Author: kwirb

Poetry

Through A Silent Moment He Whispered To Me

Through A Silent Moment He Whispered To Me

This barely audible larking will be my demise.
A throaty moan? An uplifting tone? Words forlorn?
From silence to a shivering whispers’ surprise

was that voice. It lingers from somewhere born
of wishful pleas or wistful deeds that deluged
my lungs; narrow-valved hushes, colloquy-adorned.

Though your exacting exhale is my literal refuge,
I cannot imagine unhearing your perceptions of me
and sparking better musings to aid in my rescue.

Your command, afloat in the wharf, buoyant seas,
is perhaps the best description of our enchanting,
yet, intrinsic relationship. A coughing’s wheeze,

a guilty, lone inquest, the only evidence supplanting
double meanings into my psyche’s ideals of devotion.
I must inhale truth past your complication’s panting.

Spoken wisps of tender fondness drifts in slow motion,
“Pass the salt, please.” – amidst my inner commotion. –

Written in response to a title PROMPT found here.

Experimenting with terza rima… hope you all enjoy this. #StrictlyPlatonic, haha!

whispering-marmots_1657915i

Uncategorized

Incubus

Incubus

Sanguine ether
nursing contusions;
emotional tourniquet
upon tenebrous fervency.

Succubus.

Poetry

digressions

digressions

 

 

feeble steps

failure’s mess.

efforts stressed.

Convalesce’s finesse

acquiesces…

(…nonetheless.)

 

Poetry

Tools

TOOLS

I’ve been using the wrong
tools to complete your tasking
demands of me.

Whether shiny or rusty
or opaque in luster, these
tools are all I have.

From your whizzing gadgets
and gizmos aplenty, my
contraptions implement nothing.

Poetry

Scorched Terrain

SCORCHED TERRAIN

I’ve said the things that should have remained unspoken
and dwelt on your ideas in my head that nearly engulf
the pulsing tremors of our mutual heartbeats, unbroken.
Your vibrations cause strokes. They throb, ebb. Enough.

Your countenance is a truth that I’ve come to admire.
Its appeal intends to redesign my meagerest blunders.
A heart’s consent, yours, is one I’ve had to aspire
to obtain. To beseech my appetite. To invoke wonders

upon my ego. A conscience dissected; of flesh, marrow,
and bones brittled, from which the dreamful dollops
of reverie blotched, is your flawless mind: a narrow
self that curses. – Taints upon my eagerest sonnets. –

Perhaps I did not say them enough or aloud nor apprise
my earthy efforts from your eventual, ignited demise.

Poetry

Apocryphal Us

APOCRYPHAL US

Today, I will no longer pretend to have wept,
nor further impose on squandering strides
with you as the buckle of forethought’s step;
the intricacy of faltering thoughts divides

my delicate opinions of you and your fears,
and the epitome of peace, of my meek survival.
A place which you made from singular tears.
The intimacy that you depart from your final

gift does nothing to sway – opinions of you –
the inevitability of words that may suffice
the textured, mumbles tumble that only spew
with thoughts of your ultimate sacrifice.

For today, I will not protest against your plea,
but wiping forced tears will never set us free.

#30Days30Sonnets

Ode to a Worthy Thirty

ODE TO A WORTHY THIRTY

Aye, the time is nigh. Sigh my bye, slump my spine and redefine
the eyes that strides advise; a pint-sized supply of decipher’s
rhymes revised, the demise of compromise, guises of prized decline
from swine to higher inclined lines – a geyser of wiser ciphers. –

Awake the dead, embed instead the words unsaid, of themes misled.
Tread ahead this beheaded head that swelled and bled in dread;
shred the rose bed, shed your wit’s end on sleds of words penned.
Ascend on the befriended extent of distended intentions webbed.

Clemency Menagerie – memory tremors of clever elemental remedy –
a feathery assembly of loquacious entity, empathy’s treasury,
of sensory summaries for empty sympathy; an emotional dispensary,
an airy trajectory of the exemplary infinity of a happy visionary.

Unveiling tales that inhale, travail to assail our flailing’s wail,
trains derailed, boats ne’er sailed, shocks entailed, exact’s detail,
in scales that prevail, trails that curtail, and plots that impale;
a frail veil of blotched braille nailed against a phrasal exhale.

This arc of light recites the typewriter’s plight; these nights
of psychic flights incite the might of quiet knights that invite
blights of rewrites that give the eye’s whites no green lights.
To smite and fight spiteful slights with exciting frights, a right

to rephrase blockades; phrasing amazing blazes of traded dazes
weighed in sways of jadedly hazes, to gazes of stray charades;
clichés cascade to overplayed tirades that survey the frayed delays
away from grazes decayed. An array of dismayed portrayals conveys

a simple, limbered difference in the quivering cinder’s flicker
and timbre’d, mirrored, thinker’s whisper which hinders and withers
these dis-configured, shriveling fingers, whose limbering whimpers
deliver linear figures of quicker, richer, pictures that linger.

This quirky curtsy is my earthy ode to this topsy-turvy journey;
a mercilessly wordy ode scurries to a more sturdy, worthy thirty.

@kwirb #30Days30Sonnets

So, in less than half an hour, I turn 30. Yay, adulting. Thanks for joining me on this ride from day 1, if not, just click the #30Days30Sonnets on the menu above and see the cray cray that led to this final post using this hashtag.

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#30Days30Sonnets

Dithering Gibberish

DITHERING GIBBERISH

Your moralistic judgments fade, countering slighter compulsion;
(necessary, you suppose, adjusting to the diversity of the times)
beyond them, unmasked admissions: total unmitigated revulsion.

Blundered words fail to address, in schemes or in rhymes,
the sinking slips of misdeeds excused from your countenance;
Does apathy wink at the negligent indifference in slight crimes?

Your boundless disinterest, acceptance of ignorance, in consonance
with your heedlessness’ needs to impress upon me impressionistic
jargon, provisions that do nothing but behoove my moral sustenance.

Yet, this dilemma is as pointless as your surrealistic logistics
whose voiceless facts are smothering scores of statistical vendetta
and further expunging sums of unrealistic and more imperialistic

ideals. This dilemma whose ownership divides; this taunting dilemma,
offed hopeful days and blithe nights, from faded, foggy, tattered morals
to the unenlightened lethargy of your oddly stoic, emboldened agenda.

I do not need nor desire to indicate in specificity to which immoral
tolerance or to what demeanor, that implicates or disproves your deeds;
however, I may, with tact, upturn your strife towards a laudable quarrel.

@kwirb #30Days30Sonnets
Experimenting with terza rima; in response to the decline of the educational practices and standards plaguing the media as of late.

Poetry

An Acrostic Admission for Ethel

hokeypokey

AN ACROSTIC ADMISSION FOR ETHEL

This is the last time that I take your advice.
– Hey, it won’t hurt. In and out procedure. –
Ethel, you lying sack of shit.

How did I not know better?
Of course, this wasn’t going to be anything but painful.
Kneesocks unfurled along with my pants down.
Ever felt a breeze between your thighs?
You don’t. Trust me.

Prodding me with needles and
oddly shaped tools that make my
kneecaps shiver along with my insides!
Endless investigating of my bodily prides!
You could have just said so, Ethel!

Can they turn the heat up in here?
Listen, it’s very cold.
I really am not complaining.
No, look, I can see my breath.
I am not being difficult.
Call my wife, she’ll tell you. “ETHEL!”

And then more prodding ensued.

Please, Ethel. I’m sorry I called you a…
Liar.
And a sack of shit. You and I both know that the
C word would have been worse!
Ethel? Hello? Can you redial, I think we got disconnected.

Thank you, nurse.
Oh, yes, she said she had a headache. Chat tomorrow.

Thank you for returning my call.
Understandable. We were both upset. And had. Words.
Right, of course, I agree.
No. Okay, yes. Maybe tomorrow. Feel better.

You’re sounding very… alluring… today.
Oh, I didn’t know that you had a cold.
Uh. It sounds more sexy than nasal.
Right.
So…
Ethel.
Look… can you just…
Forgive me?

Alright. I can agree to that. I really do
regret saying it. I love you, too. Yes, the doctor
ordered me these special little blue pills.
Uh. About an hour ag…
NURSE, PACK MY THINGS!!!
Don’t worry, Ethel! This hokey’s pokey is coming home!

Wrote this as a prompt to the picture above on AllPoetry.com. Thought it was something different to write, lol. It was quite fun, to be honest and, though acrostic, was not as difficult to write as I had thought in theory. Hope you enjoy, I know that I did!

#30Days30Sonnets

Bourgeois’ Bauble

BOURGEOIS’ BAUBLE

Baubles. Plentiful of such exuberance,
our futile playthings: Our idling muses.
From our buoyant imaginations useless
did we craft our calmer, lesser nuisances.
Adults had found these, things, ludicrous,
( lack of logic, form or function, for excuses),
but our childish unsophistication refuses
to find this alternate gospel humorous.

We galloped on stallions in deserted fields
or were they plains of candied grassy lush
invigorating our vitally wasteful imaginings?
Now, adorned in protective masks and shields,
the day breaks: we awaken from our rush,
bemoaning the loss of lesser understandings.

@kwirb #30Days30Sonnets