"speculated" poems
For centuries philosophers have speculated the role sleep plays in society
But it was not until the 1950s that sleep woke up in academia
And today sleep studies show what dormant minds really look like
Information about our rest we've never seen before
However, I've always understood the importance of bedtime
You see my parents taught me that sleep and love are soul mates
My mom
She's the sleeper
She loves to sleep
She cuddles up on any piece of furniture in my house and snoozes for hours
Never views a sitcom past the first commercial break when she's tired
And she's okay with that
Dad never lets her drive on road trips when night falls
Preferring his sleeping beauty tucked safely in the passenger seat
Their hands meet as she lets the stars serenade her to slumber
While he anchors his left hand on the steering wheel
Thanking his lucky stars for his real life princess
My dad
He's the snorer
He loves to snore
He roars like a lion on his love seat and naps for hours
Never views a sitcom past the second commercial break when he's tired
And he's okay with that
Mom never lets him sleep alone too long though
Keeping his nose plugged strong enough to signal for bedtime
They both stand together as he lets her guide him to slumber
While she ushers her left hand around his back
Thanking her lucky stars for her own prince charming
Now my parents call me the dreamer
And I sure do love to dream
It seems my parents are textbook role models for me
Because when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Your reality becomes an endless stream of fantasies
Your expectations are exceptionally out of context
Strictly written for poetic lines in picture books
Never meant to be held
Never meant to be felt
Only meant for spines stuck on rosewood shelves
My parents call me the dreamer
And boy I love to dream
I believe in creating the unthinkable
And when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Nothing is fictional
You picture a life with storybook endings
Praying the author never runs out of ink
You crown each syllable the king of the moment
Treating each page like royalty
And I've always been okay with that
So when I asked my mom when she knew she fell in love
She spoke of an instant of unadulterated emotion
She said she knew instantly
She didn't need to sleep on it
When I asked my dad when he knew he fell in love
He just smiled back at me
He must have known instantly
He didn't even speak on it
So when I ask myself when I might fall in love
I can't help but smile
Think of fairytale titles
Mile wide love notes in all shapes and styles
And a moment where my reality sets my hopes on fire
And I won't need to dream about it anymore
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
He lived down the street from us,
And came to be known as,
The man whose wife left him.
We speculated and surmised.
None but two knew the reason why
He became
The man whose wife left him.
He stopped cutting the grass
And weeding the beds.
He won’t play his uke
On the porch like he did.
From all accounts,
He was a good Dad,
None ever heard him
Explete a foul word.
He worked till retired,
Never was fired.
I'm told he lived a gentle life;
Never started a fight,
Or ran from strife.
That's what I heard
About the man whose wife left him.
Left to his own devices,
The man whose wife left him,
Left.
Jun 2, 2023
Jun 2, 2023 at 8:28 AM UTC
On April 10th, 1846 on the ship Devonshire from Liverpool,
one Catherine McCarty, age 17 arrived in New York during times most cruel.
She made this long journey to escape the famine occurring in her native Ireland.
We don't know if she arrived alone or with family
or whether she was married or accompanied with a boyfriend.
The passenger arrival manifest has her listed a servant as the occupation she did.
Based only on her age and her name, many historians have speculated and proclaimed
that she's the mother of BILLY the Kid.
Billy's mother died on September 16th in the year of 1874.
She was 45 years old according to her obituary.
Combine the above information and we know one thing for sure.
Immigrant Catherine shared the same age and name as did the true mother of Billy.
It seems that due to health reasons, Catherine McCarty's life had gone onto
searching for dryer climate out west as a single mother of two.
One of her sons would live a full life and then fade into obscurity.
Her other son would die very young and become one of the greatest legends to ever be.
No one knows anything about the boys' father or whether they shared the same one.
Did he/they die or abandon the family? Your guess is as good as anyone's.
Catherine was a strong, independent, gregarious lass
whom everyone seemed to like and enjoy very dearly.
She earned a living selling baked goods to customers she had amassed
and by also doing much of the neighborhood's ***** laundry.
She also dabbled in real estate, purchasing what little property she could afford,
and to earn extra income she'd often open the door to her home and welcome
all those willing to pay room and board.
