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Thoughts

my expression
airs profuse
ensnaring me
in silent noose
these ceaseless cries
of reckless poise
pen pointless vies
of restless noise
recycled prose
composed of pain
in spiral throes
bereft of shame
enmeshed in mire
moshing through muck
long since retired
from flying fucks
abundant piles
of errant swill
redundant guile
imperiled still
suffice to say
human am i
the price i pay
cannot deny
this truth unmoored
of my behest
a heart obscured
by art beset
but dare i say
i shall persist
for here allays
the impetus
to quash this voice
would surely gain
naught but the vice
of life’s abstain
so hear these words
but heed them not
for rest assured
they are but thoughts

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In the Key of Beauty

there is beauty in all things
for it exists within our words.

one mustn’t hazard any
further contemplation.

the time to speak is now.

resonate sonorously
with prosody profound.

each soul must
sing its song.

imbue your voice
upon the world
’til your heart
rings the truth of love.

with harmonic resolve.

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My Dear Companion

A beautifully heartfelt sentiment from my dear friend, Christine Ray.

braveandrecklessblog's avatarBrave & Reckless

We have only recently met

But there is a sense of inexplicable

Connection

An easiness of souls

Like greeting an old, dear friend

Whom I share a deep

History with

As if we had shared

A babysitter as toddlers

And peanut butter sandwiches and Fritos

In the lunchroom in grammar school

And protected each other

From others’ hurtful words

Fought off each other’s bullies

On the playground

Provided band-aids for

Each other’s first broken hearts

What is it about you

That feels so comfortable

So much like home?

There is a piece of you

That feels like it could be

A piece of me

Kindred spirits, twin souls

I am struck by the fact

That your bright shining soul

Is easy to embrace and love

Unconditionally, even from afar

If I can feel that tenderness

For your heart

For your soul

That feels at times as familiar as my own

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Listen, For I Have Kept A Fanatic Heart -by Ray Smith (Poetry Magazine Feb 1944)

Some poems seem to reflect the very essence of our being on an intimate level.  This is the poem that I most relate to.  The poet, Ray Smith, also happens to be the grandfather of my primary source of inspiration in my personal life.  My wife, Mira Meunier.  Ray was a poet who enlisted in WWII to serve as a combat medic.  He fought in several of the most noted battles, one of which was the battle of the bulge.  It’s interesting to see the marked change that took place in his poetry from the period before his deployment to the period after which he had experienced the horrors of warfare.  This transformation can be observed in the poems published by Poetry Magazine during those years found here https://www.poetryfoundation.org/search?q=ray+smith&refinement=poetry_magazine&page=2 for anyone who might be interested in reading them.  He would become a decorated soldier, having risked his life on numerous occasions to save his comrades. Speaking of comrades, in a vulgar display of cruel irony, he was blacklisted for being a communist after having served his country.  He spent the remainder of his years serving as the library director at several universities and served twice as poet laureate for the state of Minnesota.

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How Can I

with time erodes the roads of hope
as seconds pass without distinction
wedged between the hourglass
in retrospect, a stranger’s fiction
e’er beholden to the past
shackled by fear’s ersatz depictions
diligently deconstructed
prone to dubious perceptions
doled out in fervid procession
sold out to our indiscretion
futures nigh belie the burdens
of reflective introspection
corporate chains restrain our choices
subjugated minds and voices
commandeering our convictions
volunteering our volition
fostering the hour’s dissension
lost inside our own dimensions
drifting states of lone diremptions
kissed by fate’s unknown afflictions
wistful days of rumination
stripped of our only salvation
dripping death with indignation
listless breaths of consternation
consciously resigned enslavement
viciously maligned by deviants
clamoring to hide misconduct
how can i but not give a fuck

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In Your Absence – Max Meunier

A recent poem of mine from Sudden Denouement that I forgot to reblog here.

Max Meunier's avatarSudden Denouement Collective

how do i go on
now that this bitter husk
no longer bears your burden

now that shattered skies
no longer paint your visage white

left with naught
but false impressions
framed upon your pillow

and all the stars have fallen
from the absence of your eyes

Max Meunier (Max Meunier Poetry)

[Max states: “I write about the things going on in my life. I am a feminist, humanist, cat loving musician bound by whimsy and the incessant analysis of hyper-vigilant observations.  I am obsessed with words and rhythmically woven wordplay.” We are honored to have him as a member of our tribe.]

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Message to Fellow WP Writers

Thank you for continually inspiring me to express the truth of my experience.  Your words are the force that facilitates freedom.  Be it through your beautiful and profound prose and poetry or your kind words of support and encouragement.  The fact that I am able to express myself because of these things is monumental in its significance to me on a personal level.  Life has been particularly trying as of late, and your presence has helped me in more ways than I am able to express.  I feel honored to be a humble member of this community of tortured souls transmuting personal experience into poetic expression.  I appreciate everything you do for myself, and for one another.

sincerely,

max

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Solitude’s Descent

the struggle
to release my fears
from shackled shrills
of obscene silence

pulling further
down with every second

thought since spent

vile undertows
that know me well

spell out this hell
in heavy throes
below
where phantom prose
commiserates lament

each word
wafts ever wayward
in dissociative dimensions

obscured by the illusion
borne of urgency
forgone

enthralled by conscious calls
of a conspicuous collusion

that subdivide the lies
my conscience cries
to stay afloat

that i require
the fundamental sating
trapped in spurned epistles

e’er belies
what blissfully denies
my ignorance

which writhes on
muted shores
secluded

hopelessly exiled

as i succumb
to numbness

of my solitude’s descent

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Elaboration

spoken word is often heard to herd our thoughts en masse
in subdivisions subject to succinctly shorn abash
with tethered tongue endeavor we to eloquently air
ineffable expressions deftly doled out so to spare
gauging our engagements with gratuitous refrain
allowing temporal allotment basis to abstain
from artfully articulating free to affectate
inflection efflorescing to reflect what best relates
when clearly this impairs our proper prepense to impart
by misappropriating that which would impel our heart
predictably afflicting our intended utterance
thus rendering our voice as ineffective abeyance
which leaves us floundering to falter ineffectual
destined to descend depths of diligence misconstrued
should we decree our thoughts conveyed to show evincible
we could forgo distraught dismay deemed reprehensible
for implications minced from assertation’s open end
are subject to inferences of infinite amend
thus, i submit commitment to the full breadth of nuance
in all asseveration to disseminate ensconce
for time must be considered far beyond the imminent
lest we spend all eternity on spurned expedience
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social media rant revisited

depression sets in

cyclical perpetuity prying
clawing at the prefrontal cortex

altruistic assertions abundantly articulated
aimlessly amid atmospheres of apathetic arrogance

the pittance of positive people
professing palpable parable
is repeatedly passed over
spurned, and disparaged
for the perverted purpose of pandering
to the plight of pathetically puerile opponents
to placate their pathological penchant
for proliferated pandemonium

the spirit of selflessness
and subsequent sanctuary is subjugated
by solipsistic sentiments
that seem to spread
like pestilence plaguing the soporific populace

seeking to appease
the silent sect of surrogate shamers
tiptoeing through the treacherous tumult
presaging tales of omnipresent fear
with foreboding and pale trepidation

all too typically trivialized
by tiresome talk of intolerant tripe
tailored to tantalize stolid thinkers

in triumphant tantrums of truant intellect
inflecting in facetious affectation
fostering false intent so toilsome

tempting my intrinsic inclination
to defect and deactivate
with the hope of abating this state of inundated hatred
bred into my head by the hordes

of men faceless whose faith
one can only surmise to be heedless

so, needless to say my dismay
is with relevant reason
enough to release this lost soul
into sempiternal egress

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