"infrequently" poems
like a fish out of water
walking backwards upstream
grand illusion of compliance
buying nothing sight unseen
respecting their essence
detached from their path
connected in spirit
repelled by all wrath
norms without ethics
morality sans love
passion ever searching
a need to rise above
heart sinking hatred
mind numbing neglect
mountain moving greed
rarely circumspect
not infrequently i ponder
how my being was unfurled
wondering deeply in my soul
if i belong to another world
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
Planting excitement upon us,
My daughter asks how to thin the beets.
"When the plants are three inches tall,
Pick the weaker ones and pull them up,"
I say. "You'll take out two thirds of the young plants
So the rest can grow."
I see a troubled look upon her face,
And realize what I find in myself....
The teacher's quandary:
Picking whom to keep,
Whom to cull...
We put our love into them all.
Watching for first and tender shoots,
Celebrating as the fledgling leaves appear,
Not thinking of a time ahead,
Dreaded time to thin....
Teachers are reluctant to cull,
Building emotional connection,
Providing loving direction,
Promising success to all....
Then come the standardized tests,
The team selections,
The popularity contests,
The invitations to slumber parties,
The division of elites,
The rising of divas,
The rostering of first teams...
The separation of pariahs begins,
The promise we made to early learners ends,
Superiors, exultant, drown out the tears
Of those left standing by the fence,
Excluded from the chances to advance.
Standing in the seedling beds,
Spring breezes rustling tender leaves,
I turn to Kate....
"It's never easy....
But if we don't thin the beets,
The beets will not develop
Beneath the leaves."
These damnable analogies arise
Infrequently these days,
And I am standing in the dirt,
Black soil upon on my hands,
Wondering about survival of the weak,
The treatment of humans and young plants,
Pondering humane ways to honor every student
In which I am investing...
Wishing I could see the end of high stakes testing....
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
since I last
rode a bus,
no, poems aplenty
have poured and dripped
from ink-saturated fingers,
here there and everywhere,
disguised by many a nom de guerre
the bus riding infrequently,
as work no longer demands me,
I ride for the occasional occasion, when legs won’t
carry me the far away distances
they say violence in the city
is random, and just seems worse,
seemingly a newspaper creation,
but I know better, and random violence &
poetry inspiration do not walk or talk
hand in hand, not for the hands that write…
in every crack, lamppost,
festooned
with flyers for concerts years ago,
poems reached out to me, write, right?
I too am papered with memories of long-ago
city travels, picking up scenes & dreams
that became poems, instantaneously, scrambling,
to get home with them retained, untainted,
preserved with the freshness of city smells,
city swells, homeless, rowdies & oldies shuffling,
the interwoven of disparate desperate humans,
fodder once and now for Walt Whitman’s leaves,
each distinct needy for something else,
but for me,
just one city big view, a Cloister’s museum tapestry,
remade, rewoven anew every moment of every day
and a poem-rough tumbles from
without
&
within
,
Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 8:55 AM UTC
The desperate are animals under the moon
howling infrequently, incest-breeders. I, a part of
the thousand fragrances they simmer upon –
my mouth around a tree trunk that rots
in summer, boiling like eggs or water for tea.
God loves me, he loves me not.
I know I have broken my promises to Heaven –
disappointment lavishes me in aches so velvet
I swear I could make a coat from them.
We scream for womanly voices and pictures on a
wall of mothers kissing or showing a breast,
the ****** is pink. I melt inside my head.
Every morning we scavenge for the same sun –
bright under the glass, soon no one is loved.
Not even my brother hands me his tongue –
when he does, it parishes to black soil
and I pretend it is my child. She has hair just like
us, when she is happy, when she is well.
I rock her until the wolf-hollers halt,
my skin is her mansion. Her sprinkles on me are
as thick as grime doused the door for company
welcome here, she is warm as she is alive
though she didn’t come from inside me, my eggs.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
Dearest Daddy
Disguised in melancholy
my thought is barren today
yesterday was my late Dad's BirthDay
oh really, i miss him still in a way
a way so infrequently
i can not currently put it up with me
he is so cute, patient and tender
every being is not like him, no matter the gender
given this wonderful life, will
gratitude fill my heart still
quite deep inside a little nibble gently
tolerance is a different song
but it is love completely, never wrong
how I wish my beloved dad talks to me again
his art tells me of all these, not in vain
i proudly present it on the mantelpiece
every time i pray oft, may he rest in peace
i'll never forget you, daddy dearest
i am sure yesterday you would be happiest
© Sylvia Frances Chan~~~
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
It having been decided, herein is pronounced.
Let them know the number of days; let them count the number of days
and the count shall be 180.
Day 1 let him strike his head with his fists and call it "stupid".
Day 5 let the vomiting begin without surcease.
Let him dress for work as if he can.
Let him park and never drive beyond Day 10.
Let him pass out at the toilet.
Let him shed 100 pounds and all his hair.
He shall suffer such indignities as appertain
until he is brought to tears before his eldest son
of whom he shall ask, "Do you believe in miracles?"
Let there be no reprieve, neither for the holidays.
Let him wander out into the snow without a coat
and utter, "So beautiful. So beautiful."
All this in due course to precede the final 3.
The son and he shall smoke a last cigarette on the porch.
He shall proceed to the gurney and not see home again.
Let them gather at the hospice room.
Let him suffer terminal rage
thus shall he be manhandled by the sons.
On that day he shall be bedridden by narcotic.
Let him fall into persistent incoherence.
They shall play the New World by Dvorak.
He shall not hear.
They shall gather for the Rosary over him.
He shall not hear.
The eldest son shall vow to stay at his side
nor shall he sleep for 72 hours.
The son shall not permit the end to come.
The son shall take his hand and say
"Only God takes it away."
And when the room is empty but for them he shall sing softly
"Today While the Blossoms Still Cling to the Vine"
He shall not hear.
Let them all tell him it is okay to die.
Let the eldest son protest, "It is not okay to die."
In the final hours he shall struggle again
thus to be manhandled by the sons.
Then amid his incoherence he shall look the eldest in the eyes
and solemnly say
"I love you."
These shall be his last words.
Let them check his toes for signs of life.
Let the breathing come infrequently.
Let the breathing cease.
Let the son remain until they pull away the sheet
and display him in his nakedness at last.
All this to be accomplished January 15
in the year of Our Lord.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 9:10 AM UTC
i always
wanted to be in love,
to be the person that others groan at in the hallway,
swapping affections and possibly personality with the boy of my choice.
wanted to be wanted.
wanted friends to be jealous,
to say god i wish i had a relationship like yours
and ask questions about where we met and how we got along.
wanted to be noticed.
wanted my mom to talk to her friends,
complaining about how obnoxious i was and how infrequently i made my way home,
causing family members to ask on about my boyfriend at gatherings.
wanted something normal.
believed it was possible for someone like me to finally have something average,
something to give me acceptance into the social world.
wanted not to be the outcast i made myself out to be.
thought and then.
thought and then i met a girl with eyes like cool ash and shoulders so heavy, so broad,
it took everything i had inside me to help her bear the load.
knew, knew as a child, when i suppressed my urges to hold a hip like mine,
to dip a red haired beauty under warm ballet hall lights and instead be dipped myself.
knew, especially when i pounded against the walls of a tiny bathroom cubicle,
screaming my desperation at not wanting,
but wanting so much to allow myself to lick the space where her collarbones met her neck.
thought i had been brought up to have an open mind.
-but, darling, i needed so much more than an open mind for this.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
God came to me one night
and said i'm reading your ****** up poems
don't you think your kinda sugar coating this stuff, gag head?
if your gonna write filth
you need to get a little more sex-centric
i like it raw
with hella lottsa kink
lottsa squealing
more squirting
blood tears mucous saliva
gag why don't ya
and remember ******** are used relatively infrequently
so don't get all hygienic on me
what did you think they are for the rest of the time
besides what's a little **** between friends
and what the hell do you think i sent the devil for
the little *****
PS
if you really wanna be reborn
slide up in that goddess ******
and you'll be surprised
how much better you'll feel
im God for god's sake
i already thought of every
despicable
voluptuous
deliciously disgusting
twisted
tortuous
tormented
sick thing
you could possibly wanna do
so get the **** on with it
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 12:58 PM UTC
I never make friends;
My friends make me.
And it happens incredibly infrequently.
I'm naturally passive,
and purposefully patient,
so I'm glad for the gift of assimilation.
Feb 9, 2022
Feb 9, 2022 at 10:57 PM UTC
Mary was on time, as usual.
As per usual, John was late.
“He’d be late for his own funeral!”
Mary fumed and cursed her fate.
They’d first hooked up in freshman year
at a frat house mixer bar
John got sick from too much beer
and hurled in Mary’s car.
They were pursuing the same major
and they lived in the same dorm.
He was always in her classes,
and they both worked at the Mall.
It was natural that they bonded.
It‘s said opposites attract.
His folks were alcoholics
from the wrong side of the tracks.
Mary came from Celtic stock
Hence her saintly name
She always called upon the Lord
when, infrequently, she came.
They both loved the Smashing Pumpkins
and were devoted to the band.
But it’s not enough to make her want
to wear John’s wedding band.
When at last John made his appearance
her well rehearsed words went askew.
She said, when giving back his ring;
“It’s not me, it’s you.”
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 9:41 PM UTC
The 506th is aging,
passing into history
**** Winters now has fallen in
with Easy Company.
He did not like to speak of war,
once He was safely home.
-Excepting at reunions
Or, infrequently, by phone.
Still the story needs be told
to the generations next:
How they parachuted into France,
How they fought Hitler’s best.
How many left their youth behind
In hedgerows or in fields,
Or in the snow around Bastogne
which they refused to Yield.
He was the biggest brother.
He commanded "Easy "well.
He had the gift of leading men-
They would follow him to Hell..
He never wanted medals
Or acclaim for what he’d done.
In the company of heroes,
He never boasted he was one.
Some are old and crippled,
some forever young.
In that company of heroes
Each man did what must be done.
Somewhere Easy Company
is gathered all around.
As they place **** Winters in the earth
let a mournful trumpet sound.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 8:37 AM UTC
My calling patterns are rather dull.
I’m a sixty year old man.
I get phone calls infrequently
almost never from Sudan.
Then one day I received a call
From some fellow called Abdul.
I thought it was a prank at first,
from students at my school.
He talked of pressure cookers
and praised his foreign god.
I said “it’s a wrong number, Bub.”
And I thought “that was odd!”
That didn’t stop him calling here
Oh, once or twice a week.
I explained I’m not the party
To whom he wished to speak.
(It seems my number was one digit
off from a certain Chechen geek).
After Tax day it got interesting-
all this clicking on my phone.
One time my placed was ransacked
while I was not at home.
Eric Holder, if you’re listening,
I am not the Droid you seek.
It seems the fourth amendment
Must be null and void this week...
I might be your perfect villain:
White, Catholic, and a man.
I know if I made videos
I’d be rotting in the “can”
I knew nothing about the plot,
I’m innocent, you see.
My knowledge, like the President’s
comes strictly from T.V.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 8:46 AM UTC
It's so easy
to write while grief spews from
the greatest depths of your character.
Everyone, too,
needs to read about the heartbreak,
the lingering heartache that makes
life decisions feel like clouds.
And it's so easy to give in
and put pitied pen to paper,
and the beautiful only
blossoms with agony, angst, and anger.
Infrequently, though,
can you really find the blood curdling words
that turn ache into anything but
agony. Only then
is a poet born.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 12:52 PM UTC
Sometimes I'm an apathist,
Infrequently an anarchist,
Mostly an apologetic aesthete,
And almost never myself.
_Whatever...f$@k it...sorry...hello._
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 9:02 PM UTC
Sad to see the past
Turn into our future
When the foundation our
Creators laid was, from the beginning, incorrect
Their every attempt to correct it went wrong
Sad to see them dedicated too late to the cause
Sad to see them now, so infrequently
Almost dead and gone
Honestly,
I'm more concerned for us
Becoming effigies in rust
In a dying world
Vibrancy overlaid with dust
Beaten all to red
Given in to dread
Purposefully wasting
Our batteries to death
Death, death, death
Death,
Death,
Death
Sad to feel it coming on so strong
When you'd rather dance than
Be taken naked to bed
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 12:41 AM UTC
In soft darkness my aura of sadness emanates.
O'er cresting notes my lonely whistle treads.
Night birds sing to me their potentate
And lull the drifting images in my head.
All this my emptiness devours,
It feeds upon such times and moods.
My youthful optimism cowers;
Ideals tonight are mere exotic foods.
Do not look for me 'neath street lamps.
I shun the light, as wolves would shun a fire,
Preferring the company of street tramps,
Who seem to understand a man's desires.
So foolish are the rash, deceiving hearts,
Which convince our minds that love is rare,
For not infrequently a couple parts,
Never realizing the secret was to care.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 10:14 PM UTC
She is a master of words.
She uses them wisely.
She uses them haphazardly.
She uses them to plant seeds
to grow flowers of either beauty or poison
Or both, with equal feverishness.
She uses them quietly.
She uses them loudly.
She uses them build beautiful ideas
of either Paradise or Babylon
with no regard of passions but her own.
She uses them infrequently.
She uses them continuously.
She creates a symphony
of either joy or sorrow for the audience to feel
and she merely watches the catastrophe from afar,
And walks away.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
Life is lived between the waves
In those moments prior to being carried or pushed,
What make you of those moments
When life’s ocean ebbs and flows
Infrequently offering just enough respite
That you may catch sight of what awaits
Whether its better to resist against or float atop
Is not sometimes known until afterwards
To know so little, arrive at land
And walk forth
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
I remember when you were a baby snuggled safely against me
Baby bird in my hand
I remember when you seemed to grow so quickly and learned to fly
I cried when you left my nest
Bird in the sky
I now see you so infrequently
I know you would rather be with your friends
Bird flying with friends
I miss you
I love to hear you sing
I'm tempted to hold unto you and tell you not to go
I need to let you grow
I hide my tears
I have memories of you to cherish of all these years
I let go and let you fly
I hope you know I will always be here if you need me
I hope you know how much I love you
My bird soar to new heights
My bird fly
I will look to the sky and watch you from afar
Fly my bird fly glide across the sky
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 4:06 PM UTC
When muse is lost
And flair be failing
To where do I look for my mana?
In the nooks and the crannys
Are the dregs and the pale
The thoughts not so worthy of print
In my heart is desire
For words that inspire
But I’m blocked by the rustle of feet!
The hum in the air
Craves pulling of hair
When will failings desist?
-
In heart are the answers
Mature in their nature
Written in untarnished text
Virtuotous is patience
Commendable indeed
An art form infrequently found
To better myself
New teaching of tricks
No old dog here will be found
-
Content will I be within silence
Awaiting the discharge of words
Come wind, come rain, come turbulent weather
Come fill my empty page
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 8:52 PM UTC
this is what gothmess says, in 140 characters or less..
on going out, and going home:
"just can't be happy tonight"
"so I left. unwilling to be anything but alone"
some things are better left forgotten:
"forget what I was going to tell you"
about to pass out:
"radio silence"
cough medicine:
"dextromethorphan"
an autobiography:
"if you like what you can't have and the smell of stale cigarettes
you're sure going to love me."
"and that's dedicated to somebody"
a confession:
"theres an awful lot of rapid life changes being thrown at me & so typically I've decided to sleep more and smoke more and be lazier overall"
"additionally I might add that all of my friends have discovered how infrequently I get laid and have decided to comment about it"
"so that feels nice. okay goodnight"
on relaspse:
"puked my throat out. the taste of loneliness is the taste of failure"
on alliterations:
"migranes and mixed feelings today"
on fine dining:
"stir fry is the best way to eat your feelings"
death cab for cutie references:
"tiny vessels from the other side of the microphone isn't great"
on setting goals:
"tomorrow I will wake up new and fresh and young and me"
"replacing all meals with green tea"
and not quite accomplishing them:
"old habits die hard"
"I didn't wake up new or fresh because I woke up me"
missing MySpace's "current mood" feature:
"tired and jaded and bored to tears"
potential comedy ideas:
" "my easter hickey" "
on having a hickey:
"tiny vessels *******
on alka seltzer cough and cold medicine:
"no such thing as a half dose"
"orange carbonated salvation"
on life outlook:
**** 'em"
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
1. That home is not a place it's a feeling. It's a feeling that wraps you in warmth and when you get there you know, because how could you ever feel like you feel when you're home?
2. That home will change. Home will adapt. You will come to the house you were raised in after being away for a while and you will your hand will shake as you open the door. The bed where you lost your virginity will feel stiff and old and you will realize that this doesn't feel like home anymore, that home is 800 miles away and sits with your stuff in boxes and with a girl with brown eyes and your favorite smile.
3. That time changes people, and time will change you. You will kiss the boy you swore you loved with all your heart a few years ago, just for the hell of it, and you will find that time has changed you both and you can't remember why his lips used to taste so sweet.
4. You will grow apart from people you don't want to grow apart from. And that's okay. There will always be memories shared, and things you will miss. You will move on and talk infrequently and wish them the best.
5. You will hate how quickly things have changed. You will look back and you will think about high school and the excitement of leaving and wonder why you never fully appreciated where you were in this moment. You will feel pangs of regret, but they will pass.
6. You will bring to your home town habits you picked up while in school. You will take tequila shots in your kitchen at midnight because you're bored and you will shotgun a beer because it reminds you of home, and you miss your dorm room more than you would like to admit.
7. You are not invincible. When you leave school, you no longer have exams and work and parties to hide behind. Life moves slower here. You have to look at yourself each day with a new kind of acceptance, and that acceptance might seem harder here.
8. And you will be more alone, and this is a part of growing up. You went a year without regularly talking to your friends. It will hurt that you are not as a part of their group anymore. It will feel odd that you no longer have people to hang out with everyday. That your best friend is across the country and no longer shares a room with you. That you can't go to the guys down the hall's room to see what they are doing. That you will have days where no one texts you, no one talks to you, and this is all okay. You will learn about solitude and moving on and loving yourself. And of course, you will be okay, you've always been okay.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 1:13 AM UTC
I wear my scars on my sleeve,
far away from my heart.
I give them no introduction, and in return,
hardly anyone comments.
Once, I was told that such marks are
something to hide
with neatly pressed skirts,
long sleeves, and dim lighting.
For some time, I made an effort,
then lost the shame-filled motivation.
They are rose-pink, criss-crossing,
haphazard badges of a life
lived free of convention,
every one a road sign that tells
just how far I've come-
beautiful if solemn reminders
of a former self.
They are small, puckered triumphs,
things to admire if only for their stability:
They do not grow in number.
I love their gaping mouths,
their age and soft surrender.
Infrequently, I examine each scar
with all the care and concentration
of a cynic in wonderland.
My fingers land on them like butterflies,
any pain has long since faded.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
I found how infrequently some points or lines could align with a hyperplane.
It sounds way harder than it was, probably because I used to not know the succession of steps to learn about R^n and the hyperplane.
They are easy to grasp but it used to not be as easy as 1,2,3.
But it really is a simple plane in n-1 dimensions of R^n.
Yet when I first encountered the word some years ago, it was quite mesmerizing.
I think math will always be mesmerizing except if I've encountered it in pedagogy.
With this understanding, I know that all math is stepwise succession within its branch.
But somehow this leaves things undone, probably because I can't cheat true and tried pedagogy.
That's what I really want to do.
Mar 4, 2021
Mar 4, 2021 at 11:13 PM UTC