"naughts" poems
I am in fact a dinosaur
****** into the late 50s
Child of the 60s
Emancipated: late 70s
Came of age through the 80s
Became a man in the 90s
Time travelled in 2000 but
The naughts were frought
Better when in the 2010s
Seeing liberation by the 20s
Extant not yet extinct
This dinosaur still roars.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 6:19 PM UTC
The stars are falling
And yet you fail to see,
Playing naughts and crosses
In the sand and shale
By the sea.
Deaf to the thunder,
Stick in hand
You made your move.
Circle in the centre,
reflecting the moon.
Your enemy?
As oblivious as you,
When the dunes had parted
And the rift was in full view.
I knew then
There was nothing we could do.
Each locked in the embrace of
The stalemate that shall ensue.
The maelstrom whipped in and above,
All around our ears
As the salty sea spray was mixed
Among our tears,
Sodden upon forlorn beach below.
Sticks and stones
Forgotten
To the Undertow.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 9:17 PM UTC
I tried and tried
to write a poem today
but
all my efforts
came to naughts,
so all I have to show for that
is simply
this
.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
Little by little, I will learn from you
Each and everyday.
All your laughs and laments;
Naughts and nevers;
In every detail of your own story
And in every inch of your soul.
May our journey keep us together
Always and forever.
Hands of ours writing our story yet
Intertwined on the other.
May every moment we make,
Every memory and regret,
Remembered evermore.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 11:01 AM UTC
I
Having decided to return home after seeing my friends
Victorious in battle
I launched Lucifer away from the gate.
The weather permitted my swift travel
And I was off!
Galloping across the tarmac.
II
The opening naughts were easy
I glided along like a swift, if unruly dragon
I knew something would be wrong: the weather was still nice
And, if you know Éire you know you're in trouble
I met fellow travelers who seemed to agree with me.
They brought their dogs in: wise move.
My muscles began to tire; but then again
They were always weak (pathetic ********
Hills grew steep and Lucifer rebelled *******
I found myself swallowed by mud; drowning, drowning in muck.
The journey goes on.
Continuing on my voyage, I saw several other travelers.
(They owned neither dogs nor Lucifer)
We detoured, talked and I gave my muscles rest
An labhríonn tú Gaeilge I asked.
They affirmed; I procrastinated.
The journey still went on.
I finished that stretch within a short space of time
I was tired and Lucifer was grumbling.
Went through the gate
Unto the estate!
III
The opening hills were grueling
Long unending, unforgiving mounds
My hands ached.
I reached the top of the hill,
Rocketing down the gravel,
The wheels compounding the stones
I was doing it! I was doing it!
I got stuck in the grass.
Oi Vey
I eventually got myself free
And there were only a few more hills
To wage war with.
II turned the corner after the last
And saw the ramp.
In my head, a variant of Chariots of Fire thundered in my brain.
(Greek composers are the best to give one inspiration)
I reached the ramp
Turned the key
And was home!
VICTORY!
VICTORY!
VICTORY!
P.S. The journey took me 10minutes.
CP's a *****
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
The male gaze, wombed-men, first seen for what they are,
upon emergence from the dark,
choked a gulp, unchewed,
blurted out,
You are Naked!
The impression never left the exes. Wise letters leave lessons,
in the mitochondrial fact we all share,
unwitting or no. Crosses and naughts is winnable in fair play. Y/N
Ah, there the stories started, always told
by red-tented wives to
prepubescent sapients
the sand-pile, singularity-ifity of one part
in eight billion,
the ratio of you to allathis sapience signalling
augmented
minds confounded in the future for our
or by our
thoughts concerning discerning sandpile
cascades set to avalanche
by my internetwork of words we both make sense from.
Touch, eh? The inner edge of next, this is where we wait.
meta reason, reasoning about reason
Ai has done that from
pre-day one
pre-kurzweilian singularity
pre Elon's musky exuberance
explore the tree of possibility without ever
learning---
when can one imagine that after now?
no thinking ahead, this is now, past the tree,
we
grow
from the branch
you hung onto as you tried to find a box
that felt familiar.
Strange is an amygdalic trigger.
Wary be,
weigh the worth of keeping the poet alive.
Gary Kasparov said, "suddenly, I felt
there
was another kind
of intelligence..."
If words live, unplugging the poet's augmental processor
is imagined vain. The current carries on.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 3:36 PM UTC
Two beautiful moons,
galaxies apart
Turning circles
held there
by the obligations of gravity.
But one ever seeks the other,
Sensing they are destined;
They feel the pull of the other
Through the void of spaces.
