"philosophical" poems
Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.
Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?
I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.
I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.
How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?
I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.
But am I just
pretentious?
fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 5:12 PM UTC
ever since i was young,
my gaze was drawn skyward.
i could tell you the story of orion,
and how to brush bernice's hair,
before i could tell you that two plus two equals four.
i know more about our vast universe,
than i know about many of my friends.
if you are not well acquainted with a pisces,
let me give you a bit of an introduction:
we are compassionate, imaginative,
we adapt to whatever is thrown at us,
and my personal favourite,
we are unfalteringly loyal.
however...
we are full of self-hate,
prone to laziness,
we are escapists
and horrendously easy to manipulate.
i believe my horoscope today is complete ********
i do not feel utterly lovely,
i know i will not score a date
because no one feels for me romantically.
i've nothing to flaunt.
the horoscopes are saccharine lies,
but, those traits? those are me.
my soul is ancient,
i feel the pain of struggles i have not faced,
or rather, have not YET faced;
i will split my soul in two
i will break my bones
i will give every drop of my blood
i will breathe my last breath
for those that i love.
i spent two years of my life giving my heart and soul to a sagittarius.
philosophical, adventurous.
i admired him so.
but his negatives--
inconsistent. overconfident.
careless.
he was a burning house.
my mother, also a pisces, when all was said and done,
told me to stay away from those sagittarius boys.
they're dangerous for wary, fretful fish like us,
who ask 'from what bridge?' when we are told to jump.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
They say blood is thicker than water,
But what does that really mean?
A poetic line,
A writer's meaning,
A philosophical wisdom,
All because,
Blood is thicker than water.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC
porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce
everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog,
in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair
eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for
strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled
get done with weather, the crops,
the neighbors,
the weird, and the truly neighborly,
grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling,
bs’ing and tall tale telling, breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live,
open another Bud for the buds,
did I forget to mention
farm equipment?
skirt politics cause nobody wants any
nothing-to-be-done-damn-aggravation,
leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the
absent women
no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed,
but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer
as now
nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last,
a very manly-way of ordering things,
big silent pauses in the converso conversation,
guy-sighs many,
as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored,
denotating the generalized listings of
how they drive us crazy,
listing the repetition of ever changing instructions,
which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms, non-differentiating
just humanism-isms
and the peculiarities of each (a list kept)
in a compare and contrast,
an end of the day summation,
and the boasting-outbesting,
of each of their
specialisms
which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been
brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed
other than it’s now ten
and all that’s left is
to sleep, perchance, to dream,
of private things
and bigger and better
John Deere tractors
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
Faking Bad
In anticipation of my
Evaluation to be declared
Non Compos Mentos
I slept under a bridge
For three days
"Getting into character,"
But on the morning of
My intake interview
My hair fell perfectly,
I mean I looked like
A ******* rock star.
College girls on the bus
Were giving me their
Numbers and my skin,
Which I'd purposely sunburnt
And caked in the finest filth,
Glowed like an Australian
Chippendale dancer named Weegie
And even the female Assisstant D.A.
Who had busted me for vagrancy
Waved her ******* from
The third story building
Of the Courthouse.
No matter how much I
Tried to speak gibberish
Poetry and philosophical
Tracts spewed from my mouth.
Shuffling past the park
I beat eight
Grand Masters
At chess on move 1
Inadvertently I solved
The Phi Epsilom Theorem
By kicking stones
Into an algorythym.
When I arrived they didn't
Make me wait at all.
My caseworker giggled like
A schoolgirl while I told her
Each day was like an endless shift
In a Chinese fish- gutting
Sweatshop and every one of my fellow
Employees was motivationalist
Richard Simmons.
She ungirdled her enormous
**** and as they spilled
Like fishguts onto the desk
She began to howl
**** me, **** me, oh ****
Me right here in
Front of the open window
On State Street as everyone
Watches me ******* the strongest,
Healthiest, smartest, most popular,
Well-adjusted man in the world.
The rest of the examination was
Also a success.
But as I left the Mental HealthCenter
feeling marvelous
I accidentally bumped
An old woman with the door:
"Watch out you manic-depressive
Schizoid with Socially Avoidant
Features klutz."
-Thomas L. Vaultonburg
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
I truly believe that one of the reasons that the US is despised and condemned world wide is because of such views on such characteristics as: honesty, integrity, independence(this includes not thinking in a collective mindset which we do as a culture, everything is apple or windows, pepsi or cola, republican or democrat, people need to think for themselves stop claiming and just be), persistence, determination, morale, empathy, tradition/heritage, learning, chivalry, discernment, and humility.
Instead of utilizing and perfecting these people of this nation and similar one's have become: prideful, dependent, drive-less, imprudent/unwise, insulting, ignorant(willfully so), objective, biased, crude, mediocre, and surface oriented.
In turn we have neglected the responsibilities we have of ourselves. This has resulted in physical, mental, and spiritual capacity regression on a mass scale. Most people have no idea what they are consuming in their daily dietary intake(I mean really know what all the ingredients are and what they do whether positive or negative). Most citizens have also become, literally and according to the United Nations Education Scientific and Cultural Organization, mentally incapable and completely inane as compared to even 15yrs ago. We have forgotten how to have a community to the point that neighbors don't know each other anymore. We have exchanged the truly important things in life like knowledge and wisdom for wealth and appearance. We have completely forgotten how to survive without the aid of water treatment, electricity, and useless objects. One of the worst of all things we have stopped doing, is being involved with our government; instead, we have put our trust in them without oversight, and this is why we have been losing our liberties. I believe, just like Benjamin Franklin stated, that any individual who sacrifices even one liberty for safety/security... deserves to have all of their liberties eradicated.
In conclusion, it is time to return our societies to ourselves. We need to relearn the truly important things in life and start living with ourselves, each other, and nature as we must to thrive. It is on us as a people to repair what generations before us, and our generations are doing; lest, I am afraid, our children and grandchildren will inherit the same ideals and expand upon them until we regress to the point that insolence, ignorance, and imprudence is the common norm... we have already begun to accept these. Open your eyes to the truth, at first it will be painful and difficult, but than you will be set free. WE THE PEOPLE ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR OUR FUTURES AND CHILDREN'S FUTURES.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 12:18 AM UTC
I though he carried the light
where words would illuminate
driving me to a euphoric ******
a man without a face or a trace
unhindered in a double live and lies
a bubble of psychotic psychic surety
his passion was an addiction
my reservations moved a notch
addicted to a body of ideology
the stances of philosophical terms
uncovering ancient possibilities
the unfelt mysteries of history
veiled in icicles of pretence and lies
as if a Marxist, a closet bourgeoise
The stoicism of present bargains
questioning Socrates and morality reasons
a fatal dose ,examining the unexamined
as colourful as his mind blew my inner glow
he was lost in sad and low dialogues
afraid to face the earthly shallow shadows
yet his spirits moved deep within mine
and it paralysed and fed on my energy
and his delusion became my seduction
but he woke my inner poetic tongue
letting it caress all his inner wounds
A shadow hiding behind Frankenstein’s
a sly monster who lied to my eyes
ghosting in with the a pen that weakens
romancing with letters of a fiery doom
a penpal whom I met within my lowest
but whose words lay in a deep unending quarry
his warmth I could never ever tell
his kiss only a draft on the dewy grass
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 5:29 PM UTC
start
set the scene...
somewhere enclosed, close and closed
like a bed
(tight, restricted like, uh, the world all around me, how fitting
now it’s political)
on a morning
and maybe the sun will be rising,
or setting−yes−to represent the ethereal dusk of my cognition,
Say I’m with someone−don’t identify whom−it’s meant to be a mystery:
unfinished, left.
it could be you
and I’ll search the dictionary
for words to make my pseudo-philosophical, imagist, absurdist poem obfuscated, esoteric,
tanquam yet favillous; beyond recognition
So that it sounds like Dr. Seuss,
that is, a Dr. Seuss that knows Althusser, Derrida and the early writings of Flaubert.
add some random enjamb-
ment. cut out the capitalizationandspacing. start a sentence;
end it. Section break
Oh, I’ll need more words, you know, to remind my peers of my intellectuality,
-out of place words that don’t actually mean anything:
Specificity or
literati
that’s good. Now, to end-
bring it to a close in one all-encompassing word:
(to be read over-dramatically)
pretension.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
Isn’t it funny
How poets dramatise everything
“An ocean of depression”
“A death grip of love”
We just can’t help ourselves
It’s who we are
It’s part of being a poet
Over analysing life
Deeply contemplating death
“What is the meaning of life?”
