"meddlesome" poems
To write poetry is
To create philosophical memory
To adjust the commentaries
Of all souls, to just one voice
To strip the inequalities
Of existence, of their mass
To write poetry is
To erase the written
Transforming what we have read
Making alphabets contemporary
Fluid, mystical
To write poetry is not just art
It’s neurological reprogramming
A quantum gesture to
The nature of beauty
And Meaning itself
To write poetry is
To return to an absence of meaning
The meddlesome mind forgets
The natural order of nature
To reduce layers of narrative
And return to a total peace
And a grand vision of the universe
As a talking thing, exchanging energy
In a physics of existence
To write poetry is to love the unwritten
Endings that all concur
To identify with the sudden
Rupture of beginnings
From which all thought originates
To write poetry is thus
The silence in between the words
And a solace beyond thought
To free oneself form the memory
That is an impression or a scar
On the mind, blankness is an ideal state
To observe time and space without attachment
To love existence independently
Of the personal conditions of one’s life
On the letters of your poems
I observe a black walking cat
A woman that must question her heart
To find the answers, without
Speaking we are a language
All we feel and do is a kind of vocabulary.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
I can't hear the choir from my couch
It becomes a funeral pyre in a pouch
Like the unnatural fire in my slouch
That is where I retire
To superficially admire
A world I'll never see
Placing trust in the screen
I'm as lonely as can be
Until couches set me free
From a life worrying about others
The couch becomes my banal brother
That is where I concoct my cowardly plan
To avoid my fellow meddlesome man
Living a life in silence
The couch creates pylons
Determining where I can go
Determining what I can know
This Ottoman Empire
Lights the world on fire
With cushions that fuel
Flames and drool
I attempt to stand
But life seems bland
With feeling constant comfort
So my personality I import
From the images on TV
And my brain it impedes
When I can't think for myself
I put my life on the shelf
And flee into furniture
The couch my burning cure
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 7:05 AM UTC
Life is a sacred journey.
No two are the same.
Respect for divergence
is paramount
to a holistic experience.
Life
is not about
status-quo
or
expectations,
t'is simply what's made thereof
Lyphe
is a sacred opportunity
not to be taken lightly
Our Bodies
are our umbilical vessels
which tether us
as mortals
to "Reality,"
which, in itself,
seems to me to be
a reduction of potentials
from chance
to actuality
such ephemeral eternety;
infinite limitations;
actualized potentials;
possible paths-
these are but some of
the koan-like attributes
which lead me to use
the rather ambiguous
and ambitious
term "sacred."
Truly,
it becomes
whatthefucksoever
One may well will
to create thereof.
Action is Manifestation,
yet Thought begets Action.
Therein lies the sacred gift of Life.
'T'is all too oft taken for granted.
Every living being
(i am convinced)
has an equally vivid depth of experience
and I find it more than somewhat offensive
that humans (with a lowercase H)
feel they are the penultimate organism.
All is One
in that existence, itself,
tethers us all
to everything
and probably even beyond,
and so
to be so
hubristic and arrogant
as to assume a hierarchy
so convieñantly crested by mere
**** Sapiens Sapiens*
seems to me to be
an anthrocentric and narcissistic projection
of that meddlesome ages-old archetype
of the "Ego,"
that is to say "God,"
whatthefuckever that means!
Find it in thyself
to be humble enough
to accept that each and every iota of "Creation"
is, by virtue of association, equally sacred; divine.
Heirarchy, thus, seems to be a manifestation of some desire for order; control; a yearning to alleviate some hypothetical insecurity as a result of being essentially "absolute, infinite" (vis-a-vis the domain of Consciousness) yet contained within a vessel that is mortal, and, thus, ephimeral.
The Ego doth so loathe it's own limitations:
too bad it's far too arrogant to realize that most of the limitations it experiences are illusions, allusions;
charades of an insatiable Consciousness
Hell-bent on experiencing something
it won't redily allow itself to experience!
What a Holy fuckton of
incredulous, ineffable, impalpable, inspirational **** that would be, eh?! (insert interrobang)
I am me (I think...)
as thou art thee;
so why can't that just be good enough?
Could it be?
What obstruction precludes such harmonious divergence?
I reckon 't'is but us;
and very little else, indeed!
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
Written for a challenge on my
former site... he wanted us to
rewrite Shakespheare...
a daunting task to say the least!
I can only hope that I
did The Bard justice!
O! Wretched Stars!
Look not down upon this maid!
Your wheels moved well upon
your merciless plans so laid!
You cross' d conspirators!
You... content in your spheres...
do you not find my eyes stricken...
... with tears!
O! Morose and meddlesome Moon!
So swollen full!
Let not this dagger pulled
from my loves gold'n sheath be dull!
You... gliding the uncaring sky
as ship with sail...
let mean, pernicious fate take me...
... your winds prevail!
Take me to where
my lover doth wait...
... take me to shroud, I prithee...
... to my mate!
O! My fairest husband!
Do not lie so still!
Can you not kiss me this last time. ..
... by force of will?
Can you not, with your
fair hand instead,
Take slender blade
and pierce my bossom
til it be bloom'd rose red?!!
Romeo... Romeo!
Wherefore art thou Romeo?
At last you're dead...
... and thus without a name...
As in the halls of graves
... all occupants the SAME!
A pox on your house!
A noisome pestilence!
And thee, o dagger?
Come and take me themce!
As for my house? Let them lie
with palsey in their beds...
... but not 'til this sweet dagger
finds me... its host... DEAD.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 4/26/2014
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC
A brokenness is in us
Like a window
Never closed;
Drafty and meddlesome
When it rains,
But at least the sun
Always finds its way in
And least we remember
That we are more
Than our flaws -
We are also the light
That shines through them.
Apr 29, 2021
Apr 29, 2021 at 3:58 AM UTC
I’m the rubber man
My plasticity allows me to expand
Change has dulled my edge
Hell, I can kick a ***** habit
In a single solitary pledge!
I can bounce back
When love blows me over
I can love for all I'm worth
And manage to stay sober
I never dreamed I'd become
Free of life’s meddlesome's
Yet here I am
The bouncy one!
Jun 28, 2021
Jun 28, 2021 at 6:58 AM UTC
which one was i, the meddlesome moth or the bumbling butterfly
was i instinctively drawn, to an open flame, on a lonely night
or, caught in intricately, meticulously, woven spider’s web
how could i avoid either fate, all men are dumb and succumb, as did i
both end the same, in death, only one is fast, the other slow
how sweet it was, to have kissed her lips, to have been, her lover
May 9, 2019
May 9, 2019 at 8:25 PM UTC
Elsie was a stubborn girl a willful thing at first
I watched her grow. My sister's daughter
My niece if you will
She had a way about her even then but time would carry change.
Today I can not place a moment .
something brought a change.
Elsie was an angry child.
She was meddlesome and vile.
She kept a vault
hidden. Deep.
Putrid and unkind roiled
about. An ugly distortion.
Why to this day.
Muted. Slithering.
An only child she loved her solitude.
sitting calmly with her hands folded
drifting to far off places with eyes
as hollow as a rotting stump
fallen long past. withered
weathered.
Elsie walked into the woods one day
seeking solitude. forlorn and forgotten.
A bird sang in the distance.
Elsie heard the song.
Now I am old and tired.
I have done all that was required.
made my mark however small
still and always through it all
I hear the mocking songbirds call
Elsie wonders there abouts
as nights grow cold
She still has not found home.
She will one day
no doubt.
dreams come
and go.
They
Tell
Me
So.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
If you sit alone in opaque rooms
and wait for a few good lines to inject themselves
into your brain as if they dripped from a syringe
then its time to try something else. Poetry is like
a gigantic exotic insect that shouldn't be squashed with the
***** undersides of rubber boots but captured
by meddlesome mesh nets and elbow grease,
put in display glass cases where the wild things
are and frequently washed clean of the stale,
insipid grime of life. And after enough love
it will entrap itself in the great transmutable cocoon of time
and break free. Poetry is in the bark of
old grandfather tree stumps out back behind
the barn, each circular line revealing
multitudes of cacophony and pain,
yet you wouldn't have known the taste
of the ligatures of wood without
first running your tongue along
the metallic axe that hued them. Poetry
hesitates for those who stare with naked eyes at the
cold quilt of patched grey clouds looking for symbols, choosing
to instead reveal itself to the telescopic lenses
of admirers of orbital spheres.
Whereas sometimes the cracking Sphinx confuses even the
pristine muses and the sound
of thunder at night makes the dog
cry so does the effervescent poetic
smiling of the moon inflict pain
onto the hearts of the lonely, yet they
still dare to look. Poetry isn't a noun
but a verb. It is the act of jumping
into leaves, of stepping off the precipice
of normalcy, of falling ever deeper
into the dark abyss below.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 11:47 PM UTC
.death, the pristine cardinal of all, manner, of, encountered deeds.
death pardons,
the audacious,
born to be born
in order to die,
in order to
see it, swindle
the looming
fabric of...
what is, what isn't,
what is...
a coagulation
of the congested
expression
of the spiderweb.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 9:55 PM UTC
"Money isn't real, George. It doesn't matter,
it only seems like it does."
But it's tough to live those words
when the world gives you two options,
rich and cushy or poor and rough.
If money isn't real then what's the deal
with this green laying in my hand
that just bought me a meal and a doobie?
Most nights I try to figure out the mystery
of the world like Scoobie
and those meddlesome kids.
In the past two weeks I've decided,
I'd rather be airborne twenty four seven
and dropped out of college.
I guess pops was right when he said,
"It's not for you", he called it.
But it's all good, never been better
except for the fact that money still rules me
no matter how many times I replay that clip from
the movie.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
Praises be to the God of minuteness.
For he expands our knowledge of worlds unseen.
Unnoticed,
And unchallenged.
Unchartered.
Courtesy of the hustling and bustling of mundane existence.
Where are we going,
That we cannot walk amongst the Fields of Gold.
What begs to be noticed,
If the butterfly,
In all its glory, and unyielding efforts
Cannot grasp our attention,
Even for a moment.
Time is precious.
And humans are meddlesome.
Nature is the essence of every god that ever was,
And ever shall be.
Where are we?
Here we are.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 2:37 AM UTC
I have given all I ever could,
I can give no more,
even mine life would not be enough,
mine possessions are worthless in this chase,
my words but hinder hers,
my thoughts cannot last but a moment without her,
my life has no meaning but her,
Her existence to mine heart is proof of the heavens,
Proof of angels,
and even proof of her,
she is a walking reminder that life is a test.
The test, infinitely cruel is to face than any is to resist her,
even when her scent is a trail of enchantment,
even when her face is so close to mine,
even when she uses me in manner to complex for this childish mind to understand.
I am but a fool in comparison with such an angelic life,
and it matters not that she smokes and drinks,
it matters not that she is entrenched in her insecurity,
it matters not that she turns to substance as if it were a solution to all meddlesome thoughts and reality,
she is still perfect in all her flaws,
in a manner no words or brushstrokes could ever do justice,
her perfection is in the smallest to greatest thing,
her actions always so infuriating with a sense of calm.
Even her slaps are but a gift,
her fights and anger so amusing,
her frustration creates a face more beautifully maddening than I may ever know,
Her madness she cannot accept,
no matter how her being is brimming with it,
her reasoning is not reason but madness.
It is as if she is a reflection of my lunacy,
a girl who so perfectly encapsulates what I desire,
it seems to be that god wishes me behold her,
so he could tell me I would never have her,
although I tell myself I cannot have her,
and if god is the true encapsulation of mercy I may even have her,
but I think not.
Her mind is sharp but not sharp enough,
for distractions are many and focus she does not have,
but that may be it her will or wish to succeed it is but second to the reality created within the enigma that is her mind , encrypted within its vault of freedom,
a vault which encapsulates her being,
her deepest desire and lust.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 6:26 AM UTC
I watch from above, unnoticed.
It takes advantage of all that is around him, including that which made him.
So disgusting and meddlesome, yet a part of nature.
A part of the never ending cycle.
I hate it, and everything it stands for.
Just like the other pests of life, it is necessary no matter how unwanted.
And it seems to me the more you try to get it to go away, the more it insists on climbing in and around you, always there.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 12:31 AM UTC
I
Purity in its truest form
Dancing above the waves and lilies
Red, yellow, green
Dots against soulful blues
Nourished by the breeze itself
II
Ghostly on my shoulder
Weighing the stones in my soul
III
The sun rests
On a dragonfly’s scales
It’s yawns are visible
On the tips of its wings
IV
Prismatic dragon
Scales ultraviolet
Ancient
Armored
Safe
V
Aquatic prisoner
Sheltered from air and light
Waiting under the second sky
VI
An agent of the most meddlesome gods
Messenger to the discouraged
Reminder of grief
Comforter to the lost
VII
Horse stinger
Snake stitcher
Devil’s friend
I agree
VIII
Elusive secret keeper
Whose ears are too far to whisper to
Oh what breaths I would share
IX
Scientifically simple
Spiritually overwhelming
Good luck charm
Or bad omen
Depending on point of origin
X
Four iridescent wings
Veined, sectioned
Beating thirty times in a heartbeat
Labor so strenuous
For a spirit made of wind
XI
Ageless
Mythic in both beauty and purpose
A serpent in life
Flight found only in rebirth
Metamorphosis
XII
Returned friend
Paused briefly on naked skin
My questions unanswered
The burn of death where four feet rested
Have you found happiness?
XIII
The sun rises in the east
The dragonfly stirs at death
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 5:40 PM UTC
You!
You lied to my ears and my heart listened.
Listened and believed my foolish heart. For it cared not for the reasoning of my head.
And you,
you lied to my meddlesome heart and stole it, right out from between my ribs and my eyes never saw it coming.
You!
You lied to my heart, stole it and then broke it.
Broke it into pieces, and that I felt and that I saw.
Give me back my lied to, stolen, broken heart.
You!
You give me back my ************* heart!.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 11:18 AM UTC
we suspected a roving rodent
or perhaps a curious canine
had been silenced
and sauteed with ample portions
of garlic, olives and onions
then served on sparkling silver trays
as the special-of-the-day
the neighbor's pet chihuahua
had been missing for weeks,
and the chunk of cheddar cheese
in the wire trap
had turned blue
any master chef, we knew,
could easily slice and dice
a medley of meddlesome meats
into a savory stew
and patrons unsuspecting
at cafe de la rue
would lick their chops
and fingers too,
as if it were korean barbecue
the maitre d' flashed a toothy smile
and with a twinkle in his eye,
asked if the meats had met
our wildest expectations
"woof!" we barked in unison
licking our paws
like stuffed cannibals of the caribbean
"I see you speak our language well." he quipped
"would you like some blue cheese for dessert?"
~ P
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 8:49 AM UTC
Falling in love is just like setting sail,
It takes real courage to board the ship.
The winds keep on blowing, they howl & wail,
The oceans are dark, mighty and deep.
Rough sailing has storms, dangerous streams...
So when you're ready to sail, stay bold!
Forget about tears, weakness or whims,
This ocean has already got too much salt
Being in love is like guiding the ship
Through storms and the lure of the depth,
Fighting the meddlesome jealousy grip,
Facing the elements’ wrath and the Death.
You’re sailing together, so just fight the cold
(Love’s dangerous waters will win by assault)
Keep doubts, bitten pride and ego on hold,
This ocean has already got too much salt!
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 6:42 PM UTC
approach
the bare-
skinned
flames
like a meddlesome, open-
mouthed,
potential
love.
- j.lauren
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
My mother informed me
That Fireball the horse
Had passed on a temperate Fall night.
She'd waited to tell me
Till I'd finished my course,
And assured me things at home were alright.
We'd called him Fireball because his chestnut velvet
Glinted auburn in the morning sun,
And endowed with a massive pelvis,
He kicked hard as a hot son of a gun.
Fireball was just like Dad,
In that, if you, weary, had ever needed a lift,
They'd both have carried you on muscled backs.
Grief ridden in the big city, I grew ill.
A meddlesome misery settled unkindly
As I thought still of Fireball fondly.
Then a thought dawned upon me:
If Heaven's so mighty,
How will Fireball find me?
Nov 8, 2022
Nov 8, 2022 at 2:36 AM UTC
All nature is perfect symmetry:
Each cell divides in perfect mimicry
And wings synchronise like swimmers in flight
Each planet sits in sleek suspense
In the spiral of the stars immense
Each colour on the solar spectrum reflects one light
The tides all wax and wane in time
In music muses spill their rhyme
To mortal ears' delight
And think if you will of your vision
Formed with inexplicable precision
Perfectly formed to let in shards of light
Now then I will not opine
That this is of some plan divine
Or proof of meddlesome maker's hand
Nature's Beauty makes Him irrelevant
It is a sign of her own intelligence;
Genius that wild could not be planned!
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 8:10 AM UTC
approach
the flames like a meddlesome, open-
mouthed,
potential
love.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC