"humoring" poems
Of serene eyes that follow gently
the illicit pill she could not let go
it was heavy as the waters pulling her inside
serenading her with an estranged voice
coming from within —
her minimizing the desire to let it out
as the sun quiets down
and the gibbous moon exhibiting itself at night,
resisting the waves occurring —
as if it loathed her whole being
of her justness and the absence of these causes
her grieving and the sirens waltzing,
talking through an absentminded eye
eyeing her soul
finding love that seizes it
but hers were two feet and one mouth to breathe in
even in all shades of blue,
she can get a glimpse of the dark hue
illuminating the downside of the ocean
pulling her, wrecking her soul.
Redemption does not lie —
humoring her with plainly just truth
craving for the applause of the moon
only observing the depth of the ocean
eating the once alive soul
of her saving her last breath,
chiming in with the conversation, she
once had with him.
It could have been nice the resistance
he once had — to throw himself out
to the beauty of his light that shed
her whole body
he once was able to have
and he stayed there, eyed her the whole time
being eaten on the lonesome of the night
for he himself, shading all the blueness
like a requiem for the dreams
she kept on having
like a composition giving life
to new generations, he was still on
a token and a curse, and he let her be —
in all shades of blue.
Jul 11, 2022
Jul 11, 2022 at 5:21 AM UTC
Stop humoring me
If you don't really care,
Because I'm wasting my time --
Wasting my life,
And I can't afford any more breaks.
Anymore breaks and I'll shatter,
Don't you understand that?
I'm just trying to find a clear image
In this distorted blur;
I want a clear reflection
In this dark pool.
So, take off your mask,
Because I'm tired --
Exhausted -- from all these masquerades.
I just want to dance barefoot in the sand...
Do you want to dance barefoot in the sand?
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
What joy to remove the glasses,
both the reflection of midday sun on back of purring Sports Utility
and the deep-cut wrinkles in Mr. Rhyne as he walks pretentious Scottish terrier
blur.
The sun's beams take a drink allowing the world to settle
into a point-blank water color -- lovely, blotchy, tame.
Glasses left in passenger seat, shoes laced, shorts of mesh,
a sweet breeze makes the leaves fall -- leaves I don't see,
but hear, relate.
Knee joints slow to start -- oh to be a cartilage machine --
Trees turn from shadow to canopy to cathedral
as the miles pass, as sweat rivers and empties into my eyes
the vision blurs further.
An elderly couple, I tell by their outline, their faces little more
than dabs of paint, wish me a good afternoon.
A nod acknowledging their passing, a wave to say hello/goodbye
and a thought -- will my knees feel this way forever.
A few miles more, the chalky white of eyes turn blood red
by streaming salt; I see even less.
But under another cathedral of trees, I witness the darkness bend.
Shadows twist -- not humoring the wind -- no, to bring attention
to my thinning shadow, and a question, *is this movement out of respect,
or are the shadows making room for me?*
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 7:36 PM UTC
Ensconced in the wealth of my apprehension,
I pass by life’s each station.
Dipping myself into the pool of happiness, little by little,
Almost as if I am scared.
Scared to be drenched in it,
As the vicissitudes awaits me.
The vicious circle as they call ‘life’
Many times I ponder who creates it.
Gaining some perspective to apparate out of these barricades,
Believing in the reality of that pleasant moment.
Humoring it even if it is just a charade.
Because for that moment, all of it is permanent.
Therefore getting acquainted to the permanence of that happiness,
Bursting the bubble of ignorance.
Decreasing my wealth of apprehension,
I embrace each moment sans any question.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 5:04 AM UTC
I won't say
that you're
“the one”
But I remember asking God
for black skin, red hair
and freckles
I mean
To be beautifully black
with hair adorned with fire
And exquisitely freckled skin
Ought to be a crime.
It's like God kissed you twice
And embellished you with the sun
Before sending you to earth
A king
To me
we were destined to be friends
you, my dear are a triple threat
it is hard not to get caught up
in the redness of your hair
and your big-lipped smile
when we are together
I try not to stare like a fool
But **** Black man
must you be so fine.
