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"soluble" poems
Nov 2016 - The Fall Line ~ *all the lines of man-made yellows, so tempting threatening...inviting, the subway platform, the street curb, the highway divide the double parallel equal sign that has no solution, remaining hopelessly empty, defining the watery soluble inequality of null* ~~ The Fall Line first heard the phrase months ago in Argentina, standing before the c-shaped Iguazu Falls the fall line where the crystalline basement rock erodes away the oncoming soft sedimentary, there, where, a waterfall is nature-gifted so intuitive, so obvious, what else to call the water's owned edge, line of demarcation, where we grow captivated, mesmerized, knee weak, traumatized and tantalized knew that instant when spoken, The Fall Line, saw inarguable symmetry to so many lives, would be a someday poem selective service phrases stored and someday up recalled, a thousand, maybe more, waiting for the confluence of time and place, to be a mother letting my fluid sac burst, giving birth to a concoction symphonic, the emotions waterfalling, cascading, the precision, vision seconds, when words pour, gush, surge, spill, stream, flow, issue, spurt ~~~ silently crafted in the weeks and months prior, the unconscious drowning in ache and pain of suffocating drudge sludge of everyday living *all the lines of man made yellows, so tempting threatening...inviting the subway platform, the street curb, the highway divide the double parallel equal sign that has no solution remaining empty, defining the inequality of null* the vision infection of the majestic fall line, so accessible in an instance of overwhelm, cornea implanted, the sounding call of sweet blissful whatever one more additional addiction unshakeable, jumping from fall line to fall line, it's the game I am played, but the controller is not in my possess **for the joy stick that drives my actions, toys with me, the human fool jumping from fall line to fall line, unsure of what he desires,** salvation or saving 11/26/16
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Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
Nov 2016 - The Fall Line
Nov 2016 - The Fall Line ~ *all the lines of man-made yellows, so tempting threatening...inviting, the subway platform, the street curb, the highway divide the double parallel equal sign that has no solution, remaining hopelessly empty, defining the watery soluble inequality of null* ~~ The Fall Line first heard the phrase months ago in Argentina, standing before the c-shaped Iguazu Falls the fall line where the crystalline basement rock erodes away the oncoming soft sedimentary, there, where, a waterfall is nature-gifted so intuitive, so obvious, what else to call the water's owned edge, line of demarcation, where we grow captivated, mesmerized, knee weak, traumatized and tantalized knew that instant when spoken, The Fall Line, saw inarguable symmetry to so many lives, would be a someday poem selective service phrases stored and someday up recalled, a thousand, maybe more, waiting for the confluence of time and place, to be a mother letting my fluid sac burst, giving birth to a concoction symphonic, the emotions waterfalling, cascading, the precision, vision seconds, when words pour, gush, surge, spill, stream, flow, issue, spurt ~~~ silently crafted in the weeks and months prior, the unconscious drowning in ache and pain of suffocating drudge sludge of everyday living *all the lines of man made yellows, so tempting threatening...inviting the subway platform, the street curb, the highway divide the double parallel equal sign that has no solution remaining empty, defining the inequality of null* the vision infection of the majestic fall line, so accessible in an instance of overwhelm, cornea implanted, the sounding call of sweet blissful whatever one more additional addiction unshakeable, jumping from fall line to fall line, it's the game I am played, but the controller is not in my possess **for the joy stick that drives my actions, toys with me, the human fool jumping from fall line to fall line, unsure of what he desires,** salvation or saving 11/26/16
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67
Constitution pollution: the constable ruining the ******* consecration A soluble solution: grape sipping blood letting to fully bless the humors
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Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
Constitution pollution
chocolate fireguard, teapot, or fender, icecream sofa, dry sea or wet towel, glass hammer, waterproof teabag, newspaper raincoat and umbrella, lead parachute, ashtray on a motorbike, handbrake on a canoe, vote in a dictatorship, loudhailer to a deaf mute, grief at a wedding, ****** in a monastery. inflatable dartboard, spoon in a knife-fight, screen door on a submarine, wooden soap, shortbread tires, knitted light bulb, bread boat, plasticine wire cutters, paper hole punch, water hat, custard floorboards, ceiling tiles made of gravy, portrait of a bowl of soup, a stone cigarette, syrup knickers, hole in my bucket, plastic oven, wax truss, liquorice bridge, false teeth made of soap, lemonade roof, jelly boots, jam cardigan, paper bicycle pump, ice-cream saucepans, soluble drain pipe, packet of rubber nails, see-through mirror, revolving basement restaurant roll-on hairspray, rubber pencil, ****** with a hole in it, limp **** pockets on a lettuce, **** on a fish, lolly pop van in Hell, one-legged man in an **** kicking competition, meaningless life, unnecessary death, forgotten words and deeds, ignored needs, this poem.
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Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
You're About As Much Use As A (Partly Found Poem)
I knew the day would come. My heart swelled and shattered Like glass off of my ribcage, It was nothing but dust now. In an instant my heart became soluble. Without warning, my heart was inevitably yours once more. I wanted you to never come back I hoped you would make your home in Boston. My delicate heart was not ready for you so soon And I was not ready to give my heart away. Especially to you. But she ran from me, Slipped through the cracks in my rib cage and ran straight for you. So here I am still sitting in silence Still replaying impracticable situations That will never become reality. My heart is long gone now, She always ran faster than my head. With a mind of her own, I am now heartless
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Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
Heartless
This morning as I walked along the lakeshore, I fell in love with a wren and later in the day with a mouse the cat had dropped under the dining room table. In the shadows of an autumn evening, I fell for a seamstress still at her machine in the tailor’s window, and later for a bowl of broth, steam rising like smoke from a naval battle. This is the best kind of love, I thought, without recompense, without gifts, or unkind words, without suspicion, or silence on the telephone. The love of the chestnut, the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel. No lust, no slam of the door – the love of the miniature orange tree, the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower, the highway that cuts across Florida. No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor – just a twinge every now and then for the wren who had built her nest on a low branch overhanging the water and for the dead mouse, still dressed in its light brown suit. But my heart is always propped up in a field on its tripod, ready for the next arrow. After I carried the mouse by the tail to a pile of leaves in the woods, I found myself standing at the bathroom sink gazing down affectionately at the soap, so patient and soluble, so at home in its pale green soap dish. I could feel myself falling again as I felt its turning in my wet hands and caught the scent of lavender and stone.
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Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
Aimless Love (by Billy Collins)
Chicken and beef More beef More Chicken Potatoes fried in vats of fat, A cow's heart in a wine reduction; Bacon strips, bacon strips, bacon strips, bacon strips. "Ulcer in the pit... ...never neglect to salt" It hurts again. —Doesn't it always? Jack and Advil, A half-hearted suggestion. "You don't really know unless you try?": Burn a hole, Bleed it out Pain is water-soluble, right? I tried it once. I've told that story Brought down in one day by two pots of chili 9.26.11 D.B. Guy
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Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:52 AM UTC
A poem for vegitarians
my love brought me tranquility. my love bought me tranquility, in a Manhattan bodega. late at night in my city, everything is for sale where least expected in mini marts, local delis, greek coffee shops, spanish bodegas pizza parlors, hardware stores, all selling salves for late night salvation purveyors of differential equations of differing soulful sustenances, certain imports that will probably never be for sale in Walmart after midnight all, readily available, twenty four seven in my miracle Manhattan heaven My woman, mapper of the byways of my ****** landmarks worn broad~ways, his-toric foot trails of tears, lines of laughters, even a purported dimple I call a crevasse. a sole survivor of a mother's birthing skill marker, duly recorded by her upon my visage, in my miracle Manhattan She knows, as do some of youse guys, that my poetry is water born(e) and water soluble, but Peconic Bay always ain't right handy, so bring on a substitute teacher, a hot bath, helps me to enunciate my verbal visitations my love brought me tranquility. my  love bought me tranquility in a Manhattan bodega. pour the aromatherapy, my love brought me for inspiration into and upon my liquid writing table, "Tranquility," a summer garden aroma It soothes my bad memories, the herbs salve accursed ancient wounds that will never ever fully heal or be forgiven my love brought me tranquility. my graces restored, this poem offered in grateful appreciation with unlimited adoration, something, maybe even the very one thing **that can't be bought, even, in my miracle Manhattan**
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Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
my love brought me tranquility
