"howto" poems - Hello Poetry

the howto is a mighty force it tells us with authority how to best navigate the world appropriate to the occasion from love to cars to finances it guides us to the proper steps and yet it somehow fails to say why if we follow the directions we feel like children rather than adults why when all wisdom has been eagerly applied we still don't know why our hands and feet are tied

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Mar 14, 2015

Mar 14, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC

wwhoelbling

THE MIGHTY HOWTO

the howto is a mighty force it tells us with authority how to best navigate the world appropriate to the occasion from love to cars to finances it guides us to the proper steps and yet it somehow fails to say why if we follow the directions we feel like children rather than adults why when all wisdom has been eagerly applied we still don't know why our hands and feet are tied

24

NEXT YEAR next year is a whisper on the horizon; out of reach, out of earshot, too surreal to imagine but it's written all in uppercase, bold, and it screams from the paper, punctuated by a string of invisible question marks no longer secured in the safety net of adolescence, set loose into the world with basic knowledge: how to ride a bike, howto drive a car, how to add, subtract, multiply, and divide, but what does it help? what does it help when there's a largely uncharted world waiting to be explored? when there's anxiety, and fear, and a lack of confidence to hold one back from exploring it? when there are so many options, but none of them appeal? it does not help, and that's the thing; we're unleashed into adulthood, equipped with nothing more than a flimsy sword, swinging blindly but making no contact soldiers fighting with no cause, burning embers that never grow into flames, caterpillars that have not completely broken free from their cocoons; we are foolish, and naive, frightened of a world we know little about what i am to do, they ask, but how do i answer a question i can't even comprehend? NEXT YEAR is not real, it can't be, not when it makes my head spin and my stomach twist and my brain explode it cannot be it cannot be it cannot be but it is

0

Sep 18, 2015

Sep 18, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC

willa-ivy

next year

NEXT YEAR next year is a whisper on the horizon; out of reach, out of earshot, too surreal to imagine but it's written all in uppercase, bold, and it screams from the paper, punctuated by a string of invisible question marks no longer secured in the safety net of adolescence, set loose into the world with basic knowledge: how to ride a bike, howto drive a car, how to add, subtract, multiply, and divide, but what does it help? what does it help when there's a largely uncharted world waiting to be explored? when there's anxiety, and fear, and a lack of confidence to hold one back from exploring it? when there are so many options, but none of them appeal? it does not help, and that's the thing; we're unleashed into adulthood, equipped with nothing more than a flimsy sword, swinging blindly but making no contact soldiers fighting with no cause, burning embers that never grow into flames, caterpillars that have not completely broken free from their cocoons; we are foolish, and naive, frightened of a world we know little about what i am to do, they ask, but how do i answer a question i can't even comprehend? NEXT YEAR is not real, it can't be, not when it makes my head spin and my stomach twist and my brain explode it cannot be it cannot be it cannot be but it is

33

i'm in the cafe sipping godless chai. writing novels that stall out. bending spoons to amuse my dauntless pride... eating pate'. stripping frog legs to the bone white... dipping tombstones into papier mache' no doubt - vexing the reaper... as i resume my parlay with an errant Muse. my Taj Mahal made of sugar cubes gleaming like a monument to a blank page. on a table at a booth.

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May 6, 2018

May 6, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC

third-eye-candy

HowTo Draw A Blank Without A Compass.

i'm in the cafe sipping godless chai. writing novels that stall out. bending spoons to amuse my dauntless pride... eating pate'. stripping frog legs to the bone white... dipping tombstones into papier mache' no doubt - vexing the reaper... as i resume my parlay with an errant Muse. my Taj Mahal made of sugar cubes gleaming like a monument to a blank page. on a table at a booth.

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