"offhand" poems
With time
they dissipate
no harm
but some broken thought
ash-tray philosophies; you
have a lungful
of sorrows.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
I noticed a while ago.
I am subconsciously
Objectifying everyone.
And when I think about it
Objectified people
Are easier
To deal with.
I don't think this odd tendency of mine is
Natural.
In fact, I'm sure it isn't.
It's the result of a subdued conscience.
A conscience I always had.
I cared deeply for others.
I felt bad
Cried myself to sleep
For the smallest things.
An offhand insult I wasn't sure was even heard.
A chip taken from the lunch table.
An argument to be forgotten and ignored the next day.
I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I cried
Hated myself
Continuously hit myself
Cried more
And had nightmares.
As I got older
These feelings faded
But still I get these pains in the pit of my stomach.
And I remember how I was
Before I was numbed by
Objectification.
I saw people as people.
I cried because
I don't want people to feel bad.
Not because of me!
I can't think of anything worse
Than being that picture on a dartboard
That gives the incentive to
Never.
Miss.
To be hated.
Even disliked.
Thought of as trash
As I often am
I suspect.
Looks of disgust I draw
From people I care for
Who I don't want to hurt
Who constantly hurt me.
It tears me apart
And as I write this I feel tears welling up
Which they haven't done for
Years.
I began this objectification.
"That's just a dumb person."
"He's an idiot."
"Just one of those mean kids."
And I stopped caring if I hurt them
Because caring hurts.
A lot.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 1:42 AM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before dark-fall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.
My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.
A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.
A devilish ********** of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.
Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.
A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.
Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.
Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.
Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.
A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.
A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)
A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.
A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.
A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.
An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.
A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.
A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.
Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.
A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.
Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
"I'd like to be a fly on the wall," you say.
Would you?
Would you really like to be privy to all
that drama and intrigue, without ever being noticed?
Sounds nice, I suppose.
But I'll let you in on a little secret-
That, my dears, is false advertising.
Truth is, people always notice flies
They just choose to ignore them
And lower their voices when you buzz by on sugar-spun wings of self-confidence-
Maybe it's just all in your head
Maybe you've misinterpreted things-behind kaleidoscope eyes
It always looks like there are more of them than you.
So you gain confidence
You hover on the fringes of their circle
And drone out a low hum of 'what've you been up to today?'
Or 'how're you?'
Or 'long day, huh?'
The response is offhand
A verbal flick of the wrist
Batting the ball back into your conversational court
Because coming at you with a fly swatter
Or a rolled up Cosmo magazine
Takes more effort than they're willing to give.
You buzz about some more
Hoping maybe the silence will entice them to engage
But no,
They can't hear your buzzing
Or they won't.
So instead you stand
Fly on the wall
Content with watching the light catch your wings
Repeatedly wringing your hands near your face
In a way they probably think is malevolent
I promise I'm not plotting-
I'm just juggling the weight of my loneliness
Maybe if I shift it from one palm to another
Somehow I will lighten the load.
Take comfort in this, little fly-
The sun makes your wings iridescent
And even though they'll never get close enough to see that, you can.
It's not a trick of the light
Your fractal eyes do not deceive you-
They are duplicate.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before darkfall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 5:51 PM UTC
I want to understand the steep thing
that climbs ladders in your throat.
I can't make sense of you.
Everywhere I look you're there--
a vast landmark, a volcano
poking its head through the clouds,
Gulliver sprawled across Lilliput.
I climb into your eyes, looking.
The pupils are black painted stage flats.
They can be pulled down like window shades.
I switch on a light in your iris.
Your brain ticks like a bomb.
In your offhand, mocking way
you've invited me into your chest.
Inside: the blur that poses as your heart.
I'm supposed to go in with a torch
or maybe hot water bottles
& defrost it by hand
as one defrosts an old refrigerator.
It will shudder & sigh
(the icebox to the insomniac).
Oh there's nothing like love between us.
You're the mountain, I am climbing you.
If I fall, you won't be all to blame,
but you'll wait years maybe
for the next doomed expedition.
2.8k
How many times I lay
On that old couch
Just through the doorway
Where she shuffled from the table to the stove
Bringing food to dad,
In for supper late,
Or moving dishes to the sink
While I rested from the day,
Just lying there,
Unaware of conversations
I was soaking in.
"I should have sold the winter wheat
A week ago.
No telling how far down the price will go
Now that Russia's stopped our sales."
"Pizza, two for seven dollars again;
Apples three pounds for a dollar;
Bread for seventy-nine."
Or heard his offhand orders for next morning:
"Fencing's got to be done at Henry's.
Boys! I need one of you to check the pastures.
Take some salt and mineral along!"
Mother seldom spoke, or if she did,
She gave correction,
Reported pizza inventories, or bread.
Asked clarifying questions,
But always the creaking oven door
Or the running of rinsing water.
I awoke this morning at three,
Almost a year after my fathers death
From a restless dream of lying there.
Heard my mother's sounds,
My father's voice,
Life as once it was,
Mundane and wonderful
From the couch around the corner of the door:
A living memory
I would no more expunge
Than to remove my own name.
In a dream state,
Attentive now to sounds
Grown too late significant,
Too late sweet,
Almost too painful now,
I lay,
Half aware or half awake...
Thankful to live a memory so real,
Unaware I was transfixed
Inside a memory
Moving lightning speed
Through dreams....
As he was readying to leave,
Perhaps to go down to do one last chore,
I heard my father's footstep at the door.
"Dad, I wanted you to know
I love you very much!"
I spoke the words,
Loudly, so he heard.
I heard him clear his throat,
Say something about getting back to work.
And I awoke, a full day's drive away
From that old couch,
Itself five miles up the hill
From the buried urn where his cold ashes lie.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 6:27 AM UTC
A beggar clump adorns a dump, his pencil box in hand -
With sightless eyes upon the skies he’s lying there unmanned.
He’s fallen down in Shantytown, his knees too weak to stand,
With no relief and bitter grief too dark to understand.
The Bowery blight is hid from sight, it’s covered up offhand
While Robin Hood and Brother Hood are buried in the sand.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
You pointed out
all my favorite love stories begin in hatred
an offhand comment about the books and shows
I consume like air
I realized there's nothing I want more
then for someone to see me for my worst
pick apart every negative attribute
yet still promise to love me
all of me
Mar 1, 2021
Mar 1, 2021 at 8:59 PM UTC
for those that may not be aware
I suffer from a disease that doesn't visibly appear
I suffer from a disease known as epilepsy
it's my burden, and I'm not writing this for sympathy
one question that always is asked and repeated
what does it feel like when a seizure occurs? can you beat it?
I think I'll sum this sensation up the best way I can
so please forgive me if this poem is bland
What's the most exhausting thing you've ever done?
whether that be marathon *** or running in the blazing sun?
take that sensation and make it twenty times worse
now there's the physical aftereffects in this very verse
Now for the mental feeling of solid lucidity,
a full but empty feeling that can't really be explained
only experienced really, and that doesn't sound sane
it's like being drunk yet sober, high but haven't smoked
but all the while, your brainstem is being choked
You know, I've realized it's impossible to describe a seizure completely offhand,
but count yourself lucky if you aren't prone to them,
even with this burden, I'll make my life grand
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
Dismay
I wanted sweetness, comfort and intimacy
To be soothed and eased
To be held and cossetted
To be your little one
Your pet
Safe again and cherished
Cast down
Deflated
Punished
Degraded
Hopeless
Did you intend that darkness for me?
You have the ability to do me deep hurt
In your offhand positioning
The taste of future abuses
Not even physical force or pain
Twist of your words
Barbed wires you fashion just for me
A series of small cuts
That burn and seep
I felt your power over me
Is that safety?
I contemplated rebellion
I thought about being a brat.
Acting out disappointment and displeasure
Instead, I came to heel
Literally
Ending and beginning with the intimacy of your foot pressing my cheek into cold tiles and the prospect of further violations.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
She is green tea with honey,
summer days and blonde hair.
She is a golden retriever
and a husky,
happy, intelligent, yet reserved.
She is the beach and a sunrise,
campfires and s’mores in the warm air
breathing in the dust and smoke,
laughing about two years ago.
She is incense and paintings,
blue walls and ceilings,
she is a ***** joke said
offhand with raised eyebrows,
she is stacks of books and video games,
she is bubblegum ice cream and
walking through a cemetery.
She is old technology and practicality,
she is punctuality and arriving
early with a peach smoothie in hand.
She is the cold shock of river water.
She is alternative music blaring from
a ****** car radio and a road trip
where everyone but the driver falls asleep.
She is rock candy and ice cream bars, riding the biggest
roller coaster ten times over again.
She is a content silence and
a sly smile.
She is mine and you cannot have her.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
I’ve been waiting for so long,
On the road that never ends
Migrating between seasons to my
Pastoral lands north and south
Searching for your unfamiliar face
In forest foothills, swarming buses
And basins next to the Ganges.
I can wait till the moon hits the sea
The time- till you come, till you come.
Flashing lights, chiming bells,
Inscent sticks and a peculiar charm-
You carried, they said.
But you’re flesh and blood for me
Truth and reality knotted between
My garland of jasmine flowers.
I can wait with full heart and glistening eyes
Till you come, till you come.
There is no haste, I’m anticipating an upcoming
There is no starry blanket or mount chariot
But there are fireflies and a summer sun
Playing peekaboo with my shadow
Behind the mangrove forest
Envisaging your ticket to this world.
A crew of lasses claims and expects you
But you’re beyond love they could conceive.
Let the world scream, cry and yell
I still can wait till you come, till you come.
You’re a friend, philosopher and guide
I adore, worship and awaits your arrival.
Merchant ladies who walked my hut
Asked me all day to keep a ghee lamp
I lit a thousand lamps and still you dint-
Walk my shed. This life is not long enough
To witness thy face, eternal and mysterious
I can wait till you come, till you come.
The journey is beautiful, endless and offhand,
Walking through lanes strangely acknowledged
But there’s a feeling familiar still so odd.
The walk is not to say good bye but it’s a quest,
A prayer to reach your mountain nest.
There is the world- cirrus and starry nights
I can escape for the time forever from tides-
That counts the time- to the unknown!
I can’t wait, till you come, till you come.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
My sister asked how I got my scars
That run half the length of my lower left arm
Casually, almost offhand, I asked her why
"If I had cuts like that I'd cry"
"Well little sister, perhaps it's best
If I lay your mind to rest
And say that I was not okay during this time
And we should focus on the present rather than what is behind"
She was satisfied with this, but I was not
My heart burst so hard, like I was shot
I want to protect her from this torturous truth
That "I was not okay" and was tempted to try the noose
More like the knife, I even had a plan
Yet I'm better now, I don't understand
Just like my little sister, things confuse me
Like what's in my head and what is reality
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 8:50 AM UTC
Tearing apart the seams of my sewn up heart, because I'm sick of feeling fake fixed.
I'm sick of all the insincere apologies, the half truths told to cover up the lies.
I'm sick of feeling like at any second the seams of my heart could break
open, because of an offhand word you say you didn't mean.
Scratching at the scars on my torn up mind, reminding myself that I made it through,
even when the universe said I couldn't. I'm sick of being doubted.
I'm sick of you saying I can't.
Pulling at the strings of my marionette life,
trying to remember how to work them by myself.
But you're the master puppeteer, controlling my every move.
I'm sick of being controlled. I'm sick of leaving my life in your hands,
only for you to leave it on a dusty shelf in the back of your attic
with all the other hearts you've stolen.
I'm sick of needing you.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
She looked so sweet but she had black eyes
That charming little smile was surprisingly sly
An innocent act she continued to play
There was never a rumor, for there was nothing to say
She constantly, craftily, stole the upper hand
Guilefully cunning, appearing offhand
Triumphant she was when her deception succeeded
Prancing away from the hate that she seeded
Her friends were like puppets, their fate she controlled
A friend to no end, when she spoke she cajoled
She listened wide-eyed, and blinked in surprise
She was begged to help, and begged to chastise
So she fixed the stories in her own way
Discarding the remnants, displayed to decay
Contented and sprightly she talked very lightly
So sweetly and sightly she left ever brightly.
And now you know of the girl with black eyes
With that charming smile that's ever so sly
So don't be fooled by her false disposition
Otherwise, you will find
yourself
in a most
unfortunate
position.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
It was raining.
On this damp May evening, my mother turned to my sister and asked her to refrain from speaking to me.
Pensive is the word she used.
My sister heard the word "pencil" and thought I was sick with lead poisoning.
I remember her checking the room for different writing utensils, she was looking to hide them as you do the knives when the depressed family member comes for a visit. Such a sweet girl to take the graphite and leave the eraser. I'm sure it was a subconscious gesture, or made with complete disregard, but nevertheless I was smiling.
The first time I fell in love, I was standing up straight, head over heels. A web browser was open before me, asking the difference between love and anxiety. Later did I come to find that the former and latter are more similar than most know or care to know. One night while looking at her lips and glancing at her eyes, she told me I was adaptable. That was the first time I questioned love for lust.
My grandfather started crying.
His hands, those of a carpenter, were holding his face. There I sat across from him, hairs on my neck standing, praying for him to speak first. He always spoke first. He would also tell me to stop him if I've heard the story he was going to tell, although I never did. But the story happening before me was one I wanted to stop but couldn't. Never have I seen this man cry, and that would be the only time I ever would. Two years later he had passed on peacefully.
By then it was my turn to cry.
Some remember the words they've spoken. Others the words they've heard. But I can recall all of the times I've sat in silence. The moments and memories I hold in the company of the ones I love or have had love for are some of the more quiet times in my life. The only quiet which can rival that told above are the times that I've spent putting word to paper. And those are the quiet times I can't remember offhand, but I can always revist. Those quiet times are kept in the walnut filing cabinet.
Right beside the
photograph of the cabinet maker.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed...
over soft new grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before dark-fall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 1:04 AM UTC
IV.
the boy takes you into his house and you come home that night with bruises on your neck. you took your shirt off
and threw it on his carpet and you’re trying to forget how he asked to kiss your stomach
and you said "no" too loudly. you kept telling the boy you wanted to leave,
but he kept kissing you and asking you to stay, and now you haven’t slept
and you have to hold open your eyelids if you want to get anything done. he keeps telling you that
you’re beautiful as if it should fix everything, as if his opinion alone can cure you, but all you can do is thank him
and hope he can’t see past the walls in your eyes.
he drives you home and you’re wearing another boy’s sweatshirt, but you're past caring.
you wonder offhand what he would do if he knew, and that’s all, and you stop wondering.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 2:16 PM UTC
I’m split for time
So, offhand, here, I tip tap a rhyme
Dissecting and resembling
This Frankenstein text
Suffering, the ice of distance
Flagging the pole of our love
You’ve got a pull, no effort—enough!
Cursing the hailstorm that rains from above
And don’t get me started
See, I’m hardly smarting
Ice’s no price when you’re on thrice rejected
Yes, that’s no success
**** I’ve been there twice X neglected
—I’d guess you’d call that my best
So I turn from the possible
Down fantasy lane
Looking in the mirror at phantom me
Knocking on reflections, does it even have a name?
The ghost of the past made present with past pains
I swear these stains won’t come out
No matter how the tissue tears
No matter the boxes emptied out
Costco’s gonna need another round…
I shout into the silent replication
My reflected repetition
Distended, this pretender’s a sinner
Me? See, I’m a saint
And there’s no role for mercy
Hell, I’ll be thirsty when I’m thirty
And a little birdy told me you’re sturdy
So say hello to your pen-protector perfect nerd
Let’s curve the interrogation
Move on to you and I
Because honestly
I’ll lose if we get too far past “Hi.”
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 1:54 AM UTC
I hate to insult my own mother
But I'm afraid this must be
Dealt with.
I feel angry at you most of the time now
But you said something yesterday
An offhand remark
"Thank God I'm not married."
Don't you dare.
Don't you dare make it sound like
God is on your side in not being married
Tearing our family apart
Breaking us all.
Do you know what dad said?
About you not going to counseling?
You don't think he's worth fighting for.
You don't think our happiness and peace are
Worth fighting for.
I promise you
God is not on your side in this.
He never could be.
Not my God.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
just offhand.
and I have a couple ways to spend the hour that would be far more useful than this.
sleep isn't coming, but in a few weekends,
I'm coming home, and coming to visit.
it takes an occasion to write with conviction,
but I can convince myself occasionally.
just offhand.
and this is the verse you get because the first half is mine alone.
and the second part is all you need to know.
you'll be okay.
it's been a long time since I've been away,
and I lost interest.
I'm sorry for misunderstanding.
I'm sorry that I fell in love.
just telling you now, that I'm done.
I have been for awhile.
that doesn't mean that I don't
miss your smile.
I just don't need it everyday.
2/12/13
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 8:54 PM UTC