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Count the syllables,
One by one,

The eternal tale,
Spoken lines,

Reading our silence,
Word for word.

~Robert van Lingen
James Khan Dec 2018
In fourteen lines, translations of my mood
Reveal the love in which obsession drowns,
In three quatrains the images allude
To how I feel before the couplet crowns,

Each line reflects robust romantic praise
And celebrations finished with a rhyme
Compound the way I see these winter days;
A love like ours exceeds the realms of time,

But something needles, picks apart the seam,
A jolt, a volt, a switch between ideals,
The aspect of my reminiscent dream
Has turned upon itself like grinding wheels,

The love I sensed betrays a darker sign,
Concluded thus upon the fourteenth line.
Just a quick poetic information pamphlet on structuring Shakespearean sonnets.

My wordplay in line ten is where the volta occurs. Quite literally.
James Khan Dec 2018
Just a number, our creation,
Made by Man for calculation,
Memories retained like stories
Chart our mishaps and our glories,
Hindsight for consideration,

What is age, this condemnation
Earned from birth until cremation,
Counting stock and inventories-
Just a number?

Ganges currents, undulation
Like our lives in fluctuation,
Time in treasured allegories
Drifts to unknown territories,
Leaves us with that observation-
Just a number?
I'll post the form later. Our you could just Google it lol. Start with John McCrae. You know the famous poem already, I'll wager.
Day tripper. (An Acrostic)
~~~~~~~~
Day tripper.
An Angel of the streets
Yes  looked good in the dark with light behind

Though her behind sagged She were a tripper
Ripping through every penny that she made.
I knew her when she was young n beautiful
Pimps ran her life now and oh how she’d aged
Persecuted by the cops with the tricks to play
Eventually she became the tripper every day.
Rita was the meter maid of Liverpool they Say

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip.
She had a ticket to ride
But she don’t care.
November 4th 2018.
A nodding tribute to the Beatles.
Aletifer Nov 2018
Of language, they say it's partitioned us all
That Babel’s been lost to our dreams
Yet speech was never what mortared its walls—
The Tower is not as it seems

Throughout every culture, a placid expression
Means freedom from panic and fear
A well-­furrowed brow signals excess of passion
And usually follows a tear

Serenity voices our reason and truth
Disgust is our language of hate
Hyperbole, the diction of boyhood and youth
Surprise, that of chance, and of fate

“The language of man has been broken,” they say,
Splintered by region, religion and race
Yet some may speak Kali, while others Malay
But all can interpret a face.
Any comments or feedback most welcome. Thanks very much for reading.
Girard Tournesol Oct 2018
Dancing with Her
     Shimmering ballroom light
Holding Her hand
     Hoping She thinks She might
Frankenstein’s Bride
     Hauntingly lilting sway
Eyes loving eyes
     Dancing the night away

Quick cold Her lips
     Pressing upon my own
Somewhere my love
     Years of my life have flown
Tomorrow’s song
     Echoing from the past
Dear life so long
     Living it to the last

Tomorrow’s song
     Resting in peace my love
Dancing no more
     Dreaming the undreamed of
Somewhere my love
     Into that long good night
Tomorrow’s song        
      . . .
James Khan Oct 2018
i./

To life, that old preponderance of pain
Where moments lost are never found again
And memories like cemetery tombs
Lay hidden deep in time's sepulchral ****,

What life is this, forever looking back,  
Lamenting colours fading grey to black?
A somber song, a sigh on every breath,  
Beseeching God to grant the prize of death,

But what of poignant pictures, highs and lows,
Of each embittered thorn and fragrant rose
The mind has sensed and stored in snapshot frames?
Nostalgia fades but still the bulb remains,

To life! -  and all the chronicles of thought
That haunt so often now that time draws short,

ii./

To death, the slippered larcenist of life,
The harvestman with silver scales and scythe
To flail the soul and weigh the deeds of Man,  
I fear your touch as only sinners can,

A scar upon my spirit speaks of pride
Where love or something clawed before it died,
Repentance gave no suture to the wound
That love or something like it left, impugned,

The names of faith are lost inside a glass,
I praise for morning, noon and midnight Mass
And so, the stark indifference of days
Becomes a blurred and misanthropic haze,  

To death! -  I say, please take my tortured soul
For **** can be no worse an empty hole.
Shakespearean Sonnet form.
James Khan Oct 2018
Defame my name and spit a string of salt,
Dislodge my jaw and tell me it's my fault,
Reduce my days to apprehensive fear
With cries of ******, animal and *****,

Invoke the edicts sponsored by a priest,
The ones that make a man into a beast,
Express the views like curdled moral milk
And dress each sinner, swathed in Satan's silk,

A mockery of tolerance withstands
As sympathy still seeks to wash its hands
Yet stood embracing, two companions hold
The warmth within that counteracts the cold,

For what we have, this bond of loyal love
Must truly mirror God's domain, above.
Bored again lol. I write sonnets when I'm bored.
James Khan Aug 2018
Understanding meter and syllables is the key to successfully writing rhyme. This ongoing blog summarises the classical poetry meters used in rhyming form and gives examples as well as a breakdown of how they are structured:

https://schizoidspaghetti.wordpress.com
Two melted cubes and a sugar spot
                                leather cusp to arm...

From clear enclosure I **** it down
                                tasty, not my charm.
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