"umph" poems
I'm a lot gayer than originally planned.
******* Gay.
But I'm worried about the concept;
not sure if it's right to use the word
“gay”
when (I'm sorry I said it)
I'm really bisexual,
just particularly into women right now.
Like,
is that bad representation
of my sexuality?
Only encouraging
bi-erasure?
It just doesn't have the same
“umph”
to say
I'm feeling particularly
bisexual today.
But I've been telling myself
over and over
that it's okay,
no matter what
I'm feeling today.
I don't
need
your
box
anymore.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC
I can't remember ever wishing I had lighter skin.
I was always amazed by the way they glowed;
all of those beautiful black women.
I observed other women, and yes,
they were beautiful too. They just....
Didn't have that "umph" about them.
You know, the way beautiful black women do.
I have endless people to thank,
My mom being on top of that list.
"Mini-me, you're so beautiful,
and don't you ever forget this."
Society is constantly throwing shade,
highlighting no one but the "Arian race".
Leaving beautiful black women embarrassed
and too ashamed to even look into the face
of the next pretty girl, and most importantly herself.
Spending countless hours comparing,
and harping on the imperfections.
Too big, too small, not good enough.
Never pointing out the features that she loves.
Let me be the first to tell you
YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL. And
YOU ARE WORTH IT. And
in case you haven't heard,
YOU SET THE STANDARD.
Beautiful black queens, and
Black queens in the making, This is your world.
Everyone else is just living in it.
Love the skin you're in, because
truthfully, they'd love to be in it.
Rock your crown with confidence,
I see you shining from afar. And
if you don't love You,
Today is the perfect day to start.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
Cuba, where are your wings?
Have you lost your umph?
Coconuts, bananas and sugar cane,
all taken by the time you get there.
Where are the lines on the highway?
Simple lines which guide you.
An oxcart here, truck there, person in uniform, whoah.
Watch out, do not speak out,
do not look like you are full.
Confusion lurks in the dark.
The light is coming, it has to be coming, the matches are
in the next delivery, just wait...
wings and matches are coming.
Nov 25, 2009
Nov 25, 2009 at 8:57 AM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 12:55 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
twinkle wrinkles, seen close up
they are the tracks of wind driven tears on a sunburned face,
at the edges of the eye,
past
the per if ery of what perfidy* made you think you saw.
come see how come we saw too far and fell from grace to glory.
That is the story.
The good new on the old new built bottom up,
like Gobekli-Tepi.
--- horizons past the lusters after
wisdom's arcane quarry ---
we live,
we learn, we die to know why and we do
as soon as forever starts
it never stopped, hence, forever is what we agree it is.
This, now we remain in until we die, moments from now,
then, now
breathe
or don't
ultimately, whence comes the will to breathe?
go on, answer.
or ignor, innocence is no excuse, you know.
these quest ions all have positive and negative points,
anionics seek cationics,
OHOH, what if cathode rays never got past the atmosphere,
those are causing all the static-info-friction
Bad vibe waves corrupting the qualcommsplitfreqs,
left from millions of hours of I love Lucy and
Dobie Gillis. Mr. Kruschev, build a wall.
Show our boys their counterparts failing to escape,
crucified on barbed wire west of the Brandenburg Gate,
Bel's gate, arche de tri'umph, eh? Confusion won the war,
but war won't work here. NULL ified it, we did, into the NULL with all its lies each time
we catch one. As good as never was.
*Poet's Policy of acknowledging previous ignorances,
acts of ignoring
resulting, effectively, in wasted years
perfidy (n.) means since
1590s, from Middle French perfidie (16c.), from Latin perfidia
"faithlessness, falsehood, treachery,"
from perfidus"faithless,"
from phrase per fidem decipere
"to deceive through trustingness,"
from per "through"
(from PIE root *per- (1) "forward," hence "through") + fidem (nominative fides) "faith" (from PIE root *bheidh- "to trust, confide, persuade").
[C]ombinations of wickedness would overwhelm the world by the advantage which licentious principles afford, did not those who have long practiced perfidy grow faithless to each other. [Samuel Johnson, "Life of Waller"]
From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/perfidy#etymonline_v_12685>
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
When something bad
happens you have
choices, you can either
let it define you or
you can let it destroy
you or you can you
let it strengthen you
but know that stars
can't shine without
darkness,so if at first
you don't succeed,
destroy all evidence
that you tried and
cleanse your mind of
anxieties and
broodings and forgive
yourself for your
transgressions and see
the beauty that surrounds
you and listen to all of
the joyous sounds of
your world and always
be aware of the marvels
in your life now and not
when you are in the
depths of despair.
Dance like no one is
watching,
Love like you've
never been hurt,
Sing like no one's
listening
Live like heaven is
on earth and be kind,
for everyone you meet
is fighting a hard battle
and every day may not
be good but there is
something good in every
day.
Jon York 2016
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 10:32 AM UTC
Sitting at a bar, beautiful girl in front of me.
Im a no body not even a regular, I chat her up anyway with no confidence....
Boy friend, should have guessed, oh well talk to her anyway, make a name for myself.
Guys walk in at the end of the bar, slowly take her away from me.
I walk away with shame, what was I hoping for?
No good for anyone anyway, too beautiful for me.
With a soft smile and a black hat, as I walk away I look over my shoulder to something that could have been.
Too late, not enough umph..
Tomorrow's another day, another let down.
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 1:51 AM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC
And at them
She can't get up.
***** *****
She won't get down.
Around this town
She gots no secrets
Not inease
Of her own.
Thin call parties hurt now
sewn nun invited
no shuns deal lichen
Hair and herself
Being all lone.
Head side treading
threads She splits
fine item eyed
crates to diskew
Full freight Fair
rebate sans wits
In dings she sings
Small of a sudden
Leaped wings to retch
doubt stunned her
Reach doubt to
fund her joy
none derive all
ease she Collars
treat all green eights
Whimbling out loud
Uncle Ere...
All gut the Inks
mussed come
to an in she thinks
Or else
tries Umph in gals.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
I remember looking at a bewildering little flower.
Just off the sidewalk it gently danced in the breeze.
I stood totally engrossed in this strange little being.
God wanted me to see this, to bask in its bewitching allure.
I watched it for a few more minutes in serenity.
As I readied to leave, I look to make sure no one could see.
I kicked the flower from its home,
I watched as it danced one last melancholic tune.
Fluttering to the earth it truly looked as if it were dying.
It landed with a plump sort of umph.
I felt a tear trickled out and make its way down.
I stared at the corpse of the dancing plant.
The words that came out of my mouth were selfish.
"You touched my soul, If I let you touch another I'd die.
I ended you so those moments would be fleeting and mean so much more. "
After I said her eulogy I walked away,
Tears were shed but I never looked back.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 5:34 AM UTC
This is just another love poem set to rhyme
Really no need to waste your time
Whether it's love you lose or love you find
It's just another love poem so nevermind
Just another love poem in your hand
Low on ideas, still high in demand
Been here for years yet to be banned
Another one of those poems way out of hand
Just another love poem tossed in the breeze
With just enough umph to fill a few needs
One or two I love you's with a few you love me's
Just another love poem brought on the scene
Just another love poem to come cross the wire
Just another love poem pulled from the mire
Just another love poem to jump into the fire
Just another love poem in dire need of retire
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
magic in,
throughout the spell
w-trapped ‘round
the beating stick,
ay-ya,
blending with the blurred corners,
in with the mix of mixed-up-shit business,
“who said they gone fight for freedom?”,
out in the courtyard,
out on the yard,
they fight with the message underneath,
in-betwixt reality and fatality,
alongside
all those poison berries
all those violated thoughts by the projector,
protector,
on who’s turf?
“Not mine, not mine” said the machine,
said the auto-plane, touch, voice screen,
said the custom fit sack of ********
again,
watered down source
of noise,
but in these foggy places
I see no evil,
feel nor fear
the throbbing ‘umph
with my achilles in it’s mouth,
in this purple-green-dripping pink
glare,
glaze
of ‘the level above’
all the consciousness
before -
I remember one thing,
my love for you
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 10:52 PM UTC
I mean look at those lips!
Trying to figure out how I made it this far and what gave me the strength to resist
I'm talking to myself on how to go about doing this
Anxious and nervous excited and doubtful all at the same time
Like what if her mind isn't aligned with mine and she's thinking just because I took her out for a little dine that doesn't mean I get to taste her wine
What is on that pretty mind of yours?
Is it me you are thinking about or what you have to do when you get home like a few chores?
I feel like a freshman at a college where I know no one and I am constantly having the fear of rejection
I just want to fit in
My lips against hers
I don't know if she notices that I'm having a staring contest with her lips
She is about to get on the train maybe I can sneak one then hit the dips
I did it ! wait I did it?
I went in for the finish and baby girl was with it? She was with it !
& I know she liked it the way she put a little umph in it
Now it keeps playing in my head
She wanted more than just a peck from Peck she wanted the whole beak instead
Judging by that new sparkle in her eyes she ventured home very satisfied
Thinking back I should have did it sooner but I was in no rush even though I felt like a loser
Actually through all my debating I'm glad that I waited because that promoted the fight between being patient and being overly anxious
It was the perfect time
When her lips touched mine she must have kissed my mind too because my thoughts are causing me to want her here and for the both of our lips to be near ...
Once again
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 9:42 PM UTC
-----------
In a lego world, anything is lego possible,
even hair on lego heads blowing off, and
being mistaken for an acorn cap,
then I think of dolls with acorn heads and
smile, at the multiplicity of ways to imagine
models of reality where whatiferies are tried,
judgment day in the old village of the ancestors,
eh, right, who we danced for, when we was kids.
We learned the way, not the why, time is too tight.
So we rebelled
at the fascist way, busted loose, ax me
do we worry, non
sensed
not since I can't remember when…
fret not, said the child who believed, because
he was told, God's got everything under control.
Jesus winked, and said winds do as they please,
within the atmosphere we breathe and be in.
Winds free wills fix artistry as trying art, umph
at tension, wills filled with mistaken angst, un let
go. Loosen wills to flow down hill, imagine canals
that drained the marshlands all fill up in disuse,
and the world's slow cycle of balance originally
intended when mankind became science wise,
appears to
hold the pattern, see the design,
find a pattern,
say truth showed you,
so the old man say go see,
rethink realization in your imagination, pattern
re-co-knowing mindform made on recognition,
all dressed up. No place to go.
Aug 8, 2024
Aug 8, 2024 at 2:31 PM UTC
None but he who calls me, me,
thinks of me
as doer of
the deeds we see were done, or
must have been done,
ere I was error there of, as
beauties, if such do yet make
plans for chances I can take
as hope, sent deep to meet me,
as has been done, hoped over
plans, in me, object I point
at you. See, we are they who do
say you see the banner wave,
o'er the legendary home, aye,
of free and brave, learn-
ed and led by the learned away,
to find the me who started
thinking things we say are prayer,
this, nada mas, this we have
as we think, we have, this we,
I, me and you. Please be real. Amen.
The out of body designation,
after life, after ever once begun,
rounds the bend in time to find you.
That is mine, you said to he-
he who calls me, me, he may be
too dense to pass through, solid state.
Activated Intelligence,
see the odds, gads, scads of
notta chances remain to test,
may good enough to try, get by,
as among the best, for umph,
at the last wish in any set of three
kinds of minds full of found
ways this could occur or happen
to seem felt right, enough for now.
- the binge, a novel passtime,
- focus, intent, on hero stories fit
- slicker than snot to viral ideas…
We sneeze, sometimes in threes,
all the breathers who think in me terms,
studies show we mostly sneeze in threes;
------------------------
we get vaccines in threes, and we live on
Between April 26 and July 10, 1954,
volunteers distributed Salk's series of three polio shots….
From <https://www.google.com/search?q=first+polio+vaccine+roll+out&oq=first+polio+vaccine+roll+out&aqs=chrome..69i57j33i22i29i30.9668j1j15&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8>
Dec 20, 2021
Dec 20, 2021 at 1:35 PM UTC
Gates imagined in times
past
open here and we pause
is this the life well spent,
or the life un-examined?
Are we Faustian Fellows or mere mortals
dreaming
rockstar vibes on the boulevard
select/apply
brakes. (witness, we saw it coming)
What good can come from this?
Is
here some secret place?
What keeps its secret here?
he emerges rather as a master syncretist of widely divergent materials and as a devout theopantist
From <https://muse.jhu.edu/book/37533>
Artistic Intelligen-seers build cumputorionic
putahs
for the pew-trade-ification
easy as pi t' lie about knowing
as goatphorgoneconclusions, leading
sheepish men astray
afar from the madding crowd
screaming out loud
for christ's sake (really. What's that mean?)
Christmas is christ's cause, I would think,
given proper cause determining algorythms at some time after my
toddling twos expecting, child-like
survivability
equivalent -- equal in balance factor
twixt why and how and try and
umph
needed on the uphill side of every vibe.
Has Christ mass more meaning than
anointed (oiled-to shine-or-burn, per hap)
message/medium,
a class of good
news, a whole bunch of new good
ideas for things,
witty inventions with the best of intentions,
Christmas Time!
Peace,
on earth, good will to
ward men,
the idea of god as truth life and the path to next; and man, wombed and un, recon-
conciliated, with no con-sessions to bogus-science but to learn
to use the food we eat. learn
to chew our mushrooms with a touch of lemon,
lemon tree, so pretty but impossible to eat,
Ah, why,
ya jus'asker what she knows,
she's sure to show you
wisdom wisps, entangled in your hair…
take a taste,
now, hear this, peace, I give, I loose
as
oil on the water, but with the best imaginable
outcome
not good as men measure;
good as you measure good,
good ideas you make do
good, sometime
thereafter your arrival as the hero in your story.
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 4:52 PM UTC
Try this, it's {like}kid baseball, no grownups,
and only mental no hardware,
eyes glazed, as we accept
- we saw him, baseballman,
- corner of Santa Monica and Western
he played this same game
but we are
all grown ups, for the session, and we
volunteered, but we
do not
at the moment recall, reconnect, reconcile
one
mind, o
, my god. wjatdewdotame? tamed me?
blamed me? shamed me, got'amyou,
made me
the father of others who know I never knew,
but they knew, why
her and all her kids knew, eden was mine,
the I traded that
for her,
without ever
really, with out, out most ever, knowing
why I never noticed, she knew just
what to do, and I never learned,
wham- thankyewma'm
why did the guy never know, really war is wrong,
and she knew, yet she set herself as prize.
Who knew,
they all knew, able proved n'able was a name
for those who found it funny to hurt with fire
and smoke and savory fatted beast feast fired
desires to know, more, moremore, barren womb
more rave ravening black wings now mean
mean and I mean it, I win or I die, I try
umph.
and a more is a matter of opinion,
some times,
it feels staged, inserted for drama, as if drama,
is a god, or a guardian spirit,
per haps
may haps, we creak, and stretch our spine n mine
pops, gas, escapes, internal pressure adjusts,
a sigh,
you may be reading
for pleasure, less likely you came this far for
the upaginthewall-weall-alley ****** at the core,
as you think, mmhm
in your heart you are,
re-
swing low, sweet chariot, I got no place to go.
And this ain't hell.
And I oughta know.
So, merry message
of the annual effort
to enjoy
on purpose
conciliation apprizals as to
what counts
gift or thought behind it?
Dec 24, 2021
Dec 24, 2021 at 7:08 PM UTC
Today crawled like a spider on a web with
thin, pointed legs like needles
in my skin, administered by a bad acupuncturist.
I find myself continually
continuing on an unmarked road
with headphones on my ears buzzing to the noise
of soft tin and electrical Umph and Ah; messin
with the thin little hairs on my scratchy head.
Today, I see the world spinning, replacing that
familiar light blue above me, a panorama of all
that I don’t reach out for, that I tell myself has
been stripped out of arm’s reach.
I sit by the tall tree and mope again and again,
hoping someone will pass by. Maybe I wish
someone would join me in this lonely forest,
more than I wish
I could leave.
Today, I end a poem like my eyelids,
with forceful and unconditional determination
and I wonder how heavy they will be when I rise
the next morning, weighed down by the force
of pain that has emerged, anthropomorphized,
from the depths of my body, my mind, my soul.
Weakness scares me more than death, because
it consumes me like a chill running through my bones
and suddenly I lose that all powerful
separation between you
and me.
Today, that separation sits as a knife in my chest.
Today, is not much different than many days.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 9:24 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
aware of some
things, aware
HERE am I
there you are
near and far and nothing
in between, why
should I care, beware…
It's me,
in this world, it's me,
making up my mind, to live on,
to live on
to leave behind me, for you -
a way to go,
if you really wish to follow, if
you truly hold the hope of ever
being better than right
now,
now. Right, not wrong, right now.
You know.
You think you know, right now,
with no miracles, no little things
to see, with no joy felt shared,
with no sorrow shown in tears,
with no feet a dancin'
up on tippy toes, just a spinnin'
in time,
like a planet or a star, loopin' life
in time,
from somewhere inside, center
of heavy
of hard
of dark and cold… dark and cold…
singer… singer singing wordlessly,
la las and mmmhmmms, so so so
lighten up,
lighten up my will to be worthy,
lighten up my will to be care free,
lighten up my will to be loved, by
strangers who imagine I have
loosed some good in some shape,
loosed some good held out of sight,
strange as not cognized, coknown,
to me and you, the other end of these
lines left to prove, a second
thought… if you make joy, peace remains
enjoyable,
no mass converts to energy,
my taken peace, my inspiration never
expires, each time I miss, I miss nothing
I hit
on another decision
to make.
I laugh, and let out long rambles, through
brambles familiar
to creatures built low
to the ground
at the human
being being being more than…
Partaker of the programming.
Snipping
Re-ligamental knots, religious at-here-
ence sense so common to all here,
re-
filtered feeling manufactured, here
in living words translatable, peaceable,
easy
to use while defusing the confusion,
and allowing angelic angst ambitious umph,
committed, chance fret naught,
take the shot, think thirty aught six, BANG
Big,
nothing like the game, recoil
that's what's missing… recoil,
kick,
to remind you what Newton knew.
Not Issac, Fred Newton, from Weedpatch, Ca,
a few miles this side of Bakersfield…
He, comes up around Thanksgiving,
in the spirit now, since he's dead,
he looks at me and grins, so big.
For me to live, that turkey must die.
old fisher of men, he knew, he'd say
a man's remembered, for the shot,
no turkey ever is,
that's something
to be thankful for.
Nov 19, 2024
Nov 19, 2024 at 2:43 PM UTC