stream of subconciousness

maybe, probably,
no... for sure 
this isn't the can
    of slimy worms, nightmares, 
    dreamy dreams
    snails, spiders, leeches
    fluffy plush cumulus
    lovey doveyness
    stalking leopards, gazelles, 
    warlords, liberators
    swords and plowshares
    and any number of
    scary primal 
    suppressed urges
that i want to open

stream of unconciousness

a blurry of thoughts
while gently adrift in 
the independent sway
of shallow emotions
lapping in counterpoint
to the tidal swell of this
    the demotive sea

vortexting

poeming while
vortexing in this
frozen suburban
misplaced tundra

can't help but feel
my inner zhivago
over and over again
in this bleak new age
more bleak and lonely
in this glorious cold 

scribbling verses
    well... 
    taping on a keyboard
trying real hard to
write something
profound, impactful
world changing
but no chance 
of that today...

 

just stupid enough

this thing
this thing we have
this beautiful thing
this friendship
this deep platonic
connective bond
forged in our 
minds and souls
rooted in our
past and future 
incarnations

this wonderful thing
can never ever, uh-uh
no way, ever become
you know, carnal
but, hey, i am just
stupid enough to...

a little rage

okay then, enough
of these sugary
insulin laced 
high fructose 
'life is good'
corn syrupy
she or they
hell, all of 'em
are graceful swans
the earthly embodiment
of the ethereal...
    eh, i will get back to that
    but now, time for 
    a little rage

rage?
yeah... pissed off
upset, disillusioned
tired of the same old
same old, shit that is

and of what same old 
do i dare be ragin' bout?
'tis the fucked up 'leaders'
that have us in 
stupid wars
land grabs 
that manipulate 
way too many of us
to hate on others
to support their wars
their addictive lust for 
    money and power
    more power 
    more money
    no limits
    ain't never enough 

yeah... 
and no worries
not a care for 
who dies 
who's displaced
no matter 
what the fuck 
anyone says

watching you sleep

after a long, tiring, day
this cold winter night
you fell deep aslumber 
on the couch cocooned
in my grandma's afghan
by the warming fire
content and comforted
just watching you sleep

watching you sleep
softly plucking
on karibian's oud
melodies known
mostly improvised
soft, sweet, uşşak, 
gentle lullabies while
watching you sleep

watching you sleep
i laid the oud aside
for a notebook
replacing mizrap
with caran d'ache
and penned this poem
feeling soothed and just
watching you sleep

 

ode to my muse

i have a muse
so undeserving to have one
so very blessed, so very...
how do i have a muse?

to muse and inspire
she does nothing
but simply be 

a wave of her hand
    fireflies appear
    each one glowing 
    a poetic theme
as she walks
    verses of wild flowers 
    bloom fragranced
    in her wake
    each one a dream
as she speaks
    butterflies emanate
    each flutter a
    petite metaphor
a mere glance
    a sonorous lament 
    an uplifting swell
    heart and soul
    melting and melding
and when she sings
    'tis a master class
    bübüls listening
    for inspiration 

i cannot explain
not in ten thousand
suddenly less mediocre 
poems and songs