"interpretive" poems
It isn’t easy to walk, gravity weighs.
The biosuits lock the mind
in a narrow space.
An interpretive blow is crucial:
Does being on the other side of the mirror
truly want it, or only think it does?
A thumb drives into the right temple.
The heart pumps hectoliters of warm liquid.
Colours, sounds, tensions in the eternal swirl.
Delay in processing—eighty milliseconds
it isn’t a flaw.
It takes that long for all the cogs to turn.
Everything I do now is already in the past.
Decisions made long ago spit me out
into this reality with some name.
I am the last, but not least,
in the collective dream and blink of time.
Minds sway like golden grain, ready to be cut.
I can stand up or lie on the ground.
I walk—
toward the next stumble,
the next wound, and maybe healing.
Insights glow like yellow lanterns,
giving me some light.
No justification, no understanding.
My self-awareness is not a cozy couch.
One day,
I will stop existing, and I accept that.
I’m just afraid to leave those who still love me.
Apr 30, 2025
Apr 30, 2025 at 11:30 AM UTC
Always follow your dreams
Even if they involve
Lions
Elephants
Motorcycles
Flying through the air
Meeting an alternate version of yourself
Talking to invisible creatures
Throwing pie at people
Interpretive dance
Singing in nonexistent languages
Walking on the celing
Contortions
Swallowing fire and blades
Leotards
Hoopskirts
Facepaint
Masks
Or flashing lights
Because in the end
When other people see it
They'll either laugh with you
Or stare, breathless and in awe
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 11:37 PM UTC
*I have been studying how I may compare
This prison where I live unto the world;
And for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer it out.*
-Shakespeare, Richard II, Act V.I
The world I fathom rhetorically orbits
around the whirr of a dust-peppered
triad of turbine limbs
inbreeding infinitely as electricity's
treaty permits
into a smorgasbord whirl of
processed plastic white
A remedial sun I compose
to counter outside's oven bulb
in the world I do not fathom
Heat's ****** of humidity
is not lost on me
with no canonized sense
even to establish it with
And even my own remedial sun
restricts a reality-knighting touch
with its ozone cage pried open
in unseen haste - a victim
of college's fugitive waltz
encased in the jazz fusion dance hall
of the world I cannot fathom
Is there a dual left-footed
interpretive dance of a carbon dimension
outside of reality's steaming kitchen
to fathom me?
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
Drip....
Drop....
Drip....
Drop....
The rain starts to sing
My toes catching wet kisses as they stick out from under my shelter.
Pitter Patter,
Pitter Patter,
The rain picks up,
Using the leaves as cymbals.
The street light becomes a spot light,
The green grass sparkling, twinkling in the night.
Crunch, Crunch,
Sploosh, Sploosh,
Hooded figures walk past through leafy puddles,
Unknowingly joining the symphony.
Their shadows creating an interpretive dance.
Drip....Pitter Patter....Crunch....Drop....Sploosh
Drip....Pitter Patter....Crunch....Drop....Sploosh
* silent applause *
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
The heart is the heaviest of all the organs.
It carries your burdens, your worries, your sorrows.
When you speak from it, this weight is packed into every word, yet none of it is lifted from your heart.
Sometimes I wish I could think through my brain instead of my heart.
But then I ask myself: Which one hurts more when it's betrayed?
You need a brain to be alive, but you need a heart to live.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 2:05 AM UTC
I would argue that what is happening here isn’t the crushing of creativity but the addition of knowledge. As people get more knowledgeable they are better able to evaluate their ideas and sift out the ones that won’t work. Looking at the quantity of ideas for the use of a paperclip tells you nothing about creativity but the quality of the ideas might.
If we want pupils to be good at problem solving we need to give them a lot of knowledge with which to solve problems. There is no generic problem solving short cut we can use. The problem solving skills of “I need to put up a bookcase but have lost the instructions” is very different from the problem solving skills of “We need to resolve the conflict in the Middle East.” I we spent less time trying to find these short cuts we might have a lot fewer wonky bookcases and a little more chance of peace.
I can’t speak for all subjects and contexts but in secondary school geography we are constantly problem solving. It is what Geographers do but each problem needs a wide body of very specific knowledge. We look at how they would solve the problem of the UK’s energy mix, how they would improve housing in informal settlements and yes, even how to solve the problems in the Middle East (if someone without a knowledge of catchment hydrology tries to pontificate on the issue I wouldn’t give them the time of day).
The same applies to “creativity”. The ability to create is an important and wonderful thing. Music, art and drama should play a full and important part in the curriculum but they aren’t about teaching something as generic as “creativity”. They are about teaching the skills to allow you to be creative in that particular domain. Learning to express your creativity in art is unlikely to help you pick up the trombone and learning how to write is unlikely to make your interpretive dance any less awkward.
If you think that these things can be taught as stand alone generic skills (I assume you there is a 54% chance you are) then please do send me a lesson plan because I would love to see how it is done.
Conclusion
I think the term “21st century skills” is a nonsense. The generic skills that people will need in this century will be the same as they have needed in all of them because they are the things that make us human. I don’t think they can be taught in isolation. I don’t think we get better at “problem solving” by solving problems in different domains or better at “creativity” in one domain by practicing another.
Schools play a role in preparing children for the future and that role is to ensure they leave us as knowledgeable and well informed adults.
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
In my ideal world
We would all speak in movement
a beautiful dance
interpretive
much like a whimsical
musical
I'd weave
wringing out
socially acceptable action
soaring through the air
on wings of weirdness
There would be paragraphs,
novels
all written
with the bending of my back
the twirling of fingers
and twisting
and flipping of my
crazy curly coils
of hair on my head
Poetry would seep through the muscles
of my body
and you would respond
only in embrasive motility
fluidly moving
to song and unspoken language
and we would all be a frenzied
foolish
interpretive dance
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
The overall meaning
Is teamingly seeming
With overly active imaginative dreaming.
And through your brain it's weaving.
And leaving messages.
In need of interpretive cleaning.
Its beaming in ways that can be so demeaning.
Reasoning toward a way of redeeming.
It's Exhilarating.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 1:57 AM UTC
Belligerent- at war, designating or of a state recognized under international law as being engaged in a war.
Decadence- A process, condition, or period of decline, as in morals, art, literature; deterioration, decay.
Belligerent decadence,
may I reproach your horrible
agenda?
Fore-score wasn't a play on
words. These years have passed
as unwillingly as we've
accepted your rule.
Hyperboles creating a sense
of dissidence, because judging
anomalies is a task better left
to the proficient.
Maybe now their decadent
dissidence may materialize.
Belligerent decadence,
is it for you that sympathy
now grows sour?
Sour enough to please a pigs
trough. A malignant canopy
erected for weary heads,
yet finding relief means
resolution is what's being fed
to hungry bureaucratic slave
hands obsessing on getting more
for nothing.
Obsolete, ritualism has become
more copied than read. Is one
agonizing grin of disgruntled
workers creating the back drop,
for proud men raising a trophy,
the emblem of monetary
perplexity.
Not enough make enough.
So belief can die it's painful
reminder,
"Faith cast as dice, when no
one believes there's a chance."
Belligerent decadence,
remind me to remind them,
the people you so rally to scourge;
that interpretation is not
better left for your eyes,
but theirs.
Remind me to speak in
rag tag metaphor so as to
dispel the wrench clogging
their system.
Remind me to encourage
them to explore further;
beyond their machinations,
so they again can see this
machines engine.
Maybe the clog is yours,
but like every circulatory
system may fall victim to
stroke like conditions so
shall yours.
Belligerent decadence
rise up fallen brethren,
falling faster than the
history of Columbus.
How long till we see
the incredible hyperbole
being played out so
deliberately? How long till
we seethe for proof,
the products of ignorant
disease.
How long till we find
life's anathema like genius
executed upon every casted
ballot?
The forsaken taking heed
making up the norm for the
moment.
Empty rants, mind slowing
products infect our once proud
carriers with poverty, and
disease.
Creative incentive tossed
upon the coals of cold furnaces,
define all eyes and see all
ears believe.
Then again if you haven't
given interpretive thought a
chance, belligerent decadence
will never vanish, but upon
this battlefield, your soul
will be brandished.
"Belligerent Decadence!"
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 8:44 AM UTC
The construction of new truths
requires tracing back to the roots
in which our foundational youth
has been grounded.
Pursuants of knowledge, belief, and perception
falter at the objection
that their reality is not subject to
interpretive conception.
Impermanence
taught me to learn and to shift
with tides of my blind eye's misconceptions.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
Velveteen butterflies sail into strawberry way , strike a pose against the meditative , sunny disposition of the coming May
Harlequin horseflies and Bumblebee jesters
Pear bloom ballet , Mayfly soloist , interpretive Ferns are quite dashing in the Alabama breeze , Wood Thrush dancers and Mourning Dove romantics cooing in the Honey Locust trees
Madame April's storybook of Springtide scenes
and fairytale dreams ...
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
You may not entirely understand the reality of a 'dank existence,'
As the ranks of society have used interpretive dance as resistance
To the lime-green light that illuminates that room in the brain,
Where interpretation of thought drives explanation insane.
You may not entirely understand what is real;
From the epilogue clearing fictions fog to what makes an orange peel,
As it's not a simple way to live every day,
But it's found that, quite obviously, it is the best way,
Lacking the patch of reality's seal,
It truly is the only real way to feel.
To say that my mind has gone mad without power,
Is like saying pop-rocks from '67 aren't sour,
Or a Peoples Republic won't rise like a tower,
Over Western metropolis, and the President's glower.
And to say that my brain is subdued within chains,
Is like claiming humanity never made it to space.
It's a possibility, but from any value of face,
The assumption is old, and conservingly fake.
Lets say we randomize all events in our lives;
From the time we wake up, to where we close our eyes,
And the constant adventure, as to 'where to go next,'
Finds that our past is quite static once the next second is vexed
And the constant thieving of the ideas that we steal,
Makes life an existentialists ideal meal,
With the past, and the present, and the future entwined,
It's a smorgasbord of endeavor drawn outside the lines,
And we love it.
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 4:53 PM UTC
There's a bus with four flats in the front yard
Greyhound written on it's side
Wondering how in the world it got there
And where in the world it was I was last night
It has all of it's blinkers a flashing
With the radio blaring loud
I'm getting a tad bit worried here
As it's slowing drawing a crowd
How lucky is it that it missed
My above ground swimming pool out front
Which I know would do better in the back yard
But it was to much trouble to move all the junk
As soon as the cobwebs clear my head
And my eyes cease their interpretive dance
I do what any red blooded American citizen would
And proceed to remove all evidence
I wish it is that I could remember
What it was that had gone on
From the looks inside the greyhound
It really must have been quite fun
The night had to involve Major Rock Stars
The way inside the bus was wreaked
If I didn't know any better I'd think
That Keith Moon had come back from the dead
The back window was smashed wide open
On the ground lay a big screen T.V.
Hard to believe but it was still running
With breaking news on channel 3
There I was in all of my glory
Whooping and hollering on top of the bus
Riding through downtown with lasso in hand
Like I was a cowboy rustling up some grub
I knew it wouldn't be long now
Before the Authorities came looking for me
Even though my head was still full of mud
I had to think lighting fast on my feet
So I jumped into the drivers position
And into first gear I slammed
Drove the bus straight into the junk of the backyard
And never saw that Greyhound again
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
Life is full of secrets.
Is it that impossible to see?
Full of mystery in front of you.
Of all you can see, you aren't seeing the interpretive.
Lies deceive you, behind every hidden door.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 3:40 AM UTC
Meditation or medication.
There seems to me to be one track to freedom
and we're all on it,
But what multitude of obstacles
we choose to face
Is up to "us."
This clay figure that radiates energy
Was scultpted over eons of time by the gentle presses of nature's thumbs
Life is meaning expressing itself,
How we choose to guide it
Is up to us -
Our emotions are but an interpretive language
That pulses with each breath, mingling memory with intellect,
Feelings are filters, like our eyes and skin,
Meant to figure dreams of chemistry
into being.
Who we are within
Is as formless as a hazy dream,
Only suggested, imagined to be.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 5:15 PM UTC
The cemetery trees are dancing in the wind.
Shimmying unapologetically
like a chorus line of boozed up
Burlesque dancers.
Some are tall and regal with pointed crowns,
Isosceles dresses, neat and tidy,
Complete with Pine colored tutus.
Whoosh!
Like entering a room sliding
On your knees.
Whoosh!
Like someone breathing fresh life
Into you.
Mysterious but holy,
Divine yet impermanent.
Whoosh!
Strong yet fragile,
Gliding with the wind
In this game called life.
(and death)
Some have solid legs
And big shiny afros,
Showing everyone how
It's REALLY done.
Bump. Grind.
Confident yet elegant,
Bump Grind.
Full of themselves in the
Best way possible,
Bump! Grind!
Living. Being. Rejoicing.
Others have tassels
dangling from their limbs.
Shimmy! Shake!
Shimmy! Shake!
Teasing me with their
Devastating beauty,
Shimmy! Shimmy! Shake!
Revealing my longing,
My passions,
For what?
I don't really know.
Shimmy! Shake!
Feeding me an elixir
Of fresh sweet hope
To drown freely, once again,
In immortal youth.
They all weave themselves
In the wind.
Acknowledging my existence
Through movement.
Using interpretive dance
As a symbolic conversation.
Happy to see me,
Welcoming me to their land.
Welcoming me home.
Welcoming me to
NOW.
.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
This one's called "Running Under Streetlights on a Treadmill Made of Gravel"
Don't you ever wonder where you'd be without love?
There is no distance I wouldn't travel
to be under the arms of this oak.
This one is called "I Ain't Got All Night to Plot with the Moon,"
and this one's called "I'm Losing my Mind in the Middle of June,"
so give me a light, because this dark's ending soon.
I am a scarecrow lost in a tornado
(this one is called "You Can't Keep All of Your Straw.")
I am a glass figure in the midst of a hail storm.
This one is called "Where's my Umbrella?"
And I've found an answer,
so ask me the question.
This one is called "The Supreme and Holy Power of Suggestion"
Some nights are never ending.
This one's called "That Fruit Ain't Worth Eating if the Garden's Not Worth Tending"
So don't you judge me.
My antennae may be broken,
but my signal still sends,
and my mind is wide open.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
Your pretty gray eyes look sad and you say
"I guess I just want someone to love me back."
My laugh sounds sour, an odd rumble tearing into a half-hearted roar, not in tune with what laughter should be
Because I love you-
And I have loved you-
And I will tell you-
And I have told you-
Over and over.
I have years of smudged, tear stained writing,
Whispers
All in metaphors:
"I just want someone to love me back."
We'll continue this interpretive dance,
Catching and dropping one another
From higher and higher cliffs.
One day we'll die or fly.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 4:38 PM UTC
water and ice
is what I feel like.
though the same,
they can form into one another
back and forth.
its entity is interpretive.
happiness in a neat little cube
the tray has been the mold of my life
confining me, unaware.
but water runs free,
spills everywhere
and soaks into its surroundings.
I'm still here,
h2o.
but a new form has taken shape
widening my perspective to a new world
I never realized could exist.
the accessibility is limited
but I'm learning how to find it.
simply knowing that there is
something
makes it eons more beautiful
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 7:05 PM UTC
A spellbound audience of one ! Improvisation , effortlessly playing across the surface tension , the most beautiful dance a figure skater every performed pales in comparison! Her choreography , calculated movements and sheer determination ! A brief performance , off again to another location , with brilliant locomotion , intricate zig zags , figure eights , interpretive whorls ! Nature created firefly to light night skies , dragonflies to mesmerize ! She was born of creative , splendid imagination and love of all things beautiful , like a musicians perfect score or creative thought penned , scribed upon tranquil water ! A diary
without a conclusion , continuous chapter in a familiar book over quiet stream , eddy and babbling brook !
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 12:43 PM UTC
Mocha brown fawns dance amid my orange horizon ,
hoping to please their mother under a dashing springtime Sun ..
Curiously forage Chestnut and acorn , alert to the call of the
morning Brown Thrasher , the chime of young Turkey hens and
the call of Coyote and river dancer ..
Wood Duck ducklings careen Port Lake , smacking sweet bills
as they work the edges ... Tiny green Frogs line the banks , perform
their morning ballads in chorus with Katydids and House crickets while
water spiders lead interpretive dance along the mirrored waterway ..
Mr. Red Fox is running late , off to points West into the blackberry fields along Bear Creek .. Wisteria , honeysuckle and wild roses are filling my soul as I pray before the morning scenery ....
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 8:06 PM UTC
From the fertile womb of aeons gone by,
The untold truths hidden in time,
Crash down plummeting from the sky,
In ceaseless interpretive mime.
From the gateways of karma,
And the echelons of rebirth,
Reveals the cognitive dharma,
In merriment and mirth.
The fabled dragons of puce,
Ignites the torches and reveals the path,
Undulating footsteps with music to ******
Treading carelessly as we laugh.
All through life’s journey so blissful,
Learn to use language to your advantage,
Allow lies to be under your dismissal,
And we’ll get by, we’ll manage.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 8:32 AM UTC