Welcome to my poetry blog. I love reading Plath and Sexton and Dickenson and Maya. But to me, the best poets I have read are the unknows. The giants are great for sure, but the friends and locals and groups are a joy to participate in. I encourage everyone who writes poetry to be themselves. It is ok to have influences, but you should always in the end be yourself. There is only one them, and only one you.

Let words be your canvas, show them the raw you, in all your happiness and sadness. Show them your love of nature, and empathy and kindness, but also make them think, provoke, even blaspheme. The poet’s job to me, is to never be shy or timid, but use every word in your vocabulary to paint the best pictures you can. Paint your sunrises, your sunsets, your romance, your fears. Paint your insecurities, your addictions, your successes, your tears.

This blog is dedicated to my late mother Jane. She was my biggest supporter and never let me fall through the cracks. While she was a bit of an authoritarian growing up, that all melted away in her late years, and we grew as close as any parent child could. We had so much fun with our silly car games and rubber duckies, and counting the trees. And our wordplay games, and our thumb wrestling. And forget Yahtzee and backgammon, she always kicked my…… at that. I love you mom. I miss you horribly.

And also my late best friend ever, Bob. He unfortunately passed away in 2017. He lived in Australia, he was a science geek, and he taught me a lot about debate, and some science. I can only grasp overall concepts, not real nitty gritty details. But he most importantly made me feel comfortable in my own skin. I miss you too Bob.

Then there is this annoying guy from Okleeee homa, who says “tators”, and “videeeaaaa” instead of “video”. And don’t get John started on banjos. He is my best friend and he is always there for me, and I love that redneck.

And also Dwayne, Stacey and Vicki. You saved my life all of you. Thank you.

All poetry posted by me on this website is attached to RationalPoet@brianrrs37, handle “RationalPoet” on Twitter ,as well as “Brian James Rational Poet” on Facebook/ META. And is subject to copywrite on all my pages.

A Special thanks to Brian Sapient of Rational Responders http://www.rationalresponders.com for hosting my poetry thread for so long. Thank you.

AND….. YOU are more than welcome to share this link on your social media. Especially Meta and Twitter, but your own social media too. Any help bringing traffic here is more than welcome. THANK YOU. You may not publish individual poems without my express permission. Any links to my poetry must be credited to me.

This poetry blog may contain some material that may be considered sensitive to some viewers. Reader discretion advised.

Now, everyone, grab your popcorn, glass of wine, and watch me make a fool of myself. Enjoy.

HEADS UP….. THERE ARE PEOPLE MIMICKING MY TWITTER ACCOUNTS……

I only have two Twitter/X accounts. Twitter has now changed it’s name to “X”. So all poetry in this site referencing Twitter is also including the new name “X”.

“RationalPoet@brianrrs37”
AND
“Brian@rationalpoet37”

I have also joined Facebook/META poetry group “Facebook Poetry Society” Under “Brian James Rational Poet”

Also I just joined http://www.allpoetry.com under the user name “RationalPoet37”

THERE ARE MORE PAGES. WHEN YOU GET TO THE BOTTOM OF EACH PAGE, in mice print….. It says “Next Page”. <—-CLICK ON THAT.

NEW EDIT………


A special thanks to Zaylen of “Okay Atheists” on the Discord app, for allowing me to guest host this poetry reading available on their YouTube channel originally aired 5/22/23. Here is the link
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i_ikCkc7lWE

If you want to leave a comment to any poem, click on the BOLD title of the poem first, scroll to the bottom of the poem, and you should see a field to leave the comment in.

UPDATE EDIT AS OF 11/13/2024. I have a new account at Bluesky Soical under the handle @rationalpoet37.bsky.social .

 

 

Heads up folks, you are going to be hearing a lot of shout outs for now, about Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton as I read them. I am no good at multi tasking an their works are monumental, so I want to focus on them for now. I will be frequently commenting on their poetry and or Plath’s Bell Jar, which I am loving to bits so far beginning chapter 6 now.

I just read an Anne Sexton poem “Racoon” and of course it is metaphor for her relationships with men, or how she views how men behave, or at least, that is my take on reading it. I also like her poem “Your Face On The Dog’s Neck”.

I am in love with their works so far, not very much I don’t like. So much so I have ordered 6 Sylvia Plath frig magnets and also getting an Anne Sexton magnet and mug. I’m surrounded. Books, mugs, magnets, I am being wonderfully held hostage.

“A Piece Of Dust”, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

It was a bit jarring
He rang my bell
Buddy said of poems

“A piece of dust”
What roguery, treachery
To malign my pen
Malign my craft, with such blasphemy

“Dust? Buddy?” I ask myself
And answered forcefully
Though I am only 5 chapters
In

“And what exactly is your profession
Buddy? You carve cadavers, some
You try to cure, sure, but in the end

They get planted, or cremated
They are dust, as much as dust can be
Buddy. “

Yes Buddy, this conversation is imaginary
But you cannot accuse me of anything
It is a post hoc question, which will become dust.

But it will certainly live longer than you, Buddy.
(end)

I was literally reading Plath’s “The Bell Jar” and Plath’s character Buddy called poems “dust”. I didn’t quite get it at first, until Esther responded in her character’s own imaginary conversation, that a poem may be “dust” but it has certainly the capability to outlast a human. BHUUUUU BAMMMM! I love that metaphor! So I found myself replacing Esther in the conversation wanting to respond myself, basically agreeing with her in my own imaginary conversation with Buddy. No, not in love with him, I just simply love Plath’s metaphor here. The title of the poem is an ode to that line where he calls a poem “A piece of dust”. And Esther has an imaginary conversation with Buddy in response.

That is when my “bell” went off. Or light, hey, it’s a metaphor ok?

A Poet’s Name, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/Meta and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

As time is brutally unfair
It did so again to my best friend
Absconded with his life, and our fun

I’d blow bubbles on his tummy
Clean the crust from his eyes
He’d dig into my ear in the morning

“Get up, get up, it is time to feed me”
But his atoms moved on, gone, gone
Gone, making me long, long, long

For another to become my company
This time, I am thinking jet black
But to be honest, I’ll take what I can get

She has to be uber friendly
Not a mean bone in her body
But with the confidence to annoy me

Enjoy me, curl up next to me
Be as lazy as she likes
Be super goofy, supper silly

I think I’ll give her a hybrid name
One of Anne Sexton’s fame
And lay a path that of Sylvia Plath

Of course without the same endings.
How does this sound, for a feline’s name?
“AnnePlath” or “Annepleth” or “Annaplath”

I’ll work on the pronunciation later
I just want a fur ball, a player
With twine or maybe a laser

Welcome to the world AnnePlath.

A Sad Bone, by Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

It is a solo flight
Always will be
Even if you are selfish
And take some company

It comes in great heights
It has schedules for day and night
It has cotton covering it
And safety caps for kids

It is a solo flight
Into the fermenting of grain
Rice, wheat, barley, but of fruit too
Plumbs, apple, grapes ,even potato

It is the barber
Inviting you to go beyond smooth
Your chin, your cheek, your neck
Your wrists

It is a solo flight
A billion fireflies illuminating
Around you, monarch butterflies
Surround you

But this you don’t see
The salmon rushing upstream
The whale spouting sea water
Breaching the surface to breath

In corner of the bedroom
The faint meows, helpless
Vulnerable, blind kittens
Wriggle trying to find her nipples

But you’ve loaded it
Every single chamber
Where to put it?
Mouth, temple, chest?

Your sister is coming home
She will find the grey confetti
And strawberry jam
Chunks of stew

Your homework, the placemat
Overwhelmed with your grief
You made a grand exit didn’t you?
The solo flight, nobody wanted to see.

Macabre piñata
There are no treats in you
The tree branch, ceiling fan
Is the friend of your lasso

It is a solo flight, don’t go, don’t go.
(end)

“Sad Bone” is an ode to Anne Sexton’s poem “Wanting To Die” in which she uses those words to describe suicide.

I take suicide very seriously having been suicidal myself. I write about this because I want others who may feel the same to realize that they are not alone, but if they do succeed there is no do over. You would not be reading this now, if I had followed through the first time I thought about it, and that was when I was a teen, over 40 years ago.

Again, if you are having these feelings, talk to a trusted friend, or family member, call a hotline, or 9-1-1. There are people who care and want to help.

Planck Time, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on twitter)

I have to laugh
When someone utters
That old cliche’
“They lived a long life”

Oh don’t get me wrong
No intent on being callous
I know they will be missed
But we are merely Planck time

“Blip” the layperson knows
And in an ethereal way
They can say all day
We are in some way

A centenarian can account
The news of their day
Countless headlines
Most don’t live to see

They’ve gone
From silent to sound
From black and white to color
But it is still Planck time to me

They’ve seen the market crash
Of 29, the invasion of Poland
The surrender of Japan
The DMZ makes Ill of me

They saw the Walkman
The fall of the wall
The rise of the internet
One and for all

The planes became bombs
“The Help” of madmen’s wives
The rise of the selfie
It’s all mere Planck time to me.

Ego Divinely Inspired, By Brian37(AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on @twitter)

The twin accordions
Burned and crumbled like matchsticks
No longer playing the music
Of the briefcase

3,000 ways to say
I hate you. But on that day,
None of the quad-Kamikazes
Shouted “BANZAI”, but Allah had his say

Yet the burning Bush, in the Marlboro Mansion
Prays 1600 times, to guide the bombs
That maim and kill
Creating massive tombs

Do they think they’re back in school
Swinging on monkey bars?
Bragging about the biceps
Of their origins?

Is this what humanity has been reduced to?

I don’t remember those accordions
Ever playing monochromatic music
Jesus yet be, the only icon
Displayed in their absences

That day is not the ulcer of Genesis
Or the embarrassment of Mohammed
It is the manifestation of shame
That humanity doesn’t listen to the music of the accordions

One side attacks
The other points the finger
But no one listens to the screams
The screams of history

STOP!
It is not your day
Christians
It is not your Jihad
Muslims

It is your stupidity
In claiming
The monopoly
Of self-righteousness

Those accordions played the music of desire
Of the mosque, those in the pew
The music of the Yarmulkes
And long earlobes too

The forecast that day called for morning snow
Each flake a fragment
Of invoices, and resumes
Of proposals, and payrolls

This was a ticker tape parade
Where loathing sat in the convertible
Waving his fist maniacally at the bystanders
Daring history to repeat itself, screaming of divine intervention

And the Burning Bush
Responded in kind
And prayed to his absolute
Screaming for divine inspiration

The memory of that music
The accordions used to play
Should not be lost in selfish idealism
Demanding only one way

Jesus was not the only victim
Nor Bush, nor me
The attack on the towers
Was an attack on humanity

The cross outlined in chalk, crime scene investigators step over the corpses
Of Yahweh and Allah, Vishnu and Buddha too
The white cards, never marked their graves
Ever to be photographed

Still today, we want Moore religion
Massive stones marking our territory
Like a lion pissing on a bush
And wonder why we are attacked

You fools, it’s not the book you read
It is your arrogance, in loading the 3:57 <——- (read it like a bible verse)
And preying for divine guidance, for the bullets to hit their mark
So you can maintain your selfish status qoe

I can give you nine hundred and eleven
Reasons in human history
Ego divinely inspired
Will lead to the human pyre

Our kin of past
Or so we claim
Have past discretions
We’re not to blame

My index
Is not aimed at you
It is of lessons not learned
Wisdom not earned

Socrates was in those towers
He too was a victim
Made to drink the hemlock
And jump from the accordion

Grasping at the last notes of life
Vainly clawing at the sky
A victim of pantheistic zealots
Ending in a gruesome thump

Galileo too, crashed into the marble walls
Numbering in five, because of the ego
Of the cross, the world is flat
And I’m the boss

Yet in modern day
The music plays
Morbid notes of ego’s say
It will continue

To our dismay
Yes, it will continue
Least religious ego
Give up it’s venue.
(end)

I wrote this poem about 9/11/01 shortly after the attacks. I have grown more skeptical of all religions since I wrote this. But I still stand by one thing and always will. I believe most human beings are good, but we get divided far too much by religion, as much as we like to claim it unites us.

Religion is why a woman in Iran was murdered for her hijab not being worn properly. But here in America, religion is trying to drag women back into the dark ages by trying to control their vaginas. And we have members of congress saying the church should dictate to the state. Things like this will always scare me. Even though I am realistic in that religion will never be completely gone off this planet. But it does not deserve a pass either, no religion does.

The “Moore religion” is not a misspelling. Judge Roy Moore insisted on a giant stone monument of the 10 commandments in the rotunda of his courthouse. He was taken to court and the monument was removed eventually. I cannot understand why people want to gang tag government property with religious logos. In America at least, there are 360,000 and growing, houses of worship of all sects of Christianity, and all the world’s major religions as well, all on private property, nobody is being oppressed by saying church and state need a wall to prevent theocracy.

Duality, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

Dark drinks
Out of ghouls
And romance
Unimaginable fright
Satin sheets, rose
Petals strewn on floor
Breadcrumbs
For pressing lips
And both waking up
In cold sweats.

God’s Enemy, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

God has to kill
The Poet, the poet
Is his enemy
They create darkness
And light, love
Hate, rage, disaster
The moon beds with
The wolf, the owl
Preys on the mouse
Juliet sits on balcony
And all without his help.

Under The Porch , By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

Damn it Sylvia
You need to stop
Doing that. Seriously
What’s next? A stab?
A car ride into a river?
One of these days Sylvia
Arial is going to give you
Exactly what you want.
(end)

This is a very serious poem to me. Bittersweet and short and to the point. I write it because to me, her words means she is still alive to me, even though she is dead. So every time I read a poem I of hers I have not read before, I feel like I need to intervein and stop her, so she can write the stuff I am reading now.

Fall On Your Face, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/METTA and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

It’s comical when your cat
Or your dog, run into
The clean sliding glass door

They look back at you embarrassed
“You didn’t see that”
And they know your laughter says

“Yea, I damned sure saw that”

But despite that, as far as this poet
You don’t need to beat me up
I run into that sliding glass door

All the time, when I am writing
And it isn’t funny in the least to me
When I miss my bad spelling spree

And hit submit anyway, that glass door
Was a brick wall, no , no , no, more like
Falling off the Golden Gate bridge
Hitting the frigid fog covered water

And the seals, and whales and sharks
All laugh at my belly flop, the carnage
I took with me, bared myself for all to see

When I fuck up, I do so in epic fashion
The opening of the Olympics of poems
Only that it is more like a circus show

I am the clown running away from the bull
See what I mean, not a circus, but a rodeo
I am on the trapeze with no partner to catch me

I feel like the dog’s flee, just hanging on
Desperately, hoping that there was no one to see
The crash and burn at the smash up derby

But I still do it, tie my shoelaces together in public
Trip over my words, like some video show
Canned laughter, under the microscope

And why you ask, do I put myself through all that
Show you my unfocused photographs, or
The ones I spilled my coffee on, stained for all to see?

It is actually easy to understand, it’s better than being dead.
(end)

I don’t work like many poets. Many hold back, run over their work over and over in private until they absolutely are sure it is presentable. I am fine with that. But with my maladies, and my anxiety, that would be far worse for me, it would make me more depressed and suicidal than I have ever been.

I need to get it out quickly, even if messy, because I can forget quite quickly, or get distracted from my A.D.D. So it has always been far more important to get it out first, even if messy, then go back and fix it. The message to me outweighs any potential embarrassment. I operate like a high speed photographer. I don’t worry about the bad shots being seen. I keep going because eventually I do get something right.

Did you notice the one stanza with 4 lines where all others were 3? Did the message get lost to you? I don’t think it did.