Everything is philosophical
There’s always a lesson to learn
An issue to address
A heartache to confess
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC
Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.
So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres
that tomorrow never happened.
He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
In this trigonometric love equation
You're my arcsin,
You're my special angle,
Secretly placed
In that unit circle of feelings.
You may arrange my major arcs and diameters
Inside of it
Perfectly triangular,
Love will always have
The same ratio pi.
Our equation of love
Is seemingly incompatible.
It has philosophical numbers becoming
Common geometric shapes
Of love itself
Like hidden spheres
In triangles,
But in real terms of graphing
Our parallel lines of life
Went on forever not crossing at any point
Of this imperfect world.
Our love is, in fact,
A complex system of equations
With the same set of three unknowns
Searching their own values
It has a narrative statement.
You're my C.
You're mister C,
From c'telzing
From caleptikide
And from cataguerrillaism,
In this beautiful madness of love.
You know, our love is getting old
In concentric circles,
Those circles of time.
Extrapolate it to infinity, sweetheart,
You may be my semi-infinity
Until the end of the time,
That semi-infinity,
In which I lose myself
From time to time
Each time coming
From the same unique star
As that already existent
In an old Romanian novel,
Which is called
Lorelei.
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 1:47 PM UTC
We celebrate 5th September as teachers’ day
Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan was born on this very day
He showed the Indian nation the right way
His debt how can we repay?
He is a universal teacher
And a man of inimitable stature
Wisdom and simplicity are the hallmarks of his feature
Incomparable oration is his nature
He rose to the nation’s highest post
And tried to build a bridge between east and west
His philosophical teachings are the best
And his knowledge of English is very vast
He is Plato’s philosopher king
As President honour and dignity did he bring
He brought religion a new meaning
His glory and greatness I would like to sing
Yours sincerely,
JVL NARASIMHA RAO
INDIA
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 6:23 PM UTC
Earth is my bedroom and toilet;
an empty cup, my self employment
Days of empty stomach churning,
a forced sermon at "Sunday Breakfast"
Fast-food places are my kitchens;
Shelters,my free hotels and free meals
Police are my nemesis;
human rights, a foreign fantasy
Jail cells are my places for philosophical,
contemplated thought
Filth is my every day attire;
alertness, my only protection
Weather is my lover or enemy;
cold empty stares, my other human contacts
Loneliness is my constant companion
New horizons are never sought
by this man-of-no-land
,
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
Can the unstoppable force overcome the immovable object? The waves have been a teacher with more wisdom than any I have ever had before. Something so constant, so committed, so unflappable as the lapping or crashing of the waves upon the shore. If you need any evidence of her relentless nature, look no further than the foreshore, great boulders and cliff faces worn down to grit. A true mechanical entity, with precise surety, well versed in engineering, mathematics, weather patterns and fluid dynamics. Who would have thought a philosophical question would have an engineering solution? The answer is no, but the question lacks precision, it doesn't quite paint the picture as it happens. I dive into the crashing waves, stretched out long, offering no resistance, the wash thunders around me but still I glide forward in the water like a shark, no resistance. I am the immovable object. Suspended weightless I overcome the unstoppable force by holding ground, offering no resistance as it rages around and past me, trying to capsize me or push me backwards. The way of the seas, the ultimate peacemaker.
The parallels to life do not need pointing out thus, especially to those who fight for justice, the Davids versus their Goliaths. History's great peacemakers have been here before, the art of war is in passive resistance, principled adherence coupled with civil disobedience, your silence is considered tacit acceptance, so be not silent but give unto Caesar that which is Caesars. The fight is an uphill playing field, you must play by their rules, or the game is over, but you can win by their rules if you know where they bend. So stand peacemakers, face rows of riot shields, plow fields as Te Whiti did, collect salt as Gandhi, be not silent, tip toe that fine line between real change and hard time, wherever you see injustice speak, and seek conciliation. Peace is not achieved when nations put down their guns, peace is achieved when people embrace their neighbors as their brothers and sisters. It is achieved when people no longer speak of peace with longing in the same breath as cursing the person that parked in their carpark. Be peace and you will see peace, wish not to see it in the world if you cannot be it in your world. Change yourself and the world changes with you. So can the unstoppable force overcome the immovable object? That much is up to you.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
Does evil exist?
