Is it what I’m saying that seems to have people not relating to things that I’m writing…
me thinking I’m exciting the reading minds? Commenting on other peoples poems..skimming through mines…
but 432 views…and no comments from youse…
i mean geez…I'm not bending my knees…
begging for likes but at least…
the recognition…
not writing to please myself…or my mental health
I just like to send the world my word wealth as I’m going through a poem writing recession…
just take a second…I’m just suggesting…read with comprehension…..
give a little attention….
my words are not written in transgression….
i’m just in a state of decompression….
pen to paper pressing….
words in aggression…
like a concession stand…
here’s another for the empty comment section again…Damn…
-Peter T. DeSpirito
tympanic laughter
of spinal decompression
a coupled release
entering the late night room
oxygen rushing headlong
Father’s toes are steel-capped,
Rough, worn-out leather, a layer
Of thick polish that cracks
With each bend, each step.
His feet carry a child’s weight,
A bundle of laughter and bouncing curls
Balanced at his ankles, shuffling
Across outdated carpeted floors.
A moment of decompression
After a day of hard labour, father
Carried the child from infantile morning
To the matured evening.
There came a time when the child,
Older and weary, thrust father’s feet
Upon her own, her arms under his.
Mimicking the act of childhood,
The child walked her fatherly puppet,
The body limp, unresponsive,
Across those once-carpeted floors
And into a place of refuge.
Father and child rely on each other
To pick the other from sullen ground,
Shake off the dirt and grime of worry
And lift them pridefully to their feet.
Father and child are joined in blood,
The same small features, the wide smile
That consumes half the face, and the ethic
Of working hard for little merit.
Father’s steel-capped toes stepped aside,
Gave way to slow movements with purpose,
And heavy breaths subside
Any desire to pick up the pace.
Dawn crests the peaks of barren refuse, enthralling masses and demanding rations of passion from muck
Stuck into walls, hanging out halfway, suspended by calls of anguish and hate
-
Little does it matter for our pain and thoughts
Little does it falter in it’s saintly rot
And little does it rain down pleasure atop rocks
-
Towering pulses in cavernous chests booming altering noises of gloomy doom and distress
decompression
decompress
-
Such success in sessions of secessions thought best bring messy manipulations of emotions and stress
Blessedly pressing the rest into vests of blasting intent and the buying of souls not spent
The buying of souls not spent
The theft of moral defense
The theft of moral defense
A jump
into
cold water
Sliding cares away
springs surge, you chill;
Sweet
decompression.
Buddha teaches the value of meditation
and that intuition is renown to creation.
For we are all but reflection’s notation,
some Yin and Yang without segregation.
Be free in your muse with consideration,
allow your soul to encompass rumination.
Be a constant reverie of deep contemplation
and you shall release your imagination.
Hypnotize your essence with pure expression.
You may find release in your past regression.
For beauty is found in a day’s decompression
with emotions liberated from inner repression.
It is innate sometimes to drown in depression,
but try to be emancipated without aggression.
Live a Zen lifestyle with balanced progression…
and free your soul from fear’s possession.
ZEN Poetry Contest
Line Gauthier
November 9, 2018
The absence of love plays on my mind,
I search within, but love, I cannot find.
Another wasted day, just frittered away.
Can't bring myself to see, it's all because of me!
Dark clouds are moving in, my soul's screaming out.
There's no place I wish to be, my mind consumed with doubt.
My body's numb, this pain has won,
As I lift my pen to write again,
these words flood out before my eyes.
It's not until then that I realise!
That all my struggles are not my demise,
and all my woes as far as a poet goes,
For now, a smile creeps on my face.
Finally, I have found that loving place.
Going Through
It was a turbulent time;
A time of swinging moods
Like monkeys on a vine;
Waiting delivered goods.
The shame of frustration
Revealing a basic fault,
Fear! Sustained impatience,
All really for naught.
The day of resolve has appeared,
Decompression has begun,
It was a turbulent time;
A time of swinging moods.
* This poem was inspired by Alexa Brus and I want to dedicate it to her. Thank you
for the inspirational photos, Alexa. Love you, Carolyn
day-to-day anxieties require decompression
miraculous healing powers await
courtesy of Mother Nature
strolling through the field of daisies
I make my way to an enchanted forest
flora and fauna unmatched
hiking through the shady trails
canopy of cedars above my head
remarkable wildflowers and ferns line the path
tension releases as I hear the stream
toes dip in refreshing cool waters
summer’s heat alleviates
stress disappears and calmness overcomes
beauty of a Canadian woodland
fills my spirit with peace and joy
heading home in late afternoon
I emerge from the woods
finding God’s artistry in a sky of flaming splendor
my escape
my path
my connection to the glory of creation
No frills airlines will get your money
My fair means or by foul
This may mean them charging you
If you need a paper towel
Or if decompression occurs
And the oxygen mask is hanging there
You will have to put a pound coin in
Before it dispenses any air
Trapped in my own recession
I transfer from my aggression
To get out of this oppression
I may need another session
One day I shall get possession
And even get out of this suppression
You may fix me with recompression
I can see from your expression
You can see I am in transgression
I may need to use some compression
And will treat it like an abscession
Or something from my profession
If I am caught up in my depression
And I might go into some regression
You know I will display no digression
But I do need to make a confession
For that I’ll need decompression
Now can we see progression
You cannot buy from a concession
You can call it my obsession
I can see you in my procession
Though I may need to take repossession
I will do it all in succession
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.