This
is a page where I will continue to let my thoughts flow free...little musings
and contemplations. A page for mind's hen scratch, if you will. I have
a love affair with short free-verse poems. I marvel at the way they can
convey deep thoughts plentifully without a barrage of words.
OTHER
POETRY PAGES BY BEV
Unwritten
Words: On A Winter's Walk
Haikus
& Senryus | Ode
to the Ocean: EBB
plain text version of this page
l'acrostics de L.O.V.E.
{Partie Un}
Ludicrous deliberations
of mind's vivacity
Ostentatious, fresh and
young
Vestige of dynamic thought
capacity
Ecclesiastical musings drip
from the tongue.
{Partie Deux}
Love is like chocolate sprinkles
On top of the prosaic
Vanilla ice cream of
Every-day life.
[a fool's Boolean]
for the analysis of symbolic
logic
an equation I ponder
while jotting down all relevant
variables
yet cannot solve, fool that
I am.
Archimedes I am not. (Duly
noted.)
If LOVE not TRUE = FALSE
expectation
If LOVE = TRUE, then LOVE
> ALL
{Note
to self...
Love
defined = Infinity's Formula?
Contrives
rules, yet wields them all.}
x=compatibility, y=incompatibility,
z=tolerable
If [x/y] > z, then TRUE.
If TRUE, then....
my pencil
lead breaks.
algebraic rules be darned.
the old dress
I discovered succor
in the seat of this old
chair.
Released myself from suffering
my past defined dispair.
with every nip and tuck
of mother's old hemmed dress
in every seam and thread
and loop
learned myself how to impress.
the dance
Singing, I heard your heart...
Your eyes danced the song
Your hands strummed the
tune.
The sky still in its slumber
We withdrew from the music,
but the dance carried on.
amidst the aroma of the
brine,
the fragrant spray,
We stole away to the seashore
Felt the flicker of the
wind in our hair.
In silence we sat, tallying
the stars
matchless to those in our
eyes.
And you held me like a scepter,
a paragon
Under the jeweled expanse
while the sun crept over
the horizon.
We watched a new day begin
as the dance concluded.
opus
What tales we tell with our
eyes
such soliloquies of depths
unknown,
As the flutter of birds
or butterflies
articulate your gossamer
flecks of greenish-brown.
We glimpse into mind's windows
seek to disclose our life
epics, winked.
Flipping through our lives
as photos,
A perpetual opus in a blink.
rain
I mutter my words,
soliloquies of hatred
to the downpour.
the air smells of hallways
in dank castle libraries
and worms coming out
from their cozy gutters
to play on pavement;
leaving oily pathways
leading no where.
Artful deception
I've learned how to dance
from a Picasso,
Mona Lisa smiled and told
me so.
I was taught how to think
from The Thinker himself,
and gave a listening ear
to Van Gogh.
nothing
The screen door bangs
crumbling from every inch
it opens
Like a picked scab.
Raised from the ground,
I am dirty from eyes glaring.
My entire past is a grubby
picture
of a child sleeping.
Mamma left me her ashes
Pappa left me no family
tree
Just barstools, and sweaty
men,
and whiskey breath smiles
finding solace behind the
counters.
unrealized
Beyond this wilderness of
longing
tangled up forever;
Speak of fables or poignant
rhyme,
so that comfort from reality
may be conferred.
Tell me of a heart - bound
and sealed,
yet incessant and insatiable.
Recant the untamed beauty
of a realization –
what? a union of minds!
and yet a partition of souls.
If not for unfeigned reality,
embrace this essence for
a moment
and I shall feel it like
the rushing dove
beating against the hands
of time
with pounding heart,
which is obliged to another
under a silhouette of hopes.
“Too late, too late”
the feverish mind taunts,
a mind which gazes wistfully
from afar
at a book that remains unpenned….
pages that wait unturned,
and
a plot unrealized.
chamomile
the words don't come.
Where they have gone,
I know not.
Covertly, casually
Sipping on my chamomile
I clear my throat
compelling the words
that want to be said.
stupid catalyst.
answers that only
seduce questions
volatile deductions
exposing, prodding
leading me to conclude
the inevitable.
I need something stronger.
hitch-hiker
sometimes I regret
stopping.
subtle charmer, sincere
with your enigmatic assertions
sticking out like a sore
thumb.
deceivingly lucid curiosity,
stepping in my thoughts
like a muddy puddle.
your words lingering as
footprints on my clean carpets
soiling the interior
indefinitely.
and yet you believe
that you are forgotten already,
a victim of fool-hardy regard
abandoned in the middle
of no where
without a second thought.
Absurd.
journal
my hand moves
across the page
seamless in motion
in steady determination.
sweet agony of remembrance
cramps my hand.
Resolved.
striving to attain the unattainable
-
honesty with a pen.
daisy dreaming
along the way
strolling down a
road of ghosts.
the idealist
I am a smiling canary at
a cat,
a song that wants to be
sung in tune,
a gingham apron with no
stains,
and an open window exempt
of ugly grey shutters.
I cannot believe in hate
and all the negativity that
comes with
giving less than I can give.
I trust implicitly; scold
relentlessly
yet secretly.
i am the embrace, the acceptance,
the reassuring constituent,
in theory only…like pi,
infinite, but rounded off
to facilitate comprehension.
I am a game of hopscotch
drawn in straight lines
with pastel chalk
surrounded by giddy children,
a warm guitar string,
or a new checkerboard with
all it’s shiny pieces…
and I'm getting quiet again
trying to be enough
but not too much -
just enough for everyone
else.
broom
I am the person who
sweeps up people
and dreams
when they shatter.
Dust bunnies of
abandoned hopes,
fragments of personalities
and words like litter
that didn’t quite make it
to the basket.
I am the broom in the closet.
guilt
I cannot forget
what I did,
unknowingly or not.
Guilt....
always sticks around,
like a frowzy vagrant that
stops passerby’s,
loitering in dark alleyways
with crying cats;
or that ugly shade of green
you used on your walls over
5 years ago
and can’t manage to paint
over.
abdication
Things are different
now.
awoken from the inane stupor
I reveled in,
I’m staring at
mini-tornadoes on my front
lawn
and the dust is starting
to look like
colorless Kool-Aid powder,
effervescent
sticking to newly painted
park benches
where lovers used to kiss
and we never talk anymore.
a kid is blowing spit bubbles
on the porch
and her brother is dragging
a rabbit on a leash,
resigned and limp,
being led
wherever.
city
I am missing,
only to be found by myself
when I look under a nearby
rock.
everywhere I see
frivolous encumbrances
like a Chinese take-out
tinfoil swan -
adored one second
and then discarded thoughtlessly
the next.
I’m getting so lost
and I’m wondering if I can
recoil
back into safety, before
that
inevitable piano falls from
the tenth floor
and crushes me with it's
symphony.
I keep expecting that
the softness in my face
can tell a zillion stories,
and lies;
that people will sell me
their smiles
without tax, and duty-free.
so many stories and
not enough words to fit
them in.
I’m waiting for it all to
tumble out
in a surge
of one breath.
the tutor
if you could taste my heart
dear,
it would be icing.
I always red flag my flaws
and
scrape away at what perfections
I have conjured up
to keep myself credible.
But you have taught me that
To be perfect is to be flawed
and to be incomplete is
beautiful.
periwinkle
When I breathe inside of
myself
and retreat under this familiar
shell,
sinking to the bottom
in this guise of restraint-
the stinging salt of
hesitation and fear of being
revealed…
you wait, patiently
and I can feel your peace
as I slowly surface
eyeing the outside, warily
until I'm safe in your palm.
twolips
You touch my face
and learn my history from
my lips,
impelling with kohl eyes
that draw me out and rescue
from every evil I have known.
You lay your soul on the
table
And candor is the card you
play.
A blissful conclusion to
every opera ever sung
is the devotion you sustain.
Your love, a tally of every
equation ever pondered.
And you keep inducing,
Tossing aside my encasement
Until it is just I,
leaving me bare and visible
to your love.
Replete and brimming, resplendent
You spin me ‘round in your
musings
Trace the lines around my
mouth
and let me fall gently
onto your heart’s pillow,
warming me with your mind’s
fireglow embrace.
la lune
I’m a half-lit orb
a falling meteorite
praying you don't see me,
but hoping you might
take that telescope really
late at night
and smirk at all my craters
and watch the shadows and
light
play over my surface
before the eclipse.
anamnesis
I’ve been so elusive with
myself that,
if I turn around too quickly,
I misplace my thoughts.
In this body of liquid hopes,
I’m beginning to condone
my stumble
and my own confusion
and I’m beginning to forget
everything surrounding me
dipping the oar into oil-like
water
with every stroke of the
clock
no one can figure out
the time of my departure
or the time of my return,
And I keep the wavelength
of my retrospection steady
so no one can see
the ripple of my escape.
sometimes
I’m thinking
sometimes I want too much
like a cat staring at candles
and sometimes
when I look in the mirror
I see that purple-skinned
monster
the one that haunts kids'
midnight dreams
and sometimes I feel like
sinking and begging
and forgiving
I’m tired of looking at
my feet,
and being the vocals in
a silent movie.
Sometimes I am loved
like warm summer sand
and hated like galactic
clutter
and I wish I could clean
and reformat
my brain’s cache
sometimes.
affirmation
(for Remco)
I made a mistake, and you
called it art.
With delight and savor,
considered every part.
Every word, thought, and
deed you relish
Things you never alter or
strive to embellish.
Prompting with questions
and listening intently,
you read my every page –
warm, tender, gently
like a beloved novel, devoted
and carefully.
You know not of drafted
pledges and hollow musings
composed by one vexed, enigmatic
and confusing
But you read the words written
in my mind
even before pen is put to
paper, or word to lip…
…Adequate words I fails
to find.
Your countenance is braced
with
reality and acceptance
and a touch that reaches
across oceans,
towards my fervent penitence.
And I feel demystified,
comprehended,
my thoughts fixed to your
memorization
And I feel treasured
…your voice is affirmation.
apparel
I'm wearing time like a dress
but it's ragged and worn
where the creases of smiles
cover over perplexity.
And I'm wearing a groove
in the floor of my mind
threadbare and thinking
of you -
subliminally pacing
in stasis, kept under glass.
I'm wearing a grin
because you look at me
and into me
and beyond.
You hem up the extra bits
that
drag along when I'm worn
out.
Sheer, in last year's blue
-
I'm wearing patience, thin.
the parcel
I’ve examined,
contemplated,
and then learned
not to strip the cloths
off of love
and all that is parceled
with it.
It is often best kept
unwrapped.
orbiting
Walking in time with the
rotation on its axis
round and round we travel
on the edge of this orb
watching time like a white
weathered fence
that haunts my dreams
Coming to terms with the
realization
on a cold winter night
that this won't ‘be’
Peering into the future
that will never become history
Painting 'what ifs' on a
canvas of darkness
drawing life pictures in
the stars
and humbled by the vastness
of distance,
I find comfort in the warmth
of secrets
and confessions
and unbestowed kisses.
patience, be
I tried to pen
a good poem about
patience
But when push came to shove,
I guess I lacked enough
of it
to follow through with the
deed.
relay
There is no cheeky explanation
for what I can't relay
so please tell me the remedy
for
running a theoretical one-person
race
and novocaine my obscure
fears
on this overcast November
day
I'm running mad and I'm
running a fever
and I'm running at efficient
capacity
But not carrying one of
those white cylinders in this relay
because there's no one else
to pass anything to
once I reach my finish point
no one to root for, or understand
me, or hand over water to
My running suit isn't aerodynamic,
it's cheap and chunky
so the air-drag really slows
me down somethin' awful
I'm covering new ground
but not seeing anything unfamiliar
or all too familiar
And there's no finish line
once I reach its non-existence,
and no beginning to start
at
And no prize for the winner.
december
as december embers die
on this year’s ash-ridden
hearth
I think of you
and those old diner haunts
brightly colored scarves
with breakfast
and steaming hot tea
browsing books we couldn’t
afford
and the way we talked ‘till
our throats were hoarse;
we would weather blizzards
on our deep-thought treads
down those suburb streets
overlade with cinder and
snow
it was this time not so
long ago
but oh so far away.
the edge
Here we sit...
On the edge of our mattress
In our corner house
On the edge of town
On the edge of the earth
Watching pyrotechnics
Compete with the stars
On the edge of another year.
beguile
i want to go away
i want to step back
and step out
of who i am
and what i am
and all i have become
i want to be certain of
nothing at all
to invalidate everything
i have validated
i want to be narcissistic
until my teeth grow yellow
and iI become a crusty undergrowth
that people avoid
i want to breathe
without it reminding myself
that i’m here
and hating it.
slowed
as a little girl, i counted
stars
but these days
i've deferred. i’ve slowed.
i clumsy my way into the
day
as i count your heartbeats,
your breaths,
the number of times you
blink in a day.
i count the pulses of inert
vapors thrown off of the street
and the oscillations of
the breeze
outside my bedroom window,
and when i reach the square
root of Archimedes' number
i roll over and hold you
close.
becoming
some of us weren't meant
to be
free and light and happy.
we were meant to live on
the
fringes of these places,
reveling in a delicious
slice of
continuance...
and discovering
our inner darkness.
traveler
is there something
i can send you
from across the sea?
a piece of love lost,
a piece of me?
from the coast of
idealistic thought
and sweet stinging memory.
nighthawks
we loved like
an Edward Hopper painting
-
in washed-out color;
subtle
and obscure,
like a hidden vignette
on canvas.
¿
I’m feeling cold
and dark
and drawn, unsheltered
like I’m decaying away from
the inside out,
starting with the rotten
cabbage substance
sloshing away, sloshing
pointlessly in my head
I’m hanging question marks
in the air
like drab sepia rainbows.
and I can’t stand the putrescence
of just ‘being’,
right now.
masks
i gag routinely on the tendrils
of anger
that thread through me,
like red bits of seeething
string.
and biting my lips until
they bleed
doesn't resolve the gulping
pit in my guts.
i want to ask if anyone
can hear what i hear
and if they feel the same
damning consequences that i feel,
and i wonder at
how many faces i've been.
words
lips purse
and the tightness in the
back of the throat begins
as words stay behind a mouthy
barrier.
the reality of words from
other mouths is hasty and cruel.
so full of insult. acid
and ashes.
and the good that is consumed
by the carelessness of them is disquieting.
in places we cannot touch,
only found in places that
we hide, that we live, that we leave.
they fall out from twisted
orifices
and echo inside heads and
ears. unsaid or said.
they consume.
they eat.
and the mere fear of them
makes us weak.
