: : penned by Beverly : :

 


 
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. 
 
l'acrostics de L.O.V.E.
a fool's Boolean
old dress
the dance
opus
rain
artful deception
nothing
unrealized
chamomile
hitch-hiker
journal
the idealist
broom
guilt
abdication
city
the tutor
periwinkle
twolips
la lune
anamnesis
sometimes
affirmation
apparel
the parcel
orbiting
patience, be
relay
december
the edge
beguile
slowed
becoming
traveler
nighthawks
¿
masks
words

UNTITLED WORKS
(15 poems)

 

 OTHER POETRY PAGES  BY BEV
Unwritten Words: On A Winter's Walk
Haikus & Senryus  |  Ode to the Ocean: EBB












 
 
 

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.
 

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[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.
 

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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.
 
 

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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.
 

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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.
 
 
 

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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.
 

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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.
 

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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.
 

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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.
 
 

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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.
 

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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.
 

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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.
 

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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.
 

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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.
 

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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.
 

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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.
 

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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.
 

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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.
 

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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.
 

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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.

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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.
 

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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.
 

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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.

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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. 

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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.
 

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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.
 
 
 

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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. 
 
 

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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. 
 
 

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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.
 
 

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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.
 

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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.
 

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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 i become a crusty undergrowth
that people avoid
i want to breathe
without it reminding myself 
that i’m here
and hating it.
 
 

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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. 
 
 

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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.
 
 
 

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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. 
 
 

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nighthawks

we loved like 
an Edward Hopper painting -
in washed-out color; 
subtle 
and obscure,
like a hidden vignette 
on canvas.
 
 

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¿ 

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.
 
 

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masks

i gag routinely on the tendrils of anger 
that thread through me, 
like red bits of seething 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. 
 

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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.
 
 

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