"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
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
Constitution pollution:
the constable ruining
the ******* consecration
A soluble solution:
grape sipping blood
letting to fully bless
the humors
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
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.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
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
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
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.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
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
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:52 AM UTC
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**
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
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
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
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
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
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.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
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.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
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
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:15 PM UTC
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
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 3:50 PM UTC
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
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
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.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC
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!
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
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.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
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.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
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
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 10:49 PM UTC
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.
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 5:01 AM UTC
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*
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
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
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 5:42 AM UTC