It was clearly shown that she could take on the responsibility alone,
as far as providing and caring for her boys.
When she wasn't earning employment, she'd occasionally indulge in the enjoyment
that every good, loving mother enjoys.
After schooling her children, she'd take them to local dances
where she was known to be one of the grandest dancers on the dance floor,
but of all the dance partners she'd dance with
there was always one she could never resist
and he'd want to dance with her more and more.
"Of all my dance partners," she told him one night, "you are my favorite one."
To see her lovingly gaze into his eyes, it certainly would come as no surprise
to learn that William Henry was Catherine McCarty's favored son.
To Be Continued
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 4:47 PM UTC
If I were a planet, I would be as debated as Pluto.
Scientists eons away that have no business with me and probably never will discussing all of my qualities to pinpoint me into a label they've created to push me like a pinball machine into different slots of make believe self esteem.
If I were a planet, I would be the one whose moon is speculated to be made of cheese.
No one quite aware of what really lies out there but it's fun to dream up stories and ideas that we know will never be true.
No matter how damaging to this solemn planet's reputation in its universe these folk tales may be.
If I were a planet, my sun would have an oval shaped revolution, sometimes close and sometimes far, moving its inspiration along on its route and leaving just when my people need it the most.
If I were a planet, my living organisms would speak in tongues unknowing to even me.
Desperately searching every tick in them to see how they view their home, but always confusing me as I spin on my axis round and round.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC
There might have been a time
When I wasn’t full of fear so topped off
Like a gassy sombrero
like a burrito left in the
Sun to bake and there might have
Been a
Time
When I hadn’t yet eaten a burrito
landlocked
In New England, locked in a small state of
Fear and knowing that knowing
just isn’t
Enough.
There might have
Been
A time when luxury was a nickel
apiece paperback
Book at the Unitarian Church fall sale
to raise funds for
Their roof.
To raise their
Roof.
And there
Might
Have been a joy in my spark
Plugs,
A joy
In my canter
A Joy in
My legs that preceded my
Fears.
There might
Have
Been a time:
When I would pick one of the seven records we owned
And delicately put it on the turntable, thinking I will
Have my own money and
buy my own music.
When I idly lift the leaded paint
from the 200 year old wood
And scratch it to smell its sweet aroma.
And put my hand on the glass pane
Think hard enough and open your eyes and it will be
1838 again.
Oh where are the people?
Oh where
when there might have been a time
Did I not see who they are?
Or they did not register.
I must have watched them everyday
Observant
so keen to be seen
Is it possible to feel so much
for feeling so little?
Or did I feel gulfs of embrace
that were not there?
I wanted and I desired and I dug.
I craved and thought and speculated
and clung.
And there might have
Been
A time when I roared on my Schwinn down the long empty
Roads of my town.
Invoking our gods.
Invoking my claims.
There was a time when I stuttered with
Compassion and could
feel a touch observed
There was a time:
Across the street in a
lit house at dusk.
Their curtains are open, their lights are on.
Oh, the sun has settled down
There is that time, golden, when I
Look into your kitchen, and the wallpaper is
Blue and harvest gold with small pictures of oil lamps on
Them and your walls are mustard gold.
Your plates are unbreakable
I see them lustre in the
Overhead light, fashioned like a wagon wheel.
Guns ablazin’.
Trails awash.
There might be a time when I can slip back
Into your kitchen
lick the plates and then
Run my fingers over
the wall paper.
Tracing the outline of the oil
lamps imprinted.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 7:19 AM UTC
586
We talked as Girls do—
Fond, and late—
We speculated fair, on every subject, but the Grave—
Of ours, none affair—
We handled Destinies, as cool—
As we—Disposers—be—
And God, a Quiet Party
To our Authority—
But fondest, dwelt upon Ourself
As we eventual—be—
When Girls to Women, softly raised
We—occupy—Degree—
We parted with a contract
To cherish, and to write
But Heaven made both, impossible
Before another night.
2.1k
The "dark planet" it's called
because a stars light can't reflect
a single atom of brightness
visible to the eye.
Suspended in space
light years and light years away
an entire new world
with a blackened sky.
