"notated" poems
tattoo ourselves in electric ink memorializing calendars,
diaries of observantional digits, black on white, no gray,
birthdays, anniversaries, dates of passing, starting lines,
occasional achievements, departure dates, even glaring failures,
sundial mundane records of diurnal habitude…even
defining self by, bye, byte marks upon flesh, upon our calendar
*not my first trip-tracking, he ruefully rues, wry smiling,
many voyages of indeterminate measuring length,
leaving litter of arrays of hopeful estimations & destinations,
each unequal, any or all possibilities, each day notated,
without critique or commentary, the numbers are the
gaols (jails) of goals, target, indeterminate determination,
terrific, horrific, introspections, inverse images resolve, resolute*
a year ago, +/- a few days,, new travelogue commenced,
notated but not annotated, just numerical truths,
(sans comments for the divine nature of numbers don’t lie)
and today my calculator app informs, that I am now
19.4 % lesser, but that clarifies less than expected
naturally this provokes a natty,
spirited, self-inquiry, lessened,
lessor, for better or for worse?
have the physical alterations
accompanying this reduction
mean exactly what,
if, it should be, a greater lesser?
here is the hard part.
your have always been a mirror~poet,
laughing, bemoaning the unvarnished, unshaven
AM sightings of a human perpetual dissatisfied,
the external never denying the interior “less~than,”
a J Peterman catalogue of weathered ****** expressions,
counter-parted by multiple Venn diagram intersections,
of experiential labeled bits & pieces of emotional empirical
less than good, not even close to perfect, so now that I am
*gaunt, spare, lean, grayed, narrower, again ruefully rue,
the even more visible truth reflection eye~hidden:*
I,
am the sum of the weight of my history, my deeds,
my disbeliefs, murderous deeds, weak choices
and that hasn’t changed nary an ounce, no matter
many times examined, indeed I am forever a lesser man,
there, internal infernal
too…
Apr 9, 2023
Apr 9, 2023 at 2:12 PM UTC
a plain poem (the first time I came in you)
a plain poem, light and effervescent, a flim-flan tasting,
plein de absurde rimes, full of nonsensical rhymes,
a lattice of criss crossing pastry sugary lines, the ones,
cannot, struggle to deduce, induce, reduce
from my constipated vocabulary
oh well
~
*the first time I came in you,
entered, bidden welcome,
suffused a bridge between
the party of the first part,
the party of the second part,
sugar lightness airy nonsense,
two spirits dancing the singular
pas de deux of their finite lives,
a performance unbeatable,
unrepeatable,
lost to the perfection annals
Shockingly, Surprisingly, Summarily,
did not compose an ode,
don't mine a new vein of ore,
even write a plain poe poem
as best can recall,
at the candle melting of the
sealing wax of the deal,
gave an honest speech,
instantly falling fast asleep
with nary a grunted word
ever since l,
cannot write of plain love plainly,
so she makes me pay with a
new living elegant elegy daily,
a quatrain, what a pain,
this iambic panting meter
love poem writing
jeez louise,
how I wish could write of
roses red and violets blue,
get back to sleep,
oh well then,
back to work
got to make those sad moans,
hers, go away,
so please excuse me
near ten years later,
still paying the dues of the
initializing error of my way
she rumbles-mumbles in her
pre-awakening dream state,
so please excuse, got to go, think up
some implicated complicated
verses to soothe away
her simple poorly hidden anxieties
you see,
I am happy paying
on and on,
writing like the devil furious,
she is stirring, coffee soon,
cafe au lait
if you get my meaning,
but still cannot beat,
repeat, re-alive
that simple plain living poem notated,
when first I came in her*
<•;)
9/24/17 6:49am ~7:17am
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 7:29 AM UTC
a series of negations
notated through angles
cascading, effervescent
in my life and wayward
my creation
an algorithmic error
personalized, recapitulated
almalgams of ones ones and zeros
looking back I see that sometimes
I would stitch together
turning melodies
from the sinews of the noise
I took from their bellies
but mainly, back then
I just drooled red into the clamor
-
a decade later I possess
striking imagery
my very own proverb
on visual omnipotence
but its tacky doesn’t oblige me
no more than the sheets of apathy
I peeled from my skin
I found a purpose that flows through my ears
and with it, happily I am
taken away
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 1:53 AM UTC
•••
"on some days, I love you more than others,"
an early morning uh oh
IROLO
(instantly regretted out loud observation),
of the potentially ruinous kind,
spoken with malice towards none,
*and obviously,
no forethought,*
firmly but modestly muttered
over the modestly rumpled
courtroom battlefield
of sheets, newsprint, mugs
and Bocelli on low
smockingly,
(a slow spreading smile of mock),
she turns her gaze upon
the presumed guilty, querulous,
soon-to-be-ruined ruminator (me),
and asks with
disdainful derisive decisiveness
is your first cuppa too hot darling?
