"affable" poems
An affable Irregular,
A heavily-built Falstaffian man,
Comes cracking jokes of civil war
As though to die by gunshot were
The finest play under the sun.
A brown Lieutenant and his men,
Half dressed in national uniform,
Stand at my door, and I complain
Of the foul weather, hail and rain,
A pear-tree broken by the storm.
I count those feathered ***** of soot
The moor-hen guides upon the stream.
To silence the envy in my thought;
And turn towards my chamber, caught
In the cold snows of a dream.
10.7k
F-Fraternizing with people on the internet
A-Affable communication had by this set
C-Chatting happily as would a bird's duet
E-Establishing terrific friendships you bet
B-Bringing folks together in a sociable way
O-On the world wide web is where we play
O-Oodles of great mates go online every day
K-Keenly we are involved in a cordiality ray
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 6:47 AM UTC
In the midst of the melancholic dusk,
soliloquies of the forgotten are hushed.
Those who listened snickered
at the surreal hopes of those
who search for their flicker.
For you see,
in a year not so long ago,
the Empathy did leave.
Ever since the start,
Empathy lived in the world’s heart.
He came to visit us every day.
His grin is warm and bright like sunbeams,
and he hides behind what the people say.
Empathy was the hero of the lost
His touch mended the broken spirits, although,
none of us knew it had such a hefty cost.
Is there a more affable friend that could possibly be,
than that of Empathy?
Empathy was a close friend of mine.
When I sang his somber song, he appeared.
The bourgeoisie had never seen anyone so divine.
There was something furtive in his eyes
as if he knew, somehow,
that he would have to bid me goodbye.
I asked him, “Empathy, what’s going on?”
He replied, “The light is fading. They have killed the dawn.”
And so I saw his words ring true.
The sun rose not,
The sky faded gray from blue.
The people of the world began to hate.
Abandoning Empathy, they set the universe ablaze.
Fire choked the sky, for us it was too late.
“Save yourself and run away!” I cried.
But Empathy, he shook his head, smiled, and died.
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
Lately, I've seen poems trending about how no one should fall in love with a poet, nor should they make a poet helplessly fall in love with them. However, something no one has mentioned yet is what occurs too often: stealing from a poet.
When a poet writes a poem, that poem is the perfect combination of metaphors and imagery created by them for you -- a compilation so beautifully intricate that you can get lost by reading merely a few words, overtaken by an empathetic tide that you did not think would come to the corners of your eyes when you sat down and opened your book or tab or paper.
This is the beauty of poems; they express words that many cannot say in any other variation of any way. Ask a poet to describe their emotions and they will beg you for paper and pen, a computer and a keyboard. And these poems eventually combine to become a part of the poet.
The poems a poet writes become a part of themselves.
That being said, it is not okay to take away from a poet what is rightfully theirs. You do not steal from a poet because you are searching for an idea, or because you would like to go trending. Stealing is not poetry. Stealing is not beautiful.
We are a community of people with a love more affable for poetry than for ourselves, and we should all respect all the pieces, because if we do then we are accepting and respecting each other.
So I ask you from the bottom of my heart, do not steal from a poet any longer if you have, or at all if you have not. Your pieces are your own raw emotions, not mine. My pieces are my own raw emotions, not yours.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 6:52 PM UTC
He only imbibes because of his dipsomania.
She only practices onanism because she's afraid he'll impregnate her.
He despises her monomania.
She's too affable, almost to the point of being obsequious.
He's too acrimonious and muzzy.
She knows she's a bit of a coquette.
He thinks he's a cuckold.
She used to be flighty until she fell into this convoluted dystopia.
He used to find it scintillating to get sozzled.
She just wants a lark once in a while.
His iniquity makes him want her to be lascivious.
Her every fatuity leads to a cabal.
He's too opaque and insipid.
She has to iterate and reiterate everything she says.
He feels his infatuation is unrequited.
She finds this unproblematic.
He doesn't imbue her with anything anymore.
She thinks he's unpitying of that.
He'll malinger tomorrow.
She'll wonder if it's all adventitious or kismet.
She can't handle his odium.
He can't stand her ten dollar words.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
In freedom’s blessed glorified sky through streaks of immortal gold his visage we behold
He looks upon the fields of liberty that he and the founding fathers sowed he sees the
Richness America has become he also beheld her struggles catastrophic wars abroad
And the most painful the one that divided the nation marred it with southern and northern
Blood saw the affable the sad giant Lincoln take the reins of discontent hold them by
Shear will and with uncommon sagacity guided it back in line to fulfill its destiny as the
Powerful fount that would always pour forth waters of freedom for all of earths peoples
Total unconditional acceptance of liberty and all the fruit it bears to establish a
Government like no other this golden grain has waved under bluest skies and brightest
Sun light its rich harvest has gone to darkest prison cells Mandela was sustained by it
For twenty nine years and by its moral purity it fed the lives of those that over threw
Apartied and Mandela finally freed by principals it avows rose from prison clothes
To wear the mantle of president of his country and the honor of the man instilled
Quality that transcended political office Jefferson not to be disrespectful to his progeny
Whispers today’s politicians could do well to look on this African model of good
Stewardship of public trust with that Jefferson faded back into the mist pray that’s
Not the fate of this country
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 2:26 PM UTC
In freedom’s blessed glorified sky through streaks of immortal gold his visage we behold
He looks upon the fields of liberty that he and the founding fathers sowed he sees the
Richness America has become he also beheld her struggles catastrophic wars abroad
And the most painful the one that divided the nation marred it with southern and northern
Blood saw the affable the sad giant Lincoln take the reins of discontent hold them by
Shear will and with uncommon sagacity guided it back in line to fulfill its destiny as the
Powerful fount that would always pour forth waters of freedom for all of earths peoples
Total unconditional acceptance of liberty and all the fruit it bears to establish a
Government like no other this golden grain has waved under bluest skies and brightest
Sun light its rich harvest has gone to darkest prison cells Mandela was sustained by it
For twenty nine years and by its moral purity it fed the lives of those that over threw
Apartied and Mandela finally freed by principals it avows rose from prison clothes
To wear the mantle of president of his country and the honor of the man instilled
Quality that transcended political office Jefferson not to be disrespectful to his progeny
Whispers today’s politicians could do well to look on this African model of good
Stewardship of public trust with that Jefferson faded back into the mist pray that’s
Not the fate of this country
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
"Nadia"
"Hope," it means.
"Beautiful," they say.
"Kind," she is.
"Caring," they are.
"Nadia."
She is the ever-hopeful,
The triply beautiful,
The very kindhearted,
The infinitely caring.
"Nadia"'s.
They are the unendingly positive,
The unfairly lovely,
The unduly affable,
The unfailingly kind.
"Nadia," oh, how she shines
So brightly, so comfortingly.
"Nadia," oh, how she loves
Without judgement or favor.
But I am not "Nadia."
I am Nadia.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
He has this nervous tick.
When a person is lying he will open his mouth.
Sometimes his jaw will hit the floor.
Sometimes words will come out.
And sometimes there are consequences,
if not only a sore jaw.
He is an affable man.
Many would say he's a good sport
and in good nature, even though he's not
athletic and has severe allergies.
Handshakes are important to him.
And he understands the appeal of a thumbs-up.
Hugs are reserved for holidays,
and tears were only had at funerals.
Sunglasses optional, but the only pair
he owns he keeps
in the jacket of his black suit.
Any man that has a tendency to speak too freely,
or too much, will have to learn to talk their way out of a potentially harmful situation.
The "Gift of Gab"did not die with the smock.
It evolved with the suit.
It became five words said in three.
It is in relation to political correctness.
It's knowing that government is not ********
but many representatives are mentally challenged.
He tries to stay ahead of his mannerisms.
Raised eyebrow.
Twitching eye.
Clenched teeth.
But some things cannot be hid.
Like the vein in his forehead.
And of course his verbal diarrhea.
But he would rather expell insight
and opinion rather than hold
it in only to force it out later in privacy.
People involved in Fine Art are shot on site.
Possession of a canvas brings a life sentence.
The art departments are born from advertising.
False pretense is considered flexible.
When the program used is for the sole purpose
of manipulation you aren't expected to become angry. Government turns the clocks back, stretching time and truth,
with knowledge of a man who has done
the same, and was considered a master.
Metaphysics and a mustache,
he changed the world with a canvas,
and with an open mouth he expelled truth
and injustice to a contemporary audience.
He applied his paint with a poetic eye.
Soon he learned that you don't need
to start a fire to melt a clock.
All you need is a brush,
and sometimes a barren tree.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
He’d been able, after some gentle persistence,
To wheedle his way into the place
(He’d been vaguely recognized by the caretaker,
A certain affable familiarity his stock in trade, after all)
And he had been decidedly deliberate in his search for the shoes,
Though he’d been quite certain where he’d left them,
Simply hoping to drink this all in just one more time
But though the rooms were ostensibly unchanged
(He'd noted the odd knick-knack and piece of bric-a-brac
Had been secreted out, to be preserved or pawned)
They held no fascination for him now,
Simply concoctions of hardwood flooring,
Decorative wall coverings, staid pieces of furniture
(Indeed, the paterfamilias of this whole mélange
Increasingly beyond his recall-- he could hearken back
To a certain hail-fellow-well-met in his demeanor,
And he'd had an affecting smile,
But he was unable to conjure any further details
From the recesses of his memory)
And with nothing else to moor him to these silent rooms,
He'd slipped on the ostensible reasons he'd come in the first place
(Their uppers maintaining their whiteness
Through any number of bleachings,
The soles worn to a near smoothness)
And, nodding perfunctorily to the mansion's steward,
He slipped away, heading to some other party
Carrying on in more or less perpetuity,
The battered bottoms of his shoes
Leaving just the faintest marks as he crossed the dunes,
Soon to be buffed away altogether by the breeze.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
Even this latter
lingering emotionality
will vanish somehow,
masked behind an affable reflection,
but already collapsed
into a black hole.
Bigger and bigger.
Mastery of nothingness
in satisfying myself
as mute, stripped leaves
observing their art
of turning into glow of warmth.
Autumn’s heredity.
Fierce hyperbole is Melancholy,
remote and severe sixth sense,
obsidian monolith
in this too mild dimension.
Melodrama of light
is the vacuum of such empirism
saturated ad nauseum
by the ceaseless delay
of the most natural
and contemptuous ease.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
Repost for Nelson Mandela
In freedom’s blessed glorified sky through streaks of immortal gold his visage we behold
He looks upon the fields of liberty that he and the founding fathers sowed he sees the
Richness America has become he also beheld her struggles catastrophic wars abroad
And the most painful the one that divided the nation marred it with southern and northern
Blood saw the affable the sad giant Lincoln take the reins of discontent hold them by
Shear will and with uncommon sagacity guided it back in line to fulfill its destiny as the
Powerful fount that would always pour forth waters of freedom for all of earths peoples
Total unconditional acceptance of liberty and all the fruit it bears to establish a
Government like no other this golden grain has waved under bluest skies and brightest
Sun light its rich harvest has gone to darkest prison cells Mandela was sustained by it
For twenty nine years and by its moral purity it fed the lives of those that over threw
Apartied and Mandela finally freed by principals it avows rose from prison clothes
To wear the mantle of president of his country and the honor of the man instilled
Quality that transcended political office Jefferson not to be disrespectful to his progeny
Whispers today’s politicians could do well to look on this African model of good
Stewardship of public trust with that Jefferson faded back into the mist pray that’s
Not the fate of this country
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC
SuzAnne, nee Christine
Irascible, Incorrigible, Indefatigable, Affable
Adopted sister of Doug and Mike and sort of Jill
Lover of ideas and stances
Who fears laryngitis and deafness
Who needs music and malleability
Who gives grades and advice
Who would like to see Firenze and the Pyramids of Giza
Who lives in Hot Water
Wilson, nee Doe
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
Give me the shelter of your warm embrace
Let it unfurl and cover me like the wings of an angel
For its only in such moments that i feel safe
Give me the affable comfort of your light
Let those rays pierce through me and chase away the dark
For its only in such moments that i feel at peace.
You've turned my forsaken shack into a gleaming sanctuary
And given me a hideout that I can turn to when stormy clouds arise
You've turned my hollow hovel into a glowing hearth
And given me a a place of refuge that I can retire to when I am weary
Let me retreat into you once again
There I will dwell
And return to a place that I know so well
Jul 27, 2020
Jul 27, 2020 at 10:41 AM UTC
Burning
The fire is glowing set against the chill of autumn’s night wind the chimney discharges the inner being of
The wood truly the spirit of the wood rises ghostly it breaks out of the chimney and is welcomed by the
Wayward wind lessoned of its density but an exchange occurred for its value memories it took while the
Elderly mother set close for its comfort and warmth as the shadows played on her face of age it told
Many stories of struggle and triumph father earned the money by back breaking work in a dark coal
Mine mother took it thanked the good lord then raised it to masterful heights with skill and cooking
Lessons learned from her mother time draws definitive measures in each life now having reached a
Seasoned long life milestone her tender heart was the capstone walls and windows a sturdy life looking
Like beams as the shadows of the fire danced on the wall below what mellow note it struck and she it’s
Center piece buy the night with her humility and genteel ways the rush of power still evident in her frail
Frame life glowing in the midst of the fire’s own showing strength her wisdom the families guide hard to
Believe that a personality so affable and giving could coil as steel if the need arose pushed to a point but
No further you don’t raise a family and see them succeed without having a store house of individualism
In reserve now all that shows on the service is a profound goodness displayed in weak frailty the body
Slows its tempered power subsides but within the spirit still can be counted on for feats and exploits as
The demand calls for them even a fire dies down but all it needs is the stoking some of the wood has
Been turned from the flame within short time it will roar with new glory old age isn’t a total defeat
You can change the pace and years of experience will give control with less effort the fire plays on
Mother’s breath softens as she drifts in dreams to grand times when all was collectively connected
Honor and glory told over successive years now they are harbored and restored to a degree by the
burning
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 1:59 PM UTC
I saw Sting in the lobby this morning, we were going out and he was coming in. Lisa nudged me, “Sting” was all she whispered. He was with a woman and a man. The woman was talking to the doorman. Sting was dressed all in black except for a long stark-white cashmere scarf, he was chatting and working a dark-gray French-flat-cap around in his hands. His hair is very short and white.
We wanted to walk in the snow, if only for a minute.
A gust of wind caught us as we reached the sidewalk. The two American flags, on either side of the entrance, went rigid, at 9-o’clock as if saluting us. “Jeeez!” I said, like the Georgia girl I am - or was. “Don’t be a baby,” Lisa answered, like a true, pittyless New Yorker but her cheeks had turned a child-like pink. She flipped up her collar.
I patted my pocket, relieved to feel my phone and know that if we froze to death the authorities could use “find my friends” to locate our bodies.
Leeza joins us a moment later and I can’t help but notice that she’s dressed like it’s a cool fall day. Back in the day, when my brother would dress like summer even though temperatures in Georgia had dipped cruelly into the fifties. Seeing him, my mom would say, “Where there’s no sense, there’s no feeling,” but I don’t.
“Did you see Sting?” I asked Leeza (12). She gives me a blank look. “Sting”, I said, “the lead singer for The Police?” I add, as clarification. “I don’t know who that is,” she says flatly. “He was famous,” I say in surrender, “a long time ago, in the 90s.” Maybe the next generation won’t be as celebrity driven.
Thank God Lisa suggested I pin my artist-beret down or it would have blown away, like my resolve to walk in the snow. Still, I followed Lisa into the park like a cat on a leash - unwilling to be seen as any less Canadian. The show crunched like we were trampling over snow-cones.
Trees began turning away the wind as we entered Central Park, “I think we may survive.” I said cheerfully. Just because you're freezing to death doesn’t mean you can’t be affable.
Why don’t pigeons freeze to death - I thought birds flew south for the winter?
Jan 10, 2022
Jan 10, 2022 at 9:17 AM UTC
Her alias was Sunrise
The affable Sky
Brags her entity
In the high latitude
Her voice was heard.
There exists Energy
He puts up the plug
With the invisible outlet
Of the naked Sky
His charged particles
Brought collision
Brought wonder
To the full-sized Universe.
The solar wind
The Earth
Both were crowd-pullers
Every one knelt down
As they see
The Roman Goddess of Dawn
Her melodramatic entrance
Her chameleon-like aptitude
The neon lights
Without Christmas *****
Made her zone broaden.
I am the Seeker
A Dreamer
In this winter breeze
I lied down
With the techy remote
Unearthing
The Goddess of Fantasy.
(12/5/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
She is a blush of the summits during the sunrise,
She is the ray of hope in the heart of the failure.
She is the light in the dark life of the jailer.
She is buried deep within the soul of an erring,
She is affable, she is daring.
She completes the incomplete, takes away the complete.
Her laugh, her smile, will take away your tears.
She will answer to thy holy prayers.
She will console, she will hurt,
She will shed away your discomfort.
She is the fragrance of the flowers,
She is the sparkle of the moonlit night.
She is the cause of contrite.
She is the tune of the upright.
She gives, she takes.
She will make mistakes.
She will rise, she will destroy.
She will rejoice, express joy.
She isn't weak or bleak,
Do not question her physique, she is unique.
She will disown, she will deceive.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
Why would you smile at strangers on the street
Why not, it won't cost you a dime
Why would you eat lunch at an affable diner by yourself
Why not, you deserve a piece of solitude sometimes
Why would you go stargazing and binge eating with friends on a Friday night
Why not, life is short; Enjoy while you can
Why would you stay in and watch 500 Days of Summer over again
Why not, you need a good cry once in a while
Why would you rather be with the one you love than with the one who loves you
Why not, you define your own happiness
Why would you write sonnets and love letters but never let him read them
Why not, okay why not?
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonishèd.
He nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence.
But when your countenance filled up his line,
Then lacked I matter, that enfeebled mine.
1.3k
There was an old person of Nice,
Whose associates were usually Geese.
They walked out together,
In all sorts of weather.
That affable person of Nice.
1.3k
The tea cup clouds were reason enough.
Reeling, the clock hands spun on an axis wobble
noon flirted with night
and I broke into a run
as the sky opened its maw
and screamed.
Even the suits scramble for burrows.
Retrospection always has a punchline.
Hide away, slide away
Stop looking at my ******* please.
Now watch wide-eyed behind
public glass, with a
sitcom gang of affable protagonists
who are now late for their respective chapters
Staring at their phones, willing the weather
forecast to telepathically change.
The light strobes, the bricks quiver sympathetically
and I riddle a fourteen year old pantheon
as they sway, as they jaunt
ankle deep in charged water
daring each other and daring the sky
daring the noise with headphones still around necks
like defiant plastic boas
Clothes plastered, mouths open, rain-drunk
feeling **** revealing secret intimate shapes,
feeling sheepishly exposed next
to crushes who will kiss them at the next movie.
I am aware of each nerve as I drip and shiver
I'm terrified of storms, my reasons are mine
but even this fear
can cat-stroke my skin
hyper-sensitized, electric
and make me feel
**** too.
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
A certain peace envelops
The second hour of the night,
A little mellow, a little electric,
The ratios positioned just right
I'm sure this chai I'm dreamily sipping on,
Would not seem as delectable in the day
As it is right now, with its caffeine
Making all my senses with abandon, sway
That's the thing about this hour, I say,
Its still tranquility, its silence and calm
is merely superficial; if you're up this time,
you're part of a storm
A simmering storm, with a quiet surface,
and a whirlpool of life concealed within,
A psychedelic fiesta booming with
A myriad of emotions beneath the brim
Indeed, Silence turns Audible,
Colors turn Tangible,
Misery turns Defeatable,
Loneliness turns Affable
Music begins to make all the more sense,
When freed from the cacophony of the day,
In fact, the night will tune a sweeter melody
If you'll put those headphones away
And listen! Listen to the solitude,
The slow tick-tock of the clock,
The distant horn of a car somewhere,
The occasional howl of a street dog,
The rustle of leaves as they dream in their slumber,
The whisper of the wind as it strolls outside,
The sound of Papa's snoring the sole interruption,
To the fluid rhythm of the night.
A certain contenment surrounds me tonight,
As I bid goodbye to the second hour revelry,
Where my sentiments turned to words,
And words turned into my long departed but duly returned,
Poetry
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 4:43 PM UTC
Your radiance blinded my eyes
yet they didn't hurt.
Your words pierced my heart
yet I did not bleed.
Your fire set my soul ablaze
but I wasn't burned.
Your chains held me to the ground
but they made me soar higher.
This is the kind of love you give:
complex yet affable,
resilient yet comforting,
agonizing yet appealing.
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 12:32 PM UTC
Laughable
Affable
Reachable
Near
Damnable
Mandible
Crucible
Bone
Icicle
Tricycle
Sensible
Fear
Inevitable
Dependable
Dispensable
Stone
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC