From your soul all goodness pools
From your ego all badness stains
There are, there are no ultimate cynics to rhymeless epics, though Ulysses comes near to symbolic richness , without totally denigrading the romantic element.
Even one ounce of Plato is strong enough to withstand the total deconstruction of any semblance, thus the absurd defeats a plausible philosophy,
of resembling femilies that march to the beat of a tonic familiar tune, assemblages of patriots hearing it, find meaning in togetherness,
Where even false notes if cleverly misguided those too deaf to sense a loose cannon, or a misplaced treaty.
Virag comes to mind, the flower who stood the trial of a lifetime, holding on to a whiff of hope.
Durfuss my sweet, but that was before the heavy waters of silver lined blankets could cover those sleepless.
Awake from your dogmatic slumbers.
You were standing in the light streaming through the windows there in the middle of a great hallway. Waiting for me.
The sight of you always made my heart leap, though not this time, the only exception in years. As I stepped towards you, I promised myself in that heated moment that I was finished playing your games, finished. I reached you but not in the way I had ever hoped. You were thanked for your hospitality. I remained silent about the rest.
You started your reign of apologies, impugning my quiet acceptance. Always more of the same.
I took your hand, turning it palm upwards to gently lay the key to your home in it and uttered my version of goodbye, “This is the last time I will ever have to hear you say you are sorry.” Saying those words as I returned your key relieved you of your power. I turned my back on you, retracing my steps down that hallway with a new purpose, to exit forever.
However, you will never be forgotten.
[Side note: I was living out a scene from a beautiful but sad movie.]
A sultry melancholy unraveled my woes
crucifying something unfortunate
forget staggering circularly
absent any particulars
any alternatives
rotten trailblazing
time-bound
travesties subjected to dithering feasibility
end
unencumbered
…and out of millennia of circular motion
emblazened in those mimiscilr glories
In gothic frescoes backdrop
to whisper to Whisps of slightest murmuring breeze in gentle mellowed day filled pastures down by the frothing acquamarine brook,
babbling as it so donly gentle flows,
And she goes lets see eagles again together
to gather riches encapsulatingly rhythmic from inflectious mirrored California dump, hotel ,
Get in but get out quick cause once you dint stuck, there, a maze like delirium can vainly shining there, a backward look, a naustalgic retarded scan of future perfact
Now just passed.
The park tree elegant never to crease to amaze!
To crush a crush
opting to attack
rather than stay
parry as you wish
wounding yourself
‘tis your way
always away,
a way
lurking
But way away the vamp so woundedly looks
It’s jut that mirror and smoke and
she gone
the wound just a. scratch but under the skinned tatoo,
a major flaw festering, so me lady wondering ,just
now
of hurt , rather then the men behind the mirror.
agust stares, bewildering countenance.
Scorned by failing structure,
The bower bird’s once hopeful face,
Expressing loss,
Beats all the sad songs
One could embrace.
But he eventually rebuilds
On hopes of future success.
This is a rough poem, but I cannot forget the documentary about a bower bird whose mating structure was torn down again and again–the look on his face!
Rainey is a guy.
Good to know. Uh, I certainly hope I never offended Rainy with my faux pas. Nothing to the contrary was ever said. Rainey’s poetry was sure something.
Your first five lines are perfect.
Almost loaded a song by the musical group, The Bowerbirds, in tribute.
I did not know a group called the Bowerbirds exists. And you are right, Wendy, the last two lines of the poem are extraneous. I just wanted to add a pinch of hope. The poor bower bird worked so hard to impress a mate!
Keep writing poems. Yours are good.
Wendy, all of the poems you have written here are incredible.
Bless your generous soul, Pedro.
Just out of curiosity, how [in a philosophy venue] would one go about actually demonstrating that any particular poem is incredible? Is it all basically just the subjective/subjunctive reactions of each of us as individuals…or are there elements of a poem that really do [objectively] make it more or less incredible?
Ierr
Blushing.
Is love fraught with disbelief
echoed into a pawn of warm, textured terror
questioning
who
who wills unto themselves the agony
to suffer the mania of it all
understanding going black
once the television dies
writing no longer
how right it feels in closed books
notes, melodic words,
perfectly rhythmed
plucked silent now
the dance floor emptied
missed by the soul of a heartbeat faltering
answered with
one innocent tear quelling the disbelief
of who
![](http://localhost:3000/letter_avatar_proxy/v4/letter/w/6bbea6/48.png)
Is love fraught with disbelief
echoed into a pawn of warm, textured terror
questioning
who
who wills unto themselves the agony
to suffer the mania of it all
understanding going black
once the television dies
closed books no longer writing
how right it feels
notes, melodic words,
perfectly rhythmed
plucked silent now
the dance floor emptied
missed by the soul of a heartbeat faltering
answered with
one tear quelling the disbelief
of who
even after all that
there remains a uni-
Verse of ryrthm,
Vibrating,
oscillating,
to a universal question that is hidden
in the regret of loss
of lossed lirics
Many a one has ended for less,
In the bottom of some well,
that faintly reminded of some carless whisper.
Maybe just a mere signal from a far off galaxy
in an instant to let you know
but of course it comes through muddled
with unearned sympathy.
After long.passages trough myraid of eternities like a beauty asleep in a crystal
With kisses and longed embrace by the whiff.of apined. Streams of gentle spring breezes
And return again untouched by the memory of darker days
![](http://localhost:3000/letter_avatar_proxy/v4/letter/w/6bbea6/48.png)
Is love fraught with disbelief
echoed into a pawn of warm, textured terror
questioning
who
who wills unto themselves the agony
to suffer the mania of it all
understanding going black
once the television dies
writing no longer
how right it feels in closed books
notes, melodic words,
perfectly rhythmed
plucked silent now
the dance floor emptied
missed by the soul of a heartbeat faltering
answered with
one innocent tear quelling the disbelief
of who
Beautiful.