"eschewed" poems
A VISIT TO THE DENTIST
The Green Mile to
The Chair
The snap of hygienist’s latex gloves, then
Scraping, scritching, spitting blood
“Only one” gaping hole
no matter how much chocolate I eschewed
in favor of chewing Trident
(I’m *******
The Dentist
My personal Olivier, and I, his Dustin.
Needle. Lets it set in.
The drill, the smile of the sadist
squealing torture, my mouth on the rack
I CAN FEEL PAIN
but it comes out, “owiusmmorsoss”
(“ow, I want some more shots!”)
Another shot.
I press on: “LA. The 70s. I did more than this for fun.”
Reluctantly, another shot. And another.
As the drill grinds and keens
I pull out my secret weapon – how could I forget?
This is why God
invented the IPod
May 27, 2010
May 27, 2010 at 7:45 PM UTC
There was a poet on HP
Who had alot of ♡
He tried to stay
out of the fights
He kept himself apart
He had a love of poetry
He lived for his art.
Talented, he made "the grade"
As "minded" poets do
But he didn't try
to "people please"
And so mean writes
eschewed.
When he encountered
"lesser lights" he didn't
make them blue
But put ♡s on them as well
For their hearts were true.
Time went by... how it did fly!
As if given wings!
He found he had "The Daily"
(When there was
such a thing)
He tried to READ all poets
but could not, everything...
So he decided just to read
The small group
within his ring.
He would NOT be purchased.
He would NOT be sold.
He was TRUE to his beliefs
Of his Faith quite bold.
Not only did he ♡
He gave "thumbs up" as well!
He reposted and was good
In fact, the man was swell!
He had a grateful following
But, as fate is wont
He couldn't keep up
with the load...
Found his health was shot
But he tried to be a light
He tried to give folks thought.
His readership got smaller
It seemed like every day.
He still tried to be genuine
And true in every way
But nobody wanted
him no more
He began to fade away...
Where the
rubber hits the road
He began to PRAY.
If you don't know
who this is,
Replace the "he" with "she"
She believes
And truly grieves
*That poet would be ME.*
♡ Catherine
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 6:14 AM UTC
We watched the sun fall down and scrape its knee again, across the horizon.
Effusing amaranth, carmine, and cochineal across polluted vista.
It felt petty to issue guttural laughs, or engage the myofacial crescents beneath its visual lament as the Earth turned its back again.
We watched the sun rise, bruised, tender and shy this morning.
Its muddled contusion obviated by the gauze of fog.
A mottled neophyte -
Luminescent crepuscular rays defied dregs of interstellar debris and cloud.
Aching to kiss your skin -
In stellar cloud nursery, it eschewed the torque of orbit and gravity - eras before verity of your essence.
Humbly settling concentrically about oblate sphere, and gaseous tome.
Latterly - It altered the atmospheric pressure on the other side of the planet a week antecedently, as you clung to your dream lattice, and Earth innately turned oblate nucleus.
Its intent –
A veneration of you.
It bade the atmosphere convey a breeze echoing about your dermis, as it gilded your frame laconically, betwixt shaded steps beneath cloud and arbor.
The sun yelled at me at its pinnacle today,
Pallid bone – molten - miasma of rage
Its core missive garnered inertia – coronal plasma warping ellipsoid factions in inflections of elusive filigree
Pirouetting spicules spattered smelted torrents in the dismal anchorite
Atomic schism – silent but felt
It stoked humidity under shadowed niche - casual vaporous smears evinced no clemency.
Flesh torqued, and seized beneath itself, briny globules shed from puckered pore.
Culminations of sensitive fluid sacs scorched into the shallows of my chassis.
Insignia knit in cellular shrapnel
The sun ignored me today – or perhaps, it was I it.
Enigmatic tenacious resolution – an echo of its gravitational collapse
Inverse thermonuclear fusion
It is not fear in a relationship that keeps you apart, it is neglect of the infinitesimal.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Running away from her feelings
Don't want no hurt
Don't want inspiration
They only subvert
Her poor fragile heart
She gives her all
Gets smithereens in return
Don't want no broken dreams
Don't want empty hopes
Don't want those sleepless nights
It's a periscope
Couldn't see it before
Now she knows
She's a shell of the old her
No signs of reverting
Built walls around her heart so high,
The heavens are confronting
It's comforting
This deserting
Feeling of the heart
No one's gonna break me
She says asserting
No one's gonna hurt me
Her lips reverberating
Eyes full of misery
Her loneliness shines through
Captivating silver eyes
Moist with morning dew
Or are those tears?
Taking a hue
Of molten silver
Or the dark stormy nights
They've witnessed all along
When they all eschewed
When they all ran away
Well, adieu
They don't deserve her anyway
Don't deserve her beautiful soul
Don't deserve her unconditional love
Or the compassion she holds
Her blinding bright smile
Or the twinkle of her eyes
The softness of her lips
She exists to mesmerize
So, adieu
Because she's a fighter
An igniter
Of the passion he holds
Adieu
He says thankyou
Because she's a queen
And all his to love
Oh if you only knew.
~S.L.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 6:14 AM UTC
Saved myself with realm coin
Went for the long con with put options
Eschewed sold short term gain
Let them railroad me with true colors
Finessed my coalition willingly
Painted a big picture expressed scope
With mass appeal diverse production means
Bred loyalty from salt of earth devotees
Ends justified by all’s fair politics
Power brokers stole my ideas for venal exploits
Then claimed execution on midgets’ shoulders
Made low hanging fruit that much more demanding
High bar gymnastics twisted words blanched of meaning
Model workers did lords’ bidding beyond expectations
Barely rewarded with subsistence’s mounting debt to society
Paid on inmates’ backs embroiled in endless energy wars
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
To be alone
Is to be complete
They say
No man is an island,
But isn't everyone?
We're all stranded on islands of self-interest
Connected to others
Through flimsy bridges of temporary alliances
Mutual interests and gain
The more connected we are
The more isolated we become
Pictures and blog posts
Nothing more than facades
Anomie is the word of the decade
The individualistic
The self-sufficient
Is reviled
For refusing to play the game
To participate
In the masquerade
To jump through the hoops
Of social niceties
Somehow
To sit and squirm
Through ******* contests and gossip
To flap and flutter
In the howling gales of hysteria and contrived laughter
Is preferred over
Sitting alone
Revelations and epiphanies
Splayed out before oneself
Playing solitaire with one's reflections
In peace
Baby showers and mixers
Celebrated
The impenetrable silence
Of one's hermitage
Eschewed
The people-pleaser
Preferred
Over the lone wolf
The team player
Over the independent agent
I suppose
In an age of open doors
A locked one
Raises a few eyebrows
They'd knock and rattle
Then bang and kick and shout
Before leaving in a huff
Authenticity is now the rarest commodity
Valued over saffron and platinum
So people settle instead
For knockoffs
Alcohol-plied sincerity is better than nothing
A China-made Rolex still looks better --
Flashier, if nothing else --
Than a Timex
No man is an island,
They say,
Smirking
Frowning
Clucking with disapproval
Peering behind perfectly schooled masks
Nary a hair out of place
Looking at me
In all my artless imperfection
Paper, pen, and cigarettes for company
Well
Which of us here
Is truly alone?
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
I do not know why I travel back to you,
My steps forever eschewed as I make my way to that sullen place.
It smashes my soul and crushes my spirit,
Your words, your lips obliterate the fire in my purgatory.
Yet as I pen down each word, it never makes sense,
Like the words I write now, they warp and distort into shapeless and meaningless beings.
Do you get what I speak as I touch your cherub lips?
Or are they lost like my heart that shall never come back home.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:38 AM UTC
he eschewed the label,
“Native American,” for he was *****
and he wasn't ashamed he liked his spirits
dollar wine worked as well
cirrhosis was a family trait
though he didn't learn the word until an army doc
admonished him, saying he would earn the curse
by 45, if he kept it up
and he did, even more after that crazy
Asian war, where he killed a half dozen men
they called yellow, though to Walter, they looked
to be his emaciated brown cousins
he could stand tall, straight
with a pint of rot gut in him, burning
his belly, but not causing his head to spin
though it helped him block them out:
those he did not know; those he
slaughtered like lambs with the gun they issued him;
those who inhabited a space just behind his eyes
whenever they closed, night or day
someone found him, in his pickup bed
dead from exposure, from too many years
on the bottle, too many dreams he tried to drown
and too many ghosts to haunt his nights
Gallup, New Mexico, 1999
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 3:23 PM UTC
Kindred, we converse
Over a meal
Your words, warm,
A broth to fill my belly
And the variegated jetsam
Jests
Flotsam of our earthly
Experiences
So many a clumsy lessons
Learned
The times we recollect with laughter
Kindred you give hope
And how my wisdom swells
Not so alone
In the confidence of your smile
While a confidant
With the eloquence of intelligent
Sentiments
Just right
Not too cold
Your shoulders to lean on,
Not too hot
You're never angry to dismiss
And will understand
As I do now
The danger is
To drown alone
In a life without light
Remiss of truth,
I long eschewed on this ...
But you fill me up, my Pho, my kindred
Spirit
With goodness
A Dearest friend indeed
A pho no less in times of need
Again next lunch date
We'll shoot the breeze.
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 1:06 AM UTC
Children arguing aloud, celebrate
their momentary freedom from parents,
playtime sounds in the park
grow quick like huge trees full of foliage;
in the middle of that dense green darkness
of every kind of sounds,
on a dilapidated bench, alone she sits
--a symbol, not yet deciphered.
Her head is thrown back,
profuse hair, hanging dark curtain,
behind which the sun sets.
From an open window across the busy road,
he watches everything in silence;
a solid rock in flood waters
that eschewed all thoughts.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
I once had a friend whose great-grandfather was a partner of J.P. Morgan. My friend had grown up in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He was a good man, and you wouldn't have known he was heir to a vast fortune, except for his anamnestic autos. In fact, he eschewed the affected life. He was an organic farmer outside of Lawrence, Kansas. I mean he really was a farmer. He was up at 6 and drove a tractor til sunset. He and I would get together from time to time eating tapioca pudding at Denny's and, of course, chatting. The one idiosyncrasy that gave away his untold wealth was anamnestic autos. To the side of his modest farm house was a field within which were old antique cars spread out as if they were cattle, but they were not. There was an Alpha Romeo, a Horsch, a Lamborghini, a Maserati, and a Ferrari. My friend would get an impulse to buy a certain antique car, and because he had the money, he'd buy it. But then after enjoying it for a time, he literally put it out to pasture. The scene reminded me of a painting by Salvador Dali. He never talked about his fortune, but he often ordered a second tapioca pudding.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Sep 10, 2020
Sep 10, 2020 at 6:16 PM UTC
Quietous* tree,
That hath sought
Found to bleed
And from torment wrought,
Thou dost despondent stand
And thy veins doth shed
And bury in desolate land
The tears that thou hast bled.
Thine heart's own verisimilitude
Beats within thy stiff breast
And all thee hath eschewed
And thy plot avoid lest
Thy count'nance rear'd
And thy misery form'd
Within all whom thee fear'd
And their joy harm'd.
Quietous* tree,
Son of agony's lot,
From the pain within thee,
What horror hast thou begot?
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
prognosis
for gnosis
unfortunately
poor for us
enlightenment
eschewed
like a bad
case of
halitosis
veins of
understanding
constricted with
thrombosis
open minds
burst from
chronic
trikanosis
students and
teachers lack
a needed
symbiosis
antibiosis
trumps
scrabble
word
biocenosis
for the sake
of a bit
of silly
exegesis
oh my
gnosis
where for
art thou
angel
peda go
go sis
Music Selection:
Esperanza Spalding -
I know You know
Oakland
4/2/14
jbm
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
Spring's dreaming rush unfolds before my eyes
unlooked for light and life's hope all renewed
eager shoots that set their faces to the skies
We strive to climb that bonds may be eschewed
Walk hand-in-hand amongst the breathing green
I begin to grow anew in spring's fresh light
and if I only flourish for a while
I have had a glimpse of something true and bright
Apr 4, 2011
Apr 4, 2011 at 2:38 PM UTC
Light illuminates
my dis-entombed thoughts
on gilded kite
prodding dust patina
mellow mote drifts lilt
hoping not to puncture the membrane
– I run –
attempted lift
fresh soil turns under foot
tread and gait escalate
pocked path reverberates
my insistence to avoid puncturing
Deceleration
Halted earthen assault
I ****** with machination the aerial apparatus
prior to complete stagnation
Decrepit deceit eschewed
Again – I run –
taut paper snap
sheet lift
weightless message intones
in knotted vertebrae, and closed palm
my chest lifts in unison
diaphragmatic sigh punched hollow
rhapsodic finesse
privy to atmospheric secret
my hand translates the ethereal
smooth fluttering undulations
oscillating tugs, dives, and slay
Calligraphic flourishes echo the linguistic menagerie
Byzantine illustrations
Pellucid canvas drunk with dye
Evinced in muddled thought
The ink bleeds down the twine
indigo echoes of entombed vein 'neath flesh
Translucent pulse haunts taut string
furling arc – tensed tissue
acrobatic hydrofoil
tugs – glides – taunts
Ostensible horror conveyed in clenched palm
The ether curtly responds
Swift redirect
Sliced palm
Tethered scream evocation
cochineal deluge concedes
Deep purple liquid clings
Congealing - between sodden twine and palm
Whispering currents furl saturated line
into fresh groove, disturbing the clot
The wound bucks as flotsam
Relentless onslaught
I yield -
I release you
Your ethereal message tattooed into my palm
Some things were ne'er meant to be restrained
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
Swift, teach us that a modest child will leisurely be milled
Eschewed from aid, withdrawn from conscious need
A child’s mind an empty bucket, waiting to be filled
And to earth’s throne, invalids will accede.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 3:57 AM UTC
nebulous mercury, or old neb as friendly namesome, was a longtime salty marner.
one day he was seasonally easing along with the flotsam and jetsons
when there appeared before his worn and weary orbs a macabre confoundment,
the vastly ghastly countenance of a slithering slimy see servant,
a critter that rose from the sea and had to hunch over so as not to break the sky,
the kind of monstrosity you only see in miffs.
he began to wrap his protuberances and testicles around the clig as to make repast.
ohh, dreadful tingers draggled forlorn!
shunned and electrolytical he was, old neb, awash in gloombulches and grovel gullies.
but then old neb snapped to! "Not my chipper clig you don't!" he charged allowed as he fingled forth in fury!
the battle eschewed in the stub of legends. old neb will ever be memorial for what he did that day.
to this very day, indeed up to this very moment right now, even chipper cligs flying scallion bones cut him a big bertha,
such is the perspective they feel for him
no hobo, but a ****** chum.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
Gratitude may have nothing to do with latitude.
It may, but it can pull you out of sad lassitude.
If we are lucky, it results in some kind of beatitude
Felt in welcome happy waves of great amplitude.
Those who repeatedly fail to be grateful
May find their lives unfortunately fateful.
And those whom insist on being disgraceful
May probably end in the mud with a face full.
Many folks exist with morals all eschewed
Not often enough that do so end up *******
But maybe with their karma thus imbued
They’ll sicken hearing their opinion booed.
While to some it is easy to be disdainful,
Especially those who live without a brain full,
And those to whom greed is the main pull,
Let’s all hope their daily lives are painful .
Now we know how the fools are wooed
We should take steps to not come unglued
And band together when times get rude
And not elect those from a defective brood.
Those who repeatedly fail to be grateful
May find their lives unfortunately fateful.
And those whom insist on being disgraceful
May probably end in the mud with a face full.
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 9:08 PM UTC
she wrote an entire novel
about a man who cut his hand
on a can of sardines
he found in a silent cupboard
of a prairie house abandoned since
the dust bowl, or perhaps since
the eighth day of creation
the can he opened with a rusty blade
he found in yet another home of ghosts
on a treeless lane in Topeka
where he spent
four naked nights
hiding from the cruelest January,
his memories, and the devil
who his mama said eschewed the cold
and he believed her, but built a fire all the same
until a fat ****** sheriff came
and sent him into the night
where a wailing wind waited
and blew him south through the dark
like just another tumbleweed
when he finally
landed, dry and thrashed
in his new sagging palace
the snows had melted,
the winds calmed
there he found fine fodder
in a tin with sailor standing proud
a feast of fish at his feet
was a shame to behead
the mariner with such a dull tool
only to find mush and ancient fetor
anointed by three drops of his red blood
the can demanded in exchange
for its long dead bounty
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC
I.
Lain down, unconcealed
toward the window
shoulder to hip -- a shadowy cursive
perhaps penumbra
II.
Seated, face in utter profile
standing, sorting laundry
washing dishes, guarding
the radiator
III.
Hair eschewed in
conjugated waters
double-exposed
roots and
foliage -- wisps
of sugarland
in subtext
their dark net
cast over a pearly bright sea
discovery left
to the imagination
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 1:52 PM UTC
Who was it carved these lines
In ancient hand
Faded now
By sand and wind
And patient Time?
Whose voice on chiseled stone
calls on to us
Covered now
With mossy virtues
Lost, unknown?
Should I now in my crewel
of saddened heart
And remorse
Add a stitch
Of love eschewed?
Should I wield stick and stone
And worry down
into this rock
My ****** tale
Of love unknown?
And ages hence, some thousand years
when this creekbed
sits up high
Will some fellow
read my tears?
No. I will let my fingers roam
these runic forms
Singing loud
The loss we shared
Beside this stone.
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 5:45 PM UTC
*Dedicated to William Shakespeare, Gene Roddenberry,
Lewis Carroll and Franz Joseph Haydn.*
The power scythe roared and quivered;
Had he chops, he would have licked them -
So rabid was he to taste the fray.
Verdure clad stalks by the thousands
Eschewed all feint of
Futile resistance -
Falling like spineless wimps
Before the carbon breathed Leviathon's
Cyclonic advance.
Pausing only to quaff
A long draft of energy potion,
Toro relentlessly carved a swath
Across the battle ground -
Vorpally snicker-snacking his way
Toward the mission's
inexorable termination.
A single command
Brought the roaring vortex to a halt.
Victorious, sans medals or ceremony,
Captain Toro was debriefed
And escorted back
To his lonely barracks
To sleep, perchance to dream
Of past and future triumphs
In the jungle wilds at the confluence
Of Prairie and Missouri Avenues.
August, 2007
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 11:42 PM UTC
To me, this sounded so final and trite,
But his wife, she said, left him,
Cause she couldn't be a wife.
There's a fine epitaph to carve,
On the stone above his life:
*My wife, they say, left me,
Cause she couldn't be a wife;
That's all she ever wanted,
To be this dead man's wife*.
A couple passing by the script,
Might read an enigmatic drift.
What kind of wife, the woman asked,
I wonder what he meant by that.
One who'd drink and drink some more,
Smoke and eat and grow so fat
On Caesar's Salad and chocolate.
Could she nurse through any sickness;
See it for what it is;
For what it was;
Work with the outcome,
Not the cause.
And yet, it's true, all along,
He wasn't in control.
Not abuse, or waywardness,
But the drink that dries the soul.
What could that wife do
In the fight.
They each promised,
Each meant each life;
Does she get to choose the sickness?
What kind of wife gets to pick it?
I know he didn't give objection,
As many husbands do,
When she raised ablutions
To false gods she eschewed;
They promised on the temple pinnacle
That all is theirs, if she submits,
To the pyramids that promise riches.
Till death do us part.
Now that's a lark,
In a song of lament.
She could have been any wife
She'd deem to choose in her life;
She chose,
For a limited time,
On a definition
He declined.
Dec 17, 2019
Dec 17, 2019 at 10:17 AM UTC
A button that I press
shows me flashes of the past
words, and an address
on the internet, to last
Flowing as intended
from mind to the page
not that the heart was mended
or the soul assuaged
Feelings and emotions
pain, fear, love, and more
going through the motions
a voyeuristic *****
Consumed and captivated
as memories and heart
never ever fabricated
soul, the greatest part
All the words eschewed
and placed within the cloud
marked by my reviews
on poetry, unbowed
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
I think we all love kisses, like flowers love the sun.
They can be meaningful, deep and scandalous or fun.
You might briefly, sneakily, steal a kiss,
you can blow a kiss or condone a kiss,
emblazon every girl or boy you know with a kiss,
postpone a kiss, or bemoan a kiss as hormones,
but you can’t keep a kiss or own a kiss,
because they’re never more than half your own kiss -
sadly, as we’ve all learned, you just can’t kiss alone.
Every kiss is a puzzle, an experiment requiring a team
you may not even understand a kiss, or exactly what it means.
As far as kisses go, I’ve only had a few. I blame that dam
pandemic, they certainly weren’t something I eschewed.
I wish I had specific tips for girls with quick, impulsive lips
which somehow never can resist a flirty, kissing apocalypse.
Your roommates will support you, with only a few quips
but you really can’t keep doing this, you’ve got to get a grip.
Oct 5, 2022
Oct 5, 2022 at 11:29 PM UTC