"tidbits" poems
bathed in the cool light of the moon,
my sweet puppyhead and me,
sit.
under the full soft light,
her ray’s illuminating the yard,
the woods.
footsteps crunch drying leaves,
fox, deer or foe?
waning canopy,
boughs lighter each day.
fall, majestic, peaceful
dying for another year.
plants and creatures,
taking refuge in the deep dark void
of mother earth,
of mother nature.
squirreling away tidbits for a late winter snack,
coats blooming, thickening.
such delight,
each night,
sitting outside,
my puppyhead and me.
quiet and solitary,
no humans
annoying me.
silent and still
only nocturnal creatures
meandering about.
what magic,
what sacredness.
what mystical delight.
never apart,
only the ONE.
such silly confusion,
thinking a person,
separate and small,
quaking with fear.
the big deep dark mystery
laughing and jovial,
always here,
here for us all.
open your eyes,
feel your nature,
always here,
never apart.
fearing death
fearing life,
what a silly way to live this
life!
the moment you were born,
you began dying,
what a relief,
knowing the score!
relaxing into the madness,
laughing at it all,
pure and free,
forever more,
and not……
being,
not being,
eons of reflection,
sages and rishis
revealing the truth,
it can’t be done for you,
only you can become
that which you are….
that which you always were.
my sweet love, my sweet life,
my puppyhead and me,
sitting here in Fall.
~~~
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 6:32 PM UTC
Why in Baste Eyes my Form checks expect
Yet cast my Security for his Expense
Which, I suppose, that Report I prefect
Was a File un-welcomed for my Good Sense
Though, I assure, was all to contribute
For his Sweets added to his Nationed Chest
That, to chillax, take Tidbits absolute
And brisk the New Day for his Talent's Best
Now this, resolved to wax Slime and Conflict
Thus put my Loyalty to Terms reset
More fruitful, more pruned, from Pride's Tome inflict
Then this Orrery - strike Rocks to Sky's bet.
In turn perhaps recover from this Fling
On Muted Clouds do those Falcons still Sing.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
How shall I discover, uncover, and re+cover you?
the goal?
to make you mine, a follower. a fan, an intimate, a lover of'
each others (words?)
My options?
offered thee three to me!
A~Z,
or
your successes by
Popularity!
then of course,
read each crafted in order
of appearance,
but even that,
can be forward and back,
latest to last~est,
oldest to the knowing~est?
value your insightsfuls,
oh! on how to get best
into your insides but through
your
insights...
do I detect a tiny tremble,
in your finger writing tips?
random < in no particular order order> helter skelter?
you mean, be keen, like falling in loving,
discovering, the nuances,
old and new, prior and au courant,
just jump in, and let the au current
take me//
mmm
do admit, like a bit,
being big fandom of random,
which feels a tad like falling in love...
when the little surprises,
come best unexpectedly
tonight,
I will stuff myself with carbohydrates of additional sugar,
me love me sweets,
love me my bittersweet chocolate of triste,
which in english, has multiple levels of
most interesting con-
notations....
so down the hole,
who knows what will be
discovered
unveiled,
recovered,
hidden weaknesses,
historic strengths,
you asked...
and I shall be
the uncoverer
of the little tidbits,
that satisfy so much more
than just poetic simplistic curiosity
it is no wonder to me
that prolific and profile,
are rooted from the same
rivered source...
until later, then
sad eyed lady of the lowland (see note)
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 5:08 PM UTC
There are metallic, life-like statues of human figures scattered through my city, often on park benches. You must look twice the first time you spot them, and sometimes, each time, as they are so nat-ural, that they fool the retina image of man.
The traffic light,
red to green,
yet my limbs,
froze fruit solid,
release catch stuck,
unflippable,
somehow plastic freezes,
mobility skills rusted
by December's hampering
cheeky cheeks,
a seasonal reddish copper
discoloration of the extremities,
a harmony of no sensation
A comet stuck in
pedestrian neutral,
collided/jostled by
starry eyed
Fifth Avenue
street walkers and tourists.
my presence sensed,
touched, yet avoided,
unnoticed,
like streetlight,
lamppost, mailbox,
I am, a body,
at rest,
unseen
but on display
in the art gallery of
Manhattan's Lost and Found
In the section of the paper
where the
unimportant local news is
sliced n' diced
into single paragraphs,
of human interest,
tidbits, amuse bouche,
items of
major minor interest,
The New York Times
reported the discovery of an
unauthorized lifelike
bronze n' copper sculpture.
eyes of polished nickel,
heart of stained steel,
rendition of a man
so lifelike y'all do a
triple take, smile,
take a cell photo,
phone a friend
his embodiment can be found
on the rounded corner of
Columbus Circle, @59th St.,
where you enter Central Park.
upon a bench,
man clutching Sunday newspapers,
a pair of scissors,
coupons cut,
scattered at his feet.
a homely but comely,
****** expression,
one of bewilderment.
