"plausible" poems
Don't know how to tell you this
But your starting to become just words on my cell phone screen
Trying to convince me you love me
Even if you really do
My cellular connection is dropping so your messages is not getting through
And don't think It's you
It just hard to feel words on a screen
Your love is plausible
It just might be true
But I've succumbed to this distance
Can't feel the real you
If I met you in real life
I probably wouldn't know
Looking at a stranger looking back at me
Almost 2 years of unheard words
This long on a cell phone
To much of anything kills you
And right now it's my cell phone screen
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
One, who can point a finger at One's Self,
shall find sources of many problems,
and many plausible genuine solutions,
quicker and more often than any who cannot.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
Every place I turn
I can't unsee the horrors I've known
I can't say I have had it the worst
Not by a long shot
But it hasn't been butterflies
No three year old wants to see
Random men in their house with
Their mama when their daddy's not home
And no six year old should have to see
Parents so enraged
And divorcing
Nor should their best friend's parents
Feel a need to adopt them
Even temporarily
No seven year old should
Feel they need to be twenty-seven
And like they aren't allowed to cry
No ten year old should be forced
To choose which parent they like best
Under any circumstances
No twelve year old should feel
Any desire to harm themselves
And watch blood swell on their arms
No fourteen year old should think they're
Wrong because they believed in love
Nor should they feel jaded
No fifteen year old should contemplate suicide
At all
Especially not so thought out
With a grand scheme and everything
Just two months before their sweet sixteen
No sixteen year old should feel betrayed
And forgotten
Or unworthy of any kind of love
Every step I take I am reminded
That life is a widening gyre
Mr. Yeats, you were right
But I can't accept that to be
The only plausible possibility
Which leads me to believe
That with every step I take
Though my heart is torn to bits
By this minefield called life
I get a little bit
Stronger
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 1:48 AM UTC
The good times and the bad,
Are both located in my past.
I've watched you cry,
I've heard you laugh.
That doesn't mean,
I always have to come back.
You've ripped my heart out,
In the worst ways possible.
You think you're the best,
But that's just not plausible.
You use to be my best friend,
It turns out that was implausible.
I've spent hours crying over you,
Denying that I ever felt anything.
But the truth is that I admired you.
I swear that I would've died for you.
But that was thirty-four hours ago,
I've cried my eyes out now though,
So goodbye my new nemesis,
Thanks for giving me a new therapist.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 7:22 PM UTC
Yes I go, yes go to seek a Great Apocalypse
One that will unravel the complex elaboration of difference
To articulate a perpetual aesthetic with violated codes
Of the experience of illusions of temporal stimulus
That are beyond all compass and soothe a fragmentation
Oh Great Apocalypse of beauty whose deception finds strategies
For youthful prodigality and binds me to your inarticulation
An embodiment of beleaguered and charmed fictions
Whose artifice is the governance of generous impulses
As such sway about me with a harmony of moral disquiet
Inadequate in description of the qualities of their oppression
Yet oh great apocalypse there is a plausible generosity
In these pale assumptions of impatience which carry
The obligations of a universally shared human existence
Compelling a projection of charged issues on competing claims
For the enigmatic logic of life
Yes Great Apocalypse now I understand all thought
From Everywhere and for Always
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
_Standing with Marshal Gebbie_
No trumpet sounds.
No banner bleeds.
Just the quiet hum
of satellites watching
what we dare not name.
Power does not sleep,
it drips
from trade routes,
from whispered sanctions,
from the tremble
of a diplomat’s hand
hovering over the red phone.
We are not at war,
but we rehearse it
in algorithms,
in tariffs,
in the way maps
shrink and swell
without consent.
The empire is hungover,
but still it walks,
barefoot through proxy fields,
cloaked in plausible deniability.
And we,
the breathers between borders,
write poems
on the backs of embargoes,
sing lullabies
in contested airspace,
and pray
that silence
is not mistaken
for surrender.
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 6:51 AM UTC
Ah! how the memory of
those pretty green eyes
enlighten my senses
making them parallel to
round ***** of safety.
Ah! how those eyes
regurgitate and bounce
pupils widening whenever
my eyes meet their gaze
wavering and moving from
person to person in an intimate crowded group setting.
Ah! how those eyes
which resemble soft moss
or the slick flesh of kiwis
stare at mine catching like how
flypaper catches mosquitoes
accidentally but intentionally
awkwardly but inventively
and ultimately intentionally.
Ah! how the memory of
those pretty green eyes
throw me off balance
when they lock into mine
and for a good ten seconds
merging a little too long
unnoticed by the crowd.
Ah! how those eyes
are like ghosts in my
memories so valid and
plausible they seem to
drift yet knowing they
will be seen tonight
creates a fidgety hope
splintered and shaking
within this hubris heart.
Ah! how those eyes
are framed by the
curliest of lashes
so cute they bloom
ripe smiles within this
here empty chest cavity
which seems to be defeated
at the moment but somehow
waiting to witness
orbs of stegosaurus skin
shelled and shellacked and unbuckled am i
at just a smack.
Ah! how those eyes
are like a slap
to my psyche.
Every part a swirling mass
of unabridged uncertainty.
And no matter how it seems
those irises of gold and green
will always be downright dainty.
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 2:16 PM UTC
Did Lovecraft have it right
no heaven but hell
cold and wet and dark
Wandering insane
not right in the brain
hell having left
it's mark
The slip and the slide
unheard and unseen
creeping just beyond ken
Plausible creaks
and blood that will streak
every now
and then
How do we gauge it's existence
comprehension
just out of reach
Letting our own imaginations
wander and stumble the peaks
Our hair standing up
high on the napes of our neck
Superstitions of myth and of legend
no facts, just fictions
too check
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
646
I think to Live—may be a Bliss
To those who dare to try—
Beyond my limit to conceive—
My lip—to testify—
I think the Heart I former wore
Could widen—till to me
The Other, like the little Bank
Appear—unto the Sea—
I think the Days—could every one
In Ordination stand—
And Majesty—be easier—
Than an inferior kind—
No numb alarm—lest Difference come—
No Goblin—on the Bloom—
No start in Apprehension’s Ear,
No Bankruptcy—no Doom—
But Certainties of Sun—
Midsummer—in the Mind—
A steadfast South—upon the Soul—
Her Polar time—behind—
The Vision—pondered long—
So plausible becomes
That I esteem the fiction—real—
The Real—fictitious seems—
How bountiful the Dream—
What Plenty—it would be—
Had all my Life but been Mistake
Just rectified—in Thee
3.7k
Sadness
Weapons of mass destruction
Witness protection program
Mutually assured destruction
Plausible deniability
Too big to fail
Pre-emptive strike
The final solution
Master race
Total Spectrum Dominance
Untouchables
Genocide
Greed
Racism
Sexism
Homophobia
Cancer
Hate
Hope
Blessed are the peacemakers
Do unto others as you would have them do unto you
Turn the other cheek
Judge not lest ye be judged
Let he who has not sinned cast the first stone
Sacrifice
Non-violence
Integration
Pacifism
Environmentalism
Empathy
Understanding
Tolerance
Equality
Cure
Love
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC
BECAUSE there is safety in derision
I talked about an apparition,
I took no trouble to convince,
Or seem plausible to a man of sense.
Distrustful of thar popular eye
Whether it be bold or sly.
Fifteen apparitions have I seen;
The worst a coat upon a coat-hanger.
I have found nothing half so good
As my long-planned half solitude,
Where I can sit up half the night
With some friend that has the wit
Not to allow his looks to tell
When I am unintelligible.
Fifteen apparitions have I seen;
The worst a coat upon a coat-hanger.
When a man grows old his joy
Grows more deep day after day,
His empty heart is full at length,
But he has need of all that strength
Because of the increasing Night
That opens her mystery and fright.
Fifteen apparitions have I seen;
The worst a coat upon a coat-hanger.
3.2k
STOP CREEPING
(Road signs in Australia thus remind us to keep to the speed limit)
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
William Shakespeare: MacBeth, Act 5 Scene 5.
Creeping, seeping, peeping, sleeping,
What’s the common factor through these ‘eep’ words deeming?
Shakespeare calls them dusty and aligns them up with death.
Our world calls it shadow but it chokes you out of breath.
Churches cannot see them so they flout invisible.
Jesus calls them idols yet they sound so plausible.
Christians follow teachers in a roundabout way.
Teachers crave disciples which determines what they say.
But these are all poor players on a poorly structured stage.
Their stage gives way. They tumble. They rise up in a rage.
“Life has not been fair,” they say, and “Where is God in that?”
Did they ask Him in the first place? Did they call God up to chat?
The churches have no answers. Now where do I go from here?
Go right back to the Bible, Friend. The truth is written there.
Check it yourself. It’s relevant to eras far and near.
Like natural laws it cannot change with fashion year to year.
So do not mix the fashion in philosophies of life
With Truth that stands forever among raging seas of strife.
Counselling in modern terms can get you sympathy,
But will it give you backbone for the next antipathy?
Feminism needed to support the weaker staff,
But now of our humanity it rejects one whole half!
And money is too much an issue when it must be said
That what is not of love is valueless to Christ our Head.
Of all the thousands who are found in church each seventh day,
How many can indeed discern the right and faithful way?
How many put their lives on hold for truth and nothing less?
How many first set out their plan and build their faith round this?
Is there not one who will apply to God for his blueprint
So s/he can play the part of power for treasure in Heaven’s mint?
The Spirit of Truth cannot be found where ideas pull such weight.
He’s somewhere else you don’t suspect. Chase Him, and don’t be late!
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
You look at the sky.
You see a vast open mirage cascaded in a warm royal blanket,
with silver clouds that linger above your every thought.
I see something different.
I see a beautiful visual distinction of everyone's plausible possibilities.
The single flap of a budding bird, taking off into life's flight.
The sensational physical reaction of a rain droplet exuberating onto skin.
A natural epiphany.
The unyielding bolts of light hammering from up above,
turning specks of sand into timeless memories.
I see a never ending scape of clarity.
An omnipotent place of livability that stretches to the heavens,
just a piece of what might be in store.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
Angels bowling in heaven, grandma always said;
I’d nod—it seemed plausible enough for a while,
Til I decided so much bowling sounded more like hell.
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 3:02 AM UTC
Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer were a very notorious couple
of cats.
As knockabout clown, quick-change comedians, tight-rope
walkers and acrobats
They had extensive reputation. They made their home in
Victoria Grove—
That was merely their centre of operation, for they were
incurably given to rove.
They were very well know in Cornwall Gardens, in Launceston
Place and in Kensington Square—
They had really a little more reputation than a couple of
cats can very well bear.
If the area window was found ajar
And the basement looked like a field of war,
If a tile or two came loose on the roof,
Which presently ceased to be waterproof,
If the drawers were pulled out from the bedroom chests,
And you couldn’t find one of your winter vests,
Or after supper one of the girls
Suddenly missed her Woolworth pearls:
Then the family would say: “It’s that horrible cat!
It was Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer!”— And most of the time
they left it at that.
Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a very unusual gift of the
gab.
They were highly efficient cat-burglars as well, and
remarkably smart at smash-and-grab.
They made their home in Victoria Grove. They had no regular
occupation.
They were plausible fellows, and liked to engage a friendly
policeman in conversation.
When the family assembled for Sunday dinner,
With their minds made up that they wouldn’t get thinner
On Argentine joint, potatoes and greens,
And the cook would appear from behind the scenes
And say in a voice that was broken with sorrow:
“I’m afraid you must wait and have dinner tomorrow!
For the joint has gone from the oven-like that!”
Then the family would say: “It’s that horrible cat!
It was Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer!”— And most of the time
they left it at that.
Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a wonderful way of working
together.
And some of the time you would say it was luck, and some of
the time you would say it was weather.
They would go through the house like a hurricane, and no sober
person could take his oath
Was it Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer? or could you have sworn
that it mightn’t be both?
And when you heard a dining-room smash
Or up from the pantry there came a loud crash
Or down from the library came a loud ping
From a vase which was commonly said to be Ming—
Then the family would say: “Now which was which cat?
It was Mungojerrie! AND Rumpelteazer!”— And there’s nothing
at all to be done about that!
2.8k
**Anything is possible...
Even the impossible
Note that I said ‘the impossible’
And not ‘the seemingly impossible’...
This reality to me has always seemed plausible
Even when I was cold and hard-hearted, when inside my chest there was an icicle
This kind of faith kept me balanced
Like riding a bicycle
Through sanity and mental imbalance
Through all those self-deceptive lies we call…
‘Necessary evils’
When separating the good grain from the bad, do we ever make an exception and say to ourselves… “It isn't fit for consumption, but I’ll keep this grain… for it has but one necessary weevil…”?
If it isn't good for me, it simply isn't good
And I have to distance myself from it
And it is possible for I say it is
It may have seemed impossible previously
For that was how I saw it as
Not anymore
I will ease over this hurdle
And look forward to many more
Yes, look forward to them
For there are no limits anymore.**
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 3:57 AM UTC
This is what you do to me:
Keep the thoughts coming like waves, I get paid,
but even if i was broke, I could live off of just knowing you.
Your image; God Given.
Im Cristal sippin’;
Having dreams;
Seeing visions,
Comparing you to an image;
Of angels.
Caught in the game and it’s one I can’t postpone.
Because it’s you that I really want, im just in hopes that you will know.
Come to your senses.
They say it’s senseless;
I keep writing about you,
But they don’t know.
When you’re really in love,
Just got to let her go.
And if her love matches your love,
Then you’ll forever know.
And grow together, saying promise after promise.
I try to hide it,
But I just can’t conceal it.
Kerosene heart pumps your name through my veins,
To my brain, on my mind, is where you stay – all day.
Showing no emotion.
But as sensitive as ever,
When your name is spoken,
I go insane.
& this has got to be my longest crush ever,
And if we ever get together,
We’d be together for-ever.
But knowing it isn’t ever,
Remotely possible.
But is it plausible to dream?
I can’t hit the pause button on my dreams.
… And so here I am,
Lying here – without you.
Everything I ever written is – about you.
Thinking; how right the world would feel if this dream was real.
You could transform my dark to light.
… But it’s just another night.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
This morning I sat contemplating the wrinkled sheets of
my night of restless slumber-
I thought of the possibility behind contacting you and being
denied or sitting here and believing in the multi-verse theory.
When I was younger I took comfort in the thought of different
worlds which equate to multiple plausible outcomes.
I thought that if it rained here,
out there, another me would enjoy a sunshine bliss.
And so, by that logic, there is a universe in which you answer
positively, negatively,
one which we never met
and another which we are together from the beginning.
If so, does that mean this universe is the one of regret?
I am staring at my undone bed fully aware it won't make itself,
but I can't help and ponder that in another universe things once
broken put themselves together.
However, of action and inaction,
of to be and not to be;
this world demands and answer.
Thus this morning I make my bed quite early and wait for a reaction.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
Reflected, an iris of colored contexts that once had reception without spectacles. I signed voluntarily the letters to a name that I sincerely wanted to keep. I tried to limit the lines that divided the print of a written statement of deliverance; a sealed inner sanctum that has remained defunct while displaced of force all along devout of a substance, my words strived to be read ingrained on paper placed in constants among summations of variables clearly he scribed drafts maintaining a patterned complex of metaphors only to contradict the expressions layered, confusing this thinker so that the reader may interpret a plausible audibility for thought looking beyond spectrums of what is to be foreseen
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 2:30 PM UTC
A contortionist achieves ******
Her ******** saluting her lips
From within an envelope of pleasure
Causing local beatitude
Though one may query such enthusiasm
Her ******** cooing mollifying concert
Waltzing against the hips of autumn temptation
That she was vibrant
Or that she was barren
Or that in artistry
This plausible microsecond
The happening of dawn quite imminent
And a canary perched upon a fence
Lavish us with falsettos
Each and every organism throughout the universe
Itself just below its conception
And love equalizes the balance
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
302
Like Some Old fashioned Miracle
When Summertime is done—
Seems Summer’s Recollection
And the Affairs of June
As infinite Tradition
As Cinderella’s Bays—
Or Little John—of Lincoln Green—
Or Blue Beard’s Galleries—
Her Bees have a fictitious Hum—
Her Blossoms, like a Dream—
Elate us—till we almost weep—
So plausible—they seem—
Her Memories like Strains—Review—
When Orchestra is dumb—
The Violin in Baize replaced—
And Ear—and Heaven—numb—
2.3k
and the bombs sing their requiem in silent accord
while those with blood stained civil hands
think themselves out of thoughts
while running from their own feet
and here find strained in protest
words to pierce the ear of grief
and find that an elusive possession,
human identity, is trampled by larcenous wiles
such a theft that suffuses a merciless and malicious twinship
both spurious and misplaced
and produces understandings that mystify
by a succession of inexplicable events
disorientates and masks
a comedy of daylight thoughts
at once touching and grotesque
where disorientation and danger lurk
and have us believe, that which would
restore order and reason
making the ordinary world ordinary again
becomes lost in its co-ordinates
of a self made illusion
whose features lead to an uncertainty
at once plausible and disturbing
one distinguished by solemnities
of disturbed incompetence of well meaning
whose distance of sorrow evaporates
in a poignant lament
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
It has been stated that on judgment day
We may be given not the shape of diamonds,
But of bones.
Plausible now, more than before
In our last days we shall infuse as one
(To mirror the imagism of each other),
Yet display no parallelism
Could that be why we were
Disgusted by daring faces,
Yet never revolted?
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
The way
we used to handle it,
was through bars,
we'd rap
and I'd start
throwing fists,
I catch a ******
in the hip
quick,
catch him in the hallway
or
anywhere else
he chose to spit.
I swear, my face was bloodied
so much that I couldn't see,
a ****** six-foot three,
tried to put me in a headlock,
said i was a *****
so i started going in,
i got my face
messed up,
my cheekbones are high
because they were punched
up there,
but when i was a kid
i'd never do ****
i wonder what my legacy will be,
will i be remembered for the love
that i was afraid to show,
or the hate
i was too ready
to make plausible.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:34 PM UTC