Gadiaseite ~ gad-EEE-ah-site ~ NOUN
Definition:
The great abyss of the empty page, a wishing well with churning waters so deep you can't see the bottom—only the shimmer of coins shine through, entwined with the efforts of past attempts—you can recover the wishes but only if you hold your breath and dive into the unknown waters.

Etymology:
Derived from the Latin word Gaida meaning waiting and the German word Seiten meaning pages.

I started writing poems years ago.
Someone said i even missed my calling,
which is kinda flattering but may also have meant i was pretty lame at my real job.
I get distracted by the Likes
Verse and vice,
Prose and price,
On the site.
Statistics and counting,
not lofty fodder for wit and imagination and love and bleeding.
But, I get distracted by the likes,
And I want them.
Natalie said they don't count twice.
Ooh, once I was even trending.  But I suspect that's a ploy to bait me.
Still, a time in the sun, even if just a coding device.
No real poet would find that proper.
Perhaps I'm just not a poet, or even poetic.
I suspect there's other evidence to indict me.
Please don't be too harsh, or worse, click away.
I want to write a verse that strikes a chord,
But I get stuck on just which ones to play.
Because I'm looking for the lightening bolt to turn yellow.
I have IRBD envy.  But not of verse but of what, or who follows.
For Likes.
I know thats lame and not what a real poet would do.
A poet of noble and lofty thoughts, of obtuse meaning and lyric wordsmithing.
With a cult-like following and others just trying to figure out what it means,
But they know the poets name, and that counts for something.
I'm impure and unworthy, or perhaps not talented
A poetic imposter, a fraud.
I've got the likes to prove that anyway,
If, that's what they prove.

I’m just a postmodern bush poet
Roaming and roving rusty roads
Writing, wordsmithing, amid yellow grass
Fondling the various ******* of Mother Nature
The hills and mountains, all her nooks and crannies
Looking at peeled potato sheeps
Dreaming about what great stews they would make
Listening to a bit of AC/DC
With no wuckin’ furries
Getting eyed by work dogs
With no sense of self-preservation
Telling me I’m going to die all the same
As those rotting roos lying in the dirt
Sodomised by cars just like mine
Their pink, esoteric entrails getting pecked out
By the crows I call my friends

wordsmithing virus lyric
twisting lines empirically
like British empire builders
treating native speakers
subhuman /
reading worn cliché
daily lamenting regurgitated
form and style
while smiling at the beguiling nature
of multisyllabic structure ~
it’s easy to forget (in a legalization nation)
that the idea of utilizing parentheticals
is really
just using parenthesis  ~
creating space between the artist


                     and
                           the
                                reader


is pretentiousness personified /

it is our job to play Ishmael
and take them with us
not leave them shore bound
watching the speck of sail
slip into the stratosphere ~

come with me
lend me your hand
more importantly your eyes
and an open mind ~

then we can journey
together /

Lost Words Found (Please Describe to Claim)

My delusions of familiarity
are inscribed in an ancient,
yet to be discovered manuscript. Hidden
in a cave called Longing Sinkhole,
they decompose slowly. Vessels,
which hold these scriptural beliefs,
now cracked. Archaic misty bleedings

pass, or cause to pass gently
through fine fissures of earth upwards,
filtering through natural elements, dispersing
themselves in ether of whole humanity’s
breath. Taking on likeness
of origins and ancestry, as they skip
from nostril to other’s lip

makes mankind indistinguishable.
Unidentifiable from one another and all,
as this essence of that wordsmithing
clarifies fallibility and its utter
beauty, I see myself. You become a déjà vu
of an existence known to me, innately
by tragedy’s reflection inherited

in your eyes and those words written
so long ago. The words of these ancient
one’s come to me and I am filled
with their compassion.
Believing time has taken
and jumbled much of every creature,
living, creeping thing, making it one.

Not swearing on my life, bad mojo, Hoodoo, strange Voodoo's
Not suggesting there are people twisting the thumbscrews
Pleasant people, pleasant thoughts, no unwilling Cards playing 3D checkers.  Did you know there are byrd's they call, woodpeckers?

That cursing curse taking hard-earned dollars out of my purse.
And what is worse...  finally carried off in a Hearse. I best marry a nurse, wait now, I did marry a nurse but she ditched that job.
Stressed-out she followed her heart and took education to work with preschoolers until the course took her off course

Teaching the children not so well, pushing ideas, propagandizing thin-privilege.  Children, it's okay to be that... that rhymes with you know what, it rhymes with fat. She left that stuff leaving her student debt and you can bet she'll pay in off in record time.

Cheap rugs all over the place, cheap rugs all over the place
Cheap rugs in time and space... I bought new sneakers, they're the type you lace. Two-faced discovered to me a disgrace only they too are part of he human-race, causing peoples to be displaced.

The Curse, it might be the first, probably not... praying the bad luck is the last. I want to leave this place, leave real fast. Move on through to that other side. Morrison had his faults leaving a lot in the vaults. Now he's free, the tub scene in the Morrison movie I don't buy, I could tell you why but that borders gossip and a lot of people would flip (out). Not 'fly'.

So, what's it all about, it's not the wordsmithing that I flout
Just me avoiding 'the' gout, getting sick, I'm having my doubt
I'll be taking another route, no matter how many people may pout
Reading tea leaves, drinking green tea, the cup holding posies, showing me I'm free, not only to survive, it's to 'I' am that I thrive

I want to be trending
Nothing gives me more delight
Than to know I am wanted
For my wordsmithing and insight
That I’ve moved enough viewers to be worthy of a click
Maybe even a like
When I’m trending I’m self-satisfied
It’s a high
Trending is tough
The competition fierce
From writers with taste
Making good sense
I try so hard to be worthy
Seeking perfection
Imagining smiles I may cause
Or a tearing eye
To trend is to live
To trend is to fly

Hello poetry,
Goodbye, stress.
Mental recovery,
Escape from the mess.

Hello poetry,
Goodbye, aggression.
Spiritual healing,
a calm decompression.

Hello poetry,
Goodbye, rage.
Fighting my demons,
Page by blissful page.

Hello poetry,
Goodbye, worry.
Weaving stanzas together,
In rhythmical fury.

Hello poetry,
Goodbye, confusion.
Where wordsmithing magic,
exists in profusion.