Long Neuroses Poems
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Take a breath, dip and glide.
Letting silken water slide past me.
Counting breathing, counting breathing.
Nothing from my normal world can distract.
Only my own neuroses, lack of confidence.
Feeling I am holding people up.
In the way, undeserved.
Yet as I glide I concentrate only on
Counting breathing, counting breathing.
The beauty holds me, forgives.
Takes my tensions, and like ripples in a pond,
Allows them to distance themselves,
Weaken as they drift far and wide.
The waves subsiding as my mind clears.
Stillness and calm, despite the movement
as I forge ahead, stroke stroke stroke breath.
Water moving yet somehow solid.
Supporting, encapsulating my body,
Weightless as I am suspended,
Fluid motion, equal forces,
All working in perfect harmony.
The perfect, pure pleasure of
Being at one in the river of life.
Hello Friends... I suffer from Severe Bi-Polar Disorder and this submission was inspired by
actual events that occured during one of my especially critical manic episodes. Be sure and
read Part 2 to complete the poem and leave your comments on the Part 2 submission. Thank
you for allowing me to share my pain for pain shared is pain diminished
Me, Myself, and I...
“There are things that concern us,”
Consensed my “Selves” in earnest
““We” fear that “I” have succumbed to delusion”
“And after careful deliberation
It is with much hesitation
That we choose to delineate upon this confusion”
“Fact is your intuition
Is riddled with superstition
And your judgment leaves much to be desired”
“So you leave us no recourse
Don’t push us to use force”
It is then that the “I” was summarily fired
I exclaimed “By whose authority?” Response, “Rule of majority”
“The “Myself” and the “Me,” (forthwith the “We”), are experts in our field”
“And with much technique and time
And some forays into the sublime
The nature of your malady will be revealed”
“So to keep yourself from having a fit
Step back and just calm down a bit”
“We,” they said, “certainly have this under control”
“We swear this won’t hurt at all”
Then I felt my inhibitions fall
Still I said a prayer to God that He keep my soul
You know, fact is I do feel off axis
As evidenced by such parapraxis
As this prose that I, (or is it “Us”), seek to pen
And with my mind feeling numb
I finally chose to succumb
And allow the “Me” and the “Myself” to begin
And then came questions in a flurry
Answer, answer and please do hurry
Not one moment of respite did they give
They pushed and they prodded
With every “T” crossed and “I” dotted
My mind felt like it had gone through a sieve
And all this psycho-analysis
Is causing my mind paralysis
The questions, can you stop with the questions please
“Yes, oh yes indeed
I do believe we have what we need
To make an attempt to identify your unknown neuroses”
Lingering longingly, lost love laments
Obstreperous outrage, overintense
Sorrowful solitude, sad, sluggish since
Tumultuous tantrums, terrible, tense
Amorous affections ambivalent
Nerve numbness nearing, now needs nourishment
Dissatisfied, disengaged, discontent
Flaunting flirtations, furtive fleet flashes
Overt optimist, outsized, outlandish
Unlimited upside, unwound, unselfish
Normalcy now, no neuroses nightmarish
Dazedly dreams, delights, daringly dashes
—————
First Place Winner
For the My Lost and Found Love Poetry Contest
Sponsored by JCB Brul
Written 03/17/2022
What I love about Star Trek isn’t the plots or even the characters, It’s their casual, daily use of fantastic technologies (think replicators) - for them, the ordinary. It mirrors our own banal use of magic-like wireless, google searches and air travel.
We are marvelous monkeys.
I’m a teenager. I am new and agog - Jesus, I have a lot to learn. How are the many marvels that elevate our lives actually made? The millions of cars, the fuel distribution systems, our skyscrapers. Who thought of all this?
We’re marvelous monkeys.
We can almost cheat death - I saw Marilyn Monroe on TV last night. It wasn't the real her - of course - just the image of her purring sexuality. The her without the messy adopted-child neuroses, chemical dependencies, loneliness and deeper longings. But it's early days - her DNA is lying around here somewhere.
We’re marvelous monkeys.
keep my union bound, let time stand silently still,
from a distance of remembrance i can catch a glimpse of my father's will,
like staring into mirrors, we were made so much alike,
staring into the eyes of my future, where were you all of my life,
catching glances, i knew in that moment, intuition through god's season,
not knowing the grander purpose that lied beyond my reasons,
with peace of mind, he showed me, this all was for love's sake,
so with that reassurance, i knew, that this was no mistake,
the piercing stare of familiarity, have i ever met you before?
were we once connected in heaven, were we friends before we were born?
did god attach neuroses, foreknowing we'de meet again,
did he know the hand we would lend one another, through his love we would be
friends?
at the gates of heaven i'll meet you, the lord will allow you to see my soul,
and the understanding not known to us now, forever will then be told.
"a woman's heart should be so hidden in christ that a man should have to seek
him first to find her."
Form:
You wore your neuroses
Like badges of Honor:
A Non-Apology creature,
- Like certain Candidates I know -
Never a trip to the Vet's;
I valued the flesh of my arms too much -
Never outside;
Except to eat grass
Throw up inside,
Despite it all,
A life stubbornly lived
Into profound old age;
Most spent asleep.
- This is your legacy; of which I'm sure you were perversely proud.
Thus, one day
After 17 years of pure existence
You passed on while climbing the stairs.
Maybe one day I'll follow,
Slipping away between
My lower and upper worlds;
Halted midway between Past and Present.
Maybe we'll meet one day in the middle,
Old friend;
Never think no one grieves for Thee.
As the moonlight reflected on a lake
Whomever you choose to be or make,
Your mind and heart can have a choice,
Add my consent if fair according voice.
Ether happiness is just a state of mind
Like joyful clouds gather or go with wind,
All states of mind, may also reproduce
Themselves in physical forms or use.
Unknown station, future may belong to hoards
Ready to gather up and sharpen the swords.
Fear may becomes panic. Its rhymes get witness
As exhausted love may become possessiveness.
If we could only have a little a bit more time,
More money, more love, maybe a better rhyme
More known or unknown thing he did not have,
We’d be truly happy. All these make us behave.
Any sequoia will watch us from higher places.
Each repressed emotion in childhood lets traces.
Cycle of life: tangled branches of every wood.
Angry may bring kind of rebel like Robin-hood
Grief may become chronic deep depression,
Envy may become jealousy, even obsession.
Sorrow looks like a robin, but what else may be?
Or sing another song, or choose another tree!
Sweet and soothing, the night is settling by now.
Shadows loaded with sleep, dull, soft and slow,
Clouds over the earth like water ready to give up.
Playing : softly, slowly, joy of love grow up:
Feelings, like the steam carried over a precipice,
So, wishful thinking carried over prejudice,
Sneaking through the trees, moon runs to here.
White lights turn off, descend and may disappear.
The overtaken, discolored, pale moon`s childhood
A hidden rhythm presides and resolves this mood
Of tonalities loaded with the hope that does not fear
New dreams crawl to the heights to fresh air.
You need a measure, if want too much without be able
Rebound for men like the expensive wine on the table.
Serotonin beyond each ill that would corruption bring,
Over dose brings neuroses, or subjective suffering.
If the feelings` denominator can flood the cognitive,
Try keep smiling: in good transfer as dough can live
Resilient like the seasons`colors and scent of the leaves
Enjoy the joy of the others under the unknown eaves.
Collection of Neuroses
To the dead I gave the waste of my mind and to the philosophers their terrible deaths,
To youth I offered poems in prose and endless neuroses braided into each other's breaths,
My stutters boil ferociously in the mouth that never learned to speak the truth out loud,
And the chance to be furious burned out before I could scream my whole bitterness to the crowd.
I banned love from entering like an inept dwarf guarding a rusted gate with pride,
I rummaged through your heart with philosopher's hands and a terrified mind inside,
The neuroses of youth sit on the shelf like a collection of dead butterflies in frames,
And the deaths of my thoughts keep piling up... uncountable... forgotten... without names.
The stutter is my only authentic language — ferocious and real and raw and true,
All other words are philosophical waste dressed up in a deaf parade costume and hue,
The chance for rage walked right past me like a night train that never stopped to stay,
And I remained on the platform... with my neuroses... and my heart... to rummage away.
To youth I stitched prose from poems and poems from prose without borders or end,
To the dead I sent the waste and to the philosophers the questions with no answers to lend,
Love stood at the door like a furious dwarf waiting to finally be let inside,
And I denied it entry... and I stayed alone... and empty... and blue-blood inside.
The collection of neuroses stretches across the shelves of my mind all the way to the ceiling,
The stutters boil in my bones and the philosophical deaths fill every window and every feeling,
Your heart rummaged through the chest found there an inept and furious and broken dwarf,
Me... the waste of the dead... the neurosis of youth... the stuttering philosopher... never a saint at all.
Written: January 04, 2025 For Contest Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
Line of inquiry:
“free from conditioned belief
no agenda on our shelf
vibrant as the light of Self
life flows on all by itself”
________________________________
Our peaceful place is a serene stillness,
Freed of a firm grasp of the familiar isthmus.
No steered ambit, no behests to satiate,
No truncated quest, or toils for tribal vitiate.
Sepia slate chutzpah, the soul's shining spark,
Diaphanous slivers and mullions pinpoint its stark.
Life lingers as leaping strides send quads convulsions,
A ceaseless cascade, a haunting mix of red, casts visions.
In the serene sanctuary, spirits shall plane,
Freed from the fetters of borrowed strain.
A stream surges, unscathed by dim schemes,
Radiating tinsel, reflecting radiant gleams.
Bathed in moonbeams, velvet drapes create a pearly gleam,
Amid enticing melody, toads hatched a fantastic dream.
This tale, a paper-thin silken gown of a gliding string,
A seed root segment fixed to the probe, splendidly cling.
Like leaves rowdy from autumn's fickle breath,
We shed imposed beliefs, escape false death.
Roots reach deep where truth alone can mend,
Untouched by fears that others' wills may send.
No nagging neuroses of self-control and vanity,
Gleefully fair breathing, obnoxious bully of inanity.
Liberated from loads, major culprits in building tension,
Unbridled, freed seaworthiness of untested dissension.
A quiet loot, winning gentleness upon a serene face,
Liberty lolls, luster trails hemmed in balsam firs and grace.
No view marred, no stance clutched, just paideia and piety,
Simply splendid, no spiders in their webs or anxiety.
My dreams are nightmares.
I am forced to stay awake through sleepless nights
so I won’t hear the lamentations of my ghosts.
Endless monologues with my demons.
The devil fears the darkness that perfumes my mind,
a descendant of a cannibal tribe.
I violate all human laws
that massacre my dignity.
Being a slave is not in my plans.
It’s war until the graveyard.
Indelible scars,
medals to adorn my boldness.
The suffering my body endures
turns my life into a horror film.
I hate the human species
and I have no pet to compensate.
These insatiable parasites call me a psychopath.
I dream of slitting a pedophile’s throat
before the eyes of a rapist
waiting for his hour of execution.
I am a predator,
I will never endure their persecutions.
Hatred has replaced love in my heart.
A hardened criminal, not sentimental.
Nothing romantic,
poetry is grim
like the entrails of hell.
I carry the lights of darkness,
like the chains
that gnawed at the flesh of my dehumanized ancestors
in slave plantations.
I hate misery
and the savagery of capitalism.
I am addicted to life
like a junkie hooked on his dose of crack.
I will end up in the mud
on which I urinate every day.
I will end up consumed
by these fleeting vanities.
I go off-road
on the highway of dissent,
with my neuroses
and my transgressions as rearview mirrors.
No box, no code, no rules,
I am an outlaw.
With copper-toned skin, like the shoes of American supremacists
during the transatlantic slave trade,
traces of lashes
are still visible on my face.