the birds make sounds I cannot imitate
I have tried, but alas, my mouth is not a beak
I have decided to trill, peep and whistle, I need one of those
chee chee chee we we ooh ooh ooh
whee whee whee craw craw craw
And yet, no matter how much I try,
I do not sound exactly like they do
There are no adequate words in the English language
I listen, and learn, and try again and again
But without a beak, I am an inadequate imitator
What makes me not enough?
It seems I make others happy.
Why is the exception myself?
I champion my successes,
I recognize my strengths,
but inadequate I feel.
When the walls whisper
their song of the self,
it’s not a ballad of awe.
I hear a crooning wail
recount my misgivings,
left begging to forget.
As rational as I can be,
this childish ignorance
grips me tightly.
Despite being mindful,
I seem incapable
of ceasing these thoughts.
Life’s many shackles
bind me to the past,
left to tend to skeletons.
Longing for another chance,
desperate to change fate,
disappointed all the same.
Father whose lone son
He Leaves in Harsh Sun,
Son moving clockwise
Soon turns the street wise
Dad whose daughter's skin
He pricks with old pin.
And her secure wall
Blasts for a strange fall!
A dad shan't his head
Clean of what it'd read!
That which he's obtained
Needs he well retained,
Common sense maintained,
No nonsense contained...
Inadequate father
Still can go much farther;
It should be smiles rather,
As he climbs his ladder;
Don’t your daughter’s skin
Attack with a pin
Nor her blushing wall
Hit for an amusing fall…
And don’t your vibrant son
Leave in improvident sun:
Now playfully moving clockwise
If he ventures out, that’s streetwise!
Perhaps, you’ve your Good Head
Forced to forget what you’d read:
For what a bloke has succeeded to obtain
He should at all costs guardedly retain.
Trample Inadequate Example
all we should trample
none were perfect example
due to poor sample
Jim Horn
To say you are my everything
Does not capture anything
To say you fill my every need
Does not tell all that you exceed
To say you satisfy me with pleasure
Does not explain a joy beyond measure
To say your beauty is magnetic
Does not describe feelings so poetic
inadequate inaccuracy
never hit the mark
no matter practice
no matter efforts made
just a hair off the goal line
just out of range of the target
never able to get a clear shot
something always got in the way
of the vantage point from which
the target should have been visible
When the real you
Is not good enough
When you weighed by a stranger’s scale
And you are labeled inadequate
Do you try and become
Who they think you are
Or do you walk around under the blanket
Of not being good enough forever
Even when you know you are passable
Do you pretend it doesn't hurt?
That being judged by strangers
Is just one of lives’ curves?
When they trot on who you are
As if you are irrelevant
Do you tremble in confusion?
Or turn a blind eye?
©120820151505
Human nature is such
All you need is much
Whatever you have is less
You always stay in a mess.
Content are few
Not in search of something new
Values are not valuable enough
To assess the available stuff
Love is inadequate
So are the feelings.
Words are inadequate,
So is the meaning.
Inadequate is normal now
Sufficient will lead to a 'wow'
Its wise to find sufficiency
In all sorts of inadequacy.
Contentment cannot be bought
It comes from within the heart.
It is a form of acceptance,
Without any reluctance.
It is a sign of maturity,
That overlooks all scarcity.
It's not the end of life ,
It's the glimpse of a new light.
I feel the familiar burn of abandonment
A feeling that anyone sane would resent
And yet I bask in it—the disconcerted lament
Angrily I tear at the seas and weeds of lies
Saying nothing but curses—bidding goodbyes
Painstakingly waiting for the cruel waters to rise
But you never rose, you fool!
You graded me into your gruel
An inadequate tool—yes, a screwed up tool!
Here I am again and no one has won
Feeding on the nothingness you willingly spawn
Nothing but GONE—who the hell won!?
I thought you were a journey’s rest!
But you are nothing but a wrong-turned address
Spilling me over in a bloody, dead mess
I want to turn away tonight
And never look your direction
Because no matter how hard, I cannot fight
The seas of succulent depression!
You were fixed
At the expense of my misery
At the expense of an inadequate tool
I’ve got a little secret, on which I would like to let you in,
But first, please promise me you won’t think I’m full of mortal sin.
I’ve always had a slight dislike for poems that rhyme,
I scoff when I read them, saying their simplicity is a crime.
But now I must let you in on another little tidbit,
Something I’ve been scared to ever admit.
The dirty, nasty, naked truth about myself and poems that rhyme,
Is that I scoff only because I have yet to master their art in my lifetime.
I’m rhyme challenged perhaps, struggling with each word,
Coming up with combinations and phrases that are absurd.
One day, my pen and I hope to master the rhyming art,
But for now, I’ll just let free verse flow from my pen, mind, and heart.
After the holy battled moved,
the Angels staggered onward,
climbing mountains that had looked immense
only a few days ago,
stars darkened and streams of blood would flow.
No matter how mighty the fight,
and how dark the night,
God knew that the human army couldn’t protect his Kingdom alone,
battles fought, with honor and with grace,
death and hunger these humans would face,
God sent more Angels when he heard frightened voices,
putting their lives down,
blood everywhere, blanketing the ground.
They needed God’s help in any shape,
because they looked woefully inadequate to continue the fight,
the humans seemed relieved to have been joined by more Angels,
offering light to the night,
and feeling the warmth from God’s love
as the white wings filled the skies above.
Twisted in eddies through whirlpools of living
we are experimentalists with emotions of affection
as vocabulary of language cannot denote-
for measures in words are profoundly inadequate
for two spirits forged in the crucible of souls
tempered in moments by breath of existence.
For no voice had nor thoughts expressed
what heart has heard as love’s guest.
Let me depart
This play with words,
And enter
Sounds of nothing.
An earthen urn
Echoes river music,
Flows with the current,
To the inevitable dialectic
Of whirlpool sounds.
Let the river churn my blood,
Permeate through osmotic skin,
Until bed sheets lie crumpled,
Keyboards are shattered.
In the autumn of night
A white page stares at me,
I beat my breasts
Like an agitated gorilla
Ululating his mating call.
Hillsides reverberate
With urgent madness,
That is the message
In it all.
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