#trivia - Hello Poetry

good old television or televisions plural because this shop window has twenty-two of them all showing a celebrity cooking show twenty-two identical pans containing the same cuts of chicken or maybe pork or whitefish being lightly browned while no voice can be heard from the twenty-two tanned faces smiling out at us and here the homeless man watches them all from the pavement and the rain good old television something for everyone

0

Jul 26, 2019

Jul 26, 2019 at 5:39 PM UTC

jack-radbourne

Good Old Television

good old television or televisions plural because this shop window has twenty-two of them all showing a celebrity cooking show twenty-two identical pans containing the same cuts of chicken or maybe pork or whitefish being lightly browned while no voice can be heard from the twenty-two tanned faces smiling out at us and here the homeless man watches them all from the pavement and the rain good old television something for everyone

18

Who can tell? Whether malice has its own purity? If odor has its own fragrant smell? Does right wrong right Or wrong right wrong? Could darkness have its own light? What do you know? Guilt might have its own innocence For all you know Humility and modesty Could just be a show This is how life is You either laugh hard Or you cry in pain You love too much Or you die in vain If you don’t make someone smile You end up being a bore If you dress up too guile You are tagged a ***** You may be very pretty but deceitful in act You may be called ugly but are beautiful in fact In sadness you’re creative In happiness well that is tentative and yet sans it too you may appear narrative If you know too much you realize how less you knew If you are too ignorant you realize that all lies are just few Humor shames trivialities Irony is the truth about absurdities We scorn at all harsh realities So we smile at its mockeries Could love really be true? And hatred absolutely false? Is sadness a gloom Covered in joy so sparse like a dull audience forced in its applause? Without a doubt A truth has a lie hidden Simply because The mirror isn’t clear It hides many flaws and your aesthetic sin deep within If you counted the seconds and minutes and the hours Will you still be wasting time? Or would you still have to make an orange juice out of a dainty lime? What’s rhetoric if a question has an answer if silence it’s own message and guns and bullets its own power? What’s the point If you’re devising a plan for your future to become a big man And you still say that you don’t know what might happen tomorrow That it all looks bleak and dark And you sit there not working hard you crib and worry and fake a smile to everyone you appear as blithe as a lark We dwell with glee In a world where two extremes meet Order deals with its chaos And chaos struggles for order Everyone fights for the latter And to straighten an imbalanced balance and dispel a dulcet clatter.

0

Aug 15, 2018

Aug 15, 2018 at 6:26 AM UTC

Ishibub

Nebulous.

Who can tell? Whether malice has its own purity? If odor has its own fragrant smell? Does right wrong right Or wrong right wrong? Could darkness have its own light? What do you know? Guilt might have its own innocence For all you know Humility and modesty Could just be a show This is how life is You either laugh hard Or you cry in pain You love too much Or you die in vain If you don’t make someone smile You end up being a bore If you dress up too guile You are tagged a ***** You may be very pretty but deceitful in act You may be called ugly but are beautiful in fact In sadness you’re creative In happiness well that is tentative and yet sans it too you may appear narrative If you know too much you realize how less you knew If you are too ignorant you realize that all lies are just few Humor shames trivialities Irony is the truth about absurdities We scorn at all harsh realities So we smile at its mockeries Could love really be true? And hatred absolutely false? Is sadness a gloom Covered in joy so sparse like a dull audience forced in its applause? Without a doubt A truth has a lie hidden Simply because The mirror isn’t clear It hides many flaws and your aesthetic sin deep within If you counted the seconds and minutes and the hours Will you still be wasting time? Or would you still have to make an orange juice out of a dainty lime? What’s rhetoric if a question has an answer if silence it’s own message and guns and bullets its own power? What’s the point If you’re devising a plan for your future to become a big man And you still say that you don’t know what might happen tomorrow That it all looks bleak and dark And you sit there not working hard you crib and worry and fake a smile to everyone you appear as blithe as a lark We dwell with glee In a world where two extremes meet Order deals with its chaos And chaos struggles for order Everyone fights for the latter And to straighten an imbalanced balance and dispel a dulcet clatter.

87

0

Dec 12, 2016

Dec 12, 2016 at 3:32 AM UTC

I come to a fork here, trivially, Bewildered by my mind’s comprehension Of the things it was made to choose between, Like a machine forged from glass; the intention Being that, shattered, the cracks branch away. The fork, like a set of fingers off’ring, Each giving me a taste of where it goes, Does little in aiding my suffering, ‘Cause my destination I’ve yet to know. Birds can fly and return quicker than I, But my decision cannot be unchanged; The tale is longer than stories of mine, But, like a book, it can’t be the same. The sun begins to set along the west, So I step down and forget all the rest.

0

Jul 9, 2016

Jul 9, 2016 at 5:18 PM UTC

atc

Sonnet VI (Crossroads)

I come to a fork here, trivially, Bewildered by my mind’s comprehension Of the things it was made to choose between, Like a machine forged from glass; the intention Being that, shattered, the cracks branch away. The fork, like a set of fingers off’ring, Each giving me a taste of where it goes, Does little in aiding my suffering, ‘Cause my destination I’ve yet to know. Birds can fly and return quicker than I, But my decision cannot be unchanged; The tale is longer than stories of mine, But, like a book, it can’t be the same. The sun begins to set along the west, So I step down and forget all the rest.

15