"sourcing" poems
like some jealous future self,
my writer's clock balks at this moment with you,
i can't explain, so i give up listening. (i have an app for that)
the writing only stops as degustation ends ~
thank you, though ~ i'd like you to hear
regardless of the meanings lent ~
the gymnolexical fear
appearing ornamental far and near.
google files us away, omniscient
acumen of o's and ones ~
words sing to me their luring promise of a lasting hold,
but less and less
as plastic griming fingers sync
with what it seems to be,
a new world search-
-engine culling info freely
do i still believe in order?
striving for the fitted words,
a love imprinted input thus on crystal pixel page,
your effect on me distilled--
refracted throng associational
fantastic server metacomfort
for an audience
swimming past into this,
now always
ever-new you appear, bursting
at the seams my vision churning
...effluent sourcing, blurry self of others ~
heart-charming river-nymphs!
bolt-hurling sky-satyrs! reeling nations are subtended by your words
that walk, trod, swim across what poetry,
dance with this ever-blooming techne-earth
as i mark your plasmic eyes
we flow and let flow,
we dance our farmer's mud
into the beryl-winding paths
of othernets and cyberplay,
the restful ends reborn bright white
lacing lattice-scopic fibrous
scatters of another wi-fi interlife ~
we stream and let stream,
river-tress girl, your eyes summon
a great coalescence in me,
we dance into the channeled
delta of spring beauty here across the keyboard;
it cascades a slow attentive phosphene
striking pointed notes of color,
ring beneath and through the
green, sylvan silicon throw of mossy html
so that even rocks and sprawling
tree-trunks sing within the disembodied
vortexes of arrowed imagery to browse
my virtual belongings to you,
alone in your sorrow-joy fighting
free love in an all-world-breath
before the screen
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 11:40 PM UTC
a timely arrival..
welcome refuge
a gathering storm..
sheltered somewhat
from the arriving flash
and pelting
downpour..
rain rivulets
quickly formed
on a miniature scale
tiny rivers and streams
branchings and splittings..
the storm's rapid creation
all at once seemed whole..
lightening and thunder
light and sound
their separate reports..
all creation is splitting..
the thunderstorm's gift
instant reminder of
separation in
interwoven whole..
with the storm's passing
a bright light in the west
painted a rainbow on
a now darkened east..
a sourcing of
bowed colors out east..
though very soon
curved colors
took flight..
fading fast in
their birthing light...
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 5:51 PM UTC
I recently came across my first journal of poetry,
written in my early forties. A tumultous time in my life, I kept a hand-written journal and the poems flowed. It began on a (recovery) escape~vacation to Mykonos and many other Greek islands. Unable to sail, (stuck on Mykonos by fierce winds that grounded even super tankers), I wrote to pass the time. Even then, I dated my poems, noting when & where the poem was composed. Themes were employed, that twenty years later, reappear (to my surprise) frequently, in my poems of today (by example, "The Wind of Correction"). Even then, I wrote long, way too long poems, some good and some awful ones. Judge this, one not too harshly, judge it as a first endeavor, simplistic, crude and heartfelt.
What seems to have triggered poetry to be the outlet for my emotional upset, as a father of young children, in the midst of a bitter divorce, was a Greek poet, Cavafy, that I must have stumbled on during my visit
and a particular poem he wrote in 1908. I include it the notes in shock and awe, for it unconsciously informed my "style" and seemingly, or unseemingly, still does.
The Geometery of Greece
(His Very First Poem)
~~~
the geometry of Greece
is the perfect intersection
of clear blue sky,
right-angled to azure waters,
with puffs of white clouds
to mark off distances
only
the wind is non-linear,
like feelings,
the wind,
it washes and caresses you,
envelopes and wraps you in
its totality
what it all means is this:
all that I know,
all that I love,
have, got and given,
is leaking and pouring and leaking
from the rectangular shape
what I
now know as,
now call,
my previous life
so now,
the winds of my true self
direct me on a course
that can be plotted
but one day,
one island ahead
no long range planning
on the sailing waters of Greek isles,
the wind does not permit it
the perfect line of the horizon
is not anymore a limiting
boundary
rather,
the sourcing place from which
the wind comes,
that buffets,
to and fro
throws,
carries me forward,
and ever backwards too
this horizon line
that I sail towards,
neither marks nor closes in,
it is always there,
to be sailed to,
ever anew,
to renew
~~~
August 6, 1993
Noon
the Isle of Mykonos
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 4:48 PM UTC
Dig deep poet;
You too reader;
Commandment One:
Both must obsess to possess,
Air the curvature of each line
shape with two hands, creasing and
no ceasing not till the air waves have filled
your flushed face with compressed comprehensions
You weep as you compose!
Good!
The well of tears where hid
the pool of emotions
in cavernous reservoirs
in the center of your
gravity,
needs a daily tapping,
a draining, a purification,
a quenching sweet and
raucous
where you dig, salted water will come
in the soiled, imperial but imperfect body/mind cappuccino,
there are swirls of treasures, sins and histrionics
that need discovery, expiation, expulsion,
when~then, object is surgically removed,
accept surging water will desoil,
and you can revel
in the revelation
of honest effort
Debate Commencement:
reveal, which, what and how
much, how much? how much?
(this reverbs)
what must be shared,
what must be reburied,
what must be refuted,
what must be reconstructed,
refurbished,
and what must be
demolished & deconstructed
ah, but as soul judge,
you hold yourself to a higher standard,
but in all of this but two constraints rule:
the quality of the recalled data,
the quantity of storage space delimitation
do not tease us with rivulets, nor bury
us under thunderous rushes of memories
spilling and cresting with a reek of abandon,
unless, you’re abandoning the memory en tout,
giving us your newly orphaned all innermost,
then, we must accept the product of your labor,
whether it be spoiled fruit or glorious
truth
Tuesday Apr 16
8:32AM
(the year of pollard, a/k/a 2024)
Apr 18, 2024
Apr 18, 2024 at 8:51 AM UTC
deep within the black shirt
are chamelion hands making mocks
of string
when they should've been
digit deep in a bowling ball
or around the handle of a sauce pan
or on the arm of the couch...
sometimes they'd be cupped
amplifying yells around the mouth,
sourcing the tooth obsession along with a slew of other medical problems,
another bushel of ******** for the stew in the ***
maybe her foreign claws
could rub the knots out of your shoulders
but she is suspected of dropping the world,
and, as with many other things,
would garner your reluctance
to hold risk for,
your red hot fear of hatred
your red hot ******* hatred
those shoulders hold your house
your saxophone
those shoulders hold your experience
your lack thereof, your anxiety
your ******* hatred
your black shirt
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
happening upon
a sacred sandstone scene
not seen coming
not intended
now illuminated
through blindness of modernity
mother nature's sweat lodge
floating and fleeting
soaring to sourcing
consciously sharp to the present
each sweatdrop, each heartbeat,
each wisdom
there are one, then two
then ten thousand
not passingly noticed
but known intimately
petroglyphs etched into
mind body soul
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 9:22 AM UTC
My Words I weave to be just a whispers’ lingering caress
Tormenting, Bitter Sweet thoughts that make you burn at feeling such
The wishes cast, but not granted that make you shiver over less
The briefest touch
Words, that speak of all unspoken desires
oft what a Heart's Hopes and the Mind rightly Fears
That nightmare in the making, speaking truth amongst avid Liars
That Healer, Sinner and Saint, who wounds you deep but dries your tears
For a vision of thy sweet face compels my pen, my deeds
Still that vision leads my words to fall upon thy screen
Before thine eyes, to serve thy needs
Yet still for but my minds eye you remain unseen
Between Breath & Touch
Strides a whispered Caress
Across endless plains Of Dream not much
Past the blind denial of less
Beyond the seasons of a thousand dreams and desires
My words fall seen and felt but unheard
Bitter sweet they may be and easily kindle passion's fires
They torment and delight, caressing your heart, mind and soul with each word
Subtle song, resonating rhythm unclear intent
Desire a sourcing fire as the words serenade the heart
For the bitter sweet seduction of words the body will lament
They are but a start
-Wes Noneya-
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 7:36 PM UTC
A lost love incapable of being found
****** into air, rain is washing it away
Chained to a world of final fantasy
Reality is mad trying to liberate it
To dispel love of this world
Sourcing all the happiness
From a vessel that is destined to be full
Life is scaring it away
Every time only capturing an essence
But losing its lasting presence
Errors constructed by fears of emotions
One which will take you
To the depths of the ocean
Where love has shed its skin
And taken on a new beginning
Falling down fast to the surface of the heart
Love is searching through the darkness
The bottom of the ocean tries
To will its pressure to shatter its quest
But love has friends
The journey never ends
Aug 12, 2011
Aug 12, 2011 at 6:35 PM UTC
He held some Romantic notion
His years of love and devotion,
The exposition of emotion
Could overcome the troubles.
He tried to be meta-physical,
Raised his crucible to the celestial,
Prayed to move the unchangeable
To overcome the troubles.
For years he toiled in his realism,
The jobs, debts and persistent requiems,
The slugging burdens of their tediums,
To overcome the troubles.
He was Dada, then Grand-dada.
She was Mama, then Grand-mama.
Once an in-law, now an outlaw,
Yet always there was trouble.
Now he's lost his generation,
Learned the cost of retribution;
Still sourcing out his frustration,
Considering the final solution
For dealing with his troubles.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
OR: Benchmarks for Bench-Warming
The author, after recently publishing
Working to Frame Approaches Towards Approaching Frameworks: Contextualizing Systemic Interventions as an Interventional System in Context
collaborated with himself and co-wrote
Granting Greater Rights to Grant-Writers:
Turning Down the Echo in an Eco-Downturn.
Both papers were well-received and build on the strength of the author's initial work, published in 2018, entitled:
Speed-Dating the Data: Progressive Measures towards Measurable Progress
The author's third paper examined day-by-day data deterrence as a strategy to enhance documentation of impact towards tracking the implementation of benchmarks. The main thesis of the author's 78-page analysis was that out-dated data, when out on a date, flirts with obsolescence by trying to ford the current affordability when instead, it could be out-sourcing data while invoicing clients in adolescence—rather than dragging the river for dead data. All three publications are recommended and underwritten by overwhelmed authorized ghost writers.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 12:12 PM UTC
Violent waves crash ashore;
in this dream I cannot tell what is real anymore.
I see a figure standing ten feet tall;
the moon obstructed by a beastly maw.
Murmuring questions with a sleepy tongue;
answers haunted me in grim return.
Lobotomizing the entirety of my mind,
the feral creature only spoke with shapes and rhyme.
Poised before me was a legendary hunter.
A ghastly dire-beast, who could tear the world asunder.
Sporting a melancholic expression;
he opens the sealed mouth with a deadly suggestion.
His gums bleeding from pale infection.
Sourcing the problem I ache with poor digestion.
Unable to sniff out sustenance,
his own life-force is leading him astray.
In this nightmare; guilt turns night to day.
Lost in the dark the hunter cannot pray.
Mustering the strength, I mend his pain.
Reaching into the gnarly abyss;
pulling out something of a shame.
Rapturing open wounds; I am fearful of blame.
Crying with a grisly howl.
I am becoming apart of the beast;
and the hunter becomes infused within.
A ritual complete.
The fabric of reality dissipates as the moon weeps.
I rejoice with newly kindled vigor as I exit this plane of existence.
Exalted I am, now I rest my troubled mind.
May this prolific dream endure all of time.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 4:21 AM UTC
when suffering's luster loses glow,
when overcoming is never known,
what dreams may come from fire below,
lonesome moments, ever-boding,
misery imposed, for evermore,
glorious warnings from sordid war,
of freedom imploring,
indifference ignoring,
and discontent exploring our stratosphere...
measly metamorphs,
wearily forcing inaction forward,
desperately sourcing mortality,
fallacy after fallacy fall to their knees,
umpteen deviations,
outlandish iterations, exhausted,
accost me no more, mister consciousness,
for I've already given in,
just when my sin uncovers itself,
befuddled and bereft, at the gates of hell,
the self dispenses its painful beliefs:
that nothing comes without leaving,
remains we bequeath only provide what's conceded,
so seek what is needed,
impede not the other,
and love will muster from such healthy souls.
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 2:06 AM UTC
i
Afore there was an astrobleme, deep within me
Though now an astral queen, serenadeth gleamed;
Canorous and splendorous, her cantillate I repeat
I mimic her dancing step's, jumping on mine feet.
ii
She's sad when the past awakens, crying dreading tear's
Though tis what she don't knoweth, her king is all right here;
And through the year's, the catoptromancy shalt tell it's fortune
Chiliad timespan, her body to be mine land, water flow sourcing.
iii
I wilt constellate all her worries, and collect them on mine head
Her Burden's I shalt maketh as mine, and taketh all her's instead;
And the cyanic water's shalt we swim through, sail to the glass
The brokenness shalt leaveth her, as no time exist's, nor our past.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©あある じぇえん
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
When the director calls cut
“That’s not how it should be
Those were not the words that
I had planned for thee”
For I have directed your life
In such a way you fear me
Not show compassion and love for your own family
You were mine to control, not to speak or share
You were mine to gently stroke that long golden hair
In the instant I beckon, text or call
You should answer and be grateful no-one one else will love you after all?
For who would want you
With a mind of your own
With love, dreams and a vision and a hand you can hold
You have nothing to offer
For you are not worthy
Don’t you know how many women want me? Tall, thin and curvy?
For when I decide, when I let YOU go
Go forever you shall, for my heart is so cold
I’m the wolf, you’re the sheep and I’ll never swap clothes
You will answer to me and I’m in control
For my heart is black and empty just sourcing the next
To take in my wonderful, god-like righteousness
For I have no compassion, empathy or soul
Always on the look out …… mmmmm who’s my next goal?
Don’t you see that I am perfect in every shape and form
You should forever be grateful that I ever spoke to you at all
For you see you are my plaything
And I will bathe in your tears
Seeing your weakness gives me the strength that I need
To build my self up
To rid me of my frown
From a blow to my narcissism
In which I frequently drown
No time will I waste, for I am a man on a mission
To abate this dread when I look in the mirror
The man I truly am thrives on deep-rooted pessimism
To feed this yearning but it’s now my hunting season
You see’s it’s Spring and yes I’m a wolf and I need to eat
The heart of a maiden who’s naïve, caring and sweet
I am the greatest, you mere mortals are fakes
You see I am the walking, truth speaking, handsome and great
My age is a lie, my charm on top form
But I am cold and need someone’s heart and house that is warm
Oh I will portray myself as honest, as a good listener and kind
But it will all be lies, and too late will you find
That I have nothing to offer, no emotion, no care
And when it’s too late I turn into your nightmare
So prepare to give all, everything that’s precious
For I will take it all to make myself feel better
You will be left with nothing I’m an emotional vampire
Who will throw your dignity deep into the fire
But don’t be sad, I’m won’t be
Because I will walk free
It’s you who will mourn the loss
You and not me
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
Why is it so arduous
for us to believe we are
beguilingly startling
creatures as none?
Whilst we look at others
we call animals and remain,
befuddled by the perfection
of a nature we reclaim,
temporary beings
roaming freely a land
of prosperous marvels
releasing an infinity
of colours, delicate those
of uncountable flowers,
green that of trees
erecting forests of auburn,
as we spectate the dance
of stones raising mountains,
following the streams
sourcing from them,
cascading into rivers
torrents pouring into
shimmering oceans
unfolding to the limits
of our sight,
where water touches the sky
and we stare marvelling,
at sunset giving birth
to myriad stars iridescent
on black canvas.
Why is it so arduous
for us to believe we are
beguilingly startling
creatures as none?
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 4:05 AM UTC
Luminescence in the dark
She burnt, slowly but with intent, not so much a flickering flame ticking away at an oil soaked wick, but a continuous stream of energy sourcing from her earthly power. Most of the time she carried a faint glow, gently floating, casting the softest hues on things only moments forgotten, things in which she dreamt whilst spinning in creation, or perhaps things needing to be given to a nights ocean wave
She was born as deep as an ocean and many of her feelings reaching ranges unfathomable. Often troubled and tormented by things past, thoughts that burn and then rain tears like ash, a once dormant volcano breaking through the oceanic floor. Resurfacing, revisiting once more. Opening up to be quickly cooled and building upon her growing foundation, a demonstration for the ones she loves. Let her burn and boil, and when she erupts, be with her at her depths as she cools.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 7:13 PM UTC
as from next year Santa will be
using a new business model
he'll be out sourcing his present making
to a Chinese manufacturer
Santa has found that there will be
cost savings by sending production off shore
for some considerable time
his work-shop has run as a losing straw
and his financial adviser
has eloquently told him
to fix the balance sheet
which has looked rather slim
Santa is urgently addressing
his per unit labor costs
in an endeavor to curtail
all unnecessary imposts
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 5:51 AM UTC
we're smiling, pouting,
**** knows where to
mind a sourcing of interpretation...
in terms of honesty this reinvention
of Narcissism is bewildering...
i want to know who the smile
is intended for...
or where it's going...
with original intent it's hardly
"original"; there are specifics in
the medium,
there's a sender,
an address, and a recipient...
but you're working out calculations
in caricatures of where there is
blatant intention like Columbus
and the West Indies alignment
very well hidden
to postpone precursor Mandarin
tip toeing on the Californian beaches
for a historical patent
that's all the more necessary
in currency of globalisation, en-grouping,
loss of ethnicity, capital 1 million Chinks
tailoring my underwear.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 8:10 PM UTC
Have you ever wondered ?
being creative ?
have you ever tried to explain it?
remember when you tried to explain certain things,
making them understand what all you feel within;
and thought them to be people like you
which you were sourcing in your'
inside ique !
Ever felt some breath lost,
when every time you speak,
the listener might not revert off---
your voice, what exactly you mean?
reverting in a disrespect manner
not "YOU" but,
your creativity.
Find your creativity,
and this human be the only,
the only person who shall see;
the actual dimensions going fleek,
from travelling through time to universe
leaving human soul,
the mirror soul.
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 2:36 AM UTC
smitten with a forsaken long lost love
*** plus years ago,
aye since didst roam'n o'er hill and dale
as one heart broken beau
twas being cow warring utter oxymoron,
whereby thy perfect match I do
frankly admit foolishly out sourcing
of (good NOT FAKE nor bad) grief emo
shun hull distress disgraceful,
which hide de lee recognize coveted prime mate,
(who shared love of playing scrabble,
and born same January 13th birthdate,
yet six orbits thy senior)
mine golden opportunity to lose,
viz ma mish mashed aggravating huff flew
vee yam this then
young asinine buck unwittingly
inflicted long forgot 'til
ear layer t'day thee spouse
showed me an photograph,
when suddenly this lix spittle
curmudgeonly bard
unexpectedly experienced
abysmal love stricken agony
(that despite pro missing to pledge -
while taking a knee -
troth Abby Robin - hoo
became thy lawful legal wife - of Jew
whoosh heritage juiced like me, and knew
instantaneously upon
setting eyes this then boyish lad -
hood bid tootle loo
at bachelorhood, when she eyed thyself
(wedded now deux plucks decades),
though no moo
nee tomb aye name,
thus har courtship rocky, hen new
idea how tubby affectionate,
hence early married life
pitched 'tween Scylla and Charybdis
fondness (albeit ex post facto) hike queue
this poetic beat (fashionably late love note)
ye, whose Capricorn astrological sign
didst bid eternal happiness
now delayed repercussions I rue!
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 1:43 AM UTC
my eyes are on fire
every time my feet start smelling
of digested cabbages
by cow stomachs, and sourcing
inspiration, likewise
the modern slave,
each time my eyes start warming up,
and i see no future, no future
apart from fire; i don't know why
my eyes become inflamed,
it's not a case of seeing is believing,
this precedes it;
it's like a single word from Slayer's
lyrics right now... BURN!
sunglasses in the night, yet still
the eyes imprint sulphur on ash.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 9:28 PM UTC
with immediate effect all trade uk import duty 1 percentage per unit export duty the same in china france and england as decided by beth fwoah of china anne boleyn of england and aquataine of france all three my princely thrones.
if you have a history of trading with these countries please continue but exise and import duty must be paid up front.
if you have a new product you’d like to supply to england china or france please speak to the countries embassy in your country
the embassy will decide if it is considered suitable.
remember wheat, sugar and ‘smudge’ will be illegal in france china and uk from 01/04/2021
breads must use rye and chocolate use swis artico or bangladeshi chocolate, sugar must be replaced by mashed green tea which is a nice sweetener that doesnt make you put on weight and is worker friendly. only healthy products will be allowed in uk. please speak to china embassy to organise sourcing mashed green tea.
Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 5:36 PM UTC
After most recent shower,
and particularly washing hair
(then shaking head
analogous to sopping wet dog
drying her/himself after a bath),
I immediately said helloo
to Long lasting fragrance Suave
essentials Daily Clarifying
Deep cleansing Shampoo,
which permeated mine scalp
facilitating healthy follicles.
More so frothy lather upon noggin
after getting rinsed out
yielded bounteous, luscious, luxurious,
and marvelous full bodied tresses
reminiscent when yours truly an adolescent,
a veritable long haired pencil necked geek
whose hirsute trademark
still characterizes atypical sexagenarian
above mentioned characteristic
still (after scores of years)
emblematic of this enigmatic poetaster.
Ever since being in utero
soon after seminal fusion
insync with fallopian tube bearing ova
begot zygote courtesy said gametes,
and engendered silent boom
after piercing zona pellucida
creating microscopic flume,
nevertheless collection of cells
coalescing into embryo
eventually manifesting into yours truly,
I painstakingly took minuscule
comb and brush to groom,
and dreaded most fearfully being locked,
where pair of outsize scissors did loom
threatening to cut thick,
what could best be envisioned analogous
to imperceptible fancy plume
hich features specific feature
drew medical community
(i.e. namely human reproductive specialists)
constituted extensive expanse
within blastocyst very limited room
crowd sourcing out rivaling curious onlookers
formerly geared up
to espy King Tutankhamun's tomb
can you dear reader believe
a hairy globule within the womb
became global attraction
viz - of a young fecund Harriet Harris,
cuz about nine months later
out the birth canal I did zoom.
Dec 15, 2021
Dec 15, 2021 at 7:01 PM UTC