"insouciantly" poems - Hello Poetry

Dearest John, Whats the point of writing something to you that you will probably never read. if writing nothing to you is the only something I can write?. Whats the point of writing nothing to you if I cant write something to you that's really nothing to you?. Whats the point?. A nightingale singing in the the Lilac bush in my backyard? Is that the point?. saying hear me sing just for you--listener!. A luscious Blackberry swollen with its lifes nectar, dangling insouciantly, singing its song silently-- pick me--crush me in your mouth-- wash your tongue with my sweetness. Is that the point?. A Selmer hand made Alto Clarinet on its stand- daring me to play the melody of the Isness of the Universe just for you? Is that the point?. swooping keening hawk like notes flowing from my very beingness. An empty canvas waiting patiently for medium to be applied. The Chaos of my emptiness crying out to be stirred into the action of your Form. Is that the point?. Or just to say for your ears alone--I Love You!. An unfilled pan needing filling with hen ***** and milk and salt and pepper-- and then flamed into the tasty miracle of scrumbled eggs. Yummy yummy yummy Ive got food in my tummy and everything is gonna be alright. If I tried to write my life down for you would you come to my waiting arms? Would you end this cruel silence? Would you commit a line of meaningful prose to your keyboard just to tell me you love me? But your gone to heaven knows where? Memphis?. Dissapeared into the maw of electronic death. Leaving me bereft of your yourness. No access to your body fluids. No more your flesh to caress. As if I could penetrate the skin of your aloneness and merge into the Isness that keeps molecules of your georgeous beingness together. Walking talking laughing the symphony of life together. Would you listen if I spoke truthfully to you or would you prefer one of the many "truths" of your multiple "religions" or "politics" or "philosophies"?. But as I can only speak truthfully then I guess youll hear but not listen. Wasting your opportunities at Isness realisation as you have done since I,as the Isness of the Universe, brought into being voidness from my own essence with time and materiality--hearing but not listening to the Brownian arpeggios of the rising and falling scales of the music of the spheres. I play my horn of blackwood to the empty rooms of my universe-- accompanied by the booming bass of harmony-- Amazing Grease. India the Corrupted. Moanin and Groanin. Warm as Luke. A Chicken Supreme. Satis-Faction. God Rest Ye Gerry Mandlebaum. The Universe listens. Everyone else hears. I speak. your ears are closed. www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

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Dec 7, 2014

Dec 7, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC

mannley-collins

I couldnt write anything to the Isness of the Universe but this

Dearest John, Whats the point of writing something to you that you will probably never read. if writing nothing to you is the only something I can write?. Whats the point of writing nothing to you if I cant write something to you that's really nothing to you?. Whats the point?. A nightingale singing in the the Lilac bush in my backyard? Is that the point?. saying hear me sing just for you--listener!. A luscious Blackberry swollen with its lifes nectar, dangling insouciantly, singing its song silently-- pick me--crush me in your mouth-- wash your tongue with my sweetness. Is that the point?. A Selmer hand made Alto Clarinet on its stand- daring me to play the melody of the Isness of the Universe just for you? Is that the point?. swooping keening hawk like notes flowing from my very beingness. An empty canvas waiting patiently for medium to be applied. The Chaos of my emptiness crying out to be stirred into the action of your Form. Is that the point?. Or just to say for your ears alone--I Love You!. An unfilled pan needing filling with hen ***** and milk and salt and pepper-- and then flamed into the tasty miracle of scrumbled eggs. Yummy yummy yummy Ive got food in my tummy and everything is gonna be alright. If I tried to write my life down for you would you come to my waiting arms? Would you end this cruel silence? Would you commit a line of meaningful prose to your keyboard just to tell me you love me? But your gone to heaven knows where? Memphis?. Dissapeared into the maw of electronic death. Leaving me bereft of your yourness. No access to your body fluids. No more your flesh to caress. As if I could penetrate the skin of your aloneness and merge into the Isness that keeps molecules of your georgeous beingness together. Walking talking laughing the symphony of life together. Would you listen if I spoke truthfully to you or would you prefer one of the many "truths" of your multiple "religions" or "politics" or "philosophies"?. But as I can only speak truthfully then I guess youll hear but not listen. Wasting your opportunities at Isness realisation as you have done since I,as the Isness of the Universe, brought into being voidness from my own essence with time and materiality--hearing but not listening to the Brownian arpeggios of the rising and falling scales of the music of the spheres. I play my horn of blackwood to the empty rooms of my universe-- accompanied by the booming bass of harmony-- Amazing Grease. India the Corrupted. Moanin and Groanin. Warm as Luke. A Chicken Supreme. Satis-Faction. God Rest Ye Gerry Mandlebaum. The Universe listens. Everyone else hears. I speak. your ears are closed. www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

72

Some are so very good at it. Others, not so much. Those so carefree about it, cheaters, who's to trust? Swindle me, my lover. It's happened a few times before. My "don't give a **** proponent has kicked in, that's for sure. Being nonchalant, about it, is all that I can do. For I've lost all trust, don't doubt it. I'm as insouciant as you. Is why we're made for each other, on this we can both rely. It frees me, from anxiety, how we both do cheat and lie.

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Jan 28, 2016

Jan 28, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC

pj-poesy

Insouciantly

Some are so very good at it. Others, not so much. Those so carefree about it, cheaters, who's to trust? Swindle me, my lover. It's happened a few times before. My "don't give a **** proponent has kicked in, that's for sure. Being nonchalant, about it, is all that I can do. For I've lost all trust, don't doubt it. I'm as insouciant as you. Is why we're made for each other, on this we can both rely. It frees me, from anxiety, how we both do cheat and lie.

16

On my way to the attic, each step creaks protesting. I’ve worn this path smooth. I reach the landing and turn. You sit there on top of a stack of boxes easy-access composed, legs swinging insouciantly I brush off the light layer of dust, open you up to the dark room and take out a golden trophy. After reminiscing, I return it. You put your clothes back on; I fold you shut and walk away. You don’t bother taping your seams you never did. What we do isn’t pretty. We aren’t two starlings in our own murmuration; we are a ****** of crows. Our dance is getting away with felonies. Take it from a jail bird a trophy is no occupation. You watched as I was polished and shelved, captive after a year of looking for a champion. She had me cast at the start of that long year well before she clinched her title. I was touted around, then passed on. She never dusts me off, dear. That is why I smudge your sheen I have no shimmer left myself. That is why you stay you seek the heft of my cast-iron company, the weight we have borne six years without touch sixty ****** crime dramas six hundred batches of half-baked cookies six thousand nights in. You are my memorabilia. I just don’t want your dust to settle as mine has. I want you to dance, gilded, on the sky. On my way to the basement, each step squeaks inviting. I’ve worn this path smooth. I reach the foot. Brothers greet, glasses clink, plumes build, couches sink. The ceiling dances with golden trophies all with your composure gleaming legs swinging.

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Nov 16, 2012

Nov 16, 2012 at 5:36 AM UTC

frank-sterncrest

Luster

On my way to the attic, each step creaks protesting. I’ve worn this path smooth. I reach the landing and turn. You sit there on top of a stack of boxes easy-access composed, legs swinging insouciantly I brush off the light layer of dust, open you up to the dark room and take out a golden trophy. After reminiscing, I return it. You put your clothes back on; I fold you shut and walk away. You don’t bother taping your seams you never did. What we do isn’t pretty. We aren’t two starlings in our own murmuration; we are a ****** of crows. Our dance is getting away with felonies. Take it from a jail bird a trophy is no occupation. You watched as I was polished and shelved, captive after a year of looking for a champion. She had me cast at the start of that long year well before she clinched her title. I was touted around, then passed on. She never dusts me off, dear. That is why I smudge your sheen I have no shimmer left myself. That is why you stay you seek the heft of my cast-iron company, the weight we have borne six years without touch sixty ****** crime dramas six hundred batches of half-baked cookies six thousand nights in. You are my memorabilia. I just don’t want your dust to settle as mine has. I want you to dance, gilded, on the sky. On my way to the basement, each step squeaks inviting. I’ve worn this path smooth. I reach the foot. Brothers greet, glasses clink, plumes build, couches sink. The ceiling dances with golden trophies all with your composure gleaming legs swinging.

59

The girl in the checkout line ahead of me is dangerously gorgeous. In the way of the very young, she insouciantly wears next to nothing. I imagine myself twenty-one. I would finagle a way to meet her. We would fall in love. We would make love. We would make even more love and so on. I would buy her a house, appliances, a minivan. We would have two teenaged daughters who would loathe me. I would take out a second mortgage to pay for their braces, clothes, educations and weddings and divorces. They would move away and rarely see me. I would come to rest in some ******** of a nursing home wondering who I am and what the hell happened. Then she turns and walks out of my life. I pay for my frozen pizza and cigarettes smiling about just how lucky I am. ~mce

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Oct 21, 2015

Oct 21, 2015 at 1:13 PM UTC

mike-essig

A Close Call

The girl in the checkout line ahead of me is dangerously gorgeous. In the way of the very young, she insouciantly wears next to nothing. I imagine myself twenty-one. I would finagle a way to meet her. We would fall in love. We would make love. We would make even more love and so on. I would buy her a house, appliances, a minivan. We would have two teenaged daughters who would loathe me. I would take out a second mortgage to pay for their braces, clothes, educations and weddings and divorces. They would move away and rarely see me. I would come to rest in some ******** of a nursing home wondering who I am and what the hell happened. Then she turns and walks out of my life. I pay for my frozen pizza and cigarettes smiling about just how lucky I am. ~mce

23

amidst cavorting delightfully, enjoying thorough frolicking gingerly, foreign hick hating slo hip-hopping insouciantly sustaining row biological status quo kvetching lamely moreso mother became pro naturally physically rumbling, heard all the way in Oslo supposedly twerking, undulating vivaciously wantonly x2c wisely yielded – nada no zona pellucida anchored byte size ****** potent embryonic fetal moe newlweds nocturnal merriment moma's ****** marked march 1959 lovingly joyusly, insemination happened ha low bullseye clenched diploid fertilization guaranteed germinating heiress while squaqking lichen Apache at Diablo ma late mother did should know upon awakening upon tautly stretched exertion during dilating ****** which jiggled like jello three score orbitz round el sol, warmed cockles and muscled away brutally cold degrees tab billed an igloo, or circa six decades drafted exuberant ho...ho...ho... cuz, i.e. thencee at 362nd day baby in belly did fully grow December first nineteen fifty seven sanctioned newly minted papa to sing a capella for he's a jolly good fellow quintessential nascent kickstarter heady everflow though wintry dark, a “hi” beam illuminated newborn girl with dayglow sans, mechanical engine ear papa (an honorably discharged army vet) all spit and shine groom, who wed a bride somewhat callow first time parents with giddiness did saul fully bellow Boyce and Harriet Harriet countenance twas (like an elf on Christmas eve) all aglow. -------------------------------------------------------- Dear Sis – I knew not what else to do thus, this poem crafted fur ewe a doe ting maternal gal – whose time on Earth flew

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Nov 10, 2017

Nov 10, 2017 at 1:09 AM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

Patterson, New Jersey circa December 1st, 1959

amidst cavorting delightfully, enjoying thorough frolicking gingerly, foreign hick hating slo hip-hopping insouciantly sustaining row biological status quo kvetching lamely moreso mother became pro naturally physically rumbling, heard all the way in Oslo supposedly twerking, undulating vivaciously wantonly x2c wisely yielded – nada no zona pellucida anchored byte size ****** potent embryonic fetal moe newlweds nocturnal merriment moma's ****** marked march 1959 lovingly joyusly, insemination happened ha low bullseye clenched diploid fertilization guaranteed germinating heiress while squaqking lichen Apache at Diablo ma late mother did should know upon awakening upon tautly stretched exertion during dilating ****** which jiggled like jello three score orbitz round el sol, warmed cockles and muscled away brutally cold degrees tab billed an igloo, or circa six decades drafted exuberant ho...ho...ho... cuz, i.e. thencee at 362nd day baby in belly did fully grow December first nineteen fifty seven sanctioned newly minted papa to sing a capella for he's a jolly good fellow quintessential nascent kickstarter heady everflow though wintry dark, a “hi” beam illuminated newborn girl with dayglow sans, mechanical engine ear papa (an honorably discharged army vet) all spit and shine groom, who wed a bride somewhat callow first time parents with giddiness did saul fully bellow Boyce and Harriet Harriet countenance twas (like an elf on Christmas eve) all aglow. -------------------------------------------------------- Dear Sis – I knew not what else to do thus, this poem crafted fur ewe a doe ting maternal gal – whose time on Earth flew

46

How many more? Let me find a pen. I feel like an intruder or maybe a burglar. I guess I'd rather be whole walking barefoot and insouciantly as I can. I want to help you, as broken as i am now by something you said. Light up the twinkling stars before the humming sun escapes. Don't be so hard on yourself. With the warmth in your hands glue the pieces back together, that small ounce of hope. I'll try to put it simply, I've never felt happiness like this. I've never felt safer in anyone's arms. The clouds weren't meant for the ground. Try and leave the nightmare.

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Jun 30, 2015

Jun 30, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC

joe-smalls

Munificence For All

How many more? Let me find a pen. I feel like an intruder or maybe a burglar. I guess I'd rather be whole walking barefoot and insouciantly as I can. I want to help you, as broken as i am now by something you said. Light up the twinkling stars before the humming sun escapes. Don't be so hard on yourself. With the warmth in your hands glue the pieces back together, that small ounce of hope. I'll try to put it simply, I've never felt happiness like this. I've never felt safer in anyone's arms. The clouds weren't meant for the ground. Try and leave the nightmare.

18