Author: K. Samways

Constant observer. Ad hoc responder.

Categories
Poetry

un thrilling reflection

I am not a thrill seeker
I have already felt such falls
I no longer live on the edge
enjoying such close calls
I am not a party animal
I prefer my nights alone
passing by the cemeteries
imagining my gravestone
I do not appear a fun person
for my joy comes from within
and what I seek is simple
virtuous and absent sin
a place without people,
a cave of calm, a sea of silence
except birdsong, except the animals
here among       the rotting leaves
      just myself – grasped mistaken
moment by moment foregone

just letting go

       un fun
              un riled
                    un identified
              less
        self
              less
                    un identified
              un riled
       un fun

just letting go

moment by moment foregone
      just myself – grasped mistaken
here among       the rotting leaves
except birdsong, except the animals
a cave of calm, a sea of silence
a place without people,
virtuous and absent sin
and what I seek is simple
for my joy comes from within
I do not appear a fun person
imagining my gravestone
passing by the cemeteries
I prefer my nights alone
I am not a party animal
enjoying such close calls
I no longer live on the edge
I have already felt such falls
I am not a thrill seeker

Categories
Poetry

Halloween Haunt

I don’t feel right
I can’t be normal
an alien in another’s skin —
how uncomfortable at times
I see myself needing
I see myself performing
I watch the satisfaction of each urge
depressed (only) momentarily, popped
deflated pimple, red, temporary
embarrassing, addictive
craving will resurface, a monster
people argue its existence — Loch Ness —
but the lie lays bare before us
recognized or not

so, it is with robotic sensibilities
I feel myself refuse to yield
to another pointless pleasure
and instead feel pain!
which I know is not the way —
but how else will I recognize
when I am being led astray
if not by monitoring such deceits
especially harmful, discovering

my own mind is the evil
that haunts me

Categories
Poetry

Part of it all

<1>

I want to be
part of it all
not individual and alone
not an add-on, but integral
I want my purity to be yours
and I want to spark the virtue
in all minds, together
like water, taking shape

I want to see
the aggregate of aggregates
“I” am
I want to see the “I” differently
so I am not trickster-trapped
by selfish self-cherishing
grasping the most important “me”

I want to be
the cedar on the rock,
the bark on the trunk,
a drop of water in the earth
a molecule of worth
immeasurable yet meaningful
a part of it all

Categories
Poetry

Tired, but waking up

I’m tired of being blamed for the
inadequacies of others

reflected back at them
glaring

omissions come to light

you hate it, yes,
but it’s your mind’s appearance

though you cannot concede,
conceive
               such truth

let the mirror show

I am tired

and so not accountable

for you

for me,
             I take full responsibility
though I depend
completely
   upon the kindness of all beings
                 for every   little   thing

for my actions – wait
       — ha-ha, I see!

now just what they have
done to me

I, too, have reflections
   staring back
        challenging
             to acknowledge, purify

and why not rejoice
while at it

lucky   tired   me
I am my own mirror

clearly,
             I see.

Categories
Poetry

significant irrelevance

the suffering of mediocrity
   may force descent
into obscurity
        creating happiness
in lack      a simplicity
   now tempting
soothing
   a balm for chaos
out of reach
        while chasing fame’s
   firefly light    —    too brief

but that’s all he had
    no eyes on me
and false transcendence
    on his teeth
a crooked smile
    that sucked you in,
        that devilish grin
and the way with words
   and pen

maddening
        my own seeds
of frustration
     anger
               ripening

never free
   until the causes
        are purified:    undo
unhappiness-to-be

enter —
         the space and freedom
of mediocrity

Categories
Playlist Poetry Saturday Expressions

Hard to Swallow: A Playlist Poem Adjacent | Session 17

Hard to Swallow
A Poem dependent upon 15 songs

Runtime: 59min

I’ve to remind myself
       how I feel has nothing to do
            with what I can see now
                  for what I see does not function
to produce such un peace
       yet here it arises as if
            I were heroin-deficient
my mind chiming
                 you make me feel
                 you make me feel

and          how I hate to hear that lonesome
whistle blow
              knowing       it’s our time to
go       100, 500, 900 miles
from            wisdom, further away as
uncontrolled                  desire blooms,
wounds, pierces all the wrong places,
                births desperation, debases

a toxin edged along the blade
                    a goddamn shame
slit wrists, caught in the undertow
cold as sorrow      I can’t breathe
       I’ll drown you with me
steeped attachment       deep
       & tormented       held tightly
to my weak mind
       I’m not alright

I wished it wouldn’t happen
       but here the karma ripened
              and I found it hard

didya think it’d be easy?
              if it was easy, everybody’d do it too
don’t be the fool & certainly
                     don’t give up
don’t let me steal this moment from you       
now       get through the messy muck
       and find relief, in faithful peace
                     grasping’s           release

but      in ignorance, more so
            tell me that you won’t let go

Categories
Firescape Fridays

Self Irony | FF 22

The real tragic flaw in Shakespeare’s tragic protagonists is that the characters are not privy (in the full ripening of dramatic irony) to the fact that they are but players, actors, and they need not take their roles seriously at all — maybe just change characters completely and shed the oncoming doom.

However, like us, the players remain asleep to this key, this unlocking of their full potential — limited by imagination alone. (Moreover, the roles themselves are adored, the carefully crafted egos, skilfully induced immortality in temporary personas.)

And so, they are led — usually by the rope of attachment — to their doom, typically destroying others along the way.

God, I love a good tragedy.

#OthelloFan #Macbeth

So many lessons. So many illustrations. Especially self-destruction through self-preservation.

Are we not the same?

Categories
Poetry Thirsty Thursday

Exception

even exceptions to the rule

break the paradigm
of their     im perfection

seemingly im possible
at the time

wait for the   but 
the     except

wait for it to fall
as the autumn leaves
still green, clinging,
still receiving the nourishment they need

still strong, then cut – jettisoned
tossed, ripped in the wind
painted glory, faded and
               quickly burnt to crisps

as the feelings
               of new love
blossom and fold

as midnight candy
                      opens at night

honeyed fragrance satisfies space
a gift for senses, too soon to pass
                don’t get attached

and you might be alright —
           except

Categories
Poetry

Addicted to the melodrama

In my heart of hearts
I know

I know
what happiness is

I feel it exists
I know where it is to be found
under the bones, beneath the ribcage,
sub atomic the heart, in the subtle
in the very subtle mind

I know where all is found, created
produced phenomena
mistaken, mistaken
still mistaken
so there’s the rub
the grasp for external things
produced from an internal space
perceived from a point
moving through time and space
but a point, a personality nonetheless
     — non-existent so to speak
yet hard to see       (until it’s not)
   and it’s the rub that’s missed
the feeling, the touch,
the understood cause
of pleasure, pain
the smack, the beating
and don’t get me started on the aural
     — tongue lashings
to teach you tough lessons

What the fuck, right?

do you ever forget that people are real?
do you treat them too much like the dream characters you know they are?
can you feel – or is there a shelf in the way?

will someone please un-install the shelf!?

I think it can be recycled.
donate it. Please, help me.

the ledge is the safest place to be
if it perpetuates such refuge practice

but I don’t want to be there anymore

where do I want to be?

have I done the work, made the effort
that must render the results
effects I’ve created mindfully       (somehow)

and    somehow   I’ll do it again
                   ((blessings))

but oh! how I could do without
the melodramatic feeling!
the melancholy that arises,
                           such ache!
as if I am on the verge of losing
              My Attachment

balancing
the moment, a magic moment
while seeing the potential – certain!
decease, death of these magic moments

no phenomena exists in the same way
for a second moment
care to think about that?

the certainty of change
still surprises you;           cry about it
mourn the wisdom you missed
but receive what’s given to you
       now                   — and why not happily?

you’ve got this
after all, you’ve got the lines —
just practice them
as an actor, rehearse rehearse
perchance to entertain…   to fail…
to fly

imagination is all you need
to reach the end of the path

transform the melodrama
enjoy each step as you walk it

What the fuck, right?

Categories
Poetry

How does it feel?

I dream about the serenades
     I remember each bouquet
          I recollect the cards they wrote
I recall sweet things they’d say

I received all the attention,
     had a taste of every gift
          I enjoyed quality time (a plenty!)
some acts of service, if not swift

and how I miss the ways
     they’d touch me, bow me to their will
          such kind physical affection
that I crave …                 desire still

confused pleasure in each moment
     mistakenly I named the cause
          external force, sexual proponent
when really born from karmic laws

how it feels is empty
     how it feels is lost
          how it feels was temporary
even now I pay the cost

still missing stupid moments
     I still idolize false gods
            still failing through each feeling
still attached to what is, was

still hopelessly romantic
        I’m still burdened to the core
               still looking to step lightly
 while still planting seeds of war

still learning love and patience
     I still apply effort every day
               still seeking Three Jewels of refuge
and for simple blessings I do pray

                                            so when

I dream about the serenades
     smell a sweet bouquet,
          find the cards in deep dark drawers,
and reread things they’d say

I let the attachment slip away

the feeling cannot stay