Long Formulating Poems
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As I ponder what to write
today august thirtieth
two thousand eighteen,
thy ploy doth in vite
a gamut of spontaneous thoughts,
that loosely cluster
before becoming tight
lee bound toward
quasi definitive agreeable, amenable,
and attainable in sight
with no deliberate intent
to suppress perspective
couched asper left of political right,
though mine embedded
liberal democratic ideology
automatically shifts, gingerly
escorts, inherently focuses,
and understandably dodges quite
unconsciously, naturally, and expressly
viz zit ting orientation trained mindset
spiked railroad ties to follow
a NON "FAKE" conservative track,
cuz existential plight
of this run of the
NON mill (let) airy night
owl hoot trumpets,
thru his pen chant
pedantic laden poetic might
(albeit gently modest)
with artful badinage,
garbage, and persiflage light
nsync with his (my) being,
an aspiring good (rook key) knight
calculating, formulating, intuiting,
where to shine
his (mine) figurative jacklight
asper shying away
NOT to antagonize
predicated on me
humble extrasensory insight
drawing, distancing, and detaching
metaphorical grip,
sans innate bias height
end from lifetime
steeped within progressive
(forward thinking atheistc) paradigm,
hence impossible to adopt
a totally tubularly neutral
point of view presents avowed challenge
to present opinions of yours truly
without instigating a verbal
and/or virtual gunfight
boot hoop fully friendship,
asper attempting tubby forthright,
and apologizing for
any stinging backlash
if accidental affront,
thus encouraging healthy
discourse without excite
ting vitriolic, toxic,
and/or dramatic dogfight
with this cat tug gar rick cull
poet hood dont bite!
We all are glad that we had the strength to fulfill~
His glorifying plan~
Of formulating a Sabbath dinner~
In a spic and span manner~
I admire the fact that He Himself made this night a bountiful night~
He is joyous to see us build up godly knowledge and skill
In our gracious, jubilant talk~
Of sharing scriptures, explaining the Words, admiring God's blessings...~
And simply relaxing...enjoying our festive dinner!~
I appreciate that you all made this night a hopeful, splendid night~
Is this night a taste of God's Kingdom?~
'cause this night is so priceless!~
Is this night a sign of God's heavenly plans?~
'cause You boosted up my happiness~
~~~~Thank You, Father - You clothed us with Your Holy Spirit~~~~
~~~Thank you for bringing us all together as a family~~~
~~Thank You for giving us a Day of Rest, GOD!~~
~I want to thank you for granting us Your superb plan!~
They're called, "the Central Science"
and the Physics connecting with other
Natural Sciences. Becoming the Number
of Atoms on the Left and the Right in the
Equation for a Chemical Transformation
to be EQUAL.
They're the Quantity, the Structure, the Space
and the Change seeking out Patterns and
FORMULATING new Conjectures. Becoming Equations
of Expressed Relationships between given
Quantities, the Known and the Unknown.
They become an instant Luminous Sphere of Plasma
held together by GRAVITY.
Descending ever sooo brightly through
Dark Cloud Constellations.
Becoming their own Thermonuclear Fusion
and Interacting Gravity, giving the Earth its source
of ENERGY.
Let NO Scientist, Mathematician or Astronomer
determine their FATE.
A.J.C
Coffee, I adore thee,
somehow you never bore me.
Bold and dark or mild and smooth,
you get me up and on the move.
In warm embrace or cool frappe,
mocha, french roast, or tall latte,
crema, sospeso or con panna,
you never fail to make my day.
It’s the best thing ever manufactured,
without it, my mind is slow and scattered,
for a quiz or formulating I’d be knackered,
every morning the Keurig is where we gather.
You pick me up and keep me keen,
in complementing any cuisine,
by delivering a dose of sweet caffeine,
you are the original magic bean.
In doses quick or lingered over,
on mornings with a hangover,
I reach for you, your warm embrace,
the morning fogginess to erase.
The flavor, the scent, which is the best?
They are of compound Interest.
French press or espresso - take your pick
- they all provide that delicious kick.
Jitter juice, rocket fuel, cup of joe,
cuppa, morning brew or ristretto,
your flavors please, your scent rouses,
a coffee shop is where the crowd is.
In slang they call it Mormon-crack,
but sugared up or with a snack,
with creamy art or straight-up black
once I’ve got it, you won’t get it back
.
.
Webster: Knackered = “very tired or exhausted.”
though thine wife gladly
(and long time ago)
verily swept passed
her final child bearing year
this house broken husband
genuinely hankers to father
(yes sire re:to set sea men
"NOT FAKE," nor NONGMO
free and reduced)
and longingly participate
in parenthood again
donning baby proof couture wear
analogous (as aye imagine dragons
fire breathing worth tolerating),
those who fervently veer
yearning to undergo
sex reassignment surgery (SRS)
with unintentional surgeon's delicate tear
aye thru thoroughly anesthetized flesh,
(especially genitals under going
transformational substantial removal
via said - bravely bite ting the bullet -
sharp pinching shear)
contemplating, formulating, issuing
personal specifications to cutting crew
validating, testifying recapping re: questing
genitals do not reappear
since significant surgery purport, some hetero
sexual person might coon sitter *****
yet no doubt a homosexual
and/or lesbian would ap pear
to understand completely if he/she
didst unwittingly accidentally overhear
confidential conversation,
yet warmly reassured the speaker,
they did not intend to get near
enough to glean enough information
that said transexual could reduce wardrobe
with women and/or menswear
and this once distraught,
distressed, and distributed
without willingness unfairly
fated to live stemmed,
undoubtedly wrought from sexual misalignment,
would post surgery
hover off the ground and modestly
swagger off into the sunset
(this scenario projection strictly of mine)
anyway he/she could map out in one direction
destiny describing,
an upswinging trajectory linear
once future freed where gender now nsync
???????
with physical gonadal accouterment
unconcerned if urge arises
to swivel derriere with flare.
-------------------------------------
duyeer93
st
america
online
dot
com
matthew scott
highland manor apartments
schwenksville, pennsylvania
19473
USA
Trixie is a muse that is less than amusing
She wakes me up feeding the last line of the best poem ever into my mind
I jump out of bed, take care of the body a bit, and bam.
The entire line is gone, even the first word.
I can hear her snickering.
I spend the rest of the day trying to capture or reinvent the best poem ever.
She does not do this to me daily, but about three times a month.
My writes are frenzied, furious, purposeless even.
I toss things down onto a page that don’t make sense even to me sometimes.
But I am compelled, obsessed, deranged, cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs about capturing.
The poems that Trixie is formulating in my sleep, and teasing me with.
I cannot not write, so I keep doing it.
To no avail, and yet, it is a compulsion that has overtaken my soul.
If I could stop I might.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Trixie is a muse that is less than amusing
I wake up as she feeds the last line of the best poem ever into my mind
I jump out of bed, take care of the body a bit, and bam.
The entire line is gone, even the first word.
I can hear her snickering.
I spend the rest of the day trying to capture or reinvent the best poem ever.
She does not do this to me daily, but about three times a month.
My writes are frenzied, furious, purposeless even.
I toss things down onto a page that don’t make sense even to me sometimes.
But I am compelled, obsessed, deranged, cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs now.
Frantically attempting to capture
the poems that Trixie is formulating in my sleep,
The ones she teases me with.....
.
This desk with its scattered papers,
blotted ink and unsealed envelopes…
passages penned and tossed
in the confusion that lives and breathes in my mind…my heart
Distance frames the walls of
the addressed…since canceled
Splintered dreams on the edges are worn,
time has shaved the moments…the places
on broken calendars swinging freely
of lost dates scratched within the numbered boxes
Sorrow carved in the fine oak grain
by an empty pen with dulling point…dented
Poetry sits meaningless
with rhyming phrases of hope…wishes…love
begging for but a brief visit,
only to be discarded between reams of teardrop leaflets
Verses formed deep within a vacant heart,
a lonely space, emptied by the loss
I write in an absolute mist,
fog induced renditions of another’s touch,
formulating in the same words…always the same words,
repeating in the darkness that sighs in rhythm of a flickering candle flame
Over and over,
echoing the halls of this barren heart
Shadows drain the breath
of hopeless desires…built on manicured dreams
within a world collapsing in shredded
prose, and fractured fingers, still writing
I am lost
without her…
10/14/16
The Poet's Ache
Greg Barden
Loaded with Loathing
The row was canine inspired.
He had a dog he treasured; enriched by its love.
She felt cold jealousy; starved of misplaced affection.
She wanted it gone; he wouldn’t hear of it.
One evening he returned home,
his beloved Henri had mysteriously died.
He blamed her; she faulted him
saying his heart wagged like the dog’s tail!
He could never forgive;
she would never show understanding!!
They now station their days, opposite each other.
He, in his old leathered, tethered seat;
she, in a rather mundane, cane chair.
He often appears to be sleeping
but the occasional crocodile slit
in his eyelids belies this;
she knits, he knows nothing escapes her,
not even the tightest, slightest twitch!
42 years together, a nettlesome relationship turned to hate,
42 years together, neither is willing to let the other win.
So they sit there hiding in plain sight.
He, lounging as if possibly dead
but probably breathing through his shoes;
she sits there imitating a ventriloquist’s dummy
minus voice and…. inserted hand.
He occasionally serves up a small, sliced smirk
which he sneeringly warms himself on;
she washes it all down with a cold contempt.
Her eyes are guns loaded with………
loathing and disdain.
In contrast…………
two love struck pigeons
now perch on the couple’s window sill.
The streamlined female pigeon
dreams of her latest Dove purchase;
the male is formulating his latest hai-coo poem.
They both have a bird’s eye view of the situation
and conclude that the couple's relationship
has more than lost its....smile;
melancholy is both master and mistress!
He occasionally stutters across the room,
slamming the door like an exclamation mark!
Eventually he totters and teeters back,
apparently opening the door like a question mark?
He has gone out to comb his hair or whatever,
a quick change of disguise, anything to annoy!
They are both, presently, in the final straight;
a race where the winner will only come ... second.
They are settled in, conditioned, waiting to see
just which one of them will falter….and flatline first!
Ian Souter
Children pick up cues from all
The people that surround them,
Formulating ways to interact
With those around them.
As they grow, they learn how some
Behaviors will affect them
And also how their actions
Might cause people to reject them.
But on the other hand, they find
Some manners to embrace,
Expecting adulation, though
That might not be the case.
Our personalities evolve
From witnessing those cues
And learning which traits help us
And which others we should lose.
Yet sometimes we are clueless
Of the way we are perceived,
For early interactions
Weren’t trusted or believed.
To some, life is a struggle,
Trying way too hard to please,
While to those who are oblivious,
They never need appease.