"privately" poems
Why Men Cry in the Bathroom
For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.
Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.
We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.
Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.
Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.
But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,
*The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath*
Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.
Why just men?
I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know. end.<nml>
Jan 6, 2013
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 10:46 AM UTC
There is one thing that ought to be taught in all the colleges,
Which is that people ought to be taught not to go around always making apologies.
I don't mean the kind of apologies people make when they run over you or borrow five dollars or step on your feet,
Because I think that is sort of sweet;
No, I object to one kind of apology alone,
Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing for everything they own.
You go to their house for a meal,
And they apologize because the anchovies aren't caviar or the partridge is veal;
They apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests,
And they apologize publicly for their wife's housekeeping or their husband's jests;
If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn't by Scott,
And if they take you to the theater, they apologize for the acting and the dialogue and the plot;
They contain more milk of human kindness than the most capacious diary can,
But if you are from out of town they apologize for everything local and if you are a foreigner they apologize for everything American.
I dread these apologizers even as I am depicting them,
I shudder as I think of the hours that must be spend in contradicting them,
Because you are very rude if you let them emerge from an argument victorious,
And when they say something of theirs is awful, it is your duty to convince them politely that it is magnificent and glorious,
And what particularly bores me with them,
Is that half the time you have to politely contradict them when you rudely agree with them,
So I think there is one rule every host and hostess ought to keep with the comb and nail file and bicarbonate and aromatic spirits on a handy shelf,
Which is don't spoil the denouement by telling the guests everything is terrible, but let them have the thrill of finding it out for themselves.
23.7k
What's it take
These days
To write a poem
That makes the world go mad
That brings the crowds to their feet
That spreads like wildfire
Through a dry winter forest
Is it those excessively long words?
The ostentatiously loquacious
Platitudinous ramblings
Of an insecure mind aspiring
To authentic intellect?
Is it perhaps...
the "creativity"
of varied spacing
or... could it be..... the lack
of capitalization
the loathsome little letters
screaming out
hey, look at us!
... or maybe it's
the punctuation marks,
littered, haphazardly
through the text
(whether used correctly)
or, theyre not?!
despite worrds mispeled
and a grammar might is broken
can these gimmicks increase interest
though miswritten or misspoken?
Is the trick alliteration
Whose bite brightly bids us
To center on the snappy sounds?
Although all along
unvoiced underneath
Ideas idle in the isles
(or perhaps the aisles)
Of the mind
To meld and craft and bind
Our thorough thoughts
And worthy words
Into lines
Which
Heard by herds
Raise the
Praise for which we
Privately, desperately
Pray
Maybe it's a magical mix
Of splendid in-your-head rhythm
Marvelous meter that perfectly clicks
Flowing smoothly without schism
Well-spaced stanzas
Well-used time
Well-crafted phrases
Well-thought-out rhymes
Well, maybe not...
those gems are often ignored
cast-aside, unread, even abhorred
Why?
Because the modern world
doesn't need your rules
your restrictions
your regulations
your misguided boundaries
your oppression
your antiquated ideas
of "the right way"
to write
to speak
to act
to live
to (fill in the blank)
No, what the modern world needs
is
Negation!
Contradiction!
Resistance!
Revolt!
And poetry whose words
Say the same thing
Repeat the same meaning
Echo the same lyrics
Rephrase the same thoughts
But in an ever-so-slightly
Different
Varied
Altered
Adjusted
Changed up way
Line
After line
Of synonyms
over
and
over
and
over
again
-----
What's it take
These days
To not give in
To narcissism's spiral?
But more importantly:
What's it take
To make my poem go viral?
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 12:17 AM UTC
"I LOVE LOVE!" She shouted, speaking to herself in third person.
It was then that she seemed to float away
A balloon on Macy's Day.
*It seemed I was the only one orbiting earth,
watching those performances of daily life applauding
for a well-flipped omelet a superbly
fitted glove a full tank of gas at $4.00.*
I couldn't believe my luck
Terrestrially, there were husks sipping coffee
and rasping and rustling at each other
desiccated.
