"abbreviated" poems
There once was a black man... Old at heart, he fought verbally and accordingly with bold words, which abbreviated and arbitrated great art! He spoke of activism. Not just racial, and economic racism. He fought against demonic injustices for you, yes, made me see. He stood for principles of non-violence. Acknowledged corrupt government
mileage, European knowledge and college. A philosopher, teacher
and preacher as well as a civil rights leader. When he spoke his words of fire indeed chiseled and inspired. Causing some to conspire and also perspire! Born January 15th 1929 in Atlanta, Georgia. Named in honor of the German protestant Martin Luther. Bachelor of Arts
degree in sociology. Making a mark in doctoral studies, systematic theology. June 5th 1955 This King married Corretta Scott in Heiberger,
Alabama for many to see. Proceeding with four children: Yolanda, Martin Luther the 3rd to be! Dexter Scott and Bernice to increase the peace. Despite the European police, the movements and stressed
protests, the silence, ****** and racial violence. The segregation and interrogations in force, instead of integration of course. Black mishaps, lack of differences in relapse perhaps! Plagiarized and slandered, demised by some of the wise. Accused of communistic ties. Blinded
by others’ eyes and of our world’s twisted lies. Montgomery, Georgia
bus boycott, 1955 was the year. However, forever in disguise, our fear of tears was apparently adhered. From here to near, also all those dear. Mere letters he wrote, from Birmingham jail I quote! From the slums, some of sums, hail and prevail! A creation prevailing into a deriving and thriving nation. Mr. King’s vision of a dream, mission,
opposition, optimism and truism, on our wars, welfare and more. I suppose this sounds honest and fair. Mr. King’s theories and worries in emotionalism, evangelism, humanitarianism, racism and socialism. Nobel Peace Prize won in 1964. Regretfully, you may have heard of this before. Government conspiracies and indecencies. Assassination
and discrimination, allegedly, by James Earl Ray. On April 4th, I
almost choke, because for him, his blood did soak. Some thought this **** was a thrill or forced by will. Others still procrastinate in hate! However, forever Martin Luther King was and still is one of the late greats.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
Horrid and morbid, bitter, glittered and littered memories! Automotives, adaptive captives, movies, motives, Natives, locomotives, obsessive and possessive. Some awesome, brilliant, different, ignorant, persistent and resilient. ****** and exotic! Some memories are eccentric, fantastic, futuristic, magic, logistic, optimistic,
plastic, realistic, tragic or sadistic. Some random sizes with hidden prizes! Blameful, gainful, lameful and painful. Dreary destinies, diaries, inquires, weary rivalries, stories and theories in memory.
In theory, memories made from cheers and fears, jeers and tears!
Of amends, amens, omens, gems, hymns and stems. Memories
abbreviated and dedicated, deviated and medicated! Memories cased,
edited and erased. Evangelically, eventually everyone inherits! They’re like tiny merits! They spike the psych. They strike and are unlike. Memories of bites, defects, dislikes, effects, fights, flights, insects, logics, neglects, objects, plight, projects, protests, recollects, reflects
rejects, respects and suspects. Memories of fate and hate! Some are not great. Memories of schemes, screams or themes of dreams that seem. Memories of small, memories of tall! Memories in despise, memories
of lies. Memories of wise; beyond the skies, as I close my eyes…
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 9:40 PM UTC
Consumed by the constant rolls that play
Developed so well, recorded so well
Chasing the aroma that gently caresses the keys of the grand olfactory organs
Sinking into the fibers that catch me when I’m melting
They remember the tight grip that I’ve imposed on them
The grip imposed on me
Yet I want to sift through
Entangled by the loose strands I can’t help but to make vulnerable
The sway in the tongue that rolls tones so heavy
Leaves me tender
Such fervor unfolding itself, irritating the chests it lays on
Ethanol giving shoves until the words rupture into your gaze
Listening for more in hopes the shower could saturate me again
Hopeful and tender, I immerse you in ego
Later washing away everything that froth before our eyes
Then repeating the same intoxicating copulation
Until the light breaks through and I’m presented an abbreviated endearment
Leaving me instilled until the next time it’s decided times can concur
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 10:03 AM UTC
I think I love you
There no denying this synergy
It's greater than you and me
I think love you the feeling you giving me absorbing your energy my love will
offer you inner peace
I fall in love with all I want to do is love you
I have Fallen for you I know I love you
I love each part of you
No comlntepmlnting my love for you
This situation is highly anticipated your heart
Will be apperciated
No need to abbreviated it my love for you
Never ends in any era
If there is an afterlife I still love you there
I search for you dear my love I will share
I think love you
I think love you forever
I want to show you I love you
I have fallen for you
My love is calling for you
I think love you
Its no denying this love for you
I know I love you I really want you
I love U
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 1:16 PM UTC
Some people just can't handle driving
Everybody goes mad on this road at one point or another
The consideration is to keep the hatred within your own car
There are tools to be utilized
The escapism of music for one's health
The catharsis of muttering to oneself
Nobody should hold it against you
If you scream inside your car
They should understand
If you wanted to express yourself outwardly
You'd just flip them off
The abbreviated visual version
Of attempting to insert negativity into someone's life
It's healthy to be hurt
Your heart telling your mind that their hatred isn't normal
It is now on you to let sleeping dogs lie
And forgive those that trespass against us
Humor is my exit off the frigid freeway
Children in grown bodies
Their clothes are too big on them
Clearly confused about how to act
Taking every side road that catches their attention
That's funny enough for me
I've never flipped anybody off on the road
I learned from my father's story
She gave him every excuse to be angry
And he expressed that to her
The intended effect was reached
Her susceptible emotions were breached
Leaving a wise man to question his own actions
What was the point of that again?
That's why I try to keep an even keel
While sailing down the highway
There will always be people
Who honk at you for driving down the middle of the road
Remember to let those sleeping dogs lie
Or they'll be roadkill
And it's not nice to laugh at little people
But no one will know if it's from inside your car
And you can cozy up to the comfort created
By the signs on the road
Warning those people
They're driving in the wrong direction
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 12:40 PM UTC
She'll sleep tight in a parallel universe tonight
my deeply serious rainbow girl astral projects
communes with Shiva and champions chakras
she has the recipe for what passes as illumined
her ignorance of current events is appalling
but that chosen ignorance is staid and unperturbed
I grumble and complain, I use the news like a ******
I put the pieces together, pattern the puzzle-
I see the BIG picture…I cut my life short
possessing a keen memory is like the proverbial millstone
the information is the lake
rainbow girl is contemptuous of my self inflicted plight
we realize its a matter of time before disparate likes divide
I am fire and she is water, I the destroyer, she the preserver
the passion can be complimentary for just so long
Like the lady bard said:
*You read those books where luxury
Comes as a guest to take a slave
Books where artists in noble poverty
Go like virgins to the grave (Joni)*
She'll tolerate my confabulated artistry a spell
I can see she's a caterwauling banshee of protestation in the waiting
Her mellifluous quietude, equanimity and perfect poise can only last so long
Before my brash stripped down vituperative diatribe is as acid in the eyes
Then be off to resume her prior harmonic convergence of heart stuff
as I with my artistic bent, abbreviate my life
*http://jonimitchell.com/music/song.cfm?id=38 The Boho Dance
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
Don’t leave me alone,
because every time you smile,
the dimples in your cheeks
come out like commas drawn in my life
reminding me – this is not the end.
Don’t leave me alone
because your whispers add background music
to my otherwise quiet life,
Your fingers choreograph the perspective
of my eyes and make sure hope clings to each corner,
and I learn to hallucinate better than before- it is beautiful.
Don’t leave me alone
because I promise when next time you sit next to me,
my incessant words won’t transform into question marks,
only my eyes will look at you occasionally
in case you miss the talk.
Don’t leave me alone
because I promise this too,
on the days when you heart is too full
to accommodate the memories of the past,
we will go to your favorite river side
and let them find their way out
into the endless stream.
Don’t leave me alone,
because staring at horizon alone is boring,
besides nobody talks about the expanse of these abbreviated colors
into our lives.
Don’t leave me alone
because I refuse to have a life without you,
may be I should have told you this in the beginning,
instead of writing a poem.
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 8:32 AM UTC
a quote from the movie "The Big Short"
~
*a screen provocation,
you laugh out loud,
mime hating yourself
that you are joiining in
tacitly acknowledges the truth
of abbreviated wisdom
you,
disguised minority of
modest disagreers,
c'mon, admission submission,
more truth in it
than deserving of argumentation
a one liner throwaway,
neatly designed,
leaves you disturbingly
probed,
thoughtfully tormented and
aroused
poetry just a vehicle,
your vice for revelation,
the critical door to open is this:
do people hate the truth?
inescapable reality
ironical probability,
truth well disguised,
in plastic shell of lying
from the Hollywood's would be poets,
an escapade from the escapists
let us not pretend
that you and I
uncaring, for by virtue of
your reading this, you are
poetry aficionado,
required to deny the lie,
and yet,
accept
the
granular view
that we are rising writing thru the wronged end of
a telescoping microscope
so I scare scar a tissue sample from my tongue
and the cells spell
this rejoinder:
all your lies are poems,
incomplete truths,
and that's why people hate poetry*
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 11:10 AM UTC
places I rarely visit
consist of programmers obeying restrictions
operating under false assumptions
distracted by faulty wiring
swarms gather under fluorescent lights
to contemplate organic life technologically
never satisfied with the diagnosis
for it always leaves them feeling empty
can I be blamed,
for not only wanting this digital life to be restrained,
but for also wanting it to change?
a persistent desire to aspire some revolution
to move away from
light pollution & pixel resolution
absent of
abbreviated emotion & cyber fixation
only
unplugged love & three dimensional conversation
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
Faceless books relive life as pseudo-abbreviated scribes
the tip tapping of helvetica lies reporting banal times
falsified laughter coughed up between every three lines
Faceless books wasting precious time
gathering the masses for the fanfare of a couple of guys
and gals.
Crippled by conformity to fit within cyber-society for cyber-friends and cyber-lives, virtually living a virtual life without virtually living in the first place.
Posing pursed lips and filming grainy video clips
one-liners of the wall signers pretending to pretend to care to come off as they actually pretend to care to begin with.
Two hundred and plus empty entities and counting, the next person met can subscribe to my life now.
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 8:22 AM UTC
The sun, a blazing circle of celestial fire
Hangs low upon the horizon,
Its fiery glory reflecting orangely
On the wind-whipped, blue-green sea.
The late afternoon sees my love and I,
Arms and legs entwined, ******* naked on the beach,
Rapt in appreciation of that blest moment
When sun and sea join in mystic communion.
And yet, all is not golden:
When one mentions the word "legs"
Once is certainly grammatically correct, yet
One does not convey the true situation to the reader.
You see, my lover is the sad possessor
Of a fifty percent deficit in the podial department,
Whilst I have a full double complement.
And thus to so-called act of generation
(Most times mis-named, for which I thank the gods)
Is a feat requiring great dexterous equilibrium.
However, my love's club foot (speaking candidly,
An admitted visual defect most times)
Now comes to the rescue of Eros' urgent needs,
With the aid of a little mutual ingenuity.
Balancing carefully on my dear one's abbreviated podex,
Supported carefully by the discarded surgical boot,
A passable **** can usually be achieved.
Only the halitosis appears irremediable.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
_The light is dim, but I'm accustomed to working in the dark. Besides, it's safer this way. My eyes are not what they used to be, but it has become second nature to me - the pull of the needle, the tension in the thread.
I stitched my first collar when I was six years' old, sitting on my grandmother's knee in the parlour of the old house at Innsbruck. ‘Isaac,’ she used to say, ‘you have your father's gift. Use it well.’
Ah, Papa, if you could see me now. Such expectations you had for my talent, but I assure you that the occasion for invisible seams and fine beadwork is over. Nowadays I work with a different fabric. A cloth perforated with ****** fire and riddled with shrapnel. The wounds - forgive me - resemble red Venetian silk embedded with black pearls; the bone like the baleen strictures of a dowager's corset. And the red dye runs. God help me, how it runs.
As I work, Papa, I imagine that you are standing in the shadows, your frayed sewing tape draped around your neck. I am praised for my quick hands and my ability to embroider life into abbreviated limbs. And I pray that you are not too disappointed in what I have become._
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 8:35 PM UTC
I punctuate with close precision,
aware of where
I'm placing my semi-colons and
dashes,
using Oxford commas
like a grammar geek.
Your punctuation always bothers me
but you, with your misplaced apostrophes
and oddly abbreviated words
that you cradle in speech marks,
never care.
You were constantly callous in your conduct,
your handling of punctuation marks.
I assumed you never understood
the significance I attached to your words.
I could feel the excitement
and anxiety and apprehension
build in my belly every time
with your exclamation points!
I could feel my brows furrow together
deep in confusion,
every time you sent me just
one little question mark?
I suppose I never did tell you this
but when last month you ended your sentence
(accidentally, of course) with a dash,
well, I knew then that we’d be for ever.
and when last week you sent me
a comma to end your speech
I knew for certain that
more was to come.
but I see now it was silly
to attach such hope to a hyphen
because yesterday you concluded
with the biggest full stop I've ever seen
and let me know that that was all.
I felt that period’s punch
deep inside my gut
like you were trying to make me
throw up my jam and toast.
I had never before known
one small,
simple
dot
to be so powerful
and hurt so much.
It did though,
and you couldn't even tell-
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 3:56 AM UTC
sent forth on a path of destruction,
the prince of war is parading
through orange tides of
burning torches—
the funeral rites of
the dead king.
the engine of entropy spits out little
agents of chaos like bees from a hive.
they will sow
in time for the harvest
and when the sun rises to adorn
their naked, furry bodies
with golden dew,
they will shiver
in the remnants
of every dead star
before this one ends again.
a banshee from the ages
arrives as a missile of
determined suffering
set to detonate in close
proximity to the loose reins
of my forgotten destiny.
she wears a crown of roses
and embraces me with
her thorns
in the realm of Nature’s
loveless fawn—
a birthed, forgotten creature
gilded in silver linings
only to melt at
the feet of
God’s love.
I have cried rivers of tears
for people that have left
and all it does is drown
the land in a flood
of never memories
that keep me
isolated in stagnancy.
the wet magic in my
blood is vaporizing from
my fingertips now,
the crackle of split
lightning spins through
my skyless eyes.
abbreviated life spans
chunked into pieces
of lives I never wanted to
live, yet helped form
me.
I see violence in the periphery—
muted and out of
focus.
oil-spitting broken android
smashing through houses
looking for his heart
before powering
down.
“I am clipped,”
she whispers.
*“my wings don't lift me
anymore.
I am a trophy in a
cage.
I am atrophy in a
cage.
singing about the world
beyond these bars.
set me free—
I see the
window!
my flight feathers
will grow back
and I will leave you—
yes,
but I might return
and sing
to you about
that world beyond
the window.
I am not yours
to keep—
set me free!”*
she commanded my heart,
so I did—
I set her free.
and she flew away
into the world
and left me
with a parting gift—
an open window
and a devastating song of silence
that echoes in my ribcage forever.
Aug 24, 2025
Aug 24, 2025 at 9:49 AM UTC
kissing that boyfriend of mine
is far from divine
we usually partake
of a short peck
as his breath
is like a sardine trawler's deck
our lip locking
is always an abbreviated affair
staying attached at the mouth
isn't our fair
truncating our kissing
suits us to a tee
and we get along
rather agreeably
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
We were always bored
Looking for a piece of the action on
Ash tray floors and bong-ridden windows
Ambitious, ambidextrous fools
Trying to reach the icy heights at flaming fifteen
As we got older
Now we're too busy to just sit
And stare at the wall
We should've just stared at the wall
While we could
But we were too busy climbing
Overcoming building blocks
Now that they're stepping stones
All the doors we really need are locked
We should've stayed grounded
In trampolines and pavement chalk
Biding our time in the
Occasional tightrope walk
But to have it all when you want it
Is such a drug
So we pushed each other off
Just to feel the flight of falling
We tried so hard to make the pieces fit
But one puzzle solved
Is just another with more anguish in it
Taking left-hand paths
Just to prove ourselves right
Filling unknown vacancies
We were explorers in the night
As we got older
Now we're to busy to just
Wander in the woods
We should've just stayed in the woods
While we could
But the page has turned
The properties of sin have left us
Stranded in empty lots
Drawing straws for who and who is not
Passing notes and paper planes
We should've been holding hands
Connecting dots, embracing pain
We could've formed a circle band
Kings and queens and peasants
We were them all
But the trinity was dissolved
By geometry's laws
We tried so hard to make the language fit
But one riddle solved
Is just another with more questions in it
When genuine thoughts begin
To get abbreviated
You better pray you're not
The one who's deviated
Cause as we get older
We become too busy to
Recognize the truth
We should have recognized the truth
But it's no use
I don't know what happened to us
But I thought the underdog
Always got the glory later
So I saved my moments in a box
But the contest for youth fame
Is masked by drama's feeble gain
Cause what transpires long after
Is a race for cheap laughter
Better cross your fingers
And stand out as a loser
Lest you become a cabaret
The second you begin to change
I tried so hard to make myself fit in
But one problem solved
Is just another nihilistic moment
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 10:36 PM UTC
i’ve not slept in many beds
corners and glitches where i rest
carpets stained and scrubbed up red
ceilings hung and cracked, deep,
and grey, and mottled lead
undignified we sludge and sled
under the sheets of reels
and flirting and peels, boy
i am hidden in the cracks, thread.
as much as i’ve been pled to,
and you know
the temperature drops and drips
below, i am laid bare and empty —
grasp this only, time’s a given,
a heavy hand can’t feel the tips,
a riot now, abbreviated scripts.
since it was all i had to adore you
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 1:57 PM UTC
:-) We are the abbreviated people
Living our lives in short, loud bursts
On screens and through machines
Words are changed, made little, rearranged.
We are emoticons
Wearing a dead smile
Pretending to be happy
But *** and ***
We've lost so much.
Write with me
On walls and boards
And scented, silky paper.
Find your language, your voice
We'll rediscover what we were,
Articulate and complicated, full of words
If we write, we'll speak and feel
Indescribable, beautiful things
Unashamedly unabbreviated
More than a :-(
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 5:09 AM UTC
You cut a dashing figure
between em and en and
oh, by the way
Your abbreviated smile
has me wondering what
it stands for
as I place my finger on
your ellipsis … you lead me on,
there is no doubt
I feel left out
But as we track and kern
our forms, ascending,
make ligatures to avoid
an overlap of strokes
a diphthong doth emerge
o’er our line o’ type
and what was once
paragraphed into separateness,
our thoughts juxtaposed
begins to merge
(bind in parentheses)
you’n’me make syncope
and, once the story forms,
the digraphs make shapes
with our mouths.
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 4:53 PM UTC
I have on a pearl necklace, the beads like cabbage
stonewashed by sun
and sitting upon this veranda I
watch wind feather a hilltop where your sister
lost her virginity to a man while she was but a girl –
the sort that marries nothing besides memories.
She would wear what I do if I remember correctly.
Your sister had taped posters on her wall
of which she would stay up late to kiss goodnight –
I heard their rustle
through the plaster, through your hair covering my
neck when you hid me next door
pouring my secretions onto your mattress.
Somehow, she was younger and older than you:
chopsticks in her whiskers twice your age
**** a scalp whose hardly brushed one’s headboard.
You and I, on hiatus
and she and I were always clean –
skimming our knees together while you had another
girl in the shower-stall, who cried when
she ate a sandwich
or abbreviated the name I wished never would end.
In the valley, the willows cut a dress your sister would
wear with my pearl necklace, and
I think I will marry my memories, too, if not you.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
The Abbreviated Shelf Life of a New Poet
Reads
|
1000 |
|
| ^
|
|
|
|
|
|
10 | >>>>
------------0-------------------------------- Poems
Data points the number of reads per poem: 725, 12, 11, 10, 0, 0
"Glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever"
Napoleon Bonaparte
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
the black and white photographs you took
five years past still hang framed in my room,
just above my turntable. Deja Entendu
spills from the stereo as the needle finds its groove.
a shelf filled with all the records
we used to listen to for hours
lines the wall and succulents
adorn the windowsill, waiting patiently
for the rare rays of sun, golden
and flossy as your hair,
which somehow manage
to peek between the tenement rooftops
every now and then.
we still live in the same town. sometimes,
people bring you up. they ask me how you are,
how long it's been since i've heard from you.
i neglect to tell them that, aside from absentee
notifications popping up on my phone
at intermittent variations, we've only spoken once,
in a crowded, little coffee shop
in the city we both love to hate.
you pretended you didn't see me, but i felt your eyes
notice me at the bar as i sat typing another story,
bobbing my head, listening to Daughter.
if i hadn't approached you, i imagine
you would've acted like i was invisible.
the conversation was terse, abbreviated.
i find it strange how once
we were the best of friends
and now we can sit twenty feet apart
and act like we never knew each other at all.
i can't really recall why
our friendship collapsed in the first place.
have i suppressed it? or was it just the casual
slip, like Pangea, elapsed time
fracturing our continent.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 4:25 PM UTC
We have to keep silent Simply because we're not allowed to talk ... Our thoughts have got turned into Tiny ones Simply because that's it ... Our pretty words have become abbreviated For many reasons ... To be is not allowed anymore Simply because to be not has got replaced by it ... We have got cornered Anywhere and everywhere ... _______________________________________________________________
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 10:00 AM UTC
To me she is a name and an image,
the moral to my good intentions,
A face to a feeling of my own invention.
She's a lingering lie in the back of my mind.
Fingers and lips stand highlighted
as ghost-like etchings in my abbreviated memory.
Romanticised moments of your hip-bones tremoring
on Winter nights, alone and together in the dark.
Our long lasting days in-doors
played out like "the way things ought to be",
with the most perfect view of the movie
through faded strands of hair
These days, your girls make you up unfamiliar,
Indian ink applied over the original sketch,
the shivering girl brought down to match,
a floating feather dipped in black and
made part of a Hot Topic handbag.
And even now I wonder if the dripping wet girl
with the stiff shutter smile
ever even existed, at least,
the drunken emo kid staggering on the cobbles whispers rumours
she was mown down by telltale scripted kisses and silent exchanges.
So she remains a name and an image,
a memorial for better or worse,
an epitaph that eases the hurt,
the difficult first album of my heart
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 2:00 PM UTC