my love brought me tranquility. my love bought me tranquility, in a Manhattan bodega. late at night in my city, everything is for sale where least expected in mini marts, local delis, greek coffee shops, spanish bodegas pizza parlors, hardware stores, all selling salves for late night salvation purveyors of differential equations of differing soulful sustenances, certain imports that will probably never be for sale in Walmart after midnight all, readily available, twenty four seven in my miracle Manhattan heaven My woman, mapper of the byways of my ****** landmarks worn broad~ways, his-toric foot trails of tears, lines of laughters, even a purported dimple I call a crevasse. a sole survivor of a mother's birthing skill marker, duly recorded by her upon my visage, in my miracle Manhattan She knows, as do some of youse guys, that my poetry is water born(e) and water soluble, but Peconic Bay always ain't right handy, so bring on a substitute teacher, a hot bath, helps me to enunciate my verbal visitations my love brought me tranquility. my  love bought me tranquility in a Manhattan bodega. pour the aromatherapy, my love brought me for inspiration into and upon my liquid writing table, "Tranquility," a summer garden aroma It soothes my bad memories, the herbs salve accursed ancient wounds that will never ever fully heal or be forgiven my love brought me tranquility. my graces restored, this poem offered in grateful appreciation with unlimited adoration, something, maybe even the very one thing **that can't be bought, even, in my miracle Manhattan**
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75
nothing's instantaneous temperance a requirement change forever targeted til self becomes fragmented heart an aqueous soluble erstwhile deliquescent puddled into pulp taken out like trash fitting for an adversary malicious and malevolent destructive to the starling plucked and plunged to sea so drown to suffocation laudable attempts at termination inundate your consciousness using barrages of indifference convinced affection's unattainable death deserted and companionless auspicious in my loneliness asphyxiate to expiration
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Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
Inanimate
in the garden of earthly delights green and delicious- fleeting the pull of the heart and the hand her voice through the cacophony the oasis of overflowing eyes your cup is never empty here with the soluble fish and the dreamers and the dreaming delight in the great mystery- surrender delight in friends and words with heart behind them eyes and potential lovers shared dreams and solubility sacrament in the oasis the perpetual cycle closes in take the breathe in and release let it go- everything's eventual the clockwork of the heart eyes meet in the dark ocean of the undiscovered self skin is blissful unfolding breathe into the experience of right now let go of any idea of what should be and accept what is say yes to the moment and speaking from the heart speaking full bodied delight
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Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
In the Garden of Earthly Delights
It was all a reality Doris had come to accept (and Bernard too, to an extent). They had moved as if they were one entity for the majority of their life. Every thought would come in pairs; each footstep was echoed by the other, and every wine bottle was shared. They'd been wed for 50 years now, and with each anniversary, they found themselves becoming all the more soluble; mixed together like some kind of brilliant concoction: a solution to all of life’s problems.
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Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
Cross-Country (an extract)
My poetry is an acquired taste, So come, dear one, Place your tongue in my mouth. Pace yourself, there is so much, Spoke and unwritten, That fruitions only when spit-shared. Flick your tongue-tip to mine, Sealing bond, the salt caramel of my rhymes, The iambic meter of my tamarind prose, The buds, flowering, poems forming, Watered by the admixture of joint, minted saliva. My poetry, so very complicated, Hints of currants and ash, Soil volcanic, basaltic vowels, oh's and eyes, Cursed verses that commence with I, Nonetheless, despite soil inhospitable rued, Compositions flourish, born wetland soluble. Yours, for the taking, Yours, for the tasting. You place your fingers on my waist, My body of work to contemplate, My ditties, you spit out, You want courses, not appetizers, You want truths, not fluff, lies, menu tastings. Columbus and Magellan, thy fingers named, Trace the curvature of my *** With tip and tipsy stroked caresses, You laugh with the pleasure of all the sssssss's. Hissing all the day your satisfaction, Capturing my writs, by your tongue's duress, Recipient-thief of my literary largesse. I am dressed all in white, Stripped bare to my native coloring, Except for two brown nippled spots, you lick, Imbibing milky thoughts  from fountain-heads ***** Savoring, relishing, stanzas that praise love's flavor. With every line, every word-painting accessioned, You make my soft parts hard, My hard parts soft, but my liquidity, My tears, they, that, you drink straight, Licking, liking, and oohing and ahhing, You tongue curled, upside down arching, The storage point of your seduced gatherings. To drain me full, your incisors cut, Straight lines, entry points for your ******* Taking, draining, leaving nothing, Not even one aleph or bet escaping. When you acquired my poetry, my verbosity, Pillaging soul's hiding place, took and ***** Your acquired the best, breaking my nape, Imprisoned on and by my island's seascape, Blanched and pained, a blank tape, I am tasteless, witless, mockingly, tongue-tied.
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Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
My Poetry is an Acquired Taste (explicit)
My poetry is an acquired taste, So come, dear one, Place your tongue in my mouth. Pace yourself, there is so much, Spoke and unwritten, That fruitions only when spit-shared. Flick your tongue-tip to mine, Sealing bond, the salt caramel of my rhymes, The iambic meter of my tamarind prose, The buds, flowering, poems forming, Watered by the admixture of joint, minted saliva. My poetry, so very complicated, Hints of currants and ash, Soil volcanic, basaltic vowels, oh's and eyes, Cursed verses that commence with I, Nonetheless, despite soil inhospitable rued, Compositions flourish, born wetland soluble. Yours, for the taking, Yours, for the tasting. You place your fingers on my waist, My body of work to contemplate, My ditties, you spit out, You want courses, not appetizers, You want truths, not fluff, lies, menu tastings. Columbus and Magellan, thy fingers named, Trace the curvature of my *** With tip and tipsy stroked caresses, You laugh with the pleasure of all the sssssss's. Hissing all the day your satisfaction, Capturing my writs, by your tongue's duress, Recipient-thief of my literary largesse. I am dressed all in white, Stripped bare to my native coloring, Except for two brown nippled spots, you lick, Imbibing milky thoughts  from fountain-heads ***** Savoring, relishing, stanzas that praise love's flavor. With every line, every word-painting accessioned, You make my soft parts hard, My hard parts soft, but my liquidity, My tears, they, that, you drink straight, Licking, liking, and oohing and ahhing, You tongue curled, upside down arching, The storage point of your seduced gatherings. To drain me full, your incisors cut, Straight lines, entry points for your ******* Taking, draining, leaving nothing, Not even one aleph or bet escaping. When you acquired my poetry, my verbosity, Pillaging soul's hiding place, took and ***** Your acquired the best, breaking my nape, Imprisoned on and by my island's seascape, Blanched and pained, a blank tape, I am tasteless, witless, mockingly, tongue-tied.
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53
I am making steel cut oatmeal Would you care for some? It is high in soluble fiber And has essential vitamins and minerals too Perhaps an avocado Some raisins or dried apricots Would be good too I also have yogurt Toast and peanut butter Sugar plum tomatoes too I could also make you hot chocolate With whipped cream Or chamomile tea If you prefer to drink a bit more healthy Please enjoy your breakfast with me
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Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:15 PM UTC
Please Enjoy Some Steel Cut Oatmeal
The town is flashing it’s colours Bright prisms of lights Windows open and lively leaves Shut the door, close your eyes. So much beauty, and so many things to do maybe one day we’ll meet again At an empty railway station The cannibalistic metropolis Seeking ways to make words Untrue, unspoken, wanted and alive. Eat the fear of the writer Give me a warm hand, So I can touch the soluble skies Take me away from the spotlight Make sure I can withstand The town is missing It’s soft colours And I’m missing The wholeness through words
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May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 3:50 PM UTC
Inadequacy
Creamy dreamy Coach's Oats I can eat them at home In a car Or on a boat Good for the heart With soluble fiber A good way To start each day Make sure to eat some And you will be More than okay
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Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
Coach's Oats
The crystallization of thought leaves behind tiny granules, like diamonds, reflective and geometric to fit together.      Sand to glass         for a window or           fun-house mirror. Brain grains made of waiting,                                  of watching. Recognition of patterns recorded.                 Faces in old photographs,                      "Look! That's me!"   The big picture, stitched individual pixels,                              light thru the film                                      projected on a wall,                                  fuzz of dust on the vinyl.           Motes of knowing                        floating                                             but tough under pressure,                                   and in the liquid of pure,                                                                        transparent                                                                        experience,                                                                          soluble.
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Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC
camera obscura
The crystallization of thought leaves behind tiny granules, like diamonds, reflective and geometric to fit together.      Sand to glass         for a window or           fun-house mirror. Brain grains made of waiting,                                  of watching. Recognition of patterns recorded.                 Faces in old photographs,                      "Look! That's me!"   The big picture, stitched individual pixels,                              light thru the film                                      projected on a wall,                                  fuzz of dust on the vinyl.           Motes of knowing                        floating                                             but tough under pressure,                                   and in the liquid of pure,                                                                        transparent                                                                        experience,                                                                          soluble.
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23
Everyone is an island, But everyone is trying to connect the island with the main land through a bridge! Everyone is trying hard to get the soil to grow! Thus, everybody is busy building their own viaduct! They build it, With their own materials of heart and soul! But when storms come hearts are split and destabilized, Some time liquefy in rain water!  And Bridges break down! Again it is becoming an isolated island! So, in the race of edifice, Everyone is searching for material of strongest and vibrant heart, To build the bridges sturdy and eternal! But hearts are delicate and soluble to state of affairs of life, So, it breaks and link fall down, and Every one becoming island with its own soul!
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Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
Bridge to the island!
An idiot makes the same mistake twice. That "fatherly advice" is trapped within my head, bouncing back and forth, causing a headache, but who's to say that the mistake isn't the cause of pulsating temples and closed eyes. In one ear and out the other, one could hope for. But these days it's in one nostril and down the throat. Down "Shit's Creek" in a soluble boat. But don't call home. The heart left. The telephone has been off the hook-- inanimate objects have it easy.
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Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
The Idiot
a series of random questions all asking, some ending in, a few beginners, where from... from where, do the haters come from? the pleasure of mass ****** in what gene, from what cell, possessed, that you seek it as a life's rationale, so easy? from where, derived the notion that you, politician professional behind closed doors, bend over to the private interest your public pretense, couched lies, the idea mocking me, you know what's better fraud, from where, did this despotic greed arise? from where, this endless depression, a session with no end, don't recall the beginning, whence the end, where the end, freedom from it, climb out from Joseph's pit, the exit come from? from where, does inspiration come from? from intimacy with the inanimate, the population of objects, coarse, beauteous that provoke, the museums, the gutter, the worn, the just unrealized, imagined, from learning to speak hearts to speak the heart language from from animated blood, eyes, taste buds, when you pass thru the molecules of me, by contact real or imagined, desperation, satisfaction organic, from where, from where do these questions arise, the answers as well, they are tangible, yet intangible, even from, a notion indistinct, an untraceable path, hidden routers, deflecting reflecting, even a current direct, invisible to the naked from where? a fair question, answers, unreliable, for in the forming, froming is always transfigured, distorted so let's agree, the mother, mater, matters not, of from, unsolvable, soluble, the origin, source, the river-head is a wasted search only the acts of yours, even/or the poems, all realized ~ undeniable from you, your hand that is the only answer to a question, from where, wherein from comes both, the contained, and the uncontained.
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Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
from?
a series of random questions all asking, some ending in, a few beginners, where from... from where, do the haters come from? the pleasure of mass ****** in what gene, from what cell, possessed, that you seek it as a life's rationale, so easy? from where, derived the notion that you, politician professional behind closed doors, bend over to the private interest your public pretense, couched lies, the idea mocking me, you know what's better fraud, from where, did this despotic greed arise? from where, this endless depression, a session with no end, don't recall the beginning, whence the end, where the end, freedom from it, climb out from Joseph's pit, the exit come from? from where, does inspiration come from? from intimacy with the inanimate, the population of objects, coarse, beauteous that provoke, the museums, the gutter, the worn, the just unrealized, imagined, from learning to speak hearts to speak the heart language from from animated blood, eyes, taste buds, when you pass thru the molecules of me, by contact real or imagined, desperation, satisfaction organic, from where, from where do these questions arise, the answers as well, they are tangible, yet intangible, even from, a notion indistinct, an untraceable path, hidden routers, deflecting reflecting, even a current direct, invisible to the naked from where? a fair question, answers, unreliable, for in the forming, froming is always transfigured, distorted so let's agree, the mother, mater, matters not, of from, unsolvable, soluble, the origin, source, the river-head is a wasted search only the acts of yours, even/or the poems, all realized ~ undeniable from you, your hand that is the only answer to a question, from where, wherein from comes both, the contained, and the uncontained.
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90
her innocence is soluble when dipped in expectations, her mirror; like the bottom of dinner plates, her wrists are tire marks on gravel roads, she sees not what we see but in what he sees is what she cares but who is he now? a riptide splitting face paint saturday nights, veins of toxins, staring at roadkill and streetlights and garbage hugging curb-sides mixed with dust days followed with headaches and remorse dying not I can see it in her eyes she’s only 16 MJB
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Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 10:49 PM UTC
Sixteen year old girl°
I am of no use, is what it tells me. That I have nothing special, and that I am nothing compared to those around me is the truest lie I was ever told. It allows me to be soluble in the lives and achievements of others. The individual pieces of me dissolve into insignificant, infinitesimal specks that serve no purpose, and amount to nothing. Anything I do - any talents I have - will be surmounted by those who are more than I could ever wish to be. Alone I am whole, where the love I keep under my sheets and between my arms tells me she values me. But out there - out there in the world I am of no importance and infinite expendability.
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Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 5:01 AM UTC
Insecurity
as promised, a tip for and to nolly •<>• “Everybody is identical in their secret unspoken belief that way deep down they are different from everyone else.” David Foster Wallace •<>• it is as if I've been stripped bare and their is no air or barrel handy, bankrupted by exposure of my less-than-clean ***** secret, scrapped from under my tongue, my genuine creativity, it is no different than yours or hers or anybody else, but "I need to believe," he screeches, "say it ain't so!" time again to tally up the wins and losses, check the standings, the numerical columns, nope, wasn't selected to be MVP or even loved by the algorithmic ridiculous secret sauce "poem of the day" blah blah blah bottom line: "You’re Pretty Normal" comfort or consternation, exhalations of relief, or just another nail in the shutting of your depression coffin calculation this no longer unspoken arrogance undressed brings me to a quiet place, where you are welcome to sit beside, this puzzle together, nuzzled, perhaps more soluble they don't make Advil for the mind, so read the good ones, and be reminded of this your published spoken courageous poetry need satisfy only you, and no one more *in there lies the rub, the vive la difference, we identically different, no longer a secret, every poem is the difference you make* August 2017 in the sunroom, Shelter Island <•> BONUS POEM!!! Nolly's Haiku #17/#70 with good knowing that distress and forethought, are its mother and father that this poetic output but a derivative of your unique self, see, maybe, you be maybe just wise enough to curse the birth of poem at age seventeen but just wait Nolly, till you are seven tens, and poetry's folly, make you even more practiced in cursing, still asking, why and getting the sendoff, kiss off, of the one true answer, nobody knows so scribble a life time when you start at 17 and when the ripe and wizened answers in your old age have yet to arrive *then you can call yourself an accursed wizened but wise'ed old poet*
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Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
deep down you are different from everyone else
as promised, a tip for and to nolly •<>• “Everybody is identical in their secret unspoken belief that way deep down they are different from everyone else.” David Foster Wallace •<>• it is as if I've been stripped bare and their is no air or barrel handy, bankrupted by exposure of my less-than-clean ***** secret, scrapped from under my tongue, my genuine creativity, it is no different than yours or hers or anybody else, but "I need to believe," he screeches, "say it ain't so!" time again to tally up the wins and losses, check the standings, the numerical columns, nope, wasn't selected to be MVP or even loved by the algorithmic ridiculous secret sauce "poem of the day" blah blah blah bottom line: "You’re Pretty Normal" comfort or consternation, exhalations of relief, or just another nail in the shutting of your depression coffin calculation this no longer unspoken arrogance undressed brings me to a quiet place, where you are welcome to sit beside, this puzzle together, nuzzled, perhaps more soluble they don't make Advil for the mind, so read the good ones, and be reminded of this your published spoken courageous poetry need satisfy only you, and no one more *in there lies the rub, the vive la difference, we identically different, no longer a secret, every poem is the difference you make* August 2017 in the sunroom, Shelter Island <•> BONUS POEM!!! Nolly's Haiku #17/#70 with good knowing that distress and forethought, are its mother and father that this poetic output but a derivative of your unique self, see, maybe, you be maybe just wise enough to curse the birth of poem at age seventeen but just wait Nolly, till you are seven tens, and poetry's folly, make you even more practiced in cursing, still asking, why and getting the sendoff, kiss off, of the one true answer, nobody knows so scribble a life time when you start at 17 and when the ripe and wizened answers in your old age have yet to arrive *then you can call yourself an accursed wizened but wise'ed old poet*
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61
Sometimes I wish memories were water soluble That these tears might wash them away But try as I might This clouded mind Is where these memories choose to stay
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Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 5:42 AM UTC
Cloudy with a side of Cognition