"questionable" poems
We've had a turbulent journey together
And as he pushed the bike, slowly did his hand release me
Riding the crashing waves I admit my struggle
And my childish naivety gave passage to worser threats
Yet still he stands there, waving me on my way
Even to this day, despite questionable confidences, I still turn
And still he stands there
A rebel I didn't mean to be, but I am cursed with escalating emotions
Or maybe he would say a blessing, to empathize and find strength
As memories haunt me at night, teaming with those of ill will
The sensitivity he passed on to me prevails, Innocently I am slowed
But my wheels continue turning, and my heart stays true
Though my eyes and ears remain obstructed, my heart makes a turn
And yes, he still stands there
His presence unpurposefully commands attention
And his knowledge, he gives without catch
I understand the wars he must encounter, and yet he stays calm
Giving peace to the tide, he offers nothing, but gives everything
I unconditionally love him
I honestly hold respect for him,
He indirectly teaches me
And fuels me with his love
In this moment, I turn back, not for fear of falling,
But to wave back to the man who let me go
He is no longer there, standing firm in his spot
No
My friend, my father, he rides by my side.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
The purity is mysterious
Questionable at best
Subjective additives aiding the escape from a benign reality.
Harsh sedatives cloud my body
Instant relief from the mundane
It's flame burns in my veins
This beast, is becoming difficult to tame
Beat it or fall prey, it's really all the same.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 6:35 PM UTC
mommy loves you unconditionally
even as you soar amongst the clouds
searching for the perfect timing
to come on down
please, forgive my impatience
i just have this undying urge
to have you here
in my arms, clinging to my breast
as i provide you with life
and you provide my breaths
little one, shining so bright
come to me only when you feel it's right
the doctors tell me otherwise
and my womanhood is of questionable might
but i know you are as rightfully my child
just as i am the moon to your night
an infertile mother will forever understand
why so many letters are written to our unborn
with shaken hands
why so many tears have fallen
why you wonder it isn't your calling
to be given a life of other plans
but i know you hear me, little one
and i know you love me too
and i promise to better preserve my body
so that it may be the perfect home for you
until you are ready to bless me with your smile; the uniqueness that is true
everything i do, everything i aim to be,
every dream i work so hard to achieve
i do for you
so please, be slow and easy little one
mommy needs preparation too
just know this,
when you've become tired of waiting;
when you're ready for the world
and you're journey has come to the point of passing through
watch for flashing lights
and smiling faces
and tears of joy
listen for songs of love
because i'll be right there--
for i've been waiting too...
just for you.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
Words are often left unspoken
amongst the mangled and the broken
words can heal, but instead silence
while we tolerate the violence
on our bodies/
in our minds
a tangled web,
we dare not unwind
to ourselves
-and one another -
we've been unkind,
though we are lovers.
Ponder this questionable existence
where there is an abundance of resistance
to be ourselves and feel the love
constantly searching for a reason above
instead of reaching out and extending our hand
to our neighbor, our brother, "some kids in a van"
It's funny how we land here
in this position
abandoning our families and breaking tradition
to learn about the world and the way that it works
some people have kinds souls and others are just jerks
One day you ask an old man
"Sir, may I have a dollar?
I just want some food, maybe a water."
His reaction could be harmful, harsh, judgemental
the skill that needs building is very fundamental
"You'll spend it on drugs! Get out of my face!"
Discouraging words spoken of the human race,
"Sir may I have a dollar or some food? Maybe water"
Another man approaches as he walks with his daughter...
The daughter tugs this man and she slips him some change
How smart the children are.. Isn't it strange?
with one small glance of the smile in this exchange
the man understood, the answer was plain.
Now you have a dollar, although not enough for food,
inside you feel a warmth and a change in your mood.
The youth can inspire every second, every day
by giving out love hoping that the idea will stay.
"Some kids in a van" were once your sons and daughters
when people realize this, they seem to have a few more dollars
words are often left unspoken
each and every day-
If you extended your heart and hand,
that pain is sure to run astray.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 10:20 PM UTC
Who owns those scrawny little feet? Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs? Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts? Death.
Who owns these questionable brains? Death.
All this messy blood? Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death.
This wicked little tongue? Death.
This occasional wakefulness? Death.
Given, stolen, or held pending trial?
Held.
Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth? Death.
Who owns all of space? Death.
Who is stronger than hope? Death.
Who is stronger than the will? Death.
Stronger than love? Death.
Stronger than life? Death.
But who is stronger than Death?
Me, evidently.
Pass, Crow.
