"portioned" poems
I am a compound of knowledge
I accumulate stories of redemption to serve privilege.
My existence is portioned for a little while.
But i shall remain a kingdom not for this little while.
All my reign I've always became ones rebound; elevator. Their legs knowth no grounds.
I kept fearlessly hoping for much less
Ain't lesser than a new day.
And that was being brave anyway.
Clear blue eyes of my inhabitants statued high at me.
How courage and passion never stopped to be.
The storyline I had is still now a motif of endurance.
I gave up not, and show offered my perseverance.
Away, from my bitter overwhelming insight.
Wisdom is one great amigo, less than him I'm wiped.
Done so good to every heart, though I remained a bad part.
I opened all my doors to welcome each, keep my composure and listen to their preach.
My grounds grew a seed out of that; everyday. Their eyes tortured me to believe in what they say.
Direction sometimes looked clear on their paths,
Never knew success starts on a dark start.
I kept this in my sanctified upper room.
The future is bright, all flowers can bloom. And this is who I am; I'm a compound of knowledge. I accumulate stories of redemption to serve privilege.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 1:33 AM UTC
Skinny like a Starbucks drink with zero sugar, zero guilt and full of almond-milk joy.
Skinny like a microwaved meal, perfectly portioned and easy to count.
Skinny like two diet cokes and a cigarette for lunch.
Skinny like Adderall, a high dose for higher grades.
Skinny like late nights and random *** with strangers.
Skinny like virginity.
Skinny like binge-purge-repeat.
Skinny like perfection, like mints and sadness and tight little swimsuits.
Skinny like a disorder.
Skinny like control out of control.
Skinny like a diagnosis.
Skinny like suffering.
Skinny like her.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 8:24 PM UTC
She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As the night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
1.6k
Insatiable
Tumultuous hunger pangs
Unrestrainable
The right kind of food
For the right kind of appetite
Serves just two persons
Multiple courses
Quite a feast for the senses
Divine, yet sinful
Best enjoyed while hot
Small portioned delicacies
Consume immediately
Top with a cigarette
Then realize: you are still
Insatiable
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
Life is a journey,
A hike through your own
Forest of pain and woe;
A walk becoming;
A trip through your time;
A course to fields of peace.
Walk well on the path
You have now chosen
And heed the age-worn ways.
Embrace the challenge
Of forging the Way.
The end is ever near.
On what should you feed
On the journey life?
Will you be nourished well?
How shall you strengthen
the you, becoming?
Feast on the Bread of Life!
Food for the journey,
Feeding the Body,
And nourishing your soul.
Love made incarnate,
Broken and portioned,
The feast for life is Life.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 2:21 PM UTC
Good Morning America
Act Now!
For today the price is right.
Our American idols have been conveniently portioned and pre-packaged for your enjoyment.
The wheels of fortune have turned in our favor,
laying us down in our warm beds of satisfaction.
Dreaming of the X-factor that will give us our
fifteen minutes
A girl,
no more than sixteen
and pregnant
strives to be a top model.
Overexposed and underdeveloped
barely able to read or write,
she is paraded in front of a camera and lights.
And the studio exec will keep cuttin' those paychecks
as long as you keep tuning in for another
fifteen minutes
The education can wait until the spotlight fades
who needs class mates when you got fans,
as long as those lights keep flashing on your fame, you got another
fifteen minutes
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
Concept:
youlovemeback.
The ingredients of cleanse
make their way
to your house.
There is
a
strobe,
two stones portioned off
a Ziggurat,
a present thing —
like wheels,
a teardrop,
nail clippings.
My father
would trim his nails
and bury them —
as seeds.
Stared
at that ***
all days and evenings.
Monsoons and
summer heat echoed.
Time circled back and forth.
Sometimes,
I would gargle
father’s beer and
spit into the ***
Maybe it needed
Acrid, it needed
Strong. It needed
Disgusting,
Toxic. It wanted
wrong.
I turn 22.
The ***
Disappears. My father
too. Militants
took him away,
or so the chatter goes.
He wore Chinos, sun-dried
eyes, a hat.
Mice ate
the matchsticks
used for kindling.
The Queen Termite
Gave birth to more
hungry little ones
under the sink.
Dark, musty,
collapsing.
Memory, time,
fingertips. Thyme
rhymes
with mime,
I copy my father.
Trims nails.
Plants.
Waters.
Concept:
trytounderstand
This was only the nourish
he could give. It was
a copy of the nourish
his father could give —
Or so
The chatter goes.
Gather the stones.
Get the strobe.
Pound the nail clippings
and
an enzyme flows
Through, like tape recorders whirring
as they wind back to
play recorded confessions
one more time.
Free baptismals
at the church service
for hurried teens.
Free shirts for
the Insufficient.
Free lessons for
the young boy
who can’t read women.
Free at long, long last.
Concept:
fixtheheart
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 3:16 AM UTC
I gave food the power in my life
and watch it completely destroy me.
“Does it pick me apart piece by piece?
Or does it eat me
in perfectly portioned bits?
Does it scarf me down?
Or does it daintily
pluck at me with lush lips?
Does it stay awake at night?
Or does it just
eat me completely carefree?”
I wonder why I gave it all this thought
and why I let it turn into such an assault.
Aug 16, 2020
Aug 16, 2020 at 2:04 PM UTC
Summer
Wind chimes and the clock ticks me away.
I am waiting for something,
losing other things,
like my fingers
(when I pointed at stars to try and read them)
and my ribs, one by one,
(trying to hold myself upright)
I don’t know what it is I am waiting for
but it has its foreshadow in the air
felt on the outskirts of my lungs.
and now it’s inside my lungs
and all the same:
I don’t belong to myself anymore.
I want to take the batteries out of every clock
because suddenly I can feel everything dying.
Running but running out of time-
but how do you even go about a tantrum
when you'll never get what you wanted in the first place.
I must be a child or an idiot or losing marbles
but can't help the crying, making a fool of my face.
Autumn
Hands pull me back into my sleeves
and blood runs back into my heart.
It was not something I waited for. It was someone.
so I placed my bet on the smallest, sanest sun,
but still, I gathered frost
and shed my light
until refusal words were all swallowed.
They become enslaved stars
while I am realising that those I once read
had always belonged to someone else.
Winter
Gravity rolls its eyes and asks,
‘Why do I even bother?’
The universe came in and hungry
when it expanded
and everything got eaten up
until I was left with only these parts
that belong to him
and belong to the night-time
and the lock.
My mind is in ashes.#
They have already been scattered.
But there was the bet I didn’t lose.
As it turned out, somehow,
in that lost state, I didn’t wage a war
that I couldn't win. .
Spring
Love is portioned out and put in containers
and in the freezer on the bottom shelf,
next to something I made to eat later
before I can remember.
I won’t let anything melt.
I’m saving it for summer.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
It is just a word,
This nameless tide
That we decide
Should give us pride
This piece of land
We portioned off
With weird
Property lines
To define
What is yours
And what is mine
Who we are
And who they are
It could have been
Called anything
The name does not
Make it distinct
Nor craft a creed
Of perfection
For the world to see
Because it is just a small piece
Of a bigger thing
With a different name
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 9:49 AM UTC
Within mixed company one might apprehend
Renouncing of truths which encumbers the world
Symptomatic social submission dyspepsia trend
Peripheral Cocktail conversations’ knurl
With premeditated segments pre-portioned for digestive ease.
Rambling thoughts, forego the shadows from which they unfurled
Blend they do into the abstract of popular sedition.
Modern life’s pace set to the speed of delusions,
Which shatters the barriers, setting free dangerous silent admissions.
From their recesses, where quiet hatred echoes hidden in hushed undertones,
Fed by the collective self interests’ of defensive conclusions,
The camouflage of fallacies, woven into faces we see..
PFL
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 1:45 AM UTC
This man I am who coast before you is but infection.
The cause of all your trivial harm.
Incubus has but this face.
A single breath of fictional attraction I have fed.
Inhaled it all as the others.
The look on your face as I died.
Pleasant and calming to me.
I am but a secret of the balance.
A portioned blend of confession melts away
before you here.
Sanity is vague of definition.
Sleep pawn, Sleep as I watch.
Fearful and without answer I prey.
Weakness feeds me heavy.
All that I knew and all I believe,
all which I have taken, no longer comforts me.
Sleeping in your naive vulnerability.
Your mind is mine.
I will build who you are.
Love is but control.
I have it.
I use it.
I manipulate it.
An illusion of safety and home.
I taught you well.
A grin across my face and complete conquer. A tactic born to me.
Born to me, to end you.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
I told You how I doubted You,
I threw it in Your Face.
I confronted You with anger,
and you gave me Saving Grace.
I spat on sacred scripture,
tearing loopholes in Your Word,
and You portioned me patience.
How strange the Peace I felt.
My conscience didn't bother me
after the jibes I dealt.
Instead I hear You calling me
to evaluate this life I'm living;
To reconsider rejecting You
because You really are Forgiving.
Instead of wrath and lightening bolts,
instead of a numbing void...
You were happy just to hear from me,
You don't even seem annoyed.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
You crept up on me.
Slowly, then abrupt and quick.
You gave me eyes to see.
Clearly, almost intrinsic.
There was a time before you.
Or was there?
I feel like I'm born anew.
A golden heir.
The world bestowed.
Contained in your blue marbles.
Both show me home.
Both sensational and artful.
Time stands still in your gaze.
Portioned into hours and minutes.
Overflowing into weeks and days.
But I feel no travel, I feel no grit.
I feel humour and passion.
I feel life and death.
I feel laughter and spite.
I feel everything that's left.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
What storms exist in a beautiful mind,
never to pass us by?
Drawing the sun from looming shadows
To separate what is to be known in time
Portioned among swirling ridges of worry
By horizons that never forget to remind
He found the way was not the winds,
but to walk within the eye
Drawing the calm from looming concerns
To separate might be from once was
Portioned among flower beds to be saved
By those who decided to live just because
Which doors did he lock, trapping forever,
the Furies that make him cry?
Drawing the good from looming terror
To separate his soul from flesh that breeds
Portioned among those who have not given up
By those who are willing to plant new seeds
Which door remains open within his heart,
knowing not to ask God why?
Drawing reason from random acts of evil
To separate destiny from forgotten lives
Portioned among those with the will to live
By those who carry on after silent goodbyes
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
Joy and happiness reside in the mind and the heart
no restrictions on what time of year
yet here we are again, magically somehow they appear
hoarded annual and released at this time
like a cache overfilled overstuffed
portioned to those closest and dear
even though it's never enough
After the season has passed and been packed
we'll once more amass acquire and save
knowing that feeling will eventually come back
and all year long, collective and brave
What if instead we hand out the treasures
to every soul and body in need
not just at New Year Christmas Thanksgiving
the poor the homeless too feed
So love as you can each woman each man
the children our future will hold
spreading the cheer not just this time of year
now wouldn't that be something greater
than anything bought or traded
or sold
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 7:27 AM UTC
“Hello,
I would like some poison
portioned over the night. Yes,
I would also like to stand somewhere
like a subway car, but darker and louder.
100 bucks? Wonderful,
will that also help me feel like **** tomorrow?
Great.”
“Hi, yes –
please cut into my face
for no apparent reason.
Yes, pull out my tooth
to quell an inconvenience.
Substitute it with a worse inconvenience,
and bill me $1000.”
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 3:34 PM UTC
A dark cloud has been storming around me,
the wants and needs over-portioned and mounted-
Why the war of pain and wonder wanders to see
where no one feels the love or is lost but founded?
There is a light- the light is so far away,
but I can still see the embellishing distractions
that are so brightly extraneous and willing to stay,
but the storm, so undeserving and strong infractions.
The storm passes by the deepest depths of the earth.
the blackness of perception now gone from you;
the perceptions of poor judgment in the burning hearth
suckling of pure judgment within the heart anew.
The cloud hovering over me, now descends
to the east a rainbow ascends.
The troubles once afflicting your soul,
now are gone from you, and you are whole.
(Possible Chorus):
Light of Day made a new
with courage, strength, and love
one can stand firm- this one is you.
The free spirit of the dove,
provides what's inside the light of day.
For you are the light of day.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
I’d trade a drunken uncle for five years of warmth
For a family rooted in chaos.
Your father recovered
But mine never will (if I can still call him mine)
Envy is a deadly sin
a gateway drug
An invisible mistress
You have hand painted thighs from a boy who rearranged no
We both know him,
though you have been closer.
(LIAR)
But i'm still a fresh canvas,
Maybe a bit tattered, slightly greyed
But clean of self inflicted hatred.
I've never had to invent my own pain.
I know pre-portioned hatred
Another ******
Food lines
Bottled baths
Gunshot lullabies
Shoestring laced telephone wires.
I wonder how it feels to stand on the edge with everything to live for.
“We” don't do that
(even though I've only been halfway accepted as “we”)
I have someone to take care of.
I wonder if sleeping pills would help me too.
Packaged from white rooms with white lab coats and white skin.
I wish I could hide too
I hate that you don't have to
I hate that you'd abandon everything I’ve always wanted.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 2:02 PM UTC
Married to the criminal;
Married to the saint.
Eventually the dreams are grinded;
Seasoning for the steak that
finds its way to the plate
Every single night.
When will I wake?, you say
as you take a bite.
'Tis all, I'm afraid, she replied
as she raised her knife and
portioned out her life.
A tear fell away;
The steak was seasoned, right?
Just another day,
A husband and his wife.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 10:53 PM UTC
Queue the laughter.
I'm building a justified war-
Sorry little animals dirtied and poor.
Eat portioned joy you faith-filled fools-
Soured with lemons tasting of ardor.
Perhaps my beast feels shame-
Wither my ego or find he to blame.
Sink the crescent ship below blue-
Fill the sea with smoke and flame.
The dark woods are a bear's back-
Smelling breaths of heady lilac-
Rummaged pines sticky with lines.
Here, there rest no lies or fact.
To let you know of what's today-
We are breaking the yoke in a brand new way.
Sword-toothed sharks battering at our waves-
Keeping the skeptic fish at bay.
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 10:32 PM UTC
Don’t starve to life
An emaciated buffet unveiled
A feast of scraps
Hungry for your nutritious deceit
Portioned promise
Bloated truth dripping
And yet you're full
Jun 28, 2020
Jun 28, 2020 at 11:02 AM UTC
I thought I was good at this
a delicately constructed mask
form fitting and leering
Subject to dissipative resistance
And emboldened flashy facades
Am I the type to scream of my pain
The size of my plate
too portioned to shame
still lay open to you
And you laughed in my face
Pressed liquor to my throat
And called me lame
Berated and hated the break in my spine
Pressed me to the wall when I turned down your white lines
Resentment and hatred burned into my hips
I needed my friend
you just needed my tricks
Dec 24, 2021
Dec 24, 2021 at 8:59 PM UTC
One idea can lead almost directly to another - although a day apart, as in this case:
Sometimes the deepest questions elicit the easiest truths. Because it is rather sillily written this ‘truth’ below is slated to go into a collection called “A Sense Of the Ridiculous #II, A Sense Of The Ridiculous #I already published. (see Amazon or Barnes & Noble, I think )…and more, I’m sure.
Simplistic, Black & White But True🤪
Teddy Roosevelt, the President,
Said, “Where you are, with what you have, do what you can”.
Do it, do, do, do”, said
Ted,
The President!
And I concur with Teddy's view,
For reader, do
You have a better, more complete
Solution?
Complex issues
May have layers,
Many sayers,
But sometimes there are no clearer
Answers than one thin as tissues.
Simplistic, Black & White But True 5.20.2020 A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Circling Round Reality; Arlene Nover Corwin
The Elixir
If there ever was a magic potion
Inbuilt in an earthly notion,
One to change the habits old
Into a new and lifelong gold;
Outside all tricks,
The negatively nix;
A lotion of refreshment
Portioned out, the perfect servant,
Ocean of vitality and vibrancy
And most of all, not fancy,
It is doing what you can
With what you have
Wherever you may find yourself,
Tools always in your hand
Or foot, or leg or mind,
Its wangling angling,
Its instinct, intuition, reasoning.
Right there in existence
And your presence
Is the feature and the fixture:
The elixir.
Elixir 5.21.2020. Words To Love; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Arlene Nover Corwin
Elixir; (also elixir of life) a preparation supposedly able to prolong life indefinitely:
May 21, 2020
May 21, 2020 at 3:32 PM UTC
Apparitions appear by portioned parchments
Surround these words
as letters decor about
Hungry for salvation,
a means to their end
of watch’
finding solace, and safe haven. .. a refuge from eternal damnation
Right beneath the citadel of the nib that splays ink-etched words on parchments
I hear their plea and
splay them threadbare
for eternity
Nov 2, 2021
Nov 2, 2021 at 11:28 AM UTC