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xvy Oct 2020
I am robbed
of eloquence
Measly words
that doesn't seem
sincere enough
To prove
my affections
My thoughts
Hidden behind
closed windows
Neither light
nor spark
can shed
some clarity
Of grief
and pain
The unbidden
hurt I
have inflicted
on me
A thirst
for sympathy
and wordless
It's hard to talk about things that matter

Michael R Burch Apr 2020
by Michael R. Burch

If only we were not so eloquent,
we might sing, and only sing, not to impress,
but only to enjoy, to be enjoyed.

We might inundate the earth with thankfulness
for light, although it dies, and make a song
of night descending on the earth like bliss,

with other lights beyond—not to be known—
but only to be welcomed and enjoyed,
before all worlds and stars are overthrown ...

as a lover’s hands embrace a sleeping face
and find it beautiful for emptiness
of all but joy. There is no thought to love

but love itself. How senseless to redress,
in darkness, such becoming nakedness . . .

Originally published by Clementine Unbound

Keywords/Tags: caveat, eloquent, eloquence, sing, enjoy, enjoyment, inundate, earth, thankfulness, praise, song, light, welcomed, enjoyed, enjoyment, bliss, joy, love

Caveat Spender
by Michael R. Burch

It’s better not to speculate
"continually" on who is great.
Though relentless awe’s
a Célèbre Cause,
please reserve some time for the contemplation
of the perils of EXAGGERATION.

Stephen Spender in his best-known poem wrote: "I think continually of those who were truly great." This near-limerick suggests that Spender may have exaggerated the time he devoted to hero worship. Keywords/Tags: caveat, spender, truly, great, think, continually, hero, worship, exaggeration, contemplation, awe, fawn, fawning
K Balachandran Jan 2019
Night is the poet,
Of eloquent silences,
In darkness and light!
Left Foot Poet Jul 2015
for our children and their children

the reason we say so oft,
in whispers emboldened,

I love you

to our children
is not the utility of
its summarizing brevity

no, no.
it is because

the eloquence of simplicity
supersedes any other poem
we could ever write...

July 26 2015
Maria Etre Aug 2018
doe(s) not always
conve(y) what
(M)ostly (pa)rts my mouth
(t)he (h)eart is
the most
articulate of
"If I Could Give You My Eyes" Series
Dominique R Jun 2018
I am sorry that I am unable to speak

with the eloquence that can paint pictures and move mountains 

but instead my words trip over one another or get lost
once they leave my lips 

so I’ve chosen to stay silent 

because it is easier to bear than fumbled words and mumbled apologies.
K Balachandran Feb 2018
such eloquent eyes,
her luminous spirit's dance;
love, to him gifts two wings!
Dances in the shower,
Oh so late at night.
Blasting the music loud,
swimming in the soft light
mouthing the words
eloquence thrown out the door
no need to wear a mask.
When you just don't care anymore.
Carlos Nov 2017
It's stories above where the butterflies rustled,
Whirring between the lights in aeolian bustle.
I'm smiling spritely at a neon halo,
While my organs writhe in jacqueminot El Niño.
Wading the nightscape  with a glitched simper,
I could not change nor attempt to tinker,
Just breaching the moments passing to linger.
Fingers, then palms, then lips, then black,
Then for a few seconds the world collapsed.
A breath, a sip, some wit, I'm back.
Shed the murky vision of captive cataracts.
And now,
The sylph saunters in epitomized elegance,
And I've buckled on the inside to the resonant reverence.
I follow the fragrance in her wake as paralyzed sedatives,
And anything I might say could only lack eloquence.
Then magnanimous mantras attract exact,
It seems way down the rabbit hole I've finally met my match.
There's a mesh of flesh, a smooth caress,
Then I wake and realize these were not visions yonder death.
Particles of my brain erupt,
I can't explain away the unfading elation of touch.
Every pose palatial down to the pixels,
I'd gaze deep in the sheen of her mind gleaming as crystals.
Her eyes open like daybreak in flashes,
Sunstreaks glint over the horizon of her lashes.
There's morning songbirds behind the taste of coffee,
I think she's figured I'm just a well decorated softy.
Unveiling my most human of contentions stripped to the eclipse of logic,
My former self laughs in tones pitched sardonic.
Euphorically strumming at gossamer heartstrings,
Etched in the fabric as sakura carvings.
Like so many of us, surrounded by binaries and cold concrete,
he finds it hard to say what he feels, and I found it hard
to understand, for a while, that he loved me just as I did him,
when he never vocalised his feelings completely, and I did.
It took me some time to realise he shows them instead, and maybe
that is all the more eloquent than anything I could ever
materialise on a piece of paper filled with smeared ink.
His love manifests itself in lingering gazes and the lightest touch,
in private smiles and the softening of his eyes when I laugh.
Like a child resorts to pointing at things they cannot name,
he ends up holding close what he cannot verbalise he needs.

- “You make me happy,” I tell him. He looks vulnerable and smiles. c.s.
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