"opining" poems
when that hopefully ecofriendly R.I.P becomes my final home
whether bios urn
or spirit seed
or any trendy tree from corpse to copse,
from dust to leaves
or better than
a crematorial commode --for fresher air and fuel for brighter flames
transplanted into other selves
redressed in mushroom spore-suit
seeded with the genes of generations hence and past,
piercing veils to fruit above again,
a mycophile to the last--
i will have lived with growth in mind,
that firm amorphous
ground opining green
to kindly live and die in kind
foment another view,
encompass monumental evanesce
supernal tablets branching neo-dolmen ethernexusnets beyond the r00ts
barking technoshaman psychic rings about a fiberoptic rosey,
perhaps a sappier refrain for finer silica domains
to sing along and echo Dryads doting long ago,
in threaded tones the make-remaking fold
of earthenborn rekindled kin of stars
decided to invent to cater otherworldly themes
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
Greetings and salutations m'lady
Thou hast been absent and missed
Most notably thoust smile and
thine choired voice espousing deep longing and
opining of distant and never-presentness
despite opportunity and invitation.
Lulled into sleep by your gently warming coo,
flightless i remain.
Turn, I will again,
'gainst the mournful draw of your beckoning, and slip into
dream, once more.
Cool is the pillow upon which i rest my weary head,
restless is the mind inside.
Tumbled and tossed, like an ocean-dweller upon
crashing waves,
waiting to be heaved breathless
upon your shore.
The fire has been ignited,
flames dance brilliantly around me,
a barefoot saviour, pulling me through
the wet sand,
offering sweet coconut water
and reminding me to breathe.
Twinkle, twinkle million stars embedded in
desolate black woven fabric,
eyes make contact.
Blue-green ocean-farer with autumn-acorn islander.
Universe unravels, and sits aback
allowing truth and impromptu correlations
to take hold.
For this is the work of God!
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 5:38 AM UTC
The Riddle
One of you has seen my face.
One of you knows where I live.
Stuff. Important stuff,
like the locale of
my hidey-holes.
My email and my
cell disclosed
soon to be
on sale on eBay
for a trifling sum.
So now I must
disburse to parts
more remote,
reappear in a
nouveau identity.
Just a necessary precaution.
Moreover, methinks
you have grown
tired of my waning voice,
waxing ineloquently,
opining too frequently.
feel like a
thick wooly straw
welcome mat,
edges unravelling,
grown raggedy,
roundabout the edges,
or like a
paperback book,
tho well thumbed,
nonetheless,
consigned to the
bye-bye
discard box.
riddle me,
me be the riddle,
when I scribe
under a new
Nom de Plume.
will you recognize,
my signature
hid amidst the
restless words that
still need a home?
are my poems
worthy of a
second glance,
do you predispose
your attentions on
your favorites only,
the newbies squeaking
ignored and unattended,
whose ranks I have
now rejoined?
did you ever meet
a poem
you did not like?
did you ever greet
a poet
with palms
outwardly raised,
saying, no mas,
had enough,
no time for you
and your
clouded clarifications?
need you.
need you to judge me,
without the saddlebags of
predisposition and imposition.
if you need me
just give me a
loud holler
in my sleepy hollow.
tho sadly my
country road,
has listening posts
on the telephone wires,
I will know, when.
you call,
your voice,
I will come,
if you ask,
always.
I'll be riddling
in plain sight,
if you have the taste
for and of me,
you will find me
soon enough.
HOWEVER,
in emergencies
all you need dial,
my digital signature,
911 and
ask for the
Poetry Hotline.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
A glowering beat ******
shuffles frayed hems over avenue
I, propped up preened,
through the door he trips,
to find a pew
All this, I watch
with a dour view
Down in a beanery where souls are served
coffee with a shot consciousness,
who nibble on curated cakes of ****
Awaiting liberation from these surroundings
It's a cacophony of diatribe, cackles,
Disenfranchised, dim-witted opining.
Counting,
quarter time of a song I’d sing to myself
if this woman before me would just
stop talking
over the music in my headphones;
she's talking to me from a bag of bones
“You resemble my brother at Microsoft.”
I asked, “well, is that good?”
And then she asks if I too work at Microsoft -
I detach one earplug, and spit at her feet
"I can't imagine why I would."
Crazy. We, those, who dare to thrive
like dew clung to a thin thread of spider silk;
and how we slide
down, in a moment, a little more
when the breeze of our prey,
quivers the chord
My deeper thoughts ride out
on the tip of a swordfish
dipped in fine finned fears;
from the undercurrents of this vicious tide,
to throttle the banshee that screams with eyes
filled with crystal tears,
that fall into my coffee mug
and sweeten the slake
of our bitter drug.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
I weep for the breakers of things.
I cry for the destroyers
I mourn for the burners,
the crushers,
the warriors;
My heart breaks for the breakers of things.
From some timid landmark of dawn
From some futile cry of a mother in morning
From one tired yelp at the breaking of day
Arising despising the darkness descending
From some sparrows soaring
Where mansions are shining
And we with the warmth of hellfire opining
Weep yonder, we breakers of things.
They bled their red, their lines drawn deep
They poured their pots to wine
They gave the evil lonely sun
some bricks to bake
some backs to burn,
They sizzled, swaddled, and in air remembered
what life means to the withered, breakers of things.
Tarry not longing for some Ebenezer
Tarry not healing and balming the wicked
Tarry not over these dreams of ash
forming cracking among the sickest
secret heros of these verses
Won't weep for you, you breakers of things.
We fly with the fortunate
We jet high on the vastest expanses
a geography of sorrow
charting the grief of the waters
We dive deep down among broken things.
We lament holy breakers of things.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 7:27 AM UTC
Shame upon those,
who gaze down their nose,
while opining sans one single fact.
Like the Church way back when,
who assumed it and then,
made it law that the Earth shall be flat.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 4:23 AM UTC
The skyline disappears once again
as blackness returns the night.
The outsiders bath in the squalid moonlight,
abluting their good intentions.
The metamorphosis is complete.
Darkness will reign supreme.
They gather by the smithy
opining with a wild lament .
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
Logic, all many ask for.
Common sense all people request when its an important decision.
Yes, the law of common sense.
Which many times even the best intention gets redirected.
A club get raided for identification check and a few get arrested for contributing to a minor.
Although the club stated twenty one and over.
Why?
Does the law attack the legal attendance?
By not using law of common sense.
I'm just saying.
She a teen within a club with fake identification.
Which is against the law should face reprimand more.
Than maybe the adult talking to her.
He might be twenty something.
She might and is under seventeen.
But as most honest adults know , it's hard to tell with some young more developed girls.
Where the phase is often used?
You can tell she not an adult.
Oh, sounds good to say.
But not in all situation.
This is where the law of common sense appears?
The teen holds fake identification that's clearly against the law.
But out of fear many officers afraid to place pressure upon her.
Where she get the ID?
Seems to be less worthy of investigating.
Than arresting the young adult talking to her.
I'm just opining, where the law of common sense?
We all been sneaky teenagers.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 6:36 PM UTC
I’ll be brief (about poetry writing)
giving up:
expelling of textual agitation in my breast,
expulsing supplies no more the longest relief,
its medicinal efficacy, worn down, placebo equal,
run its course, a good grief, displacing tired belief,
loss of poetry, boon companion, not too late, nor
too soon, conceding, everything due a finalization
woman prevented me from walking in the
tropical storms frothiness, opining to my whining
“that’s no way to cleanse a soul, you’ll lose your life,
not that weight that’s moved up inside, up from the gut
into hearts blocked chambers and clogged spokes.”
thinking the vocabulary, needs a thrift store trip,
to give it all away, besides, prove it, a good taxing,
donating might be quite righteous undertaking, like
flushing of the ewes, needs some new nutrients for the ole
two handed sleight legerdemain.
promised brevity w/o levity, no floating, keeping my feet’s grounded, my animal kingdom, my editorial staff, says a good quitting time is hard to find, addiction, a rolling stone, needs a coldstone fence immovable.
grabbed rucksack, inside Hafiz, Ogden and Walt Whitman, all very good company men, head to the poetry nook, to get my soul brown deep tanned, and enjoy excellent conversations with the Lord,
‘bout childless women, why cancer, and if there be a decent chance we could work out a real substantive cooperative truce between
deity & humans,
one that could hold for longer than a day, a good working relationship ‘tween sky, sun, water and wind, ok, fractious occasional, but on the whole works ok, gotta makes some more notes to keep my new boon above, my new oh lordy buddy well-contented, non-grumpy.
p.s. being an admirer~reader is almost as good as being a writer
9:00 AM
Mon Jul 13
2020
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 5:04 AM UTC