"incidental" poems
Oh, mind, do you mind me minding?
I'm finding it hard to open my eyes,
It's blinding.
I see only darkness in here.
She kind of likes the feeling of fear.
Oh, mind, why is this pleasure unknown?
True happiness is found when you are alone.
Why do the aimless things linger in my head?
Are they incidental? I remember what everyone says.
Oh, mind, I'm minding the path to my soul.
I hear my heart beat after all.
Just as a soulless beggar on a drum
I pass by and begin to hum.
Thoughts turn into song,
Her thoughts turn into wrong.
Oh, mind, do you mind me minding?
I'm finding it hard to open my eyes,
Sorry for wandering.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
Absence of malice
Her smile whispers
Eyes in agreement
with subtle grace
Indulged gestures
I prearrange
From the first place
am I caught in a haze
With the rate of exchange
and no charming phrase
Exquisite delicacies seem ornamental
yet feels pretty real
her flirtatious displays
No harm
I can still be sentimental
As I take note to compose
then reappraise
Empirical proof
whether artful or not
Her passes are strickly incidental
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 7:01 PM UTC
an incredible incite (the ruthless volatility of words)
~for L.B.~
the only place of solitaire solitude in the city accompanies me
like a faithful country dog that doesn’t know better to be afraid,
of moving cars, sleepless night terrors and unscripted “dreams”
where image and words say come “follow me” with ruthlessness and no cloying come hither looks and
see and take and recall with perfect midnight blue sky clarity for
the incredible incite of credible insight
surfacing unexpectedly in a intemperate pool of slushy snow,
that will be an ice storm of painful confrontations with naked
inner truths standing outside in sunny sub zero playground
there is great risk. volatility gone wild. when the speed
governor is removed and you live at 100 mph on local streets,
when the merest slight of an accidental incidental touch
transforms into an incite incident and hell is the threat
that you will not die today and your own words will ruthless
pull from the nerve places where sensible and sensual cannot
coexist and this write this script is a poetical insight inside, an
incredible incite and what your spilling is spaghetti sauce blood
when you left your brain on broil, instead of the faking daily of
slow simmering ineffectual intellectual words that just don’t
cut the crap. your addiction complete, you cannot live without
the incredible incite, the ruthless volatility of words,
otherwise why rough write what you see
in the blind
beyond the blind
1/6/18 5:03am
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 5:17 AM UTC
Her warm words wash over me like a dope fiend daze... other voices boorishly buzz a cackle cacophony. At best they are the background noise of your existence.
bit players (endless layers) as she comes my way
**Your body pixilates in an ******* focus**, it bends, projects all else slowly into your frame, the deja vu of ****** tunnel vision. I struggle to speak as I stand before you.
All others condemned, reduced to extras in a celluloid daydream
they are arrayed for your adornment
set pieces that surround you in the cinema that is your daily divine saunter
body sacramental (those around you incidental) as she walks away
The subtext, the reflex, the ambivalent, ambient lighting
means nothing without you
**my arc, my carnal ******
any other epilogue is dystopian
cdh
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 5:25 AM UTC
Don't be frightened if you hear me at the door...or even if you think you see me at the window. Pretend it's a trick of the light...or another one of those bumps in the night.
The spirit is strong and, I'm finding, quite playful in its first few days, weeks, maybe months... whilst waiting for another 'mission'.
You know...finding my feet - or maybe wings?
But I'm not likely to phone. E-mailing was not my thing! And texting? You’re kidding! I was not a big fan!. All that predictive stuff...If you’re too quick it ends up nonsense...all wrong...not for me.
But I will be sending messages through the wind in the trees or maybe the surf on the rocks and sand. Wherever we walked together listen out for me there. I've always felt that I'd be able to do that.
You know...whilst finding my feet - or will it be wings?
And always, from now on...help spiders out with a glass and a card...
take care not to squash their legs. You never know what happens next. And, anyway, another time, but long ahead I hope, it could be you. Although, I always fancied I would come back a human - like this last time round.
Being me was good. And they say, ...you know...out there...
that you go back to a time when you were at your best.
For me that means being younger, fitter - So, a wander on a sun warmed or breezy beach. A Salsa dance, or this Zumba lark...or doing a painting. I liked that...
But definitely...fit...Before IT... You know...I’m looking forward to finding my feet, my wings.
So...you may see me - out in a crowd, or walking along a country lane, incongruously between villages.
I'm already working at appearing for longer and for being more than just a familiar, fleeting, scent or smell. Until I get the calling to make a full life of it again...I'll maybe pop in and out of your life (to let you know I can) ...just in an incidental, experimental kind of way; but then only from time to time.
It's quite tiring...You know...finding your feet...your wings.
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 6:22 AM UTC
How treacherous.
How boring.
It was a time between three and four.
A time between eleven and one.
The pre-emptive witching hour.
The incidental grey area.
My mind was a-buzz.
My thoughts were flashing.
I knew not what they were,
But I was morose and melancholic.
I could not work.
I could not sleep.
I could not think.
Chaos had become my order.
And infinity had become my moment.
Then, there ahead of me,
Stood two women,
Straight and strong.
One was a Siren
The other, a Muse.
I thought hallucinations.
Perceived ideas through a ******* mind.
But alas, they were real.
I touched them and reacted.
Warned against their poison.
Their mercuric tongues.
Their stolen hearts.
Their arachidonic souls.
And their odd Tsavorite eyes.
They walked.
I followed.
Into a labyrinthine hive,
They sauntered.
Nonchalant angels,
Indifferent to my stalk.
In the centre, there lay
An abyss.
They sat on the edge
And beckoned me
Forth.
I accepted, curious, yet cautious.
And through the Song of the Siren,
And the Myth of the Muse,
The blackness beckoned.
I fell, I flew to my mind’s end.
Accepted my descent, unknowingly.
The air was still. The tunnel black.
And I landed softly.
Alone. Safe. Hungry.
So, I walked to the edge.
The Siren waited. Offered her tail
And walked.
Crawled into smoke, was a Rat.
The Siren pointed, then followed
The smoke.
Rat awoke, to run to my foot,
Up my leg and towards my shoulder.
Rat pointed too,
So I walked to the edge
To appear in water.
Glistening and moist
Stood the Muse,
With a smile on her lips.
Again her tail led me,
As Rat jumped to the Muse.
We glided in the water,
Blinded in the dark,
Until we reached a cave, having dodged the rocks.
Inside, I was left,
Save for Rat.
The Muse flew off, a smile on her lips.
Drowning, by my waist, was a rodent. Erinaceous and small.
I lifted it up and placed Hedgehog on the opposite shoulder.
Hedgehog thanked me,
And showed me the way.
A niche in the rock.
We entered, all the same.
On the other side was a bed.
There lied the Siren and the Muse.
Seductive and Bare.
I was pulled forth.
Their tails were strong.
Their tongues were mercury.
Their hearts were stolen.
Their souls were arachidonic.
Their eyes were Tsavorite.
I was poisoned all along.
In vapid lust,
Morose passion,
Melancholic ecstasy,
It ended.
They have left me
Only with Rat and Hedgehog.
Here I will die.
Led to be abused.
All that shall be known
Of my boring and treacherous
Witching hour
Is this story.
I dedicate it to
The Muse,
The Siren,
Who are but one girl.
And to Rat, Hedgehog and me
Who is but one *******
May 30, 2011
May 30, 2011 at 7:44 PM UTC
Kindness is not nice.
‘Nice’ is soft and inoffensive
‘Nice’ is careful and non-assertive
‘Nice’ is easy and effects no change
she’s cotton wool trying to soften the pain
but not stuffed tight, just resting on the surface
ready to be blown away or pressed
under a muddy boot of disinterest
‘Nice’ is a damp whisper
a mouse cowering in the corner
hoping you will blink and miss her
lest she attract your notice
lest she presume too much
and cause a whisker of offence
Kindness is not like that –
Kindness pushes in, quick and nimble
a hero with no mask, unasked
unexpected, dodging the turmoil
leaving nothing unsaid and little undone
in her pursuit of creating a counter-disruption
Kindness defies convention
Kindness carefully aims her weapons of choice
and advances relentless and regardless
of any and all obstacles in her way
Kindness perseveres all the love-long day
Kindness doesn’t delay
Kindness is gleeful for the chance of invasion
ready to disarm with expert compassion
with her regiments of patience
armed to the teeth with gracious
placing tanks of good faith on all fronts
Kindness confronts
Courage is her currency, boldness her language,
trust and hope are her passports to lands long unexplored
happily wearing all-weather clothing
for any and all unexpected storms
Kindness transforms
Kindness weakens all defenses
and challenges all camouflaged pretenses
Kindness pours itself out to fill unhealed wounds
and on shrapnel-seeded battlefields
she - blooms
Kindness is not 'nice'
Kindness isn’t in this for the likes
Kindness bites
She’s a take-on-all-comers, undefeated delight
Kindness never bails from the fight
never fails, never takes flight
Kindness is nothing casual,
nothing incidental
This Kindness is elemental
She is Avengers-Assemble,
End-Game-level
monumental
Kindness is not 'nice'.
Kindness is loving awe-ful.
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC
I’m meeting a friend tomorrow, one I haven’t seen in some years save for the incidental meeting a week ago that sparked this reunion
My thoughts, Reminiscent, tinged with melancholy for that time dotted with puffs of whip cream, sugar, sparkles, and joy spilling from the sky
We were mages one moment,
The elements at
Our beck and call
With a flick of our hands
Warrior cats the next
Loyally guarding
Bravely scarring
We lives in our world of monsters, and magic, and peach fuzz
None of the extra complications, the insecurities, the splotches marring our once vibrant and lovely canvas, turning it from a rainbow sparkle unicorn pony...to a mare
More time for text books
Less time for novels
More time for homework
Less time for TV
More time for crushes and heartbreak and insecurities and tears
Less time to run straight ahead without a care in the world
Reality, setting in like large boulders, so heavy and present, jutting into your life, impossible to unsee
But,
It’s not all planes crashing and burning, because now that she’s no longer made up into a sparkle pony, you can see the mare for the
beauty she is
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 11:36 PM UTC
Writers can be so snotty sometimes
They think they're so clever with their rhymes
They employ obscure words
the way armies deploy a specialized force
pedantic, pretentious, affected on some insufferable plagiarized course
Their wit a mired ploy to be perceived as bright
not so much to share knowledge
but to be the one that's right
vaingloriousness cripples the honesty in script
and another puzzled reader
reads between the lines of a message adrift
people twist things to their advantage
skew the facts to fit the page
shrug it off as a necessity of the modern age
most do it, few will notice
if they do they'll say it's a mistake
deadlines howl, time grates like a rake
truth is incidental when words are fake
another American madman goes berserk with a gun on a spree
perfect timing for the rollout of Grand Theft Auto 3
Don't worry little directors of death and mayhem
You've no culpability in the land of the free
causality is just some unprovable notion
you're safe and sound from any legal motion
exculpatory mitigation is your right as an 'artist'
'till the sorry day you eat the gun
the eventual price you'll pay for your sick wicked fun
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
Santa was a hit man and he had no alibi
His big red suit was drenched in blood, more vibrant than a dye
See, Mrs. Clause was KGB, and the North Pole was her base
And Santa was the corporate shell that really owned the place
The "elves" were political prisoners (and yes, some were rather short)
And the present-giving Christmas was the day Clause would report
But when the Union went away, there was no need for Clauses
And they ripped up the whole contract (not covered in Incidental Causes)
Mrs. Clause got into drinking, and it got worse everyday
'Till it happened: she was so drunk, she keeled over in the hay
They found her the next morning with a reindeer on her head
Santa knew before the med report that Mrs. Clause was dead
So he went back to the basics, and he hooked into Network 1
The most top secret channel where certain agents have their fun
He was lost without his partner (their marriage was arranged)
She had handled the business,his financial sense was left estranged
He knew without her, he'd go under; have to sell the Pole to the West
He needed to make the payments by doing just what he knew best
Santa filled the role of assassin, killing silently with grace
He laid a finger beside his nose before he shoved the gun up in your face
Making the hits look unconnected, well he varied up his style
In fact he was thinking of being a "serial killer" and followed that up for a little while
But his stealing milk and cookies didn't clue anybody in
Maybe it just wasn't plausible to blame the fat man and his grin
Whatever the case, he's a random killer who strikes with impunity
With a swish of his coat, he jumps roof to roof, flaunting his immunity
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
Conjure belief where assurance
is easily tempted from doubt.
The physical world acts on
a point to point basis
of action, reaction.
Where the genesis of relativity
as the golden rule
mediates the knowledge
that is perpetuated by irony
through circumstance
and the accidental
incidental coincidences
that bend time.
Symmetry is a natural motion of
consistency, extending from an apex
or midlines, transverses, logarithmic expressions
all from some single origin.
The palms of our hands
are textual markings
of our need for symbolic understanding
in the variances
we create for scientific observation.
Juxtaposed to the stars we created
circular pieces to a wheel in the sky
we hypochondriacs believe
to superimpose as vaccines,
to our inconsistencies we host
as symbiotes
for inverse proportionality.
From the signal, beat, tone,
and definitive sounds
is the pulse of our momentum,
a return to equilibrium.
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 2:28 PM UTC
An army of ants, black, brown, red and white, in disciplined columns,
each one no less than any other,armed to the teeth, ready to ****
on their marauding march,find this giant, not a day too long ago was
too fierce as a man, whose reign of terror was most feared, lying still,
as if all those deeds were incidental,and he in no way is to be blamed.
They are equanimous, the ants, next wave, this is no more than just debris, this relic from the past, for them, something to be dealt with,
the army of disciplined ants, as per their manual, meticulously inspect,
whether the body has some strength left somewhere in the system,
to pull together rise, overcome the fatigue of a life full of misdeeds
not nice to remember, counted all the same as glory by sycophants.
They want to finish the work fast, fearing the return of the nightmare,
busily they went on doing what they are good at,they had their brief,
from the command center ,to clear up the debris from the battle front,
The last of the ants leaving the gnawed white bones, under moonlight,
writes the epitaph on sand,with it's spindly legs,thus:"This fort too fell"
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
She is the slyest creature
ever whelped by wolf
or woman
A barking beast
small in stature
huge in heart
Face framed by fire
done up in fur
the friendliest constellation
in the night sky
one known to all
Hilda
She is coyote
on a good day
a wolf cub at play
a lover in the morning
noon
and night
A slight and feral hound
with ideas of her own
We found her
in the company of
a wizard.
Oh yes!
And he wove for us
a sweet spell of harmony
well mingled
with domestic peace.
Hilda was the incantation.
And the spell was strong.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 12:27 AM UTC
Define a modern day criminal
While hypocritical political beings run our land
Living in a critical pitiful painful physical caving roof
With a senseless empirical prototypical lost truth
Indivisible people with inimical minds destroy the parasitical
But we don’t dream
We don’t wish
And we fear
Impermissible values atypical to the nonphysical morals
Incorporated with subliminal messages conveying hypercritical cynical thoughts
That create a clinical stereotypical that cousins the excremental
Archetypical of hatred and malice of our digital kind
Visible scars traditional to the mental demons in our minds
But we take the beatings
We’re let down
And we disappoint
An occipital which lacks visual of the coincidental
Leading to a sentimental moment where the only desires are miracles
The minimal heart becomes gentle and suffers pain
A pain in the temple far from accidental that can offer supplemental guidance
Unconditional love and fundamental care
But we take for granted
We’re selfish
And we fail
An oriental vibe in the beat box’s instrumental welfare
Which adorns the continental flesh like a spring ornamental plant
Judgmental is the incidental human race, the municipal force of the universe
Oppose the parental control against the environmental curiosity of our infants
Because unlike rental we can’t take back our wagon of mishaps in a world so
hypocritical, cynical, stereotypical, digital, and just mental.
Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
March 7th, 2011 5:42am
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:19 AM UTC
It's in the sequence
within the space
on the slow turn
at the touch of the page
it's more than the optic
less than didactic
much more tactile,
less than merely mercantile
it's more immersive,
deeply collaborative
a match that's unconventional
beyond art, words and materials
avoiding any deference,
embracing our difference
flicking 2 fingers
without fear of irreverence
it's greater than the sum
of its many surprising parts
more than what was found in
the inspirational, original art
and whether it's deliberate
or accidently incidental
these are books as art,
beyond the coffee table
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 12:24 PM UTC
The Street Cleaner
He is not a lucky man, but he is happy but one day he won on a lottery ticket,
not a not a big sum of money but enough to by wheelbarrow got permission
from the local council to keep the town's streets clean. Happy, telling himself
he was self- employed and could sleep till nine in the morn if he wanted to.
A busy bee a busy bee he was till he collided with Mercedes was taken to court
and his wheelbarrow was confiscated to pay for the damage. He had a bike and
got a local garage to put a two- wheel contraption to fasten to his bike, the town
got rid of its trash again until an officious policeman asked him if he had a licence
for this he didn't and it was confiscated. Now he had a jute sack slung on his proud
shoulders and a walking stick with a nail attached, a weapon a police officer said
he was carrying a weapon in public and he was prosecuted. He didn't show up
to the hearing and when the law came around, he hung from a rafter sometimes
even serious optimists give up and with no cleaner the town sank into misery,
plagued by vermin the population fled, a town given into paper napkins pizza boxes
and burger wrappers and the poor who had nowhere to go. And if this reflects
the life of a typical inner city of our English speaking world it is purely incidental.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 3:42 AM UTC
I am Coyote
in human form
one who drools poetry
sly as a bag of bones
alert to every hazard
Long odds
are nothing to me
I'll beat every beast
with courage and finesse
And to get to the next realm
where I become myself
I must leave scant traces
survey the world
through scent and sound
And find the bridge
that builds itself
as I walk
across a terrifying chasm
of evolution and magic
to human form
Here to ponder your fate
Here to look to your good nature
Here to endure your pogroms
And survey your world
notwithstanding your traps and tricks
with a modicum of good cheer.
Ever wary.
Ever well.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 7:38 PM UTC
Sitting in the circle of confession,
i am unmoved, at inaction,
only minorly involved in the
process of others, an observer
of them and processing me.
God, grant me the serenity, to accept the things
i cannot change,
(people, places, things)
i am quiet and respectful, knowing
that for some this is all they have,
that i am fortunate,
that we never flirted with disaster,
we openly courted it.
the courage to change the things i can,
(me)
i hear the voices in the distance,
but i can't connect, my mind
wanders, thinking about prehistoric
jewelry in museum cases, broken
pottery shards unearthed with
great effort from ancient graves.
Were these items symbols of broken
promises? A ring: till death do
us part...a vase: i will carry the
water for you...an arrowhead:
i will protect you. These things
hold a value that words
cannot ever truly convey.
i don't really understand how it works,
the promises i broke were the ones
i made to myself first, all the
others were incidental and yet
so equally destructive...
my track marks have faded with
disuse, but everything that it was
and i wasn't are now forever
tattooed under my skin, something
that is always only mine to
observe and behold, something
terrible and yet darkly beautiful.
and the wisdom to know the difference.
i empathize with the lost, but
i do not share.
They would understand, but as
they learn more
i comprehend less,
and i know where that road leads.
So i remember when i should
be listening, and i will keep
what i have earned.
Just for today.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
It can be determination
but if it leads to manipulation,
It is already exploitation.
It can be coincidental
but if it becomes incidental,
It is no longer accidental.
It can be impressive
but if it forces people to be submissive,
It is being oppressive.
It can be thoughtful
but if it is just going to be playful,
It is then not purposeful.
It can be everything
but if it is not leading to something,
It is eventually nothing.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 7:10 AM UTC
so ****** in the face of it
at the end of it, your perception
on the nose of it
this feeling in my nose
this tingling wall
this numby crunchy face on my face that blocks out the light and the truth and the life .... that's how it feels .... sorta
how crazy does that read?
i'll bet it reads ugly.
i'll bet it reads sick.
it should because its a description of drugs crazy people, ie. people like me take to try to feel less crazy
they make your god **** face feel like it jumped rebellious,
eyes, ears, nose, throat, turned traitor.
Escitalopram
Buproin
Nuvigil
Lithium Carbonate
Quetiapine
Abilify
Risperdone
Harpoon IPA
Johnnie Walker Red Label blended scotch whiskey
it seems there can come a certain special kind of time in a man's life,
when he can feel weird and lonely enough
to type a few words
and call it poem.
******* Bukowski.
this is his legacy. the possibility to do what I'm doing right now.
without that disgusting, self-centered fool
I never would have thought to try and write these weird feelings I'm feeling.
a little attention,
that's what strokes this need.
a few incidental internet readers,
to read this strangely pointless pontification
on the bits of sadness that are me.
i wish i could find an open field
and lay back comfortable
in the crisp cold air
and feel the stars shoot through me
my heart pounding in the dirt
and waiting for *** or sun or wolves or rain
or anything else you might call "love."
i wish for more death
or more life
I can't stay here.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
How to expand your vocabulary,
Quite incidental, actually.
Feed the need, that craving inside,
Bury the pip, symbols collide,
Confide in a way brevity insists,
Cast from heaps of molten lists.
Impossible sentiment proven not,
Paramount structure, stir the ***
Rot and dross swathe the beast,
Desperate for light, look to the East.
Irate in anguish, confined to doom,
Within the partition of the Lazarus tomb,
Displeased, they persist, clang the facade.
The home, the locale, of our very own God.
Indelible musing forms the rock,
Which from overhead, the horde did mock.
“Crock is what you mean to me!”
Bellow they do, around Judas tree.
Not ‘till the end, their faith to heal,
Endeavor to crack the Devil’s seal.
Reel and teeter, the flock ****** to awe,
The phonies true, their passion raw.
Once impalpable, begins to soar
Above them all, a Monster no more.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
Define a modern day criminal
While hypocritical political beings run our land
Living in a critical pitiful painful physical caving roof
With a senseless empirical prototypical lost truth
Indivisible people with inimical minds destroy the parasitical
But we don’t dream
We don’t wish
And we fear
Impermissible values atypical to the nonphysical morals
Incorporated with subliminal messages conveying hypercritical cynical thoughts
That create a clinical stereotypical that cousins the excremental
Archetypical of hatred and malice of our digital kind
Visible scars traditional to the mental demons in our minds
But we take the beatings
We’re let down
And we disappoint
An occipital which lacks visual of the coincidental
Leading to a sentimental moment where the only desires are miracles
The minimal heart becomes gentle and suffers pain
A pain in the temple far from accidental that can offer supplemental guidance
Unconditional love and fundamental care
But we take for granted
We’re selfish
And we fail
An oriental vibe in the beat box’s instrumental welfare
Which adorns the continental flesh like a spring ornamental plant
Judgmental is the incidental human race, the municipal force of the universe
Oppose the parental control against the environmental curiosity of our infants
Because unlike rental we can’t take back our wagon of mishaps in a world so
hypocritical, cynical, stereotypical, digital, and just mental.
Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
March 7th, 2011 5:42am
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:19 AM UTC
To my mother, sweet doubting thing,
you've raised a good child,
a sweet girl,
full of incidental sin.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC
As I tossed you in your carboard coffin
Pieces of you I loved too often
Now shelves for dust and feelings softened
By time and intrusion
And lack of exclusion
Of the wickedness in you
I marveled at each fragment laid to rest
Photographs that caught you at your best
The scent I breathed while on your chest
Now I see your smile is lopsided
And the cologne you once prided
Yourself upon now reeks of decay
An imitation engagement ring
A crass, tinfoil, pitiable thing
Your last bid to try and cling
To a disenchanted free ride
Exhibit A to say you tried
To be half of what I deserved
A love letter in invisible ink
Clear for a moment till the words sink
Like a stricken ship upon the brink
So worn and frail from frequent view
Shoddy proof that you loved me too
A poor Exhibit B
Your faded tee I found comfort in
When doubts crept in of where you'd been
Now the costume of a man of tin
There is no road for you to follow
You have a heart, metal and hollow
For you, there is no place called home
For someone who seemed so central
This tiny box makes you seem incidental
Perspective for the seemingly monumental
You would fit nicely in the attic
A burial I cannot find tragic
I won't even need my black dress
Theres nothing worth embalming to preserve
Two strips of tape and to the curb
A resting place undisturbed
Till the grave robbers haul you away
You're no ones treasure, just trash today
A garbage truck is a proper hearse
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
It took years for the physicist
and the meta-physicist
to reluctantly agree.
They took opposing alleys:
One looked into matter
and arrived at its intrinsic energy.
The other looked at energy
and saw matter as incidental analogy;
just a random criss-cross
of cosmic puissance.
They made much ado
in arriving where my good old
three-band radio
catapulted me years ago.
Since my teens;
she had faithfully been
my worthy companion.
With sweet melodies,
thoughtful talks,
rousing commentaries....
she kept me company
through thick and thin.
For a scanty eternity,
she was the only tie with humanity
in my plain, flat life;
lonesome, sickly and solitary.
We knew each other closely;
fondly and dearly
and I would talk to her,
some would say foolishly,
and though strangely,
she always responded readily.
For years sixteen
that Philips machine
was with me
and I saw
into her inherent energy
that underlies every material entity.
#
When she died suddenly
without warning....abruptly,
I knew a friend had gone
but the essence lived on.
We had perfect camaraderie:
She was all intricacy;
body, battery and circuitry,
and the spark that came from me;
ah!!! my art of tuning adeptly.
Though I got newer models and makes,
the heart still beats with a dull ache
for the one who began as mortal matter
and bonded timelessly with my being;
...merged and mingled...
as an undying memory,
in what they call
my imperishable, impregnable spirit.
Nov 15, 2019
Nov 15, 2019 at 10:51 AM UTC