"announces" poems
As the moon shines
And the stars decorate the sky,
A lonely owl hymns
While the bats fly.
Lightning bugs scatter around
Like will-o'-the-wisps at night,
Without any sound
Oh, what a delight!
The neighbour's hound is on guard
She will not allow anyone to pass,
No one is allowed in her yard
At this hour, only a fool will walk on her grass.
Her howl pierces the air
Bringing an end to the silence,
She announces she won't share
She will not tolerate any form of violence.
Across the street, few floors above
Two players are taking their turns,
In the famous game of push and shove
While a tiny candle burns.
Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018.
All Rights Reserved
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
"Back from vacation", the barber announces,
or the postman, or the girl at the drugstore, now tan.
They are amazed to find the workaday world
still in place, their absence having slipped no cogs,
their customers having hardly missed them, and
there being so sparse an audience to tell of the wonders,
the pyramids they have seen, the silken warm seas,
the nighttimes of marimbas, the purchases achieved
in foreign languages, the beggars, the flies,
the hotel luxury, the grandeur of marble cities.
But at Customs the humdrum pressed its claims.
Gray days clicked shut around them; the yoke still fit,
warm as if never shucked. The world is still so small,
the evidence says, though their hearts cry, "Not so!"
13.4k
your best stuff will never be posted here
<>
***goose, you crack me up,
your bests stuffs can never be posted,
the tender stroke away of a child’s tear,
the welcoming of a smile delightfully unexpected,
a first grade art project so successful
it is mounted forever on a
front door Hall of Fame
a good cry all your own,
in private sobbing,
mouth mourning the absence of
a kiss on the back of your neck
shivers with surprising waves of pleasure,
that announces you are more than noticed
if you can post these stuffs,
call me asap,
because that’s the sight
I wanna see & be,
when only the best stuff you got given,
given got,
becomes real***
10:03am
4/11/19
Aug 24, 2019
Aug 24, 2019 at 2:16 PM UTC
The poet Phernazis is composing
the important part of his epic poem.
How Darius, son of Hystaspes,
assumed the kingdom of the Persians. (From him
is descended our glorious king
Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator). But here
philosophy is needed; he must analyze
the sentiments that Darius must have had:
maybe arrogance and drunkenness; but no -- rather
like an understanding of the vanity of grandeurs.
The poet contemplates the matter deeply.
But he is interrupted by his servant who enters
running, and announces the portendous news.
The war with the Romans has begun.
The bulk of our army has crossed the borders.
The poet is speechless. What a disaster!
No time now for our glorious king
Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator,
to occupy himself with greek poems.
In the midst of a war -- imagine, greek poems.
Phernazis is impatient. Misfortune!
Just when he was positive that with "Darius"
he would distinguish himself, and shut the mouths
of his critics, the envious ones, for good.
What a delay, what a delay to his plans.
And if it were only a delay, it would still be all right.
But it yet remains to be seen if we have any security
at Amisus. It is not a strongly fortified city.
The Romans are the most horrible enemies.
Can we hold against them
we Cappadocians? It is possible at all?
It is possible to pit ourselves against the legions?
Mighty Gods, protectors of Asia, help us.--
But in all his turmoil and trouble,
the poetic idea too comes and goes persistently--
the most probable, surely, is arrogance and drunkenness;
Darius must have felt arrogance and drunkenness.
5k
My friend and I talk about it
Neighborhood got decimated this year
One after another the corners of community are gone
We touch the elder memories
as one might touch a head in blessing
as loved ones pass
We linger longest over John
Found dead after ten hot days
by other-worldly hazmat crew
flanked by cruisers
with their special, yellow truck
and zipper bags
...found 'im
glasses folded neatly on the night stand
in his jammies
all tucked into bed
No one thought it strange
that strange young guy would die
already decomposing in his head
Lost
among his personal effects
his fleet of rusting cars
and half-assed projects
Deck tacked to garage
his herds of “pets”
Easy to pretend he wasn't really there
between jail stints or some imagined threat or theft
of crap
haunted by the shadows of his persecutors
caught in motion lights
and cameras' blinding evidence of
jungle-jumble and malfunctioning alarms
going off in the wind
Everyone's out to get his stuff
We could dismiss him--
mostly
sorta
...except for times
he mowed his grass at night
or hand-built “the lunatic tower”
just for mom
from scavenged scraps and
hammered hours
power-sawed
through the housing codes
and horror
of the neighbors...
...Such a special spectacle...
******* crazy-- John!
He was enough for one day at a time
like when
he flung that threatening bolder
on bilco doors
for percussive effect
"Get off my fuckin' property!”
(not using his “inside voice")
“Next time, that'll be your head!!
He announces his intent
to not get mad, behave himself
to call the cops on me instead
Fake-dialing
While his mother screams in dread
“John is off his meds!”
My phone is set to speed dial
911
____
“How did we miss this?
How did we not miss him those quiet days?”
How we miss him now
How quiet
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 4:18 PM UTC
The Warden announces; as the Diseased children cower in fear,
The mother stands beside the Warden.
"Evy'body remain calm, The Plague doc'or is 'ere!"
May God forbid; That you ever see that Mask,
Those cloaks, those masks,
those herbs and flasks...
It creeps towards the children; Looming in the silence.
equipped with little mind for medicine, a cane for violence.
Those soulless eyes,
the Putridly herbal aroma close, they despise,
but this masked creature ignores their cries.
The warden feeding mother Lies.
Dimly lit the cold room,
the pungent fume,
''I'll leave 'im to it"
The warden leaves.
but the Doctor stays and silently breathes.
Question on the matter if this Doctor's even Sane,
As it stares upon the child then whips him with the cane.
No Law defies,
the Mother Cries.
Pulling out it's Vials of vial Herbs, this Freak,
Staring coldly around the silent room, pointing everywhere, it's beak.
It passes the two Children pouches of leaves; Mother grieving,
everybody remain Calm, The Plague Doctor is leaving!
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 7:06 AM UTC
~~~^♡^~~~
a flash of red
in verdant trees
a cardinal!
bright
within its leaves!
the telltale call
and flirt of tail
announces love
in the plain
female!
gentle nature
touches the pair
to bless my
*heart
yes!
spring
is
HERE!!!*
~~~^♡^~~~
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
With dusty wings
and awkward flight
Your tiny buffalo body
bounces on the
delicate glass surface.
An exaggerated shadow
announces your plight.
Is it the beauty of
the butterfly
that spurs you.
Why so frustrated;
so persistent?
Do you know of emotion?
Maybe you do,
and it is your own
dark turmoil
that draws you to the
glass skirted flame.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
The stink of fish on earthen streets
A hot wind blows from ochre hills
Black faces shine with brilliant teeth
Street market ***** doth cure all ills.
Redness in her plaited hair
Rhythm in her steady tread
A harmony of balance, she carries
Water jars on her head.
A market girl is singing
As she sits among bananas
The drama in her music
Is as dusty as the street,
It fills the air with magic
As it lilts above street chatter
In the atmosphere of Africa
Where new and ancient meet.
The goat boy herds his docile flock
Through camel trains and bales
The steamer tethered at the dock
Announces that she sails
With billowed steam and mournful wail
It echoes through the town
And the planter and his agent
Bargain with a harried frown.
The bleating of the goat herd
And the stench of fish and dung
Is as ordinary as Africa
In the searing mid day sun.
Zanzibar is spices, Zanzibar is Stone.
Club Zanzibar is whiskey on the rocks
Consumed alone
Or shared upon the balcony
In the shadow of a palm
With the turquoise Indian ocean
Reaching out beyond the arm.
Do you see the dhows are sailing?
Do you see the fishing nets?
Do you hear the oarsmen chanting?
Did you see black muscle flex?
Have you watched the dripping sweat
Cascade on alabaster brow?
Have you inhaled the scent of Africa
And allowed it to allow?
Colobus monkeys in the treetops
Narrow lanes in the bazaar
Dull white walls adorn stone buildings
And the rupee is by far
The favorite tenure of the Island
Since the days when slaves were sold
By Arab camel caravaners
Who traded coin for young black gold.
East and west collide in concert
Africa and Asia blend
The Sultan's mix of race and spice
In Zanzibar, beyond lands end.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
3rd June 2008
Oct 13, 2009
Oct 13, 2009 at 11:06 PM UTC
A good night’s sleep before the road trip drive
The mission is to arrive at the final destination alive
Then check into the terminal and find out their departure destination assignment
Later inspect the bus for any defects
Safety being the call of duty with having no troubles in the passenger’s trip having an effect
It’s Boarding Time
The Motor Coach Engineer brings the coach bus to the terminal departure gate
Announcement is made for destination with intermediate stops in between
The Driver than takes the passengers ticket
The passenger’s then board
Once the driver gets the ok to proceed from the Operations Center to departs, the driver backs out the bus and heads for the highway
The driver then picks up the bus microphone and welcomes the passenger’s aboard
He or she also announces the destination with stops along with rest stops and meal stops including transfer points
This is a Daily Routine
Later when the bus arrives at the designated final schedule, once the bus is pulled into appropriate gate, the passengers then disembark
Then it’s thanks for travelling with us
Safety with no fuss
Zero tolerance and you didn’t cuss
It’s all about the Motor coach Engineer and the bus.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 9:22 AM UTC
clinton rebukes israel over east jerusalem homes obama nasa plans catastrophic say moon astronauts alaska wolves **** woman's teacher out jogging ireland frees 3 cartoonist plot suspects sarkozy and brown attack u.s. over protectionism pope benedict's former diocese rehoused abuser priest chile puts quake damage at $30bn winnie denies interview criticizing nelson mandela climate change makes birds shrink in north america dr rowan williams is honored for work on russia weymouth ridgeway skeletons scandinavian vikings live bangladesh v england michael schumacher pledges to raise game in bahrain can the u.s. vice-president broker middle east peace? sarkozy's party faces socialist drubbing remote indian state set for development new york dust victims split on 9/11 deal german tells of childhood abuse by catholic priest a step closer to the american dream? lehman: how $50bn was buried in london ba strike union announces dates in march china's oil demand increase astonishing says iea china warns google to comply with censorship laws net clash for web police projects hsbc admits huge swiss bank data theft phil spector ****** conviction appealed sir david jason to voice cbbc animation climate change 'makes birds shrink' in north america thalidomide effect mystery solved blood pressure fluctuations warning sign for stroke winnie denies interview criticizing nelson mandela mogadishu residents told to leave somali capital same-sex couples marry in mexico city by mistake i clicked on wrong button and lost everything
Mar 12, 2010
Mar 12, 2010 at 6:59 PM UTC
*Mist told me in her vaporous touch
"Let me dress you in my fine muslin clothes,
though you may find it a cold comfort
my love will endure till sun drives me away"
And sun, strode in donning his warm golden gown,
splashing his sunny voice, he announces,
"Purple, red, golden yellow, as time moves,
choices you have, folks, till i go back with my stock,
mine are silk, the purest for you to luxuriate
unlike with others, my love for planet earth,
is something never fully told, whoever does it "
Ah, then comes the lady clad in sensual black,
with her one powerful color that makes,
none stand out in the line, all are equal in her bed,
dress she gives you have to accept,no choice there,
somnambulist deem it a privilege wearing it,
those ones that vanish, seek out her winged dress.*
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
Feel the breeze running through your hair
Flowers blooming along the green, green grass
Colors painting the world
Adding life to this bleek place
Picking a flower or two
Celebrating the coming of spring
Where Mother Nature announces her return
Giving life to the earth
Apr 22, 2010
Apr 22, 2010 at 5:33 PM UTC
In the darkness that dispels all hope
we fumble with meaningless insight.
What we said does not relate to what we want
and yet we embrace boundaries to punish ourselves
with unnecessary hells. Languishing in the thought
that silence will answer these loud questions.
We love because we are created to love
unconditionally.We hate because we don't understand
what vast oceans of meaning lie in love.
Silence may answer the ascetics
monastic and contemplatives but
rarely an equation for relationships.
When its grey it rains tears of knowing
where we belong and to whom we belong
in the worlds whole people. Love binds us all
in this understanding fabric of contemplation.
Yet in the darkness we find solitude
and hope in the isolation of reason.
The silence between the drumbeats
announces the rhythm of the song.
We walk in silence
yet celebrate without it.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 19 days ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11566249-Grey-Skies-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.8dgLQUr8.dpuf
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
Sick and cyclical memories linger, how unjust it seems
In somber city streets, her father's name she screams
When the fix is late and her body sodden and shaking
Her childhood recollections waking, every joint aching
Falling on tarmac, tearing stockings and fleshy knees
Through the distant mist it's a saviour that she sees
Marvin on a white steed, motorbike and leathers
To get her straight he only requires her nethers
What difference could it make to such a worn woman
So little that her eyes glaze as he announces his comin'
And she's immediately put to work after initial transaction
All night shifts, ****** abstraction, customer satisfaction
Returning 'home' to Marvin where the earnings are counted
Giggling schoolgirl as playful stories of John's are recounted
And Marvin's insatiable perversions are compounded
****** cocktails and deviancy, her psyche confounded
The **** sleeps blissfully beside his new top girl
And through ****** daze, she examines her world
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
He. Dear, I must be gone
While night Shuts the eyes
Of the household spies;
That song announces dawn.
She. No, night's bird and love's
Bids all true lovers rest,
While his loud song reproves
The murderous stealth of day.
He. Daylight already flies
From mountain crest to crest
She. That light is from the moon.
He. That bird...
She. Let him sing on,
I offer to love's play
My dark declivities.
2.7k
The rain falls softly on the sleeping city…. Cloaked in the blanket of a monsoon lull…. A few stray dogs scamper for shelter as the first storm of the season colours the dawn a deeper crimson…..
The thunder rumbles from the north east…a deep slow sonorous sound coming from the underbellies of the moisture laden atmosphere…..
The soft drizzle forms a hazy blanket of morning mist around the city…..already stirring with the first signs of life…. The resurrection of the everyday work-a-day world…….
The musical tinkling of a bell echoes around as a pushcart brimming with flowers rushes down the street, hurrying to the market…fresh, preened and ready…to be sold to the highest bidder…
The soft music of the approaching storm inspires a boatman, out on the holy river, to sing…… his voice echoes over the bass of the thunder……a plaintive pleasant humming……the nuances of the bhatiali fill up the empty cracks in the morning……
The rain deepens…………the drizzle expands into the monsoons first downpour… pitter-patter sings the rain, reverberating off a thousand tin roofs……the sky darkens……enveloping the dawn in its grey being…..
Somewhere, someone tunes a harmonium…..clears a throat…a hand draws a curtain aside…..
The peaceful reassurance of the daily azaan spreads out from the mosque…..calling the faithful to prayer…..
The flower vendor…now setting up shop, attaching an extra strip of plastic sheet to fend off the rain…. Stops a moment and bows his head as the nearby tolling of a bell and the sound of a conch shell being blown announces the beginning of a new day in god’s abode….
A woman kneels down in a pew…..praying…..the calm of the church mirrored in her peaceful face…..
The rain looks down at the city……..now, half awake…slowly stretching its limbs……..stirring from the depths of a restless rest…………awakening to the jangling of a bread earner’s faith……
The shower relents……..probably giving in to all the Monday morning groans and grumbles emanating from a city forced back into consciousness…..
Finally, all that remains is the moisture on the flower vendor’s tarpaulin and the shadow of the boatman’s song on the rippled river…….
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
(This poem was brought to you by the letter...V!)
She vacuums the worn carpet
Her gaze on the surface vague and vacant
But when you lift the lid
She has been ****** into a vortex
Of whirling cosmic space dust.
She's entered a parallel universe
There her name is Vanessa
And her life's so diverse
By day she announces on
underground trains
'mind the gap, next stop
Mornington crescent'
Her voice is sweet, virtuous,
clear and efficient
But by evening her voice has
more va va voom
She sings sultry jazz
in a smoky back room.
She looks almost the same
Voluptuous lines and a
red haired mane
But gone is any trace of mundane.
Each verse of song she wraps in a sway of the hips side to side
and a ravishing smile
And if the audience try it on
or become volatile
A valiant handsome trilby wearing
gentleman
Can warn them off
With a choice few nouns
And vexing verbs
make them run a mile
And after the show
She and the gentleman
Vanish from view
And as their heated passion grows
They sink down onto A velveteen couch
exploring her peaks n valleys
With his keen mouth
And she traces his muscles
Vivid veins, v lines
She reaches his peak further south.
Back out of the vortex
And back in the room
She is breathless
And her heart is fast and keen
She has stopped the vacuum
Instead saught solace
In the vibrations of her washing machine
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
Legs shake
Jitters, excitement, anxiety
"I've moved heaven and earth to get this,"
Festive for Rome
"Group one," she announces
"In the beginning," I think.
Let the story commence.
Flock goes the sheep
What is foreign to some
Is native to others
Airport fun
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC
*chopping the carrots
and the onions
with tears..
this fragmenting
in linear time..
now dialogue ensues
carrots and onions
join other friends
ingredients unite..!
a community in heat
transforms and shapeshifts..
an aroma announces
a new creation
a quantum delicacy
before her eyes...*
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
To sleep, my mind impounded,
My heartbeats, bass, lowly-sounded,
Each beat, a note upon mine ticking meter.
An unfamiliar feminine voice, not hers, poses,
Questioning noises, issued from a blackened figure.
This human-shaped metronome,
A singular inquisitor,
In rhythm, but not in rhyme,
Gravely announces repeatedly,
T'is your time, t'is your time,
Each pronouncement,
Spoken n'spiked distinctly:
*"Your prose now ended,
last-gentled sweetly."*
Wondering still, is it just sleep or truly death,
This forlorn eve, to go, to meet and greet,
Without having said my finale prayer.
Unprepared, thus with unaccustomed flair,
"Unfair" doth me protest, a newly-minted naysayer,
My book incomplete, black-brother frere!
If death indeed you be, my fellow cloaked-rider,
Then make me a one-last-time composer.
Let me whisper once more inside her,
A last poem of the greatest brevity,
But of the greatest import, laden heavy!
Good bye, my love, goodbye....
This closing writ, my finest ever...
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
Who will wipe away my many tears,
As for my dear love one I now weep
Who will be there to help me rest easy
While at night I try to fall fast asleep
Who will embrace me ever so tightly
Or who can ever take your place,
Who will say my name like you did
Placing a soft smile upon my face
Where are you now my sweet flower
When I need you most in my life
Where is the sound of your laughter
That always made each day so right
For my eyes grow tired from weeping
And my knees are weak from prayer
And I cannot let go of what I lost
When you were taken away from here
For every time the door bell rings
Or the telephone announces a call
I jump in expectation with a hope
That from my life you did not fall
And yet still my mind grows weary
As I once again try to fall asleep
And I can’t let go of your memory
When your image my heart still keeps
….until we meet again
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 8:13 AM UTC
Upon the gate
Words inscribed
"TRESPASSERS BEWARE"
Behind me mist recedes
Steep cliff revealed
At the brink I tense
My footsteps echo as
The gate looms larger
Damp black rocks under
Hits me the tortured's howls
As I step across the threshold
Legs steady, eyes set
Dense fog obscuring
Flame and body
The torch flickers
A winding path I follow
Patient and unwavering
With sword unsheathed
Cold wind announces my destination
Before me the chasm yawns
From my hands the flickering torch
Fell boucing down jagged rocks
I grasp the hilt of my sword
Light refracting off the blade
I hold it outward through the fog
Its light dimming by the minute
And await the terrors to come
Rumbling from the distance
The gate crashes down
Darkness falls upon this realm
The chilly wind picking up
All sounds coming to a halt
I close my eyes
Steps unsteady as I pick my way
Not knowing how many
Gasping I pull my feet back
As it touched empty space
Then tentatively I inch
Forward with a heavy breath
Until I stop at the very brink
For a minute staying still yet
With a lurch I slip into the chasm
Cloak billowing above me I
Flail around in a frenzy
I feel the cool hilt still and
Point the sword downwards
Taking a deep breath and
Bracing for the impact
Jul 25, 2024
Jul 25, 2024 at 7:37 PM UTC
I bought a real nutcracker today.
A fine shiny black truly cool looking one!
Each crack compliments to a dandy vintage lad's imaginary home TV shopper Ad.
Saying‘It's guaranteed! Hundred percent of mechanosensory reception!’
I try to convince myself between time stretching
‘Yes or No’s and ‘Just use stones’
‘Come on you've deserved it!’
‘Why bother?’
You have been craving for each
Tried and tested any,
same as so many
even from a hard peach.
So why not!? Keep it! – as if a testimony, from tough to juicy mimicking fruity blending **** seduced by crunchy mouth twisting *****
Digested from special yearly events to monthly justifications then weekly to daily and surprisingly after dinner, before breakfast, as brunch or even a whole meal sometimes.
You gnaw like a small rodent layer by layer cute but so tight although he says that’s alright.
Dashing trunks as if a woodpecker,
Stealing home reserved only-for-the-pet’s crumbs and
Finally receiving next day’s well deserved belly cramps.
Come on you almost broke your teeth during your worldwide exploring different types of shell husking trip.
Feel blessed now one time for goddess’ sake that she winks and tweaks my lips while it creaks, festively announces your recent find that nuts you shall eat raw only - neither baked nor from a sinfully roasted ready packed plastic bag.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
On the other side of the pumpkin patch there lies a narrow path.
Just a dent in the woods it seems, until getting closer you can see
The ground worn smooth by those who know to use it.
A short, dimly lit way through the thick brush opens out
And suddenly you find yourself on the gravelly bank of a railroad track.
The track cuts a swath through the dense forest that leans over it
As if jealous of the ground taken from its midst.
In each direction the track finally loses itself in a tunnel of trees,
Curving out of sight to reach some distant and unknown end.
When the train comes through, robbing the woods of the solace of silence,
I wonder where it’s bound, and how long it will take to get there.
The rhythmic clacking of the wheels, the endless line of boxcars,
The power and speed of the thing arrogantly announces itself to all--
Blind to any purpose or direction other than its own inarticulate need.
As the trains moves out of sight, I look again at the empty track
And wonder about the choices I have made.
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 2:09 PM UTC