"moderated" poems
Burial of fury in a tomb of apathy,
mood moderated and aligned with conformity.
Speech pleasant in tone and comfortable in delivery.
Approaches with cautious optimism his tasks daily.
Though the ship of consciousness has raised its anchor,
he returns to questioning the whereabouts of his anger.
Yet time and chemistry have dispensed of the mystery.
Restoring balance and forging will to function socially.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 8:27 AM UTC
Transferred attention some where else
Then lost my train of thought,
Added an item to my list
Of stuff I should have bought.
Forgot to say those silly things
That make it all worth while,
And found myself in jockey shorts
With a lost and vacant smile.
Left the toothbrush in the toilet
And the razor in the lounge,
Fed the dog the ****** cat food
And the goldfish had to scrounge.
Woke up early on the weekend
And slept in late for work,
Is it really any wonder
That my wife has gone beserk ?
Distracted moments come and go
As life progresses on,
But in these periods of bewilderment
Have I come or have I gone ?
The confusion is annoying
It's like emerging from the mist
And embarrassed explanations
Leave my kid's expression ******
Conversations breeze along
I'm having trouble with the terms
The children utter gibberish
Which I've no desire to learn.
My old friends speak in whispers
Quite impossible to hear
And the clink of moving cutlery
Keeps dinner parties from my ear.
I guess a change is needed
Maybe, a less demanding day,
Where physicality is really secondary
Where exhaustion doesn't play.
Where the bodies limitations
Are tempered to the task
And a moderated output
Is, perhaps, the best that you can ask.
I've lost my sense of humour
The world is racing by too fast,
This mobile phone's a nightmare
And ****** TV remotes I'm past.
And whatever happened to coffee
At my favourite Bridge cafe ?
Now the order is for decaff,
No cream, half strength, moccha frappe !!
Age is such a ******
It's asset is it's stealth,
One moment you're a titan
The next you've lost your health.
One moment you've got flowing locks
The next you're bald and grim,
Is it any ****** wonder
That growing old is such a sin.
Marshalg
Grumping@theBach
Mangere Bridge
10 August 2009
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC
The morning awakes with stuttering respect
Night time peace is past.
The new day to me is opportunity
Familiar movements from my love
Sadly recognising that rest is done
At least for the moment
Refusing to wholly awake is one I know.
She feels that more sleep would be...well
Even on days off the climbing out is a considered move
More considered, than move
I love her for her familiar ways
My moderated interaction has taken time to evolve
I understand, we can't all be the same
I love her for what she is and has taught me
Patience and tolerance
Oh how much I've learned about myself
Love is an acceptance of difference
A morphing of two ideals
A belief that neither is right but then...
Neither is wrong
Maturing love is a joy that has moved from blindness
To being at peace with your lover
But most of all it is the recognition
That you are with someone
Who cares, understands and forgives you
Overlooks odd ways and strange sayings
The underlying passion of true love
Never recedes or diminishes, but grows
Easier in the knowledge of an element of comfort
In wonderment and true happiness
Our jagged edges of self are no longer apparent
And the depth of our rounded love clasps us together
In time and space
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 7:43 AM UTC
*My face blew up at such a casual sight
Every minute is moderated by a memory or concern
The shower's fog clogs my throat, yet it feels right
Because the surface of your heart never embraced mine
There's an opening gradually slipping and wearing thin
I'm freezing to the bone and you're steaming homes
Plucking the pearls and personality from me, inch by inch
And I thought you'd be different*
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 8:01 AM UTC
give me-the bowie knife of repartee,
nothing more satisfying than the
quick stabbing, a good blood letting,
in your genteel face, no hellish
moderated pace, the energetic plunge
of a quick lunge into the woebegone,
long after you count the meter tempo’d
use fingers and toes, but needing to hold
your nose, to include that extra
grace note, that belies denies the harmony
the tules and rules of calling order
to control the roost, sine-one
is a victim of a
down and virtuous ***** verbal slashing!
count my syllables, never,
let my stanzas run free,
like an African tiger,
with the goat of format
mounted in between his teeth,
bloodied and dripping dead,
the squealing of hyper innocente,
silent after cries of, kind sir,
me thinks thou protest too much!
we can squish and twist our holy words,
into formal tuxedos of cantankerous
arrowed arrogance,
but know this,
roses are read, them
violets, blue, have
turned millions of children to avert their
eyes from anything thereafter that was classified, notarized, canonized, sanctified
as the write rules of poetry
peals of pearls are born with parentage
of a lousy
grain of sand,
the words etched in the
lines upon my hand,
are lifelines of sidewalk cracks,
discarded candy wrappers,
the twisted ends cigarette butts,
used as proof that ash and dust are the
genetic source material of uncommon
great composition, given to those who
love the common touch of leaves of grass,
thstbeneath the heat of the sun that
exposes the nothingness of bitterness
know no one can run from the golden
visibility, of a sun, talent in pursuit of
egoism is a long road to a short history
yeah.
(faster than a speeding bullet)
Feb 18, 2025
Feb 18, 2025 at 3:28 AM UTC
5 X 5
sitting in that chair, once more,
that chair that is my picture of me...
One:
The bay laps quiet rhythmic hellos
knows better than to ask,
just graciously accepts,
one of us says Hallelujah,
and the other, Selah!
a torrid summer of morose and illness,
lingers still, and here I am, cosseted,
comforted by familiar comfort foods,
baby waves, the gentlest of precision-crafted currents
of air, all together a baklava so sweet,
one could forgo forever eating,
but never, writing of them, to you
Two:
Crumpled tissues,
absorbers of ****** fluids,
crumpled poems,
absorbers of mental fluids,
evidence of a body and soul's
dismal anguish, creativity extinguished,
weeks of weak, months of morbid,
were the pretense that a lovely physical shelter exterior,
could ever successful well-mask the human upheaval within,
as if a summer tan could disguise the illness exposed in his eyes
Three:
Sun of moderated fall heat enters via the nostrils,
crimping the bacteria of depression,
that come from an overrun immune system,
a summer of discontent for the summer man,
who has been encapsulated by the suicide
of a man he knew only from his humorous artistry
am I better? some. healed? of course not...
but here I begin a summation of my silences,
that came with no explanation substantive,
for which I formally apologize
Four:
Four is for me, a self-addressed postcard,
way past the point of clean slates,
I am a blackboard with years of dust cumulated
from scrawls, equations, mistakes,
and here n' there a teachers favorite,
a large exclamation point!
decide that it is perhaps time
to relearn how to write poetry for pleasure,
wipe that chalk dust off some,
not for pain disclosures hall marked,
though the pain must be played through,
today, a new season starts and my record,
unblemished a perfect 0-0
Five:
Why 5 X 5? No idea!
this is how it starts for me,
a title, a notional emotion,
a horse rider with a head,
but no body attached,
no direction home,
and the words, disassociated,
pulled together and now there are
five babies tendered for your
care and consideration,
perhaps even,
for your pleasure...
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC
Like most would do on Halloween, we'd wear a mask to be a person or a thing that we aren't usually,
But do you wear one so you can hide what is on the other side? Another side that you have on the inside that divides you like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?
It's not uncommon to hear that most of us fear how we would appear to our peers and the ones we hold dear.
It's worn to protect them so it won't affect them to a point where we're rejected, disconnected or projected as more than defected.
The main difference with those who wear it is what we have to bear; what most wouldn't dare to share or just scared for the unprepared.
It could be our best friend or worst enemy; the complexity of its identity are incidentally formed either chemically, mentally or even manifest destiny.
How we choose to cooperate with or tolerate it is based off how it is incorporated in our moderated or complicated lives.
The level of comfort is great when the mask is lifted; like the weight has been shifted straight off my face, can you relate?
This mask is about to break so I must take it off and I won't make another; I need to relieve this ache and stop being fake. Please do not forsake, for it is time for me to be awake.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 9:10 PM UTC
Fascination in obscure
words or sensations
in my deep states,
seemingly insecure or even uncomfortable concepts to some
yet holding a great enigmatic eloquence
in elegance
when looked at through
a different prism of the crystal.
I could even say that my
Deep Stateness
is of the copper-dark
radiating scarlet paired
with lilac,
inky blue
and grey mist
at the Lighthouse Keeper’s shift
when all stories come alive
and what’s seemingly real
turns feeble.
An example word of such would be: “Incalescent”
or
“Evanescent”.
It holds that feeling
independently
from its cognitively
given definition.
Astrality, to me,
if you’d like to ask as a help
for placing it,
may be most probably
the aforesaid
Deep Stateness married
with the presence of My Lover, otherworldly consciences
without words
(as if I were some astral being
embodied
and aware of its misbelonging
to this world
and my moderated
female body)
and my Fernweh
for my Home.
It’s also that Phronemophiling,
like a thing greater
than getting high on drugs.
It is also my endearment
at my antics
or getting Philosophy
in me and what I read
as lovely,
playing naked on guitar
at night alone in silent dark
with trust in my eyes without glasses, looking at stars bravely
without this handicap device
and lonely daring the world
to tell me
I cannot see them without it
on,
using the strong reverberating
of my voice so pulsing out loud
with sureness and passion,
or fascinating at my tears
for more than two days
whilst in commotion
after reading deeply
“The Dead Poets Society”.
Surely you must have felt it
one way or another some time.
Aug 18, 2020
Aug 18, 2020 at 2:42 PM UTC
How can we heal the wounded planet, you ask.
I have no big ideas to offer.
But I know we can help the Earth
by relearning how to take pleasure
in the smallest and the most ordinary things.
Why travel ten thousand miles
to find excitement in a place far away?
I take my vacation while staying home.
What joy is it to sit in a quiet cafe,
to sip coffee slowly
while I reminiscent, read or write.
What a luxury to find
a seat by the window
where the sun shines in.
It’s my photosynthesis--
to bask in sunshine and warmth,
in defiance of Winter’s cold.
To be alone in the midst of people.
To let silence be moderated
by a small background noise,
like birds chirping in a garden.
It’s a perfect place to fish for ideas,
to compose and create.
Who needs a plane ride
when one can create one's own island
by going deep into the
sanctuary of the mind?
The small pleasures of life.
They can save the world.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 9:13 PM UTC