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at your own peril!



dare to vex

provoke, antagonize, exasperate

that is what my words will do

they won't irritate or annoy,
bug or merely peeve,
a simple bother
insufficient

vex
your core,
demand
that you more
than mere question yourself
but riptide extracts the
elemental,
battery acid on the essence bared

learn the power of crafting words
for maximum effect

torment, infuriate,
expose yourself,
what has lain beneath the skin,
you will let me in,
to let you out

why play with poetry,
the most dangerous weapon
unless you nakedly intend to


!dare to vex!
BEK Nov 2018
I was like a third grader on Show and Tell day with a boring rock collection
Although it took me years to create
And much resiliency through countless voyages
I had no intention of having it on display

But you were there
A rare and unique beauty
For you, my show went on and on
I displayed parts of me, piece by piece, by piece
Hiding nothing away

"This is from the time I sat on the beach and let the waves form me."
"This is from the time I was boiling hot and shot out of the earth."
You politely asked questions at first
An "ooh" and "ah" here and there
You're kind in that way

"This is from the time I surrounded myself with lots of other broken rocks for far too long."
"These are my remains from the time I jumped off a cliff."
I forgot to practice good showmanship
Leave them wanting more
I thought, maybe if I go on, you'll stay

"This is from the time I was under enormous heat and pressure."
"This is from the time I stumbled down a gigantic mountain."
I was consumed by the hope of captivating you
Maybe there was at least one noticeable rock in my bucket
Or perhaps a chance that I have quite an impressive array

I regained my senses
The clouds of hope that had muddled my view had now cleared
I noticed I ran out of "cool" rocks
Or maybe I never had any
I realized that I lost your attention long ago anyway

You were preoccupied with thinking about how cool the magician that came before me was
I thought, "Pleh, how cool is creating illusions and disappearing just to reappear in a box somewhere in another room or making you jump through flaming hoops?"
Or maybe you were anxiously awaiting the Show and Tell Grand Finale
The kid with the adorable puppy
I guess I really can't say

I decided to end my show with a bucket full of unseen rocks
I walked back to my desk shoulders slouched
Head slumped, level with the creaky old floor
I made a wish for the magician to return to thrill you with endless spellbinding tricks
Or maybe you'd be able to go home with the kid with the puppy
How cool is geology anyway?
jane taylor May 2016
a cerebral grasping of existence’s resplendence
is insufficient

tenuously treading bereavement’s tide
i cradle life

twinkling moments spent on this planet
are hallowed time

i walk in quiet reverence as tears flow
at innocuous occurrences

god’s face aglow in each instance
perspective revived

a bumblebee drifting gently settles
evoking awe

i stand pensive aforetime unaware
in cathedrals we stand

eyes newly uncovered awakened discover
celestial dimensions

people replete with infinite spirit
are all that surround

my senses abruptly adjusting their focus
‘tis an earthly angelic realm

©2016janetaylor
L Maughan Aug 3
Cold moon come rest your face upon my breast,
leave the stars to poke their insufficient sparks.
Lie naked with your abalone chest
new, quartered, full against this matriarch.
Let fly the harnessed orbit of depressed
half circles hidden, stranded in the dark.
Sad satellite, unloved and second guessed;
glum pearliness, the sun has fallen west.
“The love betweenness^ a mother and her son”
when it’s healthy strong and ancient,
like this, is for me, and it seems,
for you as well, almost a supernatural force in certain ways.
I know many other women who understand this.
It’s been probably the best surprise of my life.” Medusa

sometime, a poem commission needs a quiet time rumination,
a seventh inning time out to birth a perfect game,
a mental stretch mark,
did your know your commentation was a commandation,
write me up, punch my ticket and jump back into murky waters,
where a hu-man boy child only gifted me a tertiary imagination, comprehensive incomprehension

this look upon differing and different, parenting parts of me,
with the bright den mother’s sun gazing eyes of a new motherland,
promotion to an incessant guardianship,
an ordered mathematical centrality,^
a forever buck private’s uniform shoulder stripe pointing to mom

maternal rhymes with eternal

for children go off and go on about their lives,
occasionally glancing backwards,
but a mother’s eyes are an all encompassing, an all white canvass painting that the artist continue-ously slyly forward refreshes,
forever white repainted with each perpetual glancing thought added

this mother woke, sensing her make-male creation
is a gender separate separation,
a mystery needing learning, genes requiring a crisper adult education, a breast refilling is a sharing, eye to eye,  
****** to mouth, transferring a transformation,
between a new meaningful, an analogy of understanding that
swims in both directions, across a uniting natural division that unites,  better called an open boundary

daughters are different but the insanity~same,
a poem for another day

a supernatural surprise that occurs daily,
that you rightly appel it, as ancient  is correctly unsurprising
for the knowledge is in every cell recorded, time immemorial

apologies;
my insufficient words
can’t explain this
dotted line division,
only that, I too am a student driver mother,
my son, a teacher,  a natural scholar,
the understanding we shared is instantaneous and confusing,
as we go back and forth together,
travellers tween the dotted line spaces,
absorbing his milky ways,
informations that were not obviously ****** in me, or if they were,
awaited this suckling’s coronation and education, invitation


our differences are not a true division,
but a new manner of best embracing

which is why with good humor, our private joking, is that he
is my very own  nap-ster master,^^ we are an ordered centrality^
march 31 2019 9:37am
^Definition of betweenness
: the quality or state of being between two others in an ordered mathematical set

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2714533/texas-my-very-own-nap-ster-
master/
Where Shelter Aug 2018
my second fight today with god

the first involves gods correctable errors of judgement

the second,
am asked to deliver a eulogy for someone
I never met and no is not in the range of acceptable answers

alone and misperceived as forsaken, despite calls and poems
glorious and galore, I was slow to realize, now fast,
was I meant to be
her here,
where shelter,
the first, will always now be
too late

you break off pieces for the needy, forlorn,
the ones you might of loved, it’s costly for
both the giver and the forgiven, but I am the unforgiven in giver,
a redeemer failure, the question mark and the short dotted flat line,
uniquely marked human,
the Cain marker forehead now forever a
carved minus sign, meaning I am lessened, lesser and
insufficient was

read out loud, an old soft tender, hers, a missive sweetness tinged with affection, writ by a human savior who did not
do a good enough job, nonetheless,
everyone slaps my back later saying beautiful bespoke,
and when you going home, stay a few days, she’d appreciate

a thank you smile but can’t, though the dead will follow you,
that goes unsaid, but you will know
grander grief yet, as guilt continue-us,
and the tune playing non-stop stop isn’t yours,
but you spoke it  to her once as a justification explanation,

it was true but a nile river-red-colored plague
that added to her dissatisfaction, come disastrous for one  
who didn’t ever get to leave egypt

guess i’m admitting its my fault not gods;
so I let the  ******* off the hook on this one,
but I’ll get even I swear, it/he just laughs,
but this will be one of life’s allusions I will recall and wonder when will that tune cease,
but get no answer from nobody

that tune?

Go 'way from my window
Leave at your own chosen speed
I'm not the one you want, babe
I'm not the one you need
You say you're lookin' for someone
Who's never weak but always strong
To protect you an' defend you
Whether you are right or wrong
Someone to open each and every door
But it ain't me, babe
No, no, no, it ain't me babe
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe

Go lightly from the ledge, babe
Go lightly on the ground
I'm not the one you want, babe
I will only let you down
You say you're lookin' for someone
Who will promise never to part
Someone to close his eyes for you
Someone to close his heart
Someone who will die for you an' more
But it ain't me, babe
No, no, no, it ain't me babe
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe

Go melt back in the night
Everything inside is made of stone
There's nothing in here moving
An' anyway I'm not alone
You say you're looking for someone
Who'll pick you up each time you fall
To gather flowers constantly
An' to come each time you call
A lover for your life an' nothing more
But it ain't me, babe
No, no, no, it ain't me, babe
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe


by Bob Dylan
farewell babe

12:48 pm a blustery Saturday
Nat Lipstadt Apr 6
My Prize for Waiting
~
tucked in all by myself,
resting dark and quiet
in the thin place^
where the distance between
this world and the next,
is no distance at all,
but  a few inches separating,
easily fordable, back and forth-able

my palms, hands down,
come to rest on my *******
and the two thumbs in unison,
begin to sweep the streaming space of their in-between,
conducting a radar sweep-search for the precise point
passageway to poetic mystical places,
hoping to snag any residuals for safekeeping

no hurry to either arrive or depart,
in patient attendance for
rhythms of woven word arrivistes,
coming in no particular order,
asking to be seized, greedy to be
nominated and recognized, immortalized,
as great poetry, prize worthy,
kept for all time inside others poetry chests

but in the thin place,
dream records are not kept,
hazy scraps at best retained,
a recipe for a witnessed totality,
is only a soupy reduction of a
few seconds of hazed video,
that can neither give nor get
no satisfaction

the plastic surgeons attempt to reconstruct
the body of the meal, the real deal,
alas, there are no prizes either
for botched surgeries and pretty but meaningless
poetry scraps

the only evidence of my travels,
a flushing, blushing residual flow,
slow to dissipate, a hangover makers mark
of a sojourn best described as unsatisfying,
my blush, a prize for waiting but failing,
“the most peculiar and most human of all expressions”^^

woe to me when returned in ignominy,
medaled in only base irony,
me and philosopher Pliny,^^^
both dying while recording our own private Vesuvius,
our bodies preserved by voluminous volcanic ash,
but alas, you cannot recite the ash of poetry

so one waits, cut and pasting brown edged
burnt photographs epistles,
that are clinging and clung to the distaff spindle,
insufficient to weave a flax complete

and yet we return perforce twenty four hours from now,
to snag another prized piece of meaningless,
my prize for waiting
in the solitude of the thin place


3:35am Saturday April 6th, 2019

~
last nights scrap

cease your whining,
seize your waiting,
therein is your own paid price
for the prize of inspiration


inspired by Jean Fisher,
a real prize winning poet
^”It turns out these destinations have a name: thin places. ... No, thin places are much deeper than that. They are locales where the distance between heaven and earth collapses and we're able to catch glimpses of the divine, or the transcendent or, as I like to think of it, the Infinite Whatever”. The New York Times

^^ Charles Darwin on blushing

^^^ “For my part I deem those blessed to whom, by favour of the gods, it has been granted either to do what is worth writing of, or to write what is worth reading; above measure blessed those on whom both gifts have been conferred. In the latter number will be my uncle, by virtue of his own and of your compositions.”   Pliny the Younger to his uncle, Pliny the Elder, who most likely died in the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius while trying to save a friend.
Kassiani Nov 2010
I always suspected electricity
Ran rampant through my veins
To make me dazed and dizzy
But unable to sit still
It made me prone to flights of fancy
So I left giddy trails of sparks
Blazing proof of my restlessness
That once brightly caught your eye

Once your gaze had found my own
My moods came in swooning flares
And you crackled alongside me
Filling my aching, empty silence
With shiny, blessed noise
We burned so beautifully
With my electric fire
And your trilling declamations
Light and sound intertwining
Like thunder that had finally caught up with its lightning

It seemed like Nature's order
A completion of the whole
Two halves that followed each other
Unthinkingly and automatically

So one day when I found silence
It felt like Earth itself was splitting

Panicked, I burned more brightly
Stoked the fire just in case
I feared that I had dimmed
And been the cause of this new quietness
So when I still heard nothing
I thought my efforts insufficient
And I ran my highest currents
Until my wires nearly melted
Thinking the sun and I were comparable
And anticipating a response

And still I heard no trilling
No crackling at my side
So I wondered if perhaps
I had shined beyond your limits
Swiftly, I contracted
Reined in my flares and doused the fire
Thinking sudden darkness
Might just shock you into sound

I finally heard the faintest popping
Not quite the rending that I wanted
But a break from quiet all the same
Afraid of spoiling the moment
I leashed my electricity
Kept myself dim so I could hear you
Though I felt the writhing beneath my skin

It finally became unbearable
So I flashed like wild lightning
Lashed out and struck the ground
Hoping for your thunder
A dark and roiling storm
Swirling raindrops and clouds colliding
And deep, **** noise

All I wanted was your thunder
But in the end
It was only me yelling
Screaming out for downpours
Alone
Listening to my own echoes
Waiting for you to harmonize

In the end
I was always waiting
Wondering when you'd chosen silence
Wondering why I'd let you dim me
Wondering how it was we'd ever *burned
Written 5/22/10
Spenser Bennett Feb 2016
My hands
Brought to ruin
Wasteland
Burnt to death by fruition
When every song will grind our souls
We will live to break our bones
In service of the name we cannot speak
Our life, our death an endless melody on repeat
Should I breathe or just give in?
Should I love or die my friend?
Love to death, breath to surrender
I, begin

To see the nature of all these monstrosities
Bound inside my hidden anxieties
But nothing helps when the sun still sets
On empty halls in houses not yet meant
To shelter the weak from the coming storm
To shelter us from the pulpit, mourn
Our insufficient gesture of goodwill
In the darkness we suffer soft and still
Should I breathe or should I just give in?
Should I love or die my friend?
Love to death,
breath to surrender
Decompose the sound of silence,
return to sender
for Lori, Riley and Kendrick

the questioning words jump off the page,
into two hands transforming,
words shape shifting into
multicolored ink stained fingers,
now, all a chokehold on my brain,
my throaty gasps rasping from
a simplistic convolution -
single questioning deserving an answer

what are you made of?

the obvious answers left in the slow lane,
bone, tissue, rivers and arteries of blue bloods,
just oil and fuel of a containership,
but the cargo carried, that’s the real stuff

you have insight inside that cannot be seen,
self-survival instincts that morph into morals,
our shared air affects you differently,
a sense of defending, caring,
costless  and costliest simultaneously,
spaghetti strands strong sinewed intertwining,
into a better human than most

to call you hero is wrongly insufficient,
but the thesaurus lends me no substitute,
weep, I do,
as the spring and summer blushing green
will not be seen by you at all, and by me,
seen now so differently,
when thinking of
soil-born courage instinctual that has no name,
but grows only in nature

what are you made of?

we know now, but knew not well,
that thing that makes you leap first,
was all you, the entirety of the best,
that exists, existed, as reminders to us,
to mine it, wear it,
medal it upon our fabric

you three,
breathe it back, exhale it from where ever you are,
that trace chemical odor in our atmosphere,
of life-giving sweetness, a rebirthing chlorophyll freedom
that we humans all desperately need,
even just to know it exists,
and inform us


what we need to be made of
——
“As shots fired inside a synagogue outside San Diego last month, Lori Gilbert-Kaye, 60, put herself in between the shooter and the rabbi and died as a result.
Riley Howell, 21, charged a gunman who burst last week into a University of North Carolina-Charlotte lecture room carrying a pistol. He too lost his life to save others.
And Tuesday inside a STEM school in Denver, Kendrick Castillo, 18, lunged at a fellow student who had pulled a gun in class, giving his classmates time to take cover. He was the lone student killed in the attack.”
Penne Feb 19
A dictionary of words
Thousands---infinites!
Little marks to describe a vast world
Lest not care of lacking logic
Aroused by imagination is my magic
Lemon zests the cornucopia of citrus
Are not they a splash of kalopsa?
Charisma, karma, euphoria?
Not allowed to bleed in blanc
Wail in rosy franc
Puddles of messed reflection
Fictions wonder reaction
Wander in the wildest wilderness
Describe the autumn, fall
Moist, solitary
Fawn on the lawn
Reality is the contrary
Refuge in the creamed sugar
Like a cup of iced kiss
Deep burrowed in the mapled hiss
Wait for its marmalade bliss
Head exploding in fireworks
Magnificent, what about nightfall?
Showers and streaks befall
Stars shoot smoke of ball
Cry tears of meteorites
Sprinkle the blinking sprites
Flow streams of sparkling silence
Swim the chasing glares
Enchant me in your chemise, evangelic skin
Leitmotif of mimes' maim, mean?
Speculate the pixelled fairies
Hide in the fruits of Alice
Spark at the dance of hands
Paint the faint trees
Baskets of floating sheep
Bounce in the enigmatic realm
Drooling in
As they transgress the egress
In chiffon blush flushed
Bittersweet caress
Bare grasslands with strangers
Wet the glory shine
Morning then hoots for sleep
Shush, weeping willows
Flowers of your scent hover the grove
Voices sweetly surrender
Linger for tender
Gloam or roam
River of innocence soul
Reaping the afterglow
Aglow my fountained lockes
Blur for it to be clearer
Illusions of ambiguity
As its lips meet the prism
Of brilliant optimism
Breathtaking fauvism
Breathless onism
Succumb in the limitless reverie
Rare of not having aneurysm
Persephone's persepolis
Blood of perenelia
Where Opheus court Eurydice
Winter solace holies
Lakes of beating lights
Bloom irregularly
As the sesquipedalian crawl out from its vine
In the Brobdingnagian it creeps
Line between sublime and wine
Harmony weave in palette
Rhythm rose from my red
Fresh breeze hush the roulette
Leaves blade the crafted well-made
Dusk, dawn to diiferentiate
Eclipse the hysteria and the impeccable
Love waltz
Glide the glistened clarity
Perfume lilies
Stares of lavenders
Rain the clouds of keys
Crystallizing and fractalizing
Mesmerize, astonish, aghast!
Rise your mile
Fragile my rile
Bridge this moonlit immeasurable, fantasia distance
Repertoire of piano choir
Luxury in the polychrome noir
Royal in the loyal wintermelon
Poppies color the spring
Butterflies fly in the effervescence
My painting sings a summer fling
Jump in the pantones
Rest your all
Stones amble swish scone
Wishes twinkle then hone
Will-o-wisps chill your bone
Lend me a wing
Let not be done in a ding
What I fear, free from the fringes of meek
My, this lexicon is not enough!
How to occupy the million, jillion, eternal galaxies
Shout in the rave
Echoing in the waves
Marvel at the bejewelled revel
Image my imagery
Oh, dive away child!
Let us drive in the garden of glaze
Careful not to be too amazed in the maze
In the hummed woodglade
As the critters flutter and flute
No way to chain me out of this loop
Pool of pretty astonishments
Diamonds of nature
Endure, not inure
Words alone are insufficient
These are just mere fantasies
Some are unexplainable
Some needs to be felt
Some needs to be seen
Not just read
Not just dreamt
I may sound dubious
But this is incredulous
Just a random collection of pretty words º-º
while the debate goes on and on,
as to which country has the longest, continuous
democratic parliament, have it on on good authority
that the subject above,
is it better to love your kids too much than not enough?
was the first among all temporal discussions ever held,
despite periodic tabling, the debate remains unresolved,
the question unsettled even after 1000 years+ of argumentation

when over time, Universal Adult Suffrage finally came to be,
the debate became renewable, enflamed, divisive most contentiously,
various coming down on each side of a point of view topically

since mother, father and child, i.e.
pretty much everyone, definitionally,
claimed total expertise,
and sparing the rod was deemed by most to be illegally,
no plebiscite, amendment or ballot initiative was resolved resolutely,
the beat goes on continuously as new children reach voting age, sagaciously repeating their view, personally

my view?

I’ve tried both and failed equally
so I’ve little to contribute,
so let it be stated in manner unequivocally,
the sweet sensibility says too well,
but helicopters crash and monied snowplows
run over other both their own and others better deserving,
leaving all of them buried in snow piles street side,
while those who blame their faults on insufficient love,
are later most demanding more attention than any,
having becoming painfully hardy, by being treated hard about,
******* themselves and worse to others

everyone knows the answer to this question for themselves
but I’ll leave you with this,
permitting a child to fail is a winning strategy,
as long as there is no legal limit
regarding the amount or frequency
on lifetime hugging
2:13am
3/26/19
fo SY
Carter Ginter Aug 2017
We were sitting in a restaurant
Table set for two
One of those single couple booths
Perfect for me and you

We spoke of money and
I refused to let you pay for me
Maybe I have too much pride
But I’m not who your ex used to be

The overhead lights reflected perfectly and
I was sure that you were not a mistake
Your ocean eyes vibrated my soul
And then I spilled my milkshake

Blood rushed to my face
And I looked away in shame
But then I heard you laughing
And something in my heart changed

Somehow you weren’t embarrassed
Or uncomfortable with my lack of grace
But instead that heart-shattering smile
Was plastered across your gorgeous face

And then you surprised me yet again
As you opened up your soul out of the blue
And though you spoke nonchalantly
I knew those thoughts were haunting you

I painted versions of your stories
Across the walls of my mind as you spoke
Memorizing the imagery and your feelings
About your insufficient social support

And while I know I can’t be everything for you
I can try to be better than the last
So you have somewhere safe to run
When you need to escape your broken past

Because although the table spanned miles between us
And we were connected only by our fingertips
I could feel our souls grazing one another
As they tangled together in electric riffs

At that very moment
Staring into your eyes, gold and blue
I felt the first real chance
That I might truly love you
Bipasha Dutt Dec 2018
words,
how inadequate they are
to express the intense emotions.

words,
how ineffective they are
to share the deepest thoughts.

words,
how insufficient they are
to convey the innermost feelings.

words
become insignificant
when intimacy grows.
It's natural for writers to celebrate words, but words sometimes fail to capture the exact feelings.
oscarlevi Feb 2015
Those yellow teeth have always been with you, he asked?
I try Blanch them, but nothing said.

Still and all  his heart and his emotions were more.

And happened when they met, the earth also turned to find them.

Somewhere in his memory, that distant question:
what  may I do with those dreams that you brought into my life?

Maybe continue with you, and maybe you should find your own answers, he said.

It is best to think, I come from the other side of your door, perhaps a new opportunity, to live your life from another evening and their stars.


Everything seems to indicate that he never caresses his hair.
Of course, he would like  to keep that detail in his memory and evoke it.
Like Proust, when dipped in his cup of tea the cupcake, and the indelible memory emerged from him.

Yes, the hours of the winter were insufficient.

Texts traveled from side to side of the city, although was snowing.

Any excuse was used to see each other. Every morning, afternoon or night, as  whole  existed for them.

And at dawn, when nearly frozen returning home, his wife read those messages while he was sleeping, and though comes from a girlfriend.

Everything seems to indicate that it was, what something else may think? Never in her mind  the idea that his husband were loved by a man.

Every minute that passed, each one lived and dreamed, the planet inhabited by two.

But as the day passes, it also drains the time, and is incessant understand, that  was the man with yellow teeth, who gave him the courage to open the doors of his life to the unstoppable force of love.

His wife and himself never wanted that it had happened and the man of yellow teeth either.
February 2015
matt d mattson Dec 2017
Oh my fool who loves me still
I wish your love that I could ****
It is wasted at my sill
In songs and poems, words and rhymes
Sadly insufficient lines
Better if your tongue would still
Your heart not hardened
Your happiness not killed
Instead I hope a knowing strength to will
An understanding of your place
And position in this race
For you my darling
Who I cherish
I would not wish your heart to perish
The truth my friend
And truth is fell
Is that I love you
But not so well

This incongruity of love
Turns friendship to a kindly hell

That is why your smile's bitter
My wise sad fool
For your wisdom does not bear
On the foolish course you swear
To love me
I do not wish it,
I do not ask it,
Your love I don't implore
I ask instead, to please explore
Dig deep into your very core
To understand this tug of war
And why from you I don't want more.

Rather I would wish
That instead of this cold dish
Of a love that's not extended
I hope your pain to be transcended
And from these ashes
May you be ascended
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2016
one thousand poem children



one thousand poems has mine soul commissioned,
a thousand more neath stone vault doors do attend,
patiently waiting revisions, rescission, catch and release permission,
waiting room patients, looking to buy a more favorable diagnosistician

this prolificacy,
nether curse or blessing,
this profligacy,
poem children fathered by single mom mothered,
borne nightly in dreams borne
from the northern, the southern,
the brains twilighted hemispheres,
who coordinate, drawing deep,
consulting a bartender's manual
a creation guide of mixology,
'how to intoxicate the brain'

cheap gin, multi-generational scotch,
visionary vermouth, the reddened cassis of life,
memories in the white grapes of possibilities,
futures unrealized, colorful takes and retakes,
a directors bespoke make-believe tales,
impossibilities, divine and mundane,
all into one admixture into the venous cavities poured,
nerves to blood to consciousness,
courtesy of the ganglia

the brain stem transmits them
fully formed to my
good morning sunshine
cracked and dried lips for re-emission

nigh head upon the pillow,
the hair trigger,
my rapid eye heartbeats, each a demanding sweetheart,
some performed to a discordant metronome,
in a controlled rage, my mental waste,
eliminated

the residuals,
purified with language as the
orchestrator, debate moderator

dreams, once recoded, once accorded,
the disordering tempestuous,  
neurons cease-to-fire,
now just words, just words, just womb excretions

did I admit to a thousand?

more like tens of ten,
one, two per eventide,
have washed  ashore, for some thirty years recorded

my brain pixilated,
its big shot game controller,
demanding purchase of more;
more storage space, more games,
not admitting in advance,
that it filters blends, conflates and purges

by combining
psalms and ditties, infantile rhymes and
new vocabularies of  human aging idiocies,
though newly acquired, immediately forgot,
so always room enough for
one more episode


I study the brain, I study sleep,
study living and dying occurring at
their point of intermediation,
dreams


*this more knowledge gives no relief,
it becomes this poem becoming,
testifying that I prosecute myself
based on the evidence,
and if insufficient,
dream up nascent visionaries
from places that come unlocked,
tales from the vault vivisected,
the proper verdict
assured

sixty six years
of accumulation,
and still know so little of
proper space utilization,
writing poems proper

but nightly come the dreams,
nightly comes the trial,
comes the judgements,
comes a man-made customized
whitewall tired judgement,
and to you
submitted for
judicial review

strange that each one of you
becomes, adopts, adapts my visage,
my words in you, reflected,
a jury of my peerage peers,
which is why my appeals are
always returned in the file labelled
"denial"

until the next nights dream
Matterhorn Feb 8
Walking into the building:
Cold parking lot,
****** music blaring from that lifted truck,
People honking;

Glass doors,
Short, insufficient eye contact,
"Good morning!" from the lady who guards the door
With a laptop and a forced smile;

Quick strides,
A pinball-like dance,
Yelling, screaming, arguing, sometimes fighting,
Fake greetings and meaningful silences;

A tiny bubble of social-media-manufactured society,
Without the trials and tribulations
That make one human
Or the experience that makes one sensible;

I can't ******* wait to graduate.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
b for short Nov 2018
There’s a tiny box
that sits on the shelf in his room.
So small, it rarely gets noticed.
What’s inside would shock you.
The desires he wishes
he didn’t have are in there,
next to all of the times he felt
insufficient.
Beside those, there sits all of the
embarrassments he suffered
when he chose to take his
clothes off—
the time he too quickly lost
his virginity, perhaps.
Next to his nakedness,
propped up against the far side,
is a small, sad pile of muted grey ash.
A closer look would show
all the love he freely gave
and could never get back.
And although it may never catch
the typical eye,
folded up in the dusty shadow
in the back left corner
of that tiny box
is me.
I am in this box too.
Jumbled between unwanted desires,
and intimate regrets, I wonder
if this home is my choice.
I wait for the tiny box to open;
to feel admired;
to be more than a shelved secret;
to feel a starved gaze;
to breathe fresh air.
I wait for the tiny box to open.
I wait.
© Bitsy Sanders, November 2018
Gods1son Oct 2018
Mental, emotional, physical, financial
So much suffering in the world today
People experiencing theirs in various forms
Lack of job or insufficient pay
Cancer, AIDS, depression, diabetes, stroke...name it
Cost of basic needs is becoming unbearable
Loss of loved ones
Loss of cherished relationships, betrayal
Lot of people are using drugs to numb the pain
No matter how long the night is...
Morning will surely appear
Darkness will always bow to light
There is abundant light within, let it out!
It's just too many things to worry about of late...
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