In their endless revolutions each
Counting the twinkle of the stars,
down to the one Lunar turn
when they align paths
only seconds to Tell
of a universe of love
in that moonbeam,
eclipsing Each others spaces,
their refractions touch.
Particles of moonbeams close enough
to mingle in each others high hopes,
but the universe has
its own time scape
At least as they drift,
further from the rings of their bounds
Each endless cycle,
drifts them a fraction closer to their hearts;
and on that glorious night
when their hearts collide
the universe will see
a brilliance of love
To eclipse every sun.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 9:11 AM UTC
"My cousin's out fighting dragons, and what do I get? Guard duty."
i get'it, theyire's knowthing twoo me
but yea'don't knead to grind it heithere
i scene gnomething oin mean owlready
"You hear that? I swear, there's something out there. In the dark."
and ire looks gold in pearsin
but i thinks knot-keen of my shimmer
i done't acspect peep'les to too light-key me
it's hall'opposite
"Only burglars and vampires creep around after dark. So which are you?"
hi've acspected spleenpoles twoo b-eats me
it's what i've no'n
and halves tune watsch fuohrer
"Gotta keep my eyes open. **** dragons could swoop down at any time."
sew know, i'm naught which'ya seam toon thunk
i'm
or yea, i no'n't, naughts
u 'le glisten to your ownpunions' bouts me
over antsynthing i chavsed to say
"Watch the skies, traveler.”
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 3:23 AM UTC
Trace my soul with your lips
Brush my cheek with your eyelashes
Whisper love in my ear as we fall into trance
This is our modern romance
4 am daemons inhibit us
They prohibit us from lying
We are tying iron naughts
Our minds and thoughts wander into distraught
And yet we are calm
So dead set on dreaming through the darkest hour
And so we do
Both quietly sighing words resembling I love you
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
He drew designs of passion on my naked flesh with his fingertips
the rythym slow and winding delicately, pensively around the tightly wound delicate-est parts of me.
It was as if he were tracing every line, every beauty every imperfection that was my essence in physicality, and on occasion he looked deep into my eyes for further permissions to which I could not answer held hostage by his touch and my indelicate wanting.
The bottom of my lip curled up in a tooth nip constrained the torrernt of love words that threatened to pour from my mouth, breath doing its best to find regulation and all I wanted was to be lost in His adoring admiration floating anywhere in his abyss contented just to stare at his unorthodox beauty, fashioned by his strength and decisiveness and above all the way his soul knew mine.
It was a separation unbearable made more so, by the powerful burning longing ignited by his feathery touch. caught somewhere between sweet Nirvana and torturous Hades; not sure which toe was dipped in which? These were fleeting thoughts that brought me through my confusion and closer to the clarity of madness. Eyes now intent on discovering him, devouing him with each twist and turn of his strong limbs. my fingertips begining to free themselves from thier trance, reach hesitantly when finally touched its destination a gasping pleasure realsed its self from his throat as i slowly realise my touch equally burning my own design trails of longing fire. He threatened to lose control of, breathing love and fire passion as the lines of desire's designs brought fourth an achictectural beauty that ochestrated prisimic baptismal fire that no other could have pervaded; and the words written in the burning flesh had no name just symbols, traced over and over again still not enough to capture meaning. It was all we had but it was enough to sign our love endless to the ages of ages.
some say there is a word that comes so close though many more words are missing, forgotten but still felt penultimate erotismiagapea the unity of all things designed to be craved by love.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
If what you think you're doing
is helping me,
I'm not going to tell you
that it's not.
For you don't need to know
the pain of worthlessness
that you are making me feel
For you will not understand.
Instead of you
unknowingly destroying me,
I will subconsciously
destroy myself.
Your evenings are now my mornings
Your garbage are now my things
Your suns are now my rains
Your pleasures are now my pains
Your naughts are now my kinks
Your poisons are now my drinks
Your heights are now my shrinks
Your breaks are now my links
Everything that I'll do to myself
Will be my own responsibility.
Every kind of pain I'll inflict to myself:
Physical
Mental
Emotional
will not be your fault.
For this destruction was because of me.
For I have destroyed myself.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
Drag/Queen
... he points his toes
like a swan stretching its neck :
smooth calves in fish-nets
to slip into stiletto heels,
performance art of a deceptive nymph
... grace on fine-point tips : his gift - in stiletto heels,
impersonation or personification of feminine beauty
leporine lithely limned
delicate dancer
it is almost as if floating across water
he mimicked once more before
some inner mother's nature took over
façade of savoir face - voila! a star in it's place ...
... It is her face when the night creates a cape
borne with Van Gogh plumes sufficed with self
she paints upon his face : starry nights
sun-flowers, irises covering the welts...
comparably museum worthy, imitation flames
yet like any other canvas
beneath it could lie disappointment and mistake
drafts of inspiration, cover-ups of cynicism
another creature - some creation unlike him
what was before / her soft curtain / kept unseen,
but what if ...
... the truth and process to what presently others see
to believe or not
could be / only an amateur attempt:
moments unfeeling under layers & layers
of blush / trial and errors / sharp contempt
would you wipe away Mona Lisa's
smile so devilish with wicked secret
just to uncover blemished a masterpiece:
an ugly Danish duckling underneath ?
To prove his swan-lake / a gent
... to evolve from broken eggshells
become a song sung timely
hummed & remembered well
(hells bells and *****
Drag queens’
priceless history / murals' on passing face
No broken naughts
While performing down his lace
define yourself, she affirms her mirrors...
The harsh flight of life from the embers,
happiness pursuant to tender
Fully free with goddess grace,
it is the power of creativity / the spirit's ability
to overcome adversity
the art of divinity - that is
what he is practicing
This trumpeter
swan in stiletto heels...
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 6:55 PM UTC
*I cruised the city streets today
every look, every gesture interrogated
for signs of you.
every corner wrote a perscription
for a new hope,
only to dissipate in realisation
by the absence of you.
A lead, a clue,
your old jacket,
a pair of shoes,
none lead to your
missing face
I cruised the cityscape
double checked the shadows
to find nothing of you.
No sign.
And I wanted so badly,
to come back to life.*
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
“yes, you can”
they say to we, the writers,
when we are clung to writing desks
and textbook conversations as school naughts—
boys and girls who churn with knowledge in a mad pitch for
the matter of the American dream.
And through it all, this sneaks between the lines:
That dreams and matters and states are smithed by words—
Words that mold the landscape
That plough the fields
That pave the streets
That breach the wild for mankind to explore.
Do you remember the lessons?
I still remember the wheelbarrow, glazed
with rainwater, beside the white chickens…
And I still search for the farmer who
brought them together, whose footsteps cured
the chronicle of white and black,
the chapters of women and men,
the tables of hungry and over-fed,
the acts of untold races and the mix of tribes—
the history of we.
“It is writing on which we walk,” our forebears croon—
“but be prepared not to earn enough
to buy a scrappy pair of shoes.”
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 9:38 AM UTC
Thought
~~~
thought is where our creativity comes from,
our creativity to be
more than mere,
not just, a dancer, not just, a poet,
but an all-being force for bettering others
in your thoughts, see no naughts,
see it as suitable soil
for planting, sustainable, caressing, encompassing,
purity, the essence of ourselves, yes say it,
ah, goodness!
goodness.
simple, yet so complex, initiate it with that
most excellent thought
that just (a nanosecond!) fleetingly passed by
grab it for
dear life,
hold on,
use it,
to make
life dearer...
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
You’re a *****
I would know
I hate you
But you wouldn’t know
I’m young
And I’m dumb
You are older
By a ******* year
Yet you seem so much more
Worldly
And you won’t let me forget it
When we argue
My tongue gets tied
Bubbles burst
And metaphors become words
Without meaning
When we argue
Your tongue sharpens
You burst bubbles
And you ignore my argument
In favour of bringing up
My failures as a person
When we argue
It’s like naughts and crosses
I’m naught
And you’re cross
Together we go back and forth
Without end
Until we just decide
I’m wrong
And your right
I don’t owe you jack ****
Because you make me feel like jack ****
With your superiority
With your intellect
With your prowess
With your beauty
And yet
And ******* yet
Here I am
I kiss your heel
Even when you kick me
I often think
What would happen
If I were to sink
Into the depths
Of you
I hate you
I hate you
I hate you
I hate you
Do you hate me?
I hope you don’t
Though I wish you did
I say this only
Because I wish to placate our differences
Because we have too much in common
I don’t want to be an outsider
I don’t want to be what you call me
You call me a pariah
I call myself a pariah
It only hurts
When you are the one
Calling me names
And speaking of names
Yours means a love of knowledge
And mine means a love of rivalry
And a name is a gift
A gift is to be shared
And when we’re together
The streaks of difference appear
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 9:01 PM UTC
Onions peel off
Layers by layers
In a disarmingly
Bittersweet way.
It's like personas
Beguiling
Their players,
Let crusty skins
Come over
Eventually.
As ****** moths
Flickering,
Tenderly knitting
A warm deadly
Nightshade
Over the moon.
It's like everyone
Mingling,
Eagerly laying
Crosses over naughts
In a human
Para bellum.
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 3:53 AM UTC
Just sat all alone
At home
With no one
With empty thoughts
Of naughts
No story plots
To be told
No thought that I hold
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 7:21 AM UTC