"eschewing" poems
The failed seduction
by drunken discussion
and skunk fueled
consumption, leads to
a compunction dysfunction
suspended in animation
the digital tides
of expulsion
catapult me into a
an eschewing propulsion
and the limitations
of re-imagination.
As far as I was aware
I was imprisoned
in nothing more
than the realms of
Skype and FourSquare
but for the Feng Shui
of trapped energies
and google-mapped memories
adorning the locations
of complacent hallucinations
amid the dark fibre
communications
with a female
of Nordic persuasion.
The compliments and comments
and poems I sent
were lost to the myriad
of random intent
I was attempting to be clever
and metaphysical
she on the other hand
was PHD level
and psychoanalytical
ergo my metrical composition
was utterly lost
in a conversation
on metaphorical reproduction
and the magic and mysteries
of osmosis
and the application
of modification
by transduction.
The moral of this tale
- if indeed there is one -
is if you are going to Skype
with a mentally superior type
do not before hand
have a blistering
smouldering
grass pipe
with a flagon of ale
lest you be a
gibbering earthling
destined to fail.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
The monotony of adolescence is a laughable oxymoron.
My mom keeps saying to me,
"Caitlin, you're in a state of flux. Just wait."
Little does she know
I'm waiting for anything
to ebb.
Flow.
Twinge.
Any lurch of impulse of life
in this constant static lullaby.
Maybe I'm just itching to slough off my skin of content
and breathe in a fresh new disposition.
Become intoxicated in the maybes,
and the possibly's.
Embracing the oh-wells
and the never-enough-times.
Eschewing the feeling of everything I've missed
by having it near.
Having him here.
Getting trapped in the crinkles of his smile
and the freckles on his shoulders
that navigate me to the spots I feel most comfy.
Losing regard for the world as I become transfixed
in us
and our patterns on his couch.
Tumble into elation.
Quirks transpire the me's and you's
into the us's and we's.
To think... I was so scared to hold his hand.
Not knowing at the time
how great his waffles would taste
after a night of holding him.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 4:27 PM UTC
I am sorry for your pain
but I am not the cause
and seeing how you've treated me
I think I know what was
Dishonest in your ranting
as you're girlfriend and not wife
no wonder why he shies away
from unrelenting strife
Accusing without evidence
eschewing private mail
you castigate me publicly
as illogically you rail
Behaving with much cruelty
demonstrating zero class
you couldn't solve a mystery
if it bit you in the ***
18 Jun 2015
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 6:22 PM UTC
Sitting, restless
In this changeling
Sensation
Of freshness and renewal.
Running
Rat on a wheel.
Each passing day
A different way
Of feeling,
An altered state of mind.
Seeking
To find
A man within the boy.
Hoping to see
The real me.
Alive and kicking.
Hot flushed, this post determined puberty
And the desperate need to feel.
An urgent angst to Be.
Short fuse and temper flare.
I’m not really there
Yet still somehow
Everywhere and
Everything;
Else breathing.
Dysmorphic chest
Heaving
Exigency
In this
Juncture
Soul puncture,
And bloodied bandaids
Cast off
My heart
Once worn on my sleeve.
I am finger skin,
Flesh and nail
Torn
And jagged edges
Peeling.
Perplexity kneeling,
I am deeply lost inside of me.
Begging to be found.
Compund; unbound.
They say that beggars can’t be choosers
Only losers left to dreaming.
They also say
That I may be a dreamer
But I’m not the only one.
I will come undone in this undoing.
Eschewing
A life lived unalive.
Slow unravel
To once again
Begin
To belong in this
Skin
Stitched bleeding riches
To my bare and brittle bone
He is not alone
I feel him
Running
Waiting
Sating disquietude
With an attitude
Unshackled
He is not running
Rather feet flying
A rat inside
A wheel.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 10:47 PM UTC
Coming from your humble and holy
houses each morning bringing blessings, your lively and
cheerful "Good Morning!" sounds - all the power and energy
that a good life brings. Living by the light God gives you
every day, eschewing electricity,
and all of the worst that it brings with it,
teaching your children and loving your wives
with gentleness and devotion.
Ruben, Glen David, Marlin... did I spell these right?
I only heard your beautiful, traditional names in your own, clear, grounded voices,
as we began to know each other, while you travelled back
and forth, from bright and early each day, onto our ailing roof.
Tearing into four layers of old, sickly roofing tiles with your
wonderful vim and vigour, a healing began that went deep,
deeper every day, as we absorbed the precious fortune
of having you in our midst. Your chosen, Amish lives inspired
us, and still do, as we still, quite often, hear the echoes
of your footsteps above us, each one a prayer and an affirmation
of lives well-lived.
One fine afternoon, one of you stood straddling the very top of our
steep old roof line, and that image of a man mastering his craft,
invested in a life that blesses everyone he cares for,
and teaches by example, everyone he meets,
will stay with me for all of my days.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 7:11 AM UTC
I'm really quite not busy
with all the things
that I'm not doing.
I barely have much
time to wake.
with the things
that I'm eschewing.
Once again I won't be climbing
up the Matterhorn my dear
Its really not a challenge
Why that is remains unclear..
I'm not preparing gourmet meals
for folks who aren't coming
Instead I'm eating taco belle
and messing up my plumbing.
I should rotate my tires
but surely there's no fun in that.
I can just call the Triple A
when i chance to get a flat.
You won't catch me at Pilates
or my yoga class this year.
I just achieved a state of bliss
by sitting on my rear.
So you go do triathlons
and do work up a sweat
Can't you see I'm busy sitting here
composing my regrets?
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
Atop my ragged head doth sit
A candle - planted firm - alit.
Wax drips down upon my face;
I've long forgotten how it tastes.
It serves it's purpose in my room;
Eschewing demons spewing doom.
When I'm at home it shines so bright,
But when I exit - day or night -
A breeze extinguishes the light.
People see me and I shudder,
Try to speak but only stutter.
Why can't my candle just stay lit?
If only for a little bit?
You know I got an app for that?
Oh Yeah?
*No, get a ******* hat*
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 11:53 PM UTC
At one with eagle's mind,
I wish, to do this:
concentric circles around
sun's windy light.
Forest's kind,
my mind speaks in zillion voices,
yet craves for more stillness
than all that put together.
Pupa's struggle
I feel deep inside my
labyrinths,
to break that shell
and fly out on my colorful wings.
Then, eschewing colors, smells
past the night that surrounds,
I long to be the light.
Serpent's wriggle, I become
to find that precise moment
to mate, with the ultimate
get liberated and come to terms
with all that ferocity
that raises it's hood,
life after life.
The quest that continues
within the endless labyrinth,
is the art of finding sea's tranquil heart;
becoming the
still center of the cosmic storm.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 3:36 AM UTC
There’s something about the lonely hours,
Just you and me, our space overlapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.
No passion-filled debate, no vying powers,
Lazy destiny dreams, eschewing plans or mapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours.
Past today, the future glowers,
But reserve this sacred instant for reflection, recapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.
The earth is straining, injustice towers,
Insidious corruption, pain and deceit chafing, chapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours.
The darkness consumes, seconds become hours,
Sorrow lurks at hand, irksome insecurities tapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.
Yet, peace resounds, the evil cowers.
Hope, the thing with feathers, quietly, resiliently flapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours,
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
A glimpse is seen beyond the black
enough to know that life exists
in the presence of company
displaying more than a well wish
a passing hope with that breach
opportunity to view kindness
however tricky it may be
to stop the fall none wish to see
a strong desire lurks within
walking high on a tightrope
to cut the ties that hold them here
plunge the soul into the pit
with small concern for what’s next
when the present is only pain
eschewing views of other folk
struggling on the high wire
this view that few would admit
even as the path is packed
by the quiet inside their shells
wearing masks for normal kin
‘move along’ is the request
lest the secret is spoken of
then replied with saccharine
or harsh regard to buck on up
turn away from this tone
instead embrace with kind regard
allowing for the sadness found
a lifetime’s worth to be dispelled
all’s not lost while breath moves
this requires the brave friends
to light the candle against the dark
encourage shift beyond the black.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180719.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC
Thanks for the gift you left at the front door--
I wept cause I figured you left for good
'till I opened the box in horror
to find a zombie black mamba instead of my heart.
