#apprenticepoet

598 posts
  • kevinosullivan 1w

    Unread

    Strangled by sadness without excitement
    Suffocated by boredoms rhythmic waves
    The banality of daily realism choking me
    Walking to work, punching a time clock
    Seeking meaning along sidewalk cracks
    Rummaging for literary scraps among ash
    Questions lurking where answers wander
    Imposing agita on the innocent and naive
    My inner turmoil evaporating like distillate
    An essence of toxic stardust adrift in time
    Breathing creativity inside literary arteries
    While mixing with the chafed or abrasive
    Too much aggregate and everything dies
    Too little and the heartbeats won't shine
    A life above the veil where utopia grows
    Heaven amalgamated away from greed
    Plain speak hidden in convoluted poetry
    Unread or interpreted, lost in the internet


    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 5w

    Quack

    Shoot down the immoral fowl who flutters
    Deceiving ducks who lie, flail and falter
    The bloody feathers in down filled pillows
    Make death of they soaring from ponds Bloodlust nears the suns setting horizon
    Quack, quack, quack sings the quackpots
    Till buckshot blasts musket lead in flesh
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 5w

    Don't move the goal

    I remember youth sports where I competed as a boy. I played football, hockey and basketball. We had adult coaches who tried to instill discipline, respect and morality into us rough city kids. We didn't become saintly or completely honest or morally just but we got better. This betterment has ebbed and flowed in and out of that young player who know lives inside me. Now I am middle aged and try to be fair and rarely compete. When I do, it amazes me how often fellow adults simply move the goal. While theoretically not nefarious it is unfair all the same. A contest between peers should be just that, not influenced by outside meddling after the fact.

    Several times in my adult life, people have rewrote the fine print after soliciting submissions. Poetry and graphic design projects specifically. As someone who know despises competition as well as capitalism; I rarely compete. Some times I want to contribute in an effort to creatively add something special to the sauce. For all of you adults calling for submissions of art, design or literature; try to imagine your childhood as if you were coached by adults with honor and integrity. Try to imagine how a subtle and trivial date extension and failure to crown a winner puts the whole contest in question. Don't try to demand inclusion and or judge based on bias instead judge only on the quality of the work available. Your tweaks and adjustments after the terms have been published is simply wrong. It is thievery, bigotry and deception.

    Keep the field level for players who show up and suit up to participate. Run your contests and choose the winner. Don't solicit entries and then squander the intellectual effort of others and the integrity of yourself or your organization.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 5w

    Not even 9am

    I got to the city bus stop this morning.
    This was only my second time ever riding.
    I'm heading to the hospital for a scan.
    Three other riders with me going south.
    A few more riders got on with us all.
    Then I could smell the booze on him.
    He was in mid sixties; all bundled up
    Sweatpants, sneakers and backpack he wore.
    He seemed as normal as the other riders.
    As we got downtown, he looks for a drink.
    We wait a few minutes at the terminal.
    There a one armed man smokes with a coffee.
    A bus ride in New Bedford, not even 9am.

  • kevinosullivan 5w

    Night Stalkers

    Sleeping cats lie still in dormant slumber.
    Such royal pets who rest as an artform.
    Perfoming as statuesque cat sculptures.
    Mapping threats, knowing all movement.
    We fumble lost in their resting territories.
    Yet barely a tail flicker or any eye opening.
    Stealthily they hunt and play as we sleep.
    Such night stalkers who we love so much.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 5w

    Shields

    A mother pops pimples as her curly haired toddler plays on the passenger seat. It's past nine pm, as we wait in our cars. Me for my bad knee after a motorcycle accident. I wonder whom they wait for as he plays and she fusses with freeing pus from her skin. The boys curly hair reminds me of my seventeen year old who had similar hair and loved their dad once.

    I arrive inside and appreciate the nightime skelton crew. The young girl who checks me in has beautiful eyes above her mask. Maybe a few years out of college, late twenties. She hands me a non metallic mask to swap out my fabric mask. It has a faint scent of mold or mildew as I put it on. I answer her few questions and wait alone in an empty waiting room out front of an empty medical office. It is calming and I do not miss whomever works the day shift or care to interact with fellow patients.

    I am met with a flirty MRI tech. She is funny and close to my age but happy throughout life. She is not as young or pretty as the other girl but a fitting match. She does like me. I know this as few people actually do anymore. It is impossible not to recognize her laughing and our banter in between routine medical questions. She showed her Trump card somewhat hidden when she said "Your Brave" after I answered if I had been vaccinated.

    She assesses me, my personality and my nationality and sense of humor for compatability. We are a match despite me being clinically depressed, unemployed, celibate, practically married with kids, pets and plants. My misery in respite as I reminded of life. We laugh and joke, periodically she flirts and perhaps is violating policies. The attention is not unwelcome, too often I am ignored or openly challenged in emotional conflict.

    I undress and sit, waiting to be called as I put on scrubs. Having mentioned how I hope to keep them after out loud. I am reminded of my brother who is a VA nurse and the stolen pajamas I wear at night. I am nervous as I sit in my changing room with my door open. Pop country plays and there is a speaker that has a knob on the wall to adjust the volume. I play with it, then remember how much I hate modern country pop music.

    I can smell my failing deodorant that leaves my natural musk in the air as I lock my things in the closet. Without aluminum I think and wonder how many people forget their four digit codes. She mentions her eight year old dog and how he should be able to come to work with her. We joke about this and that, laughing loudly like old friends. Then I see the toddlers dad who looks like a good match for the waiting mom. I wonder what his injury is and if it prevents him from working.

    I am summoned by the head guy who administers the imaging. By my side she preps me for my scan. She brushes up against me as they ask what type of music I like and place a ball in my hand for emergencies. I press it to test as she giggles away, saying not now. I reply that I had to test it to know it works. With ear plugs and headphones on I hear the music of Sinead O'Connor yet I say it is Alanis Morisette. He says that they do not have a punk rock station as she offers to find something on Pandora. She asks if I'd rather her stay to sing to me. I nervously say no but we both know I meant maybe.

    My time in the machine is done and I remove my ear plugs. She said we had our first fight as I made fun of the music that played in my ear. She knew every band and said she has a knack for knowing music. The Cranberries, Dido, Incubus she states. The poor thing has no idea that my entire life has been warfare, where I lure in civilians like her to become future combatants. With no battle winners, I just seek out the skirmishes where all involve will loose. I admitted my lack of knowledge and weakness for such trivia. I assure her that I was good at Jeopardy style trivia but terrible at music. She said If I wanted to keep my hospital scrubs that she wouldn't tell. I thank her but get dressed and leave without fanfair, no goodbyes or employees visible as I walk outside.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 6w

    Rosebud in winter.

    A newborn rosebud in winter.
    Full of color and temporal life.
    Such sadness and morbid passion.
    Courted by the strength of the sun.
    From frozen ground devoid of hope.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 6w

    Severed

    I sit dismantling a relationship in my mind.
    I seek mutual order, healing and some peace.
    How can we have gotten this far from the mark?
    All of this stuff, the physical detrius of a home.
    Our teens childhood innocence is being lost.
    Their toys are still stored in the bedroom closet.
    I can throw out my stuff that anchors me in pain.
    The shame is that as a unit we survive better.
    Alone we will all perish from the heartache.
    Solemn slaughter of mental illness on a family.
    Just a bad day that erupted out of normalcy.
    Before truly waking, the bond had been severed.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 6w

    A Shrouded Cloak

    The traumas of loving lives on past death.
    Sure we all know that death is inevitable but we all trudge on.
    We live scattered, hidden and distracted lives; consumed by the trivial and mundane.
    We try to pretend, we try to forget, we try to heal.
    Few truly know us but our mothers and lovers.
    It is sometimes hard to love us, sometimes painful and jagged to watch us falling.
    So the traumas live on in the pall of a loved ones death.
    A shrouded cloak woven through our collective fabric of time, connecting us all.
    My mourning tears shed at the news of a strangers death; for I have known love and death.
    A mother's young adult daughter and only child, gone in her prime.
    A veil of darkness will obstruct that loving light once more, and on again.
    This is the way, and we will all face the harrowing path, bearing the burdens of loving, trauma and loss.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 6w

    Tarsands

    The capitalists piping gets welded in place.
    Our bipedal survival for our sacred human race.
    Warmer it gets to becoming a hellscape like venus.
    Like the Buffalo, Cod fish and ice sheets between us.
    Gone is the atmosphere of ozone protectorate.
    We are the desperate, ignorant and inconsiderate.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 6w

