Long Fleetingly Poems
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The sunset sets with passion a palette
of solstice, fire, and goldenrod
glean my grief with brute force with a mallet.
Nub of anger and tears bind while thorns prod.
It looks to take possession of my heart,
sharp, jagged, stabbing, cutting off feeling
leaving me cold and callous set apart
from truth I'm so desperately reeling.
Despite efforts to change it won't withdraw
allowing me to breathe life and be whole.
I fleetingly forget the pleasing awe
as he used to skim and feast on my soul.
It has no ending; it won't let me go;
I am dragged off into its undertow.
1/1/2019
Does my butterfly wing flap
matter to matter?
Does my life extend
beyond my fleeting, feeble steps
in the dirt?
Even the genes I pass on to my progeny,
though uniquely mine,
are unchanged by my own existence, per sec,
here on Planet Earth.
It is only my children, born to exist by me,
the recombinant fusion of parents genes,
that changes fates' legacy here,
with a flippity flap
beyond what would be:
If I never existed,
If I never graced this earth,
If I was never remembered
by loved ones and foes,
If my grave never had a headstone,
or I was cremated.
When I die, my existence will be rendered
to smoke and dust,
and forgot me blots.
My existence is merely a
unique perception within me
for the time, only when I am alive.
What others see, feel, think, hear
appreciate and revere,
cannot be known by me
or by any of the other existences,
For spiritual existence is a
collection the lonely lost souls
staring within, at the walls.
Reaching out,
fleetingly bleating,
holding hands with the others,
but untouched,
un-uttered,
unheard
not mattered,
to what exists,
in endless space and
impassive time,
passing to passive tense.
I could see the sweat
on her top lip,
just before she dabbed it away
with the cuff of her shirt
going through
machinations of life,
all the while
a carnival ride
of rollercoastered pain
was shooting away
beneath the fringe
and the only other tell,
(I ever saw)
was the slight twinge
at every other crack
I watched her laugh,
smile,
all the while, the lights
were blaring,
at nothing
and everything
it was in the end,
when the craving for life
fleetingly left eyes
in the finality of a breath
her hands relaxed
over the ethereal,
she had found a peace
that radiated
in ripples of calm
she had opened
a seam in the fabric
that illuminated
a spec of earth,
that is now,
impressed with time…
it’s with spirit
I endeavor,
pounding rocks
for that ever elusive
spark …
and waiting for the fabric
to rip again
How foolish am I?!?
YEARS beyond our sad end.
Multiple relationships past the
Joy of all that we shared and were,
I doubt I even (fleetingly) enter your mind,
Let alone time the cadence of your heart to mine,
Or polish the gold memories in your pocket, as I do.
What an absurdly pathetic and commiserative fool I am!!
I still find myself, on more occasions than I hate to (begrudgingly)
Admit, not only pining away in the night about how the sad moonbeams
Through my window connect me to you in some odd, existential sort of way,
Or sitting on the beach at the ocean, casually writing little messages in
The sand that you'll never, ever see, but ALSO writing you poems!
And songs! And even Letters and emails that I'll never send,
Though I spend FAR too long making sure they're JUST
RIGHT. What the hell is wrong with me?? It's been
A decade-and-a-half since you so lovingly
"Dear John"-ed me on my birthday,
(Our kids nearby so I wouldn't
Make a scene - I wouldn't
Have ANYway) ...
Inside my birthday
Card, at that ... my damn
BIRTHDAY card!! Gotta say,
That was pretty freakin' cold, and I
Would never have pegged you to be so
Heartless. I thought I knew you - thought I knew
You better than anyone, so many deep, dark secrets
We shared, or discovered - but it seems you hid that brutal
Side away from me, and saved it for that last, keen, cutting farewell.
The joke was on me, (and I sometimes imagine you laughing at the whole
Cold birthday card "Dear John" thing with your friends ... "Oh, you should've
SEEN his face - turned a hundred shades, then white! But what could he
SAY?!? It was a birthday party, for chrissakes!! Oh, my god what a
Hilarious joke!!") ... Yeah, that really was a stroke of icy cold
Breakup genius, I must admit. I wonder if it was your
Idea, or if one of your treasured friends or family
Came up with it? Doesn't matter now, does
It? And it doesn't matter that I still
Care. And it doesn't matter
That I waste time ...
Perfectly good time,
Writing poems for
Someone who's a
Ghost ... things is,
I'M the goddam
Ghost ... a sad,
Sorry apparition,
Slowly but surely
Disapparating into
Nothingness, and
Happy to do so, to
Carry this damn pain
To my sacred oblivion ...
"recently scenes of early life have stolen into my mind, like breezes blown ..."
Quote by _Samuel Taylor Coleridge
In twilight’s deepening silence,
I sit by my window and look outside
And see the fields of ripe paddy awaiting clearance
Take me to those fields where I roamed as a child!
As I move my hands through the grooves of the past,
Before me opens lovely vistas of fun filled days- wild
Those carefree days of childhood flitted away too soon
Without leaving much of an impact in our lives
But how I yearn now for the pleasures so fleetingly gone!
Before me appear the faces of all dear ones, one by one
My mother’s smiling face and the love she lavished
Whose sweet concern and sacrifice time can never outrun
I see the stern but caring face of my dad;
The guardian and bread winner of our home
Also the naughty faces of my siblings and their pranks mad
Their merry laughter made our little nest ring
And our house, always left vibrant with hurrying feet
Oh, through ether, how my thoughts merrily wing!
Those were days when my heart never knew any sorrow
The time I remained an alien to life’s harrowing pain
Now in the upsurge of those memories, I wallow
I loath to tell myself… never will come those days again
And the ecstatic joys of innocent childhood, ever retain!
October.3. 2022
Writing Challenge- Past Memories
‘T’ Forms Poetry Contest
Sponsor – Constance La France
She waded through the dreams as she drank her coffee.
Always speaking of the past and her lost memories.
She was fine as frog hair and fleetingly thought of a time when it mattered.
Her old man had died of a broken heart in one of those.
She loved him and she loved those days but was left with his brake.
She lifted each one and slowly remembered and the love.
What shall I eat as if it counted?
She didn't wish to move on and she tried to embrace.
The woman climbed and the thought separated and died.
Have to keep on, for the moving made it all leave.
But those whiskers burned and waking she called for him.
And realized it was just a dream and the whiskers burning.
Mr Johnson was nudging her as she reached for the old man.
Mr Johnson lived there or she lived with him.
It all was so confusing and he was a clean freak.
Always grooming himself and a cough to get the hair up.
Mr Johnson had a pair when young but she had him fixed.
Why did he shave so infrequently going back to sleep.
I wish he shaved regularly and she hoped he would in the night.
Hoping for the burn she lowered herself back to the pillow.....
*****cat Johnson is my cat that when my wife and i separated she took him back to Italy with her.. Momma said his name was troppo loungo {too long} so she changed it to Mr Johnson...
A waxing crescent flashes a glinting smile at me
Through the fountain, after sunset
Pleased to see me; I surmise it wants my wish granted
A waxing crescent flashes a glinting smile at me
Happy moon, fleetingly disfigured by the coin I tossed in
It's smile steadies again when the ripples fade into stillness
A waxing crescent flashes a glinting smile at me
Through the fountain, after sunset
Submitted for...
Strand Choice F,Any Form,Any Theme Poetry Contest (Winner: Honorable Mention)
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Date written: 03/13/2020
Moon Poetry Contest/Winner(8th Place)
Sponsored by: Kevin Shaw
Date written and posted: 06/12/2018
I awoke this morning to see huge
white snowflakes falling to the ground –
an unusual sight to see in the area where I live.
Such a beautiful sight.
I had to go out and play, pretending I was filling the bird feeders.
The flakes dropped exceedingly slowly – lasted only a moment as they fell to earth.
I took the moment to reflect how
life’s moments are like these snowflakes –
most only fleetingly pass through our minds without sticking –
not particularly remarkable as they vanish from our purview.
Should we stop and pay more attention to those moments?
We may be missing something quite extraordinary.
Particularly pronounce abscess,
when rites of spring accursedness
prevails, asper testament, sans swell
scored psychological achiness
recording minecrafted history,
viz secreting acridness
permeates profusely predicated puberty,
akin to ambling au naturale adulteress
plethora plush plumage plus perfume
presage prickly profuse inauspicious pre/
post pubescent and adult affectlessness
propensity poisons primary predilection
pummeling poking pillorying
perpetual purgatory with aggressiveness.
Now translated into bumpy
layman's/woman's terms, aye
communicate, albeit stylishly campy
adhering, colluding, and choppily try
trending without trademark obfuscation,
nonetheless, a feeble
attempt might still defy,
an honest to dog ambition to express
how blooming in the dales less
sons glee aware, how lovers press
lips close together, when yours truly
shuttered himself in bedroom
of boyhood home to cope with stress
thus denying, depriving,
and destroying bone
a fied hankering,
asper this pooch hood doth hone
ache, never to experience puppy love
til pooch later in life,
when he became at present
male version, sans crone
revisiting, reliving, and
reflecting being alone
without ever touching, savoring,
and rubbing smooth cheekbone
of a lass - see, this thy reason
Matthew Scott doth bemoan
observing young bucks,
who liberate kickstarter jangling hormone
he oozes with envy those whippersnappers
gathering rosebuds while they may intone
enjoyment, qua the vitality, virility, and victory
before youth fleetingly passes versus millstone
weighing heavier with each passing year
before the grim reaper doth phone!
I’m a wild tulip, bending but
breathing beneath
a star-burnished breeze,
skimming the blazing
silk of supernova dust,
as sirens ricochet through
honeyed silence,
as though no dream has forgotten
the music of my muse,
whilst I sip from
the sky of ethereal ink:
his skin ~ my orbit,
his eyes ~ my ocean,
his lips ~ my universe,
pulling me to the
depths of desire,
for our light sings amidst
stillness that floats through ~
like an aquatic garden,
where water orchestrates
tides of temptation
and trembling tercets,
composing currents
of careful devotion…
O mystical moon,
must I serenade the sparks
that bloom beneath
your cosmic gaze?
I feel the astral frequency
of galaxies within veins,
like whimsical waves touching
the shifting shades
of shimmering silver,
whilst I remain apologetic
for the erased cadence of charm,
unlearned in quietness
amidst unseen constellations,
quivering in sync
with the quintessence
of quenched vows…
I was never a promised island ~
but a forgotten home,
with walls aching to be heard
beyond avoidant acrylics,
framed in rhinestone regrets.
So take me ~ twirl me,
like a swirling sapphire
carrying chaos of celestial flickers,
twisting and teasing
through traveling time of tornadoes…
Forgive me, as I relinquish
the mythical waterfalls,
their addictive affections
falling too fleetingly
for Capricorn captivation.
I am more than a mere vanilla version
of a vision illustrated in loneliness,
sugarcoated in rose-ruffled mists,
when dusk itself
drowned in drumbeats of disarray…