Long Descript Poems
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If I were to be a font,
I wonder which font I would be?
Calibri and Arial are nice, but a little too common for me.
If I were to be a font,
I would pick which one with care;
Old English Text, French Script and Matura are cool, but I don’t quite have that flare.
If I were to be a font,
I think it would have to be bold;
Aharoni, Copper Black and Elephant might all be in the fold.
If I were to be a font,
It would have to be descript;
Baskerville Old Face, Broadway and Forte my personality just doesn’t fit.
If I were to be a font,
I would want to be understood;
Times New Roman, Century and Courier, I think, all would be good.
If I were to be a font,
I wonder which font I would be?
And whatever font I happened to be,
I hope that you would choose me.
A non-descript morning of gray
Gray like the eyes of wolves
In the deep forest at daybreak
Sun chasing night with staves
A faint lavender horizon
That touches distant fog
A silver blanket caresses
The valley and the bog
Crickets outsound the roosters' crows
The fog hinders crows rising
Such a delightful morn of music
Heart's chambers resounding
The coolness after Sunday's rain
Envelopes every trace
It is so uplifting to enjoy
A few minutes in this place
A true refreshing of the soul
As apricot paints the sky
The sun's rays the brush stroke and light
Delights the eyes with surprise
An orange sun peeks through the dark trees
Soon its light and warmth abound
A day more like fall will awake
Drying the dew from the ground
What I the things
I choose to write about
Come through my pen unto me
Out of seemingly nowhere apparently
So even I myself seldom do not know
The places where my imagination goes
In order to fetch and find them from
Is often darker than the deepest
Color scarlet congealed and cellular
Blood vein viscus red ink
That flows throughout and from my sanctity
Mind body soul heart head to toe
Best described as like a donation or transfusion
Alluding to reading again to this conclusion
Is the ink my thoughts and words
Merely simply just an illusion a trick
I play unto myself but prefer to share with an audience
For the sole benefit of placating me
Rather than supposed to being
Of hopefully some use and help
To someone else suffering in need out there
Who unfortunately feels can relate and sees the world
As I do both them as well
Poetry is an art form of blood letting
But although words are a rallying cry
A way or means to an end
Words not backed up with meaningful actions
Then becomes inconsequential and superfluous
Both worthless and demeaning no descript
And a sure fire sign that the undersigned author
Writes for no other reason than
To do so for the sole benefit of pleasing themselves
And my heart bleeds for them also as well
As they are the unfortunate kind and likes of people
Who will gladly and willing steal others
Pennies out cast into a wishing well
And yet still somehow be able to
Sleep soundly well at night
My limbs unlax,
stress leaking from my body and
collecting like a basin of a
candle’s freshly melted wax;
One inhale of the plastic casket,
which burns judgingly in my back pocket,
is enough to dredge up the relaxation
my dreary, dramatic life has lacked,
smacking me in my temples
with a dopamine-injected hand.
An inhale, a flurry of smoke,
smolders holes in my lungs
until it constricts and chokes
me, until its disguised benignant nature
reveals its true form;
Stimulants create my deliquesce,
allowing my brain much-needed bliss,
but in a fine, descript disclaimer
written in purposefully disappearing ink, it’s
benevolence whispers addiction.
In front of a building, which takes up a block,
Was a garden with bushes that bloomed
And lovingly tended, with rope-like supports,
By a resident, so I assumed.
The colorful blossoms, appearing in spring,
Perked me up as I walked by each day
And I’m sure in the neighborhood, others who passed
Saw those flowers and felt the same way.
Then one morning some barriers blocked off the street
With a sign claiming, “Sidewalk repair”
And the following day I was saddened to see
That the garden was no longer there.
In its stead was a non-descript sidewalk, fresh paved,
So the building looked plain and forlorn,
One more casualty seen in the city today,
One more absence that I get to mourn.
Oppressive bells that tolls beyond descript
Oppressive walls with eyes that weary not;
Beyond my measure, Shame that runs adrift
That need not be existing—like the dot,
Nor this behooveth not, expanding skies
Alive, unmoving trinity, aloof—
Aground and mired again, in age, the cries
That swing sideways, a pendulum's shamed proof!
In mourning's cauldron, flow within its reach
And sideways swinging, heavy brass adored.
So heavy tolling--snapping rope—a breach,
Set loose beyond descript, which was long scored;
Unpeeling grey and gold, in pieces fell,
All crumbled—Gone—the vacance, free to sell.
Non descript hedge rows sculpted into ornamental animal
via botanical artist wielding pruning shears and chain saw
carved, limned and sculpted with wrist wrought voila uber
prestidigitatiously head turning botanical picturesque Sun
kist animals at an exhibition transformed miraculously via
Te Deum divine fist bumping, whence realistic fauna burst
alive with an explosion of colorful twist and shout of foliage,
where scalloped superfluous detritus manna for naturalist
deciduous detritus capacious carpet boar animation punk
chew waiting groundswell Liszt ghost would arise from the
grave to produce magnum opus without a beat missed such
shrubbery mimicking the likeness sans glistening fleshy sin
yew, and gist about ready to become bone a fide (green be
hind the ears) thriving vox populist, per species and genus
wrought thrashing into birth as delicate craftsman promised
to imbue life, liberty and pursuit of happiness whittling away
leavings, thus did exist the nascent then omnipresent visible
entity emerging from cocoon an herbalist metamorphosed
from the imagination of a skilled, practiced and mentalist
conniver viz extracting the initially obscure blessed beast,
where with august magic wielding tools of this specialty vis
a vis bringing breathing manifest destiny ala Pinocchio (trans
formed from wood to flesh), whereby finest dexterous
chiseling blistering hands baffle onlookers as coterie of
topiary harvest breaths mind bogglingly astoundingly
authentic rooted ready to frolic in the grass menagerie
a gamesome group of linkedin live progeny, the Michel
Angelo of dirtiest canvass, an earthen tabula rasa of sorts
where application threshing re: electric cool laid ahs hid
test brings out chlorophyll doppelganger green hued key luster.
Form:
She is a masterpiece of wild contradiction,
fuse blown by a wick, of litmus tongue in your senses-
her moods shifting chameleonic shades everything at once
in candle wax trick or residue residing nowhere.
Heart's firework pinwheel blown
by a wish everywhere
and summoned without lips service-
to neither Hades, Avalon nor Loch Ness, lore.
In her magic lies a silent non disclosure appeasment,
a benediction like a life preserver of electric feel.
Her trinkets are cursed idols, in a pool of profoundness laid- imply at your feet, dewly spilled.
She sheds jade droplets of faceted
watershed moments,
strings them like pearls
to loose your balance on your
precipitated emotion.
She is "in the field"- set of runged abominations-
of a fools notion.
Jade droplets of faceted conglomeration
bathed of precipitale- emotion-
swimming your head like electric eel.
She is a storm brewing inside a jewel,
vagabond bauble non descript versing of
evident residual haunting your soul to steal-
new horizon, taunting virgin territory, with infatuation, lightning.
Underwritten page of felt covertly, subtly everything hunting, seasoned overtly sensory heightened display.
Moraed morals, moreover-sustained
of overlay fonting the atmosphere
cover paged as she wears where she lays.
The sky, a distant dream in the ocean of her gaze,
Wind stripped bare in a pool of borrowed
rhymes swimming your head in amaze
as we scramble for the right words to parlay
in her charms way.
In her voice lies a silent romance
leaving more questions than answers in her wake,
as her moods shift, atelier 'steem-roller,
like runic winds
of intolerant display, mind, screen-controler.
Touchstones in a pool of profoundness,
sun ray sing song at hand after the reigns.
I usually notice bugs right away. This one was no different.
The crux was, it was walking slowly up the wall behind my computer
As I was typing and I noticed it.
A roach? Not quite. Something with wings though. Fat.
Not brown, but not tan, an in-between non-descript color.
I watched it make its way up the wall, toward the ceiling.
I smiled at its tiny little delicate black legs. It had a cute head.
It stopped walking. Maybe its heart was beating fast now, scared?
It started again, straight up to the ceiling.
I watched it walk steadily along the top of the ceiling
South to north. Not a really smart bug apparently.
It gave me incessant hope we may someday be getting spring…..
Non descript brown wallet
Slightly bent at the edges
Indent of cards on leather
Inside is a Driver’s license
Credit card
Debit card
Building pass
Right hand side
Photos of children
Train pass
Metro card
Retail card from a drug store chain
Six singles in front
Larger denominations in rear
Five, tens and one twenty
Tucked behind the photos
Is an extra twenty dollar bill.
Thumbing through the wallet
Nothing else is found
Contents spilled out onto a formica desk
A life for all to see
Scrutinized under bright fluorescent light
Nothing extraordinary
Just everyday ordinary.
How do we tell the family?