Best Minutiae Poems
What worth am I
in all this madness
what worth are you
in the depths
of all this sadness
there,
see the flight path
to elevation
inside the feels;
inside the fields
of darkness
spring wells of
orbs popping light
the half-stride
of trying phantoms
planting seeds,
half-baked poetry
running
through the veins
the golden fields
of darkness
minutiae sleeping
with Morpheus
under the velvet blankets
of Elysium
terra firma robes
overly well worn
divested now
in waking
kissing the farewell
to be received blessed,
annointed in the essence
of the uncommon
there,
the busy minded,
the unnaturally gifted -
The Poets ...
call you,
see -
the flight path
to elevation
inside the outside inside -
or, called back outside,
there you remain,
forever fixated
on cracking the inside
the hoax planted
in a dybbuk box
unfounded
unworthy demon
sunken
treasure
buried forever
grounded
hear them all, see,
inside the common feels,
the uncommon Poets
call you
see,
the flight path
to elevation
reaching
inside the outside inside
Candide Diderot. ‘24
crosses.
Categories:
minutiae, muse, poets, words,
Form:
Free verse
I will tell you of the backstreets
In a brain that has grown old
A mind that has wandered often
When it was young and bold
Old brains should deal in minutiae
A myth right off my tongue
For mine looks at the universe
I couldn't solve when young
It thinks of distance in light years
Time as infinity
And whether stars are live or dead
Or whence divinity
It thinks some stars it sees are ghosts
That died in some long past
But light is just now getting here
How long do star ghosts last
When I was young the Milky Way
Was thought to be alone
Now we know there are billions more
In the galaxy zone
Then thoughts return to this old Earth
And wish for hands to hold
I leave the backstreets for awhile
And enjoy being old
9-24-19
Contest : In the Backstreets of My Mind
Sponsor : Silent One
Categories:
minutiae, old,
Form:
Rhyme
"If you need a thesaurus to find the right word, then it's the wrong word." -- a remembered, probably misquoted, old maxim.
A week of rain
has left my yard spongy
but quite lush -- and birds, now,
are again appearing.
A small, strange toad --
here rarely seen --
startled me yesterday
at my threshold.
Inside, my three cats
persistently attacked a lone
long lizard hiding in
an artificial palm.
I mention minutiae,
breathe deeply in and out:
my unremarkable reality,
my routine life...
Too often, words -- and
problematic politics -- intrude.
Categories:
minutiae, introspection, language, perspective, political,
Form:
Free verse
How mysteriously mythical
And mystical you look
Magnificently minute
Maritime majestic migrants
More than marginally manic
Mesmerizing meanderers
Masterpieces
Peacefully going about
Your business
Magical make-believe
Monarchs of the sea
Upright and elegant
In your mannerly march
Moonstruck prone to
Misfortunes and misadventures
Oft mostly monologuing
In monotonous monotony
Mediocrely misconstruing
Mischievous mongrels
And misconceiving misplayed
Merciless minutiae
But merry merciful
Momentous messengers of love
Marketable motive and
Mission to mirthfully mate
You mavericks matched
To mettlesome mistresses
Masqueraded maroon
From menacing mercenaries
Marvelously masterful
Is your mimed courtship dance
Mellifluous entwining
Matrimonial love embraces
Mounting and moving
Mimicking moody miscreance
Swaying to measureless
Maudlin melancholic melodies
Monopolizing methodical
Momentum and motion
A meticulously modulated
Mellow match of merging
A most memorable metaphysical
Millennium melodrama
AP: 1st place 2022, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on April 16, 2018 for contest SEAHORSES sponsored by JULIA WARD - RANKED 5TH
Categories:
minutiae, animal, beautiful, dance, life,
Form:
Alliteration
being in this tin womb, dark and safe,
that's the thing; inside the dark corners
and air-lock doors, it's a floating life
toothpaste and pureed stew float by;
still, here's not to dwell on the minutiae
and other small things
and the silent solar-wind powers on,
while below, the earth, the sea, the clouds,
the blue and green, the tempered purple hues,
tinge brown
and if from the land you peer up here,
from where the earth is dying, you'll see
me sigh, through flocks of hope,
and notice that I'm crying
Categories:
minutiae, death, environment, holocaust, home,
Form:
Free verse
Nowadays I find myself
In church windows reflected
By the surface of my tea,
Too hot to drink.
I try anyway,
My nose against a brick wall,
(This Jasmine is my sledgehammer)
I burn my tongue,
(This Jasmine is a non-factor)
I set it back down.
I see the fractured, colored glass shimmer in my mug.
Am I like the image of the lamp in the tea?
Glowing for no reason?
Nowadays I rarely find myself.
I take orders.
If I did find myself,
I wouldn’t recognize me, anyway.
It’s just these fractured lights I remember.
Beaming like living lanterns shining towards the way to goodness.
Like I use to.
Like I use to be.
But now I think life is a quantifiable bucket,
The bucket half-empty, half-over and me completely stir-fried,
Gazing over what I see as minefields.
Nowadays I go back-and-forth.
As it suits me,
As it suits the occasion,
I wrangle and ramble, dribbling and babbling
Staggering through empty suburban warfare.
Nowadays I thank God for the emptiness.
The minutiae, the random acts of silence
Can send shock-waves through the spirits made of light,
Secretly keeping them in rhythm for the rest of their lives.
One day I will drop my post as the Barbarian Guardian of Willy-Nilly.
One day I will remember what all the colors mean.
One day I will remember what all the glowing was about.
One day I will skip lousy repetition,
And never repeat a mistake again.
Categories:
minutiae, life,
Form:
Free verse
Her thoughts were like a great machine
Driven by a force of unlimited potential
Reactive responses tempered to produce such diversity
Each image a symbol that armed her mind to Manipulation
The winds of puberty recently passed
Bringing with it a cruel mimicry and argued caution for
Sensations of the body that allured and called for attention
She walked a delicate edge at such a young age
Her words now always outlined in Overreaching Brilliance
Rich consciousness displaying Minutiae of Observation
That expressed great energy of sophistication and a Circle Sense
That All Life is Interconnected and in Service of All Other Life
So many ideas began to spring from nothing –
On one side the cold hand of mortality
On the other the nurturing rustle of warm colors
Snared by Destiny and shocked into Deep Understanding
She saw the world as not nice
Yet split with a duality that offered such beauty –
Wisdom and valor and justice and prayer
Hold back the darkness in a grip of steel
“What senses do we lack that we are so oblivious
Of another world singing all around us?”
Tears pressed tautly for escape beneath her closed lids
As Supreme Notions and Designs came unbidden
From a place beyond places…
– That which submits Ultimately Rules –
– A gift is a blessing For the Giver –
– Leadership is not revealed Without Conflict –
– The Wisest know what They Do Not Know –
– Prevailing over others is strength – Prevailing Over the Self is Greatness…
– Erasing desire Brings Peace –
– Life is not a mystery to solve – but rather a Reality to be Experienced….
Profound impressions kept coming on and on and she wept for futility –
For who could she tell…
Categories:
minutiae, identity, introspection, philosophy, psychological,
Form:
Free verse
White upon fog upon snow upon dreams,
dreams upon snow upon fog upon white.
Dreams come, as if the minutiae of day
are merely a prelude to night vision.
It is kin to the sun but it is not the sun,
its light is not golden and it does not warm.
His left hand is under my head,
his right hand does embrace me.
Deb'rah slew the heart of her enemy
as the prophecy foretold.
NOTE: Contemporary ghazals generally dispense
with rhyme and emphasize the shifts between couplets.
The Poetry Dictionary, John Drury, 1995, page 120.
Categories:
minutiae, dream,
Form:
Ghazal
9904
9904
CharlaXFabels
Ninenintyfour
Autofixation
A Dialog Fabel
Mrs. Smithster: BOSS let me help you clean up your computor today the new
auto program disc is arrived in my snail mail box.
BOSS: OK just don't lose any of my contacts on the list the accounts are way too
important.
JUNE: to her self: an aside: GET HIM who does he THINK he is giving me that
guff so early in the mourning.
BOSS: Poor June is my secretary and eye love her like my sister but she is so
dense the bullits bounce off her like she is Superman, or wait no Supergirl
mabe.
Narrator Ed.Note: This is the twilight zoned for the next five minutiae you can not
understand anything but this fable you have been transported to the twilight
zone. This Lady Bosses Secretary one Mrs. June Smithster has been the
receiver of a program sent to her inside her snail mail marked as a FIXIT
program disc the entire story is now centered around what comes next let's
watch what happens…
Charlax the Narrator: June reached into the envelope slowly and opened the disc
cover reluctantly she was wondering now just where it had come from it was
compelling her to use it she could feel its message somewhere near her left toe
and the eye her left eye was twitching like a nervous wrecked her whole face was
letting go she had to she had to over and over like a ROBOT compulsion she
HAD to place the disc in the BOSSES computor NOW.
June: something is almost forcing me to use this new hardware it's an alien tech
rippoff of an image of the MOON it makes me want to dress up and wear my
cape out.
Charlax the Narrator: The Bosses Computor is slowly being eaten up by the disc
all the contacts on the every list are gone the moral of the CharlaXFabel number
9904 poor gentle reader ewe is never use a disc program to enable accounts not
meant to be edited by ewe. The computor is now gone the disc dropped to the
floor lets go back and see what happens now…
BOSS: walking in to his office to check on his computor and June Smithster: well
that is not funny did the android charlock pick up my computor for cleaning
again?
Charlax the Narrator: but there is only silence from the corner of the room where
June is laying down curled up in a ball of Supergirl costume her cape lay furled
around her like a hobo blanket cover…
Categories:
minutiae, parody, people, satire, science
Form:
Prose Poetry
(Part 2 - please see Part 1 first thank you)
And those of us who feel just plain lost in today’s modern world
Believe me you are not alone
Might look at Dave’s life and think that it’s real, and legitimate
When it’s just a fake deal – none of this has just fallen in ‘Dave’s’ lap
Because he deserves it as he’s a ‘good lad’
But you don’t want to know this and it makes you feel even worse
Accusing others of being jealous and defending this ‘Dave’ first
So you massage your avatar in every way
Thinking it will pave your way
Save the day
Keep you out of real life’s harming ways
Because despite the visions of
Human contact on the Facebook adds
You never meet up with the lads,
Go bowling or hang out in the park
Because these days the world is just too dark
It’s not safe and too expensive to go out and have a lark
So you stay inside and become an online stud who gets lots of online ****
Who enjoys an open relationship?
But which in real life is just a lie
Because right now you are sat in a room, full of gloom
With your back to your wife
Atmosphere so tense you could cut it with a knife
As you massage your Facebook life
And now you cannot make it more plain
That she is just not good enough for the Facebook ‘you’
Who now believes he is a complete stud
But she’s lives in reality and not on line
Working hard, pays the bills, attends to the minutiae of real life
While you, 36 and unemployed, pines
And neither you, nor she, can ever measure up to the complete fantasy
Of the world of your Facebook Land
All Facebook has done is help you create a monster which has got out of hand
And you never did have that conversation, in real life, with your wife
That you have demoted her from your wife, to ‘f*ck buddy’
That’s just your online self massaging reality out of your life
Why communicate with your wife – it’s safer (to your online life)
To just cut her out – she’d never understand anyhow
But somehow you stay with her every day
Getting older, balder, and weaker as your life ebbs away
Never leaving the house or doing anything with your day
So what is the plan?
Do you face real life and make one of your own
Where you know where you are going and where you come from
A life at which you could really look
Why bother – there’s always Facebook.....
Anna Archichek
Categories:
minutiae, betrayal, divorce, marriage,
Form:
Rhyme
Is Missing You - Forever
I ask as I pull my hand from the telephone
a beautiful morning, I rush to tell you.
the pink iris has bloomed
I must remember to tell you,
all of life minutiae we savoured as friends
are stored on the top shelf
in the airing cupboard.
each time, I tell you,
I lovingly store it in the pink box,
for later.
Categories:
minutiae, farewell,
Form:
Free verse
We live by time
And not the eternity that is its envelope.
We live in space
And not the infinity that gives the universe its scope.
We live by hours, by days, by weeks
And not the timeless wonderland that everyone seeks.
We search for answers to the universal questions.
By examining minutiae through the lens of a microscope.
We see the miracle of God’s unity but dimly and darkly,
Through the narrow end of the telescope.
We thrive on lies and dreams and illusions,
While Truth’s reality lives in eternity’s day.
We ask questions about our origins and purpose,
Religion answers, but we pay no heed or say nay.
We live our lives as a series of questions,
We take baby steps through nature’s infinite expressions.
When we awaken in the morning,
Only questions escape from our lips,
That have accumulated during the night’s long sleep,
With the coming of dawn, over the horizon they creep.
The interrogatives awaken us,
They are abounding:
How . . . when . . . where and above all who?
Like a trumpet they are continually sounding.
Why do we fret and take ourselves to task,
When nature herself has no questions to ask.
Everything she displays but a veiled mask,
To protect the radiant mystery in which they bask.
To reveal sun beams and moon glow in God’s pay,
Light rays and night shadows on windowsills at play.
Let us live our lives as answers,
To questions even nature never dares to ask.
When we from our slumber awaken,
Sing praise of another day and set about our tasks.
Time moves in stages one second at a time;
Otherwise, everything would happen at the same time.
Time is a necessity even if it is fraught with pain;
Our lives burn by the scorch of individual flame.
Relentless time turns fire into smoke with ease,
That rises in the air and dissipates into the breeze.
Categories:
minutiae, life,
Form:
Verse
Perpendicular to the day and the
horizon looks no nearer than the day
before a yesterday,
am I moving
or is this spinning just a symptom of
something my mind can't touch upon?
If looking inward is the answer and the universe
spreads before me is this darkness just a sea that I can't see?
when I drop and swallow atoms is it stardust that flows through me
and are light years truly lighter than the years I carry with me?
It's a circuit and I'm shorting
getting caught in the minutiae
where eventuality and I will
meet head on.
The time lapses delay me on the way
to self discovery,
but the spark flies ever upward
perpendicular to the day.
Categories:
minutiae, destiny, universe,
Form:
Rhyme
We Live By Time
By John Herlihy
We live by time
And not the eternity that is its envelope.
We live in space
And not the infinity that gives the universe its scope.
We live by hours, by days, by weeks
And not the timeless wonderland that everyone seeks.
We search for answers to the universal questions.
By examining minutiae through the lens of a microscope.
We see the miracle of God’s unity but dimly and darkly,
Through the narrow end of the telescope.
We thrive on lies and dreams and illusions,
While Truth’s reality lives in eternity’s day.
We ask questions about our origins and purpose,
Religion answers, but we pay no heed or say nay.
We live our lives as a series of questions,
We take baby steps through nature’s infinite expressions.
When we awaken in the morning,
Only questions escape from our lips,
That have accumulated during the night’s long sleep,
With the coming of dawn, over the horizon they creep.
The interrogatives awaken us,
They are abounding:
How . . . when . . . where and above all who?
Like a trumpet they are continually sounding.
Why do we fret and take ourselves to task,
When nature herself has no questions to ask.
Everything she displays but a veiled mask,
To protect the radiant mystery in which they bask.
To reveal sun beams and moon glow in God’s pay,
Light rays and night shadows on windowsills at play.
Let us live our lives as answers,
To questions even nature never dares to ask.
When we from our slumber awaken,
Sing praise of another day and set about our tasks.
Time moves in stages one second at a time;
Otherwise, everything would happen at the same time.
Time is a necessity even if it is fraught with pain;
Our lives burn by the scorch of individual flame.
Relentless time turns fire into smoke with ease,
That rises in the air and dissipates into the breeze.
Categories:
minutiae, life, time,
Form:
Verse
Were it not a thing impermissible,
I'd take handfuls of all these silly bits of
Simulacra, and detritus, dross and debris:
The minutiae and impedimenta that are all these
Constricting, confining rules and bylaws, codes and regulations:
And toss them aerially, and burn them with flaming arrows.
For mine is an unfortunately anarchic style of poetry,
And undisciplined, wayward and incorrigible;
Yet free and full of the most veritable sort of life.
It moves here, it reposes and takes its leisurely ease there.
'Tis like unto the wind: variable and unknowable:
Incapable of the charting of windy cartography,
Unable to be predicted or supposed.
Unknown and unknowable, that is what my ilk of poetic oeuvre is like,
It is a free soul, yet ancient, imbued with the great power of the immortals of
Most current and archaic poetry....suffused with the life eternal surfeit in the
Breath and breadth of the words of the poets of the times past.
It locomotes and translocates to that where it will,
And I have no hold over the little anarchist, yet lovable.
Such is my poetry, and it and I will not brook the slightest imposition of the
Lightest controlling word or binding law on us.
We do as we wish, as we must.
I do not call all people to a freeness far too free, but only do I cry out
For the manumission of their works: Of their poetry.
My poems are often without the burthen of the rhymed,
Which I, except in sparing amounts, abhor.
All rhyme schemes are a thing detestable to me,
As to all truly apt and adept poets.
There is no profit in the silliness of utterly contemptible rhyme.
Rhyme is the province and realm, the bailiwick of children, of
The simple-minded.
It is for writers simple of mind, and readers idiotic and apish.
Powerful poems do not encumber themselves with the dread onus of rhyme.
Neither do solemn, serious poems.
For a poem to be real, it must, to indulge momentarily in the hated thing,
Think and feel.
Only those poems that are free and free of rhyme are worthwhile.
All else be a tale told by idiots, full of resonance and furiousness, and in signification, naught.
Categories:
minutiae, allusion, anger, angst, anxiety,
Form: