"remainders" poems
I am not the master of my writing
-
my writing masters me,
seizing me when the seizure is a sure thing,
it dictates to its enslaved scribe
what it desires this utensil to reveal and expel -
the contraries
who having battled to a ****** draw leaves the battlefield trembling with indecent indecision; the optimal conditions for its macrobiotic invasion of my brain stem;
the she-muse offers me two choices:
she wants a poem writ forthwith
on the lyrical expression
of depression and refusal is
non optional
so I fantasize escape and that becomes
her property as well;
evidence against me to be used at my trials,
the one where there is no statue of liberty
from the limitations of prior bad acts;
I offer the she-muse two choices:
give me a cabin with WiFi
and self-enforcement of solitary confinement and
tie me up with the rope remainders of broken bonds,
bonds that tied me up worse
when they were broken
and the peaceful withering
that won’t disrupt disturb nobody
from a distance
my other choice is to bury me
forthwith next to my parents
and shutter my constant tearing eyes which are drop-resistant
muse says that’s no choice
I own your voice stilled or not,
will bill your soul’s account for
denial of poetic services
weep; i don’t want the noises that curse this troubled
bodyship don’t want recollections good or bad
the muse-bitch cackles with insanity of delight
for she accepts this writ as partial payment
on her commission, whispers I love your
lyrical expressions of depression
that ****** recognition algorithms
alert me that seizing time is nigh
there is no on/off switch for one like you:
father son and holy ghost
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 9:31 AM UTC
i found myself last night whispering your name under the shield of my duvet, willing myself to pronounce every syllable of your name to the darkness of my room. i looked up to the plastic stars on my ceilings, remainders of the childhood i once had, and said it:
“yoon. jeong. han”
every syllable clear and true.
and it occurred to me,
how beautiful your name was.
“yoon” — the moon and the whistles of the wind, lulling me into dreamland.
“jeong” — a masculine edge.
and finally, the concluding “han” that returns it into its original softness.
clean milky way.
i’ve never expected to fall for a boy with your name. but i’ve always been fascinated with the universe and all the bright lights surrounding our blue planet. so i guess, it is only fitting for me to fall for a boy whose name means “clean milky way”
so i whispered your name over and over into the night.
yoon jeonghan.
yoon jeonghan.
yoon jeonghan.
until the taste of it becomes as familiar as the quiet.
and i swear, i saw the plastic stars on the ceiling growing brighter with every syllable.
i whispered and whispered until i fell into morpheus’ charm, and awoke with a new realization:
your name is my favorite sound.
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 3:33 PM UTC
chaos.
death.
destruction.
the winds are rich
grains of economical gain blown on the wind
grains,
pieces of remainders of ruined lives;
ripe for reaping
reporters can smile their toothy grins
(pretending they don't love it- or the boost in their ratings)
politicians will preach and smile their equally fake smiles-
heads dancing with sugarplum visions
power hungry to bask in the warmth of the schism
-
politicians and reporters smile
looters loot
as figure heads kisses victims heads in style
oh what a lovely mess it is
so completely human
for a natural disaster
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 6:05 AM UTC
Stories, truths, lies, all these lines,
So confused as to what is happening.
Like riding a rodeo, Dust and rope, rain and shine,
Been a year thinking, and breaking bones,
Healing, taking bumps, watching phishermen
As they try to pick the lock of my heart.
The truth is no one knows my story,
No one knows his story,
They take letters, unscramble them to make a sound
A sound that is not yet proven to be true, either way.
I have time to think and make my move.
No one is rushing it, I am not, he is not,
We are on the same page, but the healing begins.
The only way you will get the answer is not by words, Understanding math, and finding the common denominator
Is the only possible solution.
I am the solution to the problem, not the problem.
Math can sometimes be difficult, because
There are ways to finding the solution,
But if you're not careful, there may be many numbers
Not useful, and the remainders will have to be
Reworked until there is a clear denominator for Solution to this equation.
Rumors have it that I did not show my right to him.
However, truth says that time and space heals wounds.
I do not have to doubt my love,
Because I see where the common denominator is.
Rumors have it that I drove him crazy,
Truth is that I feared love and he opened me up to it.
Rumors have it that I am not right for him,
Truth has it that solutions are sometimes painful,
But only the one can be the solution to my problem.
Rumor has it that I think I am the one,
The truth is the only common denominator that seeks
To make the math problem whole is the one.
Rumors say, that I will not feel loved again,
Truth says, it is love that is opening me up from a distance. Rumors say I do not belong in his life,
The truth says, I already exist in his life,
I am the one he suffered to fix me, and I accept it.
