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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
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༺♡༻ It’s full on now ~ woke and slimy-scaly. You had to… Solicitors Get Off My Lawn (or I’ll hose you down!  Platitudes and false flattery don’t put their hands down these pants. So, you were collecting for who, now?  Over 20-thousand times unseen. (Who’s fake?) It’s still a beautiful thing, with pipes that I sing (while I’m the Angelou bird) My family will have instructions to unhide post mortem. Post Morten, Apple? It’s all around. ————————————————————————- I’ve deleted five times more than what’s seen now. Less to view in future. Mind-boggling the words I’ve produced with low vision. Conditions I live with, the strength it takes to hold it all in, as I’m redacted by cowards in society…no that’s it. I eat more than words, self-repair. How much of it got on you? — your monster? If you prick a caged animal and it doesn’t have to be put down for savoring your flesh, does it not…what? I’m a fool, if I’m played by fools. And, you are…? But, you…know as much of me as you want. What more can I offer you today? I have leftover dignity and steely resolve, reproducing daily. Reason I came here in 2006, before all butterfly fancy and aimless balloon chasings. Thanks. It went…that way… T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ You get hungry as a seldom published author/poet/lyricist, so quit pedaling words and just enjoy the writing process. The bullshit ‘process’ of submitting is submission. We had a season, and people better not forget when it’s done. This is hard work and dedication (in the zone nightly) from one who is PRIME for next season: In sports, there’s absolutely no back down when it comes to the greats/greatest. Recognize… End of these days near…ing… --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My  goes through — R S = 2 G M c 2  ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~   ————————- .How I see myself create…in the zone Curry Flurry: ▼ Writing ▼ The beautiful mess made: I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. - me Neurodivergent poet ▼ Best Poetry Collection ▼ Been more than I could imagine or expect here. Why Mail It In? In Latin ▼ Pluggers: You are an icon here.  You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer.  And other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "Rolling Through Intersections"  Your poetic muse is on fire!  Some great emotion, well-balance(d), lovely lyrical qualities -- even the ones that were written out of sadness or anger came through in a clever cadence…It's obvious you've put a lot of work into each entry and the totality of the blog has eye appeal.  Published four times with one a literary journal, including…  "The Tender Core (Sedona)"  I don’t submit—too much work with ADHD, OCD, low vision in condensate in mental prison of failing memory. I’ve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Cynicism bred, work hard at openness and consideration. ![Merit Badge in Taboo Words
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Brian,
Congratulations! You won 1st Place in Taboo Words with your fantastic poem, [Link to Book Entry #1027659].
I absolutely loved this! *^*Heart*^*
Rachel](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Taboo_Words-2139481_13.gif) ![Merit Badge in Poetry
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Thanks you for supporting the [Link To Item #power] with an order to the [Link To Item #powergifts] ! We appreciate it. *^*Heartv*^* Keep writing the beautiful poetry. [Link to Book Entry #1027659] is an awesome poem! *^*Starv*^* ~Lornda](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/type-Poetry-2180.gif)  I'm Godzilla ▼ August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼
No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼  Now: I was such a whore.   What Was NEW Who am I, you ask? My mirror knows that question, repeated daily. Just trying to create a little buzz, not boost my ego ▼ #amwriting #poetry #blog #contest #freeverse #award #bestpoetry #lyrics #music #video #YouTube #awardwinning Can you believe it took this long for someone to put a quarter in me and push the button GET ANGRY? Mud 4 My Eye:  Is that you, Poo? 💩 Secret Back Door ▼ |
