"appellation" poems
Mysterious, mist-kissed hills dismiss my dismal disdain
For Life’s strivings in the ivy wired mire.
Budding blossoms embrace my burgeoning bliss-filled *****
As my soul soars into the seething skies.
My wings are beating with breathless wonder,
My imagination sends me to a destination
Beyond discrimination, defying appellation,
But not exclamation, at this elevation.
Smooth pools of cool blue hue contrast with cliffs
That overhang the huddled houses
Of the hillside village
On the way to who knows where.
The mists are shifting, ever drifting
Hiding everything
Except the mountain tops.
A new dimension might await us
Always moving as
Our journey never stops.
Paul Butters
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
O Thou bright jewel in my aim I strive
To comprehend thee. Thine own words declare
Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach.
I cease to wonder, and no more attempt
Thine height t’ explore, or fathom thy profound.
But, O my soul, sink not into despair,
Virtue is near thee, and with gentle hand
Would now embrace thee, hovers o’er thine head.
Fain would the heav’n-born soul with her converse,
Then seek, then court her for her promis’d bliss.
Auspicious queen, thine heav’nly pinions spread,
And lead celestial Chastity along;
Lo! now her sacred retinue descends,
Array’d in glory from the orbs above.
Attend me, Virtue, thro’ my youthful years!
O leave me not to the false joys of time!
But guide my steps to endless life and bliss.
Greatness, or Goodness, say what I shall call thee,
To give me an higher appellation still,
Teach me a better strain, a nobler lay,
O thou, enthron’d with Cherubs in the realms of day.
2.5k
Gently scraping the adhering paper from the firm plastic, colorful cube
That beared a delicate weight in my soft, precarious pink hands,
I grasped the sticker and pressed it on my protuberant little veins--
“Innocence!” Clarence cried my misleading appellation,
“Are you cheating? You’re taking off the stickers, mindlessly relocating them
To unravel (or reassemble, rather) the poor little tormented Rubik’s.”
*“Nay, you fool. I’m just rearranging them so that no one can solve the puzzle.
I’m a sadist, not a fraud.”*
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
My poems, where are they from?
Westerner.
An appellation, of the 'hood of my nation,
Customary identity association,
But not one that springs to mind,
When they inquire, as they do,
Hey man, tell us about your "self."
But there is no deniability,
At least three hundred years,
That my father was aware,
Europe to America,
Westward ** the seeds sown.
From the banks of the Lippe,
Ocean crossing to NYC,
From the Krakow Ghetto
To the shores of the
Manhattan Indian Reservation,
By the banks of the grandest river Hudson,
They journeyed, they sojourned,
Staying for awhile, scattering across the Midwest,
"Coming to America."
Yet out West,
I am an Easterner,
My hometown teams,
In the East Division,
And this schizophrenia
Is non-problematical.
But where are my poems from?
I have studied the time zones,.
The AM's and the PM's.
I know when I deliver this to you,
If the sun is rising or setting,
Whether to greet you with
नमस्कार or magandang umaga,
Greet you with a "Good Sabbath!"
Or an Insh'Allah...
But where are my poems from?
Bog of technical definitions,
Matters not, my poems have no
Passport to be stamped,
The Customs lines they cross are the
Customs of mine and yours.
The are both immigrant and emigre,
Experienced, well travelled, they familiar
With the right satellites to
Grace thy welcoming space.
Tap dance, recitations of evasions,
Answer the question man,
But where are my poems from?
You tell the when, the how but not the
Where.
We can't wait much longer,
The inbox heavy with homework,
Your poems to love, like and take.
Don't you see?
They, born in the West,
For lack of a better answer,
Clock and setting sun racers,
Surfing the Atlantic, Indian,
Circumnavigating the Pacific Isles,
Is just the course they take
When out my window sent.
But is that your answer,
Their path, to the single quest,
From the West, is that the best
Answer you can equivocate,
Where do they come from?
