"assemblage" poems
ken not the
vive la différence!
entre les deux,
these two bed and head chambers,
for all poets are seducers,
regardless of *** race, creed or color
when first we employ our working, yeoman vocabulary,
we plain start,
to relate but not to regale,
the whom we are,
hoping our moments unique,
will breach the boundaries
of our collective commonality connectivity,
and find human receptivity
thus, the seduction of self commences
though every possible combination of words has somewhere been inscribed and committed, we ****** ourselves
(the seduction of poetry)
with potions of notions that we are and always be our
first, and now soon forever,
yours as well
of course, we are, it's true,
our very own first admirer & lover,
having conquered the hillock of self,
see the universe expanding and the
****** need to conceive
and prowess to please
beyond the beyond with
the poetry of seduction
do not want your body, heart or soul,
commitment, allegiance, vows,
sacred or profane,
all such in vain
crave your everything,
not even a legal nine-tenths satisfactory
dare not call me arrogant or presumptive,
gaze upon the mirror that cannot lie,
rereading thy words assemblage,
and deny to lie to yourself
want you, you want me,
my adoration,
we want to be in
a poem together,
lovers at the molecular level
where words dissected into letters, then again,
into guttural sounds where a simple outcry is an elegy,
a love poem, a wound, a denouement, a preface, a tear,
a welling, a heaving, a sigh, an exhalation, all,
an entrance to where the need for words
is long since past
the sin and crown of seduction completed,
unanimously
now breathe out
and then,
breathe in
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
Stuffed,
Grains of sugar fall to the ground.
Mutilated flesh covered in corn syrup
Wait till it dries, scrumptious.
Blood, red as cherry liquourice
Seeps from open wounds.
Body perforated at the
Arms
Legs
Head
Ready for dis-assemblage.
Save for later
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 10:46 PM UTC
Offshore Oil Exploration
Months of preparatory work,
Permits obtained.
Maps explored, sited,
Ground and beneath scanned,
Each contour drawn, plotted, named.
Equipment assemblage.
Platform designed and towed,
Pre-commencement government inspection
Constant.
We test. Slowly, the loose, easy dirt,
Gives in. No rejoicing yet, premature.
The diverter in place, functions well.
The deeper the bit, the harder the resistance.
The camera's eyes monitor until
We reach depths too deep for their functioning.
The derrickhands order about the junior roustabouts,
Check the mud pumps, check the pH levels,
Do this, do that. The pecking order on board clear.
The kings of the rig, the drillers, in charge.
Then, disaster.
Oil spill.
Worse.
Not only smiling,
She has
Opened her eyes and
Ceased purring.
P.S. This would as is my custom be,
Re-entitled properly:
First Poem of the Day: Offshore Oil Exploration
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
No buttressed vaulted ceilings here,
or monkish men in robes of cloth,
a space where things are sold and bought
and yet, there is an atmosphere:
A cloistered hush outside of time,
etched in rows of words, wooden,
the self’s restrained demarcation
seeds this scene for the sublime.
“In the beginning was the word”,
nothing before that differentiation,
in the assemblage of imagination,
a whispered restless breath is heard, as
marks on paper command the motion
of eyes and thoughts across a texture
in which silence is a rapture,
the echo of yearning and union.
Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
Acquiesce here my love
Ameliorate my heart
The assemblage of circumstance provides dulcet ebullience
An efflorescent dalliance conflated into cathartic becoming
My bucolic bungalow made upon your callipygous
A young Life’s denouement
Your evocative elixir fetching
An erstwhile emollient embrocation
Your eloquent fingers find their way to frisson
My felicitous chatoyant gambols in glamor like a halcyon incipient made ineffable by the look of the ingénue
The labyrinthine inglenook lagoon leisurely lithe
The murmurous daffodils wink at the insouciance of your beauty
A panoply panacea, the half shadow complete as an epiphany
Quintessential to feminine riparian resplendence
Your mellifluous voice, an opulent offing, the sumptuous summery soliloquy of an angel
Cools my soul like the smell of earth after rain
Your propinquity ripples the scintilla of my spirit
Your surreptitious smile like a zephyr quietly whispers
Its redolent seraglio sempiternal in my thoughts
As skyward gazes like saccharine gossamer lilt with the knowledge of our raveling juxtaposition
a masterful pastiche, the cynosure of divine revelation
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
I display my collection of skeletons openly on my wrist
Only employing their usage if someone carelessly insists
They jingle, jangle, clack
My bleached bracelet of many bones
Clattering and bumping into each other
Waiting for a black corner to call home
I wear my assemblage of dancing skeletons on my wrist
Dangerous they are
Besotted with madness
Sometimes I simply cannot resist
Taking one, two or perhaps three and giving them a toss
Calling secrets from their crafted tombs
Time, deeds and scars
Glittering jewels of a humans emotional wall
So if you see me with bones around my wrist
Cease your scheming despot take heed and desist
Lest I take another one of these skeletons and give it a toss
And watch your dreams descend into that they call
The long walk.
@ copyright Tammy M. Darby April 11, 2018.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 8:43 PM UTC
I woke from the deepest of daydreams,
my eyes focusing after being long glazed over.
It’s late in the afternoon-- the light pours through the window—
it draws across above my left shoulder.
The tea kettle whistles
like a freight train in the background.
She’s in the kitchen, but I can easily see
her veiny hands dropping the Earl Grey tea ball
into the scolding water.
—her hands, like old softly crumpled white paper.
The same routine, every day since
great granddad passed in 1961.
Rock forward, rock backward.
What time could it be? Was I out for long?
Fresh cut grass, the familiar smell of lawn and moth ball
I so readily identify with this old Victorian house built by my family.
Evermore, the scent of kerosene dances
with the freshness of bologna and tomato sandwiches
on lightly toasted pumpernickel bread.
Where’s that 1000 piece puzzle with kittens in a basket?
Long gone?
I guess it’s been over a decade since me and my sister
last conquered that puzzle and strategically placed
connected and sectioned chunks
back in the box for easy assemblage on future rainy days.
Rock forward, rock backward.
Her first step from kitchen tile to wood planks
sets off a chain reaction of creeks and moans
that only wood of this age and wear can produce.
She enters the sitting room, puts the tea tray atop
the white baby grand piano: “tea time, honey,”
she whispers with a crooked smile and sad eyes.
Rock forward, rock backward.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
I stepped in through his ears, covered in hot mud
and rolled off his tongue clean as a whistle.
I was no longer a whisper, he uttered in a painted mirror.
Scratching out two eyes that saw nothing but themselves.
He came to wonder
if there are ants in my stomach feeding an army
off the peaches I couldn’t eat for six summers.
Three winters with no springs yet, the snow up to my neck.
My eyes spilt pearls like a Japanese ghost, onto the white cold
he buried me in.
and when that melts into the lush green we’ve yet to writhe on,
I hope there are limbs left to entwine us,
I hope there are streams made to wash us.
My body unchilled is sight for him to absorb,
and record and plan a trip.
Diction may be a skill he knows
that I have learned to be versed in,
but no matter the assemblage of my alibis,
he finds me guilty, so I choose to make quiet familiar,
and comfortable and the stringy nerve endings I've grafted
into his skin and his kiss when I love him,
are threatened to be severed with scalding water,
poured from the darkest kettle called
doubt.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 7:58 AM UTC
War; absolute
This will be my macadam into re-assemblage
For if I'm not on edge, I'm taking up too much precious space
What wickedness lies beneath the surface of the skin?
I should know this place better than anyone
But my landscape has become mercurial
Ever changing, impossible to map
I am forced to navigate its pitfalls in ever complicating ways
It has become a desolate place
I alone should rule here, my sovereignty unquestioned
Yet I've become content to be complacent, and have allowed a sickly intruder to slip past my walls
They infect, demoralize: turn my skin to stone
They must be expunged; cut out, snipped from the healthy flesh like a cancer
As one removes a gangrenous foot to save the leg
Though my tools at the moment are blunt, I sharpen them daily with the whetstone afforded to me
They will not continue to expel bile into the bloodstream for long
My strength returns by the hour
They know this, and they tremble
I am the goddess to whom this altar is devoted
I am righteous fury, come to cleanse this blight with holy fire and flood
The war drums sound as the gate is lifted
The iron bell tolls -- judgement day cometh
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 8:25 PM UTC
Oh my self-loathing is disgustingly indulgent, It destroys my health
I wallow with glee for hours in the pits of my own self-hatred
Everything I do say and see I use as ammo in an endless war against myself
Repulsive, ********
Excentric , erratic
Shy, fake, problematic
I wish I had a plug hole
In the soupy head of mine
That I could just pull out
And all the darkness would go down the drain and I’d be fine
But my fansty world turns on me
And casts shadows on others
I don’t see them in their true light
As my fellow sisters and brothers
By day the world grinds in my head
An endless mill of screams
By night by actions haunt me
In rancid vivid dreams
This assemblage of stupid attributes that is me
Follows this girl around relentlessly
Too fixated on yourself, you selfish *****
You hate everyone else and make them a demon or a witch
This demon lives inside the gray matter that is your brain
It turns any sunny day into melancholic rain
I will live alone with no comfort but my own insanity
I see those on the streets who do the same and fear that destiny
After all,
Is madness not a sane response to the collective psychosis that is society?