A human hand can't touch
a surface too hot for clouds,
that swims beneath supernovae,
absorbing the potential of sunrise.
The journey would pass through
the Pillars of Creation
around Sirius and Betelgeuse
and Proxima Centuri.
If I could explore
many a glittering nebulae,
with Sagittarius I could speculate
and with comets could I pry.
But on a marble's where we've thrived,
and speculated a silver rock,
why not look deeper to the veil of explosion
And, with that, the wonders that colour our sky?
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
_Fear..._
As passing mist;
smoke and mirrors of devil's
magic red right hand.
Under his big black hanging coat;
hangs speculated thoughts and myth.
_Fear..._
Is all to self.
Feb 5, 2022
Feb 5, 2022 at 10:26 AM UTC
Oh blasphemous beauty, how you cloud my judgement.
Your torturous soul engulfs me with
wisdom way to young and old,
for my tender age.
Your speculated claws drive me further and further,
away into the shallow pits of destiny and fate facing face.
Oh blasphemous beauty why do you torture me with,
your tender words and pitiful looks.
Your sorrowful glances are a pitchfork of loveliness.
Your bottled ego makes my rage as empty as
the shallow grave.
Oh Blasphemous beauty you are a woman
of magnificent void.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 6:40 AM UTC
Randy was a roach
Of the american cockroach variety
He was a deep brown and had a sickly shine
To his wings and antennae
And he studied both of us
From a perch in our suitcase
In my girlfriend's East Harlem apartment
In the early hours of a sunday morning
**** it! Get it out of the suitcase!"
My girlfriend yelled
Flailing her arms
As Randy reclined on our valuables
His antennae twitching
As in most crisis
I hesitated
And Randy burrowed into the suitcase
Past the underwear, collard shirts, and sunscreen
I dug in a frenzy
Rending my girlfriend's meticulous packing plan
And scattering clothes about
All in the name of meaningless destruction
But I couldn't find Randy
"He's probably in the collar of one of your shirts, or in a pair of my shoes"
My girlfriend speculated
And I started shaking the clothes wildly about the room
Wanting more than anything to extinguish Randy's life
To sterilize our newfound stowaways presence
But I never found him
And Randy boarded the plane with us to ***** Cana
While our plane painted dizzying contrails over the ocean
We speculated about Randy's
Most likely devious activities
"I bet he's eating the granola bars under my bikinis"
"I bet there is more than one in there"
"Maybe he's dead?"
"I bet he's laying eggs"
We both pondered over the fact that Randy could be Rhonda
And that we would open the suitcase to a scattering of near microscopic progeny
And we clutched each other in the cold, recycled air of the cabin
When we got to the room
Past all the tin shacks and open air bars
Where the locals sat in plastic lawn chairs
Staring at the tourist shuttles
That carted pale skin behind tinted windows
To decadently decorated rooms where the towels were folded into swans
We opened the bag to see if Randy
Had surfaced, died, or multiplied
But Randy was no where to be seen , a phantom
We unpacked everything under the utmost scrutiny
Not trusting any of the items we had packed so lovingly and repacked
Shaking cover ups and tee shirts like the wind shakes the leaves in autumn
But he never presented himself
And we saw none of his foul brood
We even unzipped the lining
But Randy had simply vanished
Evaporating into the humid, tropical air
I like to think that Randy is somewhere on the island still
That he has impregnated or has been impregnated
That he spends his days under the intense sun
And cottony wisps of clouds
Sipping Presidente
Sitting under an umbrella made of dried palm fronds
Happy to be away from the honking horns and crowded subways
Just like we were
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
What in whoever-the-hell's-up-there name am I doing?
Who am I to question history?
Follow the lines of this directed system,
Make yourself appear kind and gentle enough
To be accepted into afterlives put forth by humans
Who waste their here-lives mauling over what if's-
What if they're right?
But *whoever the hell I have to **** up to*, God, what if they're wrong?
Do I risk my spot among the great
In order to live the life I want to while I still know it's real?
I cannot question the tangibility of this world because the key word here-
Tangible- tangible, I can feel you, I can feel the grass
And I can feel these people and because you are real
I am not alone.
I cannot depend on something that isn't tactile, that isn't tangible
Because I cannot touch what I don't know
I cannot touch what can be speculated as unreal.
But who am I to judge what is real and unreal?
If there is nothing unreal to depend on, no god or supreme beings,
No something that is controlling my very being,
Then why do I chew on the idea that it could be real?
Tell me, what constitutes something real?
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
Please don't search my skin every morning and night
As if I'm one of your art pieces that isn't quite right
You'll stare at your drawings for hours wondering what you need to change
You erase all the wrong lines till you've painted over them
In order to perfect your piece
My skin is not your canvas
You cannot erase the marks I have made
I'm not a piece to be speculated by an artist
Who never deems any of her pieces worthy.
If you like I can frame myself for you
And tuck myself away in the dusty crevice of your room
A graveyard for all your unfinished pieces;
The ones that even you could not fix
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC
Curious Natures
In a more weak world the most aggressive advantages
don't always deal in what is referred to as "fair consequence."
Being an empire built of sharks, snakes, wolves, and rats-the most basic of beasts-
we really understand the most prehistoric philosophy: survival.
Using it as the first building blocks and the cracked foundation for this society.
Still, one must always reserve all judgements for the most lucrative habits that surprised all by opening up a vast spectrum of the most curious natures.
Leaving any who wander vulnerable to grow into a legendary victim or a menace to the community.
Often being left with a life of never being able to escape their never ending abnormal minds.
It has been speculated as well as documented, that these street racing thoughts are more than fast to attach themselves to a mythical beast more commonly known as a "mortal" who will lose all balance and footing as they unknowingly grasp both reality and fantasy with white knuckled fists.
Stuck in this forced upon reverie of insane clarity that consumes both the mind and soul.
Becoming vessels for the sins of others, as they are suddenly privy to the most awarding secrets and gilded griefs they could never begin to understand.
Belonging to the most wildly havoc notoriously murdering confidences.
While the rest of us, close our eyes and frequently feign sleep.
All the while refusing responsibility for each other, denying a hostile yet unmistakable sign that declares the biggest secret of all: THE TRUTH.
Told in the most intimate, consuming, quivering, thundering, vibrations being smothered in a explosion that was meant for "We the People" as it projects a plethora of colours on a always changing horizon.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 4:51 AM UTC
Maiden and Observer
As speculated,
The observer and the scientist
See an enigmatic entrance.
The arrival of the specimen:
He shows haste,
His wrist flickers:
Punctuality.
He mouthes questions of career:
Orderliness.
His vocal appetite silent:
Surrender.
He declares instruction:
Superiority.
He brightens athleticism.
Focus.
The smile appears through
in the unknownest places,
Within restaurant doors,
Through the soundwaves.
Through ideations:
Competitive movement.
Inertia and stagnation is of disinterest.
Wordly reflection produces empty reciprocration.
Can it be a metaphor for the observer,
Can the specimen by the symbol?
Both reflected from one another.
There is the one,
and then, the other.
The challenge is:
Exhibiting both states
Simultaenously.
This is the task of the maiden.
The balancer of scales.
The scientist seeks to understand,
There is evidence of somes sort
A hidden bliss a smile inside,
a moment of analysis.
Notions brought on by previous experiments.
Past failures predict present outcome,
Recent knowledge or estimation?
Emotion links to reason,
Reason negotiates but stands firm,
The scientist is fatigued, his hand lowers.
Body language is lazily interpreted by curious Observer,
Studying this new behaviour.
The professor places his spectacles on,
He sees no other path to take,
He concludes and hypothesises,
This specimen can be learnt from
No more.
Specimen's silence allows flowing thoughts to pervade the mind of the observer and the scientist.
Silence given to the cynicism of life,
the broadened mind
perceived as narrow.
The observer is observed.
Now conciousness changes in the realm of the user experiencing himself.
Self perception, self defense,
Guard is raised,
Gates are closed.
Only water flows through,
Other matter obstructed.
Maiden, Observer, Scientist, Specimen.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
what is it that bones are saying,
so trapped and silenced by their fate beneath
skin?
whose idea was skin?
let it wash off: your flesh is a figment of your imagination.
I suppose I wouldn't be soft anymore
but I wouldn't have to open my mouth
for people to hear my secrets.
bones are trees
with initials carved in
and hearts left whole
when they have really been broken.
bones have deeper thoughts than you
or the circles that spiral the trunk of a thousand year old
stump.
bones know nothing
and everything.
you don't have to tell them.
they are made of whispers, too afraid
to say anything aloud
(though they wouldn't be heard if they did).
for years we have
speculated,
wondered why the earth's bones
are so very brittle
and why ours are so very
small;
smaller than the thoughts we pretend to think
when we avoid eye contact or run out of things to say.
what lies between one and the next
is simply a breath we neglected to take
when we were waiting to hear if everything was going to be okay.
bones are wise.
without listening we cant see.
what is the point of walking around with our hands over our eyes
and looking for our beds
when we can lie down,
remember to breathe,
and rest in the gentle hand
that we've always pushed away?
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
If there's a way to dig a little deeper into
a new layer of skin, tap into
something in our bones that hasn't already
been analyzed and speculated by
doctors under bright white lights on cold
impersonal tables surrounded by
an army of masked, gloved and
sanitary conscious individuals-
a method of existing that hasn't
been romanticized and isn't cliche,
I'd really like to know.
Because in vicious turbulent cycles I'm falling head first
for things that have been worshipped
so many times in trance-like
moments of adolescent anguish and
pretenses of solitude seeking introverts that lie
to themselves cause they don't have
the guts to do it to others.
Who the hell is alright behind a smile masking a cringe?
And all the tropes idolized and hymns
murmured by Sad folk
don't really make you feel special anymore
cause you've lost your individuality
by stepping into yet another trap.
But then again hating all things has long ago been branded as
valueless, when in fact
values are the only things you're really searching for.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC
Across the blistered gibber plain where flies die in the sand
Through swamps of prickly sago where rotting death is planned,
To stride in windblown tussock hills where wind vanes carved their say
To saunter groves of green tree fern where moa giants did play.
In clearings cut with alkali, tusked elephant would loom
With crevassed hides, Methuselah, once aged in terms of doom.
Whilst high above the rocky crags of ancient mountain high,
The keening screech of kestral soaring up to deep blue sky.
Heavy boots in crusted sand where tiny lizards flee
Amidst the rust red rubble of volcanic rock and scree,
To clamber up the ignimbrite, great Vulcan's steps of stone,
Encrusted with thick epiphyte in lichen's mossy home.
Up into the altitude where dark cloud clusters here
And the threat of rolling thunder indicates that rain is near,
Torrential in it's downpour with sudden squall of gale
Surmounted, all quite suddenly, with a blinding blast of hail.
Staggering to shelter in a tiny alpine hut
To find hot coffee on the woodstove and a curvy, hot young ****
To find us frollicking together beneath a patterned patchwork quilt
Was quite beyond my imagination's comprehensions built?
And afterwards in slumber through the curtains of our room
I watched, in fascination, at a hanging, frozen moon
And wondered, in amazement, at the doings of the day
And speculated, sleepily, where tomorrow's prospects lay.
Blearily I stretch out from the covers, nicely warm
To nullify persistence of that alarm's intruding horn,
Yawning into morning I remove myself from bed
With panicked realisation....all dreams evacuate my head.
Vanished are the alpine hut, the dolly bird, the caves
The crash of rolling thunder and the plunge of mighty waves,
Gone are those phantoms which dwelt inside my mind
Devestatingly dismissed until re-dreamed another time.
M.
Pukehana Paradise
13 December 2014
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
Doom,
We walk towards thy gate,
side by side, with Destiny,
and despair...
Doom, your benevolence is great,
to let the children outside play;
Yet the Sun
must surely go.
Doom,
more than Death,
am I not doomed merry dreams?
or Merry Times?
Doom,
are you so bad,
as to rupture the rose
that sprouts on sacred soil?
I think not,
for as I look to thee,
you are speculated as a tangled knot,
and just simplified as a misery to be..
But who are we to change fate?
Less war and evil rage on with hate?
Then god might come lessened and late
and spiral us into an perpetual state?
Who are we to change the Earth
that is ever more patient and disputable
than our clustered minds
like musicals?
Who are we to undo hell
to unleash the thieves and liars fell
upon the sacred land of God
whence fair and innocence mindlessly trod?
Who are we to shape the Sun
so that it exists and is never undone?
To breathe the open-aired light of day
to fool our minds, to celebrate and sway?
We are but peasants, mindless, and few
that from which a starry void did send us through,
and so we were, and so we are, from dust to dust,
doom is then, doom is there, and alone it cannot rust!
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 1:54 PM UTC
Words still ring in my head
*****
What do you want
Bitch...bitch...bitch...fucker...bitch...
dead line
So many threats
Don't go into her work
Don't see her at school, and don't ******* talk to her
Stay the **** away from my daughter
*****
Went to see a concert
Walked past her
Had to ignore her
To avoid jail time
When I would have loved to ...nevermind
Walked out
Into the parking lot
Half way there
I'm tackled with such a loving hug
From behind
I am stricken
Words ringing in my head
***** ***** ***** he called me
It took a minute for me to muster
The courage to say a word to her
I turn around and speak
With such pain in my voice
She tried to calm my fears
She tried to cheer me up but
I just wouldn't budge
Little would I know
It would be the last time
She would ever want
To hug me from behind ...like
Like that ever again
As I sit alone every night, I jump, in surprise,
I'm still surrounded in warmth
As I'm forced to relive this ****
Her last good surprise to me,
That memory forever
I get these flashbacks,
Like a VHS tape...play, rewind,
Pause, fast forward, but no stop... I still... I still...
I feel her wrap her arms around me
Over and over and over and over
I don't ******* know
How I'll ever get better
When the only thing that
Makes me feel any better
Is the same thing that hurts me
I've speculated upon
Destroying these tapes
Or at least destroying the player
But I can't push myself,
Because suicide is not...
Suicide
Is not the way out
And I don't know what is
But there's a long life ahead
Maybe I'll figure it out
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 4:23 AM UTC
Mr Parsons made it sound exciting.
But mum told Joan that she was wicked.
She wasn’t allowed her dolls for a week,
a week she spent bemused and resentful
and she refused to poo for three days
until mum relented and gave her Barbie back
– but the rest would have to wait.
It had begun with Mr Parsons at Sunday School
with the story of the blind man and the mud and the spit.
We’d sat on the adult chairs in a circle
Me, Joan, Gemma, Charlie, and the Brown sisters.
knee to knee in a circle in the corner of the hall,
the one with the draft and the stacked chairs reminding us
that we were the remnant of a once thriving community.
He told us how Jesus made a paste of mud and spit
[Charlie thought this hilarious and spat at Gemma,
so he had to stand with his nose on the wall for the rest of the lesson]
and how Jesus slathered it on the man’s eyes and then told him
(unnecessarily we thought) to go wash it off.
It hadn’t worked first time – was that a first for Jesus? we speculated
and the second time the bloke saw people again
but he was told to keep it secret, which made no sense.
So that afternoon, after dinner, Joan got mud from the garden,
and pasted it onto Barbie’s legs which were abnormally long and made her topple over
and on my action man’s face on account of his ****** scar
which I thought looked cool, but was curious to see what happened.
She pasted it on Ken and Sindy too, but not for any specific ailment.
She followed the prescribed method, slather, wash and then repeat
(which I think she enjoyed a little too much to be honest)
but after the second wash there was no sign of any healing,
perhaps because, like mum said, she was so wicked,
unlike Jesus of course.
I’d never seen mum go that colour – she was livid,
she told Joan to go wash the mud stains off her hands
and to put her dress in the wash.
Joan couldn’t be Jesus and it was wrong to think she could.
That sort of thing wasn’t for little girls.
The next Sunday Mr Parsons seemed a little miffed.
He and dad and mum sat in the hall, knee to knee for ages.
I thought we were for the high jump,
but afterwards mum looked like a school girl caught stepping out of line.
Mum was very quiet and at dinner dad said that she had something to say
- to our horror, she apologised in front of all of us
and she told Joan it was okay to try and do what Jesus did.
It was what he would have wanted.
We were so ashamed for my mum
- neither of us tried to be Jesus ever again.
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 2:57 PM UTC
It was 1956. I was in the sixth grade.
I opened the top of my desk. There
was my wooden ruler. I had an idea.
In my mind, I took my ruler to the big
window in our classroom. In my mind,
my wooden ruler had on it two magic
buttons--one to elongate the ruler, the
other to activate the magic drill on the
other end of my magic ruler. I opened
the big window a bit so I could stick my
ruler outside. Then I pressed the
magic button to elongate my ruler,
which it did. The ruler began to elongate,
first through the tree limbs and branches,
then through the sky and clouds,
then through the rest of Earth’s
atmosphere, then through space,
through our solar system, then
through our galaxy, then through
deep space, and then through
deeper and deeper and deeper
space until it hit something that
stopped my magic ruler from
elongating further. The magic drill
bit could drill through anything for-
ever, so I pressed the magic button
to activate the magic drill bit. It began
to drill through whatever had stopped
my magic ruler from elongating and
continued to drill for a long, long time.
Finally, the magic drill bit drilled all
the way through whatever had been
blocking my magic ruler, so I pressed
again the magic button to start my magic
ruler to start elongating again. After a
long, long time, I realized I could go
on forever, so I began to retract it.
Eventually, it came back through the
open classroom window.
Then I took my 12-inch wooden ruler
back to me desk. I had another idea.
This time I didn’t need a magic ruler,
just the one I had. But I did need a
pencil and a piece of paper, which I
found inside my desk. I put the ruler,
the pencil, and the piece of paper on
the top of my desk. The I began di-
viding the 12-inch ruler mathematically
in half, first from 12 inches to six inches,
then into three inches, then into 1 ½,
then into 3/4ths, then into 3/8ths, then
into 3/16ths, then into 3/32ths, then
into 3/64ths, then into 3/128ths, and so
on. If I had wanted to, I could have gone
on forever.
This is how Iearned in sixth grade, by
myself, that infinity was reality, not what
appeared to be finite. I speculated, there-
fore, that if one person stared through
the most powerful telescope that ever
could be made and a another person
stared through the most powerful
microscope that ever could be made,
they would wind up staring at each other.
Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 6:15 PM UTC
You're an addition
Never felt this kind of friction
Though this friction
also felt a little fiction.
I knew it from the start
Speculated how you would fluster with my heart
but I took my chances anyways.
Addicted to the way
Your fingertips trace my skin
Gasping to the way
You're pulsing in
Gave me goosebumps
Blood pumps
Adrenaline kicking in
I listened to your hopes and dreams
Compositions of your music
Who was I to think,
I was just one of your muses
Who knew a little fame
Could mess things up so much?
You're Possessed,
Obsessed,
with
The way you're perceived
Cant believe,
How I was so deceived
Guess it was the little demon
inside of you
The Devils mental
inside of you.
You continue to look me in the eyes
telling me pretty lies,
just to leash around
Not because you wanted me,
loved me?
No. Because you needed me
to boost that enormous ego
You needed self assurance
reassurance
because of your insecurities
Your belittled and reflective images
haunting
taunting
every sense of your being
You would crumple me up
dispose me...
Recycle me.
But maybe
maybe I have this all wrong
Maybe I'm the addiction,
You,
The Addict
So who's the one really at a loss?
I may have lost you
But the blues will forever choose you.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
How long will you stay uninterested?
In this relationship like me, even you have invested.
My idea of intimacy is based on my lifelong emptiness.
Have you too felt the pangs of loneliness?
How long have I been lonely in this world?
Well, essentially since my lonely & difficult childhood.
And now you might ask me another counter question.
If I had my parents along, why this notion?
Now, tell me, is having parents sufficient?
Surely, we need siblings, friends, and a joint family.
Grandparents help you endure the pangs of loneliness.
Dear, have you ever been directionless?
I grew up without their guidance,
All I had were my busy parents.
How can you judge me based on your experiences?
Come to my world, but take your time to assess.
You say that you chose me as you hope maturity,
But now you know that I'm impulsive like you.
I rhyme a lot,
I whine a little.
I write a lot,
I speak a little.
Allegorical reiteration of my story,
It keeps happening, I keep repeating.
Either you like me,
Or maybe my life.
Or maybe you don't,
Either way you're mine.
Time will bring us close,
Like you say, like you say.
Time will teach you how to love,
Like I express myself, so will you.
Yes, so will you,
Dead sure, so will you.
No, you won't be scared,
For my soul is more scarred.
Than my imperfect body,
My mind is more beautiful.
From my jobs,
I earn money and reputation.
I audit the Railways,
Working for the Government.
Comptroller & Auditor General of India,
My employer.
Indian Railways, the North Eastern Railway HQ,
My paymaster.
While we audit their expenditures,
They even make our paychecks.
I invest in the money market,
And even in the Providence.
But I have reached where nobody speculated,
No, not even I could speculate this.
While I knew that I must succeed,
Even my mother was unsure.
Nobody else knew this for sure,
Well, nobody, nobody except for my father.
Whilst I prepared for the exam,
My mother provided food so nutritious.
Only my father had faith in my potential,
He laughed away all the speculations.
They suggested weird, insulting alternatives,
Sadists the people are oftentimes.
I thank my parents for bringing me here,
And it was my father who gave me the power.
He remained calm throughout,
And his oceanic calm is contagious.
My mother did convey the speculations,
But my father invested his hopes.
Although there is no need to reiterate,
Hope is the most powerful of all the words.
I'm on a train right now,
You might meet me soon.
Aug 14, 2024
Aug 14, 2024 at 4:09 PM UTC
Parents arranged my marriage with a girl.
I liked her at first sight—young and chirpy.
And I made up my mind to marry her soon.
In the followup to the marriage,
We interacted with each other,
In the beginning, I liked her.
Soon, courtship turned one-sided,
I was the only one interested,
Insulting me, she started.
She had a problem with quick love.
Berated me for saying it so soon,
She told me to behave mature.
I accepted her remarks,
The criticism of my ways,
I focused on all my means.
I proudly told her that I didn't give up.
The coma-inducing accident, and
Injuries couldn't reduce me.
I told her about how I literally won a war,
A war against time and disability,
The doctors labeled me as 42% challenged.
"But I didn't give up," I told her.
I defeated my disability,
And all of their speculations.
When I passed into that coma,
After the accident, I'd die,
They had speculated.
When they diagnosed me 42%,
I will do some easier work,
They all had guessed.
They wanted me to drop out of college,
Oh, they want me to be humble,
Be humble and accept fate.
Not that the other job is easier,
But they wanted me to set up a shop,
For daily needs, stationery & photocopy.
Even my mother wanted me to drop out.
Leave the B.Tech. Biotech incomplete,
Opt for an easier course instead.
But I told her that I didn't give up,
No, I did not; I did not give up.
I fought my way to the top.
I cleared my B.Tech. degree in Biotechnology,
Not only that degree, but my story continues,
Attained an M.Tech. in Animal Biotechnology.
I initiated a PhD in Animal Biotechnology,
However, I had to quit it due to COVID19,
I lost my opportunity due to the pandemic.
But she, out of her own regret,
Regretted about not being able,
To clear exams, me she insulted.
"People with disability achieve more."
I felt belittled, but she continued,
"They even crack UPSC-CSE."
I'm not disabled since birth.
No, I'm not, I'm not, I told her.
This disability I acquired in 2010.
I told her the same,
But she did not realise it.
How wrong she was.
How she had insulted me and my struggles,
I can't marry her,
The man I am today is after my struggles.
Though she loved my poetry,
The 'Angel?' Saga the most,
But she insulted my history.
She even compared my life against others.
As if she knows all the people like me,
My dreams shattered due to that accident.
No, she knows everyone not,
She doesn't know others who gave up.
Look at me; I didn't give up, but I'm victorious.
But she was not impressed.
She is rigid and argumentative.
Never going to apologise & accept.
I told her mother that I couldn't marry her.
Why? Because she doesn't know humility.
Obviously, she can never respect me either.
She wanted me to respect her.
She thought that only hers matters.
Because I live in the inferiority complex.
Sep 16, 2024
Sep 16, 2024 at 2:23 AM UTC