excerpt, 01/24/2016

It cannot be explained, how love works – like the intricately cut snowflake, like the unity within musical keys, God’s algorithms simply mystify.


excerpt, 01/05/2016

We live and die not in our notable memories, but in those trivial moments that unite one to the other. Through the intersecting of private, small impressions do we define ourselves.


I – Winter & Fear


A night of languid winters, an eve so vacant and dry.

Restless souls rest so barely, rest so many so seldom, so many so rarely.

Thoughts of beauty keep a heart aflutter;

Queen imagery splits the sleep asunder.

Silky layers of sight and sound to paint my days –

paint they my nights, paint in lovely painful ways.

I love the legitimacy that is your soul’s intimacy.

I fear the authenticity that is your quaint simplicity.


I’ve fought mental battles hard and mental battles many,

the heart takes no prisoners and will eagerly weigh so heavy.

Eloped to its shackles, martyred in their steel,

enslaved in a mental prison cell I’ve made all too real.

I bow before its benevolence in awe, and somehow cower in fear;

love is extraordinary, yet frightening when it finally comes near.

Take desolate comfort in being the man so lonesome;

you fear not isolation – it is heartache that is truly loathsome.

Perhaps this is why the recluse is such;

we create our prisons because love hurts too much.


II – Complacency


Tis in such a prison that we quietly meditate on things we fear,

that we can privately ache for those we hold dear.

We may build our endearing verse, compose our sonnet;

sculpt pedestals of truth and place our love upon it.

This, such a love, private confession of cowardly mindset,

in doing so shall I never feel a shred of remorse or regret.

This, the path set before me since heartbreak’s outset,

pathetically content to privately write a lovely vignette:


“Endlessly endearing art does your presence beget,

for thou art more lovely than a summer’s sunset.

So uncommonly beautiful! A reimagining of Webster’s pallid definition.

The goddesses pale next to you – you, the true holy exhibition.


This single photograph of you – a divine duplication;

a wonderment, beheld – enchanting eyes my vindication;

active, these senses of confirmation,

absorbing your hazel warmth substantiation,

the cosmos’ flirtation, life’s foundation,

truth augmentation in the constellation’s predestined formulation,

an affirmation proclamation of liberation from loneliness and temptation.  


Alignment of stars – your vibrant smile.

Swirling galaxies – your form so tactile.

Never besieged or lost, never love’s exile.

The most beautiful thing: you coming down the aisle”.


Yes, it’s a lovely little composition,

it appeals to my romantic disposition.

Yet…an exhibition of trite exposition,

an old story with no real life acquisition

(I rebuke myself for this self-inhibition).


It matters never what I write or what I do;

I possess never the courage to reveal it to you.


III – Admonishment


Beauty in words, yet diction alone

cannot ever suffice.

Never is poetry enough to prove love,

to endearingly entice.

To pay a price for being concise

through literary device!

Such an insipid sacrifice;

fabricated fiction overpriced,

faulty and imprecise.


He poetically exploits romantic feeling,

circumvents an incriminating revealing.

The poet is a damn coward concealing;

professing love without even kneeling.

He is lack of action and love of dreaming,

he is diction chosen for sound rather than meaning.


A facade, a masquerade,

a decadent aesthetic

for a wordplay parade.

He’s verisimilitude, a literary prostitute,

colorful writing debases he

to hackneyed institute.


Words are cheap – a liar’s happy dagger.

Mere representation (poetry does not matter).

One ought aim for authentic roses to gather.


Futile ties to our past

we must sever.

Sentiment matters little,

poetry matters never.

Matters never if you endeavor

to be clever.

I’ve chided myself in the past:

“burn your poetry down to the last”;

a truth held ever steadfast with

more empty years passed,

more wasted hearts amassed

at cowardice’s impasse.


We are made not for trite romancing and artistry so exploitive –

pretty arts with predictable parts top the charts but leave vacant hearts.

Writing is a drug for dreams, for what you want but not what you need;

check her bottle – she’s your elixir Queen, your lost vaccine, your desert canteen;

there are falsities you believe you need but she’s the truth in between.


IV – Truth


This is not how you treat such a muse,

a sickness inside your chest you can feel.

This is not how you treat such a pain,

a love so authentic and so real.

A demeanor so accepting and congenial,

a love so patient and so agreeable;

a love so eager an Achilles’ heel;

a love to paint the skies with its zeal.

A love so frightening and so surreal;

a love to smile, to comfort and heal.

A love so true forces one to kneel.

A love so true I shall never again conceal.


I yearn to stare deep into thine eyes,

tears of joy inviting my love to invoke confession,

wells of euphoria into which I’ll eagerly fall,

no shame in my offered concession.

I invite you in my spring, unashamed of sharing a

salty sea, stories of trial, tales of sincerity.

This love is a truth I plainly see.

Broken hearts of past provide clarity.


Poetry matters never.

Matters never if you endeavor to be clever.

You’ve avoided truly loving whomever

it is you’ve written about forever.

Ink is drab, dry and untrue.

Flesh is trust.

Touch is love.


Doubt me many (they doubt me plenty), but ye hath no need – doubt me any.

I read between lines they cannot see, interpret truths of which they cannot conceive.

They skeptically inquire: “if real, how might such a truth be ever achieved”?

I reply: “Explore thee the stars, where the contracts of truth are conceived”.


V – Winter & Courage


No more, a cold and lonely winter.

No more, fear, postpone or hinder.

My pen runs dry – it aims to concur:

“she is yours. Go and get her”.

Tony Blau Veldt, 12/21/2015 – 01/19/2016



A conformist populous,

ears blocked from many the feral cry,

do not the peoples look inside?

Perchance many afraid to try?

Ignorance, for fear there exists responsibility of feeling,

an inconvenient splinter lodged in the moral ceiling,

exists comfort in turning the callous eyes to do no seeing,

insatiable craving for the life and flesh of sentient being.

Ignorance: baseless buttress aloofness. Aimless aggress, an avariciousness lack of awareness and audacious boundless brazenness of selfish self-servingness.

Ignorance: removing thy gaze from reality for fear it may scream acidic rains of truth to corrode the spurious exterior of little hubs of lies.

Ignorance: pleasure over righteousness. A mechanically human process.

Hearken the helpless squeals

from the bleeding sinful meals

in your tumultuous sleep – like thousands of out-of-tune violins

played with tattered, fractionally flesh-covered bones.

Symphonic suffering.

Eradicate and eviscerate, extirpate what you subjugate.

Ignorance destroys your soul more than butchers do an intelligent life,

you purchase after the “processing”, you don’t have to see the angry knife.

In such, a righteous world: they would buy and gouge up man and wife.

Such ease of obtaining the vitamin, to ingest the proper nutrition,

a higher position’s opposition expedition, begging of human intuition:

the option of moral decomposition does not mean

you must buy in and thus force submission.

A guilt admission of cultural condition, embrace abolition recognition

and God’s righteous admonition of misguided dietitian – thus promoting

prohibition of that inhibition that is in opposition to the definition of empathetic disposition.

Lest you digest what you please whilst meager lips smacking nefarious nihilists

cackling whilst lacking the accountability to hear it scream, watch it writher

and writhe, watch its glass look at you crying “why, oh why”?

Choice is majesty, freedom is sublime, one may indulge in what they glorify,

so long as they have the constitution to look it in the eye.

We occupy, altogether, a world the same;

lives are allocated, ecosystems are together operated.

All play a role, an integrally occupied soul, a grace we ought extol,

not aim to control, not look to dictate the whole.

Inexcusable in technology of today, for one to view life in yet any other way.

Having the ultimate power of intelligence and choice, comes with a responsibility

so sacrosanct and dangerous that to handle it most of us are not equipped.

Can you not put yourself in the situation of another to know suffering they go through?

Or is the issue that you simply don’t want to?

A Darwinian dominance aspect,

consciously callous cause and effect,

humans deject, our own disrespect

is systematically subject to resurrect as

morality is select – exclusive disconnect

from what we see as mere object.

To possess superb intelligence and the ability to reason is to wield ultimate power; to wield ultimate power is to incur ultimate responsibility; to ignore ultimate responsibility in favor of pleasure and dominance at the expense of others is to wholeheartedly admit that some lives and the pain that you cause within them simply do not matter. This is the precipice we have reached, a point of no return, a truth that we can acknowledge but have the audacity to ignore.

Ignorance: baseless buttress aloofness. Aimless aggress, an avariciousness lack of awareness and audacious boundless brazenness of selfish self-servingness.

Ignorance: removing thy gaze from reality for fear it may scream acidic rains of truth to corrode the spurious exterior of little hubs of lies.

Ignorance: pleasure over righteousness. An inherently human process.  

Tony Blau Veldt, 03/30/2015-01/01/2016