has your uncommon sense of non-sense been burnt?
t'is true I reply,
I feel the burn!
for am I not sworn
to tell the whole heated truth
and nothing but?
my love for you is simply
a mathematical additive,
progression series
every new day I love you
is forever
a mighty mite more
than the prior,
a smudged smidge of a penciled line,
taller than the
higher higher notated
upon ancient yesterday's doorpost
ergo,
ip so factoid,
and therefore,
by definition
on some days I love you more than others
•••
p.s. never have conversations like this in the presence of within-reach newspapers,
for they be
easy rolled and revised
into fearsome weaponry,
suitably for handy smacking"*
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 4:46 PM UTC
transducer -
a device that receives a signal in the form of one type of energy and converts it to a signal in another form: A microphone is a transducer that converts acoustic energy into electrical impulses
~~~~~~~~~
so many names,
none of them, kind,
none of them, nice words
The A, The B, The C word.
she would laugh and mock a spite and spittle filled man's
feeble curses and flit off to
charge her battery, steal electric life,
from a new outlet, another male body.
now a queen bee, regaling me,
her private audience,
with takes and tales,
of newly arrived
used up worker-boys,
her pleasure sources,
discards after a
singed single discharging/recharging
why come back to me,
what perversity,
did I supply?
she was elegant,
not stupid mean,
she was royal, imaginative,
her conception of a life well lived
was freedom from responsible,
self servicing,
the only motive
the negative pole, was I,
her cruelties energy, supplied
she was a transducer,
she was a re-former,
making her hate into her positivity
the original sin, mine,
hardly original, a cheating a beating,
plot of a rerun, rerun
the fist of being her
first
and then,
her last,
and now her only,
was
her curse returned,
sevenfold unending
her vocabulary was her deeds,
and her stories,
raw rut, well writ,
notated with selfies,
to insure my eyes agonists,
lest I cover my ears
I am your Transducer
she boasted,
pronouncing it languidly,
completing its proclamation
with the venom of a shotgun
I am your
Transsssssss-ducer!
I am a woman more sinned against than sinning,^
I am a woman more avenged by revenging,
I have taken your energy,
learned your cruelty,
and it has transformed me.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
Blessedly, funerals,
don't have to go to too many,
though went to one
just this day,
for our next door country neighbor,
the nicest dour-looking,
rascally dearest man
The Catholic church full,
the hymns lovely,
the priest spoke
simple and beautiful,
about the paschal lamb
and the
Judeo-Christian Heritage
and
Life Everlasting,
an interesting concept,
that I had long forgot about
Must have conjured up
three minimum ideas
for poems,
not even including
this reportage
maybe I will write some,
tho the normative jelly of
Manhattan bus shaking
mine own recipe for inspiration,
when combined with
my peanut buttered
sheltered island by the Great Peconic Bay,
both, will be my swirled
inspiration everlasting
Can't write about
moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies,
the way I write is
just the way I think
writ out loud
so to the essay at hand,
funeral of a man,
mine all planned,
the invites ready,
awaiting the correct postage stamp
of a future time and place
the date, more or less sketched,
the poems, selected, notated
for whoever shows,
pick a read,
win a free trip to the cemetery
and maybe one back to his "parlor"
where food, drink and bon mots are
vous parlez'd and his spirit,
now a parolee, will be watching
smiling, for funerals are camaraderie,
so longs and fare-thee-wells,
and the hands of friends embracing,
celebrations in their own way,
and a time to tell stories of what
treasures they have left you,
silver linings of a life well writ,
and tho someday,
they'll be time-tarnished,
even half forgot,
the stories and the love poems
are the seeds of life everlasting
Passover/Easter
March 2014
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
The bomb blast tore like a new toy.
Science who ranks as distemper
outshone the future.
Scribes of contemporary fore
deliriously notated
the torn ligaments.
Opiates scream dying life
The bomb blast imploded
our unspoken rationale
short of Humanity.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 3:45 PM UTC
~for Henessy J. Beltre and all the new Observers of the Universe~
“my goal is to develop a more personalized meaning of beauty, love, and self actualization through my writing.” Henessy J. Beltre
each word, chewed upon,
individually and collectively
as I drive from Roma to Firenze,
long drives in unfamiliar scapes, olive shaded greens,
umbrella trees, and thin thickets of the vineyards planted
in the years notated as B.C.
are life pauses, asking, admission to the clarifying blankness
that commands rifle shots of riflessione (reflection)
your words, goading foaling, are all our goals,
succinctly refined, for doesn’t every and each poem
asks through our eyes what are the visions of
love and beauty that is the actuality we ceaseless seek
avanti signorina!
unleash the wild words that will make your mission
burst from the ancient to the revitalizing, knowing this,
that the universals you seek to dress yourself within,
to share here, to create, to actualize,
are products of your truths
be unaffected by stale mores, conventions dictates,
spill truths, soiled and used, cherished and recycled in
new ways, so that each of one of us
blesses you with one word:
exactly!
31/10/18
on the autoroute to Firenze
read https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2793919/universe/
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 6:35 AM UTC
someday it will be willed (have I told you lately that I love you?)
that the poetry ceases,
no more birthdays notated
calendar closed, the xxx’s axed,
kitchen junk drawer, a consignment store,
no longer needed, the futility of saving
knickknacks, maximized, the no lasting
value proposition, realized, eulogized.
pictures of beautiful automobiles,
decorated with beautiful women,
will forever be last year’s models,
one calendar too far, not long enough
no more of
have I told you lately that I love you?
wrote you plenty love poems so, hereafter,
you won’t be bereft, left farklempt,
arranged one-a-day, on a timed delay,
so many more that will appear in your
inbox until you too, no longer choose open it.
no more “sirprising” I love you statements,
taped to the milk carton, it was so willed,
the daily counting, record keeping, who first,
how many, secretly added to a grocery list,
in stuff that was so beloved, exasperating,
making you just right amount of crazy, smiling....
someday it will be willed, so,
here’s the first of many more....
Jul 18, 2020
Jul 18, 2020 at 4:19 PM UTC
That means there's a problem..
There's a problemo.. knockin at your door...
Problems.. and mo problems
and your not good at solving them..
Or some one don't want them solved.
And/Or somebody tried..
And/Or somebody has lied..
And/or issues have been
allowed to slip and slide..
And drama has come along for the ride.
Someone with you had taken a chance
On Your love and on you and their romance.
And now you don't want to stay for the dance.
Someone took a risk..
And now its come down to this..
Separated twist.
How are you opting to fix it..
Its worth it.. Or is it.
What you do.
Will tell us a lot about you.
Separated. "its complicated'. Ex rated.. notated..
Kindly stated.. You ready now.
To make it even more complicated..
Your offering yourself for friendships.
Things to sink awaited ships.
Losing rings.. Coated and dipped..
I can not risk, the fellowship. A friendship..
Fix it fix it..
Until then don't add to the mix.
Until you can say single.
Divorced ready to mingle..
So The Word Separated..
Is Kindly Notated.
@Complicated
by selinasharday_H.E.RPoetry ..s.a.m 2019
May 11, 2019
May 11, 2019 at 8:01 PM UTC
A heart is an infinite flower
Imbued with deep and mystic power
For in each beat love is notated
In hearts our passion syncopated
Touched only once by cherub’s darts
Every heart is filled with sparks
Blossoming like Jacaranda
Hearts long to live and meander
Beating for the passers by
Friendly hearts are alibis
A deep and most exquisite art
Is the humble, human heart
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 1:57 AM UTC
standing in the pre-dawn glow
I raise my arms to the last great god of men
and wonder why no one
praises Venus
when they crossed the sea
it was Venus who parted the waves
when they looked around at calamity
it was Venus they cursed
when they wrote calendars
it was the variation in the great comet
that influenced days, months, and years
we have forgotten –
a bright spot on the horizon
is all that remains
of the horned beast
that nearly wiped humanity from existence
the massive upheaval documentation
either verbally in the native tribes
or physically as with the Chinese or Hindu
state clearly the reality
natural destruction
in the eyes of those who came before
was placed on an invisible all-knowing god
while today,
news agents would explain
an incoming comet
is about to destroy all life as we know it
get ready –
looking up at the star filled night sky in wonder
and amazement
as I now understand why
these were the gods
and their movements and actions so carefully notated
sadly, we will not get to relive this sight
it will be our own actions
that bring about the new age of man –
no longer is a planetary body required
when we can build nuclear reactors and dump waste into the oceans
there is no real necessity for god to send
agents from heaven
to smite unholy cities
we drone bomb the innocents daily
long past are the days in which a vengeful lord
would take actions against those who would deny
Monsanto and BP have completely poisoned
any and all available land that was once
suited for inhabitation or food production
engineered salmon swim through
plastic islands
in a quest to bash their mutated brains
into man made dams
that no longer do anything but
stop the natural flow of the rivers –
broken promises of a returning savior
have the masses crying out
while refusing personal responsibility for anything
when they burn in the fires of neglected industrialization
I will sit atop a lonely mountain peak
and enjoy natural hand-made marshmallows
with those who would listen
and take heed --
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 2:13 PM UTC
I hate your eyes.
They're so big. They stare.
They mock me so.
They laugh.
You're so scared of being a good person.
It's so much easier for you to manipulate
Why feel when they give so freely?
Because they want your body. Your perfect curves.
That smile, those perfect crescent moons just below
The beautiful frequency notated collar bone
Etched and perfectly carved below your neck
Proportionally exact to the beauty we envision
During fantasies and action flicks and tabloids
Your face, the face of a star
A star-fucker.
Force you out. You are no longer what I desire.
Hilariously enough, I am no longer saying it for you
It's for me. It always was, in a way. But now...
There can only be one.
This town isn't big enough for the two of us.
So hurry up and do what you swore to do
For so long.
Run. Leave.
Go.
We're forcing you out.
Command.
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 2:01 PM UTC
I will rewrite history.
will decoupage the walls and lay
today's newspapers across our scripts
notated phone calls between
you and i
will let the past be the past but
i will scumble it over in red alkyd flat
line the hairlines with vicuna threads
and braided burlap
will let the sink run till it
lifts edges of the counter,
soapstone memorials we
built to emphasize our
bitter weaknesses for
eachother to live up to
till everything runs between
the floorboards
everything about you and i
will bubble up and release
gently snap and move apart
we were no mettalurgists
but we tried--
to be as hard as all get up
iconel hearts stripping
eachother and you
bought out, you win
you're the alloy
and I am
raw skin and soul
but I willl not be
bothered by the upheaval
as much as i break apart
(because I have been)
making a fool of myself
but i have hope that something
new will crack the casing
i am leaving in the quietest
way possible
relocating
he left months ago
and i am just starting to pack
my things but i wouldn't have
it any other way--
have you ever tried to force a
purge?
here i am,
here it is
the runoff.
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 9:33 PM UTC
I see you sometimes
And I can tell from that
Faraway look in your eyes
That you spend too much time
Waiting
And not enough time
At peace
With yourself.
It feels like you've spent
Most of your life
Waiting
For the bus.
It's warm for February
But your hands are slightly
Chapped and your flannel is worn
Down and missing a button.
As the air bites your
Ears just remember your
Eyes only water when
They want to be free.
One by
One
Each piece of
Your drum kit
Flies away
One by
One
Each memory comes
Back at night.
Until all you have left
Is a snare
The same snare you
Started out on
And you're still the
Nervous kid
Who didn't make it into the
Salvation Army band.
Find a street corner
And scream at three
If you're in the right town
Nobody will question it.
It's too easy to hate the things
That are thought at night when the only
Bones that will work are
The red ones inside of your hands.
*Stop
Just
Stop
Now.*
All the memories that keep popping
To the surface like the
Bubbles in your carbonated
Beverage
Stop trying to
Push them back down.
**STOP
JUST
STOP
NOW.**
There are signs
Flashing
Warnings and
You won't listen.
**YOU CAN'T
CHANGE
WHAT YOU DON'T
ACKNOWLEDGE.**
And there's one more
To add to your list
Of screaming messages
Notated in black ink
On blue tape
Stuck to your cranium.
Ice and rubber
Fire and glass
If there's a cure
You haven't found it.
But now the bus is snaking
Up the hill and you're
Shifting your feet and
I can tell that you're not going to
Let your mind start wandering
Until the next time you're
Waiting for the bus
Downstream from a cigarette.
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
tattoo ourselves in electric ink memorializing calendars,
diaries of observantional digits, black on white, no gray,
birthdays, anniversaries, dates of passing, starting lines,
occasional achievements, departure dates, even glaring failures,
sundial mundane records of diurnal habitude…even
defining self by, bye, byte marks upon flesh, upon our calendar
*not my first trip-tracking, he ruefully rues, wry smiling,
many voyages of indeterminate measuring length,
leaving litter of arrays of hopeful estimations & destinations,
each unequal, any or all possibilities, each day notated,
without critique or commentary, the numbers are the
gaols (jails) of goals, target, indeterminate determination,
terrific, horrific, introspections, inverse images resolve, resolute*
a year ago, +/- a few days,, new travelogue commenced,
notated but not annotated, just numerical truths,
(sans comments for the divine nature of numbers don’t lie)
and today my calculator app informs, that I am now
19.4 % lesser, but that clarifies less than expected
naturally this provokes a natty,
spirited, self-inquiry, lessened,
lessor, for better or for worse?
have the physical alterations
accompanying this reduction
mean exactly what,
if, it should be, a greater lesser?
here is the hard part.
your have always been a mirror~poet,
laughing, bemoaning the unvarnished, unshaven
AM sightings of a human perpetual dissatisfied,
the external never denying the interior “less~than,”
a J Peterman catalogue of weathered ****** expressions,
counter-parted by multiple Venn diagram intersections,
of experiential labeled bits & pieces of emotional empirical
less than good, not even close to perfect, so now that I am
*gaunt, spare, lean, grayed, narrower, again ruefully rue,
the even more visible truth reflection eye~hidden:*
I,
am the sum of the weight of my history, my deeds,
my disbeliefs, murderous deeds, weak choices
and that hasn’t changed nary an ounce, no matter
many times examined, indeed I am forever a lesser man,
there, internal infernal
too…
Apr 16, 2023
Apr 16, 2023 at 3:57 PM UTC