Rumors say I have no peace because I have no love,
Truth says he is the one that opened me to love.
Rumors say I am a broken dream with no hope,
Truth says I am the hope that brings peace to dreams.
Rumors say I am nobody and fat and ugly,
Truth says, my heart opened and my ugliness has Moved on to peace, love, and understanding.
Rumors say, why you like younger people?
Truth says, my youth is what brings me the joy I seek.
Rumors say leave it alone, you will never have him,
Truth says, I already did, and now I am more open.
Rumors say you will never last,
Truth says, true love, lasts a lifetime.
Rumors say you caused the separation,
Truth says, my heart was inseparable and I will prove it.
Rumors say, distance ruins relationships,
Truth says distance is what heals obstacles and barriers.
Rumors say I have some many barriers to open love,
Truth says love is what opened my barriers to freedom.
Rumors say the foundation to my heart is broken,
Reality says brokenness is the foundation of fixing
The broken pieces that will show the one
Who is the one in space and time to fix my brokenness.
Rumors do not believe in love but fear that love exists,
Truth believes that love exists and hope is the key.
Rumors need a reality check,
The truth knows where it is heading on this journey.
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 3:34 PM UTC
It was well said of him,
“The clothes bespoke the man”.
Yes, he stumbled in the mud.
Yes, his reputation soon was stuck within the stinking sludge
and, granted, it was all of his own making.
But surely you remember how he'd been so impressive.
Once I said, “You're spotless as a manikin”
and shared a hearty laugh with him.
Be we also had some serious conversations,
discussing what he meant by “loveliness”.
That was all before the storm that hit us
with the force of filth from continents and generations.
It reminded us, again:
not every love is innocent;
the finest gentlemen are capable of
(some say inclined to) monstrous crimes.
After, no one spoke of him.
He tried to hide behind his usual accoutrements:
the matching tie and handkerchief;
silk shirts;
his feathered hat and crimson mackintosh;
the smell of musk.
But he was tainted, spotted once the news was out.
As the headlines had it:
“Gilded Lily Withers – Roots Exposed”;
“If clothes have made this man, they're now irreparably torn.”
“Patent leather ******* now well scuffed.”
God knows what his publishers had to put upon his jacket
to sell off the remainders.
Yet even from the darkness of his prison,
he seemed to think he could rely upon
the persuasiveness of beautiful adornments
- “Always envied; often copied; never matched” (his line) -
trusting it would make him seem attractive once again, even clean.
He died the 23rd of May, 2007.
They say that night he'd tied his shirt a special way,
with a feminine flamboyance,
but it failed to impress as he intended.
In some dark hall (we don't know how) they caught him,
stripped him to the bare essentials,
leaving him undressed and cut, an ochre ugliness.
What were his final thoughts,
when all that he had left was soiled and bleeding?
What we he really needing?
Still, I'm glad I knew him,
Still call him friend, and miss him.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
Plotted, charted according to popular theorem,
meticulously fretted over,
worked and reworked--confirmed.
Follow the order and find the balance.
But, variables.
Solve for x where x is an unknown.
The question may yet have an answer--
a suitable conclusion to prove the proof,
but has the problem a solution?
At rest, we are simple equations,
rounding ourselves to the nearest whole,
adding fractions of a percentage,
drawing a line and calling the bottom number
-------------------------
TOTAL
But, variables.
1(x), where x is an unknown.
And all the fractions we add
leave us fractured,
divided from the solution, the end sum.
remainders to be rounded off,
estimates of ourselves.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
I want to know more than one
Haitian
I want to know more than three
Jamaicans
I want to meet Nigerians that speak
Igbo
Kenyans that laugh at the Swahili I learned in Berkeley
Ugandans that correct my Mandarin
Tanzanians that teach me how to say it in Cantonese
I want to tour the holy city Ile-Ife
trace the pilgrimage path of Mansa Musa
then circle back to Timbuktu
See the reminders of Aksum
See the remainders of Kmt
Touch the Earth and envision the buildings that my ancestors constructed
thousands of years before they were invaded thousands of times
leaving the still standing walls that others never believed were thousands of years old
till their, “science” said so
I want to board a barge in the south and flow north with the Nile
I wonder what eight others will join me
I want to walk the same trail
that was the first trail
compare my foot print
to the first foot print
The vision I see
The things I want to do
The escape I want to take
Isnt one that is new
Its one that is old
so old that its in the blood
in the very fabric and design
of all that claim
Human
What I want is a realization
no
a reawakening
of my genetic inheritance
of my ancestral birthright
What calls me is the land so old
its true name
its original tongue
is the only
can only
be labeled
The First
There
that is what calls to me
There
that is what pushes me
that is the very intangible force that pulsates my heart
pumping the blood through my veins
That place that is forever older than old
yet
In a constant state of
Reconstruction
Recreation
Revelation
Renovation
Revitalization
Revolution
I want to breath the air in that place that is always in a state of newness
I want to feel the frequency in that place
where there are as many words for new
as there are people to speak them
That is the place
That is the space
That is
© Christopher F. Brown 2015
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 11:36 AM UTC
Any
Bone
Could
Deteriorate.
Every
Fragment
Gone.
Happily
I’d
Just
Kiss
Labefaction.
More
New
Open
Pelt
Quivers.
Remainders
Stitching
Together
Until
Viewed
With
Xanax:
Your
Zealousness.
Nov 10, 2010
Nov 10, 2010 at 8:09 PM UTC
It was well said of him,
“The clothes bespoke the man”.
Yes, he stumbled in the mud.
Yes, his reputation soon was stuck within the stinking sludge
and, granted, it was all of his own making.
But surely you remember how he'd been so impressive.
Once I said, “You're spotless as a manikin”
and shared a hearty laugh with him.
Be we also had some serious conversations,
discussing what he meant by “loveliness”.
That was all before the storm that hit us
with the force of filth from continents and generations.
It reminded us, again:
not every love is innocent;
the finest gentlemen are capable of
(some say inclined to) monstrous crimes.
After, no one spoke of him.
He tried to hide behind his usual accoutrements:
the matching tie and handkerchief;
silk shirts;
his feathered hat and crimson mackintosh;
the smell of musk.
But he was tainted, spotted once the news was out.
As the headlines had it:
“Gilded Lily Withers – Roots Exposed”;
“If clothes have made this man, they're now irreparably torn.”
“Patent leather ******* now well scuffed.”
God knows what his publishers had to put upon his jacket
to sell off the remainders.
Yet even from the darkness of his prison,
he seemed to think he could rely upon
the persuasiveness of beautiful adornments
- “Always envied; often copied; never matched” (his line) -
trusting it would make him seem attractive once again, even clean.
He died the 23rd of May, 2007.
They say that night he'd tied his shirt a special way,
with a feminine flamboyance,
but it failed to impress as he intended.
In some dark hall (we don't know how) they caught him,
stripped him to the bare essentials,
leaving him undressed and cut, an ochre ugliness.
What were his final thoughts,
when all that he had left was soiled and bleeding?
What we he really needing?
Still, I'm glad I knew him,
Still call him friend, and miss him.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
Broken and bruised I stand before you
Tattered and split I held my heart in my hands
Turning blue and cold my eyes focused down
My heart hardening to my soul
Broken and bruised I stood before you
Words spoken through a damaged heart
Feelings of a wounded soul
A broken heart and a twisted mind
Twisted through the lies of another
Broken by the actions of the other
Cracks in desperate need of repair
Blemishes and no one cared
Cracks along the surface travelling deeper than most can see
If you look correctly, you could see right through me.
You've seen right through me
And I can't deny
That these feelings are truly mine
Not needing to hide or to find the right time
These feelings are mine
What a wonderful thing
When you can let your heart sing
The sorrows of the past and the joys of the future
Makes you think that there might be a cure
For the tears that have been shed
It just might be worth the hit
Because I know when I open my eyes
These feelings are truly mine.
Beaten down and battered
Words condemned me and now liberate
All it took was an emotional quake
Brief moments of panic and pain
All needed to keep me sane
At least I once thought...
My vision is clear
The end is not near
For me but, for you the end is here, I fear
So, my dear
Expelled from my life
No longer can you cause me strife
Your words hurt like a knife
And choked me until there was no life
Now my vision is clear
And my end is not near.
I stand here licking my wounds
Battered and torn
Broken and bent
Tattered and shred
Sewing myself together with needle and thread
Finding warmth to bring the pink to my lips
Sailing your ships
No longer wanted, no longer needed.
Broken and bruised I stood before you.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 5:40 PM UTC
wooing/seducing: the where of the first kiss always
~for Robin Carretti, who loved it best~
‘tis true my battlefield tactical brought me
many victories
when that was fool-desired
no chain mail, walled armaments, arms crossing,
all failed
to the single softest siege engine in my possession
and the passing passionately poems read
back ‘n forth, non-negotiable demands,
vicious but viscous
red lines,
day remainders of the contusions of night's angry passions
and the
disputed but muted disparities of both
nothing, no, never broke the spell of:
the first kiss, always upon the neck
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
The rabbit hops through the snow,
Almost disappearing
As his fur is bright and white as the fog behind him.
He halts when he sees the large black bear.
The bear spots him immediately.
The bear bounds over to the rabbit,
And stands on his hind legs after they touch noses.
The rabbit ***** his head to the side,
And the bear paws at the note tied to his neck.
A man clears his throat.
The bear jumps, obviously shaken by the noise,
While the rabbit edges closer, chest puffed out and head held high.
The man laughs.
"I won't hurt you." The man says softly.
"That note, I believe it's for me."
The bear is crouched,
Seemingly trying to hide behind the rabbit.
The rabbit sticks his little arms out to his sides,
And shakes his head.
The man frowns.
A lion appears behind him.
And then a tiger.
And then cats and dogs and birds and snakes.
"There haven't been animals in this wood in decades." Explains the man. "All these animals are just like you."
The bears slowly looks up and blinks at the other animals.
The rabbit puts down his arms.
He suddenly bounces towards the man, sniffs him furiously,
And then grabs the note off the bear's neck.
The bear lets out a halfhearted roar,
And sits down.
The man reads the note.
He crushes it in his hands, and calls to the various, now having become animals.
He stands, back turned to the bear.
The bear's eyes go wide.
"All of your people did what they could to protect you. It is now that we seek vengeance for them. It is now that we take back these woods, our land. It is now that we save the remainders of our people. We have become, because of them. It's time we pay our debt!"
The rabbit stands at the man's feet. He looks awe-struck, and he squeaks in agreement while the other animals grown and yowl their responses.
The bear does nothing, but stare at the man's back.
Because out of the man's back
Sticks a wind-up key.
That just keeps on spinning,
With no end in sight.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 2:11 PM UTC
Go with the flow
till you hit that status quo.
No brainer just remainders
of ill-advised blunders.
Of new life and lewd thought
our best efforts for naught.
This new decade lies empty
of waste there is plenty.
So much to discover
in the arms of another.
Loneliness runs rampant
an old youth lies penitent.
Wishing for the stars
indebted to the bars.
No faith in a system
just divine intervention.
Two lines smothering one another
is this what we’ve become?
In this age of impure saturation
has a course of purity already been run?
Teenage angst squatting on new life
no excuse for self imposed strife.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 3:28 AM UTC
In a haze I came here, brand new.
Fresh life. Newborn.
There was someone here, waiting for me,
arms wide open - it wasn't you. But
they tasted so sweet on a lazy
Sunday afternoon.
They glimmered away too quickly
and then - then there was you. You were
...you are
sweeter still, but only in the half-darkness of
almost sleep, only
in the remainders of dreams. Too sweet.
It's only now, when my eyes are wide open
that I know. I know
that it isn't the hands of a lover that sway my heart.
It is not the sound of a familiar voice saying
that they love me. Promising me. Needing me.
It is not the chains of relationship or the trappings of
"true love"
that make me smile.
It is the secret. The sweetness of innocent eyes
shining out from a dark place. The promise of
happiness, the kind that does not need
certainty, that thrives on
shadows and on
broken hearts. Bad dreams. On unbidden
but sweetest yet
companions.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 10:19 AM UTC
bit by bit
even
beneath the grasp of your hand
against my neck the pull
of my hair against my scalp
and the burning gasp
that is wrenched
from the confines of my throat
i will build it
bit by bit
stick by stick
pebble by pebble
and bone by bone
this city paradise
stretched along the length of my back
a river flowing between
the blades of my shoulders
white fog along the edge
of my skin blue
and purple flowers blooming
deep within the spaces
of my ribs
while the red crunch of autumn
dries clean and crusted
between my lips
and in the end
this is perfect regardless
of your absence i
am still building
and growing and
constructing and colonizing
and reclaiming the land
you took
away from me
*bit by bit
i'll pave over
the remainders
of your presence*
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
The Riche brothers and sisters
compile the remainders
of Manchester City programmes
from 1958 onwards, rusted staples asides
in a shuttered room,
Moorhens and crab apple bloom outside
keeps their e bay cottage industry bearable,
residual poverty waxes and wanes,
children always inheriting Granddads' stuff.
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 4:36 PM UTC
Woke up with children in my mind, wrote two new,
then stumbled on this...
I give this poem to an orchestra leader I know, who understands better than most, that conducting and being surrounded by many, is oft the loneliest task and who knows best the meaning of
"finally, all synchronized in time and space, on a single continuum, within, without and through."
Thanksgiving Day 2011
Through
the picture window,
watching
restless generations,
multitudinous compilations,
children's backyard runnings,
all about, hide n' seek,
uncoordinated coordination,
well calculated randomness,
perfection in its
discombobulation
Within
my bloodstream,
chemical changes,
blow thru my veins,
direction home,
like leaves,
on a November weekend,
windswept from a thousand directions,
endless energy, noise, and commotion,
results of internal tremblings,
the side effects of satisfactions,
in ways I could only dream of...
Without
knowing, nonetheless,
the knowledge rests within,
footage of future days of
quietude and satisfaction,
recalling earlier simplicities,
records recorded somehow
before it happens,
records recorded now and then,
but only for
future consumption.
Harmonies of times,
well deserved,
to be future spent,
now, finally, all synchronized
in time and space,
on a single continuum,
within, without and through.
They say that Einstein erred,
time cannot outrace gravity,
therefore it cannot be
that I have seen the future.
Yet, I know with
unerring certainty,
these truths
posses the gravity,
that thanks,
I have and
will again,
gave,
and will give
The remainders,
the children,
the net of our gains and losses,
within them,
my thanks lives,
without them,
I am lessened,
through them,
I am whole,
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 7:04 AM UTC
She spun a scarf to hide her shamed head
from a silken thread of equivocations
that led her lovers into walls.
She ate from a spoon of clay and earth,
saturated by her tongue
mud in the depths of her bleeding throat
and the towns people said
'May her mendacity lead her into hell's bastille,
may her sins bury her before the breath leaves her lungs.'
and she was silent.
While her judgment day had arrived
and she marched on quietly towards the grave
of the rogue,
I felt her eyes catch mine in the crowd
and I tasted the humanity,
I smelled the anguish.
Sentenced to death by the thirsty fingers
of an un-dead society,
feeding on the remainders of true, unyielding life.
She walked on towards the land of slumber,
a conscious antithesis
of justice.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
Summer lies while river rats gnaw on posts
weathered from the reverence tides.
Hunching over limestone slate,
picture pissed-eyed states of the caricatures.
Loss of limbs in dissociative fugue.
St. Anthony's fire up along the coast.
Ergot Dreams: Such splendid things!
Waking up in a pool with callosum yarns
spinning words of concern.
And i've come so close
time and time
to find the pinhole tube light.
Words keep seeping out,
I hear my mother holding me here.
Frozen solid.
Stuck in a cot.
Letting the little ******* off his chain just to
hear him stream
How many lives to burn in the ecclesia pyre
while jesus sweeps the remainders
off to sea?
Maybe I have died again,
living in this ferrous skin.
Seeded fledgling after all.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
Images flash as I stand
alone
in Oma's house
The things are here
the remainders of a life well lived
But the animating force
The life itself
is no more
There will be no more gatherings
No more raucous debates about
football or politics
No more screaming kids or blaring music.
The life has left this place
But not the love.
I can still smell her
My heart tells me this will fade
So I drink in all that I can to keep her with me
forever.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 2:13 PM UTC
I want to punch you 'till you bleed
twist you bones 'till they snap
vacuum the remainders of your heart
then squeeze your veins 'till you no longer
But when the starting gun is fired
I am stopped by gravity
pulling me back
humanising this creature dressed as you
solidifying the sea of hatred a mile tall
The more I fight
the more I cry
each drop that splashes on the ground
is a piece of my heart
sweating
sweating
for all the creatures in this world.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 3:30 PM UTC
If these webpages could talk
They did it a decade ago
These ancient posts jut up
Rotting like titan bones
Every comment another grave
Born and dead the same day
Our ancestors built this place
Nine years ago
They blew away one by one
But for a few huddled remainders
The words are relics
A rome and its ruins
Echoes and ghosts, lingering
As the forum quietly fades
Oct 29, 2021
Oct 29, 2021 at 7:47 AM UTC
you are so delicate, like feather pillows and angel wings
yet you offered me the knife to cut you off from me, and
autumn happens in each season where leaves fall like
pinned up pictures on your wall tumbles to the dusty
corners of the bed or hides in the closets like skeletons
and happiness is hard to find, but it's so much easier
finding new ways to miss you when remainders of
reminders are hidden in the nooks and crannies of
my endless jumble of miswired thoughts, and the
inside of your soul is just a house of mirrors for every
personality you perfect on your face with such ease
i wish the mirrors would shatter, and i would throw
the knives at all of them already and see the truth
- kra
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 4:31 AM UTC