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Words
"imposition" poems
It was hard to miss Jerry in the corner holding court over the bran muffin. Flurries of judgement and wisdom flying across coffee dappled pages as he sentenced a large cup of Paruvian Dark Roast to be ****** 7 am Dan never flinched steeling his tenured chair at a spot one section of stir sticks away calculably just out of reach of the regularly scheduled tantrum. An auburn-haired newbie fanes camoflage peeking over two pages of Obituaries she never intended to read. Her raised and nearly detached eyebrows hover above the dateline like a magic trick. And on every table fall scattered leaves of press print trees unsorted and littered with intent by careless absorbers of trivia. Disconnected ear-budded footnotes of humanity see nothing hear nothing using the disarrayed World News as enormous coasters unmoved by hyper-ventilating compulsives pushing panic buttons through desperate quests to uncover one alphabetically organized set of local news. Of the papers not strewn the remnant holds anxious on a distant wall a throng of flopping rabbit-eared step children dangling precariously from unaccomodating magazine racks like smoky orphans from windows in a fiery building. Disordered. Disrespected. Discarded...words are Jews in the holocaust. Death of a voice. We are irreverent in our silence diminishing genius through apathy put off by the imposition to be challenged choosing disposable principles above responsible knowledge. Everything is disposable - cameras, cars, relationships, loyalty, babies...and wisdom - crumpling Pulitzer prize authors and discarding WW2 veterans just to get to the cartoons.
0
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
drumhound
Daily News and Disrespect
It was hard to miss Jerry in the corner holding court over the bran muffin. Flurries of judgement and wisdom flying across coffee dappled pages as he sentenced a large cup of Paruvian Dark Roast to be ****** 7 am Dan never flinched steeling his tenured chair at a spot one section of stir sticks away calculably just out of reach of the regularly scheduled tantrum. An auburn-haired newbie fanes camoflage peeking over two pages of Obituaries she never intended to read. Her raised and nearly detached eyebrows hover above the dateline like a magic trick. And on every table fall scattered leaves of press print trees unsorted and littered with intent by careless absorbers of trivia. Disconnected ear-budded footnotes of humanity see nothing hear nothing using the disarrayed World News as enormous coasters unmoved by hyper-ventilating compulsives pushing panic buttons through desperate quests to uncover one alphabetically organized set of local news. Of the papers not strewn the remnant holds anxious on a distant wall a throng of flopping rabbit-eared step children dangling precariously from unaccomodating magazine racks like smoky orphans from windows in a fiery building. Disordered. Disrespected. Discarded...words are Jews in the holocaust. Death of a voice. We are irreverent in our silence diminishing genius through apathy put off by the imposition to be challenged choosing disposable principles above responsible knowledge. Everything is disposable - cameras, cars, relationships, loyalty, babies...and wisdom - crumpling Pulitzer prize authors and discarding WW2 veterans just to get to the cartoons.
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62
my Mumbai woman ~~~ to my Indian poets & friends all be advised, my piety, my muse, has decamped me for weeks on end to your yon far and fair lands the red dot beside her electronic signature a sign of her absence, seemingly to have been magically transferred to her forehead so perhaps my love poetry will become absent, reticent, quiescent or perhaps it will build brighter, effervescing in my very own Taj Mahal, an edifice built by great love past and yet ever still present, for I testify, I have many times it, seen imbued, lovingly observed between a certain men and women here writ large, who there permanent reside, and in my heart as well spend a minute many, all my fingers and toes employed how many, so many, Indian fellow travelers on poetry lanes and yellow dust encrusted roads, in cities unpronounceable that this illiterate literary fool has come to know and multi-arm entwine to you, I commend and command to you her safety, asking immodestly for an imposition, an interference pray to the local gods, your heads of state and highest nature's, that they be her beside, her unobserved safe-keepers, as she treks your country's Northern pastures let her skin glow from your brighter rays, eyes even wider~wiser opened by the newness of your antiquity, your glorious, poetic place in our world of words
0
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
nat-lipstadt
my Mumbai woman (2016)
my Mumbai woman ~~~ to my Indian poets & friends all be advised, my piety, my muse, has decamped me for weeks on end to your yon far and fair lands the red dot beside her electronic signature a sign of her absence, seemingly to have been magically transferred to her forehead so perhaps my love poetry will become absent, reticent, quiescent or perhaps it will build brighter, effervescing in my very own Taj Mahal, an edifice built by great love past and yet ever still present, for I testify, I have many times it, seen imbued, lovingly observed between a certain men and women here writ large, who there permanent reside, and in my heart as well spend a minute many, all my fingers and toes employed how many, so many, Indian fellow travelers on poetry lanes and yellow dust encrusted roads, in cities unpronounceable that this illiterate literary fool has come to know and multi-arm entwine to you, I commend and command to you her safety, asking immodestly for an imposition, an interference pray to the local gods, your heads of state and highest nature's, that they be her beside, her unobserved safe-keepers, as she treks your country's Northern pastures let her skin glow from your brighter rays, eyes even wider~wiser opened by the newness of your antiquity, your glorious, poetic place in our world of words
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60
in the river of good company ***I dedicate this poem to Mr. Harlon Rivers, one of the best poets (here) and from his good company, i could drink all day and never be quenched*** ~ Preface sometime, the heart wants it wants, denial, temporarily from your vocabulary, excised sometimes, beauty keelhauls you, gets you awestruck inspired, then arrogance overcomes the brilliance of common sense and you go ahead and mess with perfection despite every sensor flashing uh oh, duh, oh no, fool on the premises, lockdown needed! do believe this condition can be found in the medical books under I, for Inspiration, Incantation, or S for Stupidifacation my heart wants to write a poem, cause I was a witness, sitting twenty feet from the heavenly crime scene, and every intonation swept my brain into that secret place, when I heard KD Lang singing "The Valley"^ ~~~ in the river of good company simple sentiment but good god all I ever wanted and so oft lacked such was my fate, one I made, had plenty good words for boon companions, the occasional touch of a woman rippling waves cross my face, a love lapping slapping of concentric pebble rings, till like most good things gone good goes bad, it just happens to evaporate and you think someday, maybe, you will walk again in good company the brain says quit right here but the heart brooks no damning tantrum of sanity imposition, for those handful of deepest, not quite six feet under palpitations of insensible, cutting glimpses of that word I hate so, memories, of when you walked in good company men women no different - it is that heated aura tween bodies that confirms that you are once again a human being, just a being, temporarily enhanced, elevated, by good company so go ahead sweet talks ya, that devil id a/k/a desire, says - one more for the road can't hurt ya, write that poem - and perhaps one good man, glory hallelujah, a good woman, will read it and you can stop weeping you idiot, do it so you will be back, nuttier but nurtured, drinking from the river of good company, mouthing not even dare whispering, satisfied satiated, loving and loved ~ all reposts greatly and  grateful appreciated! 4/2/17 9:24am
0
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 9:27 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
in the river of good company
in the river of good company ***I dedicate this poem to Mr. Harlon Rivers, one of the best poets (here) and from his good company, i could drink all day and never be quenched*** ~ Preface sometime, the heart wants it wants, denial, temporarily from your vocabulary, excised sometimes, beauty keelhauls you, gets you awestruck inspired, then arrogance overcomes the brilliance of common sense and you go ahead and mess with perfection despite every sensor flashing uh oh, duh, oh no, fool on the premises, lockdown needed! do believe this condition can be found in the medical books under I, for Inspiration, Incantation, or S for Stupidifacation my heart wants to write a poem, cause I was a witness, sitting twenty feet from the heavenly crime scene, and every intonation swept my brain into that secret place, when I heard KD Lang singing "The Valley"^ ~~~ in the river of good company simple sentiment but good god all I ever wanted and so oft lacked such was my fate, one I made, had plenty good words for boon companions, the occasional touch of a woman rippling waves cross my face, a love lapping slapping of concentric pebble rings, till like most good things gone good goes bad, it just happens to evaporate and you think someday, maybe, you will walk again in good company the brain says quit right here but the heart brooks no damning tantrum of sanity imposition, for those handful of deepest, not quite six feet under palpitations of insensible, cutting glimpses of that word I hate so, memories, of when you walked in good company men women no different - it is that heated aura tween bodies that confirms that you are once again a human being, just a being, temporarily enhanced, elevated, by good company so go ahead sweet talks ya, that devil id a/k/a desire, says - one more for the road can't hurt ya, write that poem - and perhaps one good man, glory hallelujah, a good woman, will read it and you can stop weeping you idiot, do it so you will be back, nuttier but nurtured, drinking from the river of good company, mouthing not even dare whispering, satisfied satiated, loving and loved ~ all reposts greatly and  grateful appreciated! 4/2/17 9:24am
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60
Someone told me talking to women was completely different from talking to men Familial desire circumventing physical rationality I don't ******* get it Flesh is flesh There is no separation between this body and the next No delineation save for my own arbitrary ones This world is chaos bound by imposition And none of it is real I'm not even going to say middle class conceptions of family are constructs Everything is a construct Knowledge is anthropic chaos Don't pretend you can tell the difference between essential existence and our subjective reordering of boundless matter A gap does not form between a molecule of air and a molecule of flesh I am trapped in my own sensations but I am not defined by them So back to the story of material existence reduced to reproductive imperative Treating all of the other *** as a means to displace one's self beyond annihilation into temporal infinity Who ******* cares? Legacy does not carry on after death Legacy does not even carry through life Language breaks down the moment we open our mouths No one will ever view your life the way you view it Splashing through a pool, ripples morph all reflections into monstrous amalgamations Hey, tell me Do you even remember yourself that clearly? Hollow triumph, grandfather's bones in a grandfather clock ticking past twelve Sorry, I just don't see the allure of treating half the human race as a means to satiate your own lust whether physical or genealogical Or even categorising humans into binary dualisms that bored philosophers a century ago Haven't you heard? God is dead And there is no meaning to your boring male existence
0
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
mitakiharashi
anthropic chaos
Someone told me talking to women was completely different from talking to men Familial desire circumventing physical rationality I don't ******* get it Flesh is flesh There is no separation between this body and the next No delineation save for my own arbitrary ones This world is chaos bound by imposition And none of it is real I'm not even going to say middle class conceptions of family are constructs Everything is a construct Knowledge is anthropic chaos Don't pretend you can tell the difference between essential existence and our subjective reordering of boundless matter A gap does not form between a molecule of air and a molecule of flesh I am trapped in my own sensations but I am not defined by them So back to the story of material existence reduced to reproductive imperative Treating all of the other *** as a means to displace one's self beyond annihilation into temporal infinity Who ******* cares? Legacy does not carry on after death Legacy does not even carry through life Language breaks down the moment we open our mouths No one will ever view your life the way you view it Splashing through a pool, ripples morph all reflections into monstrous amalgamations Hey, tell me Do you even remember yourself that clearly? Hollow triumph, grandfather's bones in a grandfather clock ticking past twelve Sorry, I just don't see the allure of treating half the human race as a means to satiate your own lust whether physical or genealogical Or even categorising humans into binary dualisms that bored philosophers a century ago Haven't you heard? God is dead And there is no meaning to your boring male existence
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29
The sound of your voice, linguistic forte digital portrait combined, reads lyrical, like Joyce, the use of imagery - elevating the plebeian, resplendent -   the imposition sublime. Pellucid prose, tête-à-tête immersed in esoteric allusion spoken with au fait. Liberating my pedestrian inhibition, premise of surrender - adrift, desultory, delicious ambiguity. Seduction begins in the mind, assets of imagination, intellectual property; side by side: lying supine didactic invitation, in assertions of diversion; a chance to find euphoria within our reach. Linear alliteration; fulgent flowing Fumé Blanc, fire and wine private beach, rhymes of elucidation two bodies align, I will learn if you teach. Sensual epistemology, curvaceous figure of speech, the Orphic; woeful lover’s plight, a porous song recite art professor, verse confessor tutor me tonight. ©2010 & 2011 W.S Warner
0
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 11:03 AM UTC
WSWarner
Elucidation
The sound of your voice, linguistic forte digital portrait combined, reads lyrical, like Joyce, the use of imagery - elevating the plebeian, resplendent -   the imposition sublime. Pellucid prose, tête-à-tête immersed in esoteric allusion spoken with au fait. Liberating my pedestrian inhibition, premise of surrender - adrift, desultory, delicious ambiguity. Seduction begins in the mind, assets of imagination, intellectual property; side by side: lying supine didactic invitation, in assertions of diversion; a chance to find euphoria within our reach. Linear alliteration; fulgent flowing Fumé Blanc, fire and wine private beach, rhymes of elucidation two bodies align, I will learn if you teach. Sensual epistemology, curvaceous figure of speech, the Orphic; woeful lover’s plight, a porous song recite art professor, verse confessor tutor me tonight. ©2010 & 2011 W.S Warner
