Rig rag
Shaggy rag
Rip, rip, rip,
Wrinkle in the water
A wilder whisper
Crepuscular crème brûlée.
What is madness really?
Have I not a wordly thought?
Wordly jumble,
Words, words, words,
Coherent as a Dostoevsky mumble.
Musing wrists and elbows in a swaddle,
Up of green and purple trumpets,
Sickly technicolour cuddle.
Circadian bunny pudding.
Hullo, there it is again!
I saw it there, just there!
Did not. But so I did!
I’m not mad, I saw it there.
A rig rag shaggy rag?
No, not that.
You did not see it — no.
It’s gone now — half a moment.
Is it there? The level jelly?
Come with us, dearie.
Cuddle cuddle,
Jelly swaddle.
Sleep a day or nine.
Till it wears off, the custard killer.
Mr. Mustard comes tonight.
Categories:
dostoevsky, confusion, imagination, memory, surreal,
Form: Free verse
To ponder or not to ponder - that is the question.
Is it a waste of my precious seconds, minutes, hours
To dwell on the questions that plague my mind?
I spend my waking and waning hours mulling and considering,
Crashing waves of question marks and possibilities
Dance around in my mind's eye, quelling the beast of sleep.
A skeptical girl's dream is a paranoid's nightmare.
The mind wanders the winding path, ways blockaded by the
immaturity of age's eye. Paths extend,
arms outstretched, sclera comes into view. I enter the land
of darkness and trivial trifles, numbers rapidly rising.
To observe then look away - oh what a gift.
The fluttering, juvenile gaze upon life offers a plethora of privileges.
A jovial demeanor, an emaciated ego, a blithe smile -
charities that are given to the majority.
The plights that plague me are mere afterthoughts
in the meandering mind of the thoughtless. Idealizing,
reading, puzzling reserve themselves for the
fragmented, slightly distorted. And now I must
ponder, what the slightly distorted
save themselves from.
Categories:
dostoevsky, 11th grade, conflict, devotion,
Form: Dramatic Monologue
Downtown
broad squares
highway
out of these places
every nook and cranny alleyway,
shabby signboard,
makes a terrifying sound
when the wind blows,
we open a very narrow door
and meet an old man
who greets us with a warm smile
across an iron cage
we are always curious
about the treasures buried
in the darkness behind him
They are of no use to him.
Where are you taking all valuables
and putting them away?
from the people
trying to end up hunger
Like the sound of the wheels
of a train moving away,
there was always silence that swallowed the light.
And he was the richest in our town
Of course,
reputation has always been like this
"Not even a person."
What happened to the old man
who took great pride
not having a single person
to pick up the items
Where did his cash and gold go?
Were his poor clients successful?
must ask pawnshop best customer
of the old man,
snoops down
the streets of prosperous pawnshops
in the 21st century mega cities
Tokyo
Shanghai
New York
London,
and Dostoevsky,
We must read his book.
Categories:
dostoevsky, love,
Form: Free verse
Alone in
Christ, my pen
Bleeds.
Categories:
dostoevsky, people
Form: I do not know?
When we're, at last,
Called in the night;
Called to recollect;
Called to account;
Rejoice.
Be prepared.
Ready as ever.
Nothing else matters--
Not the dishes,
The books,
The videos,
The times remembered.
Did you follow your heart?
Don't allow the
Dostoevsky character's last words to
come from your lips-----
Ever.
Categories:
dostoevsky, death, inspirational, introspection,
Form: Free verse