"inordinate" poems
A calm and cool breeze
Passes through the leaves of the trees,
Persuading the branches to sway,
Like algae in a turbulent sea.
Without a cloud in the pale blue Arizona sky,
The sun radiates down-- hot and glaring.
It reflects off the shiny paint of the cars around me,
Illuminates the brown mountains in the distance.
And magnified through the thick lenses of my glasses,
It blinds my sensitive eyes.
The surrounding sempiternal desert
Is so clear and sharp,
That no one nor nothing can hide
(With the exception of the beings who can blend,
And despite my tiring efforts,
I am not one of them.)
The nearest Creosote bush
Eminates of the smell of water,
As it passes through a hose.
I am instantly transported back home
Where sand is replaced by grass and plants
That require regular watering to survive.
When I close my eyes I can see
The illusion of a waterfall, created by the uncoiling hose
As it ejects tepid water for us to traverse.
But upon unveiling my windows,
I allow the sandy landscape to penetrate into my soul
And I am brought back to the present
Where life subsists, illogically,
Through a dearth of water, and inordinate sun.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
1373
The worthlessness of Earthly things
The Ditty is that Nature Sings—
And then—enforces their delight
Till Synods are inordinate—
5.9k
He's found himself in the closet
After he lost to himself in a game of tic-tac-toe
And tied his lobster bib tightly
Then hid his cheat sheet, for the pop quiz he knew was soon to come
It's curtains for her
She let the cat out of the bag
And now she's up **** creek with ****** for paddles to go **** herself with
Right in the birth canal
Then we'll auction off the ******
We'll pass them off as European defibrillators
Maybe some extremist will want them
If we spew out enough mindless dribble
The All Time Shit-Show is about to begin
We have
The Chronic Masturbater
The Hypochondriac
And The Pathological Liar
It was either sometime yesterday
Or sometime tomorrow
Or was it sometime today?
That you were all going to make fun of the boy with the cleft lip down at the laundromat?
Out of the three of you The Pathological Lair sticks out like a sore thumb
I can tell he was the runt of the litter
Who always bites off more than he can chew
I see the Hypochondriac has convinced himself he has eczema
He rattles off all his symptoms
Inordinate filibustering
Now there's the Chronic Masturbater
He looks like he's over the hill
He's only twenty one
But the blue circles under his eyes and the deep defined lines on his forehead denote his inelegant aging
I sign all your lives away in my horrible cursive
And now you belong to the ragtag trigger-happy posse of gun-jumpers
My billfold his happily filled
So I must go do some reconnaissance
Spy on those who have quit their day jobs
The fish out of water
You must find that thing that really rolls off the tongue with a nice ring to it
******
*******
*******
*******
No...
Go hang youself with dental flossed you home-schooled fool
Indentured servants we're just an after thought
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
1359
The long sigh of the Frog
Upon a Summer’s Day
Enacts intoxication
Upon the Revery—
But his receding Swell
Substantiates a Peace
That makes the Ear inordinate
For corporal release—
3k
*To you, love was about multitudes
To me, love was inordinate
“I love you” I would say
“How much” you would ask
-Lang Leav
You like specifics, you like to hear
How much I do, how much I can
But darling, my love is inordinate
I couldn’t quantify, it’s too lavish
Sometimes unconscionable
And multitudes is never enough
If you ever ask me again
I’ll ask you to count the star
On every galaxy
Until you loses track
I’ll ask you to count every grain of sand
On every ocean floor
Until you ran out of numbers
I’ll ask you to listen to my heartbeat
On every second of the day
Until the infinite of infinities ends
And if ever you asked me again
Of how much I love you
That’s my definition of “how much”*
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 12:40 PM UTC
*walking along
tormented path*
1.
daisies hum hymns in flutter-eyes
weeping willow leans down to whistle
a medley of fifteen-odd tunes you used to know
but never quite did grasp
the axis merry-tilts just a bit and
you try to grab hold of a patch of sullen-sky
but the clouds shift once more
and you're unexpectedly holding rain in your joints
running steady-rivulets in the morrow's wrinkles
2.
you step onto the pavement
avoiding the lines
a knack acquired over years of practice
on the sidelines of others' lives
kerb jumps up like a ***** with no chapeau
its inordinate-syllogism bites your ankle
like a swarm of ants in dread-ire
in disorderly tornado-twirls
step.. step.. step..
walk on.....
(piece-a-cake....right?)
S T - 4 decked / on / double
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
my hidden shames
are an excellent source of moral fibre,
nurturing, but not nutritious.
we coexist in a quiet
mutual acknowledgment,
coexisting but un-categorizable,
nonetheless,
among my oldest cohorts,
their singular coordinated characteristic,
they are mine alone,
not meant to be shared.
But they will someday
make an excellent poem.
Mon jan 2 2023
6:47am
@here
———————————————————-
the askew
are my oldest companion,
dating back to my naissance,
faithful, eternal, but single-minded,
with a rueful sense of humor,
of course,
refer to my relatively plentiful hairs
inherited from my mother’ genetics.
a morning chore,
to return their antics
to an adult,
dignified pose,
plenty sufficient to be be brushed,
straight back,
the preferred orderly compose,
of older men
who cannot waste time
with foolishness,
the excessive vanities of
curls, parts and pompadours,
and yet,
every day they wake me with
ridicule, mockery, by presenting
themselves.to me,
as if electrocuted,
each
hair raising itself
pointing to the heaven,
whence
their true Creator resides.
no amount of product
persuasive,
they do what they must do,
akimbo, askew,
with inordinate amount of
malice aforethought and
a venomous sense of
hairy (and now hoary)
absurdity .
a splash of water,
a handful of rigorous brush strokes,
returns order
and the pretense of a serious mien,
an adult demeanor.
But their purpose accomplished,
they have reminded me of the
absurdity of human vanity,
to humble myself
before forces
more powerful
than human self-aggrandizement
by accentuating
our human foibles.
7:13am
same time & place
——————————————-
morning prayers are
always
a trilogy
the rounded evenness of three,
provides the necessary gravitas
of sufficiency,
three being
not too short,
not too long,
not too quick,
just three right,
to impart
the seriousness
of gratitude
for having gained
another day upon earth,
with it,
many multitudes of
chances to share
thankfulness,
kindness,
yes,
& love too,
and to write,
one more poem
encapsulating
all of the above.
7:35am
same day
same place,
same cup of coffee
Jan 3, 2023
Jan 3, 2023 at 9:17 AM UTC
*Like the sin of lust, greed, is a need,
however unlike my need for you
greed turns my desire for your touch
your kiss, your caress to lust, to a greed of more.
Lust and greed are twins in the land of sin.
Sins of excess.
Rapacious, covetous, guaranteed to
succeed in tricking you into conceding them as a need.
Dante's, penitents were bound and laid face down on the ground.
Perhaps my greed of you exceeds the sin itself,
inordinate desire feeds my greed, that in turn
changes to lust*
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
This poem comes from a dream.
Sun—as February ordains it
roseate—early
twisted inordinate—in gray blanket
Snow has sifted to the pockets, wrinkles
the cuff of his woolen cap
An old hand rubs stubbled cheek
Snow flickers and falls again
in a dazzle
As he groans and stirs—
sparrows sing
As he struggles to sit—
sparrows sing
As he exhales into the chill
he considers the lilies of the field
Their luminous curling petals rise
steam or hope?
or just white smoke
wandering from the tiny fire
He sits a while to listen
to sparrows bickering in the bushes
then bursting into song
They have their audience
Across in a court of broken glass
and toppled stones
a room— still partially intact
Kindling gathered
Marta melts snow for tea
peeling potatoes in her lap
Stops to blow on hands
Marta’s heart—decent, visceral
like her hair—bun, kerchief
like her words—few in the failing
like the wounds of her smile
And Mikhail—harnessed
to the sounds of service
Orderly rhythm in ruin
hush hush hush
of a broom stroking cobbles
Mikhail—his hands wrapped in rags
old warrior
now, restorer of places to live
Stops, removes his cap
squinting sunlight into the channels of his face
Then turns toward unsteady shuffling behind him
“You shouldn’t.”
Tears interrupt
reaching for the broom
“You shouldn’t do this for me.”
“No, no, Holy Father. It is little thing—
a little thing I do.”
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 11:09 PM UTC
hapax legomenon “Texas Women”
**(hapax legomenon: a term of which only one instance of use is ever recorded)
(Texas Women: a term of which only one instance of use is ever recorded)**
for
ꏳJ LꂦVꏂ & Cne’
once again, they sweet sweep me off my feet,
carry me to the Court of Finger Wagging,
to be accused of hating and/or loving Texas Women
simultaneously, diffidently, consequentially, unclearly differentially
this is no flower picking exercise, shaking of the head,
“he loves me, he loves me not,” rinse and repeat,
a northern trick to confuse the plano truth,
warns the Judicial Triumvirate
your Honors, I swears,
never wrote those conjunctive words,
Texas, Women,
never ever, until just now,
a genuine hapax legomenon
akin to taking god’s name in vain,
if one dare ever utter these words, and
blows the opportunity,
well, shotgun, if you know what I mean,
one gets only
one chance
so cut me quick to the chase’s conclusion
let’s go to my defense single & singularly:
true, of women I have written, and
“too much,”
is a mere theortical constriction
I love to love women,
and a 57 variety pak is a-ok by me
an inordinate number of poems may have referenced
females hailing from a certain great state,
but never together, side by side, have I ever employed
that phrase, for my imaginations
are more than sufficient
have loved women from many places, too many faces,
some beyond measure, now a forever,
a hoarded memoir unpublishable treasure,
some, it’s true, possessed jeans and a cowboy hat,
and dangerous boots, which one admired from a
goodly distance
they brook no con, tilting their heads quizzically,
there is no maybe with women from this place,
maybe you love us, maybe not, but either way,
there ain’t no maybe in our emotional lexicology!
ok.
the only woman I ever hated is dead and buried,
and yes, I shot her dead for being ornery cactus mean,
so by this roundabout roundup summation,
you may put your head on pillow tonight,
smiling confident thinking that your hapax legomenon,
is deep in the heart of a grown boy hailing from nyc,
still a crazy straight shooter
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 1:22 PM UTC
*"Every inordinate cup is
unblessed and the ingredient is a devil."*
The sun has set and the switch between
lives is applicable.
We are all dead tonight. Frozen
in a hidden world far away from
innocence and frowning faces.
Far past the sun and far past
plastic cups and lost inhibitions,
lost in a torrent of ecstasy:
we transform into beasts.
Beyond this and so much more
Beyond undeserving smiles and lustful pursuits
Beyond "no regrets" and spilt drinks
And hollow laughter and moonlit faces
And spins and joy and misery and
And
and this, and so much more.
I will never grow old... I will never grow old.
*And let me the canakin clink
clink*
'Pandora left all but hope,
I watched the world unfold from out in a cage,
it was quite beautiful until I lived a life there.
The world I see is not the world I live.
Dare I to choose a life sanctity?
To repudiate the winelife and sit in silence, pure?
I will find pain in both worlds.
Might as well have fun in our misery.'
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 3:43 PM UTC
I, a Sun casting light
All direction so bright
In search for my Moon,
But the mass of the Earth
So vast in girth
Eclipses her from view
Distances inordinate
A mysterious coordinate
How far is soon
Spacetime is bending
Her presence pending
Great discovery overdue
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
Black Flags are flowing
In the news;
inked in
or Not
The pulp slashes
Across my seared consciousness:
What say my heart for those
Who perish?
What Say My Heart
For Those Who Cry?
Peevishly My Heart responds,
in ****** Tears,
As in a nightmare:
Weep all the tears
For the Motherless Children,
Weep All the Tears
For The Buried Child...
Weep For Yourself, And Not Without Shame,
Weep For Humanity And
Mankind
As it Slowly Dies...
Weep for Those
Whose Vibrant
Life You Adore.
Weep Not For The Cruelly Weak
Who, Knowingly,
inflicts
such
Inordinate pain.
J Eduardo Ramos©
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
Sidereal gaze enriches casual lays beneath the shimmering firmament
Glorified passions is the indignity of benighted scars and brandished armaments
Scour with the owls proctoring over the night for signs that penetrate the tight
That ooze new light and wage an epigamic fight
Temptress like a mainlined ecstasy enlivening a heightened empathy
Our love towers above suburban muses and urban ruses
It showers with meteoric power and consummate flowers that it chooses
The misfortune of star-crossed affections
Is the serendipity of empowering but inclement afflictions
Impenetrably vast like a cavernous space
To make us tremble in insignificance at the petty rats that race
Our lambent passions erupt with paroxysms immune to an unbuttoned snooze
Oneiromancy glistens with prophetic eternities dreamed awake with inordinate *****
Playful jostles and succulent pretended jilts lionize our blessed fates
We reckon with eternity by adducing modernity at its current rate
We disavow transient objections just like gravity impounds its own weight
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
C. B. was a son of a B!
Did anybody really like him?
Most of the people he encountered
Usually found more reasons to strike him.
In school the kids called him a bully.
Bully he was, and bully he did.
He derived inordinate pleasure
Tormenting any vulnerable kid.
His schoolyard behavior was no better
Than his disruptive behavior in class.
In fact, most teachers would call him
An incorrigible pain in the ***
In high school he was just as aggressive.
His reputation was firmly upheld.
Holding a freshman's head in the toilet
Finally got the bully expelled.
How he earned money. Well, that was
A real mystery--through and through.
Not surprisingly his motto
Was ***** them before they ***** you."
What his girlfriend saw in him
Was truly anybody's guess.
Aware of his fractious personality,
The woman married him nevertheless.
People made bets on how long the couple
Could last in a stormy marriage from hell.
After the wife had had enough,
She packed up the kids and said farewell.
C. B. remained estranged
From both of his kids for the rest of his life.
Some woman out there was very lucky
For he never found another wife.
Money. That was all that mattered.
People? Employees? They were dispensable.
His dog was even afraid of him
And sensed that he was reprehensible.
He bought a number of businesses.
How they lasted was a surprise.
Frankly, most people suspected
Secret Mexican Mafia ties.
One day C. B.'s lifeless body
Was found in his driveway. The coroner said
A heart attack was the cause;
But some suspected foul play instead.
A gravestone reads: "Here lies C. B.
When life was hard, he would persist.
Survived by two loving children,
The doting father will be missed."
Whoever wrote that epitaph?
You wonder: what did he or she owe him?
The author of those unfounded words
Obviously didn't know him.
Oddly the deaths of louses and scoundrels
Are so hard to identify,
For based on gravestones and the obits,
It seems that only good people die.
- by Bob B (6-27-17)
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 3:20 PM UTC
your sharp jaw
your inordinate blush
the way you put yourself together.
if i could make dreams out of cold hands and dark tresses, you'd be my winter palace.
but when all of this is over,
when the sky lays dark and stormy,
i will run.
i will run home with no shoes on,
pound my fists into the pavement
till they're black, blue, and ******
i will hold them open for you and say
"this is it. these are the most vulnerable parts of me,
and this is what i'm trying to give to you."
i will scream my own name
into your mouth
just to hear the echo in your chest.
it feels like you've tied my hands behind my back,
sucker punched me in the nose,
and i'm spitting out, "thank you,
thank you. this is all i want."
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 5:46 PM UTC
I remember, however long ago,
My friend called me an unsung hero.
And he said it in a tone of voice
As if to comfort me,
To console me for not being played
In the ballads of far-gone legend
Or in the soft-spoken stories
Told solemnly around a fire,
Smoke billowing in the air
Like immolated lost dreams
And falling, wistful pride.
And I just looked at him,
Unsure of what to say.
In those moments,
It's rather common
To be gracious, to be humble,
But I didn't respond in any such way.
It's because I didn't feel like the title,
Didn't feel as if I'd earned
Something to be proud of, since
I'd just been me for as long
As time had coddled my existence.
But when he said that,
I felt the world cave in like a tunnel,
Felt my ego dissolve as if it were
Being bathed in acid, and I realized,
Maybe too, late, that being a hero
Doesn't entail boundless wisdom,
Doesn't entail haughty accomplishments,
Doesn't entail inordinate hubris,
Doesn't entail selfishness like he believed.
No,
Being a hero, an intricate warrior
Is being a dragonfly soaring
Across a meadow of lava,
Is staying silent but
Loud enough for all to hear,
Is defending the passions
That bind your soul,
Is standing on two feet
When one's been broken,
Is guarding your heart
With a well-oiled pen,
Is fending off harpies
With an eager chuckle.
And I won't ever pretend
That I'm an "unsung hero",
For that would mean my path is destined
For a hero's end, a conceited flaw,
A predetermined death governed by
What I'd been trying to hide from all along.
And if I have to sail across glacial tundra,
Trek across scathing plains,
Dig my feet into caustic quicksand
Or walk along the surface of the sun
Just to prove I'm not the hero you perceive,
Then so be it,
I'll pack my boots and papers
And meet you at dawn,
Atop heaven's summit, somewhere
Far out in the distance, beyond
The twinkling stars and mystifying blackness
That swallows everything whole,
That makes heroes tremble in fear.
But I will not shudder, not falter,
For I am no hero,
But a well-heard whisper.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
Oh the tears
Oh the pain
Oh the anguish
The suffering of the people
With their sorrowful heart
Broken to pieces by wickedness
Smothered and shredded
Afflicted and forsaken
Seeking peace and comfort
Calling out to whoever
Crying out for help
But all to no avail
I dwell in self gratification
I live in a conceited world
My words are to your derision
Denunciation is my motto
I care less about the world around me
Stinginess lies in my marrow
I am aroused by an inordinate desire for greatness
Treachery lies in my heart
I am impenitent and obdurate
I am consumed by my profane thoughts
And yet I say
I am chosen nation
A royal priesthood
A peculiar person
Dwelling in Glory and Splendor
Enjoying the Goodness of The Almighty
Not minding the world around me
Ignoring their cries
Overlooking their pains
Oblivious to their anguish
Though I know the way to peace
And God as made me a light of the world
I covert this light for myself alone
My selfish deeds
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC
If I tried to write about you, but only managed a sentence or two,
Would you say I was trying to hard?
Or not trying enough?
It’s not my fault I can’t put you into words.
And you, you just use an inordinate amount of beautiful words.
It’s insensitive of you really,
Because when you describe me in that way you do,
I’m left breathless and have lost all of the glorious words for your ears to hear.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 8:04 PM UTC
There was always a singular quality about the nature of my love
that made it special – that made me special.
Whether my feelings were returned or not was almost beyond
the point. Love always saturated my life, it made life poignant.
Give me passion and sorrow in every inordinate measure, I’ll
take both, rather than none. I would never survive a frozen life,
in slow motion, just standing there, stock-still, in tranquility.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:38 PM UTC
I have felt strange as of late
In a way I have little inkling of
Perhaps a state I shouldn’t remain in
However, I seem to be unable to help myself
I don’t mean it in any dramatic way
As is seen in so many others
I simply lay too insignificant for such relevance
But perhaps this is where I find comfort
In this strife of mine
Quite a curious concept
Amidst a world filled with those
Who are controlled by their struggles
I have the inordinate audacity
To break bread with mine
I have seen what these aspects can lead to
Some call them demons, others refer to it more casually
Not even by name, but by their candor
Simple symptoms
Quite like describing a fragrant rose
I may be paradoxical in this
Taking solace in that which is meant to cause my regression
But I find sanctity in their resolution
Inviting their debate
Rather than rejecting their origin
I travel these paths
Joined not by those closest, as it should be
Rather, by these subtle ghosts
Haunting in their presence
Yet warm in their embrace
I am fortunate in this
Finding this place to go
In the nether of my mind
Joining this table alongside these ‘demons’
Engrossed in my subtle chaos
Overwhelmed by its aura
Yet comforted in its presence
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
I shall embalm the stars and hang them at your girdle,
There where pansies lie; free and mobile.
And I shall dress you in mountains,
Hoping that immortality and rise;
Would profoundly suffice.
But I don't have the means to do
What my senses inspire me to.
Thus, allow me to write you
In words more naked than flesh
With blood-drops; raw and grandiose.
Allow me to embellish the linings of your skin
With sacred letters and ambiguous hints.
I will meet you one day
At dawn or morn,
And we will foresee our radiant yore.
To the one I deeply venerate,
To whom my affection is inordinate.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 7:30 AM UTC
A reproof of scarlet riviera
darken its seance that acclaim unforetold entrance
of lactose hence virtual lecture,
edifice with preponderance in guidance if hesitation
ready hinders them entertained by inordinate *** and
whether garish is gruesome for glutenesque and
intricately hard to maintain as their distraction is subliminal
that pain is debilitating and overwhelming in modern lifestyle.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 7:41 AM UTC
once upon a time, i woke without your
resonance vibrating through my callused fingers.
once upon a time, i traveled without the constant
and never-ending presence of you.
once upon a time, i could have never remembered the shape
of your freckles, the churning of your irises.
once upon a time, i would have laughed at the idea of needing someone
so terribly, so hungrily.
this time, i cannot blink without the inordinate yearn
to bleed among your crackling pigmentation.
this time, the thought, the mere idea of mornings without you,
are enough to
**** me.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 1:11 PM UTC
Regaining the renewed feelings of this world that I had
been open to before,
Is starting to flow right back into this,
lonesome body which has been restrained
From the reality of boundaries,
I shall begin again so that my fragments shall
be spoken through words and emotions,
Give me a sign,
Give me inspiration,
Give me a reason,
It's all coming back,
This is it,
The sensibility,
The obligations,
The muse,
Passion over whelming my senses and taste buds,
Let these blood cells and nerves fly into rage,
Let Me Run ,
Through these declarations untamed and irrational,
Oh joy, Welcome me once again.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 12:55 AM UTC