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 3:50 AM UTC
Today
the earth
below me
provided energy
the grass and trees
around me
provided energy
the sky
above me
provided energy
the sun
beyond me
provided energy
Giving
in unique ways
asking
nothing in return
Red and Orange
from the earth
Yellow
from the sun
Green
from the grass and trees
Blue
from the sky
Chakras opened
to receive
spinning in glee
absorbing these gifts
I feel life,
and alive
I feel love,
and loved
Love in the balance
Love in the beauty
Love in the bounty
I have waited for spring
longing for just this flow
conversion of perception
shifting the Assemblage point
From this new fulcrum
comes further recognition
we are here learning
to create safe
nurturing spaces
for each other
Our gifts to give
are to respect
to encourage
to celebrate
to support
to cherish
to shelter
to create
to listen
to guide
to adore
to heal
Living
Loving
Unconditionally
Visualize this space
Deep roots of a tree anchoring
Strong trunk of a tree supporting
Branches of a tree expanding creation
Leaves of a tree celebrating life
Allowing each other
to be and express
in safety and love
we may create this
as gifts for each other
manifesting in our Power
bridging Heavens and Earth
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 10:17 AM UTC
Displayed in a forever line of serpentines
Stretching over many days and weeks and years,
The dominoes stand upright in the dusk;
Each a careful distance from the next,
All skillfully and artfully arranged.
A prideful eye surveys the intricate design
That wonders at the craftsmanship involved
And blesses luck that gifted steady hands
And a non-ending stack of pieces -
Hoping that an earthquake does not come.
Who will have the honor of the push
That starts the clicking trail of doom
That ends with helter-skelter rubble
On the floor or mortuary slab
As dominoes become a life all lived.
Will it be anger like a piercing knife
Or some organic instrument
That weakens the well organized
Assemblage of a life and makes it fall
Like a domino nudged out of line.
Frustration or depression, which will it be
That starts the tiles to falling
And once moving with no hope to stop.
Will it it be by accident or force of will-
I need to add a few more at the end
I can’t afford to buy another box.
ljm
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 11:29 AM UTC
I woke up from a bad dream trembling under the strength of deformed uncertainty. On this quiet, sweet night I dreamed that my mask is melting. Nakedness beneath terribly surprised me, I felt bare while disgustingly beautiful pink skin stuck out from beneath magnificently repulsive layer of white chalk which ran down my face in the beans. In single moment thousands fluorescent drops of days passed before my blue eyes and thousands of miles of pictures mixed as psychedelic assemblage. I was hoping that I would for ever float on silk of big circus tent, the place between sleep and wake and that I will never be touched by reality pedestrians or nightmare riders. Returned from a long journey dedicated to the cult of friendship riding on a brass beast sentenced to a breakdown. Return is a successful escape from the curious conductors who wear chains and key, maneuvering between spacecrafts driven by hesitative captains, sliding in between hot geysers of alcoholic delirium on the crystal surface of Arctic ice. Sweet and bitter is the view over always the same icy peaks that cast always different shadows, while the foamy rugged hillsides are blurred with the haze of responsibility, sunny with the light of honesty, depending on the morning. I rub my eyes while my mask, of which I am very grateful, still persistently covers the lines of my face and I wonder whether kilometers traveled last night were part of a dream or reality?
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
if i could paint a picture
of how much i regret the way things ended
it would be a sad assemblage
of pastel blues and greys and blacks
stained with flecks of golden yellow
not unlike the thunderheads currently taking up residence in my head.
If i could write you a letter
it would be yet another failed attempt
at describing how much my very soul aches
for something as simple as your presence.
if i could hold your hand
the nearby flowers would bloom
and the sun would glow green with envy.
if i could kiss your lips
i would certainly lose my mind
and not want to be found ever again.
if i could call out your name
i would hope that the winds would show me pity
and carry my voice to your ears.
if i were to sing a song
it would be a beautiful ballad
every measure dedicated to another flawless part of you.
if i could build a bridge
that spanned across time
it would lead me back to that wednesday in august
in your arms
slipping into slumber to the rhythm
of the raindrops tapping upon the windowpane.
if i could tell a story
it would be of the way the sun chases the moon across the sky;
to urge everyone everywhere to cherish those close to them.
if i could make myself stronger
i would squeeze the earth until
the number of miles between you and i
dwindled down to zero.
if i could look into a mirror
i would be puzzled by what i would see
and find it hard to recognize
the face staring back at me.
if i could give you my heart
i would in an instant.
in the time it takes for my heart to beat its last iambic
i would rip open true ribs one through five
and offer my crimson ***** to you.
if i could have met you any other way
under different circumstances
in a different time
under a different sun
maybe this would have ended differently
or not ended at all.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
Bucolic etchings stimulate
The soul
An assemblage of vegetation
Boils blood
Beauty is discovered in a desultory penumbra
God's message
A subtle stroll in a sylvan birthing
A chapel
To the Romantics with love
Nature rejoices
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
i am an assemblage of broken promises and abandoned dreams, of bruised tissues and faulty organs, of poisoned blood. i am part sky and two parts ocean, the moon clings to me and i to it.
i am concealed by a sheath of milky skin, a sad and slow smile and fading eyes. i wear my clothes like a suit of armor, hiding behind cotton and polyester as if they make me invisible. i am not strong, nor am i wise. the years have taught me this time and time again.
i fall for cheap escapes and bright lights even though i know i will soon hold them accountable for my impenetrable sadness. i have built walls, brick by brick, until my body became an enchanted fortress. there is a moat around the circumference of my heart and be warned the alligators are trained to ward off trespassers.
i am the past that i cling to and the future that i fear with every ounce of my being. i am fleeing every place i ever step foot upon. see me now.
now i am gone.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 10:43 AM UTC
Many lips never gave them any sporting chance,
As far as that Championship was concerned.
Left they the shores of the country, perchance,
To boot their thorny way to a certain end.
In the first two games sheer mediocrity
Displayed they, finishing both in a draw.
Most fans and analysts on their heads heavy
Words heaped, saying they'd not get a straw
From the tournament. Came the third match,
Which they won relievingly, 2-0 was the
Score. Coming 2nd in the group they did ******
Scraping a quarter-final berth against the Ivory
Coast team, the competition's chief favorite.
At this stage all hopes of further advancement,
Like mists, vanished. Folks and fans affright
Were that the boys against their next opponent--
Even ere they kicked the ball--would surely lose.
For how would they face such an assemblage
Of stars on parade and prevail! They did cruise
To the semi final however by grit and gauge.
Like an eagle dear soared they over the Mali
Main team too, by 4 goals to 1. When the wind
Fiercest is, against thunderstorm, the eagle amazingly
Would glide through it. And that was the kind
Of spirit the Nigeria Super Eagles possessed that
Made them triumph after 19 years at the Africa Cup of
Nations over others, when they beat by 1-0 flat
In the finals Burkina Faso, despite opposition tough.
Pundits and people seldom give us success
Chances in life, seeming to have our very fate
In their hands. Yet, like daring David did press
Forward to confront Goliath great with his faith
Firm in God and self, likewise so must every
Soul serious and desirous about his destiny do.
