I crave no longer lonesomeness,
I no longer wish for quiet,
for in the darkest pits of night
I yearn for love requited.
The angels weep,
I try to sleep,
but I'm only met with silence.
My pain is echoed back to me
so loudly in this quiet.
My heart, it aches.
My shoulders shake.
I crave to hear your voice-
Any noise, just anything-
Anything but quiet.
The solemnity of silence.
The pestering of nothing.
The aching, grating pain you feel
from the lack of loving.
Feels like grumpy faces when I close my eyes.
Unflattering flour on an unflattering apron.
Sandpapered down thoughts.
Flies.
Feels like a garden filled with sand, and maybe creaking sounds.
As if there’s a ghost of a swingset.
Sticks in the grass, but some are alive.
Growling, chomping apple pie with teeth.
It’s all grandma’s house,
Weird bugs, sticks coming to life, torn up scarves.
The vases in the closet.
She used to live here by herself.
We had said for years the same pestering stuff.
Even the willow tree snapped at her.
The feeling is as familiar as gravel in her driveway almost flying into my eye.
I think 92 was it.
Feels like her apple pie spattering near my burning feet.
Flies.
The mellowed out wallpaper.
Hair.
It was the night before her 92nd birthday.
I said “92 is coming for you,” in my sleep sometimes.
Would wake up with flour in my eye.
A feeling like apple pie slobbering on me.
Feels like grumpy faces-
Not grandma’s but her childhood friend in my double vision.
She knows what there is, over there in the light…
Flies…
…eating a Juicy Apple Pie handmade by some stranger.
the blinders rest with ease—
seams seemingly gaunting;
haunting whispers crunch like teeth,
seekers left to guess
pestering what comes next
be a kiss that is gentle
or bent with tiles filing
finally laying—rather lying;
dying to look you
hook right between the eye
lend the heaven, tongues that speak.
though weepy,
deep and soundly they hide
behind masks clasping dearly
refraining to reclaim their faces
places they’ve felt love.
people they’ve once known—
sewn behind is their truth
and truthfully their pain is plain
written in bold
holding bruises
whether you choose to see it
or be it amiss.
wishing well feels like rope
we can feel it doping us
hoping that our next breath
is the last one to give less.
but living session after session
their weapons once sharp dulling
full hands weaken with tire
and wiry sighs leave the senses
why?
because we weren’t just prizes
disguised to heel blindly
or crawl without first running—
we are not sick and lowly farm animal
simple, dirty, managed to be manageable.
I am a wounded man who has lost all belief!
The Grim Reaper will soon be coming like a thief!
{The fickle sickle of a pestering Jester}
Give me Nepenthe that I may forget my grief,
And relearn to be joyous in this life so brief!
Make me drink this nectar, may I find some relief!
Maybe I'll change my mind and shed my unbelief,
Or find my lost hope and turn over a new leaf!
This cup of forgetfulness will now become chief
In restoring my faith, I'll wipe my disbelief!
Give me Nepenthe that I may forget my grief,
And relearn to be joyous in this life so brief!
OHH!!! You Incessant Insect..
You make it hard to direct my energy,
Positively, Peacefully.
Why do you keep pestering me?
Investigating every inch,
Of what you can see.
I'm feeling the pinch,
The sting,
Them little legs Tickling,
In my hairs wiggling.
My hands are waving,
Slapping.
My Nerves are snapping,
I must be over reacting.
They must be attacking,
I'm retracting,
Packing my things.
Through the sound ,
Of buzzing wings.
Emotions are raising,
It's so FRUSTRATING.
Then my Heart Sings,
As Nature brings,
It's smallest and bravest,
Insects, here to test,
The patience of her subjects.
What we reflect,
Through are reflexes.
As my energy progresses,
Through this session.
Present in the sensitivity,
And bravery,
Of the incessant Insects,
Directing me.
I'm a poet
Who are you?
Are you a poet, too?
If you are, do you tell?
Or do you keep it a secret?
Do you share your poems?
or do you hide them away?
Do you have words flowing
in your head and pestering you
until you get them recorded?
If you do, chances are you are
a poet, even if you don't know it!
I look at the stars for hours wondering
questions fill my mind
I am thinking all the time
Pestering thoughts
Searching for answers never to be found
The world is a huge mystery
a mystery we may never fully solve
yet these questions taunt us
make us wonder
all our lives never knowing
what could the truth be
playful prancing pixie Petula Penelope
prancing in a parade beside Patty and me
preventing platitudes from distracting playboys three
privately pestering both Patty and me
My muse keeps pestering like a cenobite,
chewing my brain like a hungry parasite.
Pressuring the ink to bleed like acid rain,
catharsis to release perpetual pain.
Hiding poems that live rent free like boarders,
I'm a shadow slave refusing it's orders.
This elusive euphoria sounds absurd,
because I'm silent in my clandestine world.
My pen has froze in this salacious summer,
ignoring mental murderous moon's mummer.
My faithful muse, why don't you abandon me,
can't you see I have no time for poetry.
I've fallen free without words, feeling too deep,
please do not disturb me, I just want to sleep.
What's madness but nobility of Soul
at odds with circumstance
Theodore Roethke
Extraneous circumstances
delve into utopian
realizations that
make you understand
you may not
be all there
Ramifications manifest
themselves on a
daily basis totally
controlling you
Petulant realities
stream into
your consciousness
pestering routines
that convalesce
within dimensions that
are never surpassed
beckoning in a
new direction
that you never
thought could exist
My restless thoughts at last stop pestering me.
No consciousness have I when first I’m sleeping.
I long to be submerged in dreams’ deep waters.
Oh, Sandman, guide me past your sandy shoreline
to drift inside the sea of sweetest slumber.
Rats! Rats! Rats!
Romping, frolicing, ruckussy rats!
Cuddly, bubbly, lovably rats!
Pestering, menacing, troublesome rats!
Rats! Rats! Rats!
Getting in your hair
Crawling through open holes
Bouncing ‘round from chair to chair
Licking leftover food out of bowls
Tickling, bothersome
Pickling, lothersome
Just plain nuisancy
RATS!
*I wrote this poem at the age of 12 and I want to share it here in honor of World Rat Day (April 4)
Inspiration has abandoned me my life without muse
Creation just laughs at me what more can I lose
Thought keeps pestering me to try and think again
Concentration waves farewell to me smiling with a grin
Family seems lost to me though they are not to blame
Friends no longer think of me the reason being the same
Lovers simply ignore me as if I never existed
Strangers just look at me the outcast, the evil, sadistic
Pain seems to love me though for it never leaves my side
Suffering is riding shotgun in this pains miserable ride
Anger is boiling over tearing me apart seam by seam
Aggression is sizing up all of the hated as I scream
Positivity seems a little tied up to deal with my thoughts
Negativity runs the race within me and never will be caught
Physically my strength seems to be on extended vacation
Mentally my mind needs to eat for i am dying from starvation
bmdavey@02/16/23
"The wind is the pounding of my heart."
O heart just blow! Do not pound like a hungry hound!
Be breeze! Do not turn into wind and roughly bound!
When you're gentle, you're soothing and caressing bride,
Beauty-concentrated; blemish less; with no pride!
You're strong; beating too fast; Flip-flopping! Venturing;
Within, yet, placid breeze endlessly pestering;
Nature is the doctor, who can cure your illness.
She grants you implicit and explicit stillness...!
God has his vital plans. Who am I to resist?
Betwixt breeze and wind, what, exactly, is the tryst?
Before apathy sets in and rough outrages creep,
Shall we sow virtues and, for ever, blessings reap...?
"As yet, the wind is an untamed and unharnessed force"
13 August 2022
Let Your Muse Be Inspired - R Form Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
The mind is a mysterious vessel
It carries decisions and memories of yesterday but
No matter how many whiskeys, they will not disappear
It replays life altering choices
Alongside choices not made, in a whine
A stamp of regret imprinted on the brain
The only way to erase it, through death
As Sisyphus, my punishment is grueling but deserved
The ache of self-loathing is like shouldering 100 slaughtered men
The colt 45 calls louder today than normal
Its call seducing
Claiming the pestering will dissipate if only
I paint the ceiling crimson red
Oh, I think today its victorious
As the liberating barrel tastes of sweet escape
Its forces are immense and face withered resistance
Swimming thoughts fly away
Refreshing darkness comes with one, quick, pull.
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