"anaphoric" poems
She is the smell of new books.
Shes is hot chocolate, and a blanket, on a snowy day.
She is that first bite of big mac after a night out.
She is red and blue, side by side.
She is 8-bit games.
She is staying awake till 5 in the morning.
She is anaphoric.
She is oblivious.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
he creates music
in the way he plays
and the way his body awkwardly jerks away at contact.
the small frame moves away as if it is to be played marcato
and the piece (his body, that is) returns to maestoso
and she creates lyrics
in her notebook
and in her life.
everything has anaphora.
she writes lyrics that always begin him.
(everything in her life begins with him, she'd like to think.)
and everything is an example of apostrophe.
everything she does is directed at someone who won't care about her.
and when these two meet up,
when their bodies collide,
the most beautiful composition is created.
his moves alter between marcato (louder, forceful)
and maestoso (majestic, smooth)
and her lyrics are very anaphoric (oh, ****
and everything is all for him.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
We met on the corner of Saxon and 95 south
During one of those nights I was crawling out of my anaphoric daydream
I was a broken down bride in my sheets of white linen
When I noticed the light in your eyes were as dull as mine
When the moon sculpted a mirage in the center of your ashtray
When you told me you needed me to stay a moment longer
I traded you a Chevy ride for a song of sweet surrender
As you blessed the burning willows that bled through my black and mild soul
Firing the sparks inside of me that had never seen a flame
As I drowned in a carcass of rapids that never seemed to lay still
I reached into my lillies and pulled out a candle
To lighten your vision until you reached home
Until you were strong enough to love her again
And you thanked me with a smile and a tank of gas
I drove until midnight, staring at the moonlight
listening to the sighs of my breathe against the wind
And the sweet little woman who lives inside of my bones
Reminds me of the way old Georgia worshipped my vines
I chose to abandon his comfort and wisdom
For the freedom of white lines on an open road
And while it soothes me to see him settle without me
I can’t help but wonder if I’ll always be a withdrawn vagabond
With my toes in the sand, with my head in clouds
Writing lines in a blank verse of commitment.
Dec 17, 2020
Dec 17, 2020 at 12:56 PM UTC
The ancillary argument is an asclepion which is anaphoric to anathema, anointing anecdotal evidences as an asymptomatic astonishment, assumptive of an averring the verbiage unwavering used to auxesis an auxiliary found aiding the circular back to an autonomy, assuaged in its entirety, appendant to an irony, giving appurtenance to astronomy yet astringent to all company of asters in the wovenry.
A sweetened ingredient in life’s vermouth, is a lesser known but still common truth, resounding voice a sound so routh and unforgiving of jockeying jocose uncouth but the greatest parts of life we know are sorely wasted on the youth and so fundamental is this truth or verities vivacious muse that some might say we light a fuse when using such verbose abuse that angry are they who find our use an anathema to amuse?
To wit so that I must abjure the painful notion there is a cure to a playful mind’s language of slur not meant as such but thus obscured the difficulties so inured on my ment-al-lity of thought a crime, a retching twist of someone’s time thus wasted on a poem blurred, a freedom though has just occurred; my mind a paradise, my thoughts a bird...
You wonder why I wrote this po-em,
Think on your life and about your ho-eme,
Look back at youth’s wondrous days,
When life was new and full of plays,
And ask yourself is this a maze?
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 12:06 PM UTC
My secrets are metaphors.
The words are artfully arranged in alliteration
Or cautiously halted in
Enjambment so that they don't reveal themselves.
My secrets are anaphoric.
They are metonymic, swearing secrecy to the pen.
Sometimes they are synecdoches,
Begging, afraid, in rhyme for your attention again.
My secrets are anecdotes.
They write about themselves through personification.
This poem juxtaposes itself;
I've told you all of my secrets of secrecy-how ironic.
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 5:13 PM UTC
Why?
Was it something they said? Was it something I did?
Telling signs let flowers die, flowers bloom; to mask the dead.
Like you can't realize you're already beautiful.
Please, tell me why.
Three years.
Straight, no arguments. No fighting.
Sometimes tears,
following laughter.
The quiet moments you break down; like I would never understand. Like I'm a puppet in a house; blindly famous and largely small.
Why. Why. Why. Again? This is a feeling.
Will I ever get you back?
I hate it.
The covering, the hiding, the sadness I can only see but
can't imagine; yet am so cursed to understand.
My only hope is fake friendliness, when I'm worried,
and God I'm worried.
God. It is you. It is you who I see, you who I care so deeply for,
you who I have spent three years knowing. And it is you still that
I can see, read, when you're falling apart.
little moments in your words-
where you cut yourself off.
like what you said was dull,
when it was anything but.
little moments in your writing-
I can read between the letters,
to see to the very bottom of
you, the very core. the horror.
and in those places, where I
love to sit, where I'm neither seen
nor heard, I watch the ocean slowly
drain from you; watch you give up.
but for what i will never know
was it a combination of your pretty friends, and isolation; or a feeling that drives you to that point. Why can't you see you're pretty?
Why can't you see you're pretty?
Why can't you see you're pretty?
Why can't you see you're pretty?
Why can't you see you're pretty?
Why can't you see you're pretty?
Why can't you see you're pretty?
Why can't you see you're pretty?
Why can't you see you're pretty?
You are beautiful.
You are beautiful.
You are beautiful.
You are beautiful.
look in a mirror.
But this pain is anaphoric,
I know it so well,
sadness repeating.
Woman (reading).
it repeats, and repeats, and repeats, and repeats,
you wake up and it repeats, and sings in your head.
Today is the day!
You've finally met fate,
so why are you so low?
Succumb to the pains!
Today is a felling tree!
It was never meant to be.
Anaphoric. Woman reading.
Collapsing. Repeating.
and days will turn into years,
years to a decade,
a decade to two.
And you will never even see it leave.
get it out,
please.
May 25, 2020
May 25, 2020 at 9:57 AM UTC
It is a love poem when I am making love to you, a soliloquy of silence but for your murmurs and your moans. The stanza of your shilouette, the verses of your curves. An iamb means I love you dearly, a dactyl that you are delicious, spondees and trochess of tenderness and passion. There are rhymes and rhythms when we lie upon each other, an alliteraration of kisses and hugs, caesuras to catch out breath. Our ********** is a chiasmus, making and taking tortuous turns until white sheets and yellow pillows fall on hardwood floors. Caresses precede onomatopoetic sighs that become love songs. Anaphoric thrusts need no explication, only the silence and solitude of joy.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Dec 24, 2020
Dec 24, 2020 at 5:47 PM UTC