Curious Feeling

It is a curious feeling, a feathered

Falling that is—for a lack of words—

Damned to be dreary, and ironically bold.

But it is the most desirable of reasons,

To dive into madness and become a fool.

A compassionate wish that waits

For no man, and always seems…

A little incomplete. But perhaps, it is just I,

Who ponders upon the preconceived

Notion that such a feeling, such being,

Should be sought… For I believe,

It should be avoided as avidly as can be.

Surely—such a dream is the sweetest

Plague, that paints itself in a lullaby-like

Light that tricks those with the weakest

Hearts—those who are easiest, most likely

To be led astray—the gentle and the giddy,

The bashful and the beautiful.

It is the most unlikely combination,

Of overwhelming—complete—wanting and

The deepest depression I’ve ever felt.

It is happiness and hopelessness,

Tragedy and romance—the consequence

Of a lifetime of restless nights

And regret, that I never learned to dance.

     DannYetman

www.DanielYetman.com

Serendipitous Muck

It could have hailed an empty seat,

As easily as the fortune of hapless luck.

Literation licks the edge—curtails—

Of a surplus of supposings, serpentine

Sayings that wrap around poetic meaning,

And get cut, by brevity’s churning.

Nearly, or equally, as curious and cunning,

It could have crafted with the momentum

Of monumental token, and held torches,

To reason and being—as it wrote a story

Of reminiscent thieving—a merry crime,

Of veracious, victimless animation.

Actuality could acted as a fantastic

Comparison to a colourless and doleful

Dream that dies and delivers itself to me—

And befriended with paradox and repartee,

It could have laughed heartily at lethargy

And cheerless cretins who balefully

Blow words of discouragement

Mixing venially with dreadful yearning.

It is youthful sight, and unaccounted for

Improvisation, that sets an iconic image

Of fizzling circumvention—as easily

As a misstep or blunder—I wonder—

If I could have reimagined the beginning—

The silent, slippered steps that slid gently.

I err to remember or forget, the in-between

Or distal luck, that has lingered, laced

With karma and serendipitous muck. 

     DannYetman

www.DanielYetman.com

The Truth

The truth is, I am empty—tapped out

Of fruitless fantasies and amorous aching.

I am convinced that I have no smiles

Left to smile or laughs in me to give.

I am sure that levity would be lost,

As irony cannot make me chuckle,

Or even hint of curdled feeling.

Left jaded and afraid, I am uncertain

And vaguely aware of calloused antics

That once were, and endings that

Haven’t always been joyous occasions.

Honestly, I spend my days delicately

Dancing around circumstance and

The unkind secret, that reappears,

Each time I stop to examined the

Whittled life I’ve been left to live.

I cannot keep my feet still for a moment,

Else I let trueness torture me

With apathy and archaic devices.

Dare not, the sun go down, for

Dawn must always been as dim

As dusk, one night prior

     DannYetman

www.DanielYetman.com

The Precautious Script

I awoke with heavy breath, perplexed

By the sweven revealed to me—

And sauntered into my utterly vexed

Mind—my visage reflected the rare

Turmoil I horded, only half aware.

The empty bed was beneath my gaze,

But I blinked back the beckoning

As I arose, shaking apart the haze—

The fearful, fervent desire, to dive

Into the drawers of my quixotic hive.

I stood silently, before the jesting,

The rhythmic pacing as I pondered…

The methodology of manifesting

A smile—the precautious scripts,

Needed to place it upon her lips.

I was caressed beneath the sheets

By the benign burden I carried,

And baleful knowing of the feat,

The secret sewing I had veiled—

Hope, to the smile she had jailed.
      DannYetman
www.DanielYetman.com

Thievery

There is frivolity in my being,

The excited state, ever seeming

To hold my heart, and lead me blind,

The evil which has not aligned.

It is the succubus within my soul,

The selfish being in control

That steals the man within…

And slips into my skin.

Bound, betwixt and between,

I have fallen to an awkward scene.

Pushed by the fluent guise

Which whispers secrets—lies—

The coveted feeling has awoken,

Even though I have not spoken.

There are eyes guided by angelic wings,

That pluck on hearted strings—

Searching and calling, in belief

The heart is the greatest thief. 

DannYetman

www.DanielYetman.com

Burning

There are lights burning, through the night,

A world that exists when the sun goes down.

There are metaphors sealing hidden doors,

Buried so fully, they will not be unearthed.

Men evolve and steal secrets, so that they may

Have them as their own and wed new tales,

Adventures only partly belonged.

They speak of love they have never felt,

And the candle, they have witnessed

Burning against insurmountable circumstance.

Somewhere not far from here, the same

Words are weaving through lips, undeserving—

Finessed speak that is forged and fruitless.

Dejection is smiled upon, with laughter abroad

As calloused lips and blistered tongues

Come to meet, passionless pandering

That is both revolting and simply odd.

To the same cheeks that flap weakly,

Fate smiles cruelly to the rhythmic,

Symmetrical drivel that is uttered coolly,

And coiled about like a serpentine being—

An embodiment of edgeless languish.

Upon their vessels, the voyagers ramble,

And steal stories that have never been…

     DannYetman

www.DanielYetman.com

Lost Thoughts

I shouldn’t, but I do, ponder—

And awaken in the darkness,

To the stillness of many nights—

As if the ground is spinning

Beneath my mindful being.

My eyes are pried by the hand

That guides me—the fantastic

Force that I am not accustomed

To facing… I am admitting,

And speaking of slurring

Sentiment and meaning.

I shouldn’t, but I do, wonder—

In the same darkness, the stillness—

Which are akin to one another—

Where you may reside as I,

Stare off across, homes and lawns,

Which, to me, have become castles

And courtyards, of far greater,

Imagination than I could muster.

I ponder and wonder, together,

In the darkness… And I curse myself,

For awakening, but I find comfort,

In knowing that you are likely

Safe at home, deep in slumber.

      DannYetman

www.DanielYetman.com

Muted

Have I always been muted as such?

Or have I developed the tendency,

Sickening reasoning, to withdraw

And be one, without meaning.

I have vacant eyes and a vapid mind—

Surely I am mostly blind.

If it wasn’t for my heart, the diamond

Hiding beneath my flesh… I would guess,

That I am not alive and that, I am,

An entity who has been born benign.

It is that instrument of evil,

That makes me wake, and entangles me,

Sourly intertwines me among fear,

Tangling my tongue as I beseech

For another moment to undo the knot.

It creates a being who is passive seeming,

And behaviour so bizarre that I am

Embarrassed to speak or seek, for a

Greeting or gallant remark.

Have I always been muted in this way,

Or has my tongue decided to hide as such?

     DannYetman

www.DanielYetman.com

Sight

I wished a wish of fairy tale sentiment,

A longing heist that I want no part of.

But caught in a web—a mesh that cannot

Be thicker—I slip and flounder,

I misstep and blunder…

I howl and beat around, as I endure

Endearment and engagements.

I have encumbered the enjambments

Of a riddled mess, I am nothing,

Nothing but a shepherd’s pet—

With a tapered heart, and an unjustifiable

Longing that exists.

My own accounts and hopes of reason

Always seem to miss, as I bungle

The being that twists my seeing.

Sight is such a silly sense, blinding

Sensible gentleman, and weighing

Heavily on a long forgotten memory.

It is sight that coolly confronts,

The eyes of a lustful villain

But it is the feeling, which remains

Always—forever being.  

     DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Stories

I’ve grown weary—wasted of—

Stories pandered by a weaker mind,

Written upon stolen ink, rhymed,

And forcefully forging tales of love,

Lamentation, bitterly unkind…

Hearted fables which remain mistimed.

I have sought and searched, dejected,

Brooded upon the secrets seized,

Moments written to make me ill.

I am misguided and misdirected—

I am sick, and plagued, and diseased

By stories that bind me still.

Hopeful awakenings are born to craze,

And at the same time, speak!

Telling of an irony, most intriguing—

Binding belfries and belonging—days

Captured by the subtle mystique,

Telling tales, I find, fatiguing.

But the legends withheld are thieving…

They are nothing—nothing if not art—

Trueness, being, survival and meaning.

Meaning! And belief from a spark!

Surely they have been built, in part,

To march… To march upon the ark!

The animals, in loving shapes,

Speak of why they have been woke.

The giraffes, lemurs, and finches too,

Hippopotami, cockatoos, and apes,

Have all learned of the madness spoke—

They’ve all sought shelter aboard the zoo.

Beastly tongues reminisce, two by two,

Wish ghastly thoughts to demons born—

Beings they have not met, but assume,

Are creatures who cannot be true.

More shameful looks have not be worn,

On the ark, as the flowers bloom.

           DannYetman

www.DanielYetman.com