"philosophizing" poems
What can win against time, someone asked me
reminiscing the journey which started eighteen months ago
with me and him philosophizing intricacies of life
and human emotion
relishing the daily luxuries of satisfying debates
when little did I know that we would walk all along
fighting demons in our own being
surviving closed ends of fate
and loneliness
The man I got to learn of
his real, gentle and calm soul
comforted with the truth of a warm heart
eventually knocking out the dread
of long distances between us
relinquishing the storms in our minds
embracing sparkles of different weathers
Shall it really last forever
self-contained
or burst out with emotion
believing
it really is us
together
and our love fueled by faith in search of its way
which outlasts time
a shining beacon
in midst of an ocean of crowded wilderness.
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
having you stuck on my mind
is an understatement
in every crack and crevices I find
you there, always present
you permeate in every thought
like literally in all that I think
threatening to fill my mind
so I incarnate you through ink
writing poems during library
when I should be philosophizing Saussure
but don't worry I can cope
I can handle this, be sure
I've drawn you in pencil
heck, even in paint
but alas, my skills are not enough
to depict the beauty you contain
but don't think you're a distraction
you're more of a motivation
like serene blue skies to a young bird's eyes
you are what inspires me to greater motions
oh girl,
I'm chest deep in thoughts of you
but tell me, my love
do you think of me too?
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 7:41 AM UTC
The Genius
Philosophizing the universe
One who thinks of quadratic theories of space and time
On his free time
The one who thinks of beautiful poetry
To a delightful muse
The Madman
Inventing ways he can put math to his cause
Always thinking of things to invent
Ideas- a storm of them
Intelligence- enormously, yes
Standing behind a corner
Stalking his love
I ask you:
Is there much difference between madmen and geniuses? Aren't they the same?
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
once my parents said
that we had to move
away from my home town,
my birth place,
my comfort zone.
I found myself
in Paris then,
hardly not speaking any french,
missing the beaches of Cali
and thinking of better times
Sitting in a little cafe
near Rue Bonaparte
sharing a cigarette
with a gray-haired stranger
philosophizing about life
and feeling the sand of
Santa Monica Beach
on my skin
Suddenly a stranger asked me
something I didn't understand
so I stuttered
menez-moi à la maison,
à l'endroit auquel j'appartiens
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 11:05 AM UTC
I,
Am a teenaged girl
Lost between the deminsions of
Fantasy
And
Reality.
I am a Filipino and Mexican
Knowing no spanish
Lost in a language my mother has forgotten.
I am what it means to be a human being.
Trying my best to be there
Making zillions of mistakes that end up drowning me in the end.
Wanting to remember but always forgetting
Wanting to help but saying the wrong things at the wrong time.
Trying to find a place in the world
Only to end up being isolated like a lone wolf.
I am what it means to be a student,
Not loving the whole school system but trying her best to prove it wrong.
Educated by watching the world, day by day,
Philosophizing life
Analyzing the story lines that mean something
Surviving in a jungle we call High School
And day by day,
Struggling in classes just to pass it.
I am, what it means to be
not so smart, not stupid at all but
a hard worker, learning everything I can with the little time the school system provides.
So,
Who am I?
Well for starters,
To tell you who I am,
I'd have to spend the majoirty of my life writing a one hundred paged book,
With only one page that has one sentence of writing that says,
"Too much to say, ask me another day."
Who I am,
Is a teenaged-Filipina-Latina-video gaming-anime loving-poetry/story writing-girl
Who is always lost in her own world~
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 4:18 AM UTC
after one last summer of cottages, palm-beers floating on the lake,
faceplanting into the waves while trying to kneeboard,
badly-planned but perfectly-timed trips to toronto for shows
(getting kurt viled)
the family casa (host of
many ragers and teenage kicks) was sold and georgian bay was no longer home.
my parents bought a new truck and moved what was
once 15 quesnelle drive
down to cape breton island, three quarter million in pocket
and i,
i had a resurgence of old feelings towards a girl i won't name
brought on by our rekindled friendship after the death
of my best friend, (nothin' helped me get thru those months
quite like that smile)
and after an embarrassing night spent having various altercations
(fisticuffs)
with a young birch tree behind my pal's place
i hopped in my '03 volvo and sped west like that old man once told
dean to do.
dust flying thru the open windows and my split knuckles
smilin' at the fat old sun.
that summer the bookstore,
where i bought so many weathered novels, died and
the man who was its overseer, with whom i spent so many evenings philosophizing over cups of joe in the closed-up shop ,
sort of faded away; i'd see him thursdays at the study sipping whatever he drank there in the corner and always felt too bad
about the closing of cottage books, ashamed in a word, to
ever go over and buy the guy a beer.
still don't know why.
guess i'm a bit of a *****
that drive out west was good. made 10 mixes in addition to CDs
i already had and slept on the highway side and stopped
where ever the hell i wanted to stop. smoked cigars while blazing over the pavement with my life in the backseat at 120 km/h
not knowing how to feel,
but doing alright.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
Praise is near
I can see it out of the corner of my eye
It comes with a new dawn
Nothing is built to last
Empires fall and civilizations crumble
All I can do is wash my hands and hope this fight can be won
Through all the sacrifice
It's been a long time coming
The odds are stacked out of favor
But I will push, fearless and uncompromised
This is what all of the writings in the bathroom stalls were philosophizing
It's endured the pain that every soul out there has known
You can feel it as your heart pounds
It lives in the things we can't let go of that we use to fuel our fury
It sleeps in our memories and cringe worthy heartbreaks
You live and learn
From the beginning of time with human kind in the womb
To the end of all being whispering its final words
It guides the ones who refuse to follow the predetermined paths
The ones who never had a chance
It's in all of us, believe it to keep it alive
Never give up in the face of doubt or ignorance
You've made it this far, you've become stronger
Revisit the time when you were knocked down
Forgive all the letdowns and never forget your promise to yourself
That you'll establish your name with every ounce of strength
Strike up the flame that kills every shadow
That glows with unconditional love
That one that creates the passion for life
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
Allen Ginsberg, a raving madman, a man beyond the borders of normal
once said, “Poets are ****** but see with the eyes of angels.”
His ranting howls, mere paradoxical clamorings (LOUDER).
His bootless, penniless, homeless cries, slight nonsensical musings.
His power subdued, his passion put-out, his well of enumerations run
dry…
Can you hear him?
(LOUDER!!!)
Are you even listening?
What do holy angel-headed hipsters like he see?
A myriad of star-crossed artists, poets, gurus, and monks?
A tired and beat batch of street corner hustlers, homeless and hungry?
A drunk in the back-room bar?
A stumbling, shadowy silhouette in the by-street (an enigma...)?
An old man, philosophizing to everyone and no one but himself?
A juke box stuck on repeat?
A young couple, making love with their feet under the table?
A trio of jazz musicians out back for a smoke?
A bar maid making minimum wage, or nothing?
A priest who's losing his conviction?
A down-n-out loner, dreamy, dazed, dashed,
staring at the bottom of his empty beer glass
(who will buy the next round)?
A nosey cop?
A rosey fop?
A belligerent racist?
A beat runaway?
A child begging? (there are so many...)
A fed-up fanatic? (too loud, too loud…)
A would-be protester-rioter-anarchist, giving up and going home?
A giggling girl, flirting, with her skirt hiked high?
A show-off with an inferiority complex?
A shy recluse, too afraid to walk through the door?
A power-hungry politician, his propaganda blasting through the static of
a detuned radio advertisement, paid for by (who are these people?)?
A struggle, never-ending, ever-renewed, always there, always alive,
but only seen through crazy, mad, angelic eyes.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
My best thoughts arrive when
I wait for my towels to be cleaned.
Leaning over the sturdy white machine,
contemplating life's intricacies
and delving into quixotic thoughts only suitable
for my delicates in their spin cycle,
that's when it happens.
Suddenly, as the bumps and whirrs of a laundry room
fill my headspace, I am
Socrates, I am Plato,
one finger heaven-oriented as my clothes spin,
spin, spin.
I can only imagine if Phaedo was
conceived in the throes of laundering.
As slaving women with their washboards
worked tirelessly on his thinking linens,
that's when Plato must have done his
best philosophizing,
when Napoleon felt his tallest.
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 5:32 PM UTC
craving the aroma of your air
while I sink to the bottom of the bathtub
longing for your touch
while being shaken back into reality
philosophizing about your voice
while melodies and bass fill the room
projecting your creature in front of me
while motion pictures buzz behind it
longing for your scent
while another sneaks past me
dreaming of different versions of you
while I try to recover
freezing although everything in me burns for you
perhaps a bath would warm me just as fine too
I let the water in and soon find myself-
Mar 14, 2025
Mar 14, 2025 at 4:24 AM UTC
My best thoughts arrive when
I wait for my towels to be cleaned.
Leaning over the sturdy white machine,
contemplating life's intricacies
and delving into quixotic thoughts only suitable
for my delicates in their spin cycle,
that's when it happens.
Suddenly, as the bumps and whirrs of a laundry room
fill my headspace, I am
Socrates, I am Plato,
one finger heaven-oriented as my clothes spin,
spin, spin.
I can only imagine that Phaedo was
conceived in the throes of ancient laundering.
As slaving women with their washboards
worked tirelessly on his thinking linens,
that's when Plato must have done his
best philosophizing,
when Napoleon felt his tallest.
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 5:32 PM UTC
Quests for questions are endless
For answers have been here,
And for so long, here we are,
searching the right questions.
The universe is the answer, so
What is the question? Your existence
Is the answer, so what is the question?
Civilization is the answer, so what is the
Question? Humanity is the answer.
Here, we pose the greatest delusion.
Not even the idols of philosophizing
Solved the riddles of being, time, and
Oblivion. But a perpetually perturbed
Mind is the right question to a quest
For meaning and being. This is not
Philosophizing, this is philosophy.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
Please fill me with love before I flatline
Filtered and withered,
I sigh
Masks are a cancer flooding my blood stream
Staining my skin
Leaving me philosophizing
Over why I'm still living
It feels like I have to end me
Because nothing will mend me
I tried to speak, but the ambivalence outstretched to my throat before it could connect
The message to your screen
Drifting from myself
Forlorn shreds
I won't scream
I only know how to suppress
I've been submerged into thoughts of depression
Due to all I have been neglecting
This is the pain express
Toot my horn and come aboard
If you have the qualifications your reward granted
Is beyond explored
You'll wield power beyond any galaxies in space
Knowing what exist and how to get to what is sick
In order to remedy it
I stopped carrying life the second you dropped that glass
Emptied out
The vacancy poisoned my plasma to vast degrees
Attempting to finally earn a little more than lack of words from the past
The bruises are firm but the alert fluctuates in my brain
While I wait
To find a cure for what I hate
Oscillating between extremes
I'm not sure who I want to be in this story.
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 12:32 AM UTC
you sit next to me, warmth radiating off your posed form,
giving me a sense of mars, alien and cold, but warm on the inside,
you fill me with feeling, a longing for a fishtown I’ve never known,
where it is grey and green and iridescent, and calm,
and you give me long conversations, in a car when it’s raining,
philosophizing with our minds, until we move to the back, and use our bodies,
and you are hard to predict, being an ever shifting scape of thoughts,
flipping feelings like a coin, full of potential, wild and unrestricted,
I wouldn’t change you from the fluid form you currently possess,
moving like water, graceful, and dangerous,
and when you ***** up your face, I use the moment,
to watch you freely, feeling lucky
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 3:44 PM UTC
Don't talk to me about rules of Engagement
What's knowledge, wisdom and Truth
nothing but a tag on a Robert Grahame shirt
What do you mean decency, fair-play and Justice
was your God fair and just when he landed me in Goebbels
and give me to that drunkard thief and his street gal wife
Oh no, I don't deserve a silver spoon and a dad in Stockbroker belt
yeh, no Private School, no allowance, no frigging ski trips in Gstaad
Bollinger sounds like a gun, pink gins and cucumber wedges foreign
Don't talk living harmoniously with all classes and races
I live my way and make my rules as I go along
the first law is do it to them before they do it to you
education is **** if God wanted me to have a mind he forgot
what he gave was a gob full of **** and a Doctorate in telling lies
in our world telling the truth means you're blind, slow and stupid
I ain't a mug but a mugger, I ain't a fool,I only live to fool the fools
Am a hater and proud of it, why was I assigned to the Losers section
What made God decide my gob is not good enough for a Silver spoon
Don't you dare give me that glib 'That's Life' shit'
keep your philosophizing to your bleeding self
we ain't buying claptrap anymore, it's war now, revolution
it's them and Us. no quarter given, everything taking from the rich
what gives you the right to live better than me. Mr High an Mighty
who brooker your deal with God for all the privileges you enjoy
swanning around thinking you're better than me in your Ivory gaff
hate burns relentlessly, my frustration unabashed I join satan's lot
Yes, it's not a frigging fair world so don't talk to about Justice an love
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
From the outside of everything
To the inside of you
I sit here on the back porch thinking
What else there is to do
I am an infinitesimally small part of the whole
The center is within my divine spark
Everything is moving around
As I sit here still in my pret
If I ever become a seventh density being
I hope I can finally get you to fall in love with me
All these big thoughts and philosophizing
And I still haven't gotten to know a woman well enough to make magic
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 7:36 PM UTC
Not fitting in a round hole
because you are square
Not being divisible
without a remainder
Not philosophizing
when compromising
using bizarre formality
when the fantasy is realizing
the dread
is
Not a dream.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
Philosophy is a way of thinking.
It is a way of thinking that thinks about itself.
Philosophizing about philosophy is Metaphilosophy.
The capacity for metaphilosophy
is not a thing to be squandered:
it is an internal system of checks and balances,
which itself is subject to corruption by Ego and Shadow.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC
Tired as this dying world
Who loves me?
Who loves
Me or the world?
---
Tired to death
Me and the world.
Amid you minstrels singing!
--
All the theology!
All the philosophizing!
Tired tired tired
Me and the world
Me and the world dying
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
He used to stare at me like a painting;
red paint flowing off the edges of a white canvas.
He used to speak in dimensions,
always philosophizing his world and the universe and the meaning.
He used to hug me in comfort because
some days were darker than others and I needed him then more than ever.
He used to worry about what I would do when I was left alone.
He used to worry about what would happen when I was not the only one in my house because
he was the only person that knew what happened behind closed doors.
He used to be optimism and the confidence I needed to survive.
He used to be the only reason I was going to come home.
He used to be mine but
he moved on.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
There was a weight
Of empty history
pressing on my heart,
Building plotlines
And extravagant arcs
in my mind--
I looked at the span
Of golden laughs
and pristine paper,
Frowning at the absence
Of stains
--Because shouldn’t I
Have dark spots
And redacted portions
like everyone else I know?
Was I just waiting,
Building up to something,
That would pour gasoline
On my bundle of flowers
That had bloomed
For so many years?
Was I to become
a fiery mess of cinder stems
And insubstantial ashes?
Maybe then, I could offer
Some guidance
That came from a place
of experience.
Rather than
Philosophizing off of
Flimsy observations--
Why are my struggles
so subtle, my life
A suburban dream,
And my past
an overcast sky
With no tempests churning
Through my memories?
I watch the dew,
The swing of the wind,
And only see misfortune
In the stillness before
a storm
Sep 25, 2024
Sep 25, 2024 at 12:49 AM UTC
Although the Wrangler has left the ranch,
Within our hearts he'll be enshrined,
For now he's gone to the last roundup,
Leaving the rest of us behind.
The sky was the Wrangler's favorite rooftop;
Walls couldn't pen him in.
To him the slow destruction of nature's
Wonders was a cardinal sin.
The saddle was his poetry--
His homage to life, a living ode.
When not on his horse, you'd see him riding
His two-wheeled "horse" on the open road.
An expert storyteller he was.
How he delighted us with his tales!
His theory: a little embellishment
Never hurts when all else fails.
And write! How the Wrangler could write--
Each of his letters a work of art,
A masterpiece of expression, replete
With wit and charm that flowed from his heart.
Fishing, hunting, philosophizing,
Photography, and art to boot:
His varied interests, but interest in YOU
Was maybe his greatest attribute.
Sometimes when his patience dwindled,
He could lose it, and who could blame him.
His wife, Barrie, had to try
To tug on his reins to try to tame him.
A legend in his time, he was--
A striking presence wherever he went.
And spending money to help other
People--to him--was money well spent.
Although to the last roundup he's gone,
The Wrangler's lasting imprint survives.
As we say our good-byes, remember
How he enriched all of our lives.
-by Bob B (8-3-20)
Aug 3, 2020
Aug 3, 2020 at 4:20 PM UTC
Last night I saw my mom and dad.
We had a lovely chat.
Laughing, joking, carrying on...
We’re always good at that.
Dad, without his oxygen tank,
Had no trouble walking.
He spoke of books and politics
And had no trouble talking.
Mom dashed about her kitchen
Busily preparing
Some delectable treat to serve.
(I even heard her swearing.)
Such visits happen now and then.
Sometimes it even seems
As though they’re real and not occurring
ONLY in my DREAMS.
Why Mom and Dad are in a dream,
I don’t have a clue.
But I love to see them; it's
The best that I can do.
It’s hard to believe that eighteen years
Ago they passed away.
It’s strange; it almost seems as though
It happened yesterday.
Healthy, strong, invincible,
Robust, and never sad,
Philosophizing, loving, caring—
That’s how I see Dad.
No less loving, but more pensive
And never brash or gushy,
Mom expresses love through actions.
She’s kind, but never mushy.
These dreamy reunions I will cherish
Until my memory fades;
Or until life decides
It's time to pull the shades.
- by Bob B
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 1:00 PM UTC