"amphitheatre" poems - Hello Poetry

We used to play in that playground, It was full of uniform levelled green grass. Here heartily played Abhishek's greyhound, Running excitedly all over game's green mass. We used to play cricket in the ground, It was a temporary zone of football grass. Here all games were near Atul's house unbound, Free from all school-work it was enjoyable as deep bass. But today our generation is busy in our lives making careers, The next generation is too young yet to make full use of the lawns. Reduced in size which used to be our hugest amphitheatre of sweetness, Has now got grass growing untamed covering The Playground Of Wilderness.

0

Mar 28, 2013

Mar 28, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC

Atul

The Playground Of Wilderness

We used to play in that playground, It was full of uniform levelled green grass. Here heartily played Abhishek's greyhound, Running excitedly all over game's green mass. We used to play cricket in the ground, It was a temporary zone of football grass. Here all games were near Atul's house unbound, Free from all school-work it was enjoyable as deep bass. But today our generation is busy in our lives making careers, The next generation is too young yet to make full use of the lawns. Reduced in size which used to be our hugest amphitheatre of sweetness, Has now got grass growing untamed covering The Playground Of Wilderness.

12

More folk need to learn About Cause and Effect Respecting others Is fundamentally what earns respect My dad was raised Christian Episcopalian But left No disrespect He just wasn't convinced So when I was a child Our attendance at church was sporadic Sometimes a source of contention And, usually, more pain than joy The summer of 1969 Men walked on the Moon And my parents Split My dad moved across town I saw him one day each weekend The most time we had ever spent together. When I was twelve the earth moved Sixty-four people died And my father embraced Buddhism And Buddhism embraced him In a way nothing else ever had and he learned moderation Regaining his freedom What got him was the Law of Causation Cause and Effect What goes around comes around The Golden Rule Unencumbered With the baggage from his past The philosophy of common sense His pianist's artist's teacher's mind Could comprehend Grasp and hold for good My twelve-year-old mouth Would not be denied And so I one day announced That chanting Was simply another form of prayer A fact he acknowledged reluctantly but ultimately with humor and grace And was it my father's turn to Buddhism That sparked my own Journey into Spirit? In 1972 With Godspell on the radio I saw Jesus Christ Superstar At the Universal Amphitheatre Twice And when my sister joked "Let there be light" And all the lights came on Then she genuflected Before taking her seat It was only partly in jest For there was reverence in the air And a sense of the Eternal The foundation of the story Of every story Cause and Effect Later that year I was baptized Before I realized That no church held the key For the key was within me As it resides within us all More folk need to learn About Cause and Effect We are here on earth to Love. And respecting others Is fundamentally what earns respect. 6/7 July 2005 Approx. 2 AM

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Jun 27, 2015

Jun 27, 2015 at 1:36 AM UTC

cori-macnaughton

Cause and Effect

More folk need to learn About Cause and Effect Respecting others Is fundamentally what earns respect My dad was raised Christian Episcopalian But left No disrespect He just wasn't convinced So when I was a child Our attendance at church was sporadic Sometimes a source of contention And, usually, more pain than joy The summer of 1969 Men walked on the Moon And my parents Split My dad moved across town I saw him one day each weekend The most time we had ever spent together. When I was twelve the earth moved Sixty-four people died And my father embraced Buddhism And Buddhism embraced him In a way nothing else ever had and he learned moderation Regaining his freedom What got him was the Law of Causation Cause and Effect What goes around comes around The Golden Rule Unencumbered With the baggage from his past The philosophy of common sense His pianist's artist's teacher's mind Could comprehend Grasp and hold for good My twelve-year-old mouth Would not be denied And so I one day announced That chanting Was simply another form of prayer A fact he acknowledged reluctantly but ultimately with humor and grace And was it my father's turn to Buddhism That sparked my own Journey into Spirit? In 1972 With Godspell on the radio I saw Jesus Christ Superstar At the Universal Amphitheatre Twice And when my sister joked "Let there be light" And all the lights came on Then she genuflected Before taking her seat It was only partly in jest For there was reverence in the air And a sense of the Eternal The foundation of the story Of every story Cause and Effect Later that year I was baptized Before I realized That no church held the key For the key was within me As it resides within us all More folk need to learn About Cause and Effect We are here on earth to Love. And respecting others Is fundamentally what earns respect. 6/7 July 2005 Approx. 2 AM

77

Deconstructing a Kafkaesque amphitheatre of the absurd, Easy wallows she in their hypocrisy, Son of a gun grabbed on to the gold that fed his infant self, doesn't dare let go, won't ever, Dev breaks the bottle he hits, scrounges, discards the last scrap, the rat scurries in, devours, heads back into the smoked corridor, the auction goes on, so does he showering petals and pity upon the middle road more travelled, bumpy, potholes full of acid and bile, the stupidity of the tyrannical majority and an underwater civilisation consumed by mind-numbing, mildly shocking TV, undercurrents of power drowned under. Uppercase Him, uppercase He, they hoist a red flag, set it afire, stomp out the flames, wave a black rag till the ashes turn to naught, the Dionysian petit bourgeoisie proceed, spew, ***** spew, repeat. The voyeuristic rat has front row seats gaze fixed, piercing centrestage auction-house by day, amphitheatre by night, the bids shall resume when the morning bells toll, till then, Dev's hungry for more, the rat enjoys the show.

0

May 15, 2015

May 15, 2015 at 3:20 AM UTC

causticji

Pseudo has a silent ***

Deconstructing a Kafkaesque amphitheatre of the absurd, Easy wallows she in their hypocrisy, Son of a gun grabbed on to the gold that fed his infant self, doesn't dare let go, won't ever, Dev breaks the bottle he hits, scrounges, discards the last scrap, the rat scurries in, devours, heads back into the smoked corridor, the auction goes on, so does he showering petals and pity upon the middle road more travelled, bumpy, potholes full of acid and bile, the stupidity of the tyrannical majority and an underwater civilisation consumed by mind-numbing, mildly shocking TV, undercurrents of power drowned under. Uppercase Him, uppercase He, they hoist a red flag, set it afire, stomp out the flames, wave a black rag till the ashes turn to naught, the Dionysian petit bourgeoisie proceed, spew, ***** spew, repeat. The voyeuristic rat has front row seats gaze fixed, piercing centrestage auction-house by day, amphitheatre by night, the bids shall resume when the morning bells toll, till then, Dev's hungry for more, the rat enjoys the show.

31

There was a kid, he sat by himself In classes he never spoke nor asked for help He'd sit up the front, all quiet and calm He never once did anything to hurt anyone He just did his work, only spoke when spoken to I'd see him alone in the courtyard, he never ate his food Recess or lunch would swing by, he'd listen to music And every day I saw him there so I got used to it Then come one Lunch, he wasn't there I pretended not to care but deep down I was scared Because in the lesson before some kids were talking tall About how they'd sort him out by setting him up to fall And by God I was shaking, I was fucken nervous He was just a quiet guy you don't need to hurt him He never did wrong he was just around I jumped when I heard him scream by Christ it was loud! I ran into the amphitheatre and all the kids were screaming He was mangled on the ground and **** was he bleeding He looks across with fading eyes, says "help please" I had to look away as I fell to my knees He's looking hopefully He's looking up to me I look up at the shocked faces like "You ******* happy? Answer me! How the **** was I so blind to not see this happening? All you ever spoke about was hurting him and killing me! Now the tides have turned! You ******* killed him You better run now before the darkness hunts down your sin!" I look down again, he has a smile of hope "Thank you for holding up the Bro Code" Then his hand falls, it lays on his chest And I'm not sure who's more dead, coz I got no breath The sirens scream as loud as the kids fleeing And all I remember was six shots and fucken running My brother on the ground, burned into my mind And it haunts me to this day that I left him behind But I gottem back, made them join him So he can get em back and start bashing

0

Apr 5, 2017

Apr 5, 2017 at 11:33 PM UTC

Visceral

The Bro Code

There was a kid, he sat by himself In classes he never spoke nor asked for help He'd sit up the front, all quiet and calm He never once did anything to hurt anyone He just did his work, only spoke when spoken to I'd see him alone in the courtyard, he never ate his food Recess or lunch would swing by, he'd listen to music And every day I saw him there so I got used to it Then come one Lunch, he wasn't there I pretended not to care but deep down I was scared Because in the lesson before some kids were talking tall About how they'd sort him out by setting him up to fall And by God I was shaking, I was fucken nervous He was just a quiet guy you don't need to hurt him He never did wrong he was just around I jumped when I heard him scream by Christ it was loud! I ran into the amphitheatre and all the kids were screaming He was mangled on the ground and **** was he bleeding He looks across with fading eyes, says "help please" I had to look away as I fell to my knees He's looking hopefully He's looking up to me I look up at the shocked faces like "You ******* happy? Answer me! How the **** was I so blind to not see this happening? All you ever spoke about was hurting him and killing me! Now the tides have turned! You ******* killed him You better run now before the darkness hunts down your sin!" I look down again, he has a smile of hope "Thank you for holding up the Bro Code" Then his hand falls, it lays on his chest And I'm not sure who's more dead, coz I got no breath The sirens scream as loud as the kids fleeing And all I remember was six shots and fucken running My brother on the ground, burned into my mind And it haunts me to this day that I left him behind But I gottem back, made them join him So he can get em back and start bashing

38

My mind is a bull-fight, semi manifested. Half-realized and halfway through a lingering emotion, a hesitant atmospheric disturbance. The stadium is empty, but the perspiration of thousands of people still float. The enthusiastic screams craving blood, honour, courage; the craving for a childish narrative in which the bull represents evil, and the Matador represents the rebellious hero. The crowd knows such things don't exist. What they do know, however; is that somewhere between the tête-à-tête of the bull and the matador, exists a universality of understanding. An understanding that the crowd has defiantly given up on. So they do what we all do: They grasp at straws. But the crowd is not really there. And neither is the Matador, and neither are his assistants. There is only the smear of their bright, bourgeois garments dancing with exuberant flamboyance across the walls, in an obscure, enigmatic disobedience to black-line-confinement. The same distortion of form that occurs through the lens of a powerful drug; or the force of blunt pain. The bull is adept with his horns, and their propulsion is fuelled by bovine testosterone. But his horns turn to papier-mâché, and the rage loses its direction, like when you try to escape some pursuer inside a nightmare. And then: Revelation. The amphitheatre is empty, there is no Matador, no enemy, no good, evil, no trouble or tranquility; Only Silence Impotence A confused bull, alone in it's thoughts, infinitely circling an empty arena, stabbing at a phantom.

0

Jun 29, 2014

Jun 29, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC

peter-christian-ness

The Phantom of the Amphitheatre

My mind is a bull-fight, semi manifested. Half-realized and halfway through a lingering emotion, a hesitant atmospheric disturbance. The stadium is empty, but the perspiration of thousands of people still float. The enthusiastic screams craving blood, honour, courage; the craving for a childish narrative in which the bull represents evil, and the Matador represents the rebellious hero. The crowd knows such things don't exist. What they do know, however; is that somewhere between the tête-à-tête of the bull and the matador, exists a universality of understanding. An understanding that the crowd has defiantly given up on. So they do what we all do: They grasp at straws. But the crowd is not really there. And neither is the Matador, and neither are his assistants. There is only the smear of their bright, bourgeois garments dancing with exuberant flamboyance across the walls, in an obscure, enigmatic disobedience to black-line-confinement. The same distortion of form that occurs through the lens of a powerful drug; or the force of blunt pain. The bull is adept with his horns, and their propulsion is fuelled by bovine testosterone. But his horns turn to papier-mâché, and the rage loses its direction, like when you try to escape some pursuer inside a nightmare. And then: Revelation. The amphitheatre is empty, there is no Matador, no enemy, no good, evil, no trouble or tranquility; Only Silence Impotence A confused bull, alone in it's thoughts, infinitely circling an empty arena, stabbing at a phantom.

10

A night in mid-August and you can hear them from your house, the drums begin and brass sounds follow like quietly excited children, like the two who walk with you over the hill. The sun sinks into evening’s quicksand, your soggy clock of adolescence ticks faster than ever. Scent of popcorn excites your nostrils, grey couples talk soft, slow, and once your blanket is draped upon the grass you see an orb of hollow green drift sleepily up, up, over everyone’s heads and you wish you were that tiny balloon, floating far away toward something new as each teenage summer blurs into your brew.

0

May 9, 2013

May 9, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC

reece-aj-chambers

The Amphitheatre

A night in mid-August and you can hear them from your house, the drums begin and brass sounds follow like quietly excited children, like the two who walk with you over the hill. The sun sinks into evening’s quicksand, your soggy clock of adolescence ticks faster than ever. Scent of popcorn excites your nostrils, grey couples talk soft, slow, and once your blanket is draped upon the grass you see an orb of hollow green drift sleepily up, up, over everyone’s heads and you wish you were that tiny balloon, floating far away toward something new as each teenage summer blurs into your brew.

27

in Syracuse here where the master's penetrating mind unveiled some of her secret laws as in revenge the earth keeps trembling on throughout the centuries the winds are furious the waves crash hard upon the harbor rocks Greek amphitheatre Roman arena the church built in the Hellenistic shrine the Renaissance palazzi they all withstand just barely and with weakening strength gravity's ceaseless deconstructing downward pull

0

Mar 31, 2015

Mar 31, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC

wwhoelbling

ENTROPY & ARCHIMEDES

in Syracuse here where the master's penetrating mind unveiled some of her secret laws as in revenge the earth keeps trembling on throughout the centuries the winds are furious the waves crash hard upon the harbor rocks Greek amphitheatre Roman arena the church built in the Hellenistic shrine the Renaissance palazzi they all withstand just barely and with weakening strength gravity's ceaseless deconstructing downward pull

22

the sleeper... riled in slumber her face fevered cussed about the terrain of a floral breeding bedding patterns and the print bunched in struggles in smudges an amateur trial with sisters makeup primal cosmetics make a mock daubed ceremony for slumber dusty and museum are her dollworks an amphitheatre audience overlooming her berth flaunting the gallery shelves sustained expressionist menace Roman eyes and Victorian ridicule stuffed suffering with Ugly Duckling down ****** sawdust and your sullied label they bray and they brawl and they sluice their gull gall a sick drizzle over the sleepers form from the exterior wild wails the weather its being drubbing peers fragile at the windowpane a raid on this vulnerable sleeper impounded in bedroom aloft raised to meet the jet stream she is fumbled in dreams... abraded adolescent swells judder out figments a bleed of vandals siling her muted childhood parading the playground berating old once loved playthings adopting no sympathy adapting in favour of the wild riding will of the direful pre familiar into the woods... a ***** charmed breath dressed smartly as boy stoppers her pathway insisting a gentleman's assistance frustrates her recitations of grandmothers doting stern teachings like fragile pottery come to harm broken into teeth the quick blood beating this nocturnal forest busy in heat bonding death to refract the hustling moon a company of wolves fill out the clearing not a spell too soon their howls reverberate jeering mocking their new glut sifting followers from the raggle-taggle array of fools the foolish dreamers rounded up amongst them she stands red dressed and nervous one hand clasping and sexing the other fortified a great jaw operates here an excited irresponsible mastication committed to this fairytale ...agitation in her sleep

0

Jul 6, 2021

Jul 6, 2021 at 2:11 AM UTC

neth-jones

Mastication (a meander)

the sleeper... riled in slumber her face fevered cussed about the terrain of a floral breeding bedding patterns and the print bunched in struggles in smudges an amateur trial with sisters makeup primal cosmetics make a mock daubed ceremony for slumber dusty and museum are her dollworks an amphitheatre audience overlooming her berth flaunting the gallery shelves sustained expressionist menace Roman eyes and Victorian ridicule stuffed suffering with Ugly Duckling down ****** sawdust and your sullied label they bray and they brawl and they sluice their gull gall a sick drizzle over the sleepers form from the exterior wild wails the weather its being drubbing peers fragile at the windowpane a raid on this vulnerable sleeper impounded in bedroom aloft raised to meet the jet stream she is fumbled in dreams... abraded adolescent swells judder out figments a bleed of vandals siling her muted childhood parading the playground berating old once loved playthings adopting no sympathy adapting in favour of the wild riding will of the direful pre familiar into the woods... a ***** charmed breath dressed smartly as boy stoppers her pathway insisting a gentleman's assistance frustrates her recitations of grandmothers doting stern teachings like fragile pottery come to harm broken into teeth the quick blood beating this nocturnal forest busy in heat bonding death to refract the hustling moon a company of wolves fill out the clearing not a spell too soon their howls reverberate jeering mocking their new glut sifting followers from the raggle-taggle array of fools the foolish dreamers rounded up amongst them she stands red dressed and nervous one hand clasping and sexing the other fortified a great jaw operates here an excited irresponsible mastication committed to this fairytale ...agitation in her sleep

81

A bare canvas cannot grace the gallery, and solely a vacant amphitheatre applauds the painters who refrain from staining their fingers, the ones who shudder at just the flawed tint, rage at one stray stroke, and wince when colours slightly choke. But when the palette drains the last drop of paint, a canvas clad in imperfect hues remains superior to the isolated one drawing in blues.

0

Jul 15, 2025

Jul 15, 2025 at 12:26 PM UTC

mwyyne

Brushstrokes on Canvas

A bare canvas cannot grace the gallery, and solely a vacant amphitheatre applauds the painters who refrain from staining their fingers, the ones who shudder at just the flawed tint, rage at one stray stroke, and wince when colours slightly choke. But when the palette drains the last drop of paint, a canvas clad in imperfect hues remains superior to the isolated one drawing in blues.

9

where Hollywood's celluloid dream is reflected off silver screen into the consciousness of audience's expectations sitting in amphitheatre auditoriums amid whispered conversations plot revelations spoiler alert sweet packet crinkle coke slurp popcorn rustle where held hands make promises breached bases reached love declared for a fumble on a back seat childhoods spent getting out from under grownups feet the good guys won the bad guys wore black where a thousand shots fired nobody died in the end aching legs brought to life to leave with a head full of stories unrelated to real life

0

Aug 31, 2020

Aug 31, 2020 at 4:31 PM UTC

nigdaw

cinema show

where Hollywood's celluloid dream is reflected off silver screen into the consciousness of audience's expectations sitting in amphitheatre auditoriums amid whispered conversations plot revelations spoiler alert sweet packet crinkle coke slurp popcorn rustle where held hands make promises breached bases reached love declared for a fumble on a back seat childhoods spent getting out from under grownups feet the good guys won the bad guys wore black where a thousand shots fired nobody died in the end aching legs brought to life to leave with a head full of stories unrelated to real life

30

A knot of truth hangs over me, more a promise that all things come together. Were a straight line that if you take enough steps leads to an amphitheatre of echoes reverberating around and around resonating with this truth that all things have a balance. We start, end, doesn't matter if we stand still of reach for the heavens.. Eventually we'll just swing silently like a extinguished light bulb hanging dead in the abyss.

0

Aug 31, 2020

Aug 31, 2020 at 5:05 PM UTC

poetic-t

Lariat Knots

A knot of truth hangs over me, more a promise that all things come together. Were a straight line that if you take enough steps leads to an amphitheatre of echoes reverberating around and around resonating with this truth that all things have a balance. We start, end, doesn't matter if we stand still of reach for the heavens.. Eventually we'll just swing silently like a extinguished light bulb hanging dead in the abyss.

16

Rolling over encumbered waters and their peelings. I am deloused in the sanctum of brazen ladders that were manufactured in a tunnel in Somalia now that tunnel lies, sinking gradually by attoseconds. Africa is connected to Arabia via this passage “and how could I know?” I hear you ask. Well you don’t know, and you never will. But lo’, am I not making your mind nod? Stubborn as you may believe yourself to be, I remain an anvil and you are a blanket. So, there is no better reason to acquiesce. Beneficial, it will remain. So what say you, friend? Shall I continue? Well, here’s the second frame that has materialized within the half second: I’m writing vigorously, beholden to a contrived cosmic thing and erratically, I dream of a mauve ******** I reckon it’s an amphitheatre. The fiery rings of chairs are segregated according to the stature of the ***** that rest their heads on them. Briggyn Losyandr, a fisherman Thraex, assaults me with a Macedonian lance. Its blade is merely a tongue, and an oxidized one at that. “Begone, man! I’ve got no role to play in your firetruck ambush.” “Sir, this conflict isn’t for me, but I belong with you.” The writer is supposed to be disconnected. That’s a constant, you hear? Dig? Up? Soil? Out. Out, now.

0

Feb 19, 2020

Feb 19, 2020 at 5:59 PM UTC

DerrekEstrella

Start With Reason

Rolling over encumbered waters and their peelings. I am deloused in the sanctum of brazen ladders that were manufactured in a tunnel in Somalia now that tunnel lies, sinking gradually by attoseconds. Africa is connected to Arabia via this passage “and how could I know?” I hear you ask. Well you don’t know, and you never will. But lo’, am I not making your mind nod? Stubborn as you may believe yourself to be, I remain an anvil and you are a blanket. So, there is no better reason to acquiesce. Beneficial, it will remain. So what say you, friend? Shall I continue? Well, here’s the second frame that has materialized within the half second: I’m writing vigorously, beholden to a contrived cosmic thing and erratically, I dream of a mauve ******** I reckon it’s an amphitheatre. The fiery rings of chairs are segregated according to the stature of the ***** that rest their heads on them. Briggyn Losyandr, a fisherman Thraex, assaults me with a Macedonian lance. Its blade is merely a tongue, and an oxidized one at that. “Begone, man! I’ve got no role to play in your firetruck ambush.” “Sir, this conflict isn’t for me, but I belong with you.” The writer is supposed to be disconnected. That’s a constant, you hear? Dig? Up? Soil? Out. Out, now.

4