"neatness" poems
It was the twilight of the iguana.
From the rainbow-arch of the battlements,
his long tongue like a lance
sank down in the green leaves,
and a swarm of ants, monks with feet chanting,
crawled off into the jungle,
the guanaco, thin as oxygen
in the wide peaks of cloud,
went along, wearing his shoes of gold,
while the llama opened his honest eyes
on the breakable neatness
of a world full of dew.
The monkeys braided a ******
thread that went on and on
along the shores of dawn,
demolishing walls of pollen
and startling the butterflies of Muzo
into flying violets.
It was the night of the alligators,
the pure night, crawling
with snouts emrging from ooze,
and out the sleepy marshes
the confused noise of scaly plates
returned to the ground where they began.
The jaguar brushed the leaves
with a luminous absence,
the puma runs through the branches
like a forest fire,
while the jungle's drunken eyes
burn from inside him.
The badgers scratch the river's
feet, scenting the nest
whost throbbing delicacy
they attack with red teeth.
And deep in the huge waters
the enormous anaconda lies
like the circle around the earth,
covered with ceremonies of mud,
devouring, religious.
18k
I cry, I frown, I aggravate, I shout
She laughs, she smiles, she simplifies and rejoices aloud
She is totally different from me
Se lives in me but is always free
When I frighten, she enlighten
with every step she brighten
she is a child in me
full of glee
when I become quiet in sadness
she does all work in quite Madness
what I deceive, is her believe
This bond is what makes us unique
We take different trains from the same station
My every work is a subject to her allegation
our roads don't match, but our destinations do
I don't know why her clumsiness is better than my neatness to
We both are one unit
I am a misfit, she is a nit wit
But, I lack the charisma she has
yet I am learning the way she act as
So what, we take different paths
we reach the same parks
Hurry up, I need to end this poem
to stop her playing from a toy lion...
Jan 13, 2021
Jan 13, 2021 at 1:55 AM UTC
wind like a south wind carrying a plane south
deposits him, beneficiary of a backwards current
on a branch with nothing companionable in sight -
no answer, no voice to answer, no voice,
no alarm, no succor - just an afternoon
and nothing pressing. No urgent business,
maybe only the rigors of trying to prevent
there being urgent business later.
He's not all smooth. A little feather
cowlicked on his narrow jaw, and I don't know
how he bathes, what he eats, what he wants,
who would want to eat him. I don't really understand
anything that is going on around me. But look,
I understand more than him:
the tree is dying.
Oak wilt blew in from Canada,
took a long time coming and finally cracked the veins
and this one is all bad on the inside, a meal of
corked-up flesh, big spongy patches and tainted roots
at the search.
(Amateur diagnosis. The tree is probably fine.)
There is a similarity neither tree nor bird know about.
Or his legs know it, and that message
is stuck somewhere. Or he's afraid.
The blighted oak is all fungus and refusal, and he:
his skeleton is spun from delicate copper.
If you open him up, he's like a penny -
pretty, and useless in this economy.
People and things always trying to get rid of him,
and he's listening because he knows it,
and he's singing because he knows it.
Open the tree up and the whole food chain comes down with it.
(Listen to your sweet flesh that wants to go on living.)
It's not a curse, not specifically:
just one fragile thing standing on another
but - count mercies -
too light to break it.
A basic brazier licking behind a splash of yellow, he chirrups.
His song comes from the throat.
His song is about something he saw once.
His song is unquestioned, muscle moving
without will.
His plumage is mostly air
And the tree is anchored in the ground
by the very thing that chokes it,
and we're all standing together:
me, tree, bird. At least until
I finish my sandwich, packing the greasy paper in
a rectangle, with unquestioned neatness,
and leave whistling.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
Our consciousness is often conjured in the noggin the way
pompously-starved college kids microwave Ramen: phenomen-
ally over-heated and eaten up unbelievably quick, wow, you’re a
genius, now you can hurry back to completing your awesome thesis!
Neatness!
But having burned your tongue, you vilely cursed inside
with words rougher than *** not knowing where they were from,
and flustered, said you were done; plus, **** it, this work is dumb.
Oh, freshman, if only you had savored dem noodles!
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 3:21 AM UTC
Quis multa gracilis te puer in Rosa
Rendred almost word for word without Rhyme according to the
Latin Measure, as near as the Language permit.
What slender Youth bedew’d with liquid odours
Courts thee on Roses in some pleasant Cave,
Pyrrha for whom bind’st thou
In wreaths thy golden Hair,
Plain in thy neatness; O how oft shall he
On Faith and changed Gods complain: and Seas
Rough with black winds and storms
Unwonted shall admire:
Who now enjoyes thee credulous, all Gold,
Who alwayes vacant, alwayes amiable
Hopes thee; of flattering gales
Unmindfull. Hapless they
To whom thou untry’d seem’st fair. Me in my vow’d
Picture the sacred wall declares t’ have hung
My dank and dropping weeds
To the stern God of Sea.
2.3k
the road traveled is
often enough written in the eyes
just as the pattern of a leaf may tell the tree
but it will not lay bare to you
what dwells at its root
what you see in another persons eye
is only a reflection
and only you know what lay at the root of that
her fashionable neatness
suffers at the hand of hurried time
but she will not bend in her method
i cannot see into her thoughts
blinded by my own instincts to follow
to meet my woman's desire
just wanting my lover to be happy
we wrestle the sheets in the hot night
with the other woman joining us again
the three of us exploring eachother in hungry wet embrace
seeking the moments when the hot
rush of pleasure leaves you soaked with passions sweat
and waiting for the begin again of
the sweet play of caress and suckle
it is this third woman
whos dark eye i draw you to
for she is well known to me
we have shared a bed before
she is not a bad person
but i know what dwells
at the root of that
a bedroom of appeasing the cravings
of a woman's hidden angers
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
All time bird can be crow only ever
Black in colour scavenging all day long
Caring nothing about neatness or anything!
Dogs eat the bones they throw clearing flesh
Efficiently bringing by hovering everywhere!
Full meals or bits of meats they share with all
Going by the policy of united we stand ever!
How healthy and active the crows are ever
I see standing on the balcony of my building!
Jack of all trade these guys do hard work long
Keeping their noise heard all round the place!
Loitering round us they pester us to give food
Many a time when we come out to see the sky!
Nothing we can do but offer some leftover foods
Obviously irritated to avoid their bickerings!
Popular among birds like mynah, sparrow, eagle
Quixotically crows overshadow them by numbers!
Regularly they start their chores like we do
Surprisingly very early in the morning itself!
Tickling nook and corner of all materials all day
United they raid everywhere sans rest ever!
Verily they are indeed hard toiling creatures
Whether it is summer or winter in the whole year!
Xerox copy of black crows reminds of uniform dress
Year after year without change or colour fade ever;
Zealous lot these creatures indeed we have to imbibe!
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 3:17 AM UTC
lovers are red
oceans are blue
i love the waters
and they love me too
the neatness of fire
the warmth of the you
the simple equations
i work out for you
the angel numeric
may fit in my stride
this kid in your presence
is hopscotching wide
this naif out of training
has nothing to do
but write little sillies
that may be for you
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 2:47 PM UTC
A plain woman in a checkered dress
Trapped on a windy hill
With a man whose every thought
Was crops and cows and bad weather coming,
You cooked every meal on time,
Served lunches exactly at 12:00
When the hands aligned.
You drove "flagger,"
moving trucks and tractors
From field to field,
Raised two boys and two girls
To be God-fearing citizens,
Buried one in shock and disbelief;
And then moved on.
I know your secret.
There on that swept-neat farmstead,
Under the green roofs,
Beside the red barn,
In your white walls,
The rational order,
The unnatural neatness
Belied you.
Lydia...
You of the Romantic Heart,
You of the secret desire and passion.
Beside your chair in that sparse house
Stood a stack of romance novels
In easy reach,
An escape from harsh reality.
What guilty ecstasies you managed to steal
Came five miles from the post office,
Ninety-five cents a copy,
Wrapped in brown paper,
Tucked in a galvanized milk pail.
Ahhh.
The stolen moments!
The bliss of passions and handsome strangers
Ready to take you from dry and wind-blown land.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 6:35 PM UTC
Narcotic
Overdose
Vicious
Extremity
Mastered
Bewildered
Eccentric
Retrospective
My Birth
My Autumn
My Death
Number Nine
Novembers Night
Never Nepotism
Nocturnal Neatness
No Negligence
Neptune's Near
My Fall
My Existence
My Anatomy
My Reincarnation
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
it's the clavicles her
the
inching of
the
(her)the
vulnerable teasing the
at the edges pink the
trimmed in neatness the
amble of girlness palish
******* just and
softer coiling
hushed by
an inch
of boyness)
she(the)her(the)
by the way sir(the)
i 'er the
gonna perce ya
a radiant by the folding o' yer faultless gleaming
(spear to plunge)
your heart and *****
a rill to let
of crimson mangé
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
In a Bluebird toffee tin
Are a hundred letters –
Most of them doodle-stamped and
Delivered by hand.
Unlike the letters I sent to you
They do not smell of spritzed cologne,
(A trick that I learned from Grease)
They are not messy
Or tea stained,
But perfect powder blue
And allowing for small extravagances –
The Cursive of the Obsessive,
Cursed by neatness and perfect hearts.
I pick one out at random,
A casually cruel one sent from Rome –
I imagine you blinking on a balcony
With dazzles on your collarbone,
A teeny tiny sugarless coffee
At your side,
And a pen tapping your knee.
*“I’m not a **** at all –“* you wrote,
*"It’s only that you are gregarious
In the most DISGUSTING way.
That’s your problem not mine -
Your optimism won’t catch you.
(Cynicism won’t catch you either,
But it has the courtesy not to throw you.)
I’m stopping now,
By the time you get this
I’ll be back home.
What pointlessness we endure for one other.
I miss you, as you say,
‘ever so’ –
Bedtime here is a source of misery.”*
And then you signed your name,
Tiny,
Small,
Impossibly graceful,
Just like yourself.
You were always nasty
When you missed me.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
slips from nothing hugely poem of
light creating light by leggy moon
over whole earth palely tousled in
maimed and drizzled in silver curving
a point is risen amongst (man) and time
earth away sprawl echoes of finite
sleep.but though it moon over(in
a little naked comely heap of pert
and blazing tinder calmly foisted
between sabled ******* of aching
stupid darkness)burns how and fiercely
eloquent
o moon though small and nothing hugely
poem shall i (man) a poem slip by mortal
wiggling fumbles; and O moon!quiet sleeping
curves away silverly(into pimpled quavering
neatness)i muscle leanly dispute the soil
and up to you gallop sloppy gallons of kiss
(for you are most pleasant.UR round and fit
nearly in my lips (who shall pluck you from
between ******* and fill me burning
)Lust
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 3:09 AM UTC
Fluorescent uplit lights
Throws no shadows
Shows no life
No vestiges therein
Monitors' frontward glow
Radiates no future, no past
Well lit death
No matrix destination
The rows and cubes behold
A conformed neatness
An oppression
A regime built against creation
The soul flutters above
Unseen but seeming
To hold life
The inexorable dullness of life
Oct 8, 2020
Oct 8, 2020 at 6:51 PM UTC
the she raw is beautiful because
because short
(eyes green ) hair the
lips by
sing easily with neatness
and her mouth is
where exactly it might appear obscenely wonderful
to push my mouth
which i also like would
my own to raw she become
into a singe of crisp love
together as like a sprig in Spring
blossoms such uncaving of coloures
but sharp too
as a rose might wear
the coloures are
for parting of skin
between rib and breast
where a heart lies
wanting to fold
folding of want
of raw she
who beautiful because is
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 2:30 AM UTC
In a Bluebird toffee tin
Are a hundred letters –
Most of them doodle-stamped and
Delivered by hand.
Unlike the letters I sent to you
They do not smell of spritzed cologne,
(A trick that I learned from Grease)
They are not messy
Or tea stained,
But perfect powder blue
And allowing for small extravagances –
The Cursive of the Obsessive,
Cursed by neatness and perfect hearts.
I pick one out at random,
A casually cruel one sent from Rome –
I imagine you blinking on a balcony
With dazzles on your collarbone,
A teeny tiny sugarless coffee
At your side,
And a pen tapping your knee.
*“I’m not a **** at all –“* you wrote,
*It’s only that you are gregarious
In the most DISGUSTING way.
That’s your problem not mine -
Your optimism won’t catch you.
Cynicism won’t catch you either,
But it has the courtesy not to throw you.
I’m stopping now,
By the time you get this
I’ll be back home.
What pointlessness we endure for one other.
I miss you, as you say,
‘ever so’ –
Bedtime here is a source of misery.”*
And then you signed your name,
Tiny,
Small,
Impossibly graceful,
Just like yourself.
You were always nasty
When you missed me.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
Esteem of reflection billowing up whenever one puff fades.
Day in, day out.
Pass in, pass out.
Staring off into space, am I getting better at geometry?
Looking into the line of nowhere.
Physical lines may just happen to converge with this.
Darkness may happen to eclipse it.
A point happens to be on it.
A light happens to shine therein.
Lines may also conflict with it.
Colors may not align with it.
Conglomerations may exist there without any congruence.
People happen upon it.
Muscles and nerve endings traverse it.
Needs cross its consciousness.
Predictions cross over it too.
Some ideas are superseded here.
The esteem of reflection scans all areas: physical, emotional, and mental.
The internal image is destroyed, or ground to dust.
Sounds are implanted upon it.
An imaginary self-concept is manifested on it.
The cycle of new crossings re-circulates.
Like this whole poem only affected my knowledge and not reality.
I sit up.
My body is placed on this line.
Like it is on stage acting for this line.
Cleanliness and neatness cross it.
The esteem of reflection takes on the form of part of my body.
I lay back down.
The self-concept reiterates itself.
As if my body's forms must assert themselves.
Afraid to look at bold symbols.
Afraid to act like I touch the things in this room.
A sense of shared humanity is spit out by my head.
I am the weak and selfish one.
Not esteeming another.
Only esteeming me and my reflection.
Not sharing a room.
Like I'm pulling down and in.
With my head in the sand.
I consider knowledge that isn't directly observed as secondary.
And I don't mean observed in a book.
This self-concept becomes the center which organizes the things that cross the line of nowhere.
It is the best comparison to my physical self, yet a figment of my imagination.
It is shaped more by attention than by materiality.
It's funny how anointing is at once a rising over and a descending.
Yet it cannot fully transform my mind.
For even this blessing crosses the line of nowhere.
And the esteem of reflection rises above it.
But when the line of nowhere becomes the self-concept then the mind is fully transformed.
The esteem of reflection would have equality with the self-concept.
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 1:49 AM UTC
Agile she flutters through the winds and leaves
Neatness forgone as she fly’s to a gateway of semi perfection.
I see you with soul shut, mind open, spinning in a circle.
Just as you are.
The sun sinks, rays outstretched.
Sky envy’s the swiftness of her hair, water craves the flow of her fingers
Only the dirt is content with the dance of her feet.
This way and that.
The wind plays with her in symphony of joy.
All of nature pulsing with the simple pleasure of her presence.
This is all I am allowed to take from her.
Then she smiles.
I sit under the shelter of a tree, the shadow protects me from the shrapnel of her beauty.
As it bounces off the timeless leaves of grass.
Mistress of the colors that you command so effortlessly.
Never slowing down.
Sparks that would be jagged, now glide peaceful from your eyes.
No longer colliding with the earth, fearing that they will never see you again.
Bright blue globes absorbing her surroundings with delight.
Even as I see her.
Then the moment is over.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 11:47 PM UTC
Comfort is in what you've got,
take what comfort you've excelled a lot!
Stay close to me, so close to me,
Dance with me, then chance with me,
Sacred to my heart.
A meteor struck the very start,
If its difficult for you then please say no.
Take solace and let it grow, take light of all situation flows,
Stay close to me, so close to me,
Talk with me, so talk to me,
A second thunder of an attack.
As the lightning struck my very back.
If its difficult for you then please say no.
What's the story baby?
Where's that sun shone diagram?
For hours, a second lately,
Sleep then wake its just began.
Too many other stories,
Too many outcomes one
Has it for reeled me baby?,
sender out and comfort one.
Oh she says,
And she prays,
Oh she comes like the ocean,
Just are you in it for the long run?
Take comfort in what you got, its comfort is that what you for got.
Stay close with me if not with me,
A breath in and all its neatness,
Fiction or Fact,
The ending hasn't lacked.
If its difficult for you then please say no.
O'Reily@03072014
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
say wide thy heart
(i shall enter it the sea)
i shall,
by armies of lips,
forge into its miles
deepest ruts of burning neatness.
i shall,
in it,
very softly sow
1 seed.
(which by shall erupt
thy paleset coffin
into the carefullest of stars; reeling
).
and shall,
it by erupting,
become the sea
(entering it)
of me.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
A plain woman in a checkered dress
Trapped on a windy hill with a man whose every thought
Was crops and cows and bad weather coming,
You cooked every meal on time,
Served lunches exactly
When the hands aligned.
At the stroke of noon.
You drove "flagger,"
Moving trucks and tractors
From field to field,
Raised two boys and two girls...
Buried one in shock and disbelief;
And then moved on.
I know your secret.
On that swept-neat farmstead
Under the green roofs
Beside the red barn
In your white walls,
The rational order,
The unnatural neatness
Belied you.
Lydia,
Woman of the Romantic Heart,
You of the secret desire and passion...
Beside your chair in that sparse house
Stood a stack of novels,
Romance in easy reach,
An escape from harsh reality.
Ahhh.
The stolen moments!
The bliss of passion!
Handsome strangers ready
To rescue you from wind-blown land.
What guilty ecstasies you stole
Came five miles from the post office,
Ninety-five cents a copy,
Wrapped in brown paper,
Tucked in a galvanized milk pail.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 3:41 PM UTC
Let us put a few pages between us
Unread, unsaid, unshed
Unsoiled if it could be said
Likened as if they would stay
Empty as the newborn day
Unruffled as a Sunday afternoon
Too many flavors have spoiled the cook
Shape-shifting constituents of exactitude
Aplomb with certitude
Straight as an arrow
Smooth as certainty
Singular as perfect pursuit
Agaze are you, blue hue
Cobalt true and blue
Cerulean sometimes soft
and clouding
Metallic pallet surrounding
Hard as steel,
Warm as a cold day in May
Where analysis paralysis
Has you curious
Doubting and dubious
Calculous and carefulness
Left you immaculately scandleless
Does it sometimes get so lonely
Between the devil and the deep blue sea
Have you ever not looked before you leap
Do you ever gurgle goo goo’s
Before you go go
Running in place
Going nowhere
Never too close
Never too base
Was it ever not intentional
Wrought by incompleteness
Messy this neatness
Red hot chili sweetness
Intense with meetness
Hurt and heat compete
Will you ever admit defeat
This can’t go on
I’m ending it here now
This is the end
My pretend friend
I tore up the recipe
I’m going to make you over again
A pinch of friendly less pretense
A dash of vulnerabilities
Stir to understanding consistency
Deep well cooker piquancy
Boil until bubbles break
Give and take
Friend
Skewer to hold shape
Then lift with a circular motion
More kneading
Less bias
Low and slow
Until tender
More me
Less you
This I can do
And so can you
I’ve made you anew
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC
Small Morning Poem
How many times have we heard
"I understand you completely"
And repeat exactly what you just said!
There are some that say that conditionally
Or ender conditions
I want to know how many times is the truth said
Around places of peace
I wonder how many times is the preaching,
being done
I admit it, I don't always do what I preach
Or preach what I do.
God is working on changing that
But it is time for US to stop the concept of Religion
Its just like a long list of chores
What we live is life though God's words
Through the bible and Jesus called religious people "hoers"
All the do is make a façade of neatness
dressing up the outside making it look nice
"I understand you completely"
Only say it if you mean it
Only try it if its real
God understood and died for me
Ill understand and Live for him
Im not strong, but you have my hand
and my shoulder to cry on
If God gives me the opportunity to hear your story
Ill listen, but I wont pretend to know how you feel
Ill tell you that im here
And that I am real
Don't tell God you have a big problem
Tell your problem you have a Big God!!!!
Those who have ears to hear,
let him hear!
(In the Words of Jesus Christ!!)
We are forgiven!!!!
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 7:48 AM UTC
It's odd to think of how much time I spend working out a mental fallacy or problem in my head or on paper and then it's just gone. It's like a rhetorical analysis and my life is a story.
Today i was struggling a tad about spending this weekend at my boyfriend's and him not spending too much time with me. But immediately afterward, I summed that yes, he's happy to see me, but I was the one who asked to visit and he already had plans of things to do. So Though he appreciated my company, he has others things to do and enjoy as well.
This is not OUR weekend or holiday. I am just participating in it.
It was like this welling emotion of hurt suddenly was alleviated, knowing that it was not about shirking me; it was about getting things he had already endeavored to do done.
Thinking gets me to many better places than places I previously was before.
I solve a lot of my own problems staring at a screen and typing them out, or just staring and thinking in general. It gets me through issues that don't need to be issues. Its just my chemical imbalances ramping up small emotions that need not be catastrophic, but can sometimes turn to be.
Similarly, I've solved why I'm an extrovert writer. My only friends were people in stories, and though I adore human energy and potential, real human beings do not compare to the neatness and logic of story characters. They can both feel as real, but real people can change on a dime, or be growthless, or waste their time and learn nothing.
In a story we'd call that unrealistic.
So I'm content being around people, feeding off their glorious energy, but also fine not being too interactive at all times. I can hear voices in movies, I can meet people in stories. I can suffice on the people between pages, and also the people out of pages who feel strong and real and connective to me.
Thinking and reflecting is one of my strongest traits. Telling my therapist about this trait was one of the first times I realized my possible brilliance. I told her I reflect and work out problems with myself, as it was the only way I figured out how to live when things were worst, and she was stunned. She says that trait, one used to often, can sometimes be attributed to genius.
Understandably, I was also stunned.
Reflecting on reflecting even feels rejuvenating. I am so proud of this skill, the skill that kept me alive and now is helping me learn to be self-sufficient. The growth is exponential. The usability is astounding.
I feel so lucky to be able to have it.
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 3:20 PM UTC
An apple a day keeps the doctor away
The number thirteen is unlucky, they say
But what do they know as they kneel, as they pray?
Very little, or so I suspect.
To know one does not is to follow a path
Down which Socrates travelled through Plato's remarks
In a dialogue 'twixt many men playing parts
In a drama we cannot reject.
The orchid expresses a testicle's tresses
He yields to a woman's flosculous caresses
Her petals wilt down as the flower undresses
With a perfume unbottled, unkempt.
The covers they rise and the muscles they twist
The lovers meet under a treacherous tryst
Yet nothing prepared for the moment they kissed
And their eyes met with love heaven-sent.
"Loco! Loco!" they bray, wanting neatness to stay
Tidied rooms, closing doors as they're lost by the way
Through which others have carried us day after day
And they're bowing, conforming to norms.
For it's hard when you're scarred to not simply be harmed
By the things that they show you when you are unarmed
By the people you see being not formed but farmed,
Staring blankly with evident scorn.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC