have been granted guardianship,
custody received from others to be gifted onwards,
yours, but for the duration
so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction
more truffle than trifle,
find them in the dark forest of your life,
use them sparingly, just for soaring,
take them from the roots of your trees,
shave them with a paring knife,
counts them in bites and measure them in grams,
even in grains,
for words are the seasoning of our lives,
agent provacateurs that can modify the moment,
bringing out to the fore
the flavor of the underlying
speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor them at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them*
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
I'm head starting the challenging life
12th grade decides my future strife.
Herein lies the mystery of tomorrow
Destiny of the mighty ship in my carefull row.
Not asking for incredible flourishing results
But delivering support for my stupendous work.
Not asking for imaginative unreachable marks
But holding my hands to provide the best of myself.
Not asking to pour elixir for hardwork devoid outcome
But strolling me through the gates of earnestness.
Not asking for your substitution in me
But to confront me with your intrepid grace.
Not asking for grade ten replica
But lending me the same earnest virtue.
Help me ignore the incompatible watchers,
To provide the least hope of comparing
Falling in despair in other's successful fruits.
But to help better and improvise my solitary results
And shelter me in your house of modesty.
No beneficial ranks but the submissive marks
that lends a hair to my cognitive efforts
To grant me light in the death of night.
Let me blossom as tranquily as the sunflower
Yet not vanish in the glory of jubliation
But gradually offer me petals
And extend the reliance day by day.
Mindful and heeding my compatible hardwork
Finally, let me conquer the glamorous colour
Of my utmost individuality.
Rehabilating the small hopes intro pristine reality
Aware of the hunger turning to lime light
To strike a chord for my year before.
Take me on your hands, float me through
legitimate mistakes, rip me apart in the wave
of unquenchable thirst and finally wrap me out as
a champion badge of jaded grade twelve.
Finally,
Bless me God, provide eternal marvels
Bless me God, honour the righteous path
As the testimony of your judicious grace
Bless me God, I'm starting life (grade twelve)
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 2:52 AM UTC
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy
~~~
the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none
~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”
“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”
“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life
“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words”
“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
I took a shower with Heaven
once under
a brilliant
sky of splashed milk.
She exploded,
then giggled
at our lovemaking-sounds,
the beautiful noises
we made in earnestness
up against the slippery wall.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave,
Let me once know.
I sought thee in a secret cave,
And ask’d, if Peace were there,
A hollow wind did seem to answer, No:
Go seek elsewhere.
I did; and going did a rainbow note:
Surely, thought I,
This is the lace of Peace’s coat:
I will search out the matter.
But while I looked the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.
Then went I to a garden and did spy
A gallant flower,
The crown-imperial: Sure, said I,
Peace at the root must dwell.
But when I digged, I saw a worm devour
What showed so well.
At length I met a rev’rend good old man;
Whom when for Peace
I did demand, he thus began:
There was a Prince of old
At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
Of flock and fold.
He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save
His life from foes.
But after death out of his grave
There sprang twelve stalks of wheat;
Which many wond’ring at, got some of those
To plant and set.
It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse
Through all the earth:
For they that taste it do rehearse
That virtue lies therein;
A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth
By flight of sin.
Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,
And grows for you;
Make bread of it: and that repose
And peace, which ev’ry where
With so much earnestness you do pursue,
Is only there.
3.1k
The only freedom we have is the
unconditional love we have to give
and the painful confessions
we offer to the blank page,
there is no judge
but our conscience
and the earnestness of our hearts.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 3:20 PM UTC
Esteemed Sirs, all Honorable Ladies -
the artist asked me to pose
and he chose all the clothes
and the hat
and he made me stand there behind a frame
And he was serious
but he asked me to smile
and then asked me to have a smaller smile
not too broad, just a smile between not smiling and smiling
and he said these things with such seriousness
And he said not to stand like an animal in a cage
but to come forward in the frame
and to put my hands ever so casually on the frame
And he said, keep glowing and he said this with all seriousness
and when he did smile
it was like between not smiling and smiling
as if he were posing for me
And he was drawing and drawing
and then he had a break
and I had something to eat and drink in the kitchen
and then I was back behind the frame
and he took several days
And I thought what a serious man this was, this artist
And when he had finished, he asked me to look
and I thought it was a lovely picture of me
And then I realized how playful this artist was, how clever -
putting me in a frame, as if we lived our lives in a frame
And then he had the canvas put in frame
so there’s frame within frame –
and I laughed then to see how
much humor the artist had, though he had worked with
such earnestness, such grave countenance –
I’ve been framed! Ha, ha…now I wonder often,
if we do not actually live our lives within a frame,
each one of us confined in frames…
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 3:54 AM UTC
Surprise shadowing
the Sun's unknowing
pain; Capturing wonderment
indicates reassurance
The unknowable Star
kissing the Earth
birthing her descendants,
singing longingly;
magnifying her Beauty
Alas,
Obliterating affliction
Prohibiting pain
with maniacal ciphering
of experimental earnestness
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 11:01 PM UTC
(1)
Every idiot is bound
to take life so seriously
and so Tsarevna Euna
saw the torment, the pretension
in all who surrounded her
and she could not smile
Many a fool in earnest faith came -
many a handsome man
who felt there was only one aim in life;
many a clown in grave intent and purpose
auditioned;
many an imbecile from all extremities;
many a thinker, many a philosopher
many a Prophet who said Heaven is Open
But all earnestness is Dumb and Weighty
like the **** of a hippo
and so Tsarevna Euna
saw the gravity
in all who surrounded her
and she could not smile
(2)
And she heard one day
in her lonely walk
in her gray, dry-withered garden
the mouse, the beetle and the catfish talk
of the man who gave away his every coin
of the only three coins he had in the world
And at last, the Tsarevna knew,
there was one indeed
who knew to treat the world light
(as when a leaf falls, and no one is ****** off )
and so she discarded her mournful looks
and she dismissed her father and the royal court
and she grew to be the Wisest Queen of All
and so it is sung to this day, in all those domains:
*The Princess who never smiled
she had a sudden insight
and she grew to be the Wisest Queen of All*
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
the bundles of mulched cannas thickens like Autumn's bracken
and the orange hues of the acer
plays hide and seek amongst the glowing skies
solitary magpies forever speculate caution
as overgrown paths beckons the occasional stranger.
Contre jour light frames my mission
at once I understand the message
a seasonal transformation
pitches the earnestness of renewal.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
If I could move past the point of ******** my bull horns
are beaten down by life’s whip. Feeling ready to blow
my brain, an itchy finger on the trigger, searching for
life's plus centre: _a positive man stuck in the middle;_ senses
sharp, but it sounds insensitive to an eager mind; all
of our dreams have been suffocated by the placenta.
I think I can be honest about the work of others, but
speaking that truth loudly — for some— sounds like
we don’t really love each other. Chained only by deeper
ambition; passion weighs heavy when it isn’t complete.
Here’s a writer’s petition: loving poetry— an appeal to
careless ambitions over being Christian.
Pride mirrors itself— words reflecting the world’s
weakness, ugly earnestness to be outstanding; going
out to make something of yourself as an artist surely
disappoints a family. Gain success through your own
struggle, heavy prayers; "I guess we’ll all be wealthy."
It all depends upon: the task of multitasking most
of your dreams— to exactitude; the power of words,
poetic charge, poetic energy. But know this—the
lightbulb to your dreams is what will turn them on.
All those wanting pieces of your spark—
you’ll lose track of where they all came from.
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 11:45 AM UTC
Show, don't tell.
Show:
Suddenly he found himself smiling more, and occasionally he even laughed. His sarcasm withered away and instead, what took root was an incredible earnestness to explain his thoughts and feelings to other people and even listen- no matter how stupid he thought them previously. Eventually he figured that this odd happiness couldn't be just a coincidence: it was sustained by the way she dotted her i's with little hearts whenever she wrote his name.
Tell:
He was in love.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 3:54 AM UTC
It
Would
Be
Too
Less
If i
Say
You get
Me
Quavering
In the knees
But
To be
Precise
And
Forthright
You
Make me
Forget
If i
Have
Knees
At all
I
Express
My gratitude
Towards
This
Dacoity
With
Utter
Earnestness
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 6:10 AM UTC
Reality obliterates.
An overdose of anything is bad.
I saw you standing by the gate of my castle one night.
It’s a fight, baby, a fight.
I’d rather not bring this up now, now or ever.
Poised to evolve, to create and be,
Ah, this mystery. It is not for me.
Twenty nine, you said. I wish.
Now your cue: ‘It was only a kiss – how did it end up like this.’
Poles split apart. Lives break.
Dices’ fate?
Never too late
For you and I to make
it.
Priorities, priorities. We all must have some.
Or that’s what I was told.
By someone old
and presumably wiser than I.
I don’t think I understand yours.
To be so clear now, so transparent, may not bode well for me.
Anyhow, the problem persists. I do not know.
I can only make sense of what you show.
Like a teacher, a guide, a mentor might.
But ah. What if the disciple lacks the insight?
Inside me. Inside you. Inside something beautiful.
Flew away, flew away: that one and her nuances.
And left us with this wonderful,
Incorrigible mess of things.
Like twisting beads into a big ball of yarn.
Or letting the dog mangle it up with salivating earnestness.
The beads, they make all the difference.
And you are my beads.
Of all shapes (mostly round),
Of all sizes (mostly large),
Of all colours (mostly nothing – mostly them all.)
And you know what? I like colours.
Colour me unrecognizable
(By anyone but you.)
There was no other
I could give myself to.
I cant ascertain
Whether it’s me I lost, or gained.
You I made proud, or shamed.
Respect lost, or love regained.
This would be easier in nonsense verse.
Flibbertigibbet very nicely puts me in retrospect.
What am I doing?
I can’t phrase poetically,
Much less understand what I say.
It may be for you to know.
For you only, for you forever.
Hide this.
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 9:02 PM UTC
I think babies should stop
Teaching themselves
Object permanence.
Because in
All earnestness,
It is better to
Become accustomed to
The coming and going
Of spirits and things
Than to face the shock
That absence brings.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
A long time ago in Sleepy Eye Minnesota at Christensen Farms Feed Mill, a boisterous young pig named Ralph was waiting for his brother, Milo. Ralph hadn’t seen Milo in almost three hours, because Milo made a SLANDER against Ralph. So, Milo had went off in the big truck SAGELY with Farmer Tim, so he could avoid Ralph’s BRUTALITY. Ralph thought that was PRESUMPTUOUS and he was TRUCULENT. Ralph will soon live VICARIOUSLY through Milo’s stories once he returns. Once Milo returns Ralph corners Milo. Milo backs away from his angry brother's bared teeth, then he slips. now he’s hanging off the cliff holding on with only his front hooves,with Ralph's hooves pressing down on his. Ralph lets go, and says with great EARNESTNESS; “have a nice fall!”
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 11:03 AM UTC
For once I'll cut the language play
in favor of getting to the bottom and being outright
Forthright with the motions behind
two eyes, emotions and notions like wind at seaside
Sure words work and we can know
because words hurt
words save and alleviate
Been twisting words more than a decade on
but when I stop and think what actually have I done?
Nothing much, just talk, speak, write
Once did and still want to be a novelist
and if I can learn to multitask at the keys I might
but as it stands, the wheels spin forever in the parking lot
only accomplished in the close-up shot
and when backing up the facade crumbles all on its own
then as quick as the pretense rose, I have no home
night is cold without the future wrapped around
the curves to which you're devout
the future slips slippery forever
whoops!
accident again and it's gone
that last shred of impetus keeping me strong
what if there's meaning though in the steps that I walk?
what if my mistakes raked up fuel the others who don't belong?
maybe being me means just rolling the dice
I haven't died or taken a life so maybe I'm doing all right
let these missteps and hiccups lead not to backspace
but fill the heads full of that black shrouded beast
with what earnestness I have
so that in hopes, though, perhaps vain
I might smudge the pain so that
when you look in the mirror while you eat the pills
and see your shadow looming in grinning and licking your ear
the shadows don't make it that far and fade into light
I don't know
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 2:17 AM UTC
Adieu I will curl away
and reawaken ten years from now
like an unwitting coil
I spring some confounded earnestness
of built up creaks and misalignments ,
serenade me not,
for discordant pipers foil
their sepia tinged pedestraness.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
I’m
Still left somewhere in last week at the bar in between drinks
When you so casually claimed
“you know I love you”
somewhere between my heart stopping and feeling like it got plunged with a needle full of adrenaline
“you know I don’t ever wanna make you mad I just wanna make you laugh”
my smile felt somewhere between triumphant and pride
ecstatic and overwhelmed
It’s like the smoke cleared out and centered around you
why are you all I see?
how are you all that I see still?
I told you once that you have a power over me and to this day it’s still true.
I can deny it until I’m blue in the face and I have no more air in my lungs- but it’s true
But….. you love me.
I got you
I actually won this prize
I can’t get out of this haze I’ve been in and I can’t stop seeing the way your hands were moving when you told me.
your shy smile. your earnestness in your eyes.
I’ve never fought to be so relevant in someone’s life the way I fight for a spot in yours, the claws that come out when that spot is threatened feel so sharp and steadfast
Like they’d take on any and everything to be near you
And you love me.
It’s a relief and terrifying at one time. cause you can confess a love that makes flowers bloom in my chest but proclaim that love isn’t real in the next breath, so what is it that you’re trying to say? That the love you feel for me isn’t as cemented as mine feels for you? I’ve stifled my love for you, I’ve proclaimed it to you, I’ve held it steady for you, and in my heart it’s only you that holds this love and I’m not scared to give it to you, but the love you’re handing me… I’m petrified and proud to be responsible for it. It’s a heady thing, your love. I don’t want to hurt you.
Nov 11, 2022
Nov 11, 2022 at 2:18 AM UTC
I look at the picture
And I see her hair
Dark
Black
Cascading down the sides of her face like a black churning waterfall
Black
A deep black
So deep it drags me into her charmfulness
But this is not what catches my eyes
I see her beautiful eyes
Cast in an enchanting gaze
As if she can see farther than us all
The shadows perfectly frame her eyes
And that tiny dot of reflection within seems to be the gateway to the most intricately beautiful soul ever
But this is not what catches my eye
I see her full luscious lips
Covered in lavish red lipstick
Her lips are slightly parted as she seems to yearn for something
The sense of earnestness about her multiplied tenfold
Just by parted lips
But this is not what catches my eye
I see her left shoulder exposed by her shirt that elegantly shows her subtle skin tone
Her black hair juxtaposed perfectly next to her dark olive brown skin
Her shoulder tantalizingly flaunts its beauty to the world
Daring any and all to defy her beauty
But this is not what catches my eye
No
What catches my eye is her neck...
The black waterfall of hair
The bright reflection of her soulful eyes
The vivaciously earnest red lips
The tantalizing olive brown shoulder
Combine to form what I have come to think of as a Goddess of beauty on this earth
They all seem to point to her neck and show where her true beauty lies for me
It makes me realise that this time it's different
I could run my hand through her hair a million times
I could stare into her soulful eyes for hours
I coukd kiss her beautiful lips a million times
I could carress her flawlessly smooth shoulder until I form calluses
But I would forgo all of that if she would just let me rest my head on her shoulder
Against her neck
Where I would feel safe
And enough
And adequate
And beautiful
Yes
Indeed
It is her neck that catches my eye
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC
I don't like to tell stories. I like to tell people. Personally, I believe anyone can tell a story - be it a good or a bad one. Stories are simple. What makes a story alive, however, are the people in it: they make it come alive, they make it pulsate, and breathe, they become the story itself, with its bumps, with its ups and downs, its hills and mountains and oceans. Its veins, its lungs, its heart, its brain. Even the most simplistic, uncomplicated, dull story can turn into a blossoming flower, alive with the passion and hatred of the people in it. I like to tell people. The human soul, stripped to its bare backbone. The human soul violated, mutilated. The human soul in all its earnestness. I like to dissect human emotions, to trace back ambition, desire, fear, eagerness, disgust. To take all that makes us human and to carefully twist and bend it to my tastes and preferences. I do not care for the story. I care for bravery and cowardice, I care for cunningness and lust, glutony and barrenness. I care for the living, flowing blood of a story: namely, its people. You tell a crime. I tell the criminal. I tell her deepest desires, her greatest fears, I tell her insecurities, her pride, I tell the way she takes her coffee, I tell what she dreams of at night. You tell a love story. I tell the story of love itself. I tell the way a heart beats against a rib-cage, the way it flutters like a bird trapped; I tell the way palms sweat, throats dry. I tell the way dopamine and serotonine pump through the veins and make pupils dilate. I tell emotions. I tell humanity. The story matters little. The story is a shell, a mere curtain dropped before the real show has even begun. What interests me, what fascinates me, what makes my brain moan with pleasure, is the fate of the human soul, bared of all pretence. So tell your stories all you like. Tell your petty complicated mysteries and your unrequited loves. I take the soul and bare it, and eat it raw. The soul of the story itself: its people.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
I look at the picture
And my gaze falls upon your hair
Dark
Black
Hair that cascades down the sides of your face like a black churning waterfall
Black
A deep black
So deep it drags me into the embrace of your ravishing beauty...
...but this is not what commands my gaze.
I look at the picture
And my gaze falls upon your eyes
Sparkling
Riveting
Eyes that enchant me
The dark shadows of that perfectly frame your eyes
Highlight the tiny dot of contrast within
That seems to be the gateway to the most intricately beautiful soul
That I have ever had the blessing to bear witness to...
...but this is not what commands my gaze.
I look at the picture
And my gaze falls upon your lips
Lucious
Red
Lips slightly parted
As you seem to yearn for something
Your sense of vivacious earnestness
Multiplied tenfold
Just by those subtly parted lips...
...but this is not what commands my gaze.
I look at the picture
And my gaze falls upon your shoulder
An elegant
Subtle
Olive-brown skin tone perfectly juxtaposed against your charcoal black hair
Your shoulder tantalizingly flaunts itself
Daring!
Any and all
To defy your beauty...
...but this is not what commands my gaze.
No.
What commands my gaze is your neck.
Your black waterfall of churning hair
Your bright soulful eyes
Your vivacious earnest red lips
Your tantalizingly olive-brown shoulder
All combine to form
An absolute
GODDESS
of beauty
They all point towards your neck
They all seem to show me where your true beauty lies
It makes me realize that this time it's different
I could run my hand through your churning black hair a million times
I could get lost in your soulful gaza day after day
I could kiss your lavish lips every second of my day
I could carress the flawless perfection of your shoulder until my hands foem calluses
But...
I would forego all of that
If you would but let me rest my head on your shoulder
Against your neck...
Where I wouls feel safe
And enough
And strong
And adequate
And beautiful
Yes
Indeed
It is your neck that commands my gaze
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 9:11 AM UTC