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42
You find yourself thinking in color. It permeates through every inch of what you know. Thoughts get processed in them and translated by it. Although I favor the one that shines most bright, I barely claim it. I lack of it. In fact, I come to deny it, to exclude it, rather than make it my own. Lets think through color. Nelson lives in the reflective imposition of it. She strips it down and eats it whole. She hugs its core and stares right at it. She owns it, unlike the string of light I keep refusing. He, she, they, constructed this. We, you, them, distort it, reshape it, bend it up, and cut it down. It is the only lineage that connects us all. Dickinson saw the strength of the grass like your mom did and with the vision you do. But, color gets lost in translation. They used Doves to instill fear and swordsmen saw Paper as a sign of truce. It hurts as well. Obsidian carries pain within. Marks on his back from a remote past, a past that is still dragged to the present. Obscure in its presence. Regarded as biologically distinct. Yet, we now know better, or pretend to. Blends. Blends in, it merges, fuses, makes new. Transforms. Distorts. She made me see the core once, and it bleeds. Not the primary but the others, from distant lands on a new canvas, filling in the outlined sketch.
0
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 6:17 AM UTC
lonelypoet
Color
You find yourself thinking in color. It permeates through every inch of what you know. Thoughts get processed in them and translated by it. Although I favor the one that shines most bright, I barely claim it. I lack of it. In fact, I come to deny it, to exclude it, rather than make it my own. Lets think through color. Nelson lives in the reflective imposition of it. She strips it down and eats it whole. She hugs its core and stares right at it. She owns it, unlike the string of light I keep refusing. He, she, they, constructed this. We, you, them, distort it, reshape it, bend it up, and cut it down. It is the only lineage that connects us all. Dickinson saw the strength of the grass like your mom did and with the vision you do. But, color gets lost in translation. They used Doves to instill fear and swordsmen saw Paper as a sign of truce. It hurts as well. Obsidian carries pain within. Marks on his back from a remote past, a past that is still dragged to the present. Obscure in its presence. Regarded as biologically distinct. Yet, we now know better, or pretend to. Blends. Blends in, it merges, fuses, makes new. Transforms. Distorts. She made me see the core once, and it bleeds. Not the primary but the others, from distant lands on a new canvas, filling in the outlined sketch.
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7
those of us in the middle muddle, do not know from sides, boundary lines, drawn by others, right-sided, left-leaning, mean nothing to us, who seek something solid upon to rest, when the clarity others profess, more than evades us, even escapes us, and the muddles of life seem to require simplest, middling answers that are unacceptably refused by grail seekers whose cause for cause, means cause to cost others regardless, for regard for the middle is disdained, by two-sided posts, the know nothings, and the know betters irony of irony, the rigidity of imposition makes me more adrift, more aimless, and the task of meandering through seems almost holy, for the obstacles of society, requirements of modern life, are so damning, wild expectations superimposed, truths not just hard to find, almost indiscernible, so I lay my pen down hard, awaiting for the whatever-while, for to return, to go walking with only the simplest grids to guide, meanderings in general directions, ahead, always ahead, keep moving, keep touching and when optimism returns, I shall be relieved once more, I shall be released once again, good words will be caught, released, returned back into the atmosphere so they will grow in size by the very act of sharing undated ————————————————- *Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there. It doesn't matter what you do, he said,* so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime. ~Ray Bradbury (Book: Fahrenheit 451)
0
Jul 17, 2023
Jul 17, 2023 at 6:14 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
My Legacy: those of us in the middle muddle
those of us in the middle muddle, do not know from sides, boundary lines, drawn by others, right-sided, left-leaning, mean nothing to us, who seek something solid upon to rest, when the clarity others profess, more than evades us, even escapes us, and the muddles of life seem to require simplest, middling answers that are unacceptably refused by grail seekers whose cause for cause, means cause to cost others regardless, for regard for the middle is disdained, by two-sided posts, the know nothings, and the know betters irony of irony, the rigidity of imposition makes me more adrift, more aimless, and the task of meandering through seems almost holy, for the obstacles of society, requirements of modern life, are so damning, wild expectations superimposed, truths not just hard to find, almost indiscernible, so I lay my pen down hard, awaiting for the whatever-while, for to return, to go walking with only the simplest grids to guide, meanderings in general directions, ahead, always ahead, keep moving, keep touching and when optimism returns, I shall be relieved once more, I shall be released once again, good words will be caught, released, returned back into the atmosphere so they will grow in size by the very act of sharing undated ————————————————- *Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there. It doesn't matter what you do, he said,* so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime. ~Ray Bradbury (Book: Fahrenheit 451)
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40
finite rapture well defined. organized organelles squirming. spurning unnecessary imposition. repitition severing me further. it's still a bright fixture on the horizon viewed at the far end of winding tunnel of mirrors. captured in a jar. admired ideas appreciated from afar. trembling extended hand retracted. strong stiches binding. scabs still crusty. musty attics, shuffling feet. melting. swelltering in the possibility of a potential interpreted properly. I work better as an idea than a human. compose the tune and I'll be the words. transpose your soul, I'll be the vibrations. speak between the lines. I will be blinded. Beyond thought. we are aware that we're unaware. Crystalize. Mezmerize. It could be so simple. To notice the cheeks, but not the dimples. Four perfect points of light linger in the shadows two by two Ideals. a concrete truth. Glaciers slowly crack foundations. Pounding. Pouding. Resounding. Cannot be ignored before I am the boomerang that cracks you on the head. Blood pooling at the base of my skull control watered down. Concrete giving into stress and a flower has room to bloom/
0
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
klaus-baumgarten
Behind the Scenes in the Trampled Night-Garden of Speculation
finite rapture well defined. organized organelles squirming. spurning unnecessary imposition. repitition severing me further. it's still a bright fixture on the horizon viewed at the far end of winding tunnel of mirrors. captured in a jar. admired ideas appreciated from afar. trembling extended hand retracted. strong stiches binding. scabs still crusty. musty attics, shuffling feet. melting. swelltering in the possibility of a potential interpreted properly. I work better as an idea than a human. compose the tune and I'll be the words. transpose your soul, I'll be the vibrations. speak between the lines. I will be blinded. Beyond thought. we are aware that we're unaware. Crystalize. Mezmerize. It could be so simple. To notice the cheeks, but not the dimples. Four perfect points of light linger in the shadows two by two Ideals. a concrete truth. Glaciers slowly crack foundations. Pounding. Pouding. Resounding. Cannot be ignored before I am the boomerang that cracks you on the head. Blood pooling at the base of my skull control watered down. Concrete giving into stress and a flower has room to bloom/
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37
There is dirt mixed with blood Underneath our fingernails Our life is mixed with mud While we fight and flail The struggle is for my agency Otherwise I feel they're ****** me I feel they are replacing me With an imposition of their will Love as vast as the sea Wouldn't get them their fill Their emotions they **** For a ****** thrill That could be achieved by a pill But instead they use power For they understand in this hour There is a mentality Of fatality Where we minimize our enemies to their negative desires So we can build with our allies oppressive empires Until the whole world is on fire And these rapists can do as they please When it's systemic they do it with ease In a world without trust They are the beneficiaries They care only for lust With actions incendiary Burning the forest they hide in Where our secrets provide their shade Because overwhelming suspicion pervades The image of all strangers We see only danger And our judgement is skewed When everybody is considered a ****** Yet there are only a few There is a moment When I make a ****** decision I am not sure what the recipient's reaction will be There are two negative extremes to this situation: 1. I will **** them 2. They will falsely accuse me of **** Our ****** lives are navigating these issues of trust Between those extremes But when our definition of **** Starts to define the victim's comfort As more important than the violator's intent We show an unwillingness to understand and a bias Which would give anyone reason to not trust someone And the ****** atmosphere becomes one of uncertainty People get into relationships so they don't have to worry about it But bachelors must consider these things **** victims must too As well as the man sitting in prison for fraudulent claims One has been illegally ***** The other has been ***** legally I'd imagine both might see a world of rapists afterwards Yet there are only a few
0
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 6:37 AM UTC
andrew-rueter
Trust
There is dirt mixed with blood Underneath our fingernails Our life is mixed with mud While we fight and flail The struggle is for my agency Otherwise I feel they're ****** me I feel they are replacing me With an imposition of their will Love as vast as the sea Wouldn't get them their fill Their emotions they **** For a ****** thrill That could be achieved by a pill But instead they use power For they understand in this hour There is a mentality Of fatality Where we minimize our enemies to their negative desires So we can build with our allies oppressive empires Until the whole world is on fire And these rapists can do as they please When it's systemic they do it with ease In a world without trust They are the beneficiaries They care only for lust With actions incendiary Burning the forest they hide in Where our secrets provide their shade Because overwhelming suspicion pervades The image of all strangers We see only danger And our judgement is skewed When everybody is considered a ****** Yet there are only a few There is a moment When I make a ****** decision I am not sure what the recipient's reaction will be There are two negative extremes to this situation: 1. I will **** them 2. They will falsely accuse me of **** Our ****** lives are navigating these issues of trust Between those extremes But when our definition of **** Starts to define the victim's comfort As more important than the violator's intent We show an unwillingness to understand and a bias Which would give anyone reason to not trust someone And the ****** atmosphere becomes one of uncertainty People get into relationships so they don't have to worry about it But bachelors must consider these things **** victims must too As well as the man sitting in prison for fraudulent claims One has been illegally ***** The other has been ***** legally I'd imagine both might see a world of rapists afterwards Yet there are only a few
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56
Incognizant of the excrement, I'm the dozing tenant of advertised adversity. I ignore the fact that the world now is like a toilet, And I avoid it, I avoid it, I avoid it. Boy, did you get exploited? How could we know we're No more than numerical exponents? Can consolation prizes console him? We're not aware of the ventriloquists Or their true motives. Popular perfume conceals The stench from the load of, Finite excrement that The suited men sold us. They told us that it would be beneficial, Not an imposition on our self-image, Pinocchio before he found Out he was artificial. Is the American Dream a reality? Why did I hear a dissenter Say it was superficial? We must have missed something, We see no issues. Meanwhile, my Uncle Sam designated You as the mental missile. Originally written 5/25/11 Revised 10/15/14 (c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
0
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC
brandon-antonio-smith
Somnambulists
Incognizant of the excrement, I'm the dozing tenant of advertised adversity. I ignore the fact that the world now is like a toilet, And I avoid it, I avoid it, I avoid it. Boy, did you get exploited? How could we know we're No more than numerical exponents? Can consolation prizes console him? We're not aware of the ventriloquists Or their true motives. Popular perfume conceals The stench from the load of, Finite excrement that The suited men sold us. They told us that it would be beneficial, Not an imposition on our self-image, Pinocchio before he found Out he was artificial. Is the American Dream a reality? Why did I hear a dissenter Say it was superficial? We must have missed something, We see no issues. Meanwhile, my Uncle Sam designated You as the mental missile. Originally written 5/25/11 Revised 10/15/14 (c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
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28
The Riddle One of you has seen my face. One of you knows where I live. Stuff. Important stuff, like the locale of my hidey-holes. My email and my cell disclosed soon to be on sale on eBay for a trifling sum. So now I must disburse to parts more remote, reappear in a nouveau identity. Just a necessary precaution. Moreover, methinks you have grown tired of my waning voice, waxing ineloquently, opining too frequently. feel like a thick wooly straw welcome mat, edges unravelling, grown raggedy, roundabout the edges, or like a paperback book, tho well thumbed, nonetheless, consigned to the bye-bye discard box. riddle me, me be the riddle, when I scribe under a new Nom de Plume. will you recognize, my signature hid amidst the restless words that still need a home? are my poems worthy of a second glance, do you predispose your attentions on your favorites only, the newbies squeaking ignored and unattended, whose ranks I have now rejoined? did you ever meet a poem you did not like? did you ever greet a poet with palms outwardly raised, saying, no mas, had enough, no time for you and your clouded clarifications? need you. need you to judge me, without the saddlebags of predisposition and imposition. if you need me just give me a loud holler in my sleepy hollow. tho sadly my country road, has listening posts on the telephone wires, I will know, when. you call, your voice, I will come, if you ask, always. I'll be riddling in plain sight, if you have the taste for and of me, you will find me soon enough. HOWEVER, in emergencies all you need dial, my digital signature, 911 and ask for the Poetry Hotline.
0
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
nat-lipstadt
The Riddle
The Riddle One of you has seen my face. One of you knows where I live. Stuff. Important stuff, like the locale of my hidey-holes. My email and my cell disclosed soon to be on sale on eBay for a trifling sum. So now I must disburse to parts more remote, reappear in a nouveau identity. Just a necessary precaution. Moreover, methinks you have grown tired of my waning voice, waxing ineloquently, opining too frequently. feel like a thick wooly straw welcome mat, edges unravelling, grown raggedy, roundabout the edges, or like a paperback book, tho well thumbed, nonetheless, consigned to the bye-bye discard box. riddle me, me be the riddle, when I scribe under a new Nom de Plume. will you recognize, my signature hid amidst the restless words that still need a home? are my poems worthy of a second glance, do you predispose your attentions on your favorites only, the newbies squeaking ignored and unattended, whose ranks I have now rejoined? did you ever meet a poem you did not like? did you ever greet a poet with palms outwardly raised, saying, no mas, had enough, no time for you and your clouded clarifications? need you. need you to judge me, without the saddlebags of predisposition and imposition. if you need me just give me a loud holler in my sleepy hollow. tho sadly my country road, has listening posts on the telephone wires, I will know, when. you call, your voice, I will come, if you ask, always. I'll be riddling in plain sight, if you have the taste for and of me, you will find me soon enough. HOWEVER, in emergencies all you need dial, my digital signature, 911 and ask for the Poetry Hotline.
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98
~for you, girl~ words have definitions; shades; moods, even within the contextual moment, the coloration sometimes is discolored, one person frantic is another’s normal passing fancy insanity quiet overwrought silliness frantic is a continuum’s conundrum and oft the hubbub coverhup lends a veneer of urgency importance when knowledge acquisition is iron irony, best when well chewed, quietly considered and consumed with the perspective of addition and subtraction what we know is more than yesterday, and less than what we will one day own, for the only purity of learning is that’s final refining is never ending the artifice of deadlines, gradation vis-a-vis all the rest, is not a distinction  worthy of distinguishing your human value is beyond compare exactly! the greatest of valued adders to the world body of understanding put the race of ego to one side, and so should we all, not be ****** in by the imposition of qualifiers you are quality, and that is the only qualification you will ever acquire and require and in my naïveté I reflect looking back and give you here the free use thereof, of its worth, you will determine but in summary judgement: always keep thinking ridicule is ridiculous but best when applied by oneself to oneself with a *** did I really think:say that?” and laugh out loud at our human foibles, especially our own, with a wry smile, admitting some of things we conjure up in all seriousness are are the funniest things we’ve ever heard
0
Dec 5, 2024
Dec 5, 2024 at 11:13 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
The Frantic Life
~for you, girl~ words have definitions; shades; moods, even within the contextual moment, the coloration sometimes is discolored, one person frantic is another’s normal passing fancy insanity quiet overwrought silliness frantic is a continuum’s conundrum and oft the hubbub coverhup lends a veneer of urgency importance when knowledge acquisition is iron irony, best when well chewed, quietly considered and consumed with the perspective of addition and subtraction what we know is more than yesterday, and less than what we will one day own, for the only purity of learning is that’s final refining is never ending the artifice of deadlines, gradation vis-a-vis all the rest, is not a distinction  worthy of distinguishing your human value is beyond compare exactly! the greatest of valued adders to the world body of understanding put the race of ego to one side, and so should we all, not be ****** in by the imposition of qualifiers you are quality, and that is the only qualification you will ever acquire and require and in my naïveté I reflect looking back and give you here the free use thereof, of its worth, you will determine but in summary judgement: always keep thinking ridicule is ridiculous but best when applied by oneself to oneself with a *** did I really think:say that?” and laugh out loud at our human foibles, especially our own, with a wry smile, admitting some of things we conjure up in all seriousness are are the funniest things we’ve ever heard
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54
the island’s delineating shape is not its realized limitations, nor a redoubtable defense against the elements or invaders of the mind the skin of the land welcomes tides and waves as gentil lickings, a seductress’s first caressing volley enticing, firing but calming even when the crashing contemptible violent contretemps come, the winter’s stormy wrath or hurricane tongue lashings of the fall, partially forgiven for its forced renewal, but only, but only so much the island -  my home, is not a prison but a happy imposition, its restrictions make inward looking, mirroring, front facing, a truthfulness demanding, our self-exploratory word surgeries are precious, precision treks, required to survive, then revive, declaim, then exclaim we are island folk and though our island's firmament defined, it's poetry is ever unlimited
0
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 3:57 PM UTC
island-poet
the limitations of the island
the island’s delineating shape is not its realized limitations, nor a redoubtable defense against the elements or invaders of the mind the skin of the land welcomes tides and waves as gentil lickings, a seductress’s first caressing volley enticing, firing but calming even when the crashing contemptible violent contretemps come, the winter’s stormy wrath or hurricane tongue lashings of the fall, partially forgiven for its forced renewal, but only, but only so much the island -  my home, is not a prison but a happy imposition, its restrictions make inward looking, mirroring, front facing, a truthfulness demanding, our self-exploratory word surgeries are precious, precision treks, required to survive, then revive, declaim, then exclaim we are island folk and though our island's firmament defined, it's poetry is ever unlimited
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22
Word Association 101© Today’s word is G-R-A-T-I-T-U-D-E Select the option you like best as there is no real solution, and this isn't a real test So take a position, if it is not an imposition after all this is nothing but fiction, not a prediction Leave your hesitation and caution at the door and put the pedal to the floor So without procrastination or introduction move trepidation to elation Take the plunge it’s not a leap, for someone here will say throw this on a heap It may be taken with affection or rejection and probably needs correction But onward we go for somehow I must make this flow Tick the right box if there is such a thing or give it your best fling If you can’t think of anything Gratitude is... Satisfaction___ Appreciation___ Creation___ Gratitude isn’t... Crude___ Lewd___ Or attitude___ Gratitude leads to... Fascination___ Imagination___ Intimate relations___ Gratitude may bring... Evolution___ Re-action___ Hug action___ Gratitude is for... A job well done___ A rising sun___ That special someone___ Gratitude, let’s start a revolution that leads to emotion and maybe to a promotion Gratitude, life’s gift that keeps on giving and a premonition in addition Gratitude, for brothers and sisters and others too, pass it along for all to share because we really do care Andreas Simic©
0
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 6:05 AM UTC
andreas-simic
Word Association 101
Word Association 101© Today’s word is G-R-A-T-I-T-U-D-E Select the option you like best as there is no real solution, and this isn't a real test So take a position, if it is not an imposition after all this is nothing but fiction, not a prediction Leave your hesitation and caution at the door and put the pedal to the floor So without procrastination or introduction move trepidation to elation Take the plunge it’s not a leap, for someone here will say throw this on a heap It may be taken with affection or rejection and probably needs correction But onward we go for somehow I must make this flow Tick the right box if there is such a thing or give it your best fling If you can’t think of anything Gratitude is... Satisfaction___ Appreciation___ Creation___ Gratitude isn’t... Crude___ Lewd___ Or attitude___ Gratitude leads to... Fascination___ Imagination___ Intimate relations___ Gratitude may bring... Evolution___ Re-action___ Hug action___ Gratitude is for... A job well done___ A rising sun___ That special someone___ Gratitude, let’s start a revolution that leads to emotion and maybe to a promotion Gratitude, life’s gift that keeps on giving and a premonition in addition Gratitude, for brothers and sisters and others too, pass it along for all to share because we really do care Andreas Simic©
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43
When my time finally arrives, Finality holds no surprise; But please remember To close my eyes, Shut my mouth, End my lies. Lace polished shoes On my feet, Cross my hands Upon my chest, Comb my hair, Let me rest. And tell the truth When you speak. *(and if it's not an imposition, lay me in the right position)* Dispense with the hyperbole, There's hell to pay, I assure you.
0
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 10:11 AM UTC
francie-lynch
Hell To Pay
When my time finally arrives, Finality holds no surprise; But please remember To close my eyes, Shut my mouth, End my lies. Lace polished shoes On my feet, Cross my hands Upon my chest, Comb my hair, Let me rest. And tell the truth When you speak. *(and if it's not an imposition, lay me in the right position)* Dispense with the hyperbole, There's hell to pay, I assure you.
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19
"Run down the list, if you please." "OK. Doc, let's start with these: An earwig with shin splints, a worm with heartburn, A cockroach with a cold-" "He should have wrapped up like he was told!" "-A bee with hay-fever." "She never listens either..." "A centipede with a migraine, A fly with wing sprain And a woodlouse with suspected vertigo."   "Is that them all?" "Well, no. There's an elderly spider with a blister on his *** He can't spin a web to build a trap or home. There is a grub with possible depression, A slug with a stomach bug And a ladybird with gout."   "Too many greenflies, no doubt." "There's a butterfly with signs of hypochondria due to a swollen antennae, no matter what I say he's certain he is going to die. Now, the last is a delicate imposition: the Queen ant wants birth control, Because she is sick of her pregnant condition."
0
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
david-patrick-oc
Insect Vet
"Run down the list, if you please." "OK. Doc, let's start with these: An earwig with shin splints, a worm with heartburn, A cockroach with a cold-" "He should have wrapped up like he was told!" "-A bee with hay-fever." "She never listens either..." "A centipede with a migraine, A fly with wing sprain And a woodlouse with suspected vertigo."   "Is that them all?" "Well, no. There's an elderly spider with a blister on his *** He can't spin a web to build a trap or home. There is a grub with possible depression, A slug with a stomach bug And a ladybird with gout."   "Too many greenflies, no doubt." "There's a butterfly with signs of hypochondria due to a swollen antennae, no matter what I say he's certain he is going to die. Now, the last is a delicate imposition: the Queen ant wants birth control, Because she is sick of her pregnant condition."
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21
River as persistent as the enduring ****** for self-preservation - Carving by currents and flowing within a necessary course Determined by ancient inherent law. Oblivious to danger and ignorant of doubt it is perpetually unconcerned - The river carelessly generous without discrimination - Ever sustaining trees, grasses and underbrush shelters Home to life in its waters and nourishment for those that come to the banks Never quarreling with any human imposition be it sport or utility And always providing the perfect primordial music for meditation Always offering an immaculate lullaby for the tranquil restorative of sleep. - fr
0
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
frank-russell
Notes At The Arkansas
River as persistent as the enduring ****** for self-preservation - Carving by currents and flowing within a necessary course Determined by ancient inherent law. Oblivious to danger and ignorant of doubt it is perpetually unconcerned - The river carelessly generous without discrimination - Ever sustaining trees, grasses and underbrush shelters Home to life in its waters and nourishment for those that come to the banks Never quarreling with any human imposition be it sport or utility And always providing the perfect primordial music for meditation Always offering an immaculate lullaby for the tranquil restorative of sleep. - fr
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32
laying on the thickness and the off angled rake bury music, insect languages in the wilderness insect symbols the singing song of notes, dead matter feeding life red mushroom glow in the under muffin dig into the eye of the lift the broken pieces of a past life on a rock in the woods turning over leaf for fruit for root for SYMBOL primal to cosmic we have slowed down the whole show so that we can find god in the particle so that the particle could find itself in another particle winking flint in a boneyard insect hollow discoveries of self and identity, testing tradition, traveling to the wild forest untracing time unravelling the sentence symbolic imposition
0
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
adamstruble
journey to the source pt. 5
laying on the thickness and the off angled rake bury music, insect languages in the wilderness insect symbols the singing song of notes, dead matter feeding life red mushroom glow in the under muffin dig into the eye of the lift the broken pieces of a past life on a rock in the woods turning over leaf for fruit for root for SYMBOL primal to cosmic we have slowed down the whole show so that we can find god in the particle so that the particle could find itself in another particle winking flint in a boneyard insect hollow discoveries of self and identity, testing tradition, traveling to the wild forest untracing time unravelling the sentence symbolic imposition
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19
Head over heart into some distant fading darkness, being pulled back into an almost familiar abyss. You lost me at the outset, but now I'm finding myself in this. Your intent is to drown me, I know it. I've told you far too much. Placed every key inside your outstretched hands, and now you're breaking all the locks. Did I mean to let you in? Is it too late to bar admission? Is it even possible to get you out now that you've gotten in without permission? You're not welcome in this place: Intruder. Alien. Imposition. But I'm so glad you're here right now; please save me from this prison.
0
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 11:16 PM UTC
JDK
Locksmith
Head over heart into some distant fading darkness, being pulled back into an almost familiar abyss. You lost me at the outset, but now I'm finding myself in this. Your intent is to drown me, I know it. I've told you far too much. Placed every key inside your outstretched hands, and now you're breaking all the locks. Did I mean to let you in? Is it too late to bar admission? Is it even possible to get you out now that you've gotten in without permission? You're not welcome in this place: Intruder. Alien. Imposition. But I'm so glad you're here right now; please save me from this prison.
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15
guilted into yet another late evening dog-walk after too long spent indoors and weighed down by endless introversion trudging an unlit path free of the imposition of street lamp      and headlight with nothing except those familiar constellations and a degree of      lunular exposure to guide our path despite the cold and that lingering feeling of obstinate lethargy we firmly planted our mud-caked boots upon the saturated ground unstable and clogged as it may have been in order to marvel at that moment of unexpected perfection perhaps it was simply a case of fortuitousness or sheer coincidence but to us it seems the universe is offering more wishes than we could ever have hoped for
0
Dec 18, 2023
Dec 18, 2023 at 1:10 PM UTC
MeanderingWords
geminids are leftover bits and pieces
guilted into yet another late evening dog-walk after too long spent indoors and weighed down by endless introversion trudging an unlit path free of the imposition of street lamp      and headlight with nothing except those familiar constellations and a degree of      lunular exposure to guide our path despite the cold and that lingering feeling of obstinate lethargy we firmly planted our mud-caked boots upon the saturated ground unstable and clogged as it may have been in order to marvel at that moment of unexpected perfection perhaps it was simply a case of fortuitousness or sheer coincidence but to us it seems the universe is offering more wishes than we could ever have hoped for
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32
for Maria you want to ask, knowing in advance, the answer is a scream even if it is silent traveling, on a frequency transversing, that humans cannot discern so strange is it, that the imposition of the interrogatory is the almost harder part of the two dance partners, question and answer a simple "how are you" is simply inadequate in every respect, it is almost, disrespectful for there is no how or are and for sure, there is no you anymore how could there be, when pieces of your flesh by hot combs inquisitioner pierced, levying cuts impervious to medicinal magic asking how was your weekend, beyond absurd, what matters the day of the week, when the unrepairable ailment of thy soul has a permanence that makes calendars superfluous but on certain days, certain worse than others, because they freshly dress the still red scars, fresh bright pained painted with unrepressable, unsurpassable memory agonistes of seeds and wine so you ask dumb, you ask blind, waiting for a shotgun blast reply, hoping you will be the forgiving kind, but prefacing the inanity with a forgiveness plea confession, "I don't know how to ask" and you reply *"there is no correct way, and there is no correct answer"* and neither the interrogator or the interrogee is content, the Yankee boy and the Southern gal, unless it is to scream, till the air in the lungs depleted, and when replenished, having screamed to the heart's content, the heart impaired, cannot ever be contented your own insane humanity prompts to ask again, no matter, for the only correct thing is the asking~caring, even though advance notice has been given, there is no correct answer
0
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
third-mate-third
There is no correct way
for Maria you want to ask, knowing in advance, the answer is a scream even if it is silent traveling, on a frequency transversing, that humans cannot discern so strange is it, that the imposition of the interrogatory is the almost harder part of the two dance partners, question and answer a simple "how are you" is simply inadequate in every respect, it is almost, disrespectful for there is no how or are and for sure, there is no you anymore how could there be, when pieces of your flesh by hot combs inquisitioner pierced, levying cuts impervious to medicinal magic asking how was your weekend, beyond absurd, what matters the day of the week, when the unrepairable ailment of thy soul has a permanence that makes calendars superfluous but on certain days, certain worse than others, because they freshly dress the still red scars, fresh bright pained painted with unrepressable, unsurpassable memory agonistes of seeds and wine so you ask dumb, you ask blind, waiting for a shotgun blast reply, hoping you will be the forgiving kind, but prefacing the inanity with a forgiveness plea confession, "I don't know how to ask" and you reply *"there is no correct way, and there is no correct answer"* and neither the interrogator or the interrogee is content, the Yankee boy and the Southern gal, unless it is to scream, till the air in the lungs depleted, and when replenished, having screamed to the heart's content, the heart impaired, cannot ever be contented your own insane humanity prompts to ask again, no matter, for the only correct thing is the asking~caring, even though advance notice has been given, there is no correct answer
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70
has jaded become me or becoming in me? or is it merely these words only go inspoken barricaded by better judgement never breathing the air outside my grey matter. the burns and cuts i swallow back against weaponizing become acidic and brokenbottle edged implements of self imposition. i appear human but i am a statue inside.
0
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
aaron-amrich
Redefine: Statue
has jaded become me or becoming in me? or is it merely these words only go inspoken barricaded by better judgement never breathing the air outside my grey matter. the burns and cuts i swallow back against weaponizing become acidic and brokenbottle edged implements of self imposition. i appear human but i am a statue inside.
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13
over temporal oceans, an early breathe arrives as graceful beads of clarity, carrying unconcerned appeal for your price of star anise. it has unwavering force but does not impose a will. it is aware of your awareness. that, it knows; and does not look away. the reddest clay beneath our feet dusts in swirling heat although at a deeper depth, is moist and soft in slumber. we dig to touch the difference from where we walk and where we will lie. we dig to touch what remains pure; where our touch remains at distance. reserved for decaying dead. when sensations of the body forfeit to sensations of the soul. cloudless, although not empty; the sky stays blue until the day does turn to end. before it does, we'll shout in ancient words the values of my hunger. our trade for meals of foreign taste will subside to some nourished promise. i will feel its arrival and refused imposition of enacting will. its breathe will clear our dusted feet, dry with bloodied clay. we dig to place ourselves away at depths where i will remain inside, at distance, soft in slumber, in an empty box from India.
0
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 2:06 PM UTC
fern
An Empty Box from India
over temporal oceans, an early breathe arrives as graceful beads of clarity, carrying unconcerned appeal for your price of star anise. it has unwavering force but does not impose a will. it is aware of your awareness. that, it knows; and does not look away. the reddest clay beneath our feet dusts in swirling heat although at a deeper depth, is moist and soft in slumber. we dig to touch the difference from where we walk and where we will lie. we dig to touch what remains pure; where our touch remains at distance. reserved for decaying dead. when sensations of the body forfeit to sensations of the soul. cloudless, although not empty; the sky stays blue until the day does turn to end. before it does, we'll shout in ancient words the values of my hunger. our trade for meals of foreign taste will subside to some nourished promise. i will feel its arrival and refused imposition of enacting will. its breathe will clear our dusted feet, dry with bloodied clay. we dig to place ourselves away at depths where i will remain inside, at distance, soft in slumber, in an empty box from India.
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38
With the clocks aligned center And the candles melting off my eye sockets And the fingers of my lovers intertwining down my spine And the thoughts of crows affecting the coffee that I spilled down the floorboards And the mental images that blow through the TV screen The imposition that breaks my messed up fingers, pounded by misogyny that I named a hammer. Greatness awaits the brunettes And the fine Unbeknownst to me, There's nothing in my mind worth words. There's nothing in my mind worth words, Unbeknownst to me. And there's nothing left in these nerves And my bones decorate the walls And my mind is plastered where my head lays On my bed And, oh, as tears leave the ceiling Dripping on passersby I silently hope For unbecoming.
0
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
m-clement
And then I blared my music so loud, I drowned myself out.
With the clocks aligned center And the candles melting off my eye sockets And the fingers of my lovers intertwining down my spine And the thoughts of crows affecting the coffee that I spilled down the floorboards And the mental images that blow through the TV screen The imposition that breaks my messed up fingers, pounded by misogyny that I named a hammer. Greatness awaits the brunettes And the fine Unbeknownst to me, There's nothing in my mind worth words. There's nothing in my mind worth words, Unbeknownst to me. And there's nothing left in these nerves And my bones decorate the walls And my mind is plastered where my head lays On my bed And, oh, as tears leave the ceiling Dripping on passersby I silently hope For unbecoming.
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21
As fresh as the cresting sun. As renewed as a parched root system, sipping from newly fallen rain. As strong as the piercing scent of death. As inspiring as a color never before seen. As beautiful as an uninterrupted view of the coming horizon. Tracing my tracks against the dew soaked grass. The stride seemingly effortless, but that imposition of thought betrays the plight. A vehicle of processes unseen. A coalescing of doubt, fatigue, and soul shrieking fear. The listless sojourner bides his time, by hearing the winds flow through the branches of trees sheltering his tumultuous, tortured head. The mirage of freedom begs for him. The anticipation of impact beckons him. The theory of altruism entices him. The actual silence imparts peace on him. As brave as a child facing life with no hand to hold. As defined as the microscopic view of the macroscopic systems moving around me. As invigorating as a bath in a cool blue spring. Renewed, reborn, raised. The tearing pain of exhaustion earns no acknowledgement. The screaming agony of muscles garners only more ambition. The eyes of a weary sojourner shows sincere empathy, real love, amazing faith. Surrender yourself, lay prostrate, know your place, and by grace, they will see it upon your now smiling face.
0
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 9:44 AM UTC
Pariah16
Take That First Step
As fresh as the cresting sun. As renewed as a parched root system, sipping from newly fallen rain. As strong as the piercing scent of death. As inspiring as a color never before seen. As beautiful as an uninterrupted view of the coming horizon. Tracing my tracks against the dew soaked grass. The stride seemingly effortless, but that imposition of thought betrays the plight. A vehicle of processes unseen. A coalescing of doubt, fatigue, and soul shrieking fear. The listless sojourner bides his time, by hearing the winds flow through the branches of trees sheltering his tumultuous, tortured head. The mirage of freedom begs for him. The anticipation of impact beckons him. The theory of altruism entices him. The actual silence imparts peace on him. As brave as a child facing life with no hand to hold. As defined as the microscopic view of the macroscopic systems moving around me. As invigorating as a bath in a cool blue spring. Renewed, reborn, raised. The tearing pain of exhaustion earns no acknowledgement. The screaming agony of muscles garners only more ambition. The eyes of a weary sojourner shows sincere empathy, real love, amazing faith. Surrender yourself, lay prostrate, know your place, and by grace, they will see it upon your now smiling face.
Continue reading...
47