7k
A pen is not a tool,
it is an instrument,
and it does not do for an instrument
to be cheap
or poorly made.
If I have a choice, it will be expensive
Ink, not gel.
God forbid a ballpoint Bic.
No.
It will be the kind of pen that makes you want to write,
even when you have no idea what it will be about;
Write,
not for the flow of thoughts to pen to paper,
but for pen to hand to brain,
the sensation of the tip smooth across white ****** paper
swimming up your arm.
Handwriting that is usual jerky
and of questionable legibility
morphing into a graceful scrawl
I would have the kind of pen that rips the words out of me,
if I had my choice.
The pen a bow, the paper a cello.
The notes pouring, spilling, becoming,
composer unsure of where they come from
but suspecting some deep, secret crevice inside them
only touchable by the finest instrument
that they can imagine.
A pen like the head of an infant
in your palm,
so soft and inexplicably right
that you want to hold forever,
because it feels like it belongs in your hand;
cradled plastic as pleasant as downy hair
And with such a pen I will write
and write,
at the start hardly aware
what these words will weave.
A portrait of an artist,
genius or insane?
And the ideas will unravel
until it becomes more than sensation,
the meaning bigger than paper and pen.
Finally, at last.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 5:58 AM UTC
When shall we learn, what should be clear as day,
We cannot choose what we are free to love?
Although the mouse we banished yesterday
Is an enraged rhinoceros today,
Our value is more threatened than we know:
Shabby objections to our present day
Go snooping round its outskirts; night and day
Faces, orations, battles, bait our will
As questionable forms and noises will;
Whole phyla of resentments every day
Give status to the wild men of the world
Who rule the absent-minded and this world.
We are created from and with the world
To suffer with and from it day by day:
Whether we meet in a majestic world
Of solid measurements or a dream world
Of swans and gold, we are required to love
All homeless objects that require a world.
Our claim to own our bodies and our world
Is our catastrophe. What can we know
But panic and caprice until we know
Our dreadful appetite demands a world
Whose order, origin, and purpose will
Be fluent satisfaction of our will?
Drift, Autumn, drift; fall, colours, where you will:
Bald melancholia minces through the world.
Regret, cold oceans, the lymphatic will
Caught in reflection on the right to will:
While violent dogs excite their dying day
To bacchic fury; snarl, though, as they will,
Their teeth are not a triumph for the will
But utter hesitation. What we love
Ourselves for is our power not to love,
To shrink to nothing or explode at will,
To ruin and remember that we know
What ruins and hyaenas cannot know.
If in this dark now I less often know
That spiral staircase where the haunted will
Hunts for its stolen luggage, who should know
Better than you, beloved, how I know
What gives security to any world.
Or in whose mirror I begin to know
The chaos of the heart as merchants know
Their coins and cities, genius its own day?
For through our lively traffic all the day,
In my own person I am forced to know
How much must be forgotten out of love,
How much must be forgiven, even love.
Dear flesh, dear mind, dear spirit, O dear love,
In the depths of myself blind monsters know
Your presence and are angry, dreading Love
That asks its image for more than love;
The hot rampageous horses of my will,
Catching the scent of Heaven, whinny: Love
Gives no excuse to evil done for love,
Neither in you, nor me, nor armies, nor the world
Of words and wheels, nor any other world.
Dear fellow-creature, praise our God of Love
That we are so admonished, that no day
Of conscious trial be a wasted day.
Or else we make a scarecrow of the day,
Loose ends and jumble of our common world,
And stuff and nonsense of our own free will;
Or else our changing flesh may never know
There must be sorrow if there can be love.
5.1k
Some are Platinum,
Some pale yellow,
Some are Gold and fair of face.
Sometimes their choice is questionable
and the tint seems out of place.
Some are babes and some are ******
It must be in the DNA.
Some use preference by L’Oreal.
Some are straight, others are gay.
Some are called Strawberry Blondes
Some have hair like golden sands.
What each one has in common
Is they dyed at their own hands.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
Welcome to the con! The con starts with the author, Dr. Seuss.
He's no doctor. And that's a fact (and no it's not the only truthful
thing in this diatribe of mine). He used the doctor moniker to
sell more books!
That guy in the book pestering the other guy to try "Green
Eggs and Ham"? Turns out to be the ham and egg salesman,
Sam I Am.
It's a motivational selling "won't take no for an answer"
how to sell book disguised as children's literature.
And Sam I Am is psychotically relentless in his pursuit of a
sale. He needs a restraining order slapped on his ***
"Would you eat them in a box? Would
you eat them with a fox. Would you eat
them with a goat. Would you eat them on a
boat". Would you eat green eggs and ham,
would you eat them Sam I Am?
Dr. Seuss
And on and on. Sam I Am goes stalking him from page to page.
I had a friend of mine, Mustard Joe, ex war veteran with more
than twenty kills (you don't even want to know the things he's
seen) take a look into this green eggs and ham food source that
Sam I Am is pushing so hard. Here are some of the ingredients
he may or may not have found.
Ham -- 30 grams of sugar (questionable )
-- 15 grams of caffeine (untested)
Green eggs -- Trace amounts of nicotine ( not verified)
-- Handfuls of ******* (rumored)
As you can see, It's not an exact science.
People. When eggs turn green, that's mother nature trying to
warn you that your food has gone bad.
But in the end, Sam I Am gets the fool to finally try the green
eggs and ham and he absolutely loves it. Maybe the books lesson
is about to not be afraid about things you don't understand or
never tried. But I still believe there is insidious deception and
evil in the book. I have to think that way. Because after all -- I'm
Willoughby !!
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
I wonder what the world would be like if we were all winners,
maybe there would be no color lines, only religious sinners....
Or maybe future beginners, just always searching for an answer,
Without a questionable question, time is only gonna move faster....
So I can't help being a walking disaster, it's the blood corsing through my veins,
I can only hope to master, the things that I can not change....
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
You can tell a lot about
A person by the ones he admires.
Another telling factor is
The people whom he inspires.
Donald Trump, for example,
Praises Putin, a leader who
Has jailed dissenters, squashed human rights,
And done away with opponents, too.
After a questionable referendum,
Which restricts in many ways
Civil rights, the leader of Turkey,
Erdoğan, received Trump's praise.
Duterte of the Philippines--
Authoritarian and leading official--
Has had thousands of people killed
In a manner blatantly extrajudicial.
So that's his way of solving the problem
Of drugs in the Philippines is it?
And guess who wants the blood-thirsty,
Despotic leader to come for a visit?
And then there's the leader of North Korea,
Kim Jong Un. Only a rookie
Would say that the mad, unhinged and murderous
Leader was a "pretty smart cookie."
Trump's had business ties with three
Of the above countries. There's no mistaking.
But does this mean that a Trump Tower
In Pyongyang is in the making?
-by Bob B (5-3-17)
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 9:57 AM UTC
Complex PTSD made even more complex by frequent bouts of mild psychosis.
Neurosis.
Impulsivity.
Mood swings.
Suicidal tendencies.
Inconsistent personality.
Writing uncontrollably.
Questionable hygiene.
Obsessive pineapple eating.
Veganism.
Atheism.
Humanism.
And I have a horrible sense of direction.
Wait,
What was the question?
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 3:19 AM UTC
Its all in us...the consumer... it feeds on the living. Untill the heartbeat has stop. Life has to end to give to another. We all struggle and fustrate one aanother to give more and more... what happens when.. what is givin is gone. All your left with is a storm of chaos, but even within all this,
all this maddness and chaos there is peace. We all have that one spot, that one place that we can go to too relax and slow down for a minute. This new age, the one I was born into is very questionable...
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
Curls.
Lengthened, stretching
Auburn curls.
Winding around the delicacies
Of profound life.
Growing incandescently
In a newfound, unsound method.
Vibrant with innovation,
Yet in the same instance, arid.
Questionable.
Irresistible.
Undefinable.
Desirable.
Allegorical.
Many are awe-struck by this oracle --
She loathes her curls.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
"In a mad world, only the mad are sane"
Clearly stated by K. Akira.
Scary!
What is freedom?
How close is it to insanity?
Scary!
Is that a freedom when one has to lose peace of mind? Is that a freedom where finally one has to ask ownself, who am I? And may regret what I have become. Is that a freedom where you search for the thousand Suns when you know one is enough? Is that a freedom where you have to sell the soul to exist a new time? Freedom is questionable.
Never ask that freedom when you are not ready for. Never ask that freedom where you don't belong. Never ask that freedom where finally one has to shed tears. Never ask that freedom where foundation of life ends. Isn't it insanity, freedom beyond control? And you may have observed where weeds florish, lotus thrives.
Balanced freedom is conscious state of being where no outer stimuli distracts, and one could flourish. Freedom in any form is always neutal, but the person who execute it, could be wrong. And forgive me if it is illogical, Earth revolving around it's axis is universal example of how much freedom one needs.
What is freedom?
How close is it to insanity?
As the saying goes, your freedom to swing your fist ends just where my nose begins.
Yes, should I repeat that?
Reasonably never ask the insane, what freedom is. At that instant they will justify everything, where they are always right.
It will be scarier that time.
Thus freedom itself is never the issue, for what cause it is exercised, is.
Nothing more.
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 11:13 AM UTC
It rhymed, it seemed sensible
Although maybe reprehensible
Because it didn’t quite make sense,
Questions with no answers
Intensifying with the questioning
But never mentioning any answers
Just mysteries but no attempts
To justify
What was being said,
The page being fed
with more words
read felt and heard before
But never quite sure what it was trying to say
It carried on anyway,
It rhymed because it seemed sensible
But it was questionable whether it
Had any meaning,
A room with no floor but walls and a ceiling
What?
Are you sure you’re not looking at it
Upside down?
Surely it’s more appealing
The other way round,
Less falling into nothingness
The ceiling as a floor would be best
Or spinning really fast so you can’t quite fall
Because it catches you,
Hopefully no nails from pictures
In the walls
Because it scratches you
Spinning round
In a room
With no windows watching you.
Butterscotch table for two…
What?
It doesn’t make sense,
But for recompense it rhymes
I said that already I know
But I need certain lines
In there because,
Well…
You know why.
Ladders wrapping like snakes around the branches of
Trees
That could be climbed unappeased
Were it not for nonsense
The cycle repeating over time
Not pleasing but feasible
reasoning untangible
But more manageable
Like conditioned hair
More easy to bare
The sense that the
Dense trees of time
As they climb entangled with ladders like snakes
Or vines
in their hair
Mangled
They don’t make much sense
They just rhyme.
That’s just life.
And that’s fine.
What?
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
It was, as the New York Times all but sniffed
(Even then, a haughty mix of bluenose and black ink)
Further proof the poor, misguided Upstate rubes
Were no more than ample fodder
For any tinhorn, two-bit confidence man to take for a ride.
Fair enough—it was, to the careful eye and unheated psyche
Clear as the azure blue sky that,
Despite the best efforts of acid wash and a year underground,
So obviously a statue as to be absolutely laughable,
And yet the vox populi came in waves,
Not only one-gallus farmers from the fields nearby,
But from the great cities near and far
(Chicago, Philadelphia, and, yes, even New York itself
To throw Hannum a quarter to view his gargantuan grotesquery
Just as described in Genesis itself, he noted solemnly
So many, indeed, that Barnum himself was divinely inspired
Not only to purloin the giant, but its prior owner’s epigram
As to the frequency of the manufacture
Of his too-credible customer base.
While there was (briefly, at least) some mystery surrounding
The origins of the brobdingnagian mass of stone,
It remained (to some, anyway) equally unfathomable
Why scores of folks would careen in unsteady coaches
The full length of the Catskill Turnpike,
With its questionable lodging and uneven roadworthiness,
Or patiently suffer the mosquito-laden flatboats of Clinton’s Ditch
All to spend the cash equivalent of two trips to the county fair
To see a perfectly good hootchie-kootchie show
Simply to gawk at an unevenly carved rock of questionable authenticity,
But that explained quite simply,
As the public always gets what the public wants.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
Change is inevitable
They say
But this is questionable
I dare say
Past, present, future
had, is, might
a certain change of words
yes you will see
In past there exists an -ed
Add this and it'll be history
The present presents us with -ing
Add this and it'll be a present thing
To the future that is a mystery
You need to add a certain uncertainty
Might, Could, Would it can be
But change is not for me
The past, the present, the future
Is just but mere words for me
I have something that'll never change for sure
Now I will tell you
I have not loved
I do not love
I will not love
Anyone but you
And this was
this is
this will
Always be true
I have loved you
I love you
and I won't let a concept of mystery change that
for the future is just a change in time
And my love for you is already defined
My love is not a function of time
So it will never changed by times
So my love will always be for you
past, present, future participle might change
but still it will always be you
I tell you that's true
I told you
I am telling you
I will tell you
I love you
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
A guy said, "Wow! My stress level
Has really dropped. I am elated!
I owe it to my meditation."
"Yes, and maybe endorphins," I stated.
"What?" he asked. "What do you mean?
What do orphans have to do with it?
I'm TRYING to share what happened to
My mind, and here you go and ***** with it."
"No," I chuckled. "You don't understand.
You see, 'and orphans' is not what I said.
It has nothing to do with orphans.
I was saying 'endorphins' instead."
"There you go again," he continued,
"Saying it over and over again:
'And orphans, and orphans.' You sound like
A nitwit with a capital 'N'!"
"I, a nitwit?" I said, astonished.
"You are the one who keeps repeating
'And orphans.' Now I see that trying
To reason with you is self-defeating."
"Self-defeating? B...b…but," he stammered,
"I was merely attempting to share
The benefits of my meditation.
Orphans are neither here nor there."
"Listen: I WASN'T saying 'ORPHANS'!"
I yelled. "And frankly, I have to confess
Meditation in your case is
Of questionable effectiveness."
"Although your criticism," he said,
"Should bother me, I will not let it."
He walked away, and as he did,
He mumbled, "And orphans? I STILL don't get it."
-by Bob B (7-27-21)
Jul 27, 2021
Jul 27, 2021 at 11:04 AM UTC
For me, these things don't seem to be matter of questionable choice
If you understand my face, then there's no need to hear my voice
Like a beautiful bird's everlasting melody it sings
Never wasted, for all the joy that it's song brings
Until the grim reaper's phone call eventually rings
And I make an obvious decision on boneless wings
Ride me like a horse, and return me to my stable
Use me then divorce, just like you're stealing cable
Oh no, I broke my leg, hole in my head like a bagel
Is it chicken or the egg, either way life is a fable
choices that we made, until we're no longer able
No brainers weighed, don't ask me booth or a table?
So don't come to me with questions wasting time
If the winds blowing might as well hang a chime
Karma will always cleanse even the perfect crime
Deserted island, poetically just reached my prime
So much to say, but just became a professional mime
Always had two nickels but really wanted a dime
Life's pointless questions, like should a poem rhyme?
To me if you don't, you"re a mexican beer, w/out a lime
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 3:32 PM UTC
Ready, set-
Enter the dream.
Almost like real, now,
the retro cross-section of a house,
picture: Eighties
Complete With Dishes
thrown away furbishments-
relics of frat houses past
a lonesome piano
a most questionable oven
and ***** carpets.
And a little porcelain doll
glued together many times over
arms outstretched, a perpetual please
and the head askew, cocked for
the sound of the front door
under her mothy crown
as the dust settles
as the sun goes down.
Almost like real.
But not quite.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
The photo reminded her of bruised fruit. Well first and foremost:fruit.
Her body, curled around itself, sheltering the fibrous crunchy pit of her, her body white and frayed looking, rounded buttock, calf gently sloping, feet modest, willowy toes toenails like shale
face blurred, questionable dark spots where her eyes could have been. they closed as the shudder buckled, her mouth sagged open, lip lolling to one side, brow ancient furrowed like folds of sand nudged by a lazy tide. None of it concise, only guessing. Her knees brought up, squeezed against small
crunch-able chest. Full, heavy with pulp (stringy sweet, what snags on the teeth) but what if it were to fall from an appreciable height? Filmy is the flesh. Daring the looker to look closer, see what mite be hidden there.
Ripe:questionable. Sweet like nothing, pouring from the corners of a mouth: what a bite it would be.
That first bite.
The bruising comes in when she thinks of the brain beneath, that open, limitless figure so pale and forefront and brimming with intent, so crush-able with careless fist, so lovable with thirsty mouth. But what of the mind that put her before you, that turned her vulnerable, shameless, open for discussion?
Put her before you. naked.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 1:01 PM UTC
I am somewhat perplexed at the clash between neutrality and expectation, as we genuinely present our being on the field of open vulnerability. I seek to find synthesis in this very moment, between emotional thesis and antithesis. Oh, my literary companions of global interconnected and eternal being, I beseech you by the power of respiratory arrest: dare to surpass the line of expected mediocrity, where few will ever tread. I am hungry. Let us acknowledge that "authority" is a questionable truth and let us resonate with the awareness that truth is an infallible authority. The character of perceived vulnerability is steadfast in the face of assumed evidence.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
Suffering from cabin fever, I raided my cache of end-time sardines and went slipping and sliding down to the dock to feed the near-shore birds.
One lone Repelican sat upon a bollard by the boat launch seeming frozen to the spot. He was looking pretty grimm.
Taking pity on this cold, hungry waterbird former Marine-turned-Feeb, and apparently not stuck on I-275, this kindhearted Democrab was soon out of end-time sardines.
Telling him that I was sardine-poor but had one question I would like to ask concerning an investigation into questionable publicly financed bollard homesteading practices, the repugnant Repelican was not happy with me and stuck his long bill in my face while threatening to break me in half (like a boy) and throw me off of the effing dock before flapping away in a huff.
He called me later and asked to do lunch next week. Sardines on him.
r. ~ 29Jan14
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC