"issuing" poems
The smile of iceboxes annihilates me.
Such blue currents in the veins of my loved one!
I hear her great heart purr.
From her lips ampersands and percent signs
Exit like kisses.
It is Monday in her mind: morals
Launder and present themselves.
What am I to make of these contradictions?
I wear white cuffs, I bow.
Is this love then, this red material
Issuing from the steele needle that flies so blindingly?
It will make little dresses and coats,
It will cover a dynasty.
How her body opens and shuts --
A Swiss watch, jeweled in the hinges!
O heart, such disorganization!
The stars are flashing like terrible numerals.
ABC, her eyelids say.
11k
”good night, good travels, pitch black”
depending on how one counts,
cause size matters,
do have I
one small blessing
though little do I get, more-less,
in each twenty four measuring cup,
when the sleep gas has come-for-inhaling,
lidded heavy with greatful/tearful anticipation,
it’s less than sixty seconds till
dispatched to where all poems
plead like unborn angels for
good parentage
the spoken good night ritual signaled and completed
with a perfect half turn skating axel onto ones side,
preceded by, a single solid smacking of
an innocent but flaccid, equally tired pillow,
then lost in pitch black galaxy travels
with other sleep-drunk little princes
instead of the wavering, singular word,
a traditional goodnight,
a parting and a haling simultaneous mumbling issuing,
undebated and a wish shot to all within dream-shot, a title,
“good travels”
to places where ferment the aging words under
the winemakers watchful caring eyes opening,
names or titles, same difference, for the newborn babes
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 11:31 AM UTC
Let's see
When she visits I'll need
Rubbers, fresh and non latex
Oil to rub in gently
To work my arms out
To prevent pain whilst issuing it out
Whips, and maybe a couple of paddles and
Chains
Because i know she's into pain
Maybe even an umbrella, or a nicely made cane
....
I think thats it
Ive quite the checklist!
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 11:46 PM UTC
In a strange mood - see/write art
in a strange way, disorganized but straight on,
light tinted magenta, issuing, in frothy large pours, from my mouth,
knowing what to say, and the meaning too,
I can more than walk, can write, on water,
where all can read weeping, Mary-miracles of seeing, living words,
themselves, on light waves lapping in a
shifting rotunda vision, color reorienting spatial senses.^
in a strange, strange stitch, seasonal spirits and witches,
Chagall, Baez, Dylan Thomas, Donovan, Richie Havens
doing their knitting in my brain, from Montmartre to the Midwest to Monterey,
painters and poets in lockstep head-messing with me,
imperfect clarity but still one voice,
see/write art,
so went and caught the wind, going gently into night
to banish the hodgepodge of uncertainty from inside out.
knowing well you don't understand fully, but jumbling tumbling
verses are sliding off my rusted tongue as fiddlers fly above,
roughened words, hewn from a paper cup, spilling diamonds uncut, imported from Sarajevo, Montparnasse, the Lower East Side.
wretched me, in the hour I first believed, this amalgamated conception conceded,
seceded from my mind into your palate for a tasting,
tho neither drugged, nor deaf and dumb, just slammed poetical-like, this write is
all I have to portend is your affections, your attentions, to yours, am beholden.
a ***** well respected man in daylight,
the hidden references accuse,
woke up to see Wednes-day Caesarian born,
askance glanced at the prior passages of the night before,
when my palate clefted,
when eyes chose not to distinguish
between right and lefted,
in the nightlight,
a ***** man disrespects language convection/convention,
and lays before you activating stanzas and his mind, prone,
but always the truth, speaking,
the visions, leaking, mind to eye,
recombinant, into our minds eye.
^ http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/exhibitions/on-view/james-turrell
Rather than write extensive notes on the many references, inspirations in this poem, if there is a line that intrigues, ask me
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
Gaze at me, with you ever-so-slight smudged lipstick
Pop-punk lyrics issuing from your perfect mouth
Dark circles from the khôl and folly
Forgiveness from your youth
Torsion of perfection into a wry smile
Sober, you say, drunk, who'll walk upon my style?
Who'll dare? I dare, in laying bare, ballet hands,
The contents of my ***** You know, friends,
I may be an actress, and pretentious,
But my ability to lie's contentious.
Feb 16, 2023
Feb 16, 2023 at 6:44 AM UTC
On good nights, I like to send messages to space, outer
or deeper though direction and dimension are lost on me.
I get answers but no translations, no key or stone to this alien
and spacy thought. What? You say you bet you could
rephrase space in a language even I could understand? After all
you passed algebra, walked around school a big shot, finding X
or its equals. I should have paid attention, but mine was fixed
on Linda, Lucinda, Corinna, Corinna where you been so long?
I might have learned the meaning of words from long forgotten
gods, frustrated issuing commandments, ok in their day, but
ignored now, passé. I was absent for those god talks, apocalypse-isms,
missed out on saints with half-moon halos and beatific visions.
I heard only rumors of women, words like smitten, enchanted,
obsessed with love like striated bark on trees, canals on Mars,
rain and that sound that creeps under sod. And so I wait
for an unambiguous, intelligible answer from anyone in space.
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 10:22 PM UTC
She was our first grandchild
And naturally
We loved her dearly
And I adored her
As only grand-dads can
And she latched onto me
She used to come to us every Tuesday
At a time when kids are most interesting
She was fully conversational
(Didn't we all know it)
Her personality was emerging
And she was still young enough
To have her originality and imagination
My little gold mine of joy
And this is how it would go
"Grand-dad, you be the shop keeper
And I'll bring my dollies in for clothes."
So she would lay out her doll's outfits
And bring her dolls forward to buy clothes
She would haggle over the price (and win)
And pay me in cardboard coins
"Let's watch a video, Grand-dad!
Let's watch Barny!" (Again)
I hate that ****** purple dinosaur
And Katie thinks he's wonderful
That smarmy voice of his
"I love you and you love me,"
I bleeding don't you know
I wouldn't let him within a hundred miles
Of any kids of mine.
In the course of the day
I would be called upon
To play multiple parts in
Everything from The Three Bears
To Little Red Riding Hood
In which I memorably became
Big Bad Wolf and Grandma
And presumably ate myself
But the highlight of the day
Was the last thing before she went home
The weekly show
"Introduce me, Grand-dad!"
In my best showman's voice
"Ladies and gentlemen...!"
To my wife and dog
"...The moment you've been waiting for.
Fresh from her recent tour
Of our back garden.....
Miss Katie......."
"Katie Spice, Grand-dad."
"Miss Katie SPICE!"
Into some popular ditty of the day
Issuing from her at full volume
Then she would stop mid-line
While she did a little dance step
All greeted by thunderous applause
In her head it was Carnegie Hall
Rather than my wife, my dog and me
So, a happy end to a happy day
Then Katie went home
And I slipped into an exhausted coma
By Phil Roberts
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 4:47 AM UTC
The universe closes in on me
galaxies align
in matrices of light
This moment was never
meant to be
I'm a cloud
telling tales to the sky
a bit of wind
and I'll be gone
The moment slips through
my fingers
water into the well
while time
that mortal dragon
is readily slain
for there are no dragons
time is a myth
and this universe
bends backwards upon itself
eating its remains
and issuing forth
new life
in a fugue of renewal
again
and again.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
Do images of I appear in her thoughts?
Or simply the fostering of quaint fantasies?
Through all pandemonium paramour is sought
Though warded within profound secrecy
Frantic I plea for reprieve
To recover voluminous wounds
Renounce excuse to grieve
Slaughter the walls of this cocoon
'Tis never known where time will guide us
Underneath the sun she soaked hollow promises
Issuing surreal decrees decayed of trust
To romantic encounters she remains a novice
Genuine amour long since faded
Perennial you've become jaded
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 7:37 PM UTC
the webmaster has
become quite the recluse
he's been away without
offering a viable excuse
it was back in March
that he fled from this egress
not issuing any of us
a forwarding address
on Tuesday we sent
out twenty four scouts
to ascertain intelligence
as to his whereabouts
but the search party had
no good news to impart
all of them were
so disconsolate of heart
the domain is rather
down in the dumps
since our webmaster
pulled up his stumps
we are desirous of him
returning to home ground
it will be such a relief knowing
he's safe and sound
an APB was posted
on the worldwide web
by Brianna Jason
Trent and Kaleb
to seek out the now
cloistered maintainer
who's deserted his position
as our house retainer
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 7:04 PM UTC
Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again,
And howlest, issuing out of night,
With blasts that blow the poplar white,
And lash with storm the streaming pane?
Day, when my crown'd estate begun
To pine in that reverse of doom,
Which sicken'd every living bloom,
And blurr'd the splendour of the sun;
Who usherest in the dolorous hour
With thy quick tears that make the rose
Pull sideways, and the daisy close
Her crimson fringes to the shower;
Who might'st have heaved a windless flame
Up the deep East, or, whispering, play'd
A chequer-work of beam and shade
Along the hills, yet look'd the same.
As wan, as chill, as wild as now;
Day, mark'd as with some hideous crime,
When the dark hand struck down thro' time,
And cancell'd nature's best: but thou,
Lift as thou may'st thy burthen'd brows
Thro' clouds that drench the morning star,
And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar,
And sow the sky with flying boughs,
And up thy vault with roaring sound
Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day;
Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray,
And hide thy shame beneath the ground.
1.7k
It was a cold night,
I was coming home,
And I didn't inform her,
As I wanted it to be a surprise.
War was over and I was going home,
The terrorists had been terminated.
I had stopover en route,
At a distant town I paused,
Famous for its winery,
I had got the finest ***
For both me & my wife.
Obstructed en route by a blizzard,
I thought about my wife at home.
Waiting for the way to be cleared,
I slept because I felt so very tired.
A dream sequence started,
It was so bright and warm.
I was basking in the Sun,
My wife accompanied me.
Holding hands we're in the backyard,
Not a cloth shielded us from the Sun.
Composing poems we were,
Warm and hot ones as well.
I had said:
***"Oh my honeybunch,
My buttercup,
I love you,
From the core,
Of my purest heart."***
She had replied:
***"Oh my sweetiepie,
My bigger baby,
I love you too,
From my heart,
And even my body."***
But then the dream ended,
They had cleared the road.
The driver again started driving,
At a slow speed fit only for snails,
Still my rifle rattled inside the bad.
Now I reached my town,
I expected her in nightgown,
In the velvety green one she had.
Edging closer on foot to my home,
I observe incandescence in the hall,
Glimmering through the curtains,
I thought she was waiting for me,
Basking in the heat of the fireplace,
After a tiring day's work at the office,
She should have slept peacefully,
But here she was, I thought,
Waiting for her man to be back,
From the neighbouring state's capital.
With these positive thoughts on my mind,
I parried forwards in the snow,
And I thought I'd surprise her,
Telling that my work was done,
Earlier, much earlier than I had expected.
I produced my copy of the key,
And silently opened the door,
But then I heard some sounds.
Totally unexpected sounds,
Like the intimate ones in bed,
I wanted it to be some teleseries,
But then I noticed an overcoat,
And a pair of oversized boots,
Neither the overcoat belonged to me,
Nor the huge gumboots were mine.
It dawned upon me,
My wife had been cheating,
She was in the hall,
The indecent incandescence,
With the noises of it,
Filled the home after issuing,
From the main hall.
I immediately stepped back,
Closing the door silently behind me,
Then I went to the bus stop.
I entered the lodge nearby,
Took the bottle of *** out,
Drank it full slowly but surely,
Then I took the gun out,
Sank the *** in & pulled the trigger,
BANG!!!
The bullet dug under my chin,
It pierced me through my head,
Shattering the lamp overhead.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 11:40 PM UTC
Jean Bartel, born Jean Bartlemeh;
on October 26, 1923 & died March 6, 2011;
Miss California and Miss America 1943;
She won the talent and swimsuit awards
at the national pageant. At 5 feet 8 inches tall,
Bartel was the tallest winner up to that time;
Jean Bartel was the first college student
to win the title of Miss America & after
visiting her sorority sisters in Kappa Kappa Gamma
around the country, she developed the idea
of awarding scholarships to those who competed;
The Miss America Organization is now
the world's largest provider of scholarships
for women in the world;
Bartel worked for many years on Broadway
and in television, including starring in her own
travel series, It's a Woman's World, as well as
performing for seven months in South America;
She appeared in an episode of The Love Boat
in 1984, w/ Marian McKnight,
Miss America, 1957;
Nancy Fleming,
Miss America, 1961;
& Vanessa Williams,
Miss America, 1984.
Bartel died in Brentwood, California,
on March 6, 2011, aged 87; The Miss America
Organization issuing a statement calling her
"one of our most beloved Miss Americas"
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 5:19 PM UTC
I came singing
Pushed through the water
I came dumb
Without a man on my side
I drifted downward
From the moon
With every indication
This city would be mine
I came to under the mirrored water
Blue-black wings shining
Feather issuing streams of light
I came in the Mother's toothed ******
My black eyes blessed with insight
I came alone, with brave words
For speeches
And a riddle from the Unicorn
To solve
I came with a curse on my head
And gifts to bestow on mankind
I came with a song etched in stone
I came valiant
I came meek
Crawling backward like a crab
In the sea foam
I came heart broken
Without weeping
Clothed in rags
And precious stone
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 9:22 AM UTC
I want someone to fall in love with me tonight.
I am talking love at first sight.
I want someone to look at me and think, "This might be the one...
And, Hell! she seems fun."
Although I might look kinda dumb, I promise I'll try
And I want them to notice the color of my eyes
And the bird on my foot and the rose on my shoulder
And the lump in my throat that's the size of a boulder
And I want them to smile when they see what's happening
And I've been waiting a while while my love life's been napping
But I'm ready to wake up and take up a man
Who's ready to be with a girl who can't tan
But I'll freckle and burn
And I'm always concerned
With whose turn it is to be the big spoon...
And please speak up soon.
Cause, though I do well alone,
I kind of need someone to call home
And to laugh at my jokes
And not be hurt when I choke
When you tell me you love me
Because I still can't believe that you're so far above me!
Like the king of the world
With the invisible girl.
So thanks in advance for making me seen
And proving that I mean something to someone...
That I mean anything.
And won't it be funny when people ask how we met?
And you'll recall how you set
In a shop drinking tea
And then you saw little old me;
The Queen of Naive,
Issuing a plea
And wishing for love and hoping for luck
As I loosed Cupid's arrow and prayed that it stuck!
And they'll ask how you knew
That for me it was true...
And you'll look in my eyes,
Still drenched with surprise
And drunken with hope that you'd recognize
That it was no accident that we met that night.
Because I made you believe in love at first sight.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
I am issuing a postmodern offensive on the retrocultural routine
an exhalation of postindustrial and reinstallation of irreproachable
Intertextual, multivocalities of the avant-garde and postcolonial others
dealing a degendered-(King)sian discourse on equality
This is an attack on normal
a breath of fresh air
A war cry of weirdos
a dagger to the fair
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 10:29 PM UTC
Monotone, mechanical, voices,
issuing from junior aliens in their
junior-alien gladiator-space-helmets,
spoke that now famous sentence
to the children of my generation
in Saturday morning cartoons.
Was this actual, hidden wisdom,
meant for us to remember years later?
Resistance,
in our personal lives,
to the behavior
of those around us,
usually just causes that behavior
to become more entrenched.
Did intelligent, actual aliens,
feed this message into
our childhood consciousness?
I smile to think so.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
when in the world’s leading democracy
a new president starts his office with
making life more expensive for average home owners
signing orders threatening the health of millions
restricting the publications of researchers
denying global warming
encouraging coal and oil companies
forbidding federal employees to talk to the media
going on fantasy trips about “alternative facts"
to justify his ridiculous lies
blaming the media when asking questions and checking facts
barring leading media companies from press conferences
waffling about his Russian connections
refusing to release his tax returns
ordering to build walls to keep out all those aliens,
like the old Chinese did, to little avail
issuing poorly formulated presidential orders
causing confusion and harm and even deaths
banning even green card holders from entering the country
filling his cabinet with all the alligators from the swamps
he promised to clean during his campaign
people who know how to avoid paying taxes and beating the system
but have no clue how to govern now that they ARE the system
and think they can run the USA with its 350 million citizens
as Trump&Cronies;, USA, Inc.,
like their private family businesses, for profit
courting kings and monarchs & wannabe sultans in the near east
'democratic dictators' in the far southeast
and wannabe czars in russia
but hesitating to confirm ties to old allies
in Europe, NATO, and the Far East
suggesting that having undeclared secret meetings
is quite OK with his campaign team members
his son and son-in-law
[ctd. fron line 2...] it is high time to seriously ask
what concept
if any
of democracy he has in mind
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 5:11 PM UTC
many of his posts tilted
like trees tired of the wind; wires sagged,
red rusted, but still jabbed the errant cow
when duty called
three quarters a century
he rode the same trail; of late,
he had gone afoot, the saddle too heavy
for him to heft
walking, he reconnoitered
the tracks with more care--hooves of his myriad steers,
a few equine signs of the farrier’s labor
still there, fast fading
his boot prints were
more numerous now, and sometimes
tamped down by the few beasts left
in his herd
across the line lay his dead
neighbor’s pastures, peppered with mesquite,
pocked by fire ant holes; no livestock grazed, but the giant turbines whined, white whipsaws slashing not timber, but blue sky
driven by the relentless winds,
they called to him, in chanted chorus, issuing a premonition:
one day soon, your fence will fall, and the path you trod
will bear no new tracks for other souls to read
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 10:40 PM UTC
there's a mafia don
operating on the verse's patch
if anyone ticks him off
the eraser does a fast dispatch
you'll be completely rubbed out
with an instantaneous flick
by his quick 48 revolver's
rapid fire trigger click
the Sicilian mobster
is a regular Al Capone
*clearing they who ******
at his most tactile bone
Luigi strikes fear on
issuing a list of target dots
which so irritate him in
the imprecise spots
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 9:12 PM UTC
No.
I don't refer only to our comfortable parental house in Bangalore,
But here I also mean my heart and my heartbeats are the percussionist's rhythm issuing out loud for you.
And I feel your feet shaking to it as you hold me in a tight embrace & it beats aloud rhythmically for you,
It's my heart which I mean here as the house ready-made for you,
Yes.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
the drunken door is open issuing fumes
the loss of what society betrays a deflated relaxed option
of empty rebellion
season away life in mood with loss
fumed with the doorway and its dark yawn
i am reminded of putting fruit flies 'to sleep'
in a school lab class
Feb 19, 2025
Feb 19, 2025 at 4:07 PM UTC
Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again,
And howlest, issuing out of night,
With blasts that blow the poplar white,
And lash with storm the streaming pane?
Day, when my crown'd estate begun
To pine in that reverse of doom,
Which sicken'd every living bloom,
And blurr'd the splendour of the sun;
Who usherest in the dolorous hour
With thy quick tears that make the rose
Pull sideways, and the daisy close
Her crimson fringes to the shower;
Who might'st have heaved a windless flame
Up the deep East, or, whispering, play'd
A chequer-work of beam and shade
Along the hills, yet look'd the same.
As wan, as chill, as wild as now;
Day, mark'd as with some hideous crime,
When the dark hand struck down thro' time,
And cancell'd nature's best: but thou,
Lift as thou may'st thy burthen'd brows
Thro' clouds that drench the morning star,
And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar,
And sow the sky with flying boughs,
And up thy vault with roaring sound
Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day;
Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray,
And hide thy shame beneath the ground.
1.1k
7/30
11:20 am
no luddite me.
no longing for the good old days.
from one oft abused little phone,
I, while bathing royally
in my cowardly four
legged lioness tub
got my music,
my reading list,
sports pages,
and if so inclined,
shoot off a quickie,
a poem for your
grateful nation
appreciation.
all of which
causes me to
issue a heartfelt
happy cry apology
dame as the
of the prehistoric
techie avanti,
Flinstoni
yabadabadoo!
which does not deserve
the opprobrium returned of
"Shut Up, Please"
coming from the the galley
kitchen where the women are
doing their whatever
gossipy kitchen thing.
not to be accused of non-responsiveness,
I, reply as the techno Fourth Tenor,
"can't hear you, why don't you text me!"
happily issuing another,
but in a more
thoughtful basso,
yabadabadoo!
quietly whispering
a self satisfying
follow up
vincerò!
ogdiddy nash
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC
How nice it would be
if all Beauty was free and homesteads
were home to all
no honking horns or voice raised issuing rampant scorns
to pass unfiltered through the innocent ears of children
but then again... nothing is perfect except for..
. maybe thunder
for it is the loud, proud voice of perfection
rolling or booming never assuming to be what it is not
like the voice of God
As it was described in those scriptures told
in the verses of old
so with each clap
Of lightning created sound
we either jump or smile
As we know it brings
A needed refrain
of nourishing rain
there is nothing sweeter than
walking in the rain
of autumn
for the leaves paint
the ground all around and happiness abounds
it's a promise of relaxing winter husband starting fires both of heat and desires
While mother share secrets with daughters both shoulds and not aughters ha!
But such is the way it has been
from time immortals very beginning
and should continue to be
as long as....
God's Great Earth keeps on spinning !
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 8:55 AM UTC