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neglect and respect do not rhyme,

{will grant you one,
will give you none.

will demand one,
will send you some.

you poets,
always thinking
you can get away
with murdering
the English language.

***** of assonance,
you do not fool me,
I’ve killed a thousand
men’s “original”rhymes,
while you’ve been
fast sleeping,
they’ve been
fast seeping.

I’ll give you no quarter,
won’t spare a lousy dime,
my spare change,
is poet-unaffordable,
cheap suited hucksters.

work and ****
do rhyme.  
you can be one,
if you do not
put in some.

work by day,
slave by night.

awake to the sun’s
inquiry, what have
you done for me
lately?

IF

all you have to show is this
scribbilus miscellaneous,
tear up your lice-ence,
poetic and DMV, you
ain’t going nowhere.

was branded by hot iron,
early on,
brandy channing.

your best nightmare,
guidance counselor,
extraordinaire,
great big fairie,
poseur, exposer,
m u r d e r e r
of awful poetry}


WHAT,  
what do you stand for?
neglect and respect
rhyme,
you stand
When a good thing comes your way
Your foes will turn to watch the rain
“Will you barter for your garden?”
the familiar stranger taunted.

His haunting talk caught on a loose thread in my heart,
recalling time and battles fought.

Make no mistake about the fae.
I must admit I was afraid, for I have seen my adversary

tear out the grass’s screaming hair,
poison the soil with atmosphere arid,
strip the baby branches barren,
shave the landscape clear.

I need not obey him.  
I have in my hands a *****
and around this place an angry hedge.
He can not prevail unless I show him the way.

“No,” say I,
“No bartering in my garden today.”
This one was for the poetry class I'm taking(!).
The assignment was to write a rhyming or metered poem.  I decided to use assonance focused around the letter "a" as much as possible.  This is not a way that I often use rhyme.  I really, really like it.  It stitches the words together without feeling to sing-song or structured.  If you scroll back to my stuff from a year or two ago, you'll see that I used a lot of line-end rhymes and lots of meter.  I don't like the way that kind of structure feels anymore, but I also don't like writing poems that ignore the use of sound.  This is a happy medium for me.
Kapu Dec 2019
Death is not how you think she is
or how I think she is.
She is silently staring
from a dark corner
in a shady alley.

She is tall, slim,
like a skyscraper.
She has dark,  long hair,
that falls to the earth and covers it, like curtains.
(It blinds us.)

She is beautiful when seen from afar.
She waits for you,
patiently,
on that old motel bed with spread arms (and legs).

Her eyes are deep,
mirror-like.
They show you what it could be.
And her lips whisper empty promises (falacies).

Death smiles at you.
(she likes to smile)
You can see her yellow,
splintered teeth,
that reek of coffee and cigarettes.

From her mansion, she laughs,
throws *****.
Spreads pests,
while drinking wine she collected
as you cut your wrists with expertise.

It falls like a stream of crimson
inside her cup.
What a delight!
You give her that alcohol (addictive).

Death cries when she loses
does not go to funerals.
Jumps the rope with a bag of bones.
And sometimes comes
as soon as you call.

Deep down, she is very lonely.
Wishes for love.
Wishes for you to love her.
You wish to love her too.
(It is easier than loving yourself)
All words in brackets are whispers. The entire thing was a vision, meant to be a portrait. Now a vague poem, that has been in the works since 2015 (and perhaps will continue to be).
Thanks for reading!
Ahmed Herrou May 2019
What's your name?
You're a so so-so so-and-so.
For reasons you say you don't know,
you'd always find me feeling so low.
Is it you? Or my love for you?
In the morning, I'm mourning.
Wondering if something
would change.
My sorrow's soaring,
hovering till the end;
my doom.
Won't you you save me
from this gloom?
My heart has no room
for it but you.
Is it you or my love for you?
Rebecca Bates Feb 2019
Standing on the shoreline of a smooth unmoving pond
Stars mirrored in deep silver, serenely desolate
Venus cupped exactly in the waxing crescent’s core
The water, black and soundless, boundless, starkly infinite
Inseparable, we watched entranced. Together on the shore.

We stepped into the cool smooth water, calmly, hand in hand
Effortlessly sliding in the soundless silver pond
And underneath that water, silent, absolutely still
Our desires were extinguished. Our aching hearts erased
In the utter quiet comfort of the water's cool embrace

... This I do remember. The rest, you know by heart
How this ever spinning world will in due time, illuminate
What the dark had hidden. The white hot stone within
The deepest core of dreaming. And all our days defined
By desire. Our hearts clamour. But we're never satisfied.

And I wonder, does it matter, in the gritty dragging days
Boredom laced from time to time by yearning, sharp and hot
Does it matter to distinguish what's illusion and what's not?
If I can summon back a single flash of that dark water
Why not **** time in trying? I'd rather love than not.

And you, of course. Unshocking, that swift flicker of surprise
The striking disappointment as precisely, midnight chimes.
And the masks are lifted. So I ask you, what’s the difference
If I’m entranced by man or mask? Illusion or existance?
Wherever pleasure’s sought is for the seeker to decide.

When my heart’s unquiet, loud with longing and desire,
Defiantly I seek you. Not vanquished, not quite yet
Tick by tick receding. But I insist on keeping this:
Inseparate underwater, serenely intertwined
A distant hint of feeling. Thus is my keen heart satisfied.
Filomena Nov 2018
it feels pretty strange
being called by a phrase
that isn't my name
Filomena Nov 2018
My mind is a prison.
I can read the sign, but it wasn't mentioned in the manual.
Just sigh and move on.
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