A tiny plaque on a brass plate,
at his feet,
hints of his progenitor and human origins.
Artist: Unknown,
Materials: Organic Metals
Title: A Living Finish
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
Ol’ Long and Tall sits
uncomfortably in the
seat next to mine.
It is obvious that his
back is bothering him
this morning.
‘Hey, dad…”
This is how it always starts.
Anytime he wants to talk,
he opens with this salvo.
I think it’s like using a turn signal
when changing lanes or something,
and who really knows what lane my boy
is in as he hurtles down his own highway?
It’s not that I don’t know him,
or care what’s on his mind, not
at all.
We’re both thinkers,
Alex and I, it’s just that
he gets a little bit tangled up
now and then, and just goes blank,
but never dull.
I think “Hey, dad…” offers a bit of a reset;
just a moment’s pause for organization,
such as it is in Alex’s case.
“Hey dad…” he starts.
“Did you know…?”
He goes on to tell me
some facts, which I forget
now,
about Hawaii.
Soon, that folder is empty
so he begins telling me tidbits
about the migratory process
of monarch butterflies.
“Where did you learn this stuff?”
I ask.
“At school.”
“On the internet.”
he states.
“Good.”
“That’s good.”
I assure him.
“There’s more to the internet
than You Tube and Minecraft;
and you found it. I’m glad”
“Yup.” he says and grins his squinty grin
at me.
I nod and keep driving,
it is a school day and we’re on
the highway.
No radio this morning,
just talk.
I wait.
5 seconds
10 seconds
15 seconds
“Hey dad…”
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 12:56 PM UTC
It's apples and oranges. They are both fruit, and variety is the salt of the earth. We love dividing people like fruit though. We are rotten. At least fruit ferments. We decay
You are the apple of my eye. I will watch you rot, then i will throw the core away. What do I need seeds for? A bad apple in my eye now. *******
Orange you gonna hit like? I accept good apples too.
Oct 12, 2021
Oct 12, 2021 at 1:24 PM UTC
You smile at me
Across the way
I can see your eyes
Twinkling
And I feel a vague
“something” deep inside.
*Ignore it. Keep it out.
Don’t let it get a hold of you.
Don’t let HIM get a hold of you.*
You introduce yourself
Tell me your name
Little tidbits of information
That I take up and put away
A magpie hoarding shiny bits of you.
That “something” is taking shape.
*Stop it.
You already know how it’s going to end.
You’ve been through this before.*
Days go by.
Your eyes, your voice
Pass through my head
More than I care to admit.
For once, excitement gleams in the air,
Because I might see you again.
*It’s not too late.
You know what’s right.
You know what’s best for you.*
Maybe I do but
It all falls away
Once I see your face.
I can’t help it
Your smile, your voice
Has overtaken my mind
I can only try to hide
The jolt in my chest
The smile in my heart
That happens whenever you walk in.
Too late.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
"And when your fourth love leaves you. You will want to **** yourself, but you won't Because you no longer think of suicide as a house you will build one day" ~ Future Tense by Neil Hilborn.
I keep hoping
That if I keep writing enough about you
About us
What happened and what you did
It'll be written out of the existence of my conscious
That the memories will melt away
As if they were frost coated blades of grass
In a lukewarm spring morning
I care you know
About if you're happy now
Maybe
I keep hoping that if I bleed enough ink
Everything will finally stop
And fall
And reorder itself
That the past five years
Will fade out
Through the tip of this pen
The insecurities will be gone
The trauma will be gone
The memories will be gone
You'll be gone
For good
Never existing
A total and complete stranger
Because who you are now
Isn't who I first met
But that's life right?
People changed
I changed
And it hurt like hell
But after that
Everything melded
Faded together
The sun and moon
Will no longer fight for supremacy behind my closed eyelids
Sadness will finally move out of happiness's home
The unwanted roommate
Never paying their rent
Leaving behind tidbits of loneliness
That would always cover
Your vortex infused days of sun
Cozy winter mornings have reappeared
Snuggled in a blanket
Snow caressing my window sill
A gust turned into
An extinct lovers laugh
Because my days are brighter
My pen is lighter
And the ink that I've bled
Over the past five years
Has finally been staunched
From the incisions
On my ugly blue battered
Gun powder heart.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 1:48 AM UTC
only I know
when I email you
tidbits of life,
that I need only
address you as b,
for in a nano second,
my tablet will acknowledge
that I am writing in secret code to mine own
beloved
~~~
7:05 am
NYC
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
Perches on my window
My mustached friend bulbul,
Finds me shaving,
A stray bird and I call it a miracle,
It pecks from my hand tidbits of food
Not scared at all
Looks deep into my eyes
And plants there a sunrise,
Asks the bird, ‘why do you shave,
And not save your beard
For the time it would fit your sunken face
When it would tell
There aren’t any of us around,
No miracle of waking up each morn
With our sounds’!
It knows miracles are drying up.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC
If trust is so sacred to you
why are you so stingy with it?
Why, I wonder can you not
forgive and move on
and allow the future
to unfold as it is meant to unfold
instead of constantly searching
for reasons to chase the past?
If trust is so sacred to you
then why will you not give it freely
and allow it to shine forth
and become a real part
of who you are
instead of placing it
crumb by crumb?
If trust is so sacred to you
then why not give truly from your heart
and let all who know you feel and see
that you carry such beauty
inside of you
instead of wearing that hateful fear
that eats you up inside?
Trust.
You say you want to trust me,
yet you refuse to really try.
Always searching for tidbits
to prove that you cannot have
peace of mind--
yet too, you are always, always
looking behind--
If trust is so sacred--
then allow the future to unfold
without strings knotted up
from the past.
No one can trust when they refuse
to look forward
rather than looking back...
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
Now I'm in the turnips and string beans of poetry:
It's like, you think you'll grow up some day
And live in a two story house with swimming pool,
And a two car garage, with a six pack driveway.
Things turn out differently, though you might think
You'd spend whole days devouring Dickinson, Keats, and Shelley,
Drinking fine wines with tidbits of exotic cheese.
Then you find out you'll live in a one car rented garage apartment,
Over a couple always yelling or making love-
There's no in-between; and you never know which it'll be
And if you're mistaken for the significant other you might get
Bopped with a lady's spiked heel or an army boot.
Then you find out that you're the couple
But you're always too busy to make love;
Love is no longer scheduled like bowling night,
It all depends on uncluttered horizontal surfaces and spare minutes-
And the wine turns into beer, when you can afford it
And the nightly budget pizza is the only dough you'll get
It's constipating; but the words still get squeezed out.
And the poets you're reading now aren't dead:
They're urbanely unkempt, and you know them personally,
All their quirky habits; writing poems at bus stops
In a voluble rush; writing words on cafe napkins,
On discarded want ads and torn paper sacks;
And none of them are well known, and none of them are rich.
But they're poets all the same, they live and breathe
The written word, and you're no different, certainly no better,
All of you shooting up words and slang nightly,
Weighing out the soul of the latest idiom,
Choking on cheap cigar smoke and wishing you'd written that,
And thinking you could have done it worse-
And suddenly some night, you look around you
You realize you're living poetry, and you don't care anymore
About rich and famous- because now it's your addiction;
None of that mattered anyway, for only poetry holds any reality now.
Everything else is imaginary, and all the poets started out this way;
Nobody knew them or gave a rat's ***
And they went on writing just the same
As if it were the most important job on earth they'd been given.
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 2:02 PM UTC
it's the little things
that please me
color coded my earbuds
so I know my right from my left
in the pitch black.
it's the little things
that please me,
and the big things
that defeat me.
I'm rich in itty-bittys
**There are no definitions available for itty-bittys.
Did you mean:
itsy-bitsy titbits itty-bitty-butts?**
yeah,
all three, thanks for doing the writing for me.
some-a-day,
gonna get me a big big closet,
a whole closet room,
to store my itty bittys teeny weeny
tidbits riches.
if I make it to
some-a-day,
just can't find it on my calendar,
but every morning
I wake to big things
wishing me cruelly
have-a-nice-day.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
I am no gardener, but I do know this:
Perennials and orchards need the kiss
Of an early frost, a freezing deep,
To hold them whole through winter’s keep
A bloom in false spring, (winter’s hollow),
Before the heavy snows that follow,
Will have the cell walls bursting, cracking,
Freezing, thawing, expanding, contracting.
So too, must dreams lay dormant still,
Or else becoming Winterkill.
Much as I wish them to bloom, bloom now,
They must lay under the mulch and bough.
I tell myself, “Learn what you can from the season”
Patience, Myopia, Acceptance sans reason -
You are stuck in the wheel, right here and right now,
Hearing naught in the dark, muffled underground.
Yet I am no seedling! I am no tree!
Though my flesh warms and cools just as easily.
So why should I wait? Why be pinned by the cold?
Do I have a choice in the story that’s told?
Could I be a cold crocodile, nose above ice,
Or hibernate warm with the marmots and mice?
Why not come in from the outside to thaw,
And savor small tidbits of hope in my maw?
Could I choose to fly south, or to stay evergreen?
Must I really wait for the melt to be seen?
I wonder, though I’m sure from what seed I have come,
Is it winter that dictates what I will become?
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 10:57 PM UTC
Bill the bard was talking to me to-day
Our chat did center on sonnet writing
He said I should pen something exciting
So a poem of that ilk I'll now display
A new talent was unearthed last night
On the seven television station
She received a rousing ovation
Her future in entertainment looks bright
A recording contract is on the books
She'll be a singer who'll have many smash hits
Her excellent voice can reach high notes
As well as that she has the most classy looks
Bill and I shall enjoy many newsy tidbits
Telling of her career anecdotes
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
What memories am I allowed to keep?
When will I dream again in my sleep?
Secretly, effortlessly, evermore,
More and more seem to slip through my pores.
Forget is a monster who waits in dark,
Snatching up tidbits without remark.
Harmless at first, but it is bound to grow,
Until I'm unsure of what I know.
I can not remember the words to speak,
Sentences shiver, wimper and creak.
Have I not seen you sometime, once before?
Lately, it seems,
I can't be sure.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
If light is the fastest thing in the universe,
why is darkness already there when light arrives?
After watching Harry and Megan Sussex grub for ever more cash and attention, I’ve decided that they should start a OnlyFans site.
We’re going to a booze-free dance party.
“You don’t have to drink to have fun.” I assure myself, in the bathroom mirror, but somehow the event sounds like a high school dance.
I’ve been reading the Internet - was it really a giant squid that sank the Titanic?
...
Panpsychism Is a scientific theory postulating that consciousness is part of the fabric of the Universe.
On the theological level, why would God (or nature) create the bitter taste of espresso and vivid, azure skies slashed with rainbow sunsets if stimulating consciousness weren’t important?
“Colors, tastes and smells are no more than names,” Galileo declared 400 years ago. “(as perceptions) they reside only in consciousness.”
Does life exist, as sensors, to experience stimuli for the galactic consciousness?
Oct 9, 2023
Oct 9, 2023 at 10:26 PM UTC
smoking *** turns you into the walking dead,
which i've been watching all day because i smoked ***
- not a bad show, really -
where's the girl at? where's the nice shot of whiskey?
haven't checked
these poems aren't even good, just some ****** little tidbits
i blurt out
when i have nothing else to do or no one to talk to
but,
actually,
now,
i'm gonna watch a movie or something
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 2:52 AM UTC
The mirrors whisper secrets
Little tidbits of advice
Reflections of a washed up zealot
Being optimistic to pull me from this ever-clenching vice
Torn, tattered, broken, battered
Claimed exaggeration from these hushed murmurs
Self destruction evident, nothing really matters
Tugging on my mind; the zealot’s cheery sermons
“Happiness is key
And the key is universal...”
But no one ever thinks to be
Something ultimately omniversal
A tool to be used constantly for general amusement
A tool to be ignored when no longer needed
A tool to be picked for sadistic abusement
A tool to be deluded, guilted, always twisting to the greeded
And like the calm before the inevitable storm
The tool dances to the tunes the varied user creates
Suicidal pursuit nightly, heart never warmed or warned
Staring back at the zealot is me; whispering dogmatic secrets of self-hatred.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 6:35 AM UTC
They say that wisdom comes with age
that knowledge slowly worms it's way into your mind
that each day brings forth new ideas, new connections, new moments
that molds your not fully developed brain into a somewhat more stable shape.
I have moved another year forward
now have 22 years under my belt.
22 years of jam packing tidbits and statistics
from places I've never been,
and yet that aged wisdom still escapes me.
I feel as though I have Benjamin Buttoned myself
to a time before I ever existed,
an empty chasm of isolation where asking a question
feels even more difficult than finding an answer.
These pieces of myself are falling away
as easily as my baby teeth fell from my mouth
that metalic taste faded like the edges of a picture
labeled summer '03.
My eyes are crinkled,
lines mark my cheeks whenever I smile,
and my mind is fogged with the things I feel
I don't know.
Aug 26, 2021
Aug 26, 2021 at 11:09 PM UTC
left, sinistral, left sided, left out,
left behind,
gastropod sea shells,
coiling counterclockwise,
when viewed from the apex
when that all alone,
left-out feeling pervades,
to the party uninvited,
for the team, unchosen,
stand out for not standing in,
invisible moat surrounds and suppresses,
life's outward bound sounds,
vision best,
when only looking inward,
remember this too well..
this world, this work,
was created by an
ambidextrous soulbeing
his soul,
favoring neither right or left,
favoring doing right,
and no one
left behind
cognizant that both sides now
are necessaries
for human and seashell existence
proof be that
the creator,
his perfection, at the very least,
in his design motifs,
unquestioned,
made us all
sinistral shells
and sinistral poets
those apex corkscrewing left poets,
the leaven of human fermentation,
you and your sinistral tidbits
are the influencing spice
of an average world,
keeping the world tilting
on its proper axis
make us and
our daily bread rise,
sinistral yeast,
vive la difference,
you are
the best of us
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 2:08 PM UTC