"agreeably" poems
The diverse assortment of enrapturing conviction
Is but cacophony to most other than me,
Discord to the passionate,
Defending concepts they find true
Clamor to the indifferent,
Those value peace and human happiness
Above factual correctness
For years they’ve all, with incessant attempts
Given their utmost to indoctrinate me,
The most easily swayed of all—
But I’ve found in the rupturing of the fervent,
All ideology, ethic, doctrine,
And in the serenity of the agreeably pacific
I’ve found faith, hope—I’m sure that’s my own,
Art is by no means meaningless, I find,
Especially so when inherent by human ability
And ascribed to this lyrical poem I’ve crafted
Consisting of what I, by my means, find true
Diverse conviction is beautiful.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
The day that I was christened--
It's a hundred years, and more!--
A hag came and listened
At the white church door,
A-hearing her that bore me
And all my kith and kin
Considerately, for me,
Renouncing sin.
While some gave me corals,
And some gave me gold,
And porringers, with morals
Agreeably scrolled,
The hag stood, buckled
In a dim gray cloak;
Stood there and chuckled,
Spat, and spoke:
"There's few enough in life'll
Be needing my help,
But I've got a trifle
For your fine young whelp.
I give her sadness,
And the gift of pain,
The new-moon madness,
And the love of rain."
And little good to lave me
In their holy silver bowl
After what she gave me--
Rest her soul!
8k
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
Easy guilt
overtakes me and
all of the faces
erase me and
I slip in a well
rapturously.
After a few brews
and a wet ******
my nerves shake loose
again.
I'm an adolescent
with contradicting condescension.
I love you
I look you in the eye to tell you
we look away
we don't say much.
Arguably agreeably
disagreeably so.
Every instant is a building.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 11:54 AM UTC
I grieve for you in the cold quiet of winter
My absent child, my long lost son
Warming my hands over dying flames, frost covered smouldering clinker,
By the wood where icy streams run
Through the shrunken sedge, and barren fields
Stretching for miles, empty of meaning.
The landscape like a worn photograph yields
Your tremulous smile, then nothing.
Here, you ran with startled steps
Through the yielding sheaves, yelling with surprise,
Chasing indifferent spiders, and discomfited birds
With hatred in their pebble pool-dark eyes.
Querying awkwardly spoken words, small
Tenacious fingers that caress and clutch
Every passing object, loudly chuckling, wisely playing me for a fool
A silly father who loved too much.
On the anniversary of your leaving I required solitude
Partnered only by memory
Away from familiar crowds, the booming, barking fusillade
Of the present day commonplace urban itinerary,
Where only the crackle of snow
And the fleeting trajectory of birds
Distracts my slow
Marshalling of comforting thoughts.
The cottage where we lived haunts the shallow glade,
A shrouded ghost swaddled by the half-light,
Positioned squarely like an old man, its cladding beginning to fade,
White branches like dead-fingers that gleam in the night.
In the closet are your dust-sprinkled toys, a yellow plastic duck,
A cheap skateboard, ancient video games,
A guitar you never learnt to pluck
A chess board on which you pulverised my endgames.
In the preserved furnishings of your bedroom
Your school work gathered into stacks
Barely visible in the gloom,
Our life together in disorganised packs
Denoting year and level
Development and academic achievement,
If any, (but I mustn’t once again cavil)
Indicating, even in your earliest years, a specific bent.
Standing on the mantelpiece, propped up against the wall,
Are brightly coloured, polished pictures
Of you. Plump, blonde, agreeably small
Dancing, standing, jumping, grinning, absurdly wistful mixtures.
A bitter echo resonating from the shadows
A cold thought darkening into memory
The spectre of your voice disappearing in the meadows
Having left all of us! Having left me!
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
it was that i was. gurgling a valorous *** of cells at the bottom
of the notched brick habitat of sickly algebra. and i and. with all
the dirt meticulously skeletal. trenchant chaotic lips blathering
skinny vocal animals. the smooth monkeys pinstripe about the
square in my needle city. well and i am an we. with your habitual
pocket of blood and dust in correct lumps small and large proportionately
spitted on your ideal, at my hips your hips(hand in hand). we walk
bythe specific straights towering sky breakers hollering reflective
skin. the neon electric residue of light smacks my eyelets. and
some ****** **** with the night air agreeably. but i,m a yours
and only. yes. so let's make some drips of clear tremulous benedictions
to this vibrant lovely hell
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 12:07 PM UTC
Who is the Artist and who is the Man, What differences lay therein?
Who is it that struggles more or less, is it a monopoly one over the other?
It is in the minds of all men to seek serenity and peace, to stand and hope for this is common to all.
Yes, we all have this in common, but the Artist has the tools with which to utter man’s dissent. This dissent to the injustices and violence’s waged upon the world and upon ourselves.
However, if the Artist believes that he is inculpable of these same injustices; his beliefs are that of indolence. For the Artist is no different in terms of the flesh and bone we speak of; this cage is inherent to all.
Struggle is also inherent. Who is it that has not done so? In this day and age as in most ages past, we have witnessed the violent upheaval of country against country, neighbor against neighbor. Americans and the world have watched towers and airplanes fall from the sky. And while this is agreeably horrific, we enlist and unleash a nationally based reprisal against our fellow human beings.
Yes, justice must be served, but it must be served by calm and learned hands. Some nine years later we find ourselves wallowed deep in the decay of war. And to what end has it been justified. The soldier will say that it is to bestow honor upon his fallen comrades and that is why the fight must go on. The politician will say it is to ensure stability in the affected region. The businessman will say it is to regain stability in the markets.
But the Man, the Woman and child only ask when will this end? The laid off workers, the new lower class of America, the grieving Mothers and Fathers, the limbless young men and woman. What is it that they see? The world’s future lies wounded upon an uncaring street.
And yet, what is it that an artist can do that a man cannot? The artist is a part of the melee, part of this violent soup. He may sit outside the bowl separate from the rest, but he cannot deny his complicity with this.
We must come to terms with our humanity as artists. For the artist to deny this would surely be the greatest lie. It is the twenty first century and we are the Writer’s, the artists of this age. What is it that we are prepared to tell the future? What is it that will be said of us and our work?
Let us not lie to them, let us not squander our opportunity to convey our perceived truths in the most laudable of lights. However we must all confess that we are first and foremost,
Man, simple men and women who struggle, who live, and die, who at times celebrate injustices, who embrace blind thought and bias’s, who breathe and bleed just as they, just as we… We are heartbeat and pulse of these times. But let us not hold that above our brothers and sisters, Let our combined works embrace the common man. For if not for him, Art is meaningless.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 4:33 PM UTC
The rocks are whispering to you
with a rough truth
that only the cliffs can teach
Close your eyes and listen,
the wind is carrying the sentence
and the trees sway agreeably
It is the sober sound of mans silence
that soothes your worries today
as the hawk cries above your head
Benevolence has no place here
it has been slain to non-existence
along with his brother, malice
Morality never grew here at all
it has no place here with you
the wilderness surpasses such naivety
Within seconds the social venom
will drain from your heart
and you will know what it is
to be free
truly
free.
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 6:21 AM UTC
AiaiaiAI!
I broke the bads ****
beyond the saddened eyes of a Notorious Funkyman
As if me were you
just to catch an incognito glimpse of you
Oh how I wish that'd stayed a joke in town
haven’t ******* like a bird on my head n convert me to a punk
cannot turn't back
such an irrelevant inconvenient run
was dark dark
dark brown
beyond the thickening curtains shattering gossipers
at hours before the break of dawn
I don't do with tarot cards
my heart longing burning for your mirage
allows me not visualize
truth as is cruel
so I blow a puff
high tigh tight yotabye
n bluff you up
only how I wish was that a dream now but no man
t was no funky man
although with a funkyman
was so bad bad
and I!
after
as bad as you can be in hearts
and still me is so good in dance
nobody could score us! ...Once we have had fans.
Read you thru the minds if not hearts and broke it open now!
saw yours was not true talkin to me
although remains so lovingly
eyes with glittery in memory
as sad as it can be
if you not yourself convert it later on to … jokingly
I say ... like you
keep this a secret itsmak for luck only
then I knew what you meant...
then I saw what you saw...when you looked at me
I looked at him not with fake eyes of you oh love me true
and said Goodbye.
ie rolls a colorful bead - its a gift
with a who knows what future brings
me nodding agreeably
for the phrase only
Nay its neither for you nor ie
future a farewell at most
to include you both
and me
and I promise me
never I break hearts by puffs again
will stick to tarot cards
keep tis a hard learned lesson past
where heart allows
if not minds.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
All that glitter do not shine,
for surely lost in the lore
of our ancestors of mankind
know of appreciation and more.
A tree that might wither in soil
shall agreeably meet its doom,
but though it may suffer this toil,
is it not left for flowers to bloom?
A man who's strength is all spent
like a sponge in a mop that can't absorb,
shall arise once more to repent
and to success he shall surely go towards
A spirit broken with sorrow,
soaking in a pond of pity,
shall be example of the true and narrow
to purge the child of their humidity.
A child wreathed with anger,
though like a phoenix ignited with gas,
will learn but a way of life, stranger,
than all of that which we may allow to pass.
All things on Earth, ignoring their flaw,
exist in perfection
it just requires a law;
Gold Might Not Glitter, But It Can Shine..
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 1:02 PM UTC
Sitting here in a world of pain, from all the torture.
I stare, and in the distance, something sharp peaks its head.
Shiny, yet dull, smooth, yet sharp, pictures flood my mind of horror.
I pick it up, and pictures begin to flash, me, lying there, motionless, dead.
I hold it in my hand, and, has hard as I can, I begin to drag it across my arm.
The blood begins to flow, uncontrollably, but agreeably.
Carving, drawing, writing, doing so much, TO MUCH harm.
All while screaming at the top of my lungs, 'Why aren't I suitable?!'
You came along, saw the hurt, saw the flaws.
You helped me from the start, told me you loved me,
And I am left in Awe.
Sep 13, 2011
Sep 13, 2011 at 4:11 PM UTC
With gaps between each other, so slim that only essentials
Pass through unquestioned, dunes develop before the shoreline.
Scenic transformations containing apparitions of Gaia. An
Unaccompanied portrait. Ultraviolet, not claret or tangerine,
Actively grays the skeleton beneath salinized feet. All sizes and shapes
Continue on, north or south. Sometimes pausing in place to
View courting gulls, klee-ew klee-ew, initiating aeronautic affairs.
Ballets of gusting lust; then continue on, north, or south.
Our feet pay no mind to the calcified construction; we know
Without knowledge how delicate it remains. Seasons whisper
Motherly instincts, natural as Picasso's Spanish brush, tangibly
Colorful. Cerulean and further from known sensual perception, the Distant shoreline witnesses tides climb and fall with the moon. Carrying Foreign bodies, forgotten treasures, and newer apparitions, She stood
Naked between pillars of limestone and ash. Unwavering in her gaze,
Seductive with her emerging gait. Certain on death; certain on life.
Birthed Atlantic body, unabashedly **** and rightfully so. She held life, She held death, above the frothing coast, beneath the graying skeleton of Unquestioning gaps. Her eyes remained agreeably blue, contrasted by the Objective red, dripping from her left and right. Remaining motionless, her Outstretched hands offered the reddest rose with thorns and cleanest Blade of stainless steel, sharpened with her kiss. She had no words or
Need to use them. I reached for her ****** rose and sniffed its tempting
Scent, leaving our fates in her hand. Certain with life; certain with death.
Our fortunes sealed, her life or mine, gulls klee-ewed with defining Knowledge. They know her Atlantic, the tide, the current, the cresting Waves. She does not answer for her actions or apologize for what she is. She remains unpredictable and weaponized. I have scars as proof.
Beneath the greyest skeleton, aside the ****** shore, lies knowledge of
Delicate ends. Where lusting gusts blow apparitions and courting calls.
North or South, we continue on above the dunes. Splintering planks
Kiss our salinized souls, reminding us of our mother's whisper,
"these bones do not crack with ease".
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 7:50 PM UTC
What is sanity but a healthy love for oneself manifested in which way the beholder sees fit?
What is insanity but an opened mouth and an imprudent beholder of faith?
The self-proclaimed members of sanity have the right to deal insanity its sentence.
By the majority of the populous claiming a vice as a virtue;
Does it become agreeably sustainable to the self-knighted moral being?
So who is sane? Who is insane?
I can only express to you that I honestly do not know.
Sane men could be sane because they hide their thoughts from others through prudence,
Insane men do not have this luxury, they reveal too much of their inner nature.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
i observe
yes, i like to watch
most of it is comical
a majority is fake
painted on smiles
laughing at nothing
nodding agreeably
to what
they don't know
or care to know
securing their place
amongst a crowd
of the same
bobble heads
nodding
yes yes yes
not understanding
but not caring
just going with the flow
of expectation.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 1:52 PM UTC
~for Traveler & Jo-
*they who read,
he who creates,
and supplies a marvelous word fresh born,
and we celebrate a new word’s*
nativity:
+agreeance+
if only I could sing
or even write
with Niagara Falls force
of appreciation
what a miraculous joy,
this original pasta and sauce
of letters
that was never/always
meant to be
conjoined*
+that nuanced combo+
of
agreement + happenstance
agreeably
connects my
heart and emotions
in my early morn
period of tallying
all the little steps
morning brings
to verify that
my breathing is good
my heart is open and exposed,
for
all the tears
I’ve already wept in but
a few moments already
in but a
few minutes reading
your new
poems and message
that are so
heart rendering*
and I can smile
for the world and I
are in a state of
fulsome
agreeance!
Dec 16, 2024
Dec 16, 2024 at 7:57 AM UTC