"nearsighted" poems
I'm startin' to run out of nursery rhymes
So, I made up one of my own
It's about a nearsighted plumber
That was accidently glued to his throne
Once upon a time, long, long ago
There was a plumber, who I'll call Dale
Poor old Dale had a hard time plumbing
Cause he really couldn't see very well
He'd gotten a call, "The toilet won't flush!
Please, can you come right away?"
Well, old Dale got in such a hurry
He forgot to take his glasses that day
Well, by the time old Dale had got there
The house was in quite a mess
He realized he'd forgotten his glasses
But he'd give that toilet his best
He'd not seen this since plumbing school
But then, he only saw it on a test
And by the time, he got his tools together
The water was starting to crest
He had spotted the problem right away
But remember now, he can only half see
The water was squirtin' six feet high
And poor Dale was only five foot three
He laid his glue on the toilet seat
While trying his best not to drown
He couldn't see where he put it at
And, of course, that's where he sat down
He didn't even know 'till it was too late
He'd bent over to loosen a nut
And that's when he first noticed that thing
The toilet was glued to his ****
So, if you ever need a real good plumber
He's the man for the job, without fail
And I hope you enjoyed this story
About the nearsighted plumber named Dale
I forgot tell you, there's one more thing
About the nearsighted plumber named Dale
That man still has that toilet seat
For the thing's still glued to his tail
© All Rights Reserved
Dec 4, 2010
Dec 4, 2010 at 7:59 PM UTC
There is ***** for sale and wombs for rent
For same *** couples it’s cash well spent.
While heterosexuals breed their own
Gay couples, as yet, cannot clone.
A lesbian couple who had the itch
is suing their ***** bank for “bait and switch”.
They wanted a Caucasian baby
and had requested ***** from vial “380”.
The donor of that ***** was white,
Handsome, smart, just “not their type”
They were given another’s ***** instead
And an interracial child was bred.
It seems they were given vial “330”
The vials, it seems, were marked unclearly.
An honest mistake by a nearsighted boomer?-
or one with a twisted sense of humor?
A civil suit will go to trial
seeking damages for a mixed race child.
If their motion to dismiss should meet denial
The “bank” will suffer premature withdrawal.
In which event bankruptcy looms
For the bank that supplies the ***** for wombs.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
Wobbling three legged tables
where the bearded bald men are
sitting upon the legs of standing chairs
while telling local tales heard abroad
recalled from memories long forgot
Like stories from a ******** genius's journal
read in public by the town's blind doctor
clearly translated by a girl who was mute
to a man listening with old deaf ears
Or the one of the parched fisherman drowning
who was seen from a distance by a nearsighted man
that sent his lame messenger running to get help
and was reeled in by the fish he had caught on his line.
But none were as simply complicated
as the one of the bearded bald men
whose sitting stools stood tall as they sat
and whose three legged table wobbled.
May 31, 2010
May 31, 2010 at 7:00 PM UTC
Beneath the woven moonlight
And the glistening lapidary against the sapphire eve
Like ice-flakes on a dark hood
For as great as my nearsighted eyes can see
With a cigarette in the driveway
And the feathers of those clouds falling down
My breath and the smoke runs away with the zephyr
And I’m alone again in this pretty how town
Without a sound
Waiting for you to come back around
Without a glance for the ground
Waiting for you to come back
Like the farmers wait for their flax
Or the women tend to the millions of moths
That sound like rain on the roofs
Or that sound like the crackling of my cigarette burning
Breaking the silence beneath the woven cocoon
Light of the white philtrum moon
It’s her and I and the clouds falling down
And just that single solitary sound
Waiting for you to come back around
Hoping you come back soon
(c) 2015
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 10:15 PM UTC
I realize
I have real eyes
That see real lies—
~Nearsighted
(rule of law)
~Farsighted
(rule of lies)
~The "ayes" have it
(hidden agenda)
~The "ayes" have it
(secret addenda)
~The "ayes" have it
(hate crimes)
~The "ayes" have it
(critical times)
~Undocumented truth
(entombed)
~Unmitigated lies
(exhumed)
I realize
I have real eyes
That see real lies—
~As the world cries
Dec 13, 2019
Dec 13, 2019 at 5:06 PM UTC
《》《》《》《》《》《》《》
A Nearsighted mind will seek immediate gain, centered on self for short-term return
Such future self will look back forlorningly what was lost in fortunes vicissitude.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Farsighted sight seeks Value of Greater Plentitude.
Puts aside oneself in favor of the Whole investing in Now for Futures gain.
Communities celebrate as
the child plays
~ basking in Glory for the Coming Days ~
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
What broke me?
Why did it feel so ********* righteous?
I swear, as long as my *** is round,
I'm probably in a better place,
some sort of better state of mind.
My 85-year-old neighbor once
told me, if she didn't laugh,
she'd cry about her deceased husband.
So, I often wonder, with all this laughing
I do, does it cover me well?
Does it warm my broken heart?
I stuck a pencil in my ear once,
because I had a little itch.
Mind you, I was 7.
But I kept this secret from
everyone, I didn't want to be screamed
at. Two weeks later, my friend ratted on me
and I ended up in the doctor's office,
screaming my head off.
This was the day I almost went deaf.
I wear glasses for my nearsighted vision,
and it's nice to choose when I feel like seeing.
It's hard for me to believe if I'm looking at whatever
it is that everyone is usually looking at.
And no one will ever be too sure, if we all see or hear
the same thing. But, I'll tell you what, seeing is
believing. And if I could begin to explain,
some of the things I thought I'd seen,
maybe it would begin to make sense-
Why I laugh all the time.
A droid statue, mechanical failure,
a deepened depression no one ever saw
forever ago. color-blinded green eye,
a real big joke, a decent lie.
I race myself through my blue-blooded veins,
the alter-ego, dead-deafened twin that lives within.
She lives, and she loves for no reason,
but simply just because.
Because if it wasn't love, it'd be a hate
pool that I'd drown in.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
i have sandpaper for eyes
you cant see
because im blind
no-one draws near
no-one escapes notice
empty shells of conversations
scattered like spent bullets on a battlefield
useless to stem the tide
so they retreat away from the dull grinding
my eyes are sandpaper
slowly grinding away the walls that contain me
she loads death with care
into the device
she is ***
she is warm redheaded lust
she is life and death loading a spike
beggers bones
and they shuffle off nineteen dollar bills
its twenty dude not a dime less
thoughts and plans are well heeled
till they hit the pavement
all ways said the road sorts the ******** from the true
i see them wince when they meet my gaze
nearsighted apologetic polite criminals
they gather in the lighted
end of the corridor feeling confident
that the darkness would consume them
then from the safety of this
fortress of light the release the details
that should confound you into silence
my eyes are sandpaper
slowly grinding away the borders
that contain me
madness is not their only symptom
a fever breaks loose and sweats in the complexity's
of the wheels within wheels
i cannot bear that this place should be the end
this dry barren place
you cant see because im blind
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
It’s hard to be human in a world that rejects the concept of humanity.
We meet hostility before humility.
We fight over space, before we create it.
How many boxes can human minds create before we suffocate, cease to exist?
How does one perceive higher intelligence?
There is no measurement,
For intelligence is acceptance…
Accepting the things we cannot change,
For after all we are human.
Who is your maker?
We made ourselves, so they say.
So why can’t we change ourselves?
Why can’t the Deepak’s and the Oprah’s deal with the deep matters of the mind.
Still trying, defining, living our nearsighted visions
Falling haplessly into hyper realities
We enjoy short lived tales on the backs of constructed fallacies
Those who have eyes? Why can’t they see?
History is alive, when I live it inside of me
Yet there is still a "rock a tree and a river" Maya Angelou
It is possible, they teach us more than we wish to discern.
We are a fortunate species, not robots.
We can sit for years contemplating the obvious.
We can ask for answers when there already provided.
We can keep fighting the things we won’t win
We can still try to be ruler while we are being ruled
And still question humanity when we are human.
We could carefully plan or courses.
Peregrinate upon rich soil that we never laid.
Drink water from those rivers that we never made.
See beauty in things we didn’t design
Take fruits of the field, and make ourselves wine.
To be human, then, is quite strange
And if you never listened, never heard, never cried
Never seen, never thought, never tasted,
Never felt,
Then perhaps you are not.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
so blinded by the rose tint of my glasses
so far-sighted whenever i thought of you grinning from ear to ear
yet i was so nearsighted whenever you were here
now that i'm slowly correcting my vision
maybe my prescription isn't a perfect 20-20
but i feel like i've reflected and understood plenty
at best, you're just an acquaintance, not a friend
yeah, i might be seeing things 20-21
but to me, everything we did was never just for fun
Nov 16, 2021
Nov 16, 2021 at 10:03 PM UTC
i avoid pen and paper
i can't stand the sight of it
when i'm not able to get
the words out right
lately i'm an oldsmobile,
sputtering smoke and
coughing cogs as i
attempt to make my
way up a hill that seems
to have no end
i'm desperate for horizon,
but all i can focus on
are the next four inches
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
THE LADY OF ALOT
Estatic when she's shopping,
The boughten things she's got;
Right proud of all her purty stuff,
She's The Lady Of Alot.
Alot of costly Chinese stuff
Imported hear by Walmart stores.
She useta shop at I Magnums but
She don't like them ones no more.
Irregardless, she believes she
Ain't not no ordnary ****
If she'd of got haffa chance
She'd of voted twice for Trump
And the strait Republican ticket
So The Donald can fix are country
Like he exhaled in his own companies,
Making lots of good clean money.
In her sweatshop-made clothing
She shouts allowed she can't wate
For the Grand Old Party and Trump
To agin make Murrkuh grate!
She feel she's happy in her ivory tower
With all the treasures she has got.
She sees nothing wrong with this country
The dense, nearsighted, Lady Of Alot.
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 6:19 PM UTC
My name, his pupil screamed across the room.
The coarse pages of a New York novel stitched into the binding of my grip.
I am a waning willow under grey skies. The unnerving stillness of chest shatters amongst prose-dripped conversations. Am I ready to? We race to a cab.
We arrive, and in a nearsighted exhaust collapse into plastic-skinned chairs. A hacking congestion echoes between the walls. He stands and as he speaks, I feel his words wrap over my shoulder and then around my waist. Our embrace is an Orchid. As he exits I long for our next season.
We are unabridged lovers seeking vengeance against the moments which separate us. I escape to the tutelage of Jacques Peuchet. I learn the weight of a love born sword, and yearn for the ink to write us away from this moment.
I step out to pavement with Summer's gentle breath igniting the hairs of my neck. I follow Orchid ink veins to a break in the sidewalk. Coddled in the concrete, a pen. I am reminded of the discarded decorations of the blinded adorning our space. I see our future, in beautiful color: The vibrant friction which pours ink to page - dreams stained into their threads.
I return to you my forever, so we can watch our love spill across an enternity of pages longing for a pen.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 1:54 AM UTC
the entrance to my mind
portrays an appealing demeanour,
but with a glance at the contents,
portrays an intervenor
towards the progression
of anything consolingly
appeasing
or so I think
I keep pushing and
pushing until mist to dry,
a view to my loneliness
through a myopic lens
depicts nothing but self
at the following end,
a nearsighted perspective
allowing self-consciousness
to transcend into an abyssal
crevice leaving nothing but
self-blame scattered about
the exiting footprints
retrospect; permitting
history to foreshadow the
ending of every attempt
to let someone in,
I allow the spark to
grow to a flame,
putting it out in
attempt to prevent
and circumvent the
burning of the
one not to blame
the cancer in my
veins ignite with
every attempt to fight
for instances where i'm
not to blame
for instances where the
outcome is sane,
a love born a king and
deceased a slave,
a love resurrected,
mirroring death the same
the entrance is an inhaled cigarette,
that with intent of positivism,
paints the walls, dripping with benzine
illustrating their egress as
an opposing objective to
the goal in attaining peace
by companionship
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 12:18 AM UTC
A poet
A painter
A reader of dreams
She sings to me when
We are in between sheets
We can speak in tongues
Or just by ****** features
I'll read you and you'll read me
Her voice
Her scent
Her body beguiles
It leaves you speechless
With blood in your mouth
I wander confused
Or maybe caught by surprise
Maybe nothing was happening
This sweet
This soft
This delicate lady
Has thorns like a rose
Primed to inject venom
No remedy in sight
Or I'm just nearsighted
Is this all just a dream?
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 8:54 PM UTC
Your heartbeat sounds like music
have I ever told you? Everyone has a different one
Your lungs are an orchestra
and I wish I could give you more than whispers
but all I have are the secrets I told you
I wish you had someone to hold you
but I've never been good with the
physical aspect of it all
I wish I wasn't colorblind so that
I could write you about all the colors I think surround you
and maybe if I wasn't so nearsighted
I could tell you about the future in the distance
I'm just about as short as my short-comings
but I think we need that balance
of the sun and the moon
but I don't know
how people like us
live like this
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
there's a band-aid on my finger
where you cut me yesterday
slicing rotten pieces
of my vegetables away
you didn't even notice
it's your sweet nearsighted way
so no drama was enacted
and i had no need to say--
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
Poor little chunky girl
Never had a chance
Losing to the skinny girls
Alone at the dance.
Poor little skinny girl
It’s making her sick
When her godly classmates
Refer to her as "stick".
Poor little plain faced girl
They tease her for no makeup.
Poor overpainted girl
The social kids just break up.
Poor little not bright girl
They call her by names
Poor little brainy girl
They do the very same.
Poor little boy in glasses
They tease him mercilessly
Poor little nearsighted girl
The tease when she cannot see.
Poor little boy who stumbles
They tease because he’s no ****
The same boy after school
Who has to work on a dock.
Poor little kids who suffer so much
Because there’s no cash for clothes;
Some of them live in camps so
They can’t always smell like a rose.
Poor little kids who are in trouble
Can expect no help from schools
Because the faculty is gun shy
From being sued by stupid fools.
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 2:35 PM UTC
We are still
Young
We are so ******* young.
Life is racing by
And it feels like we must be finished
Growing up
But it’s not true.
We are so young.
I am unfinished.
Hindsight is 20/20
But darling
I spent so much time reading
The poetry of your skin
That I’m nearsighted now-
I see only you, larger than life
Because you’re so **** close
And
When I look forward I see only hazy shapes
And things to trip over.
You know me better than anyone
But
I wish I could tell you
That that’s not saying much.
I wish I could tell you that I’m sick
Wish I had blood to show you,
Or skin and bones proof,
Wish I had an X-ray or a doctor’s script
To prove to you that I have lost control
But
I’m sick in a way that you can’t see.
You only see the shadow of it
And I get to look at its face
Days in and out-
Its face is what I imagine they were afraid
To write in the bible
About the devil
And it’s lookin
Right at me
All the time
And when you touch me it sinks its teeth in
Because it wants my joy to be its venom
Instead.
I wish I could show you
That if my outside matched my inside
I’d be in the ICU
Full of little clear tubes
Breathing through a soft engine.
I wish I could tell you
It’s not your job to find a cure
For my mind
That
I just want your love
I just want you
Here.
I don’t wanna look at that face
Days in and out
Without your hand in mine
To steady me.
Your fingers feel like the moment right after your chair tips
And you thought you’d fall but you didn't.
They feel like
“Thank god.”
And I don’t know how to ask you
To be my chemo buddy
As I drip acid into my ink veins
And try to heal from a disease that will never **** me
But will always be about to.
It’s hard to heal
When your treatment is heavy volumes of war instead of peace
And I don’t know what I’m doing.
Please believe me that when I speak
Nothing is a lie
That I never know if my demons will pull my puppet strings
And make me a hypocrite
And then retreat like shadows to let me take the rap
Alone.
I wish I could show you
The IV that pumps insults into my blood
Things I’ve seen in people’s eyes
In yours
Things I’ve heard fall- surprise!- from my lips
Like poison dripping from fangs I didn’t know I had.
I wonder
If a snake bites itself
Does it die of its own venom?
It sort of feels
Like that.
Please believe me
That I don’t want to spill my secrets to you
Like someone sliced my stomach open
And let me bleed them out everywhere
Please believe
That I am sick
And I am not faking
And I am not trying
To hurt you
Or lie to you
I am only trying
To be.
I’m just trying to be
And it’s a hell of a lot harder
Than it looks.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
What is this.
Eyes strain to see anything in the soulless room.
Yet there are no walls to feel.
No comforting scrape of shoes as each leg is dragged to the next position.
So many questions float about.
Just out of hands reach.
It's raining now
Attempting to make this mangled carcuss anew.
Yet pieces fall away with each new storm.
Even a drizzle seems to steal what it can.
And although it reassembled with a little time.
Is it apparent that there was so much more some time ago.
Rendering all opposition useless.
Why must one fight if memory can serve no enemy.
So many..
Questions.
There can be nothing more precious.
Than the answer sought for so long.
Through a wasteland filled with the meaningless.
To come to a pitful hill.
And stare at the answer.
But for one so nearsighted.
The wasteland has just begun.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 9:25 PM UTC
Oh, to know what You know.
to see the grand blueprint of the intricate design of
my life, my life.
The mirrors are fogged.
Roll down your sleeve
smear away the gray
I dream of the moment,
long-awaited and so, so sweet
to trace the angles of your face with my hand
to carelessly fall into your embrace
Momma always said to
find the corner pieces first
but I just fudge the pieces to fit
I dizzy myself with my own desires
Be unto me the cornerpiece, -- the foundation of my life
Nearsighted and naive
Lord, give me eyes to see
interim apathy will serve
a deeper purpose
Rest, my thoughts
Ease, my mind
You are fully known.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
As the gramophone in the corner spins Stravinsky
i lie wake in a puddle of my own *****
I can wash off the smell of pubs and whiskey
but can never run away from it.
As the devil drags me again by my hand
to the tear-stained paper at my old table,
i could tell you that I'm keeping my mouth dry
but you wouldn't believe this fable.
It'd be just not to trust it, there is reason, for
a man who had tried drinking away pain
is a man who'd succumbed to a bottle before
and a man who will do it again.
one eye so nearsighted that i can't see tomorrow/
the other so farsighted i can't see today.
As i am writing this i am drinking my poison cold,
counting on gray hair all the years that are gone
liquor and love are the poor man's gold
and a man's wealth - dying loving or dying loved.
I don't remember if it was happiness
or of thereof lack
but the jack in the box looks
now like a box of jack
Mar 1, 2025
Mar 1, 2025 at 12:48 PM UTC
Groundless spires
Of tremendous yearning
Turning inside out
Rolling around
On groundless foliage
We are nearsighted
A shirtless spectacle
These shadows are introverted
One word, one sentence
Is all you need
When the action is imminent
It is fiery indeed
Retired captains
And airline stewardesses
Diners and laundromats
Incense and artifacts
Green or orange socks
We match our articles
And sever particles from our souls
These overgrown undulations
Are apparently eager to be known
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 6:35 PM UTC
To Absent Days' Gone,
The strength of weakness Betrays Oneself.
The Weakness of Strength defaces the purity of a love so strong as to entwine ones' life and being.
A heart in chaos sees nearsighted,
The part I play is that of the puppet to mineself.
But Thanks to thou who'd show me the painful truth.
Set my aching heart free from itself and show me,
Strength,
Weakness,
Love,
Fear,
To coexist so tightly to seem as one in the same.
Truth speak,
I will listen.
I will learn.
I am not alone, not in myself nor in others.
I Am, Myself.
~Robert van Lingen
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 3:31 PM UTC
thank u for confirming me as a friend! now may be a friendship (even platonic) can commence by june, yes? tell me more about yourself before this august fellow, who rather not wait until september ends!
though nearsighted, i espy a great gal
if only for a virtual pal!
Myopia
ever since a wee lad way back in second grade
near sightedness became quite evident
and difficult to ignore
forsooth in while deep in the womb
visionary genesis made
with slight color blindness
also in the chromosomal store
and so-called “floaters”
like my own private kaleidoscope played
tag across field of view in the process
concentration wore
out ability to attune other senses to lend even a shade
now as an older fellow who dons bifocals with pride
eligible by optometrist/ophthalmologist to undergo laser to shine on lens
and render spectacles superfluous as necessary guide
once anonymous philanthropist pens
adequate check for costly procedure
whereby ocular weakness to hide
whence ability to see keen
as a hawk with zoom empowered by tens
meanwhile this wayward fellow
will pilgrimage to the oracle of Delphi
hoping the priestess can deliver
like some divine miracle worker for near blind
and if prayer (to be free of glasses answered)
will become prophet well nigh
no longer at the mercy per groping in the dark for misplaced eyewear to find
able to discern celestial objects far away in the sky
which cosmic phenomena
t’will hypnotize this inquisitive mind!
from::matthew scott harris
i.e. [email protected]
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 9:35 PM UTC