Minutiae Poems | Examples

Reading the Fine Print

In younger days we booked a trip
And never gave a thought
To reasons we might cancel
And what refunds would be sought.

We rarely took insurance,
Health was not a big concern
And we never worried ‘bout the need
To suddenly return.

But age has made us cautious;
Carefree travel makes no sense
And by reading all the fine print,
Suddenly I’m on the fence.

Do we take a chance and go
Because our time is ticking fast
Or get stuck in the minutiae
‘Til the options have all passed?

Trump and his fig leaf of tariff

To trump, MAGA dreams depend on tariff,
The math adds up or not, nor yet what if,
A tree’s just tree to him,
Minutiae, mental gym
To him, more than enough is mere fig leaf.
________________________ 
Happenings | 18.08.2025 | humour, USA

Note: It’s just beyond Trump to understand that if high tariffs make it tough for the exporters, it also makes it so for the importers and the domestic consumers to whom they add to costs and inflation which is already on the rise. Yet, his focus is on the added revenue, not on the truth that this revenue would not enable domestic production and employment, American costs being too high.

Inside Outside Inside

What worth am I

in all this madness
what worth are you
in the depths 
of all this sadness

there, 
see the flight path 
to elevation 
inside the feels; 

inside the fields
of darkness 
spring wells of 
orbs popping light

the half-stride
of trying phantoms
planting seeds, 
half-baked poetry

running 
through the veins 
the golden fields 
of darkness

minutiae sleeping 
with Morpheus
under the velvet blankets
of Elysium 

terra firma robes 
overly well worn 
divested now 
in waking

kissing the farewell
to be received blessed,
annointed in the essence 
of the uncommon 

there, 
the busy minded, 
the unnaturally gifted -
The Poets ...

call you,
see -
the flight path 
to elevation 

inside the outside inside -

or, called back outside, 
there you remain, 
forever fixated
on cracking the inside 

the hoax planted 
in a dybbuk box 
unfounded 
unworthy demon 

sunken 
treasure
buried forever
grounded

hear them all, see,
inside the common feels,
the uncommon Poets 
call you

see,
the flight path 
to elevation 
reaching 

inside the outside inside




Candide Diderot. ‘24 





crosses.

Deep In the Detail

Nobody really likes a short-form read
a small screed about the mind-shattering infinitude of the universe
or the endless grandeur of nature - I mean not really.

We must move along, be willingly captured
by a more comprehensible minutiae.
The ordinary is the realm of the poet,
let the mystics ponder that big stuff.

For it is we who make our omelets
just a little different every time.
And do we list, label, depict, add, or subtract?

You bet we do.

Do we paint with a fine tipped brush - gush about
the normal, the humdrum, the passed-over,
the often overlooked and so typically common;
all those very ordinary unmemorable
yet essential ingredients of a small egg meal
for one?

Yes we do,
and you like it.

Enamored

I love  you from the curves
                 of your body,
                  to the recondite of
                   your soul,
                 and the minutiae
                 oddity
                 of your mind... !     
                 i love you
                 enthusiastically !

Thoughts That Won'T Go Away

In retrospect you can never
make sense as to why it happens.
A minute late sets a sequence loose
towards some catastrophic event,
or if you miss a step taken to complete
a simple task, you'll begin
to fall apart. So much
seems to pivot on the perfect
execution of such trite things.
Nothing is exempt.

And then there is the countless
tributaries drawn to represent 
each critical point along
the course of a single life,
or worse, the universe with its
almost infinite intersects of chance
webbed across time and space
back to its beginning. All appear
to be intricately linked, wired
into the locked rulebook
of a sinister, cosmic game.

Such thoughts overwhelm
and paralyze the brain.
Each movement made,
each calibrated ritual
bring into question just what's 
at stake, what harm will be
unleashed if you get it wrong.
This is replayed again
and again as if to multiply the sum.
In the prison
of your regimented days,
you keep counting minutiae 
and the spinning chamber
of an imaginary gun.
You just want a reset to zero.

Drone Driver

He brushes his teeth 
To start each  day
Gets the minutiae
Out of the way
Puts on his uniform
Assumes his business face
Makes the short journey
To his workplace.
He’s a professional assassin
Without prejudice or hate
Who carries out his work for
An alert and watchful state 
He can kill with precision 
But gets no vicarious thrill
When it comes the time to
Use his hard earned skill

Part of a team but really
He works on his own
When the orders come
To launch his Drone.
He’s miles away
Not really there 
As he sends death
Down from the air

He takes off his uniform
Re enters civilian life
Settles for the evening
With his children and wife
They say he’s a killer but
It’s really not the same 
He’s convinced himself 
It’s just a computer game
He keeps that thought 
Held firmly in his head
As he cleans his teeth
Before he goes to bed.
Only his wife knows about
The many tortured screams
As he tosses and he turns
Trapped in his nightly dreams

Contradictions

CONTRADICTIONS

given the
presence
of connotations
perhaps
simpler
   to list
the
delicate
diminutive
&
embrace
the barbed

serrated
&
prevalent
traditions
have access
to the
extraordinary
  encased
with
narrative

siloing
in
directions
&
hogging
the
outlines
with
minutiae
 measured

of
pleasured
 pools of
 reflected light
of
the
  defiant
 rewarding
revelations

NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE   using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand

My Dream Vacation

I long to escape,
To spirit far, far away 
On wings of my imagination 
From the mundane minutiae 
Of quotidian life.
In pursuit of serenity, 
I'd love nothing more 
To enjoy a week-long sojourn 
To a peaceful beachside resort 
Adjacent to the shoreline 
And repose 
In tabula rasa state of mind,
Unperturbed;
Listening to the soothing sound 
Of the waves, and feeling
The gentle breeze on my skin
And the sunshine on my brow.
My dream vacation is
Any tropical island 
Away from here and now.



My Dream Vacation Poetry Contest 
Sponsored by L.MILTON HANKINS
Date written: 03/07/2022

Dreams Come

White upon fog upon snow upon dreams,
dreams upon snow upon fog upon white.

Dreams come, as if the minutiae of day
are merely a prelude to night vision.

It is kin to the sun but it is not the sun,
its light is not golden and it does not warm.

His left hand is under my head,
his right hand does embrace me.

Deb'rah slew the heart of her enemy
as the prophecy foretold.

Prose Poem Immediacy

A birthing moment from the fog that surround,blissful,momentary experiences from a higher radiance, caught,captured and considered. This power to inspire never ceases, breathes in the minutiae of life,where we may be trapped.All or nothing or not at all.This perceptive observation,the now immediacy of wordless lines can recapture the moments of love or suffering and imprint our page to become an epitaph,a footnote in history as we allow faith to inform our work.

Pastorale

"If you need a thesaurus to find the right word, then it's the wrong word." -- a remembered, probably misquoted, old maxim.

A week of rain
has left my yard spongy
but quite lush -- and birds, now,
are again appearing.

A small, strange toad --
here rarely seen --
startled me yesterday
at my threshold.

Inside, my three cats
persistently attacked a lone
long lizard hiding in
an artificial palm.

I mention minutiae,
breathe deeply in and out:
my unremarkable reality,
my routine life...

Too often, words -- and
problematic politics -- intrude.

Backstreets and Galaxies

I will tell you of the backstreets
In a brain that has grown old
A mind that has wandered often
When it was young and bold

Old brains should deal in minutiae
A myth right off my tongue
For mine looks at the universe
I couldn't solve when young

It thinks of distance in light years
Time as infinity
And whether stars are live or dead
Or whence divinity

It thinks some stars it sees are ghosts
That died in some long past
But light is just now getting here
How long do star ghosts last

When I was young the Milky Way
Was thought to be alone
Now we know there are billions more
In the galaxy zone

Then thoughts return to this old Earth
And wish for hands to hold
I leave the backstreets for awhile
And enjoy being old

9-24-19
Contest : In the Backstreets of My Mind
Sponsor : Silent One

Skyler

Skyler

Little boy grown large, are you leaving me?
Where is my companion of those calmer days of motherhood
When I finally had the rhythm down enough
And could enjoy the magic of the world
 through toddler eyes
And the creative logic
 of the 3-year-old mind
And lunches at McDonalds?

Skyler
S-C-H-U-Y-L-E-R, 
Scholar, 
Professor,
 Master of minutiae, 
Watching Discovery Channel and History Channel 
And quoting dialog in entirety.
Working hard to mask the serious
 with the casual.

Charming, charmer, charmed, 
my ray of sunshine.
Moody but never brooding 
and quick to beam that grin, 
And drape one large arm 
over my shoulder
In good-humored tolerance of maternal foible.

Others see the Adonis and draw to you
 like bees to honey.
They sense what I have always known.
 I see the little boy
 gentle hearted, strong and true.
The spirit who whispered his name as I slept
And who blesses my life with the joy that is you.


(c) 2004

Cake Or Pie

Once, someone posed a question
And it made me want to cry
"If you had to choose," she said
"Which one - cake or pie?"

I didn't want to answer
I mean, why would she even pry?
It's the deepest question out there
Philosopher's testify

It really made my head hurt
I took a pill, I won't deny
That question bounced on through my brain
"Which one - cake or pie?"

Should I go back to college?
Though that thought just makes me sigh
I could become an expert on it
Get into the minutiae

I could travel the world over
Find the answer by-and-by
It could be in the Dead Sea Scrolls
Or in a cave in old Mumbai

How deep is that secret buried?
Should I give up, or should I try?
Is the truth just out there waiting?
Would it leave us high and dry?

Should I hire a detective?
A spook or private eye?
Are there agents working on it?
CIA or FBI?

Or was she trying to trick me
Trying to trap me in a lie?
Decades on, I still don't know
Which one - cake or pie

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