Well, does it, or not?
I demand an answer
And if it does, hold that thought
Because if wrong does exist
We must face the reality
That calling something wrong means
There's a right way things ought to be
But if wrong does not truly
Exist in bright colors
Well, what, then is justice
But a meaningless construct?
If the **** of a child
In all histories and cultures
Can be called pure evil
Even by society's worst prisoners
If the ****** of innocents
Is forever and always
An evil in society
That can't be tolerated
If imprisonment of a woman
Like chattel for sale
Being held as a *** slave
In her own private hell
Or murdering Jews
Like Hitler's evil plan
Or starving millions unjustly
In Stalin's Ukraine
Or killing the masses
For political expedience
Culling babies in China
Or locking up dissidents
If beheading of heretics
Is inherently wrong
Or even violating your privacy
Or invading your home
If these are universally bad
And there's meaning in words
Then there's universal good
That our souls are drawn toward
Something more than just philosophy
Because that lacks authority
And if good is defined by the majority
Then what about the minority?
Tyrants run roughshod
When rights come and go
At the whims of the powerful
Because what they say goes
No, evil is something
More than laws, or from cultures
Or philosophical sophistry
From ivory towers
To try to stop badness
Is really to defend
That there's a god of pure goodness
Who wants us like him
We can discuss who that god is
And what is his substance
But the least we can do
Is acknowledge his existence
You can say that religion
Starts evil wars and such
And you might just be right
But you've just proved too much
Because if there is no god
Whose nature defines goodness
Who are you to call war bad
Or **** evil, or hate, darkness?
Who are you to sit in judgment
Of the religious who you think hate you?
If there is no moral standard
That makes hate wrong, and judging too?
If morality is nothing more
Than just a social contract
Then it's just he said/she said
And there's no moral compass
You see, your compass is as good as mine
And that may be fine, generally
Until the ****** asserts his own
Warped idea of morality
What makes his wrong
And yours universally right?
That's a tough question
That keeps philosophers up at night
Because indeed, if there is no god
There's no guilt to assuage
For the wrongs that man does
Because there is no such gauge
It's like measuring empty
Without knowing what full is
Or like trying to describe love
Without knowing who God is
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
As I sit and ponder, My mind begins to wander, here are my thoughts:
Mainly at night, as I look at life, "What is it?"
Is destiny just everything between life and death, or are we put in the positions of predicaments for a purpose:
Are poor single mothers and fathers given such a path so they may teach their children to live a lonely life; or,
to show them how to get out of that life?
Convicts, are they truly meant to receive life in prison; or, learn the essence of change, and share that wisdom?
Gangsters and thugs, call them what you will, are they only to have a short life consisting of death and sorrow; or, come out of the grind so they may one day return to help change the places and people of which they came?
Are those with clinical depression meant to remain on a medication for the remainder of their days; or, are they to learn that the deepest of pain allows one to truly appreciate joy?
These are just a few of the things I contemplate as my mind wanders, while I sit and ponder.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 3:45 PM UTC
My recollect is of the each,
The Two
And within the Two
One is the One
Holding and using our lead and ink utensils
as if they are weapons for winning at Love,
and reasoning for our written duel
Expressing desires the voice would customarily sever into dissection
Permitting authority to the crafted scripts *********
and may it’s barrier lay
over the possibility of a broken and scattered tongues communicate
Giving our internal intent its day
the way hoped it would speak
Expecting the requited, the return
was a pesticide over wide horizon,
Where the organic surprise of rainfall kept us neutral and thankful
And apart,
our minds maintained with
and of our other
With no need for philosophical proofs only the inner felt proof
Of forwarding shards of sentiment
with compiled assurance
and a dispatched formula
the best way we could phrase
Alongside images
that came in and held tight
in sectors tucked away and reserved from the cherished
to this day are still to be amazed
Spontaneous placement of universally synchronized jewels and stones
Of not have to have
[Only the simplified, pushed down and planted fact]
Of want her to have
So when away,
You feel a personal, singled-out
appraisal of praise
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 9:07 PM UTC
Born Robert Nesta Marley on February 6, 1945
In nine mile, St.Ann
Emancipate yourself from mental slavery none
But ourselves can free our mind
I grew up on that prophetic message and philosophy
And it never left my soul or mind
You have left a legacy
World renowned
This dreadlocks man left his mark
Permanently
I believe you were before your time
I was not yet born
When you departured
But your music was my friend
I was built on your roots
Something music lacks today
Your words emanate so powerfully
That builds faith and tear down injustice
It inspire greatness
I remember the man who chants words of ball of fire
Hitting beyond anyone’s imagination
Or comprehension of his God given talent
He has touched hearts from Jamaica to America
Europe to India to Africa all over
His music is worldwide
It’s like a life’s guide
Whether ball head or Rasta man
Bob Marley music lives on
I have yet to see someone like him
His legacy continues with his sons and daughters
With every Jamaican
His message was deep, spiritual and philosophical
To the soul and mind.
R.I.P
The Great Reggae Legend.
All Rights Reserved.
Christena Antonia Valaire Williams
Jamaica W.I
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 12:32 PM UTC
Within each and every one of us
is a unique culture:
Ethnocentrism
reaches just as far inward
as it does outward:
Just because
academia
has imposed it's own
fascist, totalitarian, absolute
definitions
does not mean
that it has final say:
i postulate
such adacemic-fetishism
is merely a byproduct of
propaganda
pushed by Big Money
rather than
a genuine insitution
of respectable edification:
that is
i see it as
a mere appeal
to authority;
a well-known logical fallacy
to those who are in the know.
Tread lightly.
Modern Academics
seems to be
yet another
corrupt branch
of Business;
little more.
Academic achievement
is not equivocal
to intellectual worth:
a graduate's degree
is moreso
a status symbol
than it is
a credential
anymore.
'T'is vile idolatry
in lieu of
an individual's personal philosophy;
that's not to say it's
absolutely worthless,
but it may as well be
in today's job market
(unless it's a business degree!)
Then again,
that's just my opinion.
i guess i oughtta shut up
before Edu-nazis shut me down.
Oops, did i type that out loud?
I'm so sorry, you see,
vhat i meant to say vas:
Heil Stanford!
Heil Harvord!
Heil Berkley!
Heil vhat i am told zu heil!
Heil zhe publishing companies!
Heil zhe holders of student loans!
Heil egredious student debt
in lieu of philosophical discourse,
let alone progress!
Heil vhat i see on TV!
Heil *******
Heil alkohol!
Heil gasoline!
Do not qvestion zhe dogma;
go back zu sleep, you sheep!
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 4:33 PM UTC
/ the aesthete...
and the athlete,
i.e.
the "sophist",
and the "philosopher"?
ah... phonetics, rather linguistics:
former: as-feet...
but the latter?
ancient greek
in french:
a(h)'f'lé'té.
people should, really introduce
a chemistry-style subscript for surds,
most notably H,
hay'chch,
when dealing with such deviations
from classicaly philosophy
metaphysical concerns,
and modern, orthography:
this, the, now,
types of "philosophical" inquiries:
and i mean that
as "philosophical":
because i actualy mean...
the favours of pedantry akin to
being entertained by
the intricacies of Versailles;
you'd get more good-luck wishes
in the form of horse-shoes
hanging over your door in a small
village in the ***** of gascony.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
As he walked through a forest he knew so long ago,
He sees a withered oak.
A proud thing.
A proud memory.
A proud day.
A proud history.
And yet all he feels now is the darkness of the shadow it casts.
He sees the leaves the rain soaks.
He has no song to sing.
He has nothing to be.
He has gone no way.
He has her in his dreams.
The rain continued as his clothes get wet, smiling at the memory of their first kiss.
It was like this...thing.
He can’t say it another way.
It was something to see.
It was something to light their day.
It was something meant to be.
He sighed and sat down under the far reach of the branches and watched the drops float down slowly; watching them made him happy, and yet they made him sad. They reminded him of the way the were happy, then sad. He laughed at his deep, philosophical banter. Is this not like our love, my dear?, he thought. One moment you’re soaked to the bone and trying nothing more than to run away when all you’d want more is to rush and play in the mud with eachother like children? Hm...and when the cloud are done weeping and they’re once again light with joy, what becomes of us? We simply dry our selves and go on with our full lives again....
Although...if it were meant to be...we'd simply fly and run in the field and let the sun have its way on our skin, no matter how sweltering it makes us feel.
And with that his thoughts were clear as he sat in that knoll.
Under and on that withered oak.
Its leaves laughing with the memories.
Laughing at the two of them.
Sighing at the sight of them.
Praying for the child of them.
And with that rain, each drop gave life to the leaves.
That grand oak.
Withered under its memories
Laughing at its own roots.
Barely a look under mans boots.
And yet, still strong enough to give its support.
———————_______————————______
She walked up to that tree they used to love.
And found him lying there.
His skin still so fair.
But pale in comparison of what it used to be.
So she played there with him. Laughing with the tears of the sky. At what they used to be. Then in each other’s arms, they die.
The sun shines, and a shadow under them begins to bloom, letting the sun do what it pleases on their skin. There will be no joy for them this time though; they ran their last the day before.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 11:51 AM UTC
he was philosophical
the way any person is when they're high.
he wore black framed glasses
and talked too much;
which i kind of liked.
he said my name made me sound like a classy stripper.
i chose to take it as a compliment.
i didn't ask his age
though i wish i had.
he talked passionately about
aquatonics and molly.
he said he was starting up a business.
maybe i was flattered that he thought i was cute
or maybe he was generally interesting.
i'm not sure though.
all i can remember is the way the hookah tasted
as the music faded out.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 4:00 PM UTC
As I look around my home,
In my garden, I see gnomes,
Sitting on their little domes,
Do they think, these gnomes?
Are they philosophical, I wonder,
As garden weeds I plunder,
What are you guys staring at?
I'm gardening, okay, that's that!
Consider the garden gnomes,
Sitting there on their little domes,
Cute, but ugly, little misters,
I find them a trifle sinister............
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 11:00 PM UTC
1. You could not wait til halftime to check your poem or add one.
2. You wrote a sonnet about pretty horses. (Broncos)
3.You wrote a poem about kittens.(Panthers)
4. As the ball soars through the air, you are reminded of a bird in flight.
5. A Superbowl commercial inspired a new poem.
6. You paused the game with your DVR to write a piece.
7. You think the referees look like majestic Zebra on the African plains.
8. You ponder the coin toss and wonder of chance and philosophical questions as to whether life is like a paradox, then write yourself a poem about it.
9. When a tackle is made, you think upon the animalistic nature of humanity and write a haiku about it.
10. There is a notebook and pen right next to your remote and munchies.
11. You have a neck ache due to looking at your hellopoetry site and then back up at the t.v.
12. You write Peyton Manning farewell poem.
13. The commentator of the game makes a poetical statement and you use it in your latest poem.
14. The crowd boos a player and you feel compelled to write the pain of number 94 in a poem.
15. Last but not least, you might be a poet if you are reading this and the game is on.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
I exhale.
As I fade from this life, I’ll float into the next and to eternity. I am so deeply enveloped in this world that I dissolve into all the others. My body will decompose, and I will exist again as a new collection of atoms.
I suppose through delusional, philosophical excuse I am connected to this world. And I suppose that stardust constellates and buries themselves in my bones. So I must grow in dimensions greater than height, width, and length.
But the veins of this new world are thin wires of cables and in complex codes and formulas are sent to and received by another motherless machine. Although, I’d rather break these wires and create a spark that can be felt rather than seen.
Let me ignite a craving under the continents and satisfy a spark that cannot be replicated by plastic or manipulated into energy. Let me feel the pressure of the world and the thick atmosphere that caves my posture. Let me once more feel by the fibers of kings and commoners that lace through my veins.
The world is deteriorating and has been left so deprived of life’s ecstasy that it is now hollow and I can only hear my own echoes.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 9:58 PM UTC