**No.
Obviously,
They come from you...**
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 6:42 AM UTC
It's a mystery to note
that despite how advanced in age we are
still we earnestly strive to survive, preserve
at all costs this physical entity
My sister, Vivien and I
watched vicariously
as our 91 year old Father
tubes plugged in every orifice and cavity
sat gripping the edge of his hospital bed
gasping for air
We didn't know it then, but he was suffering
a mild heart attack
mentally, tenderly we massaged
his Spirit with prayers
I thought to myself
how difficult it is to convince yourself
that you are not this body
while warm blood and passions rush
through veins and brick by brick
from birth we carefully construct,
insulate, protect, pamper and cater to
the whims and demands of this
terra firma
I stared numbly as hospital staff
wheeled Dad away for further tests
Emergency room visits were
fast becoming a regular ritual
Intravenous bags hang
heavy black nimbus clouds
stingily dispensing one last drop of mortality
my heart a stone sinking in my chest
plummeted with a thud into a bottomless
inky pool
so many poignant, familial memories
rowing merrily across the paper thin
surface of Life's fragile dream
I could sense my mother's intangible presence
close by
soft brown sepia eyes gazing tenderly
through the partially drawn diaphanous veils
chariots swinging low
father's condition is stable now
though they released him for the holidays
the appellation, "Comeback Charlie"
our nickname for his extraordinary
resilience and vigor
didn't have quite the same ring
something missing, that spark, stolen
reflected in hollow, vacant
jack-o-lantern eyes
I prayed as we prepared a tropical
fruit basket to cheer him up
that he would clearly see
an Angel not a thief
standing eternally by his side
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 10:12 AM UTC
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Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 5:42 AM UTC
whisking yesterday’s
chipped and shattered dreams
into you is
not a problem
the broom is there
my hands yet comply
with requests
from the command center
I see you, flat
on the floor
waiting, patiently
your tin blue stillness no threat
to me, or the dust
I watch you, I rummage through
the day's dull duties
and other dithering distractions
that wash over me,
more each menacing minute,
but
can
not
think
of your
name,
“it…”
rests on my tongue tip
weightless and wicked
my eyes and hands grip you,
with ease, but
what art thou???
what simple sound will summon you?
I am alone,
though if another were here
with me, you,
and your "itness"
the question would remain,
unspoken
with other nameless sorrows
for who would not be terrified to admit
that more and more tomorrows
will be without the august appellation,
“dustpan”
and whatever other words
time
blithely chooses to
permanently purloin
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 4:10 PM UTC
Why employ an ordinary word
When an extraordinary one
Excels?
Let us wed, let us vow,
Henceforth, let us never
Wish ourselves away plain humbly,
Goodbye.
Let us end our day,
Bid our lovely comings,
The tragedy of our departures
With a gentling
Fare thee well.
In the company of the dawn,
Let us greet the one
Who lies besides us a stirring,
Not with merest hello, morning or
The accursed howareyou,
Replace haste with a deliberate
*Welcome, well comely,
To this newborn day!*
Tho do confess,
That like numerous others
Who have counted the ways,
There is no sweetener substitute for
I love you.
I will n'ere address thy grace
With appellation dissatisfying of "girl"
When woman suits thee best,
With all its attendant glories.
Should we encounter upon the street,
Address me as man,
For of that word I am a fan,
But say it not with routine irrelevance,
But in tones of softest reverence,
For I am not a child or dude,
A sir or sire, a mister mister,
But I am a man.
Our lives are not a game of chance,
Yet chance aplenty do we countenance.
Having stumbled, fallen into a subterranean,
A place where I know thee well
But likely not your face, your visage,
Thy honest name,
Accept these excelsiors as mine
Poeming opening gambit,
My closing statement,
Summary of the that, that has and yet to pass
Between us:
Peace be upon you.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 5:49 AM UTC
Busy man racing down the street
busy man you never notice me
but everyday we meet.
An appellation for the crowd
the sea of suits
and would I ever be their newest recruit.
Busy man won’t you take the time
to paint the skies
with the colours you saw once before
because your only actions now are ones I deplore.
Busy man please don’t be facile
we have a colourful life
and it is one you must fulfil
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
A seed
as trim
when frills
are mine
in Roanoke
shall shine
Blue Ridge
Mountain Skies
again with
appellation contrôlée
in my
appetite and
a year
away in
Virginia and
tannin taste
sure today.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 5:08 AM UTC
the postmodern condition is attempting to escape the human condition as defined by the parameters of capitalism through alternate realities that trigger a sense of isolation from the societal concept of individualism while bearing the constant struggle of utter loneliness and depression.
multitudinous humans undergo irrevocable mental conditions that originate from a lack of amazement even at a young age of a human being. we endlessly always try exploring the vast amounts of knowledge throughout this temporary universe that we seldom lack the instant epiphany to be grateful enough unto the infinite diety who created all of these realms that are defined in a circular universal matter called an earthbound planet known through the reputation from the appellation EARTH within seven days historically concerning the biblical creation reference.
this poem will make you think more and talk less to know what goes on around your circumambience everyday!
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
I am Monster:
rough hewn spent and jaded
a loaded revolver
the dark harbour
an improper conduct sponsor
the acerbated and saturated
sympathy and empathy terminated
smarter, harder and sharper
sense of honour departed
a cloned armoured martyr
an existence where love has faded
or simply overused and left degraded.
I am Monster:
shaped by unfortunate events
a life of sharpened steel
etched with the scent of malcontent
chaotic defiance and suicidal descent
the rise of the paragon of zeal
masked in the stench of the surreal
lurking in shadows dark
that leaves its presence felt
like a silent tsunami watermark.
That voice in my head
speaking in tongues
his tasteless insipid breath
fills my lungs
the only respite
is prescribed medication
and meditation dictates;
navigate the monster
and his origin appellation
will have to wait.
The sorrow I borrow
and the chaos I bring
like liquid will eventually
rescind like the pulse of a wasp sting
the poison will dissipate
and then evaporate
in the predisposed
wrath of tomorrow.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 8:55 AM UTC
In open arms; these galloping seasons—
chasing after summer. A cold heart made of stone.
I'm torn: a ripped page; my appellation out of the
_Book of Life._
Deathly wallows swallow my mind, as the
depressed eye looking at the pen as a knife.
An execution of a piece of paper,
bleeding out pain, and yells out in hurt.
Starved are these words—food for thought.
A penny for a thought, worthwhile taking time to
overthink, more often than the count to blink.
Tedious, hideous, a galloping chase—seemingly
alive. But I'm really just beating a dead horse.
Truthfully overthinking--does ****
Jul 7, 2022
Jul 7, 2022 at 12:38 PM UTC
her parents would have nothing to do with the z,
naming her Elisa Beth
which few got right in her 65 seasons, for their habit
molded an EliZabeth every time
we presume it mattered not to Elisa, Elisa Beth, because she was
born blind and deaf
her record of birth got it right, but her social
security card did not,
the checks were cashed by caretakers, who cared not
whether the letter snaked or zagged
her parents' obits also claimed they were survived by
an only daughter, EliZabeth
when she "met her reward," some two years past
there was no legacy in print
save a death certificate, which again blasphemed
her appellation with the alphabet's final figure
but on her gravestone, curiously, she was Elisabeth once more,
though what flat, mute slab could even such a score?
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
They keep on asking
If Fallen One has a meaning
I tell them none
That it was just a pun
Truth is, it is more than an appellation
I just don't want them to know it's definition
because it's not worthy of their appreciation
But somebody insist
Until I get ******
And I can not resist
So I give her a twist
I am a flower
that fell from a tower
A fallen flower
who lost its power
I am a snowflake
that fell from snow shake
A fallen snowflake
who lost its shape
I am a kite
that fell from the high
a fallen kite
who lost the flight
I am everything that falls
who can't go beyond the walls
who can't climb the halls
I am the Fallen One
My story is done
choose if you believe one
I am telling you there is none
Truth is, it is more than an appellation
I just don't want them to know it's definition
because it's not worthy of their appreciation
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 11:16 PM UTC
Answered, thus labeled because views a similarity. Who had this in the hand of the eye’s compact? If presence shifts to absence and believe it is safe in transit, what contract aspires to be an object used against it?
Here must be another present, moving thing for this nonattendance to take place. Its duty need not be nominal. And when it takes place, there is a guarantee for a statement: almost, to a certain extent. Had, adhered, temporary.
This was taken as an insistence of its exclusion as an avowal of its state: when a thing ceases to move, it has named a boundary all within a venue with already christened boundaries. To rise from its nomenclature, a question: what for is this mode? The unassuming and deliberate twofold of its chrome is indicative of something. There are only two possible answers to the question, but never warrants indemnity.
If amorphous then suitable to bend or assume over and over, a confrontational: to hold it against walls everywhere, its color only when dual fixing not a shadow, but the possibility of a shadow. To spill light over the malleable – notice how a body contorts.
If distinct then determined to traverse a straight line, a sanction: to furlough the idea of its controlled variable which is its many possibilities, its shape now not only a name but a force that deals with a believable architecture of compressed options. There is no need for appellation when related to dislimn as a shade is necessary for this disappearance to simulate. But the treachery is that when light surrounds no longer, form somehow a myth as if pausing all lightness to declare something: this is of two explanations merely a single.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 8:28 PM UTC
microscopic electrical currents internally flowing throughout computers projecting bright content from vast networks every time your keystrokes are typed into a search bar for desired website preferences to bring instant fulfillment from one of billions of desired search engine preferences that are interconnected to a universal computing satellite affiliated with the appellation known as the internet.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
Of one essence in creation's mold
Our souls are organs
Of a cosmic whale
Swimming the ocean of Time
In search of destiny divine.
When an appendage
Is suffering in pain
Others must apprehensive remain
If some members show no pity
For another's afflictions
The appellation of Human
They can not retain.
Sep 3, 2019
Sep 3, 2019 at 1:30 PM UTC
I don't get too many phone calls,
But I didn't think much of it
When the vaguely familiar bars
Of an old popular soundtrack
Began gently drawing my attention
To my hardly-used-except-to-Google-things-
Or-play-hours-upon-hours-of-word-games-
Unless-I'm-on-a-Netflix-binge
Smartphone,
(Which I obviously don't use as a phone,)
Because someone was calling me.
I was flabbergasted in the next heartbeat
And didn't know what to think
Say
Do
Feel
So I just stared at the screen with your name.
Stared at the flashing lights
Until it all went dark.
It took me exactly 21 years
To begin to accept my given name.
It was unique and as a kid I was...not.
I wanted to fit in, to belong, to get along
With all the other kids,
But for years, the name you gave me
Haunted every time someone called out to me.
Things changed the year I was 21.
The weight and gravity of names
Became clear and more understandable to me,
For a name is not merely an appellation
By which others in society
Are able to gain your attention,
No, names are powerful things.
They direct the thoughts and consideration
Of those we interact with
Because our name is often
Their first impression of us.
And I began to consider my name,
It's meaning,
It's origin,
The reason you named me it.
And as the knowledge grew
So did my appreciation
Until I embraced it with eagerness.
But just as I began to realize
That my name influenced how others saw me,
I began to see that what I call others
Influences me.
Your name has gone through a few transformations
In these past few years,
Much like you yourself.
On the flashing screen of my mobile
Where it first read:
mama
mom
mother
Your Given Name
Now it reads
Do Not Answer. Ever.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
I confess
though thousands years have passed
since some barefoot soul called you
a god, I can't even recall the ennobled appellation
they gave you...Ra?
to those who carved on cool cave walls
your burning legacy was a glimpse of gold infinity
to me, a wearer of shoes and master of plastic tools,
you are but a spec in the night, e pluribus unum,
a paltry 90 million miles from my spinning rock
proudly proclaiming your **********
you sear skins and sins of your followers
who supplicate to your filtered rays
while blithely ignoring, you number our days
and will fizzle out like a sparkler, one finite July eve
who called you divine?
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
Courteous it is hard to
Be in a world full
Of spite, bitterness-
A compilation of
Creatures that
Breathe the fear's
That they give.
It's easier to die
Then to live,
Though vitality
Is what wakes me.
Makes me a cordial
Free-floating
Free-thinking
And a being that wants to learn
More with more time here on earth.
Soul-uplifting
Soul-survivor
Soul
Search.
Soul found.
Not stuck
Not jailed
Not in the ground.
For I've been found
By my god
For my god
Is always
Nonstop,
Like the wind
Coming in-
Side my head
As I can hear his
appellation like a bomb go
Off in the most beautiful manner
POP-
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC
no diminution in tiredness arose
gnome hatter how off tin ma dis bows
Zoe let his bot tee succumb,
via mental application
of autogenic phrases
and/or counting crows
cuz upon awakening,
aye immediately wanted ta doze,
thus this artful dodger hankered to expose
extreme cockamamy idea incumbent,
where corporeal essence gets froze
zen, the scientific procedure named
emergency preservation
and resuscitation (EPR)
more familiarly known
as suspended animation
pursuant under the appellation cryogenics,
where living tissue no longer grows
old, a wishful yearning
approximating immortality i sup hose,
yet this copacetic drowsy
generic human struggled in vain
trying with utmost effort to stay awake
Swiss to hobnob among urbane
feeling helpless (fearing
he might be narcoleptic),
nonetheless aye didst train
intent concentration
(and/or feeble exertion mustered)
to swat away worrisome thought
this hypochondriac,
could be afflicted with mononucleosis
since lassitude less likely sprung
from overcast and rain
knee skies, which type weather
generally energies me
to conjure a quatrain
sometimes complex versus
written straight away plain
panacea hit upon finally
to ward off sleepiness,
whereby literary endeavor
boosted by a strong brew
namely fair trade
manufactured coffee chew
zing among socially conscious entities,
and hoping to do
some dollop of positivity
without fanfare I eschew
to fulfill personal hue
man conscientious anonymous impact
that some benefit will en sue.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 6:27 PM UTC
i detour on the way home
to the light house on the headland
such a grandiose appellation
for a stolid white box with
a light in it...
more utalitarian than romantic
but still it is nice to see it blink on
but i digress ... i am so ****** tired
beyond the bone, right down to the marrow
god this winter has been so long
and the grief i drag around,
in tattered threads... and sepia tones
leaves me cold....
my heart not in the teaching...
i feel disjointed, displaced .
i have misplaced the knack
to find the joy in youthful creativity
and am running this marathon by rote
i worry that the key won't turn in the lock
and i will be caught within
this cage...
an exhibition in the museum
to has-beens and never-were's
yet paradoxically...
my performance stellar
sometimes so good
that i fool myself...
god send spring soon....
or i fear am come undone
it has rained for a week
cold and bitter here
give strengnth to the roots
of my tidily packaged fears
and if i don't see spring soon
they will be spread and torn and ripped
and you will see the inside and
understand the grift
and there the light blinks on
sending out the saving beam
safe secure and strong
and in the shadows
you see the woman
scrabbling at the earth
burying deep in sandy loam
the thoughts birthed from
an overtired mind
the thoughts that she
must not nurture ...
that needs be left behind
buried deep, stomped hard
into the ground...
and as she stands in the lee of the light
and looks to the sea ..... she sighs heavily
the turns back into the deepening night
less heavy of heart....able to continue
the fight..... one last look...
then homeward bound....
thanking the lighthouse
and leaving sacred ground.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 3:43 AM UTC
I am Ma’am.
Ma’am I am.
And if I order
green eggs and ham
at the café,
you can say,
“We don’t serve that here,
Ma’am.”
Miss, I’m not.
I am not Miss.
That appellation
is a dis.
Take a look,
and you’ll see this:
I’m 53, not 18.
I may be older than I seem,
but my days of girlhood are long gone.
And to call me “Miss” would just be wrong.
So call me “Ma’am;” it’s what I am.
You might think “Miss” is hip or flip,
but if you call me that there’ll be no tip.
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 9:28 PM UTC