"allotted" poems
we live in times when words have lost their meaning
they only serve to fill some soundbite gaps between
faces of popstars, politicians, presidential candidates,
maybe some refugees, victims of crimes and natural catastrophes
and more sensational media creations flooding our lives
with unrelenting hype unless you push the button
that brings quiet to your life and you find time to reconsider
what it might be exactly you desire to achieve
in the short time we are allotted in this world
you will discover it is not the senseless media blather
but some coherent thoughts turned into words becoming deeds
enacting change leading to bold decisions
think for yourself and don’t let others think for you
then speak your thoughts in words like others cannot do
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
XXII. TO POSEIDON (7 lines)
(ll. 1-5) I begin to sing about Poseidon, the great god, mover of
the earth and fruitless sea, god of the deep who is also lord of
Helicon and wide Aegae. A two-fold office the gods allotted you,
O Shaker of the Earth, to be a tamer of horses and a saviour of
ships!
(ll. 6-7) Hail, Poseidon, Holder of the Earth, dark-haired lord!
O blessed one, be kindly in heart and help those who voyage in
ships!
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What poem will you wear, when first we meet?
How will I recognition-you,
when you transverse my land?
Unknown our faces, our voices,
Only silent words electronic exchanged
Will lantern, it be: one, if by land, two, if by sea?
Will your ID badge, passport stamped and state,
Your chest bear a witness-sign?
The Arrivals Board flashes:
une poétesse est arrivé
eine Dichterin ist angekomme
a poetess has arrived
una poetisa ha llegado
Will there be a haiku in your hair,
A limerick exposed by raucous grin,
Or just ten words
allotted for your entire visit?
**Desperate to locate
Urgent to sensate
Matters I take
Into two cupped hands,
On the shoeshine stand
Climb and recite-shout**
Know me by my words,
Know me by the lilt lyrical
Of my American accented,
Canadian Tongue of my mother
Know me by my words,
Carved by time on my forehead,
Poetry is the blood of this fool's soul,
Hear me, find me, look upon me slamming
Poems are the thorns in my palms,
See me crucified, bleeding stanzas
Upon my shoeshine stand cross
Recitation resuscitation welcoming:
Benedicting Gloria, Gloria, Gloria
But if this should fail your attention to secure,
Or the TSA unappreciate my second coming,
Look for the crowd gathered round,
A man of moderate height, in a tall hat,
Beard scraggly, looking sorrowful
Reciting the Gettysburg Address
Either way,
Should be easy peasy to find me,
Grab your bag, off to short-term parking
This is how an Americana poet meets n' greets
Arriving poetess from a foreign land
Is there any other way?
------------------------------
Postscipt
**Alas, five years on and I know in my heart
that you are not coming...**
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
Under the arch of Life, where love and death,
Terror and mystery, guard her shrine, I saw
Beauty enthroned; and though her gaze struck awe,
I drew it in as simply as my breath.
Hers are the eyes which, over and beneath,
The sky and sea bend on thee,—which can draw,
By sea or sky or woman, to one law,
The allotted bondman of her palm and wreath.
This is that Lady Beauty, in whose praise
Thy voice and hand shake still,—long known to thee
By flying hair and fluttering hem,—the beat
Following her daily of thy heart and feet,
How passionately and irretrievably,
In what fond flight, how many ways and days!
12.3k
We made all possible preparations,
Drew up a list of firms,
Constantly revised our calculations
And allotted the farms,
Issued all the orders expedient
In this kind of case:
Most, as was expected, were obedient,
Though there were murmurs, of course;
Chiefly against our exercising
Our old right to abuse:
Even some sort of attempt at rising,
But these were mere boys.
For never serious misgiving
Occurred to anyone,
Since there could be no question of living
If we did not win.
The generally accepted view teaches
That there was no excuse,
Though in the light of recent researches
Many would find the cause
In a not uncommon form of terror;
Others, still more astute,
Point to possibilities of error
At the very start.
As for ourselves there is left remaining
Our honour at least,
And a reasonable chance of retaining
Our faculties to the last.
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What is the meaning of life?
Is it to be remembered?
To have people tell stories of you after you are gone?
Is it to change the world?
To make an impact in the blink of existence allotted to us?
To create something that will last?
Last until everybody you knew or who knew you is dead?
Humans are obsessed with finding a meaning.
A goal.
To matter.
We are born onto an assembly line that is
go, go, go, go, go
and then it ends.
What is left?
We never take time to think about how beautiful it is just to exist.
How, for this moment to be happening, the universe had to be created.
And through an incomprehensible sequence of events you ended up here.
In this moment.
This is a miracle.
There is no need to force yourself to matter, you already do.
You are the product of billions and billions of years of work.
Cherish it.
For the words flow so much easier when you aren't trying to force them,
when you simply sit and watch the sunset and listen to the birds.
What is the meaning of life but to exist?
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 8:17 PM UTC
We are within the precincts
Of the allotted time
How we may want to spend
As time takes away a little
Every day we move
Towards the end of time
From Time to time
We are stretched
And then weaned away
Towards another journey
Different destination
It’s all about time
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 7:39 AM UTC
Male Contraceptive Pill
my heart stands still
give up control
of such an important role
some can't iron a shirt
but able to prevent birth
Will they beep at allotted time?
in my head alarm bells chime
Is it too much to be asking?
wouldn't it be multi-tasking?
expecting him to do the deed
and stop the spread of seed
I'm sorry lads, this one I don't trust
my own birth control is a must
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 9:45 AM UTC
We blink quickly,
so that we miss nothing,
we compact an entire lifetime within an allotted time of two hours and a small two minute window for creditentials that acknowledge 1,326 people,
not including "special thanks,"
we indulge on the dramatized events that may or may not have happened, We thrive on sports that televise a group of ten to twenty-two grown men that run fast jump quickly, and
dance weirdly,
but that is the pursuit of thrills
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
High ground
I concede to you
in the disproportion of a time allotted to you
for the choice of robe to grace
a glorified cameo around your flesh
like a sheet designated for an overthrowing
in an honorary statue's unveiling
Liturgy is looming in the bathroom
already hot-boxed in the metal waterfall's
mist of moisture and the mountain range of bubbles
I have settled comfortably into in wait
High ground
awaits your hallowed prance
into the concealed languish of your man's
dangling imagination
I salute you with incentive
through a lowering of eyes made necessary
by your towering above my horizontal soak
I'm beseeching you to wield royal sway
over the humility of my reclined posture
with the hidden scepter of your body
fated to dictate the pace of my
anticipated knighting
The gentle thud of fabric on linoleum
incites a turning of my head to take in
the litany of parts available to my
frenetic feels and jumbled focus
Stationary in your naked smile of proximity
you extend to me excessive time to entertain options
as I coat myself in lukewarm opportunities
and rise to meet you for a bathing in my excess wetness
I accelerate my exit to negate the bubbled tribuataries
sliding to the floor to meet the remnants of your mystery
The wall is cold and you protrude
haplessly to meet the rapid chilling of my undried frame
Warmth is of the essence
Fingers split your hair in celebration
of our uniform heights and I feel you slouch
signalling our first hint of friction
and a twitch in my diviner of your cradle of essential warmth
Do you realize you now rescind creative license?
Or have you filled the snare of your intentions?
Now your balance shivers in the mercy
of my curled leg of leverage
and an coiled arm collecting your ambrosial attributes
like an ice cream scoop
Uniform heights allowing eye contact
makes optional the visual acknowledgment
of my elastic hunting in the smooth field of your breast
with a dancing thumb
I connect and latch onto what is now
our binding axis and shuffle eye contact
with the universal rhythm of a pelvic power ballad
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
To be blessed ,
favored and protected by the environment,
selected and isolated from your social groupings,
To be blessed is to synthesize what truly has meaning in life and self-meditate with the sake of life’s pace.
Before falling asleep, resting, force the mental to remain awake,
processing and breaking apart the information given today,
despite the fact that time wasn’t kind, brief or even prolonged; make it the moral commitment to self-reflect.
Make a correction if your answer is wrong; the fabrication of a scripture,
Make sure, for certain, that all the totaled scores calculate to a certain percentage,
Affirmed, scolded or ruled by another to convey your defined truth as inaccurate, almost there or rarely ample.
Time is allotted, effortless and to be taught a lesson is a blessing,
Space is limited, given and to be bestowed the gift of building is the set up version of a lesson, a shell of a blessing.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 1:39 AM UTC
The Discworld Death
The Discworld Death and Binky the horse, are here to stay.
The knight and his steed.
The darkest light even on the sunniest of days.
He is here now and he has always been here.
He will be here at the end;
The time you reach the end of your allotted years.
The Death of Rats fears no cat,
For he is already immortal; he always appears in black.
Even if a rat has been killed by a cat
And the cat can see The Death of Rats,
He still walks in his cowl and carries his scythe,
Because no matter how much the cat would like to attack,
It cannot **** the Death of Rats, as it is no longer alive.
You cannot **** Death, nor can you **** the Death of Rats.
You cannot escape the end,
And you cannot escape the cat,
If you are a rat;
On that you can depend.
Susan is Death’s Grand Daughter, with her hair black and white.
Albert is Death’s helper; the foolish type.
Death stands alone in the night and at his side there flies a crow.
With electric blue eyes, Death stares deep into your soul.
He can reach inside you and take your life,
Or he can let you go.
But when your time is up,
From Death there is no escaping.
He is your undertaker, have no fear of the Reaper;
He cannot tell you where you are going.
Death is an anthropomorphic personification.
Discworld is my favourite form of fiction.
It would be my preferred place,
To take a lifelong vacation.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC
Michael said to Gabriel
"You know the Old Man's tetchy,
have you got your **** together?
Have you got your choir ready?"
Gabriel said, "Just **** out,
have you got that star in place?
I don't see it in the sky yet,
have you booked the allotted space?
"By the time the magi notice
and start their journey west
the party will be over,
so I think it would be best
if you tell Him they'll come later,
that the vibe will work far better
if we go ahead with the shepherds
and then have the kings come later."
Mickey was a little miffed,
but he knew that Gabe was right.
He'd been distracted with the detail
to ensure the star was bright.
So Mickey went and told the Boss,
"It really makes more sense,
cos once Jesus is a toddler
he'll enjoy the frankincense."
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC
1237
My Heart ran so to thee
It would not wait for me
And I affronted grew
And drew away
For whatsoe’er my pace
He first achieve they Face
How general a Grace
Allotted two—
Not in malignity
Mentioned I this to thee—
Had he obliquity
Soonest to share
But for the Greed of him—
Boasting my Premium—
Basking in Bethleem
Ere I be there—
2.1k
Scatter like roaches
and feel the sun beat down on you like moldy
sidewalk chalk
and cheap plaster.
Seep into the ground as if it were swallowing
time and eating the sea.
Don't look back into the eye of the storm until
it blinks 57 times and winks twice
It is an important concept that would behoove the
stale aura of your nature
And if you die during this so called adventure,
Smirk
And heave whole-heartedly with the last breath
allotted that you just tasted what it was like to
fall in love
and you proudly let it **** you all at once
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 8:29 PM UTC
#
*How long wilt thou - this generation of deceit and joy – detain,
Starve, and defraud the people of our holiest reign?
Content ingloriously wasted to pass by as our falling days,
Like the flooding rains, as virtuous fools chase each other’s praise:
Till all thy fleshly allegories, now dimmed once shined so bright
As the multitudes grow stale - tarnished with each day’s new light.
Please believe me, ye youth by whose royal fruit thy must be
Gathered before ripened - else ye rot upon the tree.
Heaven itself must be sufficiently allotted, soon of late,
Like some unlucky youthful revolution born purely out of fate.
This false fate whose notions if we watch with skill,
For does not human good depend on human will?
Fortune rolls upward like lava, smoothly it does ascend,
From its first release, it takes not the bend.
But, if un-seized, it glides away like the wind
And leaves us - a late repenting fool far behind.
Now to meet with you, the you reading of this glorious prize,
As I spread these wisdom words before you as above you he flies.
Had thus Old Noah, from whose ***** we all offspring,
Not dared, when fortune called him to be the lead offering,
At the bottom of the ocean in exile he might still remain
And Heaven's sacred anointing oil would have been in vain.
Let Noah’s successional ages to your heart engage
And not shun the examples of this prophesized declining age.
For behold soon there comes three days of darkness to the skies,
As the shadows lengthen into the airs and then we slowly vaporize.*
#
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
O-One has been kept waiting for a long spell
N-Not knowing if one can get out of this hell
E-Endless days one has spent in an unlit well
H-Hope seems not to be journeying one's way
U-Under clouds of darkness one shall e'er stay
N-Never shall one see a bright sunny day ray
D-Deemed to be unfit to walk that old hallway
R-Realizing this fact sure makes one feel gray
E-Excluded from the folks at the homely bay
D-Dare one say one is mired in a boggy clay
A-All is lost one can't redeem one's former place
N-Negotiations with other are now a void space
D-Dear me one is in a position of sheer disgrace
E-Ever so badly one did behave all that time ago
I-In hindsight good manners needed to be the go
G-Grave is one's standing and so very full of woe
H-Heck the word one called when one had to go
T-Tidings of ejection delivered by the boss honcho
Y-Yonder one was told on the spot to quickly go
D-Down in the dumps one has been for so long
A-Away at a lone outpost well out of the throng
Y-Yearning to once again hear their joyful song
S-So one is on an island for those who do wrong
O-Only three chances did one get at that game
F-Four weren't going to be allotted to this dame
F-Folly to think that one could avoid any shame
L-Leniency not given one has to wear the claim
I-In the finally wash up one's lesson is to be tame
N-Needling the boss honcho scrubbed one's name
E-Erased one shall be for being a bad egg dame
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
Truth enamored of itself...based upon
the forever following.
Flow's entrails--the
seven circuit labyrinth pends the
recollection that yielded it.
Thus, the unsound voice pouring
voicelessness.
Minotaur's digestive sound bite.
Where Once, as only Once allotted
the victor of Truth.
As told, as held...now confounds
with a self-fabricating prophesier,
profaning all telling.
Disconsolate swipes of emotion
make and remake the barren.
Pray tell the lessening visage of thee,
where by and by shall deem thee
bygone.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
purple colored intentions
and everyone is stopping
tomorrow is being thought of a lot today
so much, i'm almost uncomfortable- crawling in my skin
looking at your humble abode
with every plate in its allotted plate holder
and i don't even know what those are, so i feel pretty good;
you probably still feel good
i woke up today- so content with myself
something i usually do
but i don't have a yard
or anything to hold my plates
and i wash them alone,
Dec 12, 2010
Dec 12, 2010 at 9:51 PM UTC
I was broken, I was severely unafraid
Nothing mattered anymore
Because I had already lost
My family and my friends
And my depression was kicking in too hard
I wasn't trying, I wasn't caring enough
Love was never enough
Though there it was in overwhelming amounts
I never belonged to anyone
No one ever lived for me
And life was being suffocated from me
That emptiness within me was bruising me
How polite, how unapologetic
How fast, hurdling down, my decisiveness
I started tumbling down, without fear
Shameless, without nerves or apathy
I was brilliant in the limelight
But behind the shadows I was being swallowed
By anonymity and solitary confinement
The darkness was strangling me
I left everything I was, to reach everything
I thought I could be
Didn't I get everything I wanted?
Yeah, I thought this was the plan
But I became someone else
Other desires became attached to me
My heart changed, my mind bent, my thoughts evolved
I lost focus, in sight of love and desire
I never bothered to figure
What it meant to be happy, within me
The work was tedious, but only on the exterior
No time allotted to the dwindling interior
I was broken, I was severely unafraid
Nothing mattered anymore
I could be starving a thousand times more
I've been disillusioned many times more by banquets of contempt
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
The milk man died last week. I didn't
know him well, just enough to know his favorite
chew and how much he hated Fritos.
I knew his lover and her worn-out
windbreaker, her frizzled hair as gold
as her Marlboros. I sold her a pack of silvers
once and she nearly snapped my neck.
They take (took?) their tobacco dead
seriously. She hasn't come back
to work yet, though her five allotted
days of grief are over. The empty
milk crates just aren't empty anymore.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
I am angry for the way your eyes touched mine, how
They looked at me and without thinking, made contact,
You
Opened your mouth and the word beautiful
Fell out
I don't know if it was the 2 am restlessness or
the alcohol speaking but
What you said burned a pit in my stomach
I planned on filling it with your smile but
you stopped sharing it with me
I wanted to pile the void high with the thought of how your
Hand pushed hair behind my ear and
Your arms reaching out like you needed me
You told me,
I was beautiful
Whether or not it was an accident does not matter when
I can still feel how your breath felt brushing my cheek as you spoke and
How I blushed, laughing, turning my head to break the connection
I shook it in response saying,
"No, I am not"
Because beautiful things don't confess to their own knowledge of being
You said yes
I said no,
Because beauty is a privilege I have never been allotted
You said yes, you are
I said okay
I don’t know why you had to tangle truth into a lie
If I were truly beautiful to you, you would say hello and still mean it
I'd like to think that if I really were, you would want nothing else but to hold me at all hours of the day, to
Kiss the face you held in your palms and just watch the up and down of my eyelashes but
You don't and I understand, it's okay
It has been a month or two since you spilled poison into my open heart and
for the first time I am remembering this encounter,
It is too sweet for your now bitter
I ask myself why I still think of you and
I know it is due to the way you spoke to me, how
You touched me too gently for too long
Your fingerprints left holes in my memory foam skin, I let you get too close.
This is simply sadness that
is too tired to morph into anger
I am only angry in how you made roses out of words
to plant them in my garden, unfit to grow
I could never keep much else alive besides myself and
everything dies out eventually
I should have guessed that we would too.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
They've turned life into a numbers game
At least we agree there's no right answer
But joy cannot be found in forever counting up because
We start at zero and finish at zero and no matter
How large our numbers got, this fact does not
Make us any more "here" now, does it? No
Good old George rising from his casket on
Account of all the quality investments he made over
The years, that's silly
I count. down
From birth a finite number of seconds allotted to
Running risks by the hourglass like elders
Skydiving when the grains are so few who
Cares when we go but how
How is the question
And words will always
always trump numbers
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 2:52 PM UTC
I hear your voice echo on the walls of the Tiffany box—
hello hello
hello
hello
—with that southern-belle cadence
you spoke with always, like when you
told us we never had to knock, just
come in through the garage
on my graduation day I opened it for the first time
little silver teardrop on a little silver chain
delicate, like all of you, except your fingers
delicate, like the line you’re walking now
your robin’s-egg antique pickup gathering dust as I am miles away
sheepdog going deaf, legs shaky when she stands
I only allotted for that one loss this year.
on new year’s morning when we all
stomached the black eyed peas for tennessee good will
hung over and sweet-heavy with cinnamon rolls
and decadent, permanent, big hardy love
I spent my wish on the usual
and hey, maybe a couple more years for the dog.
hello hello
hello
hello
hello?
your lilting voice echoes every time I put on that necklace
and feel you, savor you around my neck for every
wine-drunk dinner and every nantucket porch photograph—
god if I would have known to wish on that
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 5:12 PM UTC