    He forages

    His interests spread out akimbo
    Like the missing web of a harvestman
    A ground scavenger lacking venom
    With a noxious scent he repels others
    Feeding on opportunity he forages
    Seeking purpose beyond mere survival
    Yet alone he roams feeding on discards
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 6w

    Sad and grim

    Dreaming of the American southwest
    Where there is sand, sun and dust
    Low desert romantic daydreams
    Wintering here bulges the seams.
    Such blue melancholic daiy conditions
    Sinful souls tortured to living perdition
    Chest pressures painful in agony
    Banal interactions seeking humanity
    Lost, abandoned as others evade him
    Few see anything except sad and grim
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 7w

    Another while whale

    Built up tensions
    As cold as all war
    Ballistic injustice
    Profits they soar
    Gravity for granted
    Atmospheric demise
    We are irrelevant
    Fodder in guise
    Mars is for sale
    Society deranged
    Another white whale
    Humanity exchanged
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 7w

    Relics

    The darkness of fossils hidden in our past
    Out of step with society, nurturing hatred
    Wasting away in pursuit of pain for profit
    Instituted darkness as a looming shadow
    Trustees of war defeating moral humanity
    Prideful ignorance sung from their graves
    The cold distance of time rarely is enough
    For the veins of tragic disgrace pervade
    Such ancestral relics live on by influence
    Coagulated in lustful, ignorant bloodlines
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 7w

    Inhuman

    Lonely cyborg seeking human company
    Online and invisible, unconnected to life
    In solitude he creates alternate identities
    No matter his attempts they go unnoticed
    He is a simulation of an actual live being
    While eating, aging and communicating
    His life image, timeline and message lost
    Just a tether to conceptual experiences
    Without an audience, there is no artwork
    Meaningless by the mindless generation
    An emotional exercise clouded by fodder
    Rarely fossils remain in celluar plasticity
    His essence is both inhuman and utopian
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 7w

    Dust and ash

    Been scuttling ships and burning bridges
    I am ever onward moving in wild abandon
    Lonely and longing is the soul under stars
    Seeking meaning from future broke pasts
    Loving is letting the dead bury themselves
    For memories are collages pasted in time
    We are that primordial fragmented energy
    Like motes dancing in the sunlight beams
    Dust and ash, minerals, music and magic
    And on those strange shipwrecked shores
    You will find us in the refraction of twilight
    For no vessel can return us all back home
    We exist only in the dreaming salt of tears
    An umbilical binding us in the Astral plane
    Cry not my son and strike that last match
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 7w

    Vincent's Subjects

    We are the potatoe eaters of Van Gogh's brush. Like the De Groot family we are the rough worn and downtrodden who eat hunched by the hearth. Hard hands and faces show a peasants struggle. Twice stolen, like the toll that's placed on us all to survive in such an unjust system. On through time we work and die while fighting the whole way. Tired and poor dark and tattered; our time has also stripped all hope from humanity. So we sit and eat.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 7w

    Rewilding

    Simplicity evades as the grind culture pervades.
    Serenity escapes as the hustle mob reshapes.
    Intentional poverty holds the keys from property.
    Spiritual practice dismantles the stinging cactus.
    Grinded downtrodden towards soft paths untrodden.
    Joyous hopes come true from natures tropes.
    Walden dwells internally opposite daily hells.
    A shanty shack rewilding stakes up the ante.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 8w

    poverty and me

    Nature is a shock treatment into pure zen
    Suffering is the attainment of God's hide
    Winds blow clouds fast under Moonlight
    A beaver moon awaiting a lunar eclipse
    We are below, of desiring good and evils
    What prevents our inevitable living death
    Such organic transactional conundrums
    Destined to want for lack of acceptance
    Negatively charged by my unemployment
    Depressed in my poor minuscule identity
    Intelligent reality escapes this rock planet
    Dormant while seeking awakening truths
    Questioning the meaning of the universe
    With technology and hate, poverty and me
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 9w

    war life

    Seeking less
    Seeking more
    Seeking glory
    Seeking war

    Stealing resources
    Stealing strife
    Stealing forces
    Stealing life

    Wretched mistress
    Wretched whore
    Wretched temptress
    Wretched war

    Living orphans
    Living wife
    Living empty
    Living life
    ©kevinosullivan