You remind me
of my secret conversations with God
you are the image
of him
shaking his head at my request
but humoring me anyways
because He loves me so much
and while you’re here in my life
I am going to enjoy it
Every single moment, Red
Can I call you mine, Red?
as in
"My Red Bearded King"
Can I hold your hand
And kiss your lips
In appreciation of the Poet’s skilled hand
A ballad
Beautifully composed by the Creator
To be read by my lips
Slowly and intentionally
Opening my heart up
To every possibility of you
I won't say that you're
"the one"
But you can be
If you want
Nov 28, 2021
Nov 28, 2021 at 12:25 PM UTC
Tim sounds nice. I mean reads nice. By what you described, he seems like he treats you alright. Rock n' roll. Movin' on. Proud of you.
Sorry he found that letter I wrote you a few weeks ago. Though it means a lot you kept it. Aren't remnants of past lovers interesting? It's not enough for us to take pieces of each other as we press forward, but we also have to leave little trinkets to remind of the good, the bad, and indifferent times.
Tara left her favorite burnt, metallic necklace with a blue buddha charm embedded in the carpet when I lived at 2307. Thousands of hairpins were hidden throughout the place when Sam and I split. You threw that gypsy bracelet in the grass by the streetlight -- the one I got you in Colorado.
Karen didn't leave much with me. Instead certain shirts and pajama pants of mine -- became hers. She put a smell on them. I still can't wear the clothes; though I also can't get rid of them. I'm a hoarder. Keep all the memories for myself.
Do you ever dream of me?
No, I haven't seen Easter Island again. I looked Sunday night at O'Brien's. I imagine she was in one of those modern restaurants -- Japanese trees, Muzak -- with her white napkin folded neatly in her lap, drinking ice water, and humoring some fast-talking crazer who has a snowball's chance in hell with her. If I ever find the energy, I'd like to be that crazer.
Yes, I'm still night driving. I've got a big adventure planned for tomorrow. I'll tell you all about it. Tell me something honest in your next letter. Something you're afraid to tell me.
I'll learn to accept Tim. I promise.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
Will you lend me a pair of scissors?
So we can cut to the chase.
It seems you are always turning on music.
Just to dance around our problems.
I am through with rolling the dice.
I am done humoring all your games.
Stop leaving me hanging like a thread.
Will you lend me a pair of scissors?
So i can cut myself loose and be happy again.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
A hero
in his own consciousness
for the world that exists
only in his reveries.
A warrior
so vigilant and chivalrous
in the village
behind his eye lids.
A king
so kind yet mildly imperious
ruling all
inside his land of dreams.
A drowning member
of the proletariat class
humoring all
in the world he walks.
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 3:24 PM UTC
and it all has come to this
poor working girls of the world
lethargic
psuedo sensual
gyrations
to appease
sleepless
pigs
my money is your aim
the way you whisper in my ear
and wherever your hands have
been
your touch is still
feminine
no mind games
no third dates
no humoring of parents
& you get to see it all
but it still has its price
there's no hiding the scar
and now we all know what you've done
and while you try to
tease
and please
i'd ask you up from your knees
and give you all ones you wanted
if you promised to spend it on your son
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 3:20 AM UTC
My then boyfriend
Now husband
Never forgave you for putting your hand on my thigh,
Casually mentioning the ******* beaches in the south of France.
Your daughter needed a chaperone on your family’s upcoming vacation.
You went and I stayed of course
The ******* beach all the poorer for my absence.
I am not the kind of girl who
Finds herself at Disney Paris at the end of the movie.
That’s not the way this movie ends, anyhow.
12 years later
One lung lighter
Tens of millions denser
and poised to send your daughter
to Dartmouth
Or Tulane
Or anywhere she’d rather.
She’ll have everything the world could offer her
In exchange for her father.
A parent shouldn’t have to know.
So I forgave you the hand thing
And the lewdness of a drunken survivor
Poised on the lip of an ever-widening hole.
If you asked to take me now,
I think I’d go.
I’ve always wanted to see the Louvre.
I can almost hear it:
The clicking heels and murmurs,
Your overwrought humanities professor explanations of this or that and me humoring you with appropriate reverence as always,
And the dead certain silence of the thing we will not speak about,
Pointedly conspicuous in its absence,
Filling the space between.
Feb 23, 2022
Feb 23, 2022 at 2:43 AM UTC
And it's pretty cool
when you're you and I'm me
though I don't know what to say
what could I?
I want to,
say anything at all
if it'll make me feel better about wasting your time,
making you dislike me more
each second that passes
I can only assume
that you are merely humoring my childish attempts and desires
though I'm not entirely sure what they even are,
what I want from you
what you mean
but it's still nice
very enjoyable
so it can be allowed to survive
at least for a while
until it dies
decomposes and I'm forced to face truths
the kinds I hate
though I also want them
because you are just far too intimidating
for me to be around for too long.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 3:04 PM UTC
Such a shame, shame, shame
How much
shame can I endure,
is it possible to
die
from it,
because Shame
is killing me.
It's just
there's so much of it,
from
what I look like,
to what I believe,
to how I feel,
to what I like,
to what I dare to claim for myself.
Shame has seeped
into every pore of me,
and shuts me up,
and if you think I am
dishonest,
it's only because of
Shame.
You see,
Shame is there
every day,
loud, loud, loud
always yelling at me
always mocking me.
Shame reprimands:
*How
Dare
you talk?
How
Dare
you take up space?
How
Dare
you desire?
How
Dare
you expect better?
How
Dare
you continue to exist?*
Shame taunts:
*They will all find out
how
Bad
you are
how
you've never wanted
to be
Good.
They will all find out
that you are a fraud
that you are a liar,
that you know
nothing,
that you are a
racist,
that you are
unaccountable,
that you are
actually White,
that you are
transphobic,
that you are
callous,
that you are
cold,
that you don’t
care,
that you don’t
feel,
that you break
boundaries,
that you break
hearts.*
Shame is there to whisper to me
even on the good days:
*you know,
they already know,
they are only humoring you,
you know,
the only thing you'll
ever
be good for
is to be a blank slate
for people's emotions.
You can't even do that
right.*
Shame
is an ice pick
chip, chip chipping away
at any worth I cultivate.
Shame
is fingers
pick, pick, picking away
at anything that dares to grow into goodness.
Shame
is killing me.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 12:11 AM UTC
I'm so tired.
And it's so late.
My eyes are blurred.
Slower.
I'm skipping letters,
Or just writing the wrong ones.
But I know there's still something to say.
Some weight before sleep can lift me.
She texted me this thing.
A guy she was hanging out with.
How he was such an artist.
I immediately thought he was a piece of ****
He had taken her phone and
God knows why,
Was texting me.
Didn't know it was a guy.
Thought I was humoring
One of her girlfiends.
He tried to convince me
Raleigh was the "cultural capitol of the south."
"If I could go anywhere, I'd go to Savannah."
"...nah."
That ******* line. "Nah (my opinion is more valid than yours."
****
Any guy that had Jessie's phone
Would have been a ****
Because I saw that girl one day,
She's never
Out of my head.
God.
Three years.
Or two?
Still.
Two years and nothing happened.
Nothing even came close to happening.
I can take a hint but,
Is she even that good of a friend?
Why?
The hell am I upset of this?
I'm planning some crazy trip.
Risking the life of my car
(she's on her last cylinder)
And...
I can't think of a good reason.
She doesn't even like me.
I'm not sure I even like her.
Unless of course I'm stupidly in love
with a person I've had two years to
barely know.
And all that was denial.
Grasping at reasonable straws.
God I'm lost.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC
You're about to reach terminal velocity
With the biggest grin on your face
Symbolically giving your dad the ultimate middle finger.
The only way you know how,
Plummeting to the earth like a raindrop
I mean, after all,
You are the rain.
But there you go
No fear, no anxiety,
Just weightlessness
For a few seconds, maybe more
How should I know,
I've never jumped out of a plane before.
If I know you at all,
You'll be thinking of him the whole way down.
Wish I could be there.
You'll be truly happy, if only for a moment
Because I know,
This is the last way to feel close to him anymore,
To flirt with death,
To peek through the curtains to the underworld,
To try to catch a glimpse, or maybe a shiver,
An impression of his essence, his soul.
You might even judge yourself for humoring such whimsy.
But don't you remember,
*Those who shun the whimsy of things
Will experience rigor mortis before death.*
So flirt with death if you must.
Do every stupid thing,
But please promise to come back.
Fight.
Purgatory was never meant to be your home.
Escape.
Don't relent when the maze locks you in.
Fight of your demons, love,
In whatever ways you deem necessary.
Live.
Wander back
And flash me that tortured half-grin.
*What do I think of that?
I think it could make the world a better place.*
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 1:23 AM UTC
when it comes to humoring
me
by name
my memories
draw a blank.
I had a daughter
and three
sons.
my hands
could’ve been
the hands
of an umpire.
in the untouched church
of suicide
was the untouched
church
of **********
it’s like seeing
a television
on tv. the comedians
and their failed
sisters.
do your thoughts
still take
the temperature
of god?
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
Do yourself a favor
stop caring so much
It doesn't matter anymore.
Start thinking, stop fearing.
Start dreaming, change reality.
Start talking, inspire hope.
Do yourself a favor,
stop pretending it matters,
start realizing it's only an optical illusion.
Life is a sequence of failures.
Horrible things happen,
To beautiful people,
For ugly reasons.
Do yourself a favor,
stop humoring reality,
start creating clarity through your actions.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
from Misreckon (December 2014)
http://www.lulu.com/shop/barton-smock/misreckon/paperback/product-21954246.html
untitled (v)
I do worry that this love for all things will keep from you the name of the creature dreaming
cessation psalm
the less said about god’s addiction to brevity
as heard
by the angel
of birth
entry psalm
I can’t speak
to how
the form
my father’s
form
mimics
is able
to take
from lightning
a licking
while whaling
on the snout
of what
was born
muzzled
then sewn
for safekeeping
into the belly
of a punching
bag…
(I am not
the one
my meditation
needs) violence
is my brother’s
music
inquiry psalm
when it comes to humoring
me
by name
my memories
draw a blank.
I had a daughter
and three
sons.
my hands
could’ve been
the hands
of an umpire.
in the untouched church
of suicide
was the untouched
church
of **********
it’s like seeing
a television
on tv. the comedians
and their failed
sisters.
do your thoughts
still take
the temperature
of god?
anterior
three sisters
old enough to date
enter a house
their father
can’t find. a bit of my mother
is seen
in this woman
going out of her way
to give satan
directions. a drug dog
on its last legs
inspects a used
vacuum cleaner, the lawnmower
of lost
men.
site
I lasso the calf just before it makes the ocean.
overhead, a helicopter
from my past
spins.
my son says
to himself
this isn’t
your father’s
sandcastle.
luck is the stone
that marks
the dream. dream
the stone
that marks
the dead.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
rubbery stretch of
imagination,
color: teal blue.
a head of helium.
convex face interspersed
with a thumb-size patch
of ice (the sun).
teal blue sight, sees
lavender grey clouds.
aqua blue sky sees a
gorgeous accent, to the
inevitable ceiling of its
height.
blindingly smooth slides,
and drifts--humoring the
wind to stifled whistles.
then the slow deflation,
the sky's naming process--
a letter at a time.
the ground's map promising
the burden of objectified
detail more and more.
till a teal blue balloon
got stuck to the antler
of a seasoned oak tree.
clumsily waving its full
name in a breeze.
incessantly asking:
what's in a name?
the little boy who let
me go, had one too.
what's in a name?
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
Stuffed animals and posters of Corbin Bleu
could have never prepared me for this moment.
Your hands touch me back like the pictures never could.
Your deliberate and calculated movements tell me
your experience is not just limited to teddy bears.
My arms are not as adept as yours,
not as practiced.
I have spaghetti limbs and wobbly knees.
You say I’m a fast learner but something tells me you're humoring my fumbles,
my awkward hands, and hesitant tongue.
You maneuver your frozen hands
under my Hello Kitty graphic tee.
My newly awakened ******* are firm yet flexible
like buds before a blossom.
Be gentle, the buds are fragile.
You fiddle with my zipper and reach into my daisy print *******
These petals are not yet ready to be plucked.
Not ready to be stolen and scattered in
a game of “she loves me, she loves me not”
But I cannot seem to release
the one word that could save me.
I am quite literally petrified,
suspended in this moment like
one of those prehistoric dragonflies in amber.
My brain has called a moratorium on movement.
It waits for a moment of safety
for my wings to start beating again.
You will smoke me like one of your cigarettes.
Twisting me in your yellow fingers.
Taking drags of my innocence.
Until I am used and smooshed into the sidewalk.
I will not realize this until later.
Because I am somehow addicted to your type of nicotine.
Tears become crystallized in their ducts.
One touch could shatter me.
I plaster a smile on my face,
but even concrete crumbles.
My face shakes.
My mask falls.
The facade you wanted to **** disappears.
I am more vulnerable than I ever have been
Apr 19, 2019
Apr 19, 2019 at 4:49 AM UTC