"fessed" poems
A whipped plane, plain to see with the windows up, but down, to be downed by the splendor encompassed only with this type of vastness.
Sitting for hours, silence not for naught but traversing efforts toward closeness to the bringer of Peace. The only.
Dreams are heavy, and comforting when the roads journey takes more tolls and toiling on our souls. We disregard for a while the sipped perfection from whence we came, glamoured for justice to who we became.
Trivial matters none the less, uncovered near Hermit's nest. Blessed to bless, fessed to confess.
A priest to stare, iconic to share a truth-unfair to the tune of the wind in our softened hair.
"As a child I spoke like a child, felt as a child does, but now that I'm older I fear that all's not lost." Once a brain, now to complain of a surrounding so deafened, and dream-less. I take it back; for when dreams strive in equal relation to Justice, the days of golden mussels, and embraced lovingness from our soul's longing will reap.
To be.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 7:45 PM UTC
Would it **** if you agreed?
That we’re no more than just greed
Would it raise up the stake; if
you had fessed up all your mistakes ?
I shall love you not!
For everything you are not
But given that we have shared
The sorrows and mischiefs we beard
I learned that you are a riddle
Waiting for someone to fiddle
Through the devious games you played
I went along, with no reason to fade
Perhaps it was not your game
You’re not the one to blame
Your words.. were they true?
The effects of them, do you have any clue?
Remember the interests we had?
Of Sophie and Howl, how sad.
It has come to this,
Where I want to hit you with my fist
Remember how you strived to impress
Should I start to repress than address?
Of how hollow your promises were
Pretend all you wish, that’s how I’d refer
Perhaps you considered it just a fling
To me we were not anything
Not through the things we told
At nights I felt so cold
For at least I state faithfully
That you were the one who embraced me fully.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 8:17 AM UTC
I have been pushed and have taken the plunge
I have tripped in the wandering woods
I have hunted and preyed in the night...
Would you believe me if I said
I Loved it all even the fight?
through blood and shed
no warmth over head
fake food for hollow days
streams from your eyes
twinkle me blue star gaze
Worn soles and old friends
Kitchen fires blurred vision
packed bags long nights
Instruments of each others
whipped delusions and delights
Did we choose to or were we chosen?
Will we be forever broken?
I've been pushed and taken the plunge
I've been trapped in the wandering woods.
I have hunted prey in the night...
Would you believe me if I said
I Loved it all despite...?
Jump Frogger on board between wafer thin pulses
A glowing screen a familiar name, impulses
either syntax err or Zapp Rodger pair
silicone crystal we chat via air
Space travel on hope floats to unravel
conversation R We compackable
these moments like death tolls
add up 2, Are you faithful!?
Heart (pause) Jaw (falls)
Do you mean belief in the Unseen?
Could we ever take it back?
Does Love have boundaries?
I know my emotions are supernatural
like Oceans the fish within can not feel it all
These notions Man I Fessed into the actual
better question; Is my mission honest and factual?
My answer is Yes!
Love is the longest promise you could ever break.
emotionally contractual!
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 8:06 PM UTC
buckle to the times
The young man finds a long chapter ended, awaits another
Knowing the wind blasts aught of charity
Ennui cavorts random and alienates the helper
Many trapped in posts akin to sinking, heavy blocks
Till one dash of black wave must destroy the stagnant water pool.
bye, little bird
Wish well her of shy mind on this strange and hasty trip
To impress a panel to make an odyssey out of learning
Suture memory with anticipated creme de menthes
And liars fall flat, who faltered never 'fessed
Upon big, iron wing you fly--bye, little bird.
hard
Like a Dutch fan with the top of russet, critic to the hug
She comes from so far to meet the southern sky
A little late, but always arriving in white: trio on the green
Sturdy bedrock steadfast in the spiraling crash; salt on lips
In the clasp of beach blues, the sun shines hard.
Grownup offspring do move on, slips of life
Some attend not rushed meteors; start living.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
*We were poor Christmases would come and go.
But what with ten kids and my dad's Meager paycheck.
There just was not enough money to go around.
Especially for frivolous christmas presents.
I remember that year when it all changed though
so long ago.
The kids at school got spanking new
scooters and new racing bikes.
But my dad had attended a rummage sale.
At the church bazaar.
Where he normally bought our clothes.
But he struck a deal on large Hoop and stick
from the Victorian era.
It was not a bike but it was a Christmas present.
I was delighted I practiced with it doing swift turns
fast Burst down the road stopping on a sixpence.
The stick was like an orchestra conductors Batton.
I could make that hoop do anything.
I took it to school four miles away every single day.
I kept it within the bike sheds
with all the gleaming sporty bikes.
I did not have the money to buy a padlock.
One day I went after last class to get my Hoop and stick.
And to my horror
It was gone.
I was inconsolable.
Weeping like a baby.
Then the police car came
The lady cop was sweet.
I'm sorry bout the hoop thing kid
I sobbed so badly
Stop crying she said
In an attempt to console me
But I sobbed harder.
Look it's not good in cases like these she fessed up.
I am not going to blow smoke up your *** kid.
It's unlikely to be retrieved.
No witnesses no fingerprints nothing
A clean heist.
But if it does
The next forty eight hours are vital.
If it shows I will personally
run it home for you in the squad car.
But I just wailed harder.
*** she said why are whining still?
I said sobbing the words spurting out staccato.
That's ...sob ..all well. Sob ...and good
But how the **** am I going to get home tonight.*
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 11:16 PM UTC
no shortage of familiar metier real
(material) aye attest
welling up within thy breast
merely a predicament how to winnow
junk bonded barnacled
accretion encrusted
amidst gems buried
within treasure chest,
yet vigilant to sift,
viz figurative fine tooth comb
uprooting excrescence laired plethora
incognito, sans faux
couture doggerel habiliment dressed
necessitating painstaking
poetic rock climbing
ala scaling Mount Everest
imbedding, hooking, grappling
fingered duple crampons
aye con fessed
to myself, the futility
to wrest Shakespearean nuggets,
which analogy hyperbole you guessed
nor does modesty allow me feeble effort
(trite) on par with August bard,
who would rank him,
the highest allotted value
upon assigned (absolute)
value of playing card,
hence tis the gold standard thee
verse a tile scribe based
at Stratford on Avon
this here wordsmith wields
his own literary might always on guard
to stave reprehensible tar tarred plaque
like encrustation glued hard
akin to a geode methodical
mother lode extraction jarred
by the slightest distraction,
thus with bold
ness sigh hermetically
seal off every cerebral fold
vectors against superfluous mind chatter
can upend fragile tenuous hold
when merest wisp of nearly
elusive mental thread escapes,
i feign scold
ding this paperback
bestseller wannabe with told
cha so Harris, thus
keep dreaming envisioning
an green acred Edenic demesne
sprawling across wide webbed wold.
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 1:50 PM UTC
(a lighter piece sup *** wit tree)
'm, oh yes mud hum,
who hoop fully iz zaftig
and/or mister
Jack Rabbit, whoever wig
gulls or crinkles their nose
creating a lil whirligig
at this bit of flummery unrig
yule lated impossible
to make cogent
and/or tangential with trig
perhaps best red
after taking a swig
of vintage carrot juice with a sprig
of favorite herb, more'n enough
to slake thirsting herd
at the yearly
Peter Rabbit shindig,
which senseless literary rig
ma roll even Bugs Bunny
trump petting donned Taj Mahal
swiftly tailored hare
reed styled periwig,
(would turnip his nose),
button size or overbig,
yet all Joe King aside,
and please do not think me a ****
excepting (Trix are for kids, eh...?)
this intentional faux paw, an
distress signal tis ideally geared
for a Unitarian
herbalist hook can
transform this pro
fessed human imposter,
(who in truth got cursed
as a **** sapien
by Bunny Foo Foo with elan)
particularly in the guise of Han
nub bull the cannibal,
(whose unisexual name Jan)
also doubles up
as my birth month
dwells in Lan
zing, Michigan, and earns
keeps employed as a nan
knee, yet experiences inner pan
dumb moan he yum,
(seized with grippe to dig
in Farmer Brown's garden), and ran
like the dickens
all the way to Tran
sill vane ya leaping
across Atlantic Ocean forced
to adopt the lifestyle of a Van
dull with razor sharp buck teeth.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 1:22 AM UTC
no shortage of familiar metier real
(material) aye attest
welling up within thy breast
merely a predicament how to winnow
junk bonded barnacled
accretion encrusted
amidst gems buried
within treasure chest,
yet vigilant to sift,
viz figurative fine tooth comb
uprooting excrescence laired plethora
incognito, sans faux
couture doggerel habiliment dressed
necessitating painstaking
poetic rock climbing
ala scaling Mount Everest
imbedding, hooking, grappling
fingered duple crampons
aye con fessed
to myself, the futility
to wrest Shakespearean nuggets,
which analogy hyperbole you guessed
nor does modesty allow me feeble effort
(trite) on par with August bard,
who would rank him,
the highest allotted value
upon assigned (absolute)
value of playing card,
hence tis the gold standard thee
verse a tile scribe based
at Stratford on Avon
this here wordsmith wields
his own literary might always on guard
to stave reprehensible tar tarred plaque
like encrustation glued hard
akin to a geode methodical
mother lode extraction jarred
by the slightest distraction,
thus with bold
ness sigh hermetically
seal off every cerebral fold
vectors against superfluous mind chatter
can upend fragile tenuous hold
when merest wisp of nearly
elusive mental thread escapes,
i feign scold
ding this paperback
bestseller wannabe with told
cha so Harris, thus
keep dreaming envisioning
an green acred Edenic demesne
sprawling across wide webbed wold.
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 1:49 PM UTC
These days I lay
on the bed at night
with my eyes open and bare
to think of notions that move
me to compose resolutions
too small to recall in the morning. And
when I sit here, at
the keyboard, try to see where it
was when I was lying awake
on my bed. Not sleeping but
seeing in the dark what moved
beneath my daily routined thoughts.
Things I need to think, need to
feel when rather I’m lost in oceans of vast
possibilities. I am when I lay
there and I can think of universes where
love is not lost when she is con-
fessed and I can have what I want but I
would not lie here, then.
© 2004
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC