"insightfulness" poems
oscillating back and forth
head tilting from leeward and windward
an abstract puzzling my imperial gaze
a Van Gogh in waiting
perchance a reflection illuminated
in broad mesmerizing strokes
some tantalizing insightfulness
else a superficial escapade
do the color menageries
stray my mindfulness or hold attention
each vivid hue enlightenment
to soothe & provide enrichment
is my inspiration desperation
to find meaning in the simpleton
gravitating and debating
between beauty and gargoyles
does incredulous creativity scare me
or woo me into submissiveness
the artist plying servitude
into mine cavernous cavities
Alan Scales’ exhibit of
Turquoise Abstract Landscape II
provides fodder for my mind
to exponentially explode
Andreas Simic©
Apr 22, 2022
Apr 22, 2022 at 10:58 PM UTC
Hers was always the only soul I ever wanted to absorb entirely.
She's the only reason I write weird **** like that.
Before her, I was plain and thought words were just empty sounds breaking through our silence when we felt like.
Before her I thought movies were for entertainment like Insidious or Rambo,
not feelings like The Perks of Being a Wallflower or Blue is the Warmest Color.
Understanding the world was the least of my worries.
But with her gorgeous insightfulness waking me every morning, I'd gotten used to curiosity and enlightenment.
I wanted to feel the world's love and soak in every perfect ending.
I wanted to listen to the voices and grasp the thickness of the meanings etched into their words.
Every laugh I heard I saw happiness.
And when I look at her I feel the entire universe hugging us as we dance along to heartbreak in The Front Bottoms' lyrics.
I want to hear her voice above all others because making sweet love to her and drenching her body with the promise of forever, well that's the one that stands out the most.
And she calls my name like I never dreamed anyone could.
The poetry she reads me is the most imaginative and splendid and I want to write like her.
To put more beauty into my font.
And I try to make the world my muse.
It'll never be as good as hers.
Because everything that ever was, is her muse.
And mine could only ever be her.
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
“Life is, at its core, a smattering of multicolor streaks and blotches
on a knock-off Jackson ******* painting, don’t you think?”
you say between impossibly tiny sips
of your organic loose leaf herbal something-or-other tea—
or at least I think that’s what you said;
I was too distracted (by the general awfulness with which
your incomprehensibly long nose hairs
mingled with your bristly auburn mustache
as elevated nonsense poured out of your speech-hole)
to fully ingest your attempt at insightfulness.
But I reply:
“Aren’t you saying that what you’re saying doesn’t matter anyway?
Abstract expressionism, existentialism, nihilism, all that stuff?
Life has no meaning—so we better talk about it!”
Heh.
But my dialectical cynicism is no match
for your allegorical bullshit-ism:
“Ah, but we create meaning!
The lonely abyss of individual experience,
when shared, isn’t so lonely anymore—
Mon Dieu! This tea tastes like sunshine!”
I can’t avoid a sigh-and-eye-roll combo.
When my eyes return to the table,
I see my upside-down reflection in a dessert spoon.
I painted a Pollock-esque piece in 9th grade.
My art teacher adjusted her cat-eye glasses,
the gold parts of her hazel irises sparkling behind them
while she said something about the creative subconscious.
The first drip took some self-convincing;
the blank canvas on the floor seemed to taunt me
with the possibility of mistake.
At first I pretended I was ******* himself,
trying to think the elevated nonsense he may have thought.
It didn’t work.
My friend told me to “just go for it,” so I did.
I began with green for no reason at all,
and ended with yellow for reasons that I knew existed
but that I couldn’t explain.
Elated, I realized my painting made sense to me.
“Would you like a sip?”
I can’t avoid a smile because
****
this tea does taste like sunshine.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
O
///
Since the only acceptable response to a poem
Is praise
I might as well start out by just basking in the glory
Of my poetic prowess
//
Wow !
Feels good !
//
**** !
Why waste my time even writing the
**** thing ?
•
No one else seems to make any effort to be clear
But then
What difference does it make
Since quality has been deemed irrelevant
In our meaningless society
And our self - aggrandizing moral stupor !
•
The NEW WAVE poetry
Has become the
MAKE NO WAVES poetry
And we the poets
Of the
IGNORANCE IS BLISS
social order
//
Congratulations !
••
We have degraded poetry
And art
And love
And life itself
To preserve our egos
••
Feels great !
( less filling ! )
""
So
Thanks for the praise my fellow poets
With our actual real lack of support
For each other
Seeped in the pretensions of
Our phony insightfulness
I feel well equipped now
To live a life of imaginary happiness
And fake love
•
Thank you thank you
YOU'RE TRULY WELCOME
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
Those wise stars twinkled so luminously, I looked over into your eyes thinking all the answers could be found in their depths.
I wouldn't call it pathetic maybe just hopeful and naive with a tinge of foolishness. Intellectual depth was mistaken for insightfulness and the spark I thought I saw in your eyes was nothing but a dull, passionless blown out star.
The ocean breeze, salty air and Piña coladas tend to make you drastically romanticize everything (especially that hideous necklace that looked nothing like Something I would've worn).
That last night I had to beg you to stay up with me watching the Florida coast line come into view. The outline of the whole state was visible and that was when I realized I really ******* love my life. I looked over at you and you were half asleep.
Different priorities, different mind set, different ideals .You were a bland key-lime pie while I was a red velvet cake. I, Rich with prosperity and thoughts and you were content with the life I dreaded seeing myself stuck in.
Hey, if a a big house on a lake with a dog and a boat is your thing, go for it. I strive to not follow in my parents footsteps.
The day we ended I went down to Davis island where we always used to sit. The carnival cruise ship was leaving. I watched it sail all the way out into the horizon, the warm thought of you went with it.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
MY TURN........
(to rant)
There was a time when Halloween
was lots of fun, no one was mean.
We didn't have to check our treats
and children safely crossed the streets.
And then the "seventies" arrived
with liberal concepts all contrived
to change our "Dull" society
bluring lines of propriety
bending rules of decency,
corruption, greed and call it "Free".
No freedom lies within these mores.
Suffering now, we've locked our doors.
We scan for weapons all aboard
or come to school a frightened hoard.
Is this the "New Society" that once they blithely stated
would bring to us a world that's free of hatred, educated,
would bring us new insightfulness?
Devoid of all the frightfulness?
A better place for us to live?
A healthy place to raise our kids?
When mistress Miley gets on stage,
or "Beeber" gets arrested
are we really proud of them?
Well I'm not, I'm ashamed
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
I will talk to the boy
when my teeth are
straight when they
are whitened
when there are no
blackheads on my nose
when the warts are
frozen from my hands
when my nails are painted
and my ******
is shaven.
when my belly
is toned,
I'll sit next to him
without having
to **** in,
flashing my white white
smile, across my spotless
face,
and he'll be
astounded
by how well I can play piano
and guitar
and recite poetry
by my insightfulness.
by my vivid imagination
and reckless travel stories.
And I'll finally
deserve it.
Because to be loved,
I must be perfect.
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 10:06 PM UTC
There are many greats out there.
Whom does not seek validation in fighting weaker opponents or blinded by his own arrogant cockiness.
A real man does not strike a woman.
Uses his demeanor to devalue what is relived as enjoyment!
A warrior, is humble as a priest, noble as a knight
and powerful in terms of insightfulness.
I have wondered many places as a father, a poet, lived through some battles myself.
You are far from Royalty.
You should not tread the grounds, as if you are mightier than one with a crown.
I may have my faults. I may need more than a God to show me a way. You are far from that or anything appealing.
I have seen many kings and warriors, of good and evil intent....suffer the same fall.
_You are only a man._
Onward to find yourself, because your trueself needs you more than your journey.
Mar 22, 2022
Mar 22, 2022 at 7:36 AM UTC
The hours, of the day, proceed so fast when you stay up the night before. As the light comes, it brings a calm insightfulness much different then when you first awaken from sleep. A pensive recognition that comes as if the previous day were a lifetime, and soon it is noon again. Time was forgotten untill I looked upon that wretched regimental clock, and while it keeps things in order I wish to be free from it. What if all our minds weren't so convinced of time as we know it? Like a trap it keeps me stuck. All around the house I see those numbers and they hold me down. How much more lovely would existance be without contrived and man made things? I want to be fresh like when God first made Adam. Maybe even before that when there was no day or night.
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC