"angelo" poems
I run downtown with the homeless on some Saturdays
Angelo and I ran together one sunny Saturday
He talked about the days when he ran track in high school
It was his high water mark of his life
top of the world then
the next year his mom moved to a different neighborhood
different set of friends going no where good
he never went anywhere good after that
running from the cops ditching the drugs on the ground
Angelo was a person trying to figure out how to get to a better place
to a new cycle, a new system
no good role model, bad friends, no support system and bad choices
he said the shelter is similar to prison, "the food they serve makes you fat at both places"
I don't know how to get out and no one listens to me he told me
If anything, I listened.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
Marvelous
A beauty to Be had
His body with its chiseled curves His large hands
As I gazed upon him
I noticed his perfect form
And his very chiseled abs
Not a blemish to be had
As I touched his pale white body
So smooth
Almost soft to be exact
His hair so full and curls
A plenty
Who is this beautiful man
With perfect form
A work of art to be adored
Timeless in his form.
His name is
David.
By Michael Angelo.
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 11:58 PM UTC
PICTURE and book remain,
An acre of green grass
For air and exercise,
Now strength of body goes;
Midnight, an old house
Where nothing stirs but a mouse.
My temptation is quiet.
Here at life's end
Neither loose imagination,
Nor the mill of the mind
Consuming its rag and bonc,
Can make the truth known.
Grant me an old man's frenzy,
Myself must I remake
Till I am Timon and Lear
Or that William Blake
Who beat upon the wall
Till Truth obeyed his call;
A mind Michael Angelo knew
That can pierce the clouds,
Or inspired by frenzy
Shake the dead in their shrouds;
Forgotten else by mankind,
An old man's eagle mind.
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THAT civilisation may not sink,
Its great battle lost,
Quiet the dog, tether the pony
To a distant post;
Our master Caesar is in the tent
Where the maps ate spread,
His eyes fixed upon nothing,
A hand under his head.
1
That the ******* towers be burnt
And men recall that face,
Move most gently if move you must
In this lonely place.
She thinks, part woman, three parts a child,
That nobody looks; her feet
Practise a tinker shuffle
Picked up on a street.
1
That girls at puberty may find
The first Adam in their thought,
Shut the door of the Pope's chapel,
Keep those children out.
There on that scaffolding reclines
Michael Angelo.
With no more sound than the mice make
His hand moves to and fro.
Like a long-leggedfly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.
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I learned on the Saturday I met you that "love at first sight" is a serious illness.
It infects the body and consumes it whole, leaving nothing but happiness and affection in place of the empty, hopeless shell it once was.
I learned on Tuesday that good music and Star Wars references assist the speeding up process of a first kiss,
And just how good knowing that it would be your last first kiss ever felt.
On Wednesday, I learned how hard it was not to say "I love you" out loud.
Instead, I resorted it to silently mouthing the phrase when your head is turned.
On Thursday, I learned that you like to swirl the New York Cheesecake and Red Velvet Cake flavors of frozen yogurt, just like I do.
It reminded me of the concept of being soulmates. Our secret dance reminded me of a movie from the 1920s. Thank you, Louis Armstrong, and the lake in San Angelo for providing the perfect atmosphere.
I learned on Friday how easy it is to talk to the person you love for seven hours.
I also learned that I don't care how tired I look in the first photograph we took together, because I've been a different person since last Saturday.
On the second Saturday that I met you, I learned how hard it is to watch a movie alone with you while your lips are so close to mine.
I learned a lesson on willpower, and also that it's easier if we watch movies in theaters. But even theaters can't keep us from sneaking kisses every once in a while.
That day I learned how easy it is to dance beautifully with the soulmate you've known only for a week.
I also learned that I'm not the only person who sees the beauty I see when we are together. I glanced over your shoulder during the Jimi Hendrix guitar solo, only to see our group of friends staring at us in awe. It didn't distract me from the butterflies I had from your arm being around me.
Later that same night, I learned how anxious I feel, slipping love notes into your pocket, and saying goodbye, if only for two weeks.
That week, I learned that two Saturdays is all it takes to make you certain of whom you want to spend the rest of your life with.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
I learned on the Saturday I met you that "love at first sight" is a serious illness.
It infects the body and consumes it whole, leaving nothing but happiness and affection in place of the empty, hopeless shell it once was.
I learned on Tuesday that good music and Star Wars references assist the speeding up process of a first kiss,
And just how good knowing that it would be your last first kiss ever felt.
On Wednesday, I learned how hard it was not to say "I love you" out loud.
Instead, I resorted it to silently mouthing the phrase when your head is turned.
On Thursday, I learned that you like to swirl the New York Cheesecake and Red Velvet Cake flavors of frozen yogurt, just like I do.
It reminded me of the concept of being soulmates. Our secret dance reminded me of a movie from the 1920s. Thank you, Louis Armstrong, and the lake in San Angelo for providing the perfect atmosphere.
I learned on Friday how easy it is to talk to the person you love for seven hours.
I also learned that I don't care how tired I look in the first photograph we took together, because I've been a different person since last Saturday.
On the second Saturday that I met you, I learned how hard it is to watch a movie alone with you while your lips are so close to mine.
I learned a lesson on willpower, and also that it's easier if we watch movies in theaters. But even theaters can't keep us from sneaking kisses every once in a while.
That day I learned how easy it is to dance beautifully with the soulmate you've known only for a week.
I also learned that I'm not the only person who sees the beauty I see when we are together. I glanced over your shoulder during the Jimi Hendrix guitar solo, only to see our group of friends staring at us in awe. It didn't distract me from the butterflies I had from your arm being around me.
Later that same night, I learned how anxious I feel, slipping love notes into your pocket, and saying goodbye, if only for two weeks.
That week, I learned that two Saturdays is all it takes to make you certain of whom you want to spend the rest of your life with.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
What does a painter do? A painter paints.
Of paintings inspired by the universe;
Of legends luminous as pious saints.
But people like me work to fill my purse.
Not artisan by trade nor rich merchant,
With rough and stubby fingers callused palms,
I'll starve if I were the master's servant
And soon to take the streets to beg for alms.
I paint for sake of commerce not for art;
I paint all kinds of buildings, houses, schools.
None enters, jobs can't start till I depart;
Scrappers, ladders, paints, brushes are my tools.
Do what I'm commissioned to do. To paint.
But Leonardo or Angelo I ain't.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC
Hail in peace wherever you abode now, dear Nadine Gordimer
You white daughter of Africa, the pen-mistress of July’s people,
You are the lover of July, your holy months of literature
That similarly gave a ****** grave marriage to Maziz Kunene
The African saint of orature; And Okot P’ Bitek, the lion of Gulu,
July have wedded you to the sombre grave in the Jo’burg,
As its apparatchik, the menacing jaws of death feel humdinger!
O! Dear little daughter, cursed are the jaws of death
They have kept on wooing and wooing you relentlessly
They have yearned for your betrothal with mad jealous,
For your iconic position in white African literature,
In which you stand with soldierly embrace a Nobelite,
They have now taken you to their inner chamber nuptials in death,
Before anything; let them now pay dowry to your bothers;
J M Coetzee, Alex La Guma and Dennis Brutus,
For there’s is a competent herds boy, a black shepherd;
Ezekia Mphalele, his living soul will keep the cows
Off down Corner B of the troubled African Image.
Say hello for those you are with in the current realm,
Say hello to foremen and fore daughters of Africa
Those that chose to visit the realm of ancestor precociously;
Say hello to them; Angelo Maya and Doris Lessing,
Let their caged birds and blooming grass sing uproariously,
Marriama Ba and Margaret Ogola, African girls,
They had a long letter and the source of the river from black dialectics,
O! Dear old baby Nadine Gordimer, stand firm in face to face with nothing
Other than the present time you’re in; the Africa’s realm of living dead
To sing the ballads of anti-apartheid both in heaven and on earth,
The only true testament of your footprints on the global sands of times
That Nadine Gordimer, July’s white-African daughter is deadly alive!
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
My phenomenal aunt Glow. The one that have a sweet smile on her face, no matter what going on in her life.an angel sent fron heaven above. the one who can pick you up when you're down..she is one of a kind of phenomenal woman with the biggest heart with the most caring touch which she shares with so many of us.
My phenomenal aunt Glow her soul is mad of pure love. having her a part of my life is the biggest greatest gift of all. I am looking at the strongest woman I hope become one day. forgiving helpfulness with this loving kind caring and personalities 2 others is what to define her.she is not only my favorite aunt.she is also my role model.
my phenomenal aunt Glow it take many sprcial quality to be a spectal woman like aunt Glow. Phenomenal Woman reminds me of maya angelo. they r both beautiful phenomenal women that never give up they keep on moving on a down to earth woman. she is a mother's day I never had it she stepped in just in time I'm so grateful to have my aunt
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
Like a warm breath of air
He hovers in my memory
No superman, a meek soul
Not one to squander his time
But one who worked day in and out
To feed those
Whom he loved and sired
What was he?
A teacher, a farmer or an artist
I cannot say precisely...
All I can say;
He was each of these
Rolled into one
On holidays I saw him
Shut in the loft
a brush in hand
His fingers moving over the canvas
The steaming tea by his side
Untouched and getting cold as ice
Unmindful of everything around
He sat by the easel in the attic
Focussed only on the strokes that fell
When a distinct image shoots out
As the moon from behind clouds
A wave of satisfaction would gleam
Across his face,
His frantic nerves at once hushed
Bearing the look of one
Who, in an instant, conquered kingdoms
He would view it from different angles
Never seeking anyone’s opinion
But gloating if he saw
Our admiring eyes fell on it
Being artistically inclined
He lived more in the world of art
But gradually things changed
To his fright, he found his hands shaky
And the lines on the canvas
Going tremulous and disjointed
Couldn’t hold a brush!
On diagnosed of Parkinson’s disease
His world abruptly lost its sheen
He saw the disease weeding
Its way into his life
Suddenly grown old
He lost interest in everything
We saw him sitting in his armchair
So immobile, for hours on end
His eyes stretched to a far horizon
We displayed before him
Paintings once born of his imagination
To see if his world would brighten
And it worked!
Recently, in one of my dreams
I saw him sitting at the foot of Michael Angelo
To learn the art, he couldn’t perfect
In his life time!
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 8:44 AM UTC
tired head resting upon crisp, clean
white linen pillow cases.
worn muscles enveloped
in the hills and
valleys of plush, cream bedsheets.
aching spine relieved by the firm, comforting pale mattress.
all that is out of place,
is your warm, perfect, lovely,
heavenly smelling, intoxicatingly ****
more perfect than Michael Angelo
body.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
my girlfriend is going in for surgery
but a very rare surgery
****** replacement surgery
the waiting list, is very poor
no-one actually had their name down
so i took a deep breath of courage
and kicked down the door and said, doc my baby can have my ******
the docter said the proccess wasnt easy, 65% chance of death
i didnt care, i loved her more than anything
the surgery began, i was nervous, but more excited to see my baby girl live another day with a good ******
but sadly, my time was up.
as my girlfriend woke up a week later, her first words were; where is my boyfriend? i havent heard from him
but the docter said, im so sorry Raquel, D'Angelo gave his ****** to save your life..
He's gone.
What
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
Mi sono innamorata
delle mie stesse ali d'angelo,
delle mie nari che succhiano la notte,
mi sono innamorata di me
e dei miei tormenti.
Un erpice che scava dentro le cose,
o forse fatta donzella
** perso le mie sembianze.
Come sei nudo, amore,
nudo e senza difesa:
io sono la vera cetra
che ti colpisce nel petto
e ti da larga resa.
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Poetry writing
Who really appreciated this art?
A rich man or a poor’s man theme
Is poetry writing for everyone?
Poetry is a world itself
To appreciate this art,
One’s mind must be at ease,
To see, to feel, and not to rely on spoken words
That might seem nonsensical to some
However, perfect to others
Unlike a poetic poor man graffiti and a rich man artifacts
Its labels as a rich man war and a poor man’s fight
Unlike the beauty in a Michael Angelo
Masterpiece of Art Pieta
Or Vincent van Gogh Paintings Water lily
The poor man display his graffiti
No admission, no fee
Priceless art crimes or
The best of a simple criminal mind
High art or low art
Eyes of a rich man
Or the eyes of a fool
In the world we knew
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 7:43 AM UTC
He. Opinion is not worth a rush;
In this altar-piece the knight,
Who grips his long spear so to push
That dragon through the fading light,
Loved the lady; and it's plain
The half-dead dragon was her thought,
That every morning rose again
And dug its claws and shrieked and fought.
Could the impossible come to pass
She would have time to turn her eyes,
Her lover thought, upon the glass
And on the instant would grow wise.
She. You mean they argued.
He. Put it so;
But bear in mind your lover's wage
Is what your looking-glass can show,
And that he will turn green with rage
At all that is not pictured there.
She. May I not put myself to college?
He. Go pluck Athene by the hair;
For what mere book can grant a knowledge
With an impassioned gravity
Appropriate to that beating breast,
That vigorous thigh, that dreaming eye?
And may the Devil take the rest.
She. And must no beautiful woman be
Learned like a man?
He. Paul Veronese
And all his sacred company
Imagined bodies all their days
By the lagoon you love so much,
For proud, soft, ceremonious proof
That all must come to sight and touch;
While Michael Angelo's Sistine roof,
His "Morning' and his "Night' disclose
How sinew that has been pulled tight,
Or it may be loosened in repose,
Can rule by supernatural right
Yet be but sinew.
She. I have heard said
There is great danger in the body.
He. Did God in portioning wine and bread
Give man His thought or His mere body?
She. My wretched dragon is perplexed.
Hec. I have principles to prove me right.
It follows from this Latin text
That blest souls are not composite,
And that all beautiful women may
Live in uncomposite blessedness,
And lead us to the like--if they
Will banish every thought, unless
The lineaments that please their view
When the long looking-glass is full,
Even from the foot-sole think it too.
She. They say such different things at school.
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I will be someone special
I might be the next Fortune CEO or Michael Angelo
Whatever it is I will be someone special
I might be the next Maya Angelou or Langston Hughes
You may laugh but in the future Ill look down on your *** *** and say I told you I will be special
I might be on the next Sports Illustrator with my face all in the papers
If I know anything it is I will be someone special
I might be the next bright intellectual mind who discovers something divine
Whatever it is I feel that I will be special
Theres a chance I can be a religious figure or a spiritual enlighten guru who you will come to for excellent advice
I just got a feeling I will be someone special
I might be the next Steve Jobs or Bill Gates who will create something that will cause a national debate
Im telling you I will be someone special
I might be a Political mastermind who creates laws to stop crime or a powerful Military figure who you see in the street and say he is my hero
If you don't got it figure out by now I will be someone special
My future is bright
I will cherish life because,
Deep down inside I know I will be someone special.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
Io ti ** vista seduta al pianoforte
e mi sei parsa un angelo, una vergine
di certissimo aspetto - come fossi
oggi cresciuta lì su quelle soglie
di sveltissima musica, o fermento
bello di donna dalle dritte spalle
cui le dita di angelo racchiuso
hanno impresso una curva di mistero
mentre che all'apparenza ne gioivi
profondamente come in veste nuova.
E noi tutti di te ripensavamo
cose profonde e più miracolosa
che una vetta di sogno la tua dolce
cara presenza ci scioglieva i nodi
dentro il sangue del male e sollevava
la nostr'aria nel palpito felice
dei tuoi biondi finissimi capelli.
1.3k
He took me for a lover whilst I was on holiday in Italy. He was Italian- the married man who owned our villa.
Every night after twelve, I would creep out of the house in white lingerie and a silk slip that glowed in the moonlight. My lips became a dark, sticky flower of cherry gloss.
I knocked on the downstairs bedroom door. He would open it, and as he stood there he was silhouetted in the dim golden light of the bedside lamps.
He would be in the middle of shaving, or holding a toothbrush, to make it seem like he’d forgotten I was coming- but every night I heard him hurriedly making the bed, shouting at his wife, and pacing up and down on the leopard rug. He called me his “dolce angelo” (sweet angel) and I called him my “belo diavolo”(handsome devil). His fervent lust was punctuated by whispered vowel sounds and a dark, vampiric beauty.
In silence, we shared cigarettes and ignored his black and white wedding photograph on the dresser.
In the morning, as dawn lit the mountains and his chickens began to crow, I straddled his chest for a last stolen kiss, and knew he would watch me bathe in his pool that afternoon.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 10:07 AM UTC
I'm more Picasso
than micheal Angelo,
More the scream
than Shakespeares dream.
I'm more soda pop and candy bar,
than French champagne and caviar.
More British mini,
than Lamborghini.
More dandelion than red red rose,
more off the peg than designer clothes.
I'm more quiet nights in,
than goin clubbin.
More keeping it real,
than faking the deal.
So if you want more, but less is just fine,
then baby I'm yours as long as you're mine.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
Women, bearers of warriors' marks,
You're the tough layers of the baobab's barks,
Best of the portraits that nature paints,
and Catwalk models of baggy pants.
You have been misled and misused
Your bodies and souls have been abused,
Yet, like a rose planted in a concrete
You majestically rose on your feet.
Women, flawless skins, lipsticks queens.
Fresh like shades of master's greens.
Big bones babes, skinny jeans chicks,
Gorgeous women, with kitchen tricks.
You are every woman, universal mama,
Rest in peace to the mother of Obama.
God bless every woman from Uganda
to the outskirts of the land of Wakanda.
African woman, Mother of humanity,
Thou are endowed with enviable beauty.
Eternal goddesses, brides of great kings
Multitasks babes, doers of great things.
Oh, Woman, givers of selfless love,
Sent to us from the great man above.
Oh, Woman thou are blessed,
You shall slay, was long prophesied.
This is a tribute to Maya Angelo's mammy.
Bless your lyrically poetic womb.
a solemn tribute to Mother of LeBron,
The NBA GOAT, King James of Akron.
Curvy Women work your gorgeous hips,
Smile with your Luscious rogue lips,
Thou are the pollen grains of biology,
and the specimen of perfect anatomy.
Eve of Eden, the apple of God's own eyes,
You gave every woman bedroom eyes
that pierces to the core of diamonds,
Like hardened bejeweled armors.
Woman, thou are truly nature's bounty.
Showcase your freaks and sexuality,
For which your petals toast monthly...
Slay dear queen, slay perpetually.
You came from Adams's ribs to give life
Woe unto any man who mistreats a wife,
Thou are indeed a blessed assurance,
Behold your grace, strides, and elegance.
For Sarah Brooks, my deceased mother,
and Sarah Ivana Brooks, my daughter,
For white, yellow and Brown women,
and all beautiful black African women.
This poetry, I penned for women is a tribute to everything.
For those nights you stayed up to sing,
Those prayerful songs only God heard,
Lying on tears soaked pillows in bed.
#IvanBrookdpoetry© Bassapoet©
August 16-2019
Aug 20, 2019
Aug 20, 2019 at 7:01 PM UTC
I past beside the reverend walls
In which of old I wore the gown;
I roved at random thro' the town,
And saw the tumult of the halls;
And heard one more in college fanes
The storm their high-built organs make,
And thunder-music, rolling, shake
The prophet blazon'd on the panes;
And caught one more the distant shout,
The measured pulse of racing oars
Among the willows; paced the shores
And many a bridge, and all about
The same gray flats again, and felt
The same, but not the same; and last
Up that long walk of limes I past
To see the rooms in which he dwelt.
Another name was on the door:
I linger'd; all within was noise
Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys
That crash'd the glass and beat the floor;
Where once we held debate, a band
Of youthful friends, on mind and art,
And labour, and the changing mart,
And all the framework of the land;
When one would aim an arrow fair,
But send it slackly from the string;
And one would pierce an outer ring,
And one an inner, here and there;
And last the master-bowman, he,
Would cleave the mark. A willing ear
We lent him. Who, but hung to hear
The rapt oration flowing free
From point to point, with power and grace
And music in the bounds of law,
To those conclusions when we saw
The God within him light his face,
And seem to lift the form, and glow
In azure orbits heavenly wise;
And over those ethereal eyes
The bar of Michael Angelo.
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Today Leonardo drew a perfect circle freehand,
it was pretty rad.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
I’m standing on the edge of a broken porch in New Jersey,
pink 3 AM clouds around a bowl of stars.
This jacket’s been warm for nine years.
Yes,
I still despair sometimes.
But I am learning to claw out of it by writing it.
Also, Jesus.
Tonight on this porch I’m thinking
what are symbols of happiness, what is
happiness, experience of it, etc.
I think of:
driving an overpass into the city tonight
all that color like spilled Christmas lights
like driving up into the sky.
--Think of:
7th grade boy with an earring and soft eyes.
Angelo. His name is.
Translating the story into Spanish for his friend.
--Of:
The blue, the green. Of the reef.
Pacific silence. Coconut cathedral.
Of: The Avett Brothers song, The Perfect Space.
Of friends who are like that.
: Africa, all seasons.
Also,
Jesus
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
And so the Archangel Sant'Angelo
draws his sword and spreads
his wings—as the pope flees
Saint Peter’s Basilica—to shield
the holy father as the seven seals
break to reveal the revelations
whence comes Christ again to
bring those who truly understand
his message to the eternal kingdom
of God to create anew a universe
where an can be reincarnated
with the purest of those left on
Earth—where (hopefully) the seed
of evil has been bred out or so far
deep in the pool of genes it arrives
only when man has advance further to
recognize the evil and nip it in the bud.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC