"simplicities" poems
Her beauty doth arouse temptation
So fiercely though I cannot imagine
My struggle to resist laying upon my hand
The fairest strands that sit a top her head.
My hands tremble with delight
I sit in the midst of the worlds greatest disaster.
Yet I am reduced to the simplicities of batting my eyes
For this woman hath stolen my sight
Upon hers I am commanded to view.
Tis simply a fate solely unwished upon by few.
Her unwavering gaze cannot be replaced
By even the finest rewards from the heavens themselves.
The angels permit themselves to admire only afar.
For if too closely they arrive t'would be a prison.
The very same prison I hath myself locked within.
The key resting below where the heart doth reside.
To leave I wish not,
For to remove my eyes requires strength unseen by man.
I am a prisoner to my own Desire
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 4:33 AM UTC
complexity bias
how you love to criticize my poems
as too long and overly complex
poor me, I’m no genius, don’t prosper by exploiting
unrecognized simplicities, rather deconstruct the
intricate complexities that I flatter myself are the me-sinews
Writing is a **** temptation -
we focus on the 10% that is complex and ignore the easy 90%
perhaps this once I will surrender my bare bones
put aside the rich, satisfying of cave diving, urban spelunking
word caressing tongue verbiage rich tapestry exploring -
give you the plane of plain where nestles my destiny: nesting near motionless where the couch is my kingdom and cold cereal is
easily digested and there are no consequences
I am a member of a discriminated-against minority
we have no charismatic leader, no marchers anywhere, and government programs say
hey you’re free white and twenty one plus, get the crap out of
our faces, you useless piece of rhymes with **** and includes dirt, though I shower twice a day to keep myself occupied
25 years old, a high school dropout, of course I’m white,
my occupation is playing video games and making sure
my supply of opioids is adequate in these great United States
where I was born
there are fewer jobs than none that my application survives
a first glance discardation, and now my disability preempts
any demand to pretend there is gainful employment in store in
my future
this reductio ad absurdum is a technique to expose the fallacy,
ah what’s that you say no interest in hanging about,
on your way out, of course, of course,
we are the wrong flavor of downtrodden
my life is simple - simplistic in its a chaotic entropic way,
order slowly declines into disorder
my rituals are a fight against slip sliding down, falling off the
the Herzog continuums
and the poems are desperate hand holds to prevent my
going, gone under
so forgive me if I tax you without possessing not the
requisite taxing authority
you hone in on the obvious disparities and my contradictions
resenting my sending you this bill of extravagant length
compose with me and a mean will be located and to sleep I go,
perhaps to undress my dreams and explicate the wealthy multiples of complexity in the simplicity of a junkies life
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 3:56 PM UTC
I live a life collecting pieces.
Pieces of fantasies forever the
realm of
childhood;
Pieces of imaginations turned wild and wonderful.
Pieces of laughter, confusion, delight and tears.
Pieces of melancholy, shards of sorrow;
fragments of regret, portions of jealousy.
Sections of desire, passion, leading us on
blindly to others of
heartache and yearning.
The rough edges of frustration, yet the
smooth curves of contentment, peace.
I live a life collecting pieces;
this is what I’m told makes a life worthy.
Worthy of remembrance, joy; fulfilment.
But only I can see the struggles,
feel my bones bearing more weight;
the aching tiredness I fall into,
when I’m not at work,
collecting the pieces I speak of.
The fright I hastily pick up off the ground,
when I compare my clumsy, ***** array of
pieces to your perfect and bound ones;
when you aren’t looking.
The dread I reach for, because you leave it crushed
beneath your feet.
The nervous tension pulling strings beneath my skin;
leaving me a reckless, vulnerable puppet
collecting the pieces left in your wake.
Torn to scattered, dusty pieces;
Reborn a puzzle of simplicities,
bright and shining pieces woven into form.
No matter where we have been, where we
were taken,
where we were loved,
where we were betrayed,
where we fought bravely,
where we surrendered nobly,
where we were embittered,
where we learnt of strengths and weaknesses;
we are all made of pieces.
We are collections of pieces.
You and I.
Our collection is known as life;
each piece is our experience of something.
Someone.
Somewhere.
And the more we know each other, the more
often our hands can reach for two of the same,
available pieces left before us.
I pen them down, keep them special and fragrant.
I live a life collecting pieces
and often they are of you.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 9:16 PM UTC
(Rock Lake, Canada)
In this country there is neither measure nor balance
To redress the dominance of rocks and woods,
The passage, say, of these man-shaming clouds.
No gesture of yours or mine could catch their attention,
No word make them carry water or fire the kindling
Like local trolls in the spell of a superior being.
Well, one wearies of the Public Gardens: one wants a vacation
Where trees and clouds and animals pay no notice;
Away from the labeled elms, the tame tea-roses.
It took three days driving north to find a cloud
The polite skies over Boston couldn't possibly accommodate.
Here on the last frontier of the big, brash spirit
The horizons are too far off to be chummy as uncles;
The colors assert themselves with a sort of vengeance.
Each day concludes in a huge splurge of vermilions
And night arrives in one gigantic step.
It is comfortable, for a change, to mean so little.
These rocks offer no purchase to herbage or people:
They are conceiving a dynasty of perfect cold.
In a month we'll wonder what plates and forks are for.
I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
The Pilgrims and Indians might never have happened.
Planets pulse in the lake like bright amoebas;
The pines blot our voices up in their lightest sighs.
Around our tent the old simplicities sough
Sleepily as Lethe, trying to get in.
We'll wake blank-brained as water in the dawn.
3.8k
I wish I could have stayed in bed all day today,
Writing poems about entertwining fingers and tangled legs;
About lips that never moisten themselves; About tickles that, abruptly, turn into
caresses and lingering touches.
I would have written about cuddles and tight ******** embraces that didnt require that "thing" they like to do most;
About kisses that make you yearn for nothing less than a lifetime supply of Them.
I, simply, wish I'd have just stayed in my room
In my bed and
Penned all morning about the complex simplicities of coexisting with Desire.
I'd have written about how Competition was welcomed with unfurled arms, kissed and un-coated at the door.
I'd have written about how it was welcomed as a third party to the bed;
how we would vye for its approval and battle for 1st place as Best Giver of Love.
..But, instead, I'll just write a poem about the poem id have written had I just stayed in bed today.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
I always found freedom in movement
In the midst of steps
Whether from music
Or from the occurrence of those around
In moments of reflection,
I liked to think I was dancing
I moved in between these sequences
Fixed in the rules of performance
Unable to think past this choreography
Never able to make my own
But I felt it only appropriate
To move as others did
One step forward
A slight sway to the left
Another turn to my right
And back
And back
It was under this prison of routine
I found myself in
As in every other time
But something changed in these steps
As in now when I moved towards the next
You stood in my wake
I knew how different you were, placed to my standing
You worried nothing of such structure
Taking these movements as yours
Away from those who claimed their fluidity
Why you would ever take an interest in my polarized side
Quite the oxymoron; I still can’t fathom
Yet there you were
Everywhere I moved
Forcing me to look past these fixtures
Stepping past their simplicities
To find aspects I had thought foreign to me
You showed me how wrong I was in this definition of ‘freedom’
One step forward, now two
A sway left, although now with your hand in mine
A counter to the other side
Now with the opposing hand
The most complete connection
At least that’s what it felt to me
Now that I think of that time
There were changes greater than I could focus on
Besides those most immediate
I realize I never did step back
Perhaps the most significant change
As I haven’t since
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 10:33 PM UTC
Lost is what you want me to be, gone is what they say I am, and sad is the simplicity of what I really am... I am not a happy person
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
time changes
and I realize the world needs my LOVE.
so I want to write more love poems
and infect heartstreams,
bursting valve seams, repairing flows.
carrying capacities need expanding,
deep breath felt.
simplicities stacking, and all else is.
decension, the reflection of ascension,
is being dug.
the perspective has always been from above.
time to root down, bury down, dig deep
in the ground and bring the LOVE down.
in the darker side, where light struggles sometimes,
here, this minor level, that many feel is
real,
this place needs the panting of love
to be rained down.
souls duped to believe
evil is abound.
cycles are always dark and light
and layers are thin.
pay closer attention to the place
where to the two meet again,
that point, moment, peace.
listen to its speech, the flow of a new
sprout on a tree,
the fungus sprawl through its wood.
stretching its love from underground,
above, to feed and seed and heed
the lessons here.
biodiversity, nourishment, interdependence,
just being loving. nurturing,
to your self, the total inclusiveness...
our carry capacity for LOVE is infinity.
eights will flow infinitely, so we just let it be,
walk easily, stop and discover those on our path.
discover the magic of home.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
Expectations of gender stereotypes invoke the psychopath that lurks in the deepest recesses of my soul.
Maternal and paternal influences reek of disconnected ambivalence.
When I think of knowledge, I am reminded of apple pie.
I may not be able to undertake mechanical and electrical tasks, but I can truly profile.
Although our instincts may be somewhat dangerous, I am compelled to make those savoury simplicities that are characterised by yeast, cheese and the pride of a mother.
Have you ever been to Balmore?
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
Synchronitities
It's 11.11 again,
AM through to PM,
Just to see you again,
In all your simplicities.
11.11 again,
Now tell me what's the relevance,
When I see you there,
Lying in sentimentality,
You got the 411,
Telling me just about anything,
That you can breath,
Steals your rationality.
11.11 again,
The sentence that won't ever end;
Caught up in a comma coma,
Blinded by the clarity,
11.11 again,
I seen it on the TV screen,
What does it mean to you & me,
Simple sequenced synchornities
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 8:47 AM UTC
*the ones warring on the flag of defeat can't be called either troll or parasite... too noble such entitlements, they are the **** genus worthy of ignorance, that they are found roaring on the flag of defeat, when such publicity is allowed of public musing deeper than soft-spoken in one's own room, as transcript of thought made public, ironically without one's geographic coordinates... and what lack of honour to be warring with such circumstances being allowed.*
i shouldn't have written my words among poets,
too many simplicities surrounded them,
with the poets came made surrogates,
a stillbirth, if nothing more
9 months of **** as the new economics
that gave us appreciative homosexuality,
a curbing of the expeditions of population
we didn't blame on Chinese or Blue Indians
due to having inherited masochistic Christianity,
the last greek mythology, THE, LAST!
and no more from the greek tongue! no more!
then the second feat of the suffragettes
that became the surrogates...
and yet, i stilled braved to sing
for the escapist tongue of
brotherhood that the misty mountain's cold
encapsulated... in which i braved
the brotherhood, every, second, counter,
to marriage to a woman...
domestication is no adventure! it's no adventure!
there is no fear and sudden death in
domestication... it breeds cattle! readied for
death not ready! *two dungeons deep and caverns old...
the pines were roaring on the hight!
the winds were mourning in the night...
the fire was red it flamed and spread,
the trees like torches, blazed with light.*
this... this is my ideal afterlife! take your Koran
and terrorism and take a **** in the desert with
the cats for worth of knowing such "exquisiteness"
as it might be worth mining in the dunes of sand!
while the thirst of metalloid and abstract horse-tow
gives your false timing...
and when you take this anger written on the flag
of defeat, and turn to warring with it on your own
flag of defeat... you will be conquered,
slain and tortured, as is my promise, always
honourable.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
Your complexities
are compounded by my simplicities,
and since
you came to me
like the alphabet of a language
I cannot read
you will,
when you leave
depart unchanged.
Whereas,
I will be changed forever
like a root verb
which is built upon
to express
a more complex idea.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 6:42 PM UTC
*She's the type of precious flower
That grows well,
And thrives,
In nature's sacred rich earth,
Each new blessed morning
She reaches out to the sunslight -
She knows its energy is responsible
For her daily blessed rebirth.
She's the type of precious flower
That grows to her full potential
After a heavy rain,
She can handle the wild winds -
She can handle a little roughness,
And a little bit of pain.
She's the type of precious flower
Who does not compete,
Or compare herself,
With any other flower,
She knows her worth,
And she is comfortable
Being herself -
This is her special superpower.
She's the type of precious flower
That possesses a rare uniqueness -
An original beauty,
Inside and out,
She prides herself
In living for the joy of life,
She is grateful
For the simplicities in life -
And for being blessed
With the gift of life;
For being chosen to sprout.
By Lady R.F ©2016*
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 6:15 AM UTC
My emotional compass is losing its gravitational pull ...
At times the direction dies still. At other times, it spins madly.
I feel like I'm being crushed between two walls and drowned within thunder-clapping waves. Yet, on the surface of my ocean, the glass waters reflect a serene, tranquil light of the full moon hugging its night sky.
I'm uncertain. I’m indecisive. I run away to the farthest, darkest corner of the forest. I also flee to the highest peaks and hide under sunlight.
I'm not fearful of destruction. I'm fearful of being destructive. I tend to destruct myself by destructing the souls I cherish most. Nightmares of finding myself in abandoned emptiness haunt me. I fear being left, so I walk away. I fear being loved deeply, so I push them away. And this ... this is where I become destructive.
I say I’m seeking peaceful stability, when truthfully...? My soul is gushing across the ends of the earth all at once. Maybe I find peace in the chaos. Maybe I just feed on chaos.
I throw my soul into the deepest wells of love. I find myself abruptly climbing back to the surface, clawing my way up those walls. And just as I nearly reach the top, I intentionally let go of myself only to fall back in. The record breaks on replay.
I gather myself, set the records straight then let them role into chaos once more. Once More replays itself endlessly through the space and time of my existence, and my life turns into a repetition of these "once more" chaotic events. Secret be told, I think I enjoy all of this. All so exciting and lively at that moment. Alas, dreadful at points of reality checks. Lifeless at the destination.
So…? I gather myself and set the records straight again ... once more ... once more, again ... and again ...
Helpless. But wild.
Wild. But easily tamed.
Tamed. But cannot be owned.
Gently handle my being. I'm too stubborn ... Even with my own self. Yet, I also feel ever so delicate and fragile. I can easily break at my own grip.
I’ll tell you how …
It's all in the simplicities - which can also turn into complexities - found in the sun’s golden hour. Yellow rays against my skin. Illuminated dust particles dancing through my fingers. A warm whisper. That bold dive. Grab me by the extremes.
Right now .. I think I’m coming up with a case of the blues.
So, come … Dip me not in the rainbow, but in the *** of gold at the far end.
Take me all the way ... The noise, it enchants me.
Be still my heart, it’s him … Chaos.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 1:20 PM UTC
walking zombie
i eat i laugh i sleep
no substance to this present
these simplicities that easily covers up
finally had enough courage
tilting on the end
yet again failed
confusion always striking
harder and harder each time
piercing through every inch of mine
fears,
eating you up inside
uncertainty,
the numbness at a certain point
a maddening zombie coming to life
layers upon layers,
pieces to pieces,
covering up
each time with a better strategy
in time wondering
will it ever wear out
just like
me
theres just no escape from this misery,
no escape from these thoughts
from eating you up inside
full of something
irony
and all that there is
emptiness.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
Today I am human
Today I got two legs out of bed to face a world that is sometimes cold
Today I walked tired feet just to make sure they still do their job right
Today I ran fingers through hair and remembered there were teeth to brush, a face to wash
Today I woke to a bottle of water half full by my nightstand
Today I drank it's contents with a handful of vitamins
Today I remembered the importance that breakfast holds so I had it
Today I dressed a body that now and then can feel unfamiliar
Today I pushed the sheets back on the bed to make it almost neat
Today I fluffed a pillow to its full extent
Today I put lotion to skin that is too dry from the California sun
Today I put gas in my car
Today I fed myself without guilt
Today I filled my stomach with meals instead of anxiety
Today I breathed
Today I sighed
Today I did what most consider to be routine, but is so much more to me
All of these simplicities are proof of surviving
Doing so is not always easy
But I do
Today I lived even if I did so quietly
Today I am alive
And tomorrow I will be as well
Tomorrow I will say thank you to today
Tomorrow I will appreciate the effort of before
Tomorrow I will be too proud for too little
Tomorrow I will repeat
Tomorrow I will try again
Tomorrow I am human.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
There is such a lack,
an incredible lack
of words to describe
how you make me feel
There is not a word for
shared annoyance
of errors,
rules of the English language.
reading a sentence that makes little sense
to confirm someone doesn’t know how to grammar
staying up ’til 3, 4, 5
to discuss simplicities and complexities,
they felt like the most important things.
Sleep is not an important thing.
joy of seeing you with a smile
rushed banters
sarcasm, conditions, laughter, and silly faces.
Silent promise to see you later
inability to walk and tell you something
at the same time.
Here is my brain, make of it what you will.
Thank you for trusting me with yours.
spaces between sleep
and getting up for the day.
Time, (what is time?)
holding, tickling, touching, skin
pretending to leave,
only to crawl back in
to your embrace, warm,
watching you rest.
your hands
that I can’t not touch.
Not because you need it,
but I do. I hope that’s okay.
hugs I don’t want to end,
silent or not. Close,
being next to you is the safest,
most comfortable, peaceful place to be
spontaneity and uncertainty
kiss you good-bye?
or just wink, either is fine
it’s not complacent
I don’t have to write
because I can say the words to you.
I have the words
to be a person,
with you
If you find words for all these,
I don’t I want them
I’d rather have to fully describe them and,
even then,
it would not be enough
to define the noticings and pieces
I like about you
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
I swallow your words
And begin to mellow out.
Turbulence in my bloodstream,
Yet static numbness all throughout.
An accent laced with malice,
By a tongue that knew no sympathy.
You graced me with the fortunes
Of love's complex simplicities.
Love baffles.
Love hurts.
Trivial hearts.
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 6:11 AM UTC
blood blot
a hideous music
like fixed stars
a chaos of shattered glass
you can hang your hat on
bamboo shards make a ****** wound
gold spun hair
on floral linen
blemished soaking red
like a shaking rat in a cats mouth
Hazels glistening ****** a pretense
salutes celibacy and high end moisturizer toilet paper
to shock simplicities morals
of an excretory affair
a dark chandelier hangs in the balance
torpedo runnels through chambered knots
unleashing treacherous sanity
sins crib
theater of purgation
father forgive her
she took a ****
an idealist without ideals
the grand masturbator
a simulacrum of a lubed god
in nights dragging shade
oracle of a ruddy opera and legs over head
flexed crimson wattle rolls
theories invite anti theories
light invites darkness
silence yields
shadows throat
and cacophonous whispers
a grind house temple of gods and demons
in horrendous geometry
of inflicting malice
until the serpent ascends
from black pitch hells
like a bomb through the skull
lusts antidote
waterloo of the soul
annihilation point
the cadaver smiles
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 6:28 AM UTC
Tell me a story, or I won't even blink,
I want you to take me to worlds that I
think I could find beauty in, places
to hide deep within like an inside
joke, or a laugh, or a path
to take into Neverland,
a bridge to Wonderland,
any land
as long as I can have you in it.
Tell me a story, fill my sinuses with stink,
I want to feel the ship I want to smell
the brink of desperation, to feel
a strange, secure, separation to
myself, filled with a wealth of
nonsense knowledge, take me
through foliage and laugh as I
bask in a seething sun,
come on, let's go, I crave fun.
Tell me a story, help me taste a
waste of time, I want to laugh a
rhyme and commit the crime
of uselessness and happiness and
bonkerness and silliness and fun
watch me run into a field of fantasies
tongue sampled teas and
smile at simplicities'
sanctuary.
Tell me a story, and allow me to touch
a part of your mind you let
locked away, darling, parent, sibling,
quibbling cognitive miser
tell me a story and you'll end up
wiser for knowing it, for imparting
it, let's party it and part with the
sweetest words of goodness,
I could hear from you
To be continued
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 5:53 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
*So clearly i see it now...
the rhythmic beat of your heart
to mine...
blood pulsing through your veins
carrying with it emotions
love, happiness, desire
all from a mere touch of my hand
**
"The best and most beautiful things in the
world cannot be seen or even touched.
They must be felt with the heart. ~Helen Keller""
**
It's the truth though
beauty is merely a visual
imagery playing upon the
simplicities of the human mind
yet when it's whittled down to it
you... are not beautiful
You're the pure embodiment of beauty
everything you are is jubilantly harmonious
desireable...
unattainable...
to anyone who isn't in my position
a position of weakness and trust
where anything they do is determined by you
with the heart set on your happiness...
you've made me want to let
everything i know as true
just fade to grey
and become part of the background...*
..........................................................................
Jul 17, 2010
Jul 17, 2010 at 1:16 PM UTC
The tree was split
By the power of an unknown spear.
That night, the orange moon flared;
The blinking eyes of night
Shadowed the forest,
Following him.
What authority clapped the thunderous air
With flailing branches,
Demanding service, obedience, fear.
The simplicities of home and fire
Offered up assurance and warmth.
He returned to think on it;
To resolve questions with more questions
Before sanctifying the place of wrath.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 7:46 PM UTC
I am dead.
Cloven flesh, spirit
hiding shadows, some place, no place, sow
below the flow of thought -
amiable calamity on the part of the
lethargic.
That sense faded west
tasting living sweat and I
can’t even feel the uncaring
caress of ill ideals seeping through
green-blue, all eyes gray through prismatic
roots.
Wheels touch paper wedges,
circlets adorning colored names to
beats and lengths of waves, crystalline
wrists intact but
can’t my legs catch the
drift?
The day fades salty
across my brow, spit up
gentrified goodbyes dancing the fine line
catching boldly to dusk,
webs of light casting Terra’s abortions into
night.
I feel adrift atop
bending winds soaring,
grasping at the sky;
I’m laughing crawling forward, snatching
feelings named in my self-absorbed
ways.
Oh! how it bursts forth!
Explosions off in the distance
tuning eyes to white and back again,
heaving ribs spitting venom,
ideas ***** abominations, I feel at home at
last.
I cry at simplicities
feet, todays imagined forays into
Death again foiled by a common
sense which refuses neglect, wresting
forever rest from out my chest, a wasted
breath.
And what to do with
indulgent Death? What of
her bright eyes catching mine,
shaken thoughts grow cold
inside, so cold she warms my flesh for
tomorrows.
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 2:47 PM UTC