Privately, she was buying real estate on the moon
I LOVE LOVE! she shouted
Dancing like an egg on a spray of water
a declassified military satellite who through some dumb luck
had escaped the pull of gravity and won
Marveling at the moon rock
on her finger, even a stubbed toe just seemed
like the ideal opportunity for extorting kisses.
And it glinted in the light.
Everything was fine.
*Down on earth it seemed all the wine drinkers
were toasting to us cheering as we terra formed
the moon.* ***We couldn't believe our luck
as we rolled back our stone.***
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
a man privately asks, can you help?
you say, sure-no-hesitation
let me think on it for a day or two, he says
yet you act even before he comes back,
too late, you say, when he returns,
too late, he repeats in puzzlement,
yup, my check is in the mail,
cause one senses the need is dire plus,
plus you well recall the immutable obligation when
a vague commitment of “just ask” was inked in a long ago message,
a poem born from/in the days when you slept in the car on the street
this vague promissory,
a more enforceable judgement in your own court of law
than any state construct or the judgmental eyes of a silenced god
word, honor, do.
thus it begins, an unwritten contract inked,
an egregious interest rate of 0% proffered and agreed,
commences a plain white envelope trickle,
a check inside, by postal mail, slowly it came,
month by month, inch by inch, Niagara Falls ^
years go by, and then comes a day,
when the accompanying check and its gift wrapped note says,
Paid In Full!
and so much for the tedious minutiae...
*like kindness, I do,
Thank You and Your Welcome
are high on my list of proofs of
daily human extensions existential,*
Paid in Full,
*now rests at the top of the list
let me be blunt, the thrill of being a party
to a deal with no handshake, just coated in the
honorable words waterproof sealant,
with a person I likely may never meet,
made me so better assured of whom many claim I am,
a mathematical proof revered and kept mind inscribed,
it was an aspirational **** an unforeseen monthly blunt,
the best feeling good smile,
a kick in the pants about what really matters
being paid twice over and me,
getting by far,
the humanity confirmation,
the better half of the deal
write too often of honor,
and yet, will instinctual do again,
again overpowering my rays of will,
for there is no deflection, only reflection
for the glorious riches gifted and received,
without compare
the return on my honorable investment the best ever*
oh brotherhood, oh brotherhood,
I am paid in the currency coined from brotherhood...
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 11:30 AM UTC
If your silky lavender eyes choose not to meet mine
That’s fine.
Fantasies live and then die.
But for you, I'll try.
A man whose eyes hold only yours,
Sweet, lavender gazing privately,
Other sight blinded by joviality.
Uncontrollable emotion,
A shotgun blast from dad,
Deters no serious man.
A princess,
A jewel,
An emerald,
A girl.
Not an object,
But a privilege.
A man not centered on ***
Relationship not just in the bed,
Kisses on tangerine cheeks,
Through rain,
Foretelling lifelong love.
Soft skin swims,
I touch with permission,
We laugh and love,
None other.
Flawless beauty,
Like diamond,
Like velvet,
A wonderful image.
Thus you.
----Ardent Bowel ----
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 6:10 AM UTC
Kamarul is going to his village
All of us are going home with him
Kamarul is bringing
A bangle for his sister
Rafeeq almost buys up a jewellery shop
Kamarul takes as saree for his mother
Divakaran is busy searching for a clothes shop
While making tea
While emptying waste-baskets
While feeding new paper into the printer,
Kamarul sings his own song
All of us sing aloud privately
While going down in the lift,
He learns to count
4
3
2
1
All of us leap towards zero
Kamarul goes home,
Taking our letters
To the plant on earth
To the wind that blows in the evening
To the friend who promised to come
To everyone, for everyone
We wave our hands, wondering
What would be the time on earth
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
If your silky lavender eyes choose not to meet mine
That’s fine.
Fantasies live and then die.
But for you, I'll try.
A man whose eyes hold only yours,
Sweet, lavender gazing privately,
Other sight blinded by joviality.
Uncontrollable emotion,
A shotgun blast from dad,
Deters no serious man.
A princess,
A jewel,
An emerald,
A girl.
Not an object,
But a privilege.
A man not centered on ***
Relationship not just in the bed,
Kisses on tangerine cheeks,
Through rain,
Foretelling lifelong love.
Soft skin swims,
I touch with permission,
We laugh and love,
None other.
Flawless beauty,
Like diamond,
Like velvet,
A wonderful image.
Thus you.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
At a point of time with no certainty,
In between the sleep and wake of day.
In a minute where no one's there to see,
In that minute, I long to escape with thee.
All I ask is for a moment of your needed moments,
If I could, have even just one minute spent?
Everyone has stretched their fingers to have you, and darling all I plead,
Could you walk at midnight with me?
I understand that you choose to take things privately,
and even though this serves us with great difficulty.
But I'd chase through time, I'll await midnight,
If you could only please just spend this minute with me?
I have missed you, my love, terribly.
I could not ever just pull you from the presence of your closest colleagues.
Yes I know it's strict, we cannot be seen,
So I'll wait for the road to clear.
And when the way is clean,
and the clouds shroud over us, my dear,
I'll kiss you behind the loud cry of time.
I'll embrace you tonight, away from these eyes, as we have our walk at midnight.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 8:29 AM UTC
"I will fight you till I lose everything!"
That is the business of bringing down the other man. Until he has felt the same mockery and loss of dignity the battle will never cease. He will feel your hatred so make sure it is apparent that a war is brewing.
Justify your own cause for it will bring you happiness, and doubt his reasoning for it will give you strength.
Point out his flaws and exaggerate to others why he is such a dog. You know what he does to be agreeable.Let it be known how he is the self righteous idiot.
To demean his intelligence privately can be quite the sport, but to do it in public can be the spectacle of your day.
Lie and cheat to protect your own esteem and act and fake the hero to become your own enemy.
For who do you think you were fighting anyway?
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 11:55 AM UTC
undefined spine
so close, in lordosis
will gravity win tonight?
swayback
around a fountain
she's curving toward
rebirthing cisterns
about the recesses
of her question mark
(?)
privately electrified
in beautiful confusion
the brain is lost
innately she takes
another drink from my hands
Mar 18, 2023
Mar 18, 2023 at 10:23 PM UTC
Wanted: her words!
Her inspired, breathless,
Sighing words
Needed for motivation
Desired for an elixir
Of broken hearts and corrupt minds
Wanted: her words!
Her mellifluous panacea
Breathing life into the inanimate
Defining the undefinable
And finding felicity in the fugacious
Wanted: her words!
Her intransigent, sagacious,
And judicious lyrics
Publicly educating and passionate
Privately life's denouement
Her words are wanted
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
the excellence is evident in the credulous eminence
blessedness in the discipline of relevant emphasis
intelligence, if directionless, can lead to arrogance
purposeless over-confidence of pendulous relevance
defiantly, yet reliably, calliope waiting quietly
a variety of society that finds height in irony
i solemnly and politely will happily sit silently
finally facing the gravity patiently and privately
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
I only hear the chain clinking
under the endlessly spinning fan
& this continuous buzzing in my head.
I only see the light of my screen,
surrounded by the pitch of my room
& the veil of my solitude that covers me.
I only smell your memory in my mind,
of what once was really incredible
& what could have been so much greater.
I only touch myself privately,
the way you always did tenderly
& it's not nearly as good as you always did.
I only taste the abundant saline-drops
that carve deep lines down my sad face
& I know the flavor of loneliness,
remain starved for your affections.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 5:02 AM UTC
His thin shoulders,
Dutch nose
the hair at his temples is grayer than when we met
five years ago.
Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
My love for him
is a ships in the night love.
We circle, cutting separate pathways through
a vast ocean, on course for something
something
that keeps us signaling
onward, onward.
We look to the past privately but do not
speak of it.
The times our bodies touched.
I count them (I think he also does.)
One: the way I used to graze his arm with my hand
Two: an accident, swaying with music, too close
Three: drunk with the courage to kiss one another
Four: sweat, bed, the sun rose and I held his hand at the door
Five: years later, a hug that lingered,
the times we are allowed to touch one another,
hellos and goodbyes, in cars and trains.
We continue to pass one another.
And when we talk, we talk
and laugh and I feel a churning of waters,
a warm ocean swell that says: this is it!
Hold this.
The tide runs out,
Ships press forward on prescribed routes
through blind oceans.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
I’ve always had certain
thoughts
that manifest as forbidden plays
performed privately only in
a mental stage
I always swore
to keep unspoken,
unwritten and
eternally unprocessed
in hopes that
keeping it ineffable
and far away from explanation
would shield it from the
soul-draining burden
of legitimacy.
But the longer
I keep these things
an embarrassing secret,
and the longer I insist
that in my every thought
lies shame best kept suppressed,
the more I realize
that maybe the reason that I,
like every animate creature
stumbling through their earthly existence,
have come to condemn an abrasive world
for never understanding me,
stems from every human’s destructive habit
of refusing to understand the parts of ourselves
the world will never accept.
And what we never realize
is that we are the world—
sponsoring our own
oppression and feeling as responsible
as every snowflake in the avalanche.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
When left alone at night
I look for the pinpoint lights
of the stars that appear
when clouds aren’t there.
There’s a waning gibbous moon
shyly peaking from the shadows,
with one of its symmetrical sides,
what’s the moon got to hide?
whispering privately
I’ve heard the moon has a darkside,
that it’s coin-like and openly two-faced.
That’s no idle gossip, it's scientifically based.
India just landed on the moons bottom
I wonder what, exactly, that got ‘em.
It’s funny because the moon is ****
making the landing sound rather rude.
“India is groping the **** moon’s bottom.”
See what I mean? It all sounds rather pervish
and obscene - not at all the usual routine -
it has the ring of something politically incorrect,
but that’s progress, I guess, undressed or dressed.
Sep 6, 2023
Sep 6, 2023 at 2:26 PM UTC
هر دو بی فرزند هستیم (متفاوت)/we are both childless, differently
——————————————————————————
*let us not ask each other or god
the why, just how life worked out
and maybe by a choice unconfessed*
~
yet we both lie.
~
you possess thousands of offspring,
tend to their every need, breast feed
them water, special nutrients, stroking
their leaves, worry about their viruses,
you, dying just, a little, when, one rooted
looks up and says, “I am dying mother,
thank you for your love.”
~
my ***** produced two men,
each now, differentially,
lost, lost to me, and daily
privately, in word and wet,
weep my losses, for what
is a man who had children,
but goes down into his grave
gray haired, with none in
attendance to refill the soil
that his grave grayed body
requires to
hide his wasted,
childless
life.
Jul 25, 2020
Jul 25, 2020 at 8:52 AM UTC
she posts her credentials
privately, to just you,
in the din of a currently popular
university barroom
and you dressed in your
pick up best,
plumes of all male grinning,
reeking in thinking -
oh yeah!
va va voom,
lucky
laughs and liquor,
cheap 3.2 Ohio beers on tap,
come super highway fast via
as my finger flick be wagging
to an attentive bartender
who recognizes,
a new venture worth
his investing in a newly forming
gene pool of the
collegial world of what you children
can google as
The Sixities
you see, she says,
she is minor famous,
had two minutes in a movie
called Woodstock,
instantly recalled distinctively,
which you honor with
a dozen roses rising of
very cool
and a few daisies of
wow
so young,
she's hitch hiking thru life,
karma, ying and yang, Sagittarius and
Hesse's Siddharta,
a little ****** break out back,
our lives have intersected in
Cleveland in 1969,
and there is no question unanswered,
your bed, is her bed,
this night
you puzzle yourself,
memory recycler,
why in 2015,
you celebrate a one stand,
a single strand
excavated from
the meta data of your brain
tonight,
from among a hundred lifetimes previous
*Why Woodstock Woman Wonder
and you do,
why, wonder,
have you stayed with me so long,
that your face is indelible tattooed,
easy extracted from ancient cells
risen by this
dawn's early light?*
are you pining old man,
are you dying old man,
trying to write it all down
before the insurance company
grumpily has to pay up?
this carefree woman, no,
young forever girl,
looking up to you
asking where can she crash tonight,
answered in a single guttural
exclamation sensation,
with me babe,
with me baby
fifty years later,
crashing you,
crashing with you,
with roses and daisies that never died
wonder where she is today,
a grandmother multiple,
or sleeping gone from an overdose
of stuff you occasionally fooled around with,
or are you spending another night
in your tripping life,
with another
one night man*
no answers given,
but it is, it was,
a single dot on the trail of dots and dashes,
the existential Camus moments of
of two ordinaries that intersected,
however briefly,
and you wonder,
not why, but if,
*Woodstock Woman,
do you remember me?
I need you to,
I want you to,
explain better
why we are crashing together
one more time*
~~~
August 20, 2015
5:32am
nyc
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 1:05 PM UTC
“Don’t you give up on me,” was the comment you made when
you looked in my weary brown eyes. I felt you on a whole other
level, that came to fruition because of your truth. I feel something
for you that I’ve never felt before, it’s foreign to me and I want to
learn your native language. I am grooving to the vibes you send
only to me, and my ultimate desire is learning to move, privately to
your passionate embrace.
Melting like dark brown sugar every time I see your face, I find it
quite amazing how you are able to read me, just by feeling my
inward thoughts and my frazzled emotions. I can feel the softness
in your spirit, it drives your intent to make Me your woman and
sealed my fate to bond our heart. You are the King of my heart;
mind, body and soul. My special magician and the only man, who
can pull my heart strings and summon me into your lair.
After we talked about our feelings, I closed my eyes and felt what
you felt. Ripples of emotions flooded through me, raining; spring,
summer, fall and winter. These seasons of change have a rippling
effect, of passionate thoughts and compassionate dreams. I feel
you everywhere inside of me, these vibes we share are pure
electricity. When you told me don’t give up on you, you made me
feel like melted brown sugar. A sweet dark potion that was only for
you, that only you my King, will sample from. We share this intensity
that can be felt across oceans, an intensity that radiates and fills the
gaps, that unlucky fools have thrown away. You make me melt like
honey in tea, that soothes my heart and eases my mind.
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 10:43 PM UTC
I, The extroverted wallflower
Want you to see me,
While you look right past me.
I, The extroverted wallflower
Want to stand out
While I blend in.
I, The extroverted wallflower
Want you to close your lips
And talk to me.
I, The extroverted wallflower
Want to be alone
In a room of people
I the extroverted wallflower
Want you to know who I am
While you know nothing of me.
I the extroverted wallflower
Am privately open.
I, The extroverted wallflower
Am neither here
Nor gone.
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
Oh I wonder if I mean pounding
Or maybe it's pondering
Hell what do I know, spelling isn't my strong point
I've always been envious of all those brainy lot
To see me you'll know why I can never be an alfa male
So its better I hide behind a keyboard and troll
I can't help feeling inadequate when I read the good poems
All I do is steal words and ideas then twist them around
I pownd and pownd and pownd till I drive them away
I am a Pownder that pownd and get a pound for every pownding
I am a little person with a little mind and something else bothers me so much it leaves me with a Napoleonic complex
But I hope other men don't know about it but anytime I see a hot dog, wish I could just disappear and die cause I know that's one pownding That leaves me unpownded.
Excuse me I got a job to do
There's a poet here, I've got to drive him away from here
He's Benson or something like that and I just feel so small
Can never write like him and being a stinking bully and a Hater
I feel so inadequate and it's stressing me out, how good he is
He leaves me feeling so carri gibbanoius and useless pownding about
My job and aim is to oppose anything positive and good
I was born to destroy cause I can't do better
guess that's why I can't even spell an ordinary word like
POUNDING....
That benson fellow will soon leave and coward inadequate me
will rule with my mediocre drivel again or go copy from someone
and pretend its my work like I did at Junior High and college.
My good friend below wrote this to me:
Karijinbba › In His Grace..............
I hear the pownding waves of God in every day or written silences. I hear Gods loving waves in everyday's life's harships and struggles; even when God in his silence blessess, me in imagined lovers arms, and in dreams, when my breath away.....is taken.
He copied a poem written by me and improved on it and then
posted it back to me to show me how to improve on my work.
So I must learn from him and be a better writer
And stop feeling bad and envious about other people's poems
And writing privately to them to intimidate them and making
them quitting this site.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 6:25 PM UTC