Thanks for the living dead snake
constricting around my brain
making me think of nothing but you
eschewing daily life.
The venom takes away my appetite--
the sun is too bright and sunny
so I stay inside my room filled with flies
writing about the time you left this
living dead snake instead of my heart.
It keeps squeezing and gnawing--
it's venom fills me with haunting memories
of the times I didn't see you slowly pulling away--
hugs stiffened
your kisses listless
and eyes drowning
while the sound of your voice sings disinterest.
Luckily you gave to me
a zombie black mamba instead of my heart
so I can always remember our time together.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
Dreams of boats and dinosaurs
eschewing everyone
without weapons and rafts;
green, tangled pieces of iron lie
dying
beside rickety picnic tables below.
We’ll likely die here, as well.
In Florida; the hot meridian sun
heating everything.
Our perpetual youth is embodied in
dilapidated buildings
and war memorials.
Past empty,
we walk. Gas stations and burning hotels
all blaring radios or alarm-clocks
set to Spanish polka.
No maids to listen to them here.
Or to turn the sheets and place
chocolates.
The sun laps up the flood now
exposing
rusty iron tools
or fossils.
Maybe blood is like oil or soda
removes wine stains.
Snapping open mortgages is brutal at first
-- like oysters halved and
emptied on a plate.
But they must
stop
hurting, eventually,
after we boil them.
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 5:42 AM UTC
Presenting spin in HD hues,
bankrolled by conglomerates,
the vapid visual dominates
The Lip-Glossed ***** Network News.
Eschewing all the old taboos:
a mouthpiece for the metro-queer.
The Antichrist will soon appear
on lip-glossed ***** network news.
Regardless of what next ensues
they cover every breaking story
(better when it’s really gory).
Attacks and tragedies amuse
They never miss their prime-time cues,
those pert disinformation crews:
the lip-glossed ***** network news.
Wherever a teapot tempest brews
they’re on the feed – it’s Live at 10;
they edit out the Truth and then
homogenize conflicting views.
Sedated viewers now can choose
what semi-informed tele-snooze
they wish to see or heed or use.
Water – water everywhere…
a thousand channels on the air
but precious little left to lose.
It’s fair and balanced – on the brink
between PC and global-think.
It’s news for nimrods: PRAVDA-lite
the babel of descending night
now veils the flat-screen universe
MSNBC gets worse
unable to reverse the curse
of lip-glossed ***** network news.
A bare and phalanxed fascist fox!
Liberals thus depict their foe;
(she’s barely right of center, though…
yet still they’re having hissy fits
while staring at her cleavage.) It’s
enough to make them blow their fuse –
forget diversity of views !
The offer no one can refuse
is lip-glossed ***** network news.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
Soma
a pharmaceutical usurpation
some subjunctive psychedelic
noxious decoction
of the capital kind
wrought by unoriginality
a conjuring elixir
to ignite the material mind
Maya
will have you
if you don't recognize
behind appearances
is always a disguise
beyond the superficial
over what eyes can surveil
may entitle you to what is
to be entailed
Yuga
beyond the ages
beyond the sages
epochs and eras
multiplied to infinity
expecting some recourse
exponential beyond sanity
gauges of the cyclical planetary
Akasha
ubiquitous aether
all pervading
all invading
revelations' recordings
substratum of
then and now
rife marshaler of how
Ishwara
great atman
ultimate overseer
transcending all time
cosmic conscience
consciousness sublime
beyond everything
sight unseen
Samadhi
reign over me
the be all and end all
of life's raisons d'être
superconsciousness
enlightenments
bestowal
of divine grace and mercy
Gunas
by knowledge of these moods
this will allow you
ambrosia of all roads
in your journey ahead
to navigate solely
without flag or fail
through equipoise unassailed
Ahimsa
through this your lips
can no longer trespass
over your welfare
or the welfare of any other
true liberation
from human inebriation
true love for one another
Siddhis
they will misunderstand you
not being like the same
eschewing commonality
for the perfected mindscape
a narrowed perspective
to focus more completely
upon the rarest of views
Om
what can be said
of this holiest sound
that permeates all ethers
the skies and the grounds
Brahman of this plane
and all that surrounds
now perish all that confounds
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
An ode to darkness eschewing light,
Why not?
Her beauty,
it transcends sight!
Radiance reflected.
Incandescent revelry.
Each heartbeat supernova we can feel but never see.
As faithful as true love appears,
her touch incurs your deepest fears.
A broken-hearted serenade...
of choices better left unmade...
Memories burn as touches fade.
Thus, my heart, I barricade.
Here! Love, not armies would invade!
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 5:44 AM UTC
wispy clouds
on a blue sky
and a blood-
less sunset, lost on all for now
some despised boys in
cowardly mens bodies
have more bul-
lets than teeth,
yet the chickenshit bites
and mark and
grief they leave
behind, spent
casings litter the
halls of learning
peace, pieces, seething, see the thing
is now, lost on all for now
so how much hate do you have to harbour, to ****** a child?
yet the clouds of
witnesses stay silent;
no, not the common
man, the common
women, who have
in common with you and
I, tears falling from, my eyes
our eyes, there is
horror, there is shock
there is mouths
open and no air is
getting to the lungs,
a silent scream for
justice, as no one
can bring the children back, memories do not cut the loses,
yet the clouds of
witnesses stay silent; those
seats of power
must be real com-
fortable at this hour
eschewing respon-
sibility, for there
is no gain by get-
ting involved,
the ultimate of pre-emptive fear,
how hard can they be to find leaving a yellow streak
wherever they go, crawling on their yellow bellies.
this is not to be read,
out loud for even the
sound and rhythm,
from anywhere in
world, would break hearts, my heart
cannot make rhyme and reason
about this crime, see there is
an evil scaramouch, no credit
the pantywaist
deserves, takes on flesh and
payment is required.
What is lost on all for now..
What is lost on all for now..
What is lost on all Africa for now..
The value, the energy,
the beauty, the potential,
the future, there were
musicians, there were
geniuses, there philan-
thropists, there were
artists, ** there were poets,**
they were children and
grandchildren, they
were going to be parents,
they were going have
children and that is
lost on all for now and forever.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
Eschewing that second thought,
let me tell you what I truly sought
come, lock me up in your heart
you, I've no doubt is a true despot
I don't hold back, life is way too short
can't heckle and haggle like an idiot
on the planes, see profligacy of robust water
hills are in the reign of wild sun and winds
Here ends the vast fields of ripened rice,
where prowl crooked foxes eyeing hens,
on the foot hills furious bisons flare nostrils,
as you climb,eager leopard smells blood.
Love is the fragrance that outlives the flower,
my trek to the mystic mountain continues where
**** and shroom grow tangled everywhere
the trek to the love hill, to strike gold,is in progress,
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 3:39 PM UTC
Electronic karma spills unnoticed,
neon in the streets of concrete and oil
only to be dissected by the ********** legs.
I see streams of soil eroding
whereas you live free from worry
because we view time differently and
incur incrementally
indifferent sins
assuredly.
I am
eschewing violence with the slow quiet chewing of cheek
and a slight
leak at the seams
like violet light creeping from the night club,
a signal for the heated rubbing hub of energy
to come from behind the heavy door,
and skin deep what is my steady humming roar.
Mar 19, 2011
Mar 19, 2011 at 11:24 PM UTC
Come down in time I know you'll find a way to sow your seed
But I'm caught up pursuing death and eschewing what I need
And when you breathe I hope to god that you're exhaling me
Because I'm thinking of you tonight despite all of these things
So fill me up with your bright hope
I'll hang on by the promise
You'll be the one to help me cope
But I'm a doubting Thomas
Of all the things that can ever be, could my idea of us be one
But how could you ever forgive me, and the bad things that I've done
I won't know until I see
Won't quit so long as I breathe
And when I find that gorgeous fruit I'll pluck it from the tree
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 4:20 AM UTC
Oh, the folly
of the melancholy
Eschewing the jolly
on life's trolley.
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 10:37 AM UTC
An artistic collaboration with skyblueandblack:
Ink the paper and quiver the heart...
Pines purred over the delusions of life..
Nostalgia attired with blue...
ridden by red,
inundating the heart....
Love lumps into words...
as emotions spurt through the ink eschewing
the brink of tears...
Fingers crave the curvatures of letters..
exposing the embodiment of emotions,
Here--
catharsis alludes through meteors of words...
pastiche of existence plunges through paper...
ergo the liminal of "conversation with the creation"...
Thoughts reverberate through the reed of my heart,
And it resonates through my words...
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
*What acclaim is there
for the man who breaks
the heart of a *****
What worthwhile service
can assuage the soul
so torn in malcontent.
He prophesies of Eden
telling Eve to hide her shame
in lieu of his land perfected.
"What other hell do you threaten?"
He claims, "Fire! Fire!"
But her lungs hold smoke
to keep hands from shaking
breaking spirits and homes
as Priest rushes
to the safety of Soap Box
lightheaded from the height.
*What solace is there
for the arsonist in the convent?*
His speech its own
blend of herbs and spices;
sour prepositions
and capsaicin soaked subjects
caught in the heat of judgment
like some wrathful deity,
holier than thou.
Resisting respite despite
facing the fire of his deeds,
the innocent frolic, carefree.
He finds he
is the tinder,
caught in his conflagration.
*What pity have we
for the lost life of kings?*
Caught between revelries
and pomp,
caustic circumstantial froth
from his echelon elect
as we revel in flames
and fight *** with sins.
You know these things,
see them, taste them.
Spiteful planet, we adore thee,
eschewing humanity
with piety and privilege
and soft-spoken actions wont to liberate
the conscience.
Sing me the song of the sword
and I won't say a word.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
The time that has perished by mine own doing in vain pursuit of wooing, in dreaming of issuing... the light which lies in womens eyes -I most guilty am. Guilty of pursuing; and all for what more than my self-undoing. All all but blind to my pickle, eschewing my darts a' shooting for their hearts, which from the start hath been made a little fickle.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 7:33 PM UTC
Four hundred words.
An army equipped for battle.
An arsenal fit for war.
But alas,
That is not what the power of words is for.
Confusion and mayhem are the devil's doing,
The same are the Lord's eschewing.
Yet, for what cause are we using?
As words broil above the bent brow,
An acrid substance is sent down
And spewed from the mouth to destroy.
To destroy.
To destroy.
If words could sprout wings
Would a dove soar from your garden,
Or would a dragon roar from your dark den?
Words could set free, if you hearken;
But would you condemn men, or give pardon?
And if you doubt the depth of this which I write,
Recall the tale of Edmond Dantès' plight.
If you knew words could mold hearts like clay...
What would you say?
Your words can frame a day;
To deplore
Or to enjoy.
To enjoy.
So rare, yet so common.
No other creature on Earth wields words,
While we waste so many so often.
We become hardened,
While our mental fortitude is softened
To the likes of cotton.
Feeding from the bottom,
Surfeiting on forbidden fruit gone rotten.
In a radioactive wasteland
Where toxins blossom.
We harvest poison petals to season food that tastes bland.
With withering, quivering, hand
We feed our neighbor.
We don't sense the flavor,
But still savor.
A cyclical process,
Implementing the secret of conquest:
To desensitize.
Because, all the while, we do not realize
We are blindfolded.
Blindfolded.
Blindfolded.
A spring spouting tainted waters
Sits amidst our town.
We gather around
And guzzle pounds
Till we nearly drown.
You can hear the sound
Of the concoction roiling
In the aching bellies
As people lay sprawled and toiling.
Survive today,
You may.
And thrive nevermore.
Thrive nevermore.
Nevermore.
Begin again,
My friend.
Examine your quiver,
Is your bow for a hero
Or for a killer?
I beseech you,
Enter the palace
And drink of the chalice.
Learn to live in a world
Of goodness and balance.
And forget not,
A word spoken
Set the worlds in motion.
Do you still doubt the power of words?
Whence come your society's norms?
Or know you not how created things gained their forms? ...
If you persist to deny,
If you refuse to be swayed
About the power of words
You will yet believe,
When you've felt its blade.
When you've felt its blade.
Its blade.
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC