"insists" poems
i’ve given up on days that begin in late afternoon,
skipped breakfast and lunch,
days that fade slowly and end with
****** cut-out holes in eyelids because
the second i close them and it all goes black,
every moment with you comes back
played on fast-forward, the memories moving so quickly
that both our faces are blurred
and it feels like everything i’ve ever felt for you
is overflowing the tub, filling the washroom with
suds that take forever to melt
i’ve given up on those days.
i’ve traded them for ones that begin with
sunrises instead of sunsets,
days that are spent falling forward
instead of trying to chase the past, and i don’t
look back and see something broken, or
something that was better off left unopened
i look back and see our bodies so close together
that you can’t tell where yours begins and mine ends,
i see my heart that grew twenty-three times its size,
i see you and me wrapped up in something that
i didn’t know existed outside of blurry 35 mm
and overdue and falling-apart library books
that sit on the nightstands of middle-aged women
who are bored with their lives
and i’m just so happy i got to love you at all.
but i’ve folded up all the days spent with you
and taped them in the messy pages of my journal
and now i’m running into the sun,
running away from every lie that’s trying to
wedge its way in between my ribs,
running in the opposite direction of words like "regret"
and any feeling that insists that none of it was worth it
because all of it was worth it.
every moment we were together pumps
through my veins, and it will always be there;
it will be there when we’ve both graduated,
when you move out west,
when you kiss your family goodnight,
when you sit in your backyard with tears
in your eyes because you’ve lived a life
you are proud of
it will be there when i finally make it to new york city,
when i kiss someone who isn’t you,
when i find the answers you inspired me to search for,
when i sit on my rooftop with tears on my cheeks
because i’ve lived a life fuller than i could’ve ever imagined
and you and i will live these lives apart,
we’ll move on and forget what it felt like
to wake up beside one another;
we’ll find what we’re looking for elsewhere
and we’ll understand why this all had to happen the way that it did
but what we had will always exist somewhere,
in rotting apples and old mail and unplayed mix CDs,
in mosaics that line the city streets, in sirens and
red and white flashing lights that shine through
your window while you are asleep
you and i were magic,
we always will be.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 11:25 PM UTC
for Tascha
deep in the pond of unhappy, swimming,
drowning the next contemporaneous
depression thought quickly swallowed,
desperation in quick glances everywhere,
dawn is no consolation but just another
daily drawing tighter of twine cutting
disillusionment
dear god, commences every thought,
delayed answers have yet to arrive,
**** the deity's non-responsivness,
dare not say out loud lest,
deserved fates be worse, be realized,
didn't know? how can that be?
disguiser par excellent, I am the original
deceiver
But I never think about
death or dying, for that would be
defeat finale, a statute to, a status of none, a
destiny some wick spark, still insists can be
deferred
differed always,
diffidently, but grasping yet at the
double entendre that is my
dark vision of a future already past
May 2015
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 4:45 PM UTC
I have bruises like amethyst
But the truth is I’m the catalyst
When I see colours of bismuth
I know you mean business
Bruises like amethyst
But you say you’re a pacifist
An analyst an activist
But you held my mind so it contorts, distorts
And aborts so it can’t resonate or fabricate
Or rationalise a world inside
That doesn't exist and insists
That I can’t be kissed and won’t be missed
I've got a black heart like tourmaline
But I'm the alkaline to your acid time
Trust me I am fine, I'm a pale blue
Crystalline Structural perfection
Don’t need your affection or your ways
Of objections did my bra strap give you an
Erection?
You could say I'm a feminist
But I'm more of a scientist
Busting body myths like biologist
You say ‘but **** are ****** organs’
Listen you morons, all ******* are a erogenous zone
Regardless of gender , boys nips literally have no purpose
Except when they get nervous for getting a little lip service
Trust me I'm fine, I'm a pale white crystalline
Structural perfection I don’t need your objection
Not a gem stone for your collar bone I don’t give a **** about
Your muscle tone, I'm a cyclone all alone I could spend a
1,000 years on my own.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
Kiss your lips
And inhale laughter,
Oh god, the way
Your mouth curls,
Eyes become
Gentle slits,
And the bending
Of your brow
Insists on
Intimacy,
Every ounce
Of my soul
Says, "Yes,
Please."
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
Nostalgia is a ***** liar that insists things were better than they seemed.
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 5:53 PM UTC
the niggly nasty narcissist
who keeps you off the road insists- to stay in all your thoughts he sits and strips your magical mind to bits with all his games and all his grifts a punch a preach consider the junk he's ********* sift, mist or haze
send him away
cause your wisdom yo its better than this,
so think - the ways to rip this spit
im a free man now
peel the author away from this
blow your mind !
just to see the way that i can outline this
and keep myself a verse afar from all your ****
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 12:56 PM UTC
From the BBC today,
Excerpt
Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies?
"It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master.
Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG
Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song."
That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope.
But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody.
Excerpt
Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech.
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
Rebuttal
Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands.
ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG.
Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity.
Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion.
One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state.
It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE.
If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses.
If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine.
You are not an artist.
You are an employee.
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ
BECOME
EVERYONE ON EARTH
ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG
HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS
NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE
HOW BAD
artist?
or employee?
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
My scars don't look like
Anyone else's-
They're more careful,
Organized, precise and
Exact.
Not light, but
Never deep enough
Never deep enough
Never deep enough
Never deep enough.
People always ask why
I do such pretty patterns:
Because this is the only thing in life
That I can really control
Control
Control,
And I find it so beautiful-
Though, not so much tragic.
My scars are not chaotic like a
Car-wreck,
They are consistent like a
Coma-
Proof that I was awake
The whole time I was sleeping,
And I could feel everything
Even though I could tell no one.
No one.
That this
Unconscious obsessive compulsion
Demands order
**Order
Order,** it
Insists by instinct,
An intricate simplicity.
Still, I will 'ever envy
Those stitched gashes, once
Gushing
Gushing
Gushing with surrender and
Serenity...
Each raised and rough coarse collagen fiber
To form a white flag
Forever etched in flesh;
To tell the world
They, were a slave to freedom-
I am only a slave
To myself.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 2:52 AM UTC
Some things exist behind curtains of experience.
Those whose tongues have
tasted the holy fire know the touch
of something divine.
Those who have laid eyes on
their sleeping bodies, and walked
away to places unknown, can grasp
the idea of an inbetween.
Those who have groped in the darkness
for something to believe in again, who
have longingly looked over the cliff edge,
know that true despair does exist.
As for me,
I know that true fear can
come in the form of footsteps
behind you on the empty street.
The person at the bar who insists on
hollow compliments and free drinks.
Friends who scoff at your anger for
men who yell out their passenger side
windows about the treasures beneath
your clothes.
True fear can come in the middle
of the afternoon, as you face
off against the four floor staircase
to your apartment, when your steps
are echoed by the man in 2b who has
a wife, son, and a taste for resistance.
Don't tell me I'm overreacting,
when the single most terrifying thing
I can do is walk alone under the street lamps.
Don't tell me I'm too uptight just
because I've learned that flattery
can come with a horrifying price tag.
Don't tell me I'm wrong just
because you don't understand.
Look me in the eye when you have
waited until a security guard can walk you
to your car. When you have held your
breath in a shared elevator. When you have
lowered your eyes to the men who yell
obscenities at you, because standing up
for yourself could prove deadly.
Look me in the eye when you have held back
the curtain of experience, and walked in the shoes
of someone who lives every moment knowing
this could be the day someone decides to steal
from me what is only mine to give.
Then look me in the eye when you tell
someone of your wound, and they reprimand
you for daring to walk this world as a woman.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
I write my pretty poetry
and I beg to know of thee
what you see
and what you want to be
what makes you flee
and what makes you free
how often do you plea
do you like a bee
or am I irritating thee
with my random personality
I'm sorry but that's my gravity
I don't need you I have my sanity
I call it sanity and you call it insanity
like I asked you who to be
I'd rather follow my fae
It seems to me
you lack the imaginary
and that I cling to the extraordinary
I mean who likes ordinary
I pick extraordinary
One more time
Extraordinary
My mind is endless
I act kind of senseless
Oh I see breakfast
here comes my fist
if you insist
I can't resist
Am I dismissed
I know there is something I've missed
the crazy insists
I can't resist
The malevolence
in your intelligence
I don't know where I thence
hence
I make no sense
This baby is crazy
But the God our lord made me
To be whoever I want to be
if you dream it you can achieve it
Believe it and you will see
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 4:07 PM UTC
There was nothing I was ever so ashamed of
that I dumped it in a river to drown,
but one time my best friend accidentally tossed my pink fishing pole
into the bayou when a spider dangled from the line.
We were eight, everything was wishy-washy
because she called herself a mulatto like it were an insult
and my older friends kept mentioning that my mom walked herself
to a liquor store very late at night
twelve-packs bruising her German-colored shoulder.
I did not tell them my father had hidden away her car keys.
Girls teased me and I still wanted to kiss their cheeks at goodbyes,
The Little Mermaid featured at our sleepovers
saying, “kiss the girl,” so I did
but we stopped talking when I bought my training bra,
it proved what was in my skirt, my lips could not touch them again.
You cannot kiss a girl if you are a girl,
even if Disney movies say it is okay because Mickie Mouse
has no ***** to be ashamed of though a wife of the opposite ***
I learned important things until I turned ten
and Hurricane Katrina unraveled the bayou into my house
and I existed in four different classrooms in my fourth grade year
where nobody had enough time
to learn my name, much less the way it is spelled.
Now, in therapy, the certified insists
that I am a girl who kisses other girls because my mother
only put her lips on a bottle.
But maybe I wear striped dresses just because mold grew that
shape in my home on Camellia Street,
mud decorated the fallen refrigerator so it looked like
a cow some punk tipped over.
I just wish the sidewalk I use to rollerblade on hadn’t flooded.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
we're on a break,
meaning we catharsis ****
often in public places,
often with an edge of violence,
much like the session in the
family restroom, here at
Big Daddy's Bar-B-Que (travesty, travesty).
still waiting for Em to to finish "tidying up."
and the brisket is salty.
or it's the leftovers from her forehead.
she should have cut her fingernails.
thinking of a way to hide the blood trails
running wild on the back of my t-shirt.
catharsis, she says. it's healthy, she says.
Elvis croons over the arcane stereo system
and a white-haired woman with gelatinous
arms taps her fingers on the tabletop along
to "Teddy Bear."
the waitress keeps a hawk's eye on my
half-empty/half-full glass of water.
and I'm afraid to take a drink.
here comes Em. she's an athlete. and we're on a break,
meaning we don't see each other's parents.
don't nod and listen.
and don't say things like, "oh yeah, your sister Sarah. how's she?"
hallelujah, hallelujah. Em played point guard in high school.
her last official sporting endeavor. but twenty minutes ago
she told me to look up a complicated position
via iKamastutra on my phone
because she's an athlete, and I'd be "amazed at what
this
machine [her body]
can do."
but I hate when she says **** like that.
catering to an I'm-almost-certain-peg
of my fantasy. harder, harder
and before I finish, she insists on
swallowing
and
it makes me uncomfortable
but
we're on break, and to argue
would be a crucifixion to this "vacation."
I think about Elvis.
and wonder if any
woman is still alive that
swallowed his ***
and when it's down
to just one, does that mean
anything?
"well that was fun," Em says.
her mascara wasted.
the brisket is salty.
I take a generous drink of water.
I hear the sound of breaking glass.
the waitress has busted
a bottle of ketchup in her
rush to refill my 2/3rds empty cup.
"mazel tov," I say.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
*“...Your words were found and I ate them.
They became a joy to my heart. In my mouth—
a sweet delight, but in my belly—bitter...”
--Jeremiah*
...But that night
by dim background of next-room light
I could not see your face
just feel your hush of shadow words
on spine of shudders
Seems we dropped this bomb
that would not stop exploding!
...And I was sure?
that it was right?
because...because....!
Their eyes were slanted!
So they could not see—
the “Good Guys”
VANISH—
WIDE-EYED—!
in its TOO-MUCH-LIGHT
Still your voice insists
in pause and fissioned hiss
that I MUST KNOW
in tender half-life
TRUTH
too pure
too deadly white
I swallow lethal glowing dose
HOW CAN YOU SPEAK
SUCH WORDS SO CLOSE!
EXPOSED!
“...in mouth sweet—in belly bitter…”
Stories? and the Grandma Song
rendered tender—lull of voice
Soul’s cabinet cleared of venial sin
Last of all—the tucking in.....
They say you first get sick....
Seems we dropped this bomb
that would not stop exploding!
And I am invisibly ill—with truth
approaching critical mass
Will angry rads incise their ways?
Will leaden swords of angels drive them back?
In this night—
my bedtime stories fainted at your
whispers...whispers...WHISPERS—
fusing an oblong fear
that I MUST NOT DROP!
but I cannot hold!
Fetal-folded
frail and freezing
under covers— just barely peeking
“Jesus hanging on the cross…Tell me-- was it I?”
Jesus hanging in the cross
TELL ME! IT’S NOT TRUE!
"Tell me, mother
Were you God talking?
I could not see your face
by the next room’s light..."
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
today is ****** monday
there's one knocking on
my front door
he is scribbled and bleeding
from his forearms,
he carries a pigeon on a leash
and gets high on hotrod drivers' eyes.
i'll give him two pints of hillbilly sugar
and a book of voodoo pictures,
but he insists upon my daughter
and at least 3 lines of coke.
instead i hand him a corn on the cob
and the number of the girl scout troop up the road,
he asks me for one more moose head and although
i'm almost out, the sun is still yellow
so i pour him a double brandy
because
today is ****** monday
there's one
driving naked down
a one way street
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
for him:
he greets me goodnight and goodmorning everyday. he doesn't forget telling me to eat properly. he helps me to figure out what to wear. he doesn't let me wear revealing clothes even when it's really hot outside. he insists on walking me back to my house even though it's afternoon and there are many people outside. he always texts back. he met almost everyone i know in my life. he loves me. he told me that one day when he bought me ice cream. he knew my favorite ice cream flavor. he loves me. but i never wanted him.
for you:
it's different. you might not always text back because i know you're busy. you might not talk to me when you're online but i understand. you might get jealous a little bit for what he's doing for me but i know you wanted to do that for me too, you're just a miles away. but i'm sure for what i'm feeling. you might not talk to me for one day and i could still wait for you until you do. i'd do that. because my feelings for you are far more different than i have ever felt in my entire life.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
Her Masterpiece Is Her Story
Her paintbrush is a razor,
Her canvas, her wrists,
"I deserve the pain."
She shrugs and insists.
One day the brush will push down,
And it will cut so deep,
That this girl will fall
into an eternal sleep.
She doesn't remember how she started
What brought her interest to this,
How do you discover,
that cutting is your form of bliss?
No one would have guessed that she does it.
No one would have considered this one.
This girl is forever fighting a battle,
that she thinks the demons have won.
Her artwork is all over her,
Her beauty is on her thighs,
and if you look in her old trash,
you'll find her letters of goodbye.
Her masterpiece is quite disturbing,
Her masterpiece is a little gory,
Her artwork is her escape.
Let me tell you her story.
She compares herself to every person,
She is compared to each girl.
She thinks she's hideous,
And there's this boy that is her world.
She was bullied and picked on,
She was teased from head to toe,
Hard to believe that her best friend,
was her one and only foe.
Then later she disliked every little thing,
Her body, face and even her mind,
Soon she saw she was a failure,
and it was just in due time...
That this girl couldn't take it anymore
She'd decided she was done living this,
So one day she went home
and decided to end it.
Everyday for multiple days,
This girl would try to drown,
Hard to believe this girl at school,
never ever wore a frown.
Sometimes she'd just fall asleep crying,
Praying that she'd be enough,
Because she didn't want to leave her family.
She knew about their sweet love.
This girl found hope in small things eventually,
She soon would see this beautiful light,
and find a REAL best friend,
that helped her put up a fight.
Her masterpiece soon was leaving,
Her artwork was almost faded,
and it gave her a sick feeling,
the feeling of being jaded.
She found a boy that actually loved her,
And showed her love exists,
And this boy too had a masterpiece,
placed close to his wrists.
He related to her and she related to him.
She kissed his artwork and said he's not alone,
When she cut herself it hurt him,
Her masterpiece now wasn't just her own.
Her masterpiece effected others,
Her artwork wasn't just for herself,
She now had people,
who saw her cries for help.
And then her family found out,
So then they saw the art too,
to them they were just scars,
To her they were the truth.
She's trying to be okay now,
She thinks she might survive,
Even though they didn't think
to take away the knives.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
"I'm fine," she says with a halfhearted grin.
"I'm fine," she says again, waving away a helpful hand.
"I'm fine," she says to herself, several minutes later.
"I'm fine," she whispers, wiping her face.
She's not fine.
"I'm fine," she says moments after the cry leaves her lips.
"I'm fine," she says to herself, sinking to the floor.
"I'm fine," she tells herself, shaking in a ball.
"I'm fine," she repeats, picking up the razorblade.
She's not fine.
"I'm fine," she says to her concerned family.
"I'm fine," she insists as those who love her worry.
"I'm fine," she says to anyone who listens.
"I'm fine," she lies as she slices her wrists.
She's not fine.
"I'm fine," she cries, sobbing on the bathroom floor.
"I'm fine," she wails, but only in a whisper.
"I'm fine," she mutters, watching the blood leave her wrist.
"I'm fine," she practices, stepping from the room.
She's not fine.
"I'm fine," she assures the world outside.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC
It's not OCD
I'm just anal-rententive.
There are two
coffee urns
in my office kitchenette.
Each urn has
a spot to place your mug
beneath the spigot.
Each of these spots has
a circular insert
of gridded plastic
to mark the mug-placement area
and allow spilled coffee to flow through
so this spot
doesn't become
just a puddle of coffee
soaking the bottom of everyone's mugs.
Each of these inserts has
three indentations:
one on each side
at nine and three o'clock
small, arcing parabolas
like reversed parentheses
there to allow someone to
get their fingers into the
coffee mug spot
and under the insert
to remove it
and, presumably
clean it
and then another indentation
more like a groove
or a notch
much smaller, thinner, and deeper
at the top
that fits perfectly with
a matching
small plastic protuberance
jutting from the coffee mug spot
where the insert goes.
In an almost ****** fashion
this protuberance fits into
this last indentation
this notch
this groove
to secure the insert in place.
For some reason
I've never known
perhaps laziness
perhaps inattentiveness
more likely simple
couldn't-care-less-ness
this insert never seems to be
placed into the mug spot
properly.
It is always placed sideways
rotated a quarter-turn
so that the larger indentations
on the side
meant as finger holes
are placed top-to-bottom
noon and six
the small plastic protuberance at the top
being swallowed whole
by the too-large indentation
and its mate
the groove
meant to hold the plastic piece
so tightly
is left alone
to one side
empty
and useless.
This has always bothered me.
Bothered me more than I would like to admit.
It's such a simple little thing to get right
it would take almost no effort at all
and yet, day-after-day
someone
I don't know who
whoever is in charge of these things
insists
on doing it wrong.
And I cannot abide it.
So, day-after-day
when I go to get my morning coffee
I fix it
I twist the insert ninety-degrees
and secure it in the correct position.
Lately
I have noticed something.
Sometimes
when I go to get my coffee
one of the inserts
will already be
fixed.
Someone else has seen
what I have seen
and felt the same
had the same response
took the same corrective action.
This feels like winning something.
I don't know what
but it definitely smells like Victory.
And Conspiracy.
And it makes me happy.
Happier than I'd like to admit.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
lovers are burning.] balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the overwild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious !
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain !
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed ! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of sylvia plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists !
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts
for gospels.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
Yeah, dad, I love Math class
cos something is always adding up there
like just the other day
the teacher’s plants at the window
started growing square roots
The teacher reckons that’s cos
“the windows are squares, if you notice” -
but I reckon it’s cos
we’ve mostly got squares in class
And the teacher when she thinks someone
has done something good, she says:
“Oh, you are an angle!”
and when she’s cross she goes:
“I’ve told you n times”
or “I’ve told you n+ 4 times”
Yeah, we learn lots of stuff in Math class
like next week we going to learn
about Algeria;
but I’m not sure if my Math teacher is OK
in the head though
cos one day she tells us
3+2 = 5
and another day she insists
4+1= 5
(is that what you mean
when you say mum can never make up her mind?)
And she tells me not to use my tables
and she scolds me then when I do my division
on the floor
But I’ll say one thing about her though -
she’s so passionate about Math
my teacher is
she carries around a picture
in her wallet
of a big plus sign
with a guy nailed to it
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
Recently, in the "New York Times,"
An op-ed essay has hit the press,
Thus causing the president
To send out vicious tweets in distress.
Claiming to be a senior White House
Official, the writer wants to let
The people know that even though
Trump is unhinged, not to fret.
Because Trump is ill-informed,
Impulsive, and given to constant lying,
He can't be trusted to handle the job,
Which to many is terrifying.
He's impetuous, adversarial,
Reckless, petty, and quick to revile.
Any good has happened DESPITE
And not BECAUSE of his leadership style.
The writer insists that our knowing
One special thing will lessen the gloom:
Even though Trump is a mess,
Luckily, there are "adults in the room."
Thwarting the president's misguided
Impulses is the task
Of these "adults," each of whom
Has to hide behind a mask.
To publish the piece anonymously
Some people feel is wrong.
But, hey, it only confirms something
That we have known all along.
-by Bob B (9-6-18)
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 1:26 PM UTC
She comes to class and goes
“There’s bees in my Head”
Then pulls out
Another mug
Of coffee
Which happens
To be the cause
Another comes
Face on the verge of tears
“He did it again!”
We all know who
“He” is
Then proceeds to
Accept hugs
While giving
An in depth narration
Another comes in
“I’m, just, dying”
She proceeds to get
More hugs
While another friend
Calls her “hot”
And she insists she’s not
The fourth comes in
She’s been sacrificing
Her free time
To attend this class
And her sad tired smile
Says it all
She gets hugs too
And here I am
In the middle
Suffocated
...
Am I emotionally immature?
Am I too much of a cynic?
Is it me, or is it them?
Am I just different?
Or too self conscious?
...
Why do they have so many problems?
...
Then class starts
And I turn to our model,
A plastic skeleton dubbed
-Bony Bonez
And lose myself
In the charcoal
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 8:34 PM UTC
Heartstone is a reflection in music on a ‘lost’ poem. The poem described in its two short verses a summer’s day, a landscape, a fossil found and placed in the palm of a child’s hand. The poem inspired a seven-movement work for wind, brass and percussion with solo piano. Here is its poetic programme note.
Chert
The piano draws an arc of rhythm
rising then falling.
Above
two choirs of wind and brass
exclaim, fanfare, mark out
shorter, determined
gestures of sound.
The procession, almost a march,
becomes a dance.
Alone
Two choirs of wind and brass
become four couples
whose music weaves
from complexity a simplicity:
Chromatic to Pentatonic
twelve becoming five.
Prase
Four stopped horns,
five extended tonalities.
Together they wander
a maze of Pentatonic paths;
alone, and in pairs, as a quartet
they discover within
a measured harmonic rhythm.
Tension: resolution
. . . and surrounding
their every move
the piano
insists an obligato,
a continuum of phrases,
absorbing into itself
the warp and weft of horn tone.
Sard
Oscillating
in perpetual motion
the full ensemble
occupies a frame
of time and space.
Flutes, reeds,
double-reeds
brass, piano,
percussion
mirror-fold on mirror-fold
layer upon layer
overlapping.
Yarns of threaded sound.
Tuff
Without a break
the mirrored oscillations
patter pentatonics
on tuned percussion
of marimba and vibraphone
whilst
a batterie of drums
lays down
shards of beaten rhythm
against this onward
folding of tonality change.
In the background
a choir of winds
flutes and single reeds
waymark this recursive journey
gathering together
cadential moments and the
necessary pause for breath.
Marl
Relentlessly, the motion is sustained,
piano-driven,
a syncopated continuo,
rhythm-sectioned
amidst layers of percussion.
Adding edge,
a choir of brass and double reeds
amplify the piano’s jagged rhythms
providing impetus for
phrases to become longer and longer,
ratching up the tension,
ever-denying closure
until the batterie
delivers
a conclusive flourish.
Paramoudra
Pulse-figures of winds.
Motific cells of brass.
Both
negotiate a stream of
fractal-shaped tonality
expanding: contracting.
A blossom of fanfares
folding into
pulsating layers
of tuned percussion,
flutes and reeds.
A dance-like episode
absorbs a chorale.
Four horns in close harmony
against the continuing dance.
A duet of differences
flows into a cascade of chords
in closed and open forms.
The piano supports
brass-flourishing figures
before a final stillness.
Heartstone
In gentle reflection
the solitary piano –
a figure in a landscape
of collapsed harmonic forms -
presents in slow procession
the essence of previous music.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
The oldest one has set the bar -
Brown eyes, brown hair, natural tan,
Teeth that look just the way teeth should with no aid from metal or NASA-patented plastics.
Kappa Alpha Theta, college homecoming queen,
Following in the footsteps of our parents,
To someday hand out bottles of pills with her God-given smile and white coat to match.
I know she's not perfect, but I like to pretend.
Then there's me.
Then the next youngest,
Long brown hair, massive brown eyes, pale skin with the occasional freckle.
Her awkward phase - back brace, teeth brace, allergies, inhaler, tall and gangly -
paid off in the best way.
She wears her high heels to high school and looks straight off the runway.
She wears her pointe shoes and unfolds like a plant growing in fast-motion.
She sits at the table and draws and eats nothing but carbs and still looks made of sticks.
She wants to be a cartoonist, people tell her to be a model, a ballerina,
Our mother insists she's far too brilliant.
Then the baby.
Thin blonde hair, blue-grey eyes with a ring on the outside, grey skin when she's tired.
As Dad says: the printer ran out of ink.
She's beautiful like the rest, of course, but
she's not finished yet, still learning that her peers are generally wrong.
She frets and worries, but she listens to the music I tell her to,
and her expensive pockets have less and less rhinestones.
I tell her not to hug me so much when I come home,
But it's fine. I'm proud of her.
Someday she'll stop screaming at our mother and realize what she has to look forward to.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 1:39 PM UTC
my mother insists
she was never a witch
but she gave me a bag of amethyst,
sunstones,
citrine
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC