"middling" poems
Now, today has been a **** day in every single way.
Today was the start of my holiday in Spain, until French strikes,
caused me pain. We were not flying.
Now, I did not weep, wail or flail my skin, instead, I said c'est la vie.
They are so very French.
Reminded myself that the French are cheese eating surrender monkeys,
awful at football (soccer) dreadful at tennis, middling in rugby,
and tend to suffer delusions of grandeur **** a French word!)
They lost at Agincourt, Waterloo, WW2, think snails are a delicacy,and allowed Mr. ****** in to rub their bellies.
But, I am H.A.P.P.Y.
Home
Alive
Prompt
Proud
Y?
Because I'm eating strawberries and cream, whilst watching Wimbledon.
How very British!
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
Human Observations (the woman pees)
if you walk the world with pen and paper
or eclectic electronic devices,
sure as the sunrise espied,
the pen will quick leak
when wearing white
and so will too the
righteous words
righteously,
thereafter
when you can't sleep and you must
slam your sweaty fist into pillow
know that the pillow is
silent thinking, dude,
you really ain't
got a hope, a
prayer
fallen asleep in the soaking tub
a thousand and one times,
ain't never drowned like
the warning ones say I
will do but only when
restless in my rustling
no-safety night sleep
in my lumpy bed,
where I’ve already
dream-drowned
a million
times
the woman pees, safe and secure,
comforted by the knowledge
that we have bathrooms
separate, her toilet,
man *** free, tho
we just finished
making sweaty,
fluid swapping
***
she does not, won't put on makeup
in her pj's to take out the garbage,
that is why she keeps loverman,
so handy, nearby, shamelessly
firm, unwavering, good god,
great for one "disposable"
use per night
when you tell your child that you love them,
and they do not reply at all, it isn't that they
don't love ya back, 'tis only that they haven't
learned to love themselves
something well that just
cannot be
taught.
the more trinkets I buy her,
more she screams stop,
but never not once
has she said, here,
take it
back
if you don't believe in Faeries and Elusives,
try, for then you have a middling chance
of getting the missing, disappearing
whole sock hiding
in her ******
back, intact
If must look up the time where your
love is currently hiding/residing,
then the probability is more than
1.000, that you no longer love
her enough, or
she, you,
not at
all
you know it is time to shut down,
hang up the pen and close the
iPad cover, surrender,
give up the poetry gig
4 real when you start
to prefer an
autocorrect
suggestion
~
More to follow.
someday.
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
"Son can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet
And I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"
Billy Joel lyrics from
"Piano Man"*
~~~~~~~~~~~~
when I was very young
I wore Levi jeans and white
Hanes cotton T shirts
my mother bot me,
my feet, Ked clad, red
from the kid's "department" store
on Central Avenue,
the Main Street of my small town
when I was a young lad,
I wore workingman's cargo jeans and
white Hanes cotton T shirts
under red plaid
wooly shirts, itchy affairs,
that I bot for myself
in a real Army Navy store,
desert colored suede boots,
laced up high,
upon my feet
when I was of middling years,
my jeans were khaki pants,
Gap supplied,
and my Gap T shirts,
faded like me,
a non-descript color,
made in a gap of pale pastel colors
from Bangladesh or Vietnam,
pale pastel, like me
so as I slide~decline into
my nursing home years,
I wear unbranded jeans and
white cotton no name T shirts
with matching white disposable slippers,
that the Purchasing Department
bot for me, cause they know,
I like,
a younger man's clothes and
the memories that play all day
lost in day dreaming of a life
well dressed
2:01am
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
*More often than is naught I carry the face of the villain.
Snared in this prison waiting for my turn to burn while
your fate is not so different from mine. My clocks still
yield some ticks and tocks yet before I go there stands a
few things you need to know:
They told me that your love was fatal, though failed to
hear the laughter of irony from behind their heads. They
cried tales that you were toxic and I could not save my
lips from curling. They said that your presence in mine
would design the suffering for those around. I was told
that you would leave me up in smoke as if God still
plays with dice. Your middling cigarette spends just the
beginning of their lives packing yet I waged it my
whole life just to spend its remnants with you. Addictive
by nature so let me take my pick of a million other lips
to secure truth that it is you I am addicted to.
I want you to simmer my skin when the world is cold,
I want to cast you brighter than a hundred suns hold,
I want to steal breath from your chest and place it in mine,
I want to make your heart stop like an eight-sided sign,
I want you to move my pistons and ignite my core,
I want you to saturate me as I lay on your shore,
I want to find what it is to go out with a bang,
I want to be that picture that fits in no frame.
I want to get you out of my head but you are
my song on repeat,
my hole that’s too deep,
my nights with no sleep,
my words when I speak.
Yet alas I hail from a pack known as Montague while
you bear the brand of Capulet. They will never render
us free in this life so when my time finally comes to a
burning halt, and my life flashes before my eyes, just
know that you will be the only thing I see in the next.*
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 6:11 AM UTC
those of us in the middle muddle,
do not know from sides, boundary lines,
drawn by others, right-sided, left-leaning,
mean nothing to us, who seek something solid
upon to rest, when the clarity others profess,
more than evades us, even escapes us, and
the muddles of life seem to require simplest,
middling answers that are unacceptably refused
by grail seekers whose cause for cause, means
cause to cost others regardless, for regard for
the middle is disdained, by two-sided posts,
the know nothings, and the know betters
irony of irony, the rigidity of imposition makes
me more adrift, more aimless, and the task of
meandering through seems almost holy, for the
obstacles of society, requirements of modern life,
are so damning, wild expectations superimposed,
truths not just hard to find, almost indiscernible,
so I lay my pen down hard, awaiting for the
whatever-while, for to return, to go walking with
only the simplest grids to guide, meanderings in
general directions, ahead, always ahead, keep moving,
keep touching and when optimism returns,
I shall be relieved
once more,
I shall be released
once again,
good words will be caught,
released, returned back
into the atmosphere so
they will grow in size by
the very act of sharing
undated
————————————————-
*Everyone must leave something behind
when he dies, my grandfather said.
A child or a book or a painting or a house or
a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.
It doesn't matter what you do, he said,* so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime. ~Ray Bradbury
(Book: Fahrenheit 451)
Jul 17, 2023
Jul 17, 2023 at 6:14 AM UTC
I find
I do not know
what to think
Despite thinking,
A contradiction I know,
That I know my own mind
I am a walking contradiction
I’m pretty but I’m not
I’m thin but I’m not
I’m happy but I’m not
I’m a filthy halfbreed
The in-between
Half Slytherin, half Hufflepuff
Wondering where it all went wrong
It didn’t go wrong, as such
But perhaps just awry
I’m wondering how
I found myself here
Nice boyfriend
Nice parents
Nice life
Boring, but nice
How did I find myself
Being bored all the time?
I’m thoroughly capable
But a perfectionist too
If I can’t do it first time
It goes on the pile
Of things I can’t do
I expect
One day
I’ll get over this phase
But it could just be
The way that I am
Nice, but boring
Not good at much
But not bad at much
average, standard, middling
I’m stuck in the middle
With no way
Up or down
Nov 11, 2020
Nov 11, 2020 at 10:44 AM UTC
The weird thing about life
is that you’re always
in the middle of it.
Whether you’re starting
a new job, or starting
a family, or ending
a relationship or moving
to a different place,
you’re still right in
the thick of your life.
The only true
beginning and ending
are birth and death.
So, it seems that
with regard to life,
we are like an author
who is at an impasse;
They know the beginning
of their story, and they
know how they want
it to end, but they have
intense difficulty with
the middle.
How does the
protagonist get to the
point where she meets
her true love, or get
that job promotion he’s
worked for his whole life?
How do the adventurers
find the buried treasure?
How does the ax murderer
ultimately perform his perfect ****
The middle is the most crucial part.
It’s also the part that is
hardest to get through,
as a reader and a writer.
We are either desperately
wanting to know what
happens at the end, or
reveling in the simplicity
of the beginning.
Life is the same way.
I miss the simplicity of my
“beginning.”
You know, the part of life
where you’re confident
in yourself, and where you
just love everyone
around you.
You’re not cynical,
or jaded,
and you know
you’ve got a huge
expanse of life ahead of you.
I also long for the “end.”
Not death, necessarily, but
the part of my life that is
predictable, and safe.
I want to know that
I’m going to be okay.
I want to know that the
way I feel right now
isn’t the way I’ll always feel.
The way I feel right now
is what makes trudging
through this middling
part of time so horrendous.
But
it's what gives me
the hope that I can write
a spectacular ending.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
A grey goose above me
Calls strident-high,
Alone and looking down,
While I walk toward the lake,
Looking up to find
His silhouette against gray sky.
We're miles from town
On a middling winter day,
Shortest hours of light
Within the year.
We two are lonely here.
Skies gray promise
Neither rain nor snow;
A warming wind is blowing;
Perhaps the silver skiff
Will melt again,
And let the grey flier in.
Where are his loved ones?
I'd like to know;
And why he flies alone,
Scanning from his skimming height,
And yet I think I know.
I used to hunt his kind,
To lie in wait beneath a blind,
And rise to meet
Descending flocks,
Wings set,
Until I knew
The goose I'd brought
To ground
And the goose above
Remained inseparable,
One mate for life,
Death do them part,
And after, live alone.
A chill is setting in tonight,
And I am heading home;
A fire and my wife waiting.
Some comfort as the evening ends
I hope the grey one finds,
In the company of friends...
I'd see he weren't alone,
If I could make amends.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 1:43 PM UTC
Today was no ballet,
sure, people say "no picnic"
but, I prefer "no ballet".
After all why compare a day to a picnic?
Picnics are, well, middling.
Some outstanding (with champagne)
Some poor, with floppy cheese sandwiches.
Some, just sitting in a field with a damp ****
So, today was no ballet.
I didn't shout "hooray"
I didn't wear fancy lingerie
I didn't eat at an avant-garde cafe
I didn't write a masterpiece,
an overture or paint a masterful stroke.
So, all in all, today was passé,
definitely no ballet.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
Endowed with amazing powers
to understand the fate
of the average man--counting the hours
between too early and too late,
hoping to see the median
touch the mean.
Keeping expectations just so,
Not very high, not very low
so that everyone can be
a success,
with a middling of effort and
a shade of finesse
we can all wear the cape.
Bouncing from grade to grade
in exact planned order,
mostly white, though looking
South to the border
not for long, we raise
our 1.8 children and live
our 72.6 years (unless you graze
the upper end, you lucky dears)
and hope for just enough trouble
that life might bubble a bit,
but not boil.
We dream ourselves miraculous,
spectacular, well-read,
looking to marry better than
well, sometimes getting lucky,
Captains Whitebread, we all sail from
moderation to moderation
hoping to see better than average
without really trying
especially hard.
We move from Monday to Sunday,
some rising, some settling
to the comfortable middle,
fighting against
the attractive extremes
that spell our doom,
knowing that a little more,
a little less, is the key
to our success,
our mean,
our bliss.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
~
headline.
a middling's meddling muddled the mathmatical mix, messed up the milling, marring the miller's marriage merriment.
~
*translation.
baker's assistant trying to help, triples only half of the ingredients in his boss's wedding cake. result... fail!
just imagining myself a news editor and having fun with word play. :)*
(: Steve
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
Topped in decadent
Impermanence,
Fleeting, ephemeral truths
As to composition, weight,
Significance of aromas
Precision and remain
La clé du succès
And yet, Middling amongst these
Quantities of victory, the variable,
The individual, whose own mark
Shall define that meticulously crafted
Breeze of leaves, mosses, and tree bark
Based in such mutability, Shelley himself
Might wonder why it is
These artistes de parfum
Create as they do.
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 2:25 PM UTC
you kinda cute
just kinda?
she objects,
oops,
clearly, a misspoken misadventure,
a middling-compliment
only, kinda?
she kinda further harrumphs
and goes back to a game of solitaire
“oh yes, everyone has their own cute,
yours, is kinda yours,
in a kinda cutie way,
don’t ask me to kinda define it,
that!
would be kinda impossible”
she drops the sujet and I
pat nat on the back
for his slick escape,
not realizing that he been played,
when she, informed a poem been writ,
said, oh is the kinda poem done then?
kinda
****
1/17/19 900am
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 10:53 AM UTC
A wild lion will not be contained...
When they say it cannot be done,
Roar!
When they claim there is no better way to do it,
Roar!
When they state how it has always been done this way,
Roar!
When they speak of systems, talk about rules, culture, standards,
Roar!
When they repeat the old mantra how that's just the way it is,
Roar!
When you hear the words, Status Quo,
Roar!
Roar at the dawning.
Roar upon the noon.
In the middling of night,
ROAR!
In a pride the females do the hunting.
Male watches...
Sometimes he even eats his own children.
ROAR!
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 10:43 PM UTC
so you write a lot,
pouring entire waking existences,
current n' prior,
into a long and crafted 'pistles,
and pixels
and you got jive pride
and then, the poem,
you worked so hard for,
ups and dies
gets a few middling fingers of reads,
dying on a vining of
Juliet's pseudo poisoning elixir,
no big deal, happens all the time
but here's what's wielding & weirdly wilding:
***A poetpourri.
of newly found co-inhabitors,
from around the universe,
from places unpronounceable,
unlike Venus & Mars, (very poet-popular)
and from previously places were
never or seldom was heard a
discouraging word, igniting a
rewarded mutuality of a
following up embracing***
par example;
Tirunelveli
Poland
Lisbon
Cyprus
Bihar
Uruguay
Ankara
Vienna
Albania
Tanzania
India
Bangladesh
New Zealand/Australia
Soldotna (Alaska)
plus Texas, West Va., Ohio, and other exotica, like
Nowhere
what a blessing!
Blessed art Thou o Lord,
that permits the miracle that my integers
of 0 & 1
can be translated into such
varied exotica, in harmony,
thus permitting this discovery of
never visited oceans and landfalls
of poetry never heretofore to join as
one.
Aman.
<>
nml
Aug 30, 2025
Aug 30, 2025 at 6:31 AM UTC
Sometimes the body is contagion
To the soul. Stars in their mission fall
To seed the fertile flesh, ignite
Blue waters of sulfureous hearts,
And so the flash is set to cancel
In the flood.
Sometimes the lip of soul onto seal
Will not hold, before he first knocked
And let flesh enter, thorny pegs
Pricked nerve and pierced bone on his climb
To the rose, yea, some stars odd as
Meteors crash.
In the swan-sea, song-sangy-frame of crib,
Rough hewn words bent mold to scrape, like
Blasted coral, stood half-submerged
Amid sea and sky, for between the leaves,
Behind the eye, there are little stars
Shining like existence.
In a circle world he fashioned green
Blazons about the darkling day,
Fostered by celestial navigation,
Wrote a language for music, on a map of love
And charted the force of green in a wind-
Rose of discovery.
Sometimes the soul is not contained, it
Bursts in silent sound like well water
From the source. And of men in streets
He saw the pennies in their grumble
Eyes, and of love and its course he rubbed,
Tickling dim stars.
It was his thirty ninth year in that fall
To heaven when the steeping cell,
Refused to push in its tide. Homeless
And free on scaffold of bone the middling
Man retracted from sun to sink
With the moon, turn-tiding-toward sea
Like a changeling.
And as ever, nor often, unwavering eyes
Sprout through shifting grains. And as he spoke
Quite rimless, Dylan Thomas was petrified
In undying light, and solid set within a rill
Of reef sparkling in concert betwixt gas
And sea, so becoming in purple sleeves,
This constellation of mute singers all,
Dried five-fingered-fish, bright embryos
Returned to the shell, they burn between the leaves,
Beset the grounded skies and show sprite flashes
In the dark where He has left his imprints, burning
Above and plastered below. The first rock stars!
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 11:02 AM UTC
it is either/or
spiritual or material,
sophisticated cultural compliance
or young blind revolution,
those are the lenses however;
somewhere in the middling
an abandoned idiot pawns both understandings
with such stark irresponsibility
consciously acknowledging (all) his blunders
greeting good and evil, shadow and light
and those around him laugh and snitch
behind their masked pillar
because his way, his reality
is much different from theirs,
his position rescinds all human meaning
not as tender he seems, he is perhaps closest
to the borderline
a poised vision - a place where
no divisions exist,
of what is transferrable and true
the other side of wilderness.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
AVERAGE
“Being normal driving me crazy”
I start living with the word called average,
Average intelligence with my studies,
Continuously growing my worries.
A middling guy with no money in his pocket,
How bad in this world to be an average,
Now I started believing on my god locket.
Someone is gifted someone is not,
Growing with your passion give you a lot,
Still society demand different from you,
What the hell is your passion,
Your brother passed with good marks,
Why don’t you.
First and last thing I wana do,
Writing is my passion, so let me do.
Let me breath with the emotions,
Let me sleep with the endless thoughts,
Exploring the imaginary world with my eyes,
I don’t wana come out from unreal thing inside.
Slowly understanding the meaning of my subjects,
But fast defining the meaning of beautiful nature,
Is that my mistake, in your stupid practical world?
So common everybody start calling me a duffer.
Am average with understanding your convenient world,
So you declare me a guy, who is lazy,
**** off you all,
Being normal driving me crazy.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 9:37 AM UTC
35,088 feet over Nebraska,
(Nebraska-imagining me climbing a ladder, me upwards, Jacob’s angels coming down, off to a high school All Saints wrestling match in a cornfield town)
a place not on my bucket list, just a blue bias of an eastern stater’s unknowns, a sure sign of how much he doesn’t know
reading Patti’s slender volume “Devotion”
slender like her body, some would call it a wiry woman's
sparse but directed, connective, word-worshipping,
old familiar strangers she delivers to you that you have never met, her phraseology striking me and strikingly beautiful simultaneous
scan it and understanding instantaneous
she asking,
why do we write?
her answers are fine copper wire threaded
into a coil and I close it quick cause the loving ****** desire to
plagiarize such an oddly gorgeous offerings is overwhelming;
I feel the wire words piercing my temple, intending to
emerge out the other side, a decorative symmetry,
I don’t own
my need to script some cursive on my smooth body parts,
on my god-given papyrus, always at the ready,
is a methadone itch, a dulling urge needy for fulfillment,
that needs satisfying but me, soundly second rate,
write like the flip side of a hit vinyl record, no one is expected to play, fulfillment meets futility
thus the title is a modification of a Patti light touch
my alchemy never made any gold and my present presence now over Iowa a reminder that my prescriptions are 1200 evacuations; they are negative commandments,
proscriptions, not prescriptions
do not write, do not wrong words with a middling diffidence,
hide your face and put her words on a shelf above your head
hard to reach, so you do not be tempted
why do we write?
“All seeking an emptiness to imbue with words.
The words that will penetrate ******
territory, crack unclaimed
combinations, articulate the infinite.” Patti Smith
disambiguation she relieves us of uncertainty
my combinations over Waterloo, Illinois
are ordinary smokestack gray, a spewing wastage,
the angels conforming that my words Cain-fail,
my confession
meets no one’s standards, not even mine
7:07pm Central Time
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
Sometimes the body is contagion
To the soul. Stars in their mission fall
To seed the fertile flesh, ignite
Blue waters of sulfureous hearts,
And so the flash is set to cancel
In the flood.
Sometimes the lip of soul onto seal
Will not hold, before he first knocked
And let flesh enter, thorny pegs
Pricked nerve and pierced bone on his climb
To the rose, yea, some stars odd as
Meteors crash.
In the swan-sea, song-sangy-frame of crib,
Rough hewn words bent mold to scrape, like
Blasted coral, stood half-submerged
Amid sea and sky, for between the leaves,
Behind the eye, there are little stars
Shining like existence.
In a circle world he fashioned green
Blazons about the darkling day,
Fostered by celestial navigation,
Wrote a language for music, on a map of love
And charted the force of green in a wind-
Rose of discovery.
Sometimes the soul is not contained, it
Bursts in silent sound like well water
From the source. And of men in streets
He saw the pennies in their grumble
Eyes, and of love and its course he rubbed,
Tickling dim stars.
It was his thirty ninth year in that fall
To heaven when the steeping cell,
Refused to push in its tide. Homeless
And free on scaffold of bone the middling
Man retracted from sun to sink
With the moon, turn-tiding-toward sea
Like a changeling.
And as ever, nor often, unwavering eyes
Sprout through shifting grains. And as he spoke
Quite rimless, Dylan Thomas was petrified
In undying light, and solid set within a rill
Of reef sparkling in concert betwixt gas
And sea, so becoming in purple sleeves,
This constellation of mute singers all,
Dried five-fingered-fish, bright embryos
Returned to the shell, they burn between the leaves,
Beset the grounded skies and show sprite flashes
In the dark where He has left his imprints, burning
Above and plastered below. The first rock stars!
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
The jelly-jiggling slop first had to flop
before it could waddle
ashore into this muddle of last gasps
and becoming
where middling deaths swaddled in gauzy breaths
emit a consonant-rich sussuro:
*If you don’t recall the swirl-swept depths
where we furled it,
can you keep that promise in shallows pocketed?*
So we began, and with the begetting
a rosy cloud plumed forth from our two
terraformed lips,
its delicately distinct petals mushrooming out
with a thorn-less, serif-soft voice
to bestow this frothy font of atomic confusion:
*Let the forgetful sea rinse over now-handy fins
to hard-edge etch
their starfish straight lines in a slurp of soggy sand.*
The mothering molecules haven’t lost
their smothering ache to forgive
our thickened skins
and they still cling to us, cooing about a lulled drift
past bye when we’ll climb the thinning links
back to homes cloaked in a sifted light:
*The loves of your heart-filled heads, no matter
how starkly pled,
all waste away to join us in our timeless waiting.*
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 7:56 AM UTC
Is it destiny? What do you see in your life? A light line defining your footings and basis- where do you look at when you said, "I have everything I ever needed".
Where do we go from here?
Working Hard on it…
*I run like I’ve never run before
But I’m still on the same spot
I walk like I’ve never walk before
But I still wait on the same path
My feet have swift a fleet*
Into my hands travail and sweat
Confuse About my Fate...
*Plethora of resources in the rivers
Pots of gold are everywhere
Clean slate stay at the riverside
Where my foot prints lives
In the water you see clear
And nightfall of no fear*
Mediocre life…
*Middling avalanche
Falls like heaven and earth
Half arc of bending rainbows
Into opposite direction the wind blows
Sounds ranging, echoes stirring
Only a few… looked and listened*
Sep 13, 2011
Sep 13, 2011 at 10:47 AM UTC
Sometimes the body is contagion
To the soul. Stars in their mission fall
To seed the fertile flesh, ignite
Blue waters of sulfureous hearts,
And so the flash is set to cancel
In the flood.
Sometimes the lip of soul onto seal
Will not hold, before he first knocked
And let flesh enter, thorny pegs
Pricked nerve and pierced bone on his climb
To the rose, yea, some stars odd as
Meteors crash.
In the swan-sea, song-sangy-frame of crib,
Rough hewn words bent mold to scrape, like
Blasted coral, stood half-submerged
Amid sea and sky, for between the leaves,
Behind the eye, there are little stars
Shining like existence.
In a circle world he fashioned green
Blazons about the darkling day,
Fostered by celestial navigation,
Wrote a language for music, on a map of love
And charted the force of green in a wind-
Rose of discovery.
Sometimes the soul is not contained, it
Bursts in silent sound like well water
From the source. And of men in streets
He saw the pennies in their grumble
Eyes, and of love and its course he rubbed,
Tickling dim stars.
It was his thirty ninth year in that fall
To heaven when the steeping cell,
Refused to push in its tide. Homeless
And free on scaffold of bone the middling
Man retracted from sun to sink
With the moon, turn-tiding-toward sea
Like a changeling.
And as ever, nor often, unwavering eyes
Sprout through shifting grains. And as he spoke
Quite rimless, Dylan Thomas was petrified
In undying light, and solid set within a rill
Of reef sparkling in concert betwixt gas
And sea, so becoming in purple sleeves,
This constellation of mute singers all,
Dried five-fingered-fish, bright embryos
Returned to the shell, they burn between the leaves,
Beset the grounded skies and show sprite flashes
In the dark where He has left his imprints, burning
Above and plastered below. The first rock stars!
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
At the end of my day, looking out my window,
I reflect on the things I did, the friends I met, the thoughts I had.
I regret only what I regret, leaving out so much I could have lived but I didn't.
So many feelings conveniently ignored to make ground for a reflexive and inane life.
So many opportunities neglected and that remained invisible to me.
So much existence trimmed down or that passed by my side in silence –
I was too distracted with nothing and everything to reach out and ****** it and live it.
I’m happy nonetheless, for I realize that life is indeed a show of middling experiences
That arbitrarily builds up or into greatness or into commonness.
It’s the patchiness, the randomness of life that makes it wonderful and lovely.
It’s life untaken by contemplation that flows and grows into something special.
We think too much, for nothing!
Nature doesn’t need your help to follow its course.
You are and you will always be the greatest obstacle along your own path.
Bring down your guard and unwind your mind.
Try to be like the minute sparrow intuitively carrying a twig to its nest.
Let the wind blow, let the sun shine, let the grass grow.
I believe in a world that I can see, unfiltered by concepts,
That is touchable and is untainted by the mind.
To think is to destroy things – that’s the sole sake of thought!
I believe in a world that is solid, eatable, drinkable, and can be sensed by the skin.
I believe in a world that can be heard, and pushed, and slapped, and squeezed.
I believe in a world that is uncertain, but that is real.
Don’t come to me with your romantic and impractical ideas that are hazy and shapeless,
That require my gullible imagination, my complicity, and a speck of idiocy, to survive.
I want to stay authentic. Please, let me stay ignorant and authentic!
My feelings are my thoughts (they are my only thoughts).
I have feelings as a flower has scent and colors.
I don’t want to think about the world. I don’t want to understand it.
I want to be a part of it. (To be we don’t need to think.)
I just want to love the world and accept it.
I want to love it, but I don’t want to know why I love it, nor what it is I love.
I want to love it for love’s sake.
I want to love it with childlike innocence.
Love is always uncomplicated. Remember this,
Love is always uncomplicated.
Calmly, as the oak tree I see in my garden,
I pull back from my window sill and go back to my life,
To my pointless life, my careless life, my foolish life,
So filled with simplicity, truth, and beauty.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC