"lessened" poems
For Al, who left us
With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
Al,
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here,
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
_________________________________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)
_________________________________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, Long Island
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC
she’s everything i am,
and everything i could be
she gets tired and lonesome,
and she’s suffered for me
she’s strong and capable,
and someone i look up to
her unconditional love is powerful,
and she’s lessened every pain i’ve gone through
time after time again,
she’s forgiven my selfish ways
because she has always been a part of me,
and she’s always here to stay
Dec 10, 2019
Dec 10, 2019 at 3:01 PM UTC
Start slow...
warming... up...and...below
forty five degrees
to the left...right...others go nineties...
some freeze...from locked knees
they don't mind...they'll recover
before the hour is over...
Detach self
from what
surrounds
but...still aware
connected...
agitation
soon to be lessened
eventually....calmed
Focus...
exercise
stabilize
synchronize
visualize
internalize
energize!
Endure!
An ant bites at the back of your ear
something's crawling on your tummy
beads of sweat, drop across your eyes,
or inside your ear...you feel the cold touch within
A bee, a wasp...sometimes, a fly
circles very near your face
makes your wall of
concentration, crumble
tempting you to lose count
of the movements
testing you...
if you might still stray...even
a step away...
if, to your weaknesses
you would still succumb
will you be distracted?
or stay focused?
Let eyes, and mind blink
One...two...three...quickly!
be grounded!
stay on the right track.....
Exercise!
...visualize....
... internalize.....
...never give up!
Sally
Copyright September 21, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
He walks through a wood once every month
He takes the same route near The Wishing Pond
He meets with the Collector in a secluded building
Who never fails to purchase every new painting
The man was an artist, the Collector was a fan
His works and his reputation was known throughout the land
The Artist had it all: a nice house, a loving wife,
friends in every town and city, and wealth to last his life
Every month, another painting
Every month, the Collector's money
His life was set, his life was perfect
All he needed as an artist was a self portrait
So this next month's painting would be special
For when he would pass, this will be his memorial
He started on an early morning, standing in front of a mirror
With skill and patience, shading and texture, the first sketch was done
The painting process took a few days
Without sleep or food, for hours in his room he stayed
Near the end of the month, the portrait finally done
Proud and exhausted, the artist exclaimed, "This is a special one."
The next day, he readied his portrait to take
To the Collector, who was expecting to be amazed
With a glance at the picture before he could leave
He noticed many flaws and said, "I want a perfect me"
He sent a letter explaining the delay
To the Collector, disappointed, he lessened the pay
For days, the Artist fixed each flaw
The big ears, the small nose, the feminine jaw
Every day he found a new imperfection
But after months and months of fixing, he achieved satisfaction
He took his self portrait on his once monthly walk
To the Collector's house, pass The Wishing Pond
He tripped on a rock, dropping his portrait
Falling into the pond, his art was ruined
The canvas had sunk, the water grew murky
The paint spread around and clouded before him
The cloudy colors swirled in the water's waves
The Artist, distraught, sat in heartache
A figure rose from the water, the colors had faded
He recognized it immediately as the perfection he painted
His portrait was alive for to not be was imperfect
His creation looked back at him and exclaimed, "I am The Artist"
Throughout the years, the portrait had adopted The Artist's life
With perfect skills, perfect fame, and even the love of his wife
The Collector, impressed by its own work, gave it double the pay
He also terminated his contract, he and the Artist had made
The Artist was left with nothing
His life stolen by his painting
Embodied perfection had taken it all
Living wishful thinking, alive from The Pond
He tasked, and pushed, and berated himself to achieve perfection
He succeeded, but lost everything to his perfect version.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 10:46 PM UTC
I am a plant.
I am a thistle.
Cirsium arvense.
Creeping thistle.
When you first see me I am a beautiful, colourful flower. But if you come closer, you will notice two things.
1. I can ***** you. My needles are few and nearly invisible, but very sharp.
2. I am not ONE flower. I am a cluster of a hundred tiny flowers.
I am possibility.
My opportunities were not the best when I was a seedling.
The ground was dry and the sun burning.
However, as the forest around me, the sunlight that hit me directly lessened. The rain made the ground more fertile.
The ground is still too dry. I need more moisture to live. It is difficult to see the sun at all through the dense trees. I wish I could at least see a little bit of the sun.
I am a plant.
I am a thistle.
Oct 9, 2022
Oct 9, 2022 at 8:54 PM UTC
the rain has come
finally
first in thunderous
clould burst
big fat pregnant drops landing
labouriously on
the dessicated dirt
leaving craterous footprints
as evidence of a
glorious dance
more fall to the cloud's internal beat
a steady rhythmic fall
into the mudpit dancehall
that once was dry dusty street
the rain has lessened
now wavering
between drizzle and mist stragglers late,
to raindance fall ball.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
tattoo ourselves in electric ink memorializing calendars,
diaries of observantional digits, black on white, no gray,
birthdays, anniversaries, dates of passing, starting lines,
occasional achievements, departure dates, even glaring failures,
sundial mundane records of diurnal habitude…even
defining self by, bye, byte marks upon flesh, upon our calendar
*not my first trip-tracking, he ruefully rues, wry smiling,
many voyages of indeterminate measuring length,
leaving litter of arrays of hopeful estimations & destinations,
each unequal, any or all possibilities, each day notated,
without critique or commentary, the numbers are the
gaols (jails) of goals, target, indeterminate determination,
terrific, horrific, introspections, inverse images resolve, resolute*
a year ago, +/- a few days,, new travelogue commenced,
notated but not annotated, just numerical truths,
(sans comments for the divine nature of numbers don’t lie)
and today my calculator app informs, that I am now
19.4 % lesser, but that clarifies less than expected
naturally this provokes a natty,
spirited, self-inquiry, lessened,
lessor, for better or for worse?
have the physical alterations
accompanying this reduction
mean exactly what,
if, it should be, a greater lesser?
here is the hard part.
your have always been a mirror~poet,
laughing, bemoaning the unvarnished, unshaven
AM sightings of a human perpetual dissatisfied,
the external never denying the interior “less~than,”
a J Peterman catalogue of weathered ****** expressions,
counter-parted by multiple Venn diagram intersections,
of experiential labeled bits & pieces of emotional empirical
less than good, not even close to perfect, so now that I am
*gaunt, spare, lean, grayed, narrower, again ruefully rue,
the even more visible truth reflection eye~hidden:*
I,
am the sum of the weight of my history, my deeds,
my disbeliefs, murderous deeds, weak choices
and that hasn’t changed nary an ounce, no matter
many times examined, indeed I am forever a lesser man,
there, internal infernal
too…
Apr 9, 2023
Apr 9, 2023 at 2:12 PM UTC
Crept in sinister and foreboding
Announcing their warnings in silent contrails of clotted red
Though the signs were not heeded
The impending extinction civilization was to face
From this reality humans turned their eyes away
The war was soon in coming
The blood parasites set their war machines humming
Singing songs of death and gold coins
Rubbing their hands with mad glee
As death profiteers cackled and rejoiced
Veiled widows sobbed quietly resigned and forlorn
Black strangling stench of rotting bodies and lies
The look of defeat in helpless glazed eyes
Tears running down accepting streaked faces
The sounds of fading souls and lost dreams
The screams of the dying lessened and eventually ceased
When Crimson skies in the morning
Crept in sinister and foreboding
All Rights Reserved@ Tammy M. Darby Nov. 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 8:39 PM UTC
Which Is Greater?
I break a vow.
A serious vow.
In a place, in this site,
Where the fluid pain
Is the water of the world,
The element that is crux,
The amniotic liquor of creative flux,
The morning juice,
The afternoon caffe,
The first beer of the day,
The liquid that we rinse and spit out our every day,
I will write about pain,
Arrogantly, as if there is any unused combination of
Letters, vowels and consonants left unspoken, *****
Having sworn not to, for pain is cumulative.
Asking myself,
Which is greater?
The pain of creation, inception, origination and birth,
The pain of wreck and ruin, destruction and death.
Homework Self-Assignment: Compare and Contrast
Suddenly, I am expert.
Creating a poem a day is very painful.
A poem that is the sum of
Reflection, research, and purging.
Once I wrote:
*The poem is the afterbirth,
A conflicts resolution, an outcome,
Battlefield debris, the residue of
An exacting vision, a sentiment surging,
And your army of words, inadequate to the task,
Fighting to capture that insight flashed,
Each word a soldier, disheveled,
Crying, let me live, let me be saved,
Let me make a poem,
Let it be inscribed upon my victorious flag.
The poem is the sweat left upon the brow,
Having exercised the five senses,
The salt of struggle and debate,
It's completion, each word,
Both a victory and a defeat.*
Suddenly, I am expert.
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown,
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
she ever possessed to the atmosphere,
One breath at a time.
Is that painful?
It is for me.
Now you complain. They're different, not to be compared, et cetera.
Pain is pain,
Whether it is in the service of creation, or
Creative destruction.
Once I wrote:
*With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poem's birth diminishes me.*
So, one and the same?
Nope. Yes. But. Cannot one be the greater?
Yes, one is greater.
When I lay on my deathbed,
I will exhale the answer
Into the atmosphere
For your retrieval.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
The deterioration of society,
Commonly serves as writing material;
Hell, even I could write about changes
That have lessened our souls.
But I also appreciate the changes
That have bettered us as a collective people;
I dream of collaboration between church-goers,
And those that turn from the steeple.
We've evolved to a new level of acceptance,
And equality that was unknown;
Yes, the "isms" still exist,
But in a much softer tone.
Gender roles wreak havoc,
And some feel elite.
But we've inched closer to equality,
And those roles we will defeat.
I have so much hope for this generation,
The kids that have been raised with new eyes;
We possess views that our ancestors
Would abhor and despise.
Unity and inclusion,
Love and tolerance;
I will preach these things,
Until there is a balance.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
before existentialism, and nietzsche in mind, philosophy was written
or spoken of accepting the socratic rigidity of words,
the rigidity of words known through
the socratic method of inquiry:
the simplest of questions imposed on
the meaning of words; e.g. what is virtue?
but with existentialism this old method
of inquiry, the poised posing bewilderment
lost its quality, in that the new method of
inquiry was given to stress not a method
of questioning but that of ambiguity,
even though this new method that simply
said the reverse of what is virtue as
the preservation of a narrative: "virtue" concedes
many variations exampled true, e.g. -
this dittoing going against - previously said /
as above - became staged against
a brick wall - since this method, the existential
method of brushing aside inquiry and entering
the realm of ambiguity was already present -
the pluralism of meaning found in certain words;
it isn't a question whether red or blue can
be ambiguous, this allocation of noun
and quality is all too pervasive - so when
an ambiguity is allowed to exercise its stressor
posit - the word in question is allocated
a verb orientation in its exercise of use and example,
further diluted by the quantity and lack of example,
and ascribed contorting
adjectivity due to the dilution of meaning: with lessened
recognition of sought out qualification to sentence
an enzymic perfection of: banker and philanthropist,
priest and maximilian kolbe, poetry and lack of envy.
even though these examples are idealistic,
they provide the obvious ambiguity already apparent,
hence the double ambiguity of opposites, ideal opposites.
in shorthand - if socrates were to come
upon reading existentialism - his questions
regarding the virtues would be bound to free floating
terms in the ditto bubbles of flimsiness of non-inquiry -
bewildered by the number of prompts to question,
there would be no necessary ambiguity to many other
terms of inactivity - such as the previously mentioned
red and blue, dog and glue, but too many, it would seem,
should a strict belief in categorising virtue as a noun
but not a verb be kept - for categorisation of such nature
only provides a linear cascade without due action
or cared for imitation - ending with the only chance of virtue
chanced and seen as an unvirtuous person
doing crossword puzzles in silence - and already
virtue's opposite is engaged in defending itself
and justifying its ills by first forcing many synonyms to
cover it in ambiguity, and asserting itself as an adjective
within a noun framework blunt: virtue v. unvirtuous
will only confiscate siamese phonetic mingling to ease the definition;
i guess that's how rhyming was born, the opposite
of alphabetical ordering: a, aardvark the violet's blue
****** a doughnut with you.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
Since I still appreciate you,
Let's find love while we may.
Because I know I'll hate you
When you are old and grey.
So say you love me here and now,
I'll make the most of that.
Say you love and trust me,
For I know you'll disgust me
When you're old and getting fat.
An awful debility,
A lessened utility,
A loss of mobility
Is a strong possibility.
In all probability
I'll lose my virility
And you your fertility
And desirability,
And this liability
Of total sterility
Will lead to hostility
And a sense of futility,
So let's act with agility
While we still have facility,
For we'll soon reach senility
And lose the ability.
Your teeth will start to go, dear,
Your waist will start to spread.
In twenty years or so, dear,
I'll wish that you were dead.
I'll never love you then at all
The way I do today.
So please remember,
When I leave in December,
I told you so in May.
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 9:51 AM UTC
Ferry Me
Ferry me, but once more.
The last ferry rides of Indian Summer,
Always arrives on schedule which is
Always and precisely, too soon.
Then, the imprisonment months,
Sentence, indeterminate.
*A Grand Jury trial of months,
I, and my co-defendant,
My sanity, this time, the Oddsmakers say,
Won't survive the lockup.
The source perfume of driftwood words,
Very ferry distinguishing marks,
Sails and seagulls, diesel fumes and saltwater,
Sunsets and seagrass, flying fish and multi-mollusks,
The stuffing of my summer turkey, the currants of
Poems and dreams, sad-eyed longings...
Now,
Evidence used by prosecution,
Confession freely uncoerced,
I Am A Summer Man
Adjudged and convicted,
Guilty of Winter's Discontent.*
But it is these last few passages,
Not of words, but over water,
The absence thereof, crush, ravage,
Worse than any grey calendar captivity,
Forlornly, I mouth silently, repeatedly,
Ferry me, but once more.
The course, straightforward,
Voyager, but a few minutes, but long enough to
Love it deeply, need it like a fix,
The mania of the mainland left behind,
The island, thinly lit, more shadow than real,
The approaching dark, shelters, comforts, embraces.
Perhaps, likely, I deceive myself.
No matter how the island comforts,
The brain always rumbling,
Can never make stop questioning,
Prisoner of 24/7,
But it is lessened, left behind,
As I am ferried away both,
In body and in mind.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
"Like a prayer in church to God
you are to me precious love: " "knowing you is loving you thus, Knowing me is loving me."
~~
How sweet lies sound near or far
how bitter truth tasted as
memories arrived so awkward
It's bitterness lessened with understanding true love
maturing sweetening and
cruel Mr Ttime relentless I'm
In silence and in time
God allowed me to see
where i erred and failed
.I ask God to show me to lead me
as head not as chopped up tail.
God showed me what I couldn't see
showed those I injured unintendedly
parroting unkind words in ignorance
what you want us all to see.
Please notice my lonely waves
Predictable unchanging.
Drop your pebbles in my sand pond
that everything in me may be altered in your grace Lord
Bless a peace my every loved one.
Remove all enemies from our paths.
Bring my loved ones back to my caring selfless Godlike realms
anchored in your mercy God..
~~~~
Karijinbba.
Aug 19, 2022
Aug 19, 2022 at 7:27 AM UTC
My youth has been nothing but stormy and savage,
A tempest of thunder and lightning and rain;
Though glimpses of sunlight have lessened the damage
Few ripe fruits now in my garden remain.
My mind has reached its autumnal phase,
With the ***** and the rake I begin my toil
In earthy hollows as deep as graves
To gather anew the rain flooded soil.
And who knows whether my dreams of new flowers
Will find in this earth washed bare like the shore,
The mystic elixir that would give them might?
Alas, alas! Our lives are eaten away by the hours,
And at our hearts the hidden Enemy gnaws
And ***** our blood like a parasite!
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC
(be-tween and be-twixt)
———-
the most precious but precarious item
in our possess, value far above rubies,
this love overflows, but it drowns me
from within, for it has no home for
pleasured sharing and goes wasted, excreted
in tears and exhalations without destination
condition incurable, and the doctor advises,
projects, a life span rangebound from
***be-tween
and
be-twixt,***
imperative that this love be
disbursed, pressure relieved,
fluid and gases shared,
send it forth,
Doc behests,
nay,
begs,
you’re a decent human,
tell your tales,
follow your motto,
write those love poems,
always leave them laughing,
and give them love in smiles
all-the-whiles
bringing joyous relief to your clogged arteries,
all this the bare minimum,
for you must moreover grasp and clasp
your body to another, for this
the best transfer transfusion
of all your needed love needs
go be needed, be great, be lessened,
be all three
and never walk alone,
with just hope in your heart,
for the heart, automatically refills,
and this the best, medical opinion…
for all those with too many love poems
requiring expulsion and extrusion
Jul 22, 2023
Jul 22, 2023 at 9:14 AM UTC
With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
Al,
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
___________
4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
.
"That there Is'belle's house stinks wunderful turr'ble,"croaked Emma Beiler at their quilting bee.
"Jah...vell," sighed Rosanna Yoder. "All them there katzes , ain't so?"
Accordingly the two ladies set out to pay Travis and Isabella Salter a visit, only to be politely told that they had were in the process of taking some cats to a local shelter.
Two weeks passed and to the Amish folks' disgust the odour had merely intensified.
"Them there Englisch are chust liars!" Potato Sam spat the words out along with a *** of chewing tobacco.
" Ach, vell," sighed his wife Rosanna, unaware of her heavily sweating underarms. The Ordnung strictly forbade deodorant as well as perfume. "Reckon I best mosey over and see fur myself."
Travis opened the door with a tired sigh.
'Chust thought I'de ask vhat fur stinks yer house up so vonderful tur'ble...Izzy tells us youse gettin' rid of them but-"
A puzzled look crossed Travis weary face as he glanced toward the kitchen. Irritation gripped him, not lessened as Rosanna glowered at Tabby washing her face on the couch. Then a waft of a familiar scent, overpowering, drifted toward him from the kitchen. Brussel sprouts enhanced by -.
With all the stress, Isabelle was increasing her calming herbs, mixing the powders.... Valerian?
"Good evening, Mrs. Yoder." He motioned her toward the door, locking it firmly behind her. For a long time after she was gone he stood staring out the window.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 1:39 AM UTC
Some people remind me of a campfire,
a source of eclectic senses:
the smoky wood,
the evolutionary fascination of the flame,
the warmth and chill of a starry night.
Others remind me of a snow day in grade school,
a source of jittery incongruence:
the sprinkles of white,
the disruption of monotonous school work,
the mischief of nature coming to the rescue.
You remind me of an early morning rain,
a source of calm melancholy:
the soft droplets on leaves,
the lessened saturation from the overcast,
the heightened realization and contentment of one's existence.
The essence of people
epitomized as scenes and collective experiences;
it is not so much of what it is
but rather how it makes you feel.
Apr 12, 2024
Apr 12, 2024 at 6:36 PM UTC
doing the heavy lifting
*picking up my emaciated heart,
letting the rest of my wilting body
tag along qualifies, but is not the
heavy lifting referenced above.
we all have a meeting, the bits and
pieces, the bobs and keepsakes
that constitute my mien, a constitutional
convention of 13 colonies that raucous
write of burdens, of freedoms, with wild
inspirations and cold political calculations
this combining document hoping to topstitch
my reeling mind and deteriorating physic,
to write words of hopeful praise but rising
to a world that is baking in hatred into fabric
and tissue, and that is the heaviest lift of all
Sunday morning, coffe-d, somewhat rested,
a full day planned, and a Mike Message says
it’s me that does the heavy lifting and I know!
he knows! the displaced state of my mind, and
the hardened ache of writing with fresh hope,
when there is so little, that it is lost in the litter
of endlessness of a world gone, not going,
mad~insane and murderers are
illogically celebrated,
and yet here I am punching words on my
AM Morning Punch List of worthy words
available that aid us needy for repair & yet
might move us together to a state of full repair;
but I am punchy from trying, to find words
themselves that require do not require, a
truth washing,
a new word recleansing
and*
(they put the load right on me),
*and naïf-not, see the troubles ahead and get
me more paper to add to the list of lists of
worldly worrisome words that are heavy
lifting of the world as it is but know I weep as
I write this for not in my possess the light airy
words, the wordsmith is crushed neath the weight of***
tonnage of human word-lessened-ness
Sunday Morning
Oct 22 2023
9:02am,
writ in a singed single cry
Oct 22, 2023
Oct 22, 2023 at 10:09 AM UTC
Next week, I’ll be 61 years
working the same 93 acres.
The furthest field back
and the 2 joining Peter Burke’s
always been meadows.
Since before my time —
today it takes just 4 hours
to cut, bale and wrap.
Dad and the men wouldn’t’ve
half the first headland cut in that length.
I’d go back with Mom,
with tea and sandwiches;
brown bread and something sweet.
No more higher than the handle of the scythe —
I would try to swing.
Nearly took my leg off the first time.
When it was done, all saved
that was my favourite bit.
There’d be a gathering in the house.
Food, porter … the craic.
Someone would pull out a fiddle
or a tin whistle, the women would dance
it was beautiful — meaningful.
Friends, neighbours. Thankful.
The closest thing to expressing our feelings.
And us kids allowed to stay up late,
what a treat; a very rich treat.
I never did grow tall enough
to wield the scythe.
When it was my turn,
machines had been invented.
Lucky I was told I was.
They lightened the work
and lessened the men.
Horse followed horsepower.
Bigger, heavier.
But there was time for tea,
there’s always time for tea.
The scythes rotted;
the horses rotted;
kids flown into the city;
neighbours dead, don’t care or are foreign.
It’s just one man now doing all the work.
One man called John Deere
who has no time for tea.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC
Brisk footsteps clank on the cold floor,
Likewise it was a cold evening
the hollow air echoed the silence that
fell after each footstep.
This was the walk of a dead man,
And the chilly twilight wind only whispered lies
as the man trekked onward.
He had been gone. Disappeared.
His magic trick had prevailed.
For three years he fooled the people of the world,
For three years he fooled his one and only true friend.
As he walked, his footsteps echoed words
of the game. A game he had not wanted to play.
Unwillingly, he had fallen.
An expression of pain crept its way onto the man's face
as he walked, pace lessened under the weight of the words.
The words, swelling up in his mind.
Twisting, hissing, taunting and haunting him.
Annoying, psychopath, show off, misanthrope, arrogant,
ignorant, ***** abnormal, inhuman,
machine, fake, fraud.
Fraud.
The irony laughed at his side as he mouthed
the word again: F r a u d
Noun. deceit, trickery, sharp practice, or breach of confidence,
perpetrated for profit or to gain some unfair or dishonest advantage.
Indeed he had been tricked, what a wonderful trap.
A trap only he could have over looked.
It was all so well planned out, his final problem.
Final words. Wrapping a lie in a blanket of truth,
it was the only thing that could[had] stopped him-
The most human, human being-
Reality struck him
as his feet came to a halt, the man's gaze drifted upward,
shifting into a familiar glance.
The wind no longer wished to whisper lies,
and the silence that followed him would break
with the final echoes of his footsteps:
Home.
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 12:36 AM UTC
I remember it like yesterday
We came together one last time
To not be there for Grandad Bill
Would surely be a crime
For three months now, he'd not been well
And the end was getting near
We would all be home for Christmas
Grandpa Bill's last one I fear
The tree was in the corner
Like it had been for so long
To see the corner empty
Well, boy, that would be wrong
Aunts and Uncles gathered
Cousins, twelve more than before
The whole house went so silent
When Grandpa Bill came through the door
He looked so frail, not who I knew
With two canes to help him walk
This was not the Grandpa of my past
I was afraid to hear him talk
His chair was by the fire
And he spun, and then sat down
In a voice, barely a whisper
He asked for his old dressing gown
"The cold is goes on through me"
"I don't want to catch a chill"
"This won't be my last Christmas"
"Or my names not Grandpa Bill"
He poked softly at the fire
Got a flame, an orange sail
Then his eyes, his eyes....they twinkled
And he told a Christmas tale
He spoke of being younger
Much younger than we were
And of how Christmas was so different
And of trees of spruce and fir
He spoke of sleigh rides in the mountains
Of making snow men in the yard
Of staying up to watch for Santa
You never did...it was too hard
His voice, it gained a power
It grew stronger as he spoke
I saw life come into Grandpa
As I ignored my *** and coke
Grandpa Bill was happy
This was his family after all
And at least for this short moment
We listened to his tales...so tall
We knew that what he said
Was filtered, and cleaned up
The truth, well....it came later
Once Grandpa Bill had drank a cup
After tales were told and argued
As to who said what to whom
We quickly brought out Christmas Dinner
And we filled the dining room
Grandpa Bill just sat there
A big smile on his face
He looked at all around him
Grandpa Bill was in his place
The jokes and stories lessened
As Christmas Dinner came and went
Then Grandpa Bill walked to the bedroom
An old man, now gray and bent
He said he'd have a lie down
But, not to worry about the noise
"My hearing's not the best no more"
"So, let the kids play with their toys"
Grandpa Bill's last Christmas
Ended with him in the bed
He passed while he was sleeping
After all of us were fed
I won't forget that Christmas
So many years have passed
For I still tell Grandpa's stories
And leave the blue ones...till the last
Grandpa Bill is not forgotten
His chair sits empty, as it should
And the tree....it's in the corner
Where Grandpa Bill said.."It looked good"
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
.
(Sippy cups are for toddlers, designed to let them sip but a little sip at a time, and when it falls, the disaster is lessened.)
totally by accident is this dedicated to TL Sipple, whose introspection offers comfort to more than many.
~~~~~~~~~
*who among us has not begun the
journey's poetic, by first examining the
mirror that reflects organs internal,
flipping the reversible glass over,
for all you exposed,
it's the curse, the birthing natural,*
of the first poem
*all your life, streams bustling, streams drying, drought dying,
leaves windy flying up, but final poisoned by gravity,
come to rest and crunched under your footfalls,
but of this did you write, scrivened or scribed?
no
our first child is of our ***** where real borning does occur.
the rest too, but now, and soon thereafter,
put aside the me, and write of he and she,
the first love, always the second child,
for this the nature of the soul and ermine robe,
you elected, when you first self-selected*
I am a poet, therefore I hit send,
*and the diecast, is the first of many hot rods
piercing, invading, calling out to you,
poet,
"set me free, set me free"
then when walking in September,
the leaves un-glistening, cracking and *****
like an old person who cannot care for them self
then you lift your pen, point to the sky or to the earth,
no matter which, for both are loco parents in loco,
and the truest hardest journey begins,
looking outside in, with eyes colored by
global truths
then and only then the real journey begins,
a differing agony to be learned,
to see as others see,
to write as others have before you and me,
and in doing so, this testing travail,
will earn you, could earn you, a time grade of
pass/fail
you are the only judge in this show,
the only contestant,
what grade will you assign yourself,
what standards will you set,
until you ask,
who are the poets time idolizes?*
american idol, throw away your sippy cup, and drink from the river, from the sea, drink deep, until sated,
then begin your foolishness
readied, all over again
poet to please invisible gods,
that all can see
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
I thought you'd always have my back
"Till the end of time," we'd say
I believed it until you proved me wrong that day
How foolish of me...
Your man tried to set me up with his friend
I didn't want to, but I didn't want to be rude
That was my downfall in the end.
You left us alone, and he thought the fun had just begun
I kept saying no but had nowhere to run
We played this game of cat and mouse.
All around the comfort of your house
I couldn't escape; I kept saying no
He would stop for a minute, then continue to go
He kept touching me and violating my body and space
When I told you, you said, "that can't be the case."
At one point, you both said to him,
"You're lucky it happened to her and not somebody else, cause she has people who can vouch for you.
Otherwise you could have a charge put on you."
That statement shattered an already broken soul.
I don't feel lucky at all.
I was never asked or given the option to press charges; the decision was made for me.
They tried to say, "He's a good guy," and "I've known him for 15 years; he's not an animal."
The experience I had with him is he assaulted me.
He groped, touched and tried to force himself onto me.
For hours after, I constantly said no.
I can't just let that go.
Just because he didn't **** me doesn't mean the trauma of the assault is lessened.
It felt as if you were both protecting my assailant.
More than you were protecting me.
I didn't ask for this to happen
I didn't deserve this.
You both said you'd cut him off
But you told him you'd only distance yourself for "a bit."
That feels like you spit in my face
You're still both friends on Facebook.
I can't even stand to look.
You said you'd have my back till the end of time.
Turns out you meant
Until your boyfriend's friend
Assaulted me.
– Protecting my Assailant // F.C.
Jul 20, 2021
Jul 20, 2021 at 4:02 PM UTC