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Brad Lambert Mar 2012
**** me like the ocean would the moon, Dear Amaranthine.
Teach me as you would any abecedarian, slow with pace.
My pallid arms are spread, and feet are crossed.
Crucify me, like one of your French girls.

Your endless frame arched over mine
a vaulting testament to the heat
of your front against my back.
This scene should have been a chapel.

Through hazed musk I can taste the saline
as it tumbles from your dripping brunette tendrils
forming brooks and lagoons the color of flesh
in the glens and about the islands of my spine.

I wish I could write about you in me
while you dance a contemporary beat
ceaseless, indeterminate, untold are
your feats within and upon my person.

For a split moment, seconds shattered in two,
I am completely and totally permeated by you.
I whine for you to vacillate me, I am ******* begging
to be occupied, satiated, by a rhythm akin to the sway of trees.

Love me fast and kiss me slow, Dear Amaranthine.
My palms are red, and feet bloodied, too. I moan.
Call me your poetaster but don't come on my chest;
There's far too much weight there already, my dear.
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2012
Must be exhausting,
Tireless self promoter,
Spewing his drivel.
Bijan Rabiee Oct 2018
Truly gifted poets
Straddle their crafts early on
Some even in adolescence
They have been cursed or blessed
To be kings and queens of utterance.
I never dreamed of becoming a poet
It was furthest from my mind
Then in a sudden twist of eardrum
It happened in my mid thirties.

Out of the recesses of Time
Came the lure and a hook
Shining in enchanted brook
And before i knew it
My heart was snatched
And my movements flustered
When i bit on ambrosiac bait
Drenched in Muse's wine
Drugged and drunk
On sounds and images
I struggled in a pool of words
To assemble what held me infused
To make sense of orphaned views
Swaying between shade and light
Like dancers deprived of audience.

My poetic rapture began
In frenetic rain of ink
preposterous in direction
A poetaster rapt on vapid rhymes
With sounds of poetic crimes
But my craft developed
In piecemeal fashion
And rendered my pen composed.

A minnow of long ago
Has grown into a mackerel
And longs to become a whale
In the ocean Ars Poetica
Though it seems a pipe dream.
ConnectHook  Sep 2015
Incensed
ConnectHook Sep 2015
For we are unto God a sweet savour of Christ,
    in them that are saved, and in them that perish:
    To the one we are the savour of death unto death;
    and to the other the savour of life unto life.

                                            [II Corinthians 2:15, 16]

I take an ember from the pyre
and consecrate this smoldering fire:
a glowing coal on which to burn
an aromatic thought, and earn
a crown, perhaps… or a stampede:
mad hooves to make a poet bleed.

An ode to the dull-wit herd’s defensors:
self-appointed poetic censors.
Where would we be without the squeal,
their rolling eyes, their bovine zeal?
Quick to enforce what’s orthodox –
(upon their coward souls a pox)
swift to castigate dissent
their peeved opinions swift to vent –
lest people think that poetry
should harbor strength or liberty…
They offer up their condemnation
spiced with righteous indignation:
“Racist, sexist, bigoted too!”
(which means they disagree with you)
Their catch-all battle-cry for trouble:
“INTOLERANT !”  (They are intolerable.)
“It’s narrow-minded, mean-spirited, hateful.”
Such input ought to make us grateful.
Theirs the reactionary faction:
poetic thought-police in action.
To stand opposed, reviled by such
may indicate perhaps, a touch
of true and living inspiration
causing unsympathetic vibration.

If wit in rhyme has touched a nerve
for bold opinion, dissident verve,
then let their frowns be crowns of laurel
rather than further cause for quarrel.
Accusation by the herd
is compliment enough. Preferred
to empty praise for vapid lines
from toilers in depleted mines.

Cows are fattened for the feast.
They have a space to moo at least –
then comes the reckoning at the end.
But a Poet’s curse is to defend
inviolate, his chanted word
against the corn-fed lowing herd.

When they, in turn,  inflict their verse
no vengeance dare we take, nor curse.
But calmly, let us pour upon them
words that build into an anthem
strengthened by scorn, a song of change
to goad their dullness, and derange
their poetaster fantasy
exposed as moral bankruptcy
symptomatic of a dying nation
set against lyrical liberation.

I pray my words may rise to heaven
free of rancor, void of leaven
a fragrant smoke of life to life
ascending God-ward through the strife.
(But let them rot, a charnel breath
to dying souls as death to death.)
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2014/03/26/incensed/

♪♫♫☺♪♫♪☼☺♫
Julian  Sep 2016
Verve's Swerve
Julian Sep 2016
Swerves the verve of voluptuous curves
That ******* clad lies become ironclad wides or wives
That the uxorious mission is a useful instrument of precision
That a denuded forest becomes the acme of toon and television
Let us garble our quotes and refrain from prolonged oaks
That whisk the memorial flames beneath the softly and the constricted spoke
I wrangle with big swells and tumescent lips
Labial love is liquid rushing to impress my scent and my lisp
Flamingos careen the specialty of wide-nosed oxygen
The toxic ragamuffin does lack the characteristic halogen
Runny tears on whitewashed days, scrape the pond of excess
**** of waifs and wastrel sways the world’s columns stand ever more proud
The future has two authors a converging future and an approximated past
Leeching on to the dastardly knockers of hacked brass tax
We then linger and malinger with germs that flippantly exercise the *******
That exorcise the ruffled harbinger in an incomplete rhyme
Sordid yet sublime, a city breaking on through to the mother side
Of the brother’s promise, to bequeath love lost and undressed
Unbuttoned snooze caffeinate my coffee
Established crews scour my pastiche of laundry
I need a confirmation that some littoral joke isn’t anymore creative than a hoarded broke
Broken in fracture, illuminated by rapture, the panacea of pain disaster
The deliverance of fragrance yet to gain and yet to lose,….. refrain poetaster
Simpered friction swipes the edict of election
As ******* becomes the Olympus of defection
But ponder no more these quodlibets of regaled glory
The amaranthine time has been proferring the same tried and true Love Story
Arranged or deranged, the best will *** and the rest will come
Thereby we become the litter of Medulla Pons surviving on Jack-and-Dandy ***
Remember this in many ways we are a shining city paid for by the mentally ill
Waylaid with the marble of the ultimate rocketship dumb enough to thrill
We soak and absorb the truest bright and the weakest light
As the fraternal order of the lambent moon becomes an extraterrestrial communion rather than an aghast fright
John Derry offers me two geese and I offer to fleece the homespun danger of the moral police
But Capone cannot cap the stone with signature and artistry alone
He cannot unfurl the booth bonfire and the broken home
But his evaded taxes are relaxed because of meritocratic classes
Of wisdom becoming wizardry and idiocy becoming harlotry of sinister waste crass plastics
Limpid with freckled frowns and monolithic and nomothetic pounds
Of zeros escalading a spawn-trout upward voyage and a quiet pillage of a bear-eaten town
Benign rumors of soaring afflictions and deloused tumors swarm the pasquinade village
A Potemkin place where gays get spayed covertly by laying a nescient egg deceased and weighed
In the navy we are not, but thanks to the gravy we are bought and we are sold
And of course you must trim the bushes before they scowl in the fold
Hedged bets on arts, squirts and debts
Of hottest flirts, car washed shirts and wrangled King Tut **** and Cleopatra wet
To this history I owe a greater than perfect debt
A Raider with influential sweat
A gamboler with a frisky totem of regret
Radiant sun says goodnight
Glazed to beat you, you fearful fitful 1997 willful fright
Polby Saves May 2011
Depression is reading bad poetry
Written by merely dysthymic people
Depression is people which does result in
Hell  
Depression is the pain caused by people
Trying, poorly I might add, to articulate what
'Depression means to me'
Depression is tantamount to hunger
Something we all must suffer
Some will starve to death
You, my poetaster chum
Are only late to dinner
The pang will pass

Copyright © 1996-Present
Nancy E Tracy Nov 2014
eetsy eetsy, tiny feetsy
in the attic dark and creepy
who could be there? Looking at me
Is it Procyon Lotor?

He comes watching every winter
will he really dare to enter?
Enter at my chamber door
Seeking mischief as before?

Comes the creature wild of feature
Fuzzy furry in a hurry
looking for me wanting near me
Only this and nothing more

                         **

Will they hate me and berate me
loving Rhyme the way I do?

Poetaster they will call me
Death, disaster pray befall me

I will be the way I will be
always 'till the end of time so
You can hate me all you want to
You have your way, I'll have mine


Poetry by definition

A highly developed form and
use
of heightened language and rythm
to express an imaginative
interpretation
of the subject
Procyon Lator - raccoon  (My pet raccoon) penned with tongue in cheek hope ya know :)
ConnectHook Jul 2017
Another mystic poetaster
quoting Rumi...
You might take it personally.
If so, sue me.
I'm not enraptured
by that sufi.    
(A nice enough dervish,
but kind of goofy.)
You can spin Sufi poetry any way you please.
Give me the Oxford anthology ANY day...
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2012
Pompous poetaster,
Tireless self promoter,
Wannabe artist.
Polby Saves May 2010
trying  bad  knew  day  think  fight  feeling  know  annoying  ly­ing  time  months  tell  like  sure  observe  afternoon  particip­ant  folds  pass  iron  ask  realization  neck  conversation  pai­n  poetaster  tuesdays  busy  night  lung  sake  sickness  movies­  gets  body  reason  turns  incessantly  awakens  doesnt  ones  ­lifes  gnashing  try  despondency 
 way  pretentious  idea  cellu­lite  strewn  years  fallen  finally  given  stomach  qualify  sp­ectacle  necessary  watching  christ  harbinger  unconsciously  t­hing  girl  loose  walls  unbearable  start  reach  smile  needin­g  violent  mean  slowly  engage  engaging  cell  face  sung  str­uggle  tone  shes  song  cheaply  correct  contents  normally  qu­ickly  asleep  close  plea  dark  personality  overly  devour  ac­tions  viscera  completely  eating  list  attractive  liar  power­  does  figured  use  morning  suffer

  saving  shadowscasting  ­abdomen  leave  verse  sun  comfort  screaming  stay  lift  forci­ng  worthwhile  sleep  reciting  sets  written  broken  semismile­d  dysthmically  movingriding  supp  uses  help  pieces  poorly  ­lied  reading  blunt  fine  returned  groups  refractory  fiber  ­eyes  read  word  puts  say  absorb  force  detach  message  unno­ticed  died  block  clock  wish  possibly  late  aghast  fear  re­turn  chum  caused  daily  involve  thanks  grandmotherly  hope  ­unheeded  twice  starve  maya  enthusiasm  heard  hunger  comfort­ableness  homeostasis

  nauseousness  huxtable  inflected  angel­ous  angelou  itll  dissipating  impress  giving  lower  relent  ­articulate  poetry  doldrums  wise  left  alot  hate  cheeks  ent­irety  perceived  result  willing  mild  speaking  concedepretend­  skin  alive  shell  death  tantamount  everytime  ripping  aflo­at  worth  adamisdronicus  succession  press  hang  jeanpaul  spe­ak  dysthmic  means  dinner  dreams  sobriety  bones  repeatedly ­ ***  pang  bc  painted  reallythat
I have been summed up by a jumbled cut and paste ala Bill Burroughs
****, This is all there is?

Copyright © 1996-Present- From The Crawlspace in the Cranium
Polby Saves Apr 2010
Depression is reading bad poetry
Written by merely dysthymic people
Depression is people which does result in
Hell   
Depression is the pain caused by people
Trying, poorly I might add, to articulate what
'Depression means to me'
Depression is tantamount to hunger
Something we all must suffer
Some will starve to death
You, my poetaster chum
Are only late to dinner
The pang will pass
Copyright © 1996-Present- From The Crawlspace in the Cranium
(alternately titled: impossible mission goes awry
probably mortal enemy cast spell binding jinx)

Both mental versus
physical tasks necessitate
laser sharp attentiveness
triggered within blinks
similarly on par when people toast
momentary instance utter silence

before more'n one
wine glass simultaneously clinks
cheering hurray, especially
if delicate circumstance
incorporates telecommunications downlinks
critical vital communique transmitted courtesy
think outlier (christened

Saint Matthew Scott Harris)
with acute instincts
held hostage between warp,
and woof fifth of dimension
far away beyond where
outer limits exhibits kinks

nsync with twilight zone
dwell alienated ratfinks
resembling authentic animated
Doctor Seuss characters
where one after another
third eye blind winks.

Lame excuse told cosmic speck (me)
sending yours truly on wild goose chase
an underhanded way to rub
inept feeble poetaster punster
out webbed wide world existence
purportedly great eats boasted
deep inside black hole pub

must make posthaste
to nearest galactic grubhub
mission control haint made no flub
boot deliberately thought
ineffectual doling out futile drub
cuz mister flibbertigibbet (me)
ostracized from highly selective club.

The aforementioned synopsis and
ultimate banishment cheered with big bang
decreed courtesy kangaroo court
constituting beastie boy gang
think star wars movie,
where farcical charges *******
offering accused two choices,
either to hang
suspended (think piñata) and beat

to (fictional) pulp
torturers obviously ignoring pang
of utter emasculation, but rather sang
a song of sixpence
while downing flasks of vintage tang
crafty entrepreneur William A. Mitchell in 1957
******* drinking vessels
resembling Chewbacca's oversize ****.
---------------------------------------------------
Lyrics­

Sing a Song of Sixpence
BY MOTHER GOOSE
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened
The birds began to sing—
Wasn't that a dainty dish
To set before the king?

The king was in the counting-house
Counting out his money,
The queen was in the parlor
Eating bread and honey,

The maid was in the garden
Hanging out the clothes.
Along came a blackbird
And snipped off her nose.

— The End —