A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
...white-hot coruscating genius that more than once dipped its proverbial toes in the obscure. https://ew.com/recap/community-season-3-episode-16-inception/ T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ You get hungry as a seldom published author/poet/lyricist, so quit pedaling words and just enjoy the writing process. The bullshit ‘process’ of submitting is submission. I hear what you’re saying, and…SMH --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My goes through — R S = 2 G M c 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ————————- . How I see myself create…in the zone Curry Flurry: ▼ Writing ▼ The beautiful mess made: I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. - me Neurodivergent poet ▼ Best Poetry Collection ▼ Been more than I could imagine or expect here. Why Mail It In? In Latin ▼ Pluggers: You are an icon here. You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer. And other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "The Absence of Wavelength" Your poetic muse is on fire! Some great emotion, well-balance(d), lovely lyrical qualities -- even the ones that were written out of sadness or anger came through in a clever cadence…It's obvious you've put a lot of work into each entry and the totality of the blog has eye appeal. Published four times with one a literary journal, including… "The Tender Core (Sedona)" I don’t submit—too much work with ADHD, OCD, low vision in condensate in mental prison of failing memory. I’ve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Cynicism bred, work hard at openness and consideration. I'm Godzilla ▼ August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼
No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼ What Was NEW Who am I, you ask? My mirror knows that question, repeated daily. Just trying to create a little buzz, not boost my ego ▼ #amwriting #poetry #blog #contest #freeverse #award #bestpoetry #lyrics #music #video #YouTube #awardwinning Can you believe it took this long for someone to put a quarter in me and push the button GET ANGRY? Mud 4 My Eye: Is that you, Poo? 💩 Secret Back Door ▼ |
Pale mother always echoed the adage about not having anything good to say, say nothing at all. Slow to comprehend, it gnawed before my soft teeth chewed that. Tasted like apathy, indifference, mixed as knowing wisdom. Moreover, my red father defied, steaming in cliche quip about squeaking as a wheel, needing lubricant oil. Mom, how will they know dissatisfaction, bound to repeat error uncorrected? Dad, you always roared like a toothsome beast. Yell too much, not their concern when hard to please. Ask mother. In fact, both of you should have consulted the other, without citing tired, brain numbing, boiled down thought that is supposed to leave no room for argument, discourse. Furthermore, you should meet my kids, boasting bright memes and viral videos that capture their ever simplifying heads. Every word from my mouth redacted, as if I’ve bumbled like tumbleweed through a town called life, their residence. No barn wall rules to re-order, since we all cool, or rage, then chill. Clocking out, lock in with Monster, buzz the skill of video games or grease-thumb that necessary cell on our ‘family plan.’ Like lawyers on my retainer, represent themselves. Don’t test this PC world, been played. Is that gas I smell being lit? I step away, glare in wonder how we knew 1984 was prophesied. Now, head-bagged, babbling latest trends, where/what to eat, Google cheap fuel prices. Pondering savings — just for me, devalued by inflation, how to s t r e t c h dollars? Waste like you? Disordered, lawn to mow, trash to curb, cat puked again, not my dishes pile in sink. What street furthest from all can absorb oil-painted, Edvard Munch trapped screams, unable to utter in a worldwide bird box? Squeak like a mouse, or be mum, mom, dad. Hmm, maybe nothing changed. Nope, I’m definitely getting a whole, other vibe. I felt a large scream pass through nature 6.30.22 Disclaimer: I have not seen Bullock’s movie…think I get the gist. The rest of my rambling is experience, getting to know myself, past to present with behavioral therapy and money management. Goodbye little cottage on a lake. Poof! Grand Finale, we’ll say for: "The Bard's Hall Contest" |
building… I feel this torture, attuned. Taut echoes, pluck strings and vibrations play, send waves my way. Tortured, captured, recorded and minted, visceral-strong. Why must I feel this way? Her tousled hair-flames depress, stain on a keyboard with such pain — muffle an underground train tunneling through a soul rumbling, holds a heart ceding to every refrain. Attuned, I feel your torture, Miss Pouty Lips. Red like that never should be denied a passionate kiss. I yield to you, know, just know... taut echoes, torture rattled, gut chains. To every lyric lilt, waver and pause, my heart yields to the tender heart, like mine! Attuned to a last refrain, your vibratos send waves my way, capture soul's release I’ll not deny. Bound by this, remiss red lips unsavored. 6.28.22 10.5.22 edit 4.9.23 FR, FR, F.R. |
Freeing to think, I don’t have to write if I don’t want to write…but the resulting emptiness, that void, makes me sad. Title options: Poet Wanted To Be Novelist Poet Wanted: To Be Novelist Poet Wanted To Be Novelist I went with the comma, (title above) ultimately. Life hesitatingly reminds, I’m not in the moment until that little light turns on in my head…not over my head, unless…can you see it? If no one hears, reads … then, no one sees. Something in the dark is illuminated, because I keep passing a reflection in a hallway of mirrors, realize light inside of me gives a glimpse of a man I seldom inspect — serendipitously gives a chance to gaze with limited vision and wonder: what ever happened to the novel concept…idea to write a book, full-length literature? I’ve been prompted daily (haunted) by posts reminding of lost self-examination of the novel self. It prompts blogged thoughts, responses to posted quips, words forming more poetry, and questions googled that find other writers who’ve stared at themselves in that dark, shedding light on a wall I chose place between me and ultimate commitment with unknown reward: https://lithub.com/the-first-rule-of-novel-writing-is-dont-write-a-novel/ Sweet little hand outs (merit, awards, published poems) sufficed an ego for years, but did not inspire promising output. I’m lying in bed after eight hours of more fitful sleep to write this. Post pandemic, a great apathy clouds a leveled ego not seeking to rise, hiding in a moist mist of misery, regret and doubt…near a tomb marking a future with craft I have no discipline for, not even enough remaining obsessive compulsiveness to get past the conceptual. I’m not calling it over yet. Each person has their own journey. All the quotes and self-help books and articles just flick like lit cigarettes at my head. Poetry lit the lamp this far (borne out of desire to write song lyrics in teenage purgatory)…a savage monster that grew, tamed and educated by society, feeding itself on morsels of collected impulses and words when feeling snack-ish. To be a novelist: I don’t see viable paths forward, other than to to keep jotting my antithetical notes to the world, undiscovered, poking me and saying, Hey, hey…about that novel… So, I suppose this is a wet, underground cave where my monster and I subside. I’ve adapted. How long before my monster eats me? 6.26.22 "The Bard's Hall Contest" F.R.? Freya? When’s the next album coming out? |
Got a hook, no musical talent, wear the hell outta it with that invention…I noticed (somewhere between the Waitresses and Debbie Harry with a nod to Toni Basil): No hate. Respect. *thumps chest appropriate number of times* *finger pistols* (non-aggressively) |
Repurposed To Love you are so beautiful…shall I compare? I was your refuse, innocently picked up, never thrown away. Sorry I darken your doorstep to this day. Broken, maybe you thought you could fix me. I know what I am, fed your breath, recycled, used love seeking redemption, sought by many for reclamation. Trash isn’t perfect, once used. Sorry I darken the places you reside where I hide in delusion from life, the many people failed sending me tumbling down a road, snagged in Rose thorns, avoiding Ash of smoldering, unattended fire, colliding right into your Heather, feeding the blooming until I didn’t know how to feed you or me anymore, recede into soil as memories remind, haunt one fleeing label of unworthy. You did not do this, though I cringe at reminders I don’t live up to your purpose, despite instruction to correct, love dutifully, when unfulfilled myself inside. More than trash, dehumanized as waste or evil. Which is it, so I can decide how I’ll die trapped in your beautiful garden? 6.23.22 "The Bard's Hall Contest" It’s A Trap! I understand this is dark and heavy. Many can’t avoid feeling it, whether or not one’s own perspective is true, yet obviously flawed, but felt just the same. And why, why have to explain, defend, when the missiles of love take aim? Not going to excuse the metaphor. Who’s in my head? Surely, I realize some will object, the narcissists? The true guilty ones? Saints don’t defend themselves, but apologize, pray with concern. Throw a stone and see if you hit one. You won’t know, because they absorb our pain. The mirror reflects back on me. Okay, who’s the most saintly then, obvious it’s not me? This is my confessional. Where have all the priests gone? Cue Paula Cole. World in decay, grabbing my leg from that quagmire. I won’t go without a fight. If I accept all the above as truth, can I quit self-correcting, therapy? (Sorry, rhetorical) Point me to the road of redemption, away from purgatory, directly to sainthood? Didn’t think so. Kick the soap box out from under me…something implied here, can you infer? A bit of deviation from this postulation, though dystopia is here (wacko, uh-huh), similar to the prophecies of 1984, employed by people (self-appointed PC Police, the media/mediums, your boss & more…) who want to come correct for their overlords…telling us the correct way to behave, move away from prophecies upheld by tenets of philosophy, religion that simple minds won’t indulge unless boiled down to a meme or stupid cat video…anyyyyywayyyyy…. ANOTHER DISCUSSION FOR ANOTHER DAY, (brought to you today by Coke (intentional to sound like a cool drug? — 😉😒 SONG EXPLAINED: https://rsrihari.medium.com/feel-good-inc-explained-7b8d45366bcb |
Your mood music, viral, could infect a cavernous soul incepting, deceiving itself, believing you know the lonely exist. I feel your breathing, filling an empty one dreaming. Glowing is on the horizon, nearing a lone survivor. Wind whips sand into this artificial eye. How can I cry for a hologram interceding? Beached beneath neon palms, flashing, waving in dark, blasted heat-breezes gust a thin one down cement divides — luminous, painted, remind where to find a crosswalk. There’s nowhere to hide. Reflecting glass decides. Echoes. Dreams. Echoes. Screams. Soft… I’m not here. I was never here. I don’t exist. Words persist — words I resist. Why insist anything should be meaningful, at all? It’s what you want to say, I have inferred. 6.23.22 t.26.22 incepted |
Thousand ton bombs are raining, reigning over me, and yet dim of wit still stand in a field where wildflowers may yet appear. Each launch above from life seems targeted, finds a fool in thick of little bluestorm. With hope, as if purpose, ride out rockets’ torpedo hail. I look at you, cranking your deployed sirens, in your bunkers, or caves, in armored vehicles. You don’t dispatch or deploy for this man, who is boy, sans uniform in a lone fight. I idle in a meadow beneath distant stars, the largest nears, and yet fearless. Why? Why have I survived so long walking amid land mines with snipers aiming from bush? I walk directly through it all, unwittingly grow taller, stronger, but just a boy you know. You know? Daisies at foot, small wildlife nears. Trees suddenly take root, sky and shadow. The blackest nights arrive, when a moon soars, fully glows. I’m bathed, by pale iridescence and hum. Cooled in a long night, bedded, life furthers this soloist than galaxies above. Tomorrow’s warheads prime in silos. I sing, longing another day wading my tall grass. 6.22.22 I don’t know if it means anything, but meant something when I started. Essentially, emotion is drama that feels like it could kill us, but the experience makes us stronger…probably not wiser, in my case. It just hit me: in other words — happy idiot |
The Illusionist so much is beautiful. big shock, not me, not like I believed. I’m not whole, still healing and I won’t see you, even if you decide to pry. why try. not worthy, though I know I present myself in a certain way. sorry for my delusion, assumed an illusion, lifted so long it fell on me because I’m not strong, not whole is it wrong I believe I feel a certain way, yet lay here, motionless, quiet wishing you would lift, make me whole? I swear I’m not fake. don’t know what this is? why do I want to impress? compared to you, why do I lack so much self-love? 6.21.22 Yeah, I’m flawed You look at me, As if I could do something About it. 6.21.22 All for Freya R until I can get her out of this head |
Another Day Drowning The rain came again and it looks I’m up to my neck. Limbs heavy, wish to float. Rising to surface, after submerged, I gasp for breath. I wipe water like buckets of tears, so I see you again, envision memory of what we had. The sun lowers, angles and shines a blinding sheen. I can’t wait for darkness to take me to the river bed. You swum so well for all the years our child minds dreamed a wide ocean. Passing ships of any size, variety, gleamed. Witnessed you ride waves effortless, while I bob and thrash, try not ingest in my lungs. Water isn’t clean, as when we were young. Clouds swell on the horizon. Say a prayer I’m here to greet another day, drowning. 6.20.22 Getting old is all. I know my time could be nearing, without having lived like I dared dream. |
Quiet, listen… I’ve been…shhh. Quiet, She’s singing…I’m listening. Each lyric, inflection, pause for rest. That’s when we collect. Do you understand? Get the meaning, while swaying to an intoxicating melody? Look up. She stares you in the eye, deep, fully aware the spell casting, yearning for something. But what is it she can’t forget that brings her to an ear? You’re standing near, yet far. You could reach and taste the delicacy of a voice bending and blending soulful. Harmony that strikes a chord, salivates craving for a moment in her aura, as an aria spins, takes you to a knee, unbelieving, you were missing what you didn’t see. Glowing in this moment, quiet listening to her gold spun, gleam in soothing sun. Her song must end — but you still hear. Now, reflect. 6.19.22 To ‘Elephant’ by Freya R "The Bard's Hall Contest" Don’t leave me here. Don’t leave me here. Don’t… |
Fuzzy Fuzzy, the nearer I get arriving — arms at your side, not open and I’m…fuzzy not like you, when I was fizzy, dizzy, drunk on your love, your lips received on my tender flesh, warming love — rolling, boiling, now fuzzy. was it a dream? I want to see you clearly. Was it all a lie? Did your love make me high? Drunk on one so conceited to believe I’d be hurt. I’m just a bit fuzzy. these eyes will clear. I don’t need you to lift unwilling arms. Maybe, you’re the fuzzy one. You had my heart in your clutch. It won’t drop fully. I can catch, even though I’m fuzzy. It won’t take long for someone - you - to come to their senses, fully envision loss. Clearer, my eyes now. Turn. Walk away, don’t run. Still… a bit fuzzy. 6.17.22 while at work, interrupted for taking a few minutes by a nosy boss. I could develop a chorus. Need another chance. #freyaridings |
Make Up Something New/No To Cake Whenever it's late I need romance with something. There's no chocolate cake. The novel can still wait. Coffee isn't brewed until morning. If I binge that show, I'll sleep late. Drama in my brain doesn’t equate to a world’s pain. Endless suffering needs recreate notions of dream love, when I can't concentrate on a dutiful nightingale cooing in my ears buried in pillow. Take the car out? Where's there to drive? Fill up bags of groceries? I can't eat then flatulate. What about a book? Haven't indulged in yarn for years. The nightmare I'm living wouldn't bring any to tears. So, sleep, dream, maybe see her materialize again, if you recall the one that got away, you wish would have called. But, it's half a life ago. No escape. I chase silly words on a dim screen, so the one I lay by won't wake. More than half these years, unstated need in gut no medicine would touch. In soft fortress encased, fuzzy thoughts beg, Come back in, dream again. No alarm will disturb. Enter scene, wait and listen in a darkening revision. Black is night. Black in my head. She's not coming back. I'll make up something new tomorrow to ease the dread. 6.16.20 I edited, somewhat carelessly, overly, hopefully…ly-lee, ly-lee. Sorry, I got to produce as a muse flies. #freyaridings |
Kicking stones. How’d I get here. Is this cul-de-sac the end Of Earth? Existence? There’s a quarry ahead. I could lift each stone, peruse, Wonder if perfection exists — How smooth, if the right fit For my chucking hand, Take aim at those other castoffs, In retrograde, living in an aggregate, A hole like purgatory. How did I get here, wayward, Mindless booting things further Down a road called redemption? I only see my prison lies ahead. Well, better make the most of it. Roll these sleeves down, haul stone. I’ll examine each one, luck to find beauty Where in my travels it seldom exists, and Less obtainable, like the right rock to kick. 6.16.22 7.3.22 edit #freyaridings keeps me rolling |
These tumblers don’t align, as I spin and spin, seek egress again into an ocean of words swum that hauled out by an eager man compile messages longer than S.O.S. This lifelong game to win affection, recognition I’m worthy of your love, disregards any notion of self-worth. Not complete without reciprocation, Validation that does not come easy. S.O.S. You could watch my toil, tousle a blond crop. I wouldn’t notice, obsessed until I finish, offer each as answer before smiling eyes, see only disguise. Just feels my best not good enough, when you oar to shore. S.O.S. Who’ll solve the puzzle of me, before I accept there is no true love, a fable for all, enthrall a meager man with no plan, but fish this open sea contemplatively. Can I come correct, see response to my S.O.S.? 11.14.22 Free #freyaridings from U.S. anonymity, sorta |
Heavy Tonight Cap tight — lid on lid, a crown un-bejeweled lifted from sour skull with scowl into a fast mirror that reflects, but quicker deflected. Eyes trained by shame, resulting guilt, spark self-doubt that I should reveal, yet conceal anger, easily expressed ignorantly since youth. Does it make me wiser to self-contain in a powder keg? I remove the denim, unbuttoned, slide into my easy chair, no care for a throne. I’m no king where I roam. Should I roam? with tired words, worn expressions as deep as furrowed brows yearning rest, one good night’s sleep? I lay the head on not one, but two pillows fresh, adorned by the dryer’s heaven scent. Hope just one dream from youth returns again, tonight. 6.13.22 #freyaridings |
Your face appeared an expressionist painting come to life capturing back its original beauty — and more than just breathing, vocalizing hauntingly, lovingly and reassuring. And I am with you. Blue eyes like ours edge with gleaming, crooning our composing, attuning to any willed ear. I realize your embodiment may never near any closer to one so eager and studious of your visage — truth in beauty, embodiment painters can’t live without. I’ll never blackout you. As my vision fades, always I’ll hear tempting words you send, reverberating wave patterns tracing your signature, symphonic harmony. 6.12.22 You peaked before I could glimpse your rising. |
When You Glowed You’re small to me now, but somehow like a funhouse mirror, viewed tall, a mentor who could mold blob of boy, acting man. Sham, not for who I am, but shamed by someone who tried tame wild. Couldn’t comprehend I didn’t depend, sought the world his own way. Your guilt, a ploy. Learning, growing taller in shadows, the world would look much smaller, as you sighed, nothing to do but unclench aging, arthritic hands, loosen a well-worn scowl, darkened by that thin brim burying any expression of impression. Your objections and rejection didn’t help me grow but further away. Someday. Someday, greet again. Share lessons. Maybe, my chance to glow again. 6.11.22 This could apply to a lot of men in my life who thought they knew better, rather than help me cultivate personal interests and unique personality, choosing shame and ridicule to serve as methods of mentoring an ignorant one. In consideration of Bard’s Hall…"The Bard's Hall Contest" . |
Therapeutic Analytic Poem I get this image of stubborn cows they gently nudge, at first, to move from pasture. They kill them for meat. They could raise a gun to me. Humane? It requires a clean shot. Where are the gunmen, because a cow knows nothing, except not wanting to go? If you’re a human cow, you slowly suspect guns filled with concisely instructed words implement each cow-like journey to the processing plant. Terminated, no promised heaven to dream beyond. Once dead, neatly divided and packaged. Who would deny this traditional process of gaslighting a cow to stop grazing, come home and let the end be humane, equitable as possible. Mom needs butchered meat, so the boys can eat, grow up and be strong as cows. Never intending to be shooed from yard and street — but human, and better. We are better than stubborn animals, don’t obey our farmers, with bullets of dread. it can get messy, roaming about ‘free’. Cows used are stud, milked, grilled in portions as steak. Slice me, grind for your hamburger to fry. All of this we must eat like destiny. from 6.1.22 on iPhone while dehumanized at work. 6.9.22bedited, altered, blogged |
My clothing, hung to dry for any prying eye… I’m investigating every emotion felt, ascribing words that don’t quite match. hope a paint-brushed portrait of words I long reveal to an audience, to any that would assemble, considers love guided by illusion, or delusion, discovers how a spark initially intends. Sorry, if dry etchings don’t drip brilliant, never-envisioned-before color, the kind you fantastically assign. after stark, sobered perception, each nude word clothed codes in fleeting memory for you, hanging hope on time nail, hooked by stable wire. a piece of me and you on flat drab, adorned forever, loosens little in shadow of a narrow, hollow hall, cluttered, where half-dressed we excuse our passing. soft words want harden as timeless paint, indelible, never fading or peeling, sealed in some super gloss before falling into abyss I fear to navigate, retrieve essence of whatever it is you and I envisioned together, forever. I must step back, catch breath, breathe, inhale each consideration reconsidered in redraft after next to final, final edit. be still, view. slow this new scene, once quick-paced, now measured. tiny intervals redacted scenery, scrubbed wildflowers, replanted, recolored, recast. swaying sights lush with life anew, gentle in soothing breezes. I squeeze your neglected arm, haul you out. time still beats for an obsessive revisionist. sorry, my throbbing muffles conceivable sound. Hear me now, or hear me never. It’s hung. 6.6.22/6.9.22 We must commit to finish what we started, so we have time to live. 36 lines, free verse (if we must count like accountants) *Notice use of capitalization from apology to assertion. |
Poetry and publishing are like how I love fishing, but clueless where to drop a line in the water. I could get pretty skilled at it, if I find some places. I could ask around where to fish, but many won’t reveal their secret hole. Or, just no good advice out there. Or, so far removed from the best places to fish, you get stuck hauling sunfish/bluegill not big enough… to scale, bone, cut up…to eat. Slightly bigger than your bait, you could still haul one worthy to take home. It’s the excitement of prepping, setting your pole to reel one in, and tender wait on a temperate day, when trees shimmy turbulent leaves, yellow, green, yellow, green and the blue fades into white billows sketched on dappled glass that teases just enough to get you to grasp and tighten that light line a bit before…reel back, cast and set again. A red float happily bobble-spin dances before a little back and forth and round and down, and the game begins! Hope she’s a beauty. The One. A dream. Did I just make a poem out of that? Day 4: "The Bard's Hall Contest" 6.8.22 "Note: Revised and retitled poem [Link to Book Entry #1..." |