"apropos" poems
There’s an assembly in the making
and the suits are all shuffling in for the big event
making way to their front row seats
****** in nose
hanky in hand
and all colorfully draped
in those cuffed pin stripes
and Jerry Garcia ties
*now what would the Grateful Dead
or any of their fine entourage
have to say about this foul routine?*
Apropos of that
they’re talking in the 3rd person
with tight syllables
and wavy hands
and all taking a run
at the state of the union
there’s Valentino
and Freddie
and good old Sal
"look....their fiddling with their nuts!"
cries a layman from the balcony seats
the Yin and the Yang
have got even the most liberal minded
scratching their heads
as questions fly in from the field:
*don’t you know the way it used to be?
have you no morals?
which way to the exit!?*
These front row fanatics
have surely been scrimmaging
in the corn fields
all down in that classic 3 point
watching their weight
with sample selections from the
Spicy House and Yaas Bazaar
as members of the congregation look on with envy
*pass the aperitif...the big ***** lady is on deck!*
Union heads are running rogue
loading up on grievances
and lines
passing files at a make shift pew
jumping the bunkers
and stepping on clams
while the orderlies move in
for governance
It’s a bewildered state
and only for the mind of the rigorous
Jimmy D would say:
“it’s nothing you pussy...to the victor goes the spoils!
everyone has a bit of good you know...
you just have to find it!"
Unrest is growing in the ranks
and the masses are unstable
Time to hammer down
with a formidable brace
and two tick play
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 8:05 PM UTC
Breeze bellows,
leaves echo in
quivering psithurism,
dithering like
unbroken smoke,
this approaching omen goads.
Dozing crows
slumbering in rows,
droves of locusts'
silenced drone,
almost comatose in repose;
nighttime overtones
choir of toads'
raspy croaks
answered by alto
of crickets' orchestral strokes.
Gust encroaches;
robed boughs
cloven open,
bring into
scope and focus
me juxtaposed,
suspended apropos.
Although motionless
and petrified in stone,
provoked by zephyr
coaxing to and fro;
swaying pendulous
and no longer frozen,
locus gently thrown.
Death rattle moan
evoked from throat,
reflex can't say no
to rigor rigidly posed,
final sigh in silence,
awoken vocal,
expelled and disposed.
Smote by
morose emotion,
gun loaded then exploded
by neurosis,
now bloated
necrosis decomposes
into gross ochre.
This trophy
and this ode
both an opus to
my inability to cope;
romanced i proposed,
eloped and betrothed to
my own
inappropriate composure.
Pocket full of posies
plucked when luck bestowed
and tears in a cup, a toast;
crying copiously,
tempest runneth overflowed,
eyes swollen and soaked.
Dipped my toes
in the coast
of this ocean's
amorphous folds,
gripped by undertow
holding control of my soul;
swiftly shipwrecked in
shallow shoal,
an old atoll.
On sandy floor,
water burrows roads;
digging, carving, roams
through unmarrowed
silica and sandstone
eroding into a cove.
A host for
opal geode trove,
enclosing a
technicolor rose,
from the depths
a glowing mosaic shone
Unopened lotus floats
on foam
of lapping waves,
a boat;
prone to no
grandiose notion
or motive,
adrift as wind stokes.
I suppose
this only shows
the total corrosion
into which I dove,
the only foes to oppose
are those of burdens, so
only weightless can I atone-
I must let go.
Mar 11, 2024
Mar 11, 2024 at 11:02 AM UTC
♡><♡><♡
on bare boards
the glit'ring gause
graceful gesture found
an arabesque
an aching pause
apropos to concert sound
lithe lustrous girl
scarce woman grown
pours out her beating heart
to stretch with every
muscle owned
in pain for love of art
pure grace she is
just as a swan
soft white and deepest black
she sways and lilts
her own will gone
on point with arch of back
a strong male
who leaps and soars
stately carriage bounds
to show his love
unto his core
and sweep her
from the ground
no person in
the world knows
the dancer's struggle, care
they only see talent bestowed
as he lifts her in the air
the grueling practice
hour on hour
the hardship and the strain
taxing body til it's empowered
the tutelage of brain
hour on hour
same movement learned
feet bound until deformed
to ache, oh yes, to hurt and burn
'til she has perfect form
but all this pain
which we don't see
is never all for naught
for the roses she will be
for the applause
she's fraught
for when this girl
is on the stage
she will, as a swan, fly
and with great grace
she'll turn the page
and then, as woman
die
soulsurvivor
(C) 8/1/2015
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
Persephone smiles the darkness to light
Yet I am but blinded by my own vice
Twas my greed which choked her dreams of youth
To ferment her innocence in sweet vermouth
I bear the warriors of battles lost
Greet them with warmth bitten by frost
And heroes who see the journey through
To the Elysian Fields where hope's renewed
I cage the souls whose just deserve
To feed the fires beneath the earth
Tormenting Demons with whips of flames
Wicked Witches Inflicting infinite pain
Who am I but that which has been written thus far
The God of the Netherworld, Lord of Brimstone and Fire
Yet more than that, I've become and so I am
So fear me not less thou be ******
Persephone smiles the darkness to light
For those who dare to stand and fight...
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
Apropos “letting go”,
one of the most popular words of the “spirit elite”:
(- one might be tired of hear it):
What I am, never want to let go,
and what God is, need nothing to let go.
© Barbara-Paraprem, 2014
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
fed the birds.
fed the birds a
book about
my dead
weight.
fed the
birds a heavy.
fed them from
my thin
hands. The words
that live.
The birds ate.
The birds ate words that
lived and always
lived
in
separate
houses. if...
and i mean if
and only if
they
could afford
it.
if these
clever pagans
ever had
a dime.
they found
it boring rich
folk to
death.
i fed the birds
my indigenous
nomads. they dined
in high style...
dined black and
fancy
on
shabby
addicts, as they
hopped
trains . i fed the birds
my
swarthy tribe.
and they supped.
i fed the birds
a monologue
with trains of
thought
the words i fed
them... the vagabonds...
hopped
trains.
of thought.
I fed
the birds.
i fed the birds just
outside.
i sat
and fed them
black light and Harmalade
fed them blackly
fed them with
piano keys; the black
ones, the ones
that radiate
i fed
i watched them. watched
them fancy peck. and peck
and fancy
pluck.
i watched. they dined
on serene defeat
by technicality.
it was surreal
to watch a blackbird
pluck from black
keys - peck
a morsel of glum
from
the black rays, yes.
the black rays with
opposable thumbs
and a
lifeline. the only one i
know forbidding gypsies
with three eyes.
an open
palm.
a paranoid
black radish
white dwarf star
with piano keys
for black rays
of
nimbus, yes
mine is the hand that bites the hand
that writes the book
it wants
to ban, that ain't
a fan
not at all. just an appendage. a pen dirge ? What ?
i fed the flock lots
I fed
the black ones -
with dolls'
eyes...
tucked
under
wing.
i fed them, yes.
a book
about the size
of any welcome
malcontent.
i fed
them sorrows
and ellipses with
adjacent lawns.
wutherings in
stately manors, squatting
on either side
of memory
lane, like
a bourbon and
coke had
practically crawled
across shards
of hard
things to break,
with a drink
in your
hand
and crawled, well blended
down the hatch
of enormous, well appointed
gothic frogs, that -
were mostly refurbished toads
with odd columns.
i fed
the birds,
broke out the
Good
Chi
na
hang the tantrums !
yes
One should expect
a rich metaphor to want to
watch you
eat it's every
word
or
by extension;
lick the toad with 15 rooms,
three stories, unfit for children
and a full staff
of Adjectives,
highly trained
to
short-sheet the Bedlam, and fluff the pillories.
one should sip the liqueur
off the floor, inside the huge
and tipsy
gorgon
and be thankful
for the dank
and
the solid gold flyswatters.
they're complementary. take one
as you leave out
thinking
" toads, eat flies.... so it follows...."
apropos of nothing, on the
' Good China ',
now in the belly of birds, well fed
an unwell.
a book about
my dead-weight's
dream
to eat fewer
flies and
more
steak.
to grow wings.
yes.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC
I first remembered years ago,
At twenty-something,
Speeding along in a 240Z
With my father.
Apropos of nothing,
I suddenly remembered it all,
The pain, fear, chases
And flights up stairs,
Only to have her catch me,
And feel the pummeling fists
Like a mad horse’s hooves,
Treading me down.
Back in the present,
My father was admiring trees
As we buzzed past them,
Unaware of the storm beside him.
She wore him down too
In a different way,
With constant denigration.
Over the years I watched
As he shrank way to
A painful, infested brain.
Unlike me, he had no defense,
Loving her as he still did.
It was as if he chose cancer
instead of anger or rebellion.
I had raged against her
And stood tall from childhood
To the now, when thunderheads
Rose from me above her.
Long ago, she had been
The random bolts from the blue,
Causing pain but not killing.
Now I am the storm,
Gathering over years,
Sweeping up heat and vapor
Sending and receiving energy.
The lightning bolts are truth
And their pain is admission,
Though never bringing remorse.
I am the storm warning her to run,
While knowing that she never will.
Edited October 2, 2021
Apr 3, 2022
Apr 3, 2022 at 5:03 PM UTC
recently
after every massacre
by some fanaticized pathological idiots
politicians call upon their citizens
to come together
and pray for the murdered and their families
this is absolutely appropriate
but it seems
that ever since 9/11
the nation only comes together
AFTER more of its members have been killed
I wish very much
that the nation
AND politicians
would come together
BEFORE the next massacre
and take appropriate action
to prevents such disasters
in the first place
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 6:21 PM UTC
The fire in her eyes tonight
calls forth the thought that they invite,
though I recall, not long ago
my absence seemed more apropos.
The smile that lingers on her lips
says more than many verbal slips -
the times it pierced me, sad and grim
lie in the past, though far from dim.
She flayed me once... nay, more than twice,
she flayed me both with flame and ice,
and once again, predictably,
she primes me for catastrophe.
The curious naively watch
her try to carve a deeper notch,
for even they don’t claim to know
the depths to which she’d really go.
Upon my face a smile appears
which hides my thoughts, obscures my sneers,
for now I too have learned the rules
from her - ah, yes, the best of schools.
Because I’m acting somewhat cool,
thus pouring on her fire, fuel,
she burns and yearns and wants me more
than when I was her cuspidor.
Since, unbeknownst I’m not the same,
she plans again her guileful game.
But when her teardrops seep and swell,
will she be proud she taught me well?
The others leave, I stay behind
(they all know what she has in mind)
and take her in my arms once more
then slip her through her bedroom door.
She whispers secrets in my ear,
as I once did (she didn’t hear);
I listen with a mirthless smile
while thinking of a desert isle.
The night is passed, her trusting grows;
I leave before the morning glows.
Aroused, she’ll seek a waking thrill
but find instead a dollar bill.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
For the moment we rest
A single spot light saved their life tonight
Flurry wind carrying mist to their nest was the best to achieve
Feel content to perish
If my words will sink, float, grow or spin
With a view of her luminous gold green hazel piercing rings
Last night fall went hand in hand
Apropos of the longing after depart
Underneath a sky embrace
Syncing out through the spirals that she draws
Was a vanishing scent
That's impossible to seek and find
I'm a ****** for skin, snorting her all the way to my mind
There's a sign on my arm
And a still beating part that you own
And a vow to never do you harm
from my red Jurassic heart
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 9:15 AM UTC
At his face it got harder to stare
But in his truth he would glower
Into this looking glass
That looks right back
At the years of age
That washed his face
Over that disgraced fortnight
and it’s dragging scrape
What was his counted,
that ruffling came natural
In a sentiment of the innate
and the inner mechanics of his climate
Co-Walkers, he thought viewed him a cynics ornate
From then on, became perpetually discounted
Though his face got harder to look at
by its contents,
Optics inflamed
and wrinkles elongated
to his whiskers growing skyward
a striking true spruce in essence to become
Nevertheless a bedraggled authentic
Just before a flooding pooled his lids
or the dawning of his tears
Until this vanish to enhance
These characters took on relevance
Apropos of what he saw looking back
The girl, his love, the spirit inside his drive
She could see all directions, like hands on a clock,
Every hour the dialed sun would tower
Giving her all his angles,
She could anticipate all of this,
including all opposites
She could see all that
To her,
His face was not hard to stare
Still chiseled but shaved,
like polished marble glare
Her love was true for years
Opposing claims would be intercepted when asked if during she dabbled in deception
Then immediately accepted their quiz, taking near comfort as she’s done for years placing her lips closer to his eyes,
she kissed his cheek and licked his tears
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC
he called me *****
when I left the room,
he called me *****
My tomes of Shakespeare,
witnesses,
fellow poets all, my wall decor.
well familiar with fools,
reported the occurrence
upon my return.
confronted, it,
he did not deny,
for he understood
pointless
at that point,
exceedingly well.
was not angered, simply asking,
since he fancied himself a poet, did
he know any rhymes for that word?
in the interest
of poetic brevity,
answered for him.
*****
witch.
twitch.
gave him reason to use
those words
sequentially.
after that, he addressed me
as mistress, or **********
with respect, an attitude
that was previously
menu unavailable.
what then shall we call you?
the Bard,
his Band of Brothers, and I
jointly confabed.
undignified is slave,
Shakespeare opined,
human dignity needs
respecting.
my walled observer,
co-conspirator of
all that transpired,
drew upon his
own source material,
suggested,
knave.
yes, quite apropos,
my considered reply,
a fool always, and still,
after all, was he not
himself not a
son of a *****
as much as I,
Brandy Channing, is, was, daughter, proud, child
of one great and wonderful Queen
*****
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 12:15 AM UTC
My third attempt to commemorate Joel Frye.
News arrived Mid-May, found me far from home,
found me shock-gasping in a hotel room,
on the wrong coast,
though he sort-of-warned-warned,
about a month earlier, I misunderstood his subsequent
silence, thus it caught me unawares, unprepared,
and strangely grasping for proper comprehension
and the right words, that usually come so quickly,
even too easy~quick, when one’s emotions are
running fast, like a springtime Northwest mountain stream
Imagine a conversation of nine year’s duration,
one of a number forged in the iron-y of poetry,
a most
genteel art.
I found his words above in a comment on a poem (1)
of mine, writ in 2015; the subject, so apropos, to be
ever gentle to thy words.
Our dialogue and mutual admiration lives on and survives,
for bonds forged ex-the world of poetry, but more so,
in real deeds and deals and realized poems come true.
We never met.
Not unusual for an on-line community, where the social, literate
media can foster a closeness surpassing the normative
standard need of the physical,
which nonetheless the absence of that touch is now
deep regretted.
But Joel do not be concerned!
Your words will live with others, as per your desire.
This my promise, this my premise:
A debt of brotherhood that will be,
must be, paid in full.
So let’s begin…shall we…
~~~~
Joel Frye Sep 2015
Friends
Some for a reason,
some for a season; even
lifetimes come and go.
All things are transitory. Doesn't mean I have to like it.
<>
(1j
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1425812/oh-poet-be-ever-gentle-to-thy-words/
Jun 27, 2023
Jun 27, 2023 at 8:10 AM UTC
how do I write about the beauty of the world
when barefoot people pass before my window
in search of shelter
how do I share my pleasure of the birds' sweet song at dawn
when I see faces etched with panic
from deafening blasts of bombs
how to rejoice in love and friendship
when meeting people who could barely save their lives
after burying their loved ones
how can I write with passion of the kindness of the human heart
when I see thousands fleeing from the ruins of their homes
only to face police walls barbed wire
true words are hard to find
as said a poet of an older war
when it is a lie to speak
a lie to keep silent
not easy
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 6:45 PM UTC
I think I'm pretty hot ****
most of the time.
Humility has it's place,
and it's place is in the podium.
Used to meter smiles and sighs and double talk,
with hopes to fill the ballot box.
See,
the heretics will tell you,
"You have so much more than we,
share a bit. Especially with me."
**** those ******
I don't fall for
concerned,
condemned,
condescending
conspirators
of the big philanthropist in the sky.
Intimidating,
masticating,
wishy washy,
woe-is-me,
cross carrying,
brother burying,
evangelical,
superintendents
of self-deprecation.
Where does my wealth of mental health come from?
I take pleasure in peace, that is to say,
the lack of both pleasure and pain.
And yes, I feel I get "It" with a capital I.
Because, you see, there is no "Why"
only I and I.
These eyes have seen 22 calendar years,
through bouts of laughter and selfish tears,
but these eyes have the years behind
the comprehension of Your minds.
I am older than time.
I am younger than those yet to be born.
I have had the wealth that comes with scorn.
I have thrown my back out beating corn.
I've had lover's lost, and love retained.
I've dissolved my brain, yet remained sane.
Every song, every people,
Every plant, stone, stick, or bone,
sceptre, crown, yoni, or throne,
are composed by moi so apropos.
You
are all deluded to deduce separation from each other.
You have spent lifetimes slaying the Other.
But then, again, so have I.
Sin is separation. To feel the disconnect,
whether by sense or intellect,
is to lose yourself within your
Self.
When the I is so infinite, what need is there to share?
Teach a man to fish...
Grant him his wish.
We are all we need to be.
"I" is all you need to be
Take this moment as it is.
Don't ask permission.
Don't apologize.
It's your right to breathe
It in.
It's your right to take that step outside your comfort zone
and wander off into the unknown on a whim.
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
recently
after every massacre
by some fanaticized pathological idiots
politicians call upon their citizens
to come together
and pray for the murdered and their families
this is absolutely appropriate
but it seems
that ever since 9/11
the nation only comes together
AFTER more of its members have been killed
I wish very much
that the nation
AND politicians
would come together
BEFORE the next massacre
and take appropriate action
to prevent such disasters
in the first place
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 8:30 PM UTC
*Seen him begging subsequent years
Speaks in his mother tongue
Which was different from mine
Kids scared hearing his voice
Telling them apropos being good
Enduringly with a smiling face
Was sheer polite with the owners
In my contemplation he was a respectful beggar
Age turned his smile getting weak
No withal seen couple of days
It has been months he nevermore came
Disappeared from our memories
However was in our subconscious mind
Visiting an orphanage to offer food
Found him sitting with his old age friends
Remembering me with my mother
Asking us how do we do
With that old smiling face
Happy to see him again unscathed
Without any loss of memory
Expressed our words remembering him
Let it be a beggar, humanity matters!*
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 8:47 PM UTC
they are infinite in number
from our most frightening childhood dreams
to terrible nightmares in our later years
born from guilt, disillusionment, trauma, shame
they glare at us all of a sudden
apropos nothing they flash into our minds
disrupt what little peace we may have found
in our busy lives
when they arise from their sealed chambers
undo the locks we put on them
to keep them quiet and remote
we have to face them
eye to dreadful eye
face to frightening face
then gradually
surprise
the closer our stare
the more we are aware
that all these faces share
what we find hard to recognize
they look
quite disconcertingly
like us
maybe we should
rather than banish them away
acknowledge them as what they are
the different facets of our selves
that we present to our world
from day to day
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 5:00 PM UTC
after every massacre
by some fanaticized pathological idiot
politicians call upon their citizens
to come together
and pray for the murdered and their families
this is absolutely appropriate
also absolutely inefficient
but it seems
that ever since 9/11
the nation only comes together
AFTER more of its members have been killed
I wish very much
that the nation
AND politicians
would come together
BEFORE the next massacre
and take appropriate action
to prevent such disasters
in the first place
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 5:14 PM UTC
<>
*“rootless in shallows of momentary mayhem
and no matter the change in horizon,
there is always some thing to be found
that could remind me
of the worst ways I have ever been.”*
from “Harlequin Days of Fecund Fervor” by Victoria
<>
rereading these your words, upset forces me to break a recent vow,
my own writing banished, now faceless in the ranks
of just another poet, busted in rank, chose my own
decommissioning but then your momentary mayhem
plea, fecund you, your third harlequin, states construct!
stay the constriction, the recalling of our worst worsts,
for there is always something to be found, recalled,
that the horizon’s only constant is constant change,
especially the worst worsts
I am colored by your treats, your word plums ripe even
out of season, and the mayhem is mine only mine,
robbed you for it is I, rootless, given up my planting, then
the cobblestones of old new york, trip me up, saying
even old things such as you, have a prime yet to come,
stones fecund seeding, predicting I am not done, just undone,
and fetuses within this dying body, may yet be carried to term,
may yet, maybe, may be, but may be caesarean stillborn
rambling this, mostly musty unclear, so summarizations a
sensible thing, a pardon requested for clarity is a sometime thing.
rare are the days that the terracotta colored soil
darkens my fingernails,
it is dried blood from my scratching deep beneath the skin’s topsoil,
but nothing grows that’s whole, warped are the word fruits.
my soup is hot water with salt, a tasty dish apropos for one
whose growths are rootless in the shallow, infertile dirt of stones
that reside in the shallows of a garden of mine own
fecund may-hem of the grey fall sky autopsy turvy
Nov 7, 2019
Nov 7, 2019 at 11:56 AM UTC
Sometimes
I feel old and faded
derelict and degraded
overly saturated corrugated cardboard left all alone...out in
the rain too long
or dry and brittle curling up ..creating
a bowl-like middle
adding to the strain like it really matters that that then gathers more dust...more lint
And those
now earth-bound vagabonds
whose time came
and then went
drifters
passing through
as they always do when they ... the fallin
the no longer needed the no longer wanted disavowed
no longer allowed
to hang around
And so apropos
The way leaves go
wherever the wind may choose to blow them to
always a few ...who find shelter
out of ....the vagaries
of the wind and in
that shallow bowl
I formed
Then like it or not
they may stay ...
Hidden away
catching more
of those infinitesimal
all but invisible particulates
as they pass our way
so you might say
we form a bond
a compilation
a strange mutation
Imbibing
longer and longer
those times
of total saturation
the very manifestation
what one may describe as a little tribe...that by the weight of fate
and our bonded state we hunker down
here to stay
upon
this piece of ground
And together we start each doing their part
to speed us on
Upon our way
to our future of decay and yes ..its true
I once felt so..
overly saturated
cursing
the corrugated
the very way
that I was created
bemoaning how
I had faded
But in the end
I did not die alone
I did not die
we ...
did not totally decay nor did we fade away we found life
and meaning when
this little tribe found that we were bound
This little mound
To be
Exactly what
all these lost derelicts
These young seeds.......needs
to create life
And to give
Color to reason
And a new season
To live ....life.
And in a way ...to
Find salvation in decay.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 1:43 AM UTC
“There’s a cow at the table,” I whispered, not wanting to be rude.
It’s horns curled like question marks, which seemed quite Apropos
Now that I’ve been to college, I can tell you, there’s a lot that I don’t know.
But a cow at the table, no matter how well dressed, left me, well, confused.
“How do you Dooooo?” I offered, friendships should begin straightforwardly.
When it didn’t answer, I thought, “Well this friendship’s starting off awkwardly.”
Was it hard of hearing? I wondered. “Have you mooooved here recently?” I asked, loudly.
Again, nothing, it just sat there proudly. Did it take my attempt at dialect, as a sign of disrespect?
“Would you like some fooood? I asked, “Some hay maybe?” I was guessing, but it was a guest.
Some friendships start out slowly, but holy-moley, was this livestock trying to troll me?
After some aggravation, and impatience, it turned out to be an elaborate, fraternity initiation.
.
.
*Based on Leonora Carrington’s painting “Then We Saw the Daughter of the Minotaur.”
https://www.moma.org/artists/993-leonora-carrington*
Apr 17, 2025
Apr 17, 2025 at 11:04 PM UTC