"prioritised" poems
Filing errands makes you drowsy and nautious.
The tube dampens your senses.
The highrises make you feel down.
Your values are re-prioritised.
You become the binmen’s *****
but all is not charred.
You have the chance to remember before,
and you grasp redemption as sand now sifts through your fingertips.
The stars awaken the you beneath the superficial.
The water nourishes your ignored thirstiness for passion.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 7:52 PM UTC
The words got scattered
Like stardust
The kites soared high up
Reaching infinity and beyond
The thoughts remained
Unchanged
The people remained
Voracious.
She read the manuscripts
In her dreams
There was a hiatus
That changed the way
Broken paths
And
Shattered dreams
It Made her think differently
For good or for bad
Is still something she is caught up with
For joy or morose
Is something
She has to decide
For every turning point
In her life
Makes her soul
Robust
And every ray of light
Reinforced a new thought
Things start and come to and end
People left and things were prioritised
Somewhere in the middle
Of this hiatus
She learnt how to
Live.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
Love is a funny word
I can love my wife, my friends and my kids
Willing to sacrifice my sexuality, my time and my very life
I can love a political idea, my job and my country
Willing to sacrifice friends, family and unity
And I can love sausages
Maybe the Greeks had it right to use various words
It’s hard to know the difference between
“Hiya, luv!”
“Are you alright, love?”
“This is luurve,”
and
“OH YES, I LOVE IT!”
Loving things, people, ideas and experiences
The same and different
Important and prioritised
And what unifies people as well as love?
Love is a funny word
Let’s use it some more
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 4:47 AM UTC
Continue to process the words in your head, extracting these whispers which simply linger and listen to each of those gifts delivered.
Pick up on the frequencies which ring in sync, with a tone clear to hear that's felt from within, risen up from our chest to the head as it spreads.
Draw in a line between each speckled dot, removing the fog to make sense of our self, helping unclog built up tears often hidden. When we try to grasp traits from silent ideas, varied trickle effects help let go of the fear.
Prioritised tasks edge out further unclasped, where the forward thinking sinks in amongst us.
Contemplative thought of feelings less said, as helpful hints given are informed well ahead.
Oct 3, 2021
Oct 3, 2021 at 8:19 PM UTC
hypochondira and hyperactivity,
misguiding nouns.
*vinum bonum et suave,
bonis binum, pravis prave,
ave mundana laetitia!*
łyski - whiskey -
łysy... itching to slap a skinhead...
so the question:
what are the ad hoc parameters of
cogito ergo sum?
i so wish to be given an
ad hoc clarity for certain maxims...
in most instances they're bibles,
obscurity riddles them a hymnal status,
and that said: holy.
i wan't to be given the ad hoc
instruction manual for certain
eurekas...
i'm told that the already stated
prefigures subjectivity...
and that the subconscious
isn't merely a bystanders' experience of
puppetteering...
insinuation sphere...
just like i might add third party
inquisitors demanding of me that:
every dream has a hidden meaning behind it.
so many have died trying to
create the uncoscious contraceptive...
this mental *******
this exploitative subconscious insinuation
puppet motivation...
the subconscious only exists
to create the other's drone capitalisation
of fragility...
the synonym of the subconscious
within groundwork of making choices,
acknowledging ethic, is insinuation,
spies and the alphabetical fixation on
subversion, and all other subs- congregate.
and it really does sound like nonsense
once the enemy's tongue is waggling...
some even called it the
omnivore safehaven...
when in fact so much was prioritised
for dietary requirements...
that became bouldered
anorexic grey-areas;
synchronised skeleton army
tugging the chimeras of crimea,
shortened to the word: Krym.
knowing this tongue, i should be apt at
forging any and all ethnic linkage with it
being expressed: i should be gagging
for a forthnight spent in las vegas!
but there's me, dreaming of a tartar steak.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 2:11 PM UTC
Memory: The Reliable & The Unreliable
Echos of a past that roll around
And called to mind from deepest ground
Behind the mind…
Ambiguous or accurate -
Can you trust that what you bring to view
Is true?
Age three to eight…early or late?
What how and when do you recall the then?
When does cementing start? ,
How much and what was taking part?
Did you see it because you must?
How much is there, is there to trust?
We know that those who witness
Accidents and tragedies,
Give testimonies contradictory -
Eyes, brown, no, green,
Height, tall, no teeny,
Fat, round, thin, face.
When and what took place - erased.
Often spoken, joke invoked, the anecdote
Snoringly or boringly jacked up:
Do we know that we repeat?
All the time collecting, re-connecting;
Predilections and renditions
Gathering and bathing; simply put, projecting -
Putting self onto the world -
Of change, of never-stops,
Of dreams, of ‘props’
Which being built to fool are worldly tools.
Memories and memorize.
Words that though alike in size,
Words containing wish and prize,
Faculties essential to our mental health,
The endless wealth of whats and whys.
Final question:
Do you, do you not -
Knowing well that times do rot,
Trust in memory and memories,
Knowing that each one is but
Prioritised interpretation, information?
I do not, but live the knots that days present
Giving each minute to a past.
Memory, The Reliable & The Unreliable 2.5.2021 Nature of & In Reality;Arlene Never Corwin
Feb 5, 2021
Feb 5, 2021 at 5:15 PM UTC
I feel inspired when I read your poems
When I look outside
Or see the ocean
When my dog glares in to my eyes with love
And the other waits insistently for a fuss
When I rescue the bumble bee from the conservatory
And place him back on a blossoming tree
When the sun is shining down on me
And we hold hands
Reminiscing of those golden sands
Dreaming of adventure in foreign lands
I feel inspired from wise old words
Of Rumi, Dalai Lama and Shakespeare's verse
At times my sensitivity is a curse
It pains me to see suffering
My innocence diminishing
I can't harden to the harshness of a gluttonous world
Prioritised by numbers, income and yield
They say eyes are windows to the soul
The rest just shell and beating heart
My view from here is pretty **** smart
Life's to short to not get lost in art
Don't dwell in past pains and misery
When there's a great big beautiful world to see
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 8:16 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel like a candy wrapper
Found in a lot of places
Seen but not recognized
Never prioritised
All about the unwrapping
See how far they can get
Without shredding
But it's not about the padding
Then to be used
For their filth
To be added to my insides
And wrap back around all my sides
Once I've been toyed with
It's done for
Time to throw me away
Doesn't matter what I say
Simply, trash
Aug 29, 2024
Aug 29, 2024 at 5:53 AM UTC