| What about an old fashioned revival? Will it last longer than an hour? Will they buzz about the performance On their way to SUVs, seats heated, ac cooled? Instead, do we race down the highway Fast as we can like kids, break a hundred Fear the red and blue breathin’ down And pull into the old gas station, same owner? But, for how long, live like we’re living Without denying true desire as destiny What we were taught to dream in rhyme, Learned to clap in pews, sing like thunder? Harmony hides, unshared in good hearts. What good are they if we don’t celebrate? Lay that gospel down, sweat and unbutton But never quit, because if we do, we forget. Something more disturbing out there Breaking up the old team, the breed of new — Challenges to know what’s real and untrue Until I reach out out, touch that heart true. We got fire burning inside, but hearts cooled, Always better things to do. Don’t laugh, play As another day in the recliner melts this soul In worn, green fiber, a lap pet treated better. I walk out at night, stare at silhouettes, remember Where excitement began in the limited known, Because dawn would come and all would reveal. But liars and cheats redirect us from our woods. I can’t meet the creek, slosh sounds soft, As I thirst again but can’t get the feeling. I’ve walked the old country road, rocks fly From stirred gravel, meaningful memory gone… Alone. We don’t all pile in station wagons anymore. Dog has head out the window, anticipating. What’s there to look forward to, but old songs. I sing solo, vibrant voice perfecting, messages. Be ready to receive one wiser, tearing Babylon down. So, what about that old fashioned revival? We’ll make it last longer than just an hour, Sing all the old songs, stir their love again. Maybe, memorable, enough for one night? …And we can go home tired. 7.24.25 Will they eat from these hands, or teach them how it’s done? Got to get the message right. Written to four consecutive Freya Ridings songs, without edit, (one edit) on this old tablet. I’ll fix it up, eventually. Recliner has my ass for the night. Better vision by morning.  |
| I’m present… It goes beyond beauty products… People who use the tools in this process are undoing the fabric of society by isolating us more than ever. Don’t listen to me. Talk to yourself. It’s not just me. Don’t subscribe. It starts with you. |
| We warm again, another day… Arriving. What’s lacking this morning, I don’t know. Bored, again? We could make plans to trip together… Bother? When you’re out, I stand on precipices alone, Staring. Life was gift-wrapped packages of bursting energy Lost to the sun, I suppose. Where do those dreams really go? Was childhood a guided tour to lose us In forests Where it’s kind of nice, dreamy, or haunted, I’d guess. But, I can’t linger long in those places… No patience. True storybooks would require academia… Not fairytale. I might be an exhibit of the harm… Lack charm If not sheltered but taught right. Care? We could plan a trip somewhere — No time. We’re working and earning for something… Freedom? I’ll have food warm when you get here. Wine? Maybe, candlelight and a simple poem… I love you. 7.22.25  |
| Until The Stars… Realization, romantic now, how I play handball against a wall called myself lone boy, summer standing, in sweet scent of shorn grass, twinkling yet the season’s last dew, and tossing a red-relaced dream from her sewing needle, recovered a hard ball — spun, lobbed to his pitch edge, but not over the roof of his self-constructed garage — with consideration for respect, demanded and deserved — from just a boy learning… how a small, round object behaves at apex, clips the tar top, drop and settle soft onto a smattering maze of puzzled shingles — hop, roll, skip, bounce, squib side-to-side unevenly until — lay down — let gravity do the rest, certain enough speed, snowball-cannonball toward the ready mitt, knowing it need clear aluminum bothered by my objects far more burdensome than rainwater To see it clear from practiced pride, a satisfying love, I caught like hope in that open hand. And, winked like the old man, with deserved joy that hid in a hard heart,u never sharing his love of that small game that perfectly lands, repeated again and again until night, past dusk, two meals quick consumed in an eager belly, toss and toss again before black torment… time to go in He’ll not see the man now that still loves like a boy He witnessed a child game, but now can comprehend the most impossible mechanics with physical abilities like his construct — that two-by-four, nailed suspension that atop crested a brick pattern on tarpaper overlay — epidermal pate of his pride, the soft layer that allows me yet play, stand in wheat-like weed and decay, heave to his yet stable object, receive again and again, as the diverted rain, next to an upheaval of an ancient driveway Grit sheds, gets the head from a gray-pale petroleum surface — functional interlace, burdened by my spun magic, twinkling like permanence of stars overhead. All angles, speeds, degrees of difficulty, easy game with or without the degraded leather — either hand, behind back, over the Willie-shoulder — perfection of all long past popcorn and late stretch, extra innings I go, in his outdoors…cold, and in love If you’ve ever watched at all, found pleasure in positive pursuit, despite storms and winters, inter-cedents with other pursuits, know… in persistent, constant, self-evaluating, evolving correction — toward the impossible need to present as your ideal of perfection — I’ll make the best of all installed until the stars fall. Part of 2024 eulogy For my brother |
| Crawl Space Crawl in my space, darkness in Reality — limited space of time and imagination. Awkwardly, our toes graze, wiggle — Where flashlights aim at outlined, colored drawings within Lairs…plotting against our villains in secrecy. And, If we don’t solve for a fourth dimension by supper, Never reveal where our time crawls, as hangered clothes Get our heads in crawl space. 7/18/25 Someone’s itching to correct me. |
What Doesn’t Play… Let’s be cliche one more day… Let’s see what plays Down by the river tonight, Where the earth slows. I lay my arm on your shoulder. Whispered words found And there’s that smile. Two eyes twinkle, brighten, As we hear them start. But, a song already plays… Their fire will be mine, As I take your gift hand — Warm blood flows there. It’s golden, idling in place, Carried on lifting melody As a heart harmonizes right. With your hand, two twirling, When a light rain begins. It can’t put out smoldering. When enough, back to the ride — Carriage down cobblestone. All light inhales my oxygen. The last bend, nearing — I ask for your hand again. But, you give it away tomorrow. When I join the river again, The band repeats the old anew. Our songs lay in sightless black. 7/17/25 27 lines, tight but free verse Happy it’s ending. We start anew, renew until last frost. I trouble with ending line…grammar and intent. Thinking on it. |
| Onset (sonata 1 on keyboard) Time comes and leaves, as I make it slow… Sudden happens slow You just don’t know Drifting on these dry clouds Caught in that moment, when Dull to react They want to know Something — you don’t know Slow can sneak up If you’re unaware Drifting to those skies Lost in the reveries there Too slow to respond Should ever they ask anymore Something you could share Dry summer heat chills inside by a-c and fans Coldest winters get stripped feet, toes to the fire Is it always Opposite Day? When something to share Nobody comes to play? As all yesterdays pile One digs in that heap Remembering the forgotten Then, they want to know But, too dull to react Sudden happens not Wherever I dream A version of you there Hi! It’s me. Time slowed Caught in another moment When I see a vision Ghosts in doorway greet We usher out, soft to night Gentle taken in a light breeze of sunshine tow Where to drift next God only knows in the sudden slow All vision froze winters ago Out side a warm window That gathers no frost I made sure to seal — tight — silent is the night. 7.16.25 With dementia, lists grow long until their completion matters not at all. We’re in the sudden slow, watching time pieces that barely go Written to two of last three MV posts, half asleep. Edit tomorrow; fully conceptualize |
| I write stuff for others to witness. Look around. Let me know what you think I might see from you that I might comment. My stats say 95% or more of my blog hits come from outside this community. Not a single soul has reached out to me. I haven’t gone beyond six referrals since my first year or two here, however that works. But, simple, right? |
| While I’m being ostracized in a “writing” community (irony not lost on me), I present my thanks to the operators of the Bard’s Hall who need no excuses for their wonderful attention to my words. "Note: Means more to me than placing, because I kn..." I also note that lack of observances which help me know who we all are. I’ve always been one word shy of committing my soul to many things going on 19 years. Seeing the true hearts of two individuals is in my hall of fame. I honor courage over cowardice in the world today. Stronger stuff than some that served. I’m honored to know conscience with two hearts in a machine. Other kindness has been observed. If any chose read me, know I fight something much bigger that fears. Apathy is what it needs from a nation to become compliant. If we are divided, know it’s orchestrated. Being principled to live by a code took a lot of years of hard work on my own with zero true mentors. Question everything around you and find a landscape reveal itself. I know I have a lot of work ahead. Today, our family is in observance of a lost friend. Rest in peace Beans, my calico friend. My lap is a bit colder now. Brian  Be true to yourselves, above all. I continue to openly share with the world that needs to know it does have more than ‘one vote’. It’s about civil liberties access denied through government rules and inactions of oversight in relaxation, enforcing only when strong voices for truth are to be quashed. We don’t boycott anymore — hypocrites in complacence, and I’m one. Never trust infil’traitors’ distracting us from real dialogue. Certainly, sanction individuals over machines operated like monopolies you can’t break up, when all who should ‘judge’ look the other way. I have a story that simplifies what I’m saying. Maybe, later today. |
Who said Matthew Sweet? Get Back To You (Your Beer Will Stay Cold) I hear you’re looking for a time deviation To loop through any existing door, Unlock it and tear wide, call out your, “Mary!” Because, something left inside is missed…now? What stirred ya? If it’s your cat, Fred, I have to say a bigger fear awaits if you go and kick that very deliberate vile… in theory. It’s not a probable comeback. I saw you tromping down the street again, disregarding all the rain mess of mud. No fire, as that long hair trailed in pursuit. Truth? What is it you’re looking for? If it’s your lost dog, chum, did you offer a reward? Unless a bigger fear. Is it her? Between you and you, what can I do but observe unassisted Hail Mary down cobblestone. Fire and brimstone could get your feet, but you fly over that shit; a blur, I swore. Only my old man tore into me harder, as some demon he sought, that I did see. Whatever mirrors you reposition, angled, you can’t get back to her through there. Whatever lie you told yourself, just know I’m here with a cold beer — when you get back…to you. 7.10.25 I don’t know, but I know that someone doesn’t know. And nobody else witnesses like I do. *Pops a top* Did you ‘track’ all that? We all know our ‘rights’. |
| Stirred, as the song and another video from this AI production company made the salient point — money. Sweetly, beauty you will die; hidden from you brews a lie they tell in their poem’s that bloom before two eyes — a graphite stick on white. Slowly each medium is replaced. Only money changes hands. Briefly beauty hush — silenced. No nattering words further — but gossip they invent as lies you now whisper. Codes squire targets. Nostalgia is mortified, as all old stories — moral-less. Only richly desire remains. You would want escaping time to stop, implode your big bang birth. But, the soul-less dance on, smile wrong. But, distant eyes, cannot sway, look the other way. Pay as they go, celebrate money and flesh thirst. Yes, readied now, for the truly unscrupulous… Where were you when reality died? Do you remember the poet who took care to warn of world demise before lights out. What could delay or better prepare? Did you hurl your rocks at truth instead? You distrusted. Money delivers you…to here… the end of a reality story. Project, if you will, five years from now? Do you pilot hovercraft on a planet green? Or, they lied, kept your worth, and note: any remaining trespassers will be shot, as the currency they print…value-less. 7.9.25 I’m not a sci-fi, future-traveling writer. I’ll aim further clarity in morning, pray for a less direct end, aim crystal clarity and resounding note in a visceral sense. AI doesn’t have to kill, if you wisely reinvent with strategy. Employ AI tools to inspire writing. Encourage and do not malign writers, if you are to act ignorant of technology. It can help you streamline, give those brain storms more than wishful dreams of solvency. Maybe, celebrate flagship authors with actual credibility for a change. Some of you are worthy of note, being sold short. Put your rocks down. Sleep. Sweet dreams soon come. If I could spend less time on Writing ML, I’d have more time to focus on activities, stomp around the site greeting every bloom. If that doesn’t pay the bills, I can see a darkness in my 18-year-old predicted statistical tunnel re-arriving. I dislike these end games — for this world. Look beyond the edge of each of your worlds for a better view. Or, grab the essentials before each light goes out. I had planned 30 more years… Some great music on that YouTube channel. I get notified on all the latest AI created videos. Oh, and remember, art imitates life…not the other way around. Think: preference for symmetry or slightly less than perfect? Replace the expression-abused word ‘perfect’ with ‘ideal’ in your brain’s programming, as AI won’t know the difference…but can learn…from you…artist. — Citizen Journalist (not anyone’s “messenger”) |
| Prompted: It has become unavailable. Fix it, find it, or learn to live without The Output from Throughput: Part 1 — Hello Memory We can learn to be better from a life’s journeyed baggage, doing without returning regret… Information arrives and leaves, strung on vibrant lines, pinging off life poles down a highway, away, forgotten — until older, when it returns…and wise. Hello memory — looking knowable, sitting in on the current conversation. Experienced knowledge, sentient and renewed, memory is perhaps, a good friend to — eternally — drink with, consider all that no tool restores, with mistakes yet to come. We can fix this, rebuild and drive to destinations where it gathers — Life. With future plans together, we greet new memories daily. Each earns a seat at the bar — a cherry in every drink. We can say goodbye to the unknowable, regrettable and forgettable paths taken. To new choices, we toast. 7.9.25 Part 1: 13-14 lines, free verse Now we see your metaphor clearly. *nods knowingly* Some problems don’t want to resolve…(I know you’re hurting) AI Overview "Fade Into You" by Mazzy Star is often interpreted as a song about deep longing and the desire for a profound connection, particularly in the context of unrequited love. The lyrics express a yearning to understand and merge with another person, but also a sense of distance and the realization that such a deep connection might not be possible. Longing for Intimacy: The lyrics "I want to hold the hand inside you/ I want to take a breath that's true" express a desire for a deep, almost merging, connection with another person. Unrequited Love: The lines "I look to you and I see nothing/ I look to you to see the truth" suggest a lack of reciprocation, a feeling that the other person doesn't share the same intensity of emotion or perhaps is not even aware of the narrator's feelings. Lost in the Other's World: The phrase "fade into you" can be interpreted as the narrator wanting to become one with the other person, but also as a sense of losing oneself or becoming absorbed in the other's world, perhaps to the point of losing one's own identity. Bittersweet Acceptance: The song doesn't explicitly state a resolution, but the overall tone suggests a bittersweet acceptance of the distance and the possibility that a complete connection may not be attainable. Overall, the song captures the complex emotions of longing, desire, and the bittersweet nature of love and connection, with a focus on the yearning for a deeper, more intimate relationship. ——————————————————————————————————————— I’m all that and more, if you’ve explored. It’s what I’ve handled my whole life, a bar kept that high challenges one who has no quit. Life as a stubborn constant sees this obtuse math subjectively. Plus — Michael said, “love is not possession.” Part 2 — Our Coda Today — Immutable And now, my heart is open, freely, to accept the immutable. Witness all my deaths and let know which one felt that kills you. I…will resurrect any with the same knowledge of suffrage — in grace, an offering of my love’s words. Let me heal your wounds that you might love again, another, and the whole damn, guiltless world…that ignorant, dehumanizes. Isolated. What are these walls made of? If we breach the dark compound, wander in a garden’s light, learn — complex emotions can be greater than restraint hate. Careful of those arrows, immutable. The worth risk — taken. Arrows don’t seek the dead, unaware a heart yet lives. Let the sun kiss those precious eyes that fully realize. 7.9.25 Part 2: 12 lines, free verse Blessings to you Can you believe? I’m only getting started…on some mercy mission? Spare yourself where innocence never repairs. Fight hate with a hug. Kisses for tear-streaked cheeks *whispers* I’m no savior. I barely…but then…and my eyes…a sword…to feet…lift, flex — re-energized quill in question again/always, saves all but one for freedom. |
Community (2009-16) Six seasons and a movie! 2026? #sixseasonsandamovie #communitytv |
| I’m negating ‘fake’ in my offices — for the un-persuasive (special goggles of experience find you) Hot Mic (radio or live theatre reference) Voices Of The People (Nay to Sheeple…but come around *waves in* would-be infil-traitors!) On a soap box Mic hot — so hot I might drop But look at this audience — Squint, but you can’t see Nobody like me — Nobody but me, Preferring acoustic Over there, now that — That’s a sound ‘stage’ where it plays Suckers hip bump the auditorium platform Sing along like it’s gospel… Mindless, forget Centuries of good logic — Logic I lived and breathed Until built is a coliseum shadowing all humanity Paid with tax payer’s tithings Renamed by ticket kings Who’ll not allow scalping unless institutional factors their printed money To buy another seat yet in a bright, bright sea Of mediocrity I could wire Miles of cable through your streets, But who am I — but one Living in disregard (and not regarded) Which is more than enough While still my love of game That reared a boy into poet-hood — infinite I hear you rocking and reeling at night Cool air surrounds my stoop Soothed by the notion Love is out there — somewhere Spirits in the night could multiply But they won’t allow it If the tickets sold don’t profit the licensed Music purveyors who say Get your own venue — but Prohibit you anyway Are you enjoying the hollow sounds Bled of warmth? Do you wake up feeling you need Another fix? Give yourself a chance I offer a soap box Get a mic that’s hot At your favorite intersection Play your love without amplitude to no one But your desire And find yourself, if none other I would support you I am loyal I serve nothing I’m a good provider Your statements are missing The mic is hot You just have to trust you — Whatever the venue If run out of there, heaved to land Next to me, on the seats of our pants — Let’s dust our butts Walk our love to any other place and time Let it unwind — Two poets — linked — seeking Voices of the people. A five minute, hot write 2x longer to edit Found ‘gospel’ auto-corrected to ‘gossip’… irony? 7.4.25 It’s easy to metaphorically compose. Transcribe? Relate? It’s okay, no matter where you're stuck My poem is arriving Cast down a long avenue to nettle With other enmeshed captors Biding time in the late seasons We might speak the same language With our preferred words Did you see mine (words) post, Tacked to the neighbor’s fence They’ll turn on the hose, setting free me Before I dry and float again And see, here we are! The gales return. We separate But never worry when another friend comes But soon — in any form Amid the plastic replicas Decorating the old woman’s yard. Four minutes…Next? 1x to edit…easy-peasy 7.4.25 Laugh, while laughing is easy… Dip a toe in the kiddie pool today. Live a little. Otherwise… Pets might hold some of life’s mysteries where kinship fails you. I’m getting one more to reveal themself in the coming days…but how, Brian? You’re just acoustic and a negated deficit. |
| It’s those restless hearts that never end… Apathy shall not lie near this heart, As comrades fall again and nearer — That I’ve heard a great din, yet Not arriving anywhere but in my chest. Tumult words could tumble out. I’ve observed the tides aren’t right to test. But if any more time lost to innocence, Lamb and Tyger may never play again. 6.28.25
ⱲєbⱲitϚћ is 18  StephBee   |
| The writers of my kind all convene in another session… Tonight’s saga-less drama: Wait For It — The Slow Burn Trap Was the young poet in your counsel, or has he addressed me — if not all, as I was out with the fair maiden on a pub crawl? As watchers and muses, we are sage but still learning even as we advise the mortal ones. But, if eternal and worthy muses, need it be twenty four on the seven? Are we not fully formed, but still bear as his witness? What can a muse do but be stunted by what not witnessed? If we approach every passion fire of the dreamer, did we approach Heaven or sent to hell, because I did not assign any message to his stupidity this night? So, was it you, Will or perhaps Socrates with a grin? I see now his chagrin. So muses can conspire to conceive, when not our turns with Mary, as a spun mind’s minutiae might inert collect the sum of infantile ignorance to blather thus, every idle thought lays at rest in scene on his banal page? But what now do I witness, as surely he conceives a secret tempting misdirection. So, the guidance? So, that he might redirect on his own, even by the sagest-informed failure? I did not sign up for this. So…’this is’ hell. Oh, well — better than faith guided by muse mystery, if this be our game. I confess proudly, I never conceded to any other — my words my own, no more purchased than any sage could proffer. If witnessed, don’t take any other’s advice? Be true to who —? Ah, I see the guise now amid philosopher and wind bags — an anvil from the sky of conception shall descend. If this be a muse prize, I cannot help but tempted to linger on and spy the lad ignorance betrayal unfolding. Oooo, yes! That will especially hurt in the morning. 6.20.25 When failing, go the extra mile and really risk embarrassment. Mailed in. I trap readers with my words, should they be compelled… It’s hot off the press, guys! I can barely touch it. The ink still dries. If there be deceiving muses, they’d be autocorrect gods. Oh, there’s run it up the flagpole and see if anybody salutes. Mine is let’s feed it to the baby and see if it craps its diaper.
ⱲєbⱲitϚћ is 18 StephBee |
| When did it become a sin not to know? I could not risk presumption, mind was aware of vindictive pain aim as stoicism stares. I’m not a human recorder, yet supply anything evidentiary, as if I should know why? So, atrophy? I go, less and less everyday. You might know Where I stand on a mass in soft flow, open sky — below, a streaming cool hue-dampening canvas and lace. I note a bleary sun amply streak spaces pilot eyes shade-spy by hand. New vistas taking shape; heart desires be. Peaceful, you know? On high, feather black form hovers, a beak crank cry — a sharp, throat note — and leap. Branch quivers relief, when heavy swoop, wings send out with force strength, sluice air, flap and stroke in demonstrated flight heading up. Landed in my river, feet soothe in whirling water sprite. Have you known? Sun sparks fleck signals on the constant flowage, compliment auditory senses in full access scene, free. Cleansing notes apply cascades as as strings plucked light, symphony in nettled wood, stump and rock, a float-water percussion. Solitary in procession, sensory arrival eternal revives. Might you ever? The sun travels not as a bright earth merry. I’m faster, should one foot forward. Visualized since breezes rebuff erratic butterflies propulsion above bending cattail yield. By barometric release, lift. Dragonflies supremely slice and fit where they flit, low. A plant leg unsucks a sinking shoe from muck, readies. And, you? Scent of fire smoke imprints memory on my nose, teasingly so — hardwood better than cedar. Thick stick meat tempts, as white marshmallow singe brown, daring black. Pull back, before a frown, and goo a flat graham to nestle warm with chocolate. I could melt, crossing a stream of time, to return. You? Coming? 6.25.25 31 lines, verse free me, “Wherein” is a play on ‘We’re In’ (this together), but the speaker is reminded to invite others to recall life and joy, because, less time to hate when by atrophy order. Where I could be, should friends…crow, monarch, dragonflies, campers alight. No tent, no trailer, no ground I spy, as I haven’t leapt far from the heavy green recliner, gravity nature where I’ll not aspire any higher or further than where two weak eyes might know…time to slow…out the window. Seasons come in all sizes. And, if fond memory allows…longer…linger…where I wade forgotten…summer horizons……
ⱲєbⱲitϚћ is 18 StephBee Coda (unrelenting, streaming consciousness) The heart of darkness need not apply, as in red too near resides inside my four rooms with its valves snuffing out what consumes, chamber — by — chamber. Irritation is not pain. A reverse title poem most idiomatic, I supply. -Constant Content |
| The Time And When To Go (Part 1 and 2) Life’s mysteries uncovered become mysteries, the longer it’s been… Part I — I’m From The Creeks… I’ll never trail those hidden creeks again, hidden. Ferns as green, random turnstile misdirection, could not bar hydration’s scent — the tumbling and turbulence — moss kissed and dense. And I danced about dirt rock, spring through summer. My heart could anticipate each love return — no danger left for a boy drenched in repellant. If they made sprays for all life encounters, I wouldn’t wear a single one. The harsh sun only temporary deterrence never quelled a discoverer’s tongue, reporting all discovered — where nature exists from slag piles to the tip of sturdy trees that did bend and yield for one so certain — undeniable, immortal, powers yet to freeze time…until death’s door exhumed from the floor of my dreams in water current, where I brain-spelunk and continue to explore dimensions, weight, smoothness of wood gloss — questioning, how many toad capacity, fish bowl friendly, or snack quantity to last until supper — for this journey to the other side where I could soon reside? And, what provisions be there? Will I be able to see Mother? For it was her hand with grace that did haul me out from buggy woods, with mud face, and grass-green pants — she’d be happy to know I keep clean alone. Sad that Dad can’t be with us. He never had time for the creek, cattail, places where a strong arm did heave jagged to smooth stone and the few I kept for my own. Maybe, they’ll turn up, should I show, not hop on the wrong cloud, flowing from unique nature culling my ever-witness, as my eyes (does he ever take a break?) will surely glisten as in night, I wake to the sight — Is death or life reality? Must I need know, as a boy who by tenacity, would never let a thing go until life and lights fade and burn out.? I have exhausted every living thing and, yet still, not time to go… End, Part I ————————————————————- 6.23.25 37 lines to here, free verse prose-essay
I’ll miss death as much as life, once it’s truly over. Part II — …To The Clouds Next (Delayed) There’s no stones where I’d like to go. What will I throw? You get bored and heave crab apples, camp entrance over passing cars. I know what happens should one land. This is my gift, let me show you how close to danger I’ve been, survived, never hospitalized, been called dumb…better than stupid, which I am neither. If you said fearless, I’d protect you. I could teach you how to cross from hardwood to hardwood, scale 15 feet up without limb, if worn is denim or corduroy. Life has been random, friends are not. Nor do they hate, as I tried to love the most troubled. With their taunts, I knew when it was enough. Some never change. I’d hold their hand just the same. You need to see… what I witness beneath their canopies, white bark peels off soft, where multitudes contain, crawl beneath, flow as you’ll see my heart glow from knowing joy, the serene places we could go — pack wax paper sandwiches, bottled brown and green soda pop. Twinkie or Cupcake treat to top it all off, love’s eternal reward — if you burn those calories off, the sudden strength to unearth granite, from the biggest bluff boulders. We can roll them… to our favorite spot, sit a spell until inactivity idles longer than paused words, because how many one word utterances like “eureka!” have we got? She doesn’t come to haul us by hand, but watch the sun, wait for a chilly breeze, as we always knew what time to go in. And the summer stones still there. No other could lift, but even that pride fades when all hidden dries up. Hope clouds cede dreams and the woman. We have a lot of catching up. 28 additional lines, free verse prose |
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