For no mortal being over our fortune final authority
Has on earth. Coach Stephen Keshi and his crew
Believed in the players and themselves and went
On to lift the Orange Africa Cup in that event.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 8:06 AM UTC
That journey from Morgue was hardly an hour and a half
But my travail took me through thirty years,
Holding his cradle tight, lest to wake him up from that eternal sleep
As he was laid in that ambulance all dressed up for his final journey,
He looked the smart, tall "Chettan ", unlike the child I tended a month back
Forlorn in some early childhood shores, courtesy the Alzheimer's
A bump ahead on the road shook the ambulance and me from my thoughts
In a reflex, my hands went to hold him from falling from the cradle
An eerie chill went through my spine, he was ice cold- the body was in Morgue for long
Water soaks through his new shirt, ice melts in the outside heat
“Chettan” who stood so tall for you to always looked up to…
Who came with abundance in his back pack every Friday
With his Murphy radio playing melodies deep in to the nights
With his cloak work precisions for breakfast to dinner times
With his grins and growls that moved the moods of “Chechi ”
Have you ever tried to feel a body from the morgue?
An ice cold, motion less, sensor less body
That moment and the eerie chill is a revelation
Death is so penetratingly cold
That you wish you don’t have senses to feel it anymore
Ambulance halted at the large assemblage of mourners
I stepped out, a furious movie flash back playing in that ‘space within my heart’
He laid there- ice cold; waiting to be escorted, to the pyre;
With that space within his heart gone to a void, unwittingly
- all rights reserved
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 5:03 PM UTC
Oh beloved Hyacinth, my sparkling youth so fine
More brilliant than all objects that shine
Fit for erecting a sacrificial shrine
Let my whole self be only thine
Harken all of you to Apollo’s Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh citizens of Sparta, offer me your finest *****
In my arms his amorous body will never shrink
Never will he be placed on peril’s brink
His glorious soul under my care will never stink
Harken all of you to Apollo’s Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh beloved Hyacinth, you will learn a lot in my guidance
For any man of the arts, this is the greatest chance
In music & sports, you’ll surely enhance
You can have the future the power to glance
Harken all of you to Apollo’s Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh gods & goddesses, behold Hyacinth evolve better
His charming countenance will turn brighter
His adorable assemblage will go stronger
If you give him to me and no other
Harken all of you to Apollo’s Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh beloved Hyacinth, in my lap you’ll have the greatest nourishment
I will keep you away from any predicament
My healing powers will safeguard you from ailment
Never will your body & soul be in torment
Harken all of you to Apollo’s Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh mortals & immortals, you will never regret
Hyacinth will flourish if you make me your bet
From me so many he’ll know & get
To you I’ll unveil his being’s greatest secret!
-02/12/2015
(Dumarao)
*Hopelessly Immortal Collection
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 9:54 PM UTC
I like looking at your face.
The colors appear
to me like a
soft glow.
Even the shadows
and the darkness
under your eyes.
Darker than
your cheeks.
Your lovingly flushed cheeks,
complimenting the shades of your eyes and lips.
Your lips. Your perfect, perfect lips.
I looked at your face and told you
"Perfect"
and you said,
"Nothing
is Perfect."
And I told you I didn't create that idea intentionally
That the word just
comes to me
again and again.
I didn’t ask but it just keeps popping in,
saying 'hello' to my mind and telling me
that "Perfect" is correct.
Every time I
look at you "like that"
––the way I do when you ask what I'm thinking––
I marvel at your complexion,
the assemblage, construction,
melding,
artistry of you.
Here. Here is what I am thinking:
I think of an artist––
Someone who sketches.
Someone who draws.
Not with charcoal. Something more fine.
Dark pencil, maybe. Or a quick, sharp pen.
Richly dark
Purposeful and Exact.
Because your lips are drawn
with perfect, simple, sharp symmetry
as if your artist knew
what was wanted
what was needed
and drew. Then left
because there was nothing more to add.
No,
if he left he must've come back
to look at you some more
like I do.
The quick strokes,
the genius behind his hand.
The brilliance of a movement of ink on canvas of skin.
Your lips are complete in their famously simple,
touch-and-look-how-kissable,
delighted,
red, red lips.
Your lips and cheeks go well together.
And your green-yellow-maybe-brown-too
eyes
With your naturally dark black eyelashes.
Straight.
The same artist who drew your lips
outlined your face. The lines are the
same. The style has forethought.
The skill used was confident and assured,
your artist. I can praise your artist
and do. Amazement
and I see how you study me
as I watch.
You can see me taking you in and I
like how we can just look at each other.
I like just to look.
Sometimes, yes,
I think other things...
but often, so often,
it is this.
I
contentedly study,
observe to understand
and embrace your being…
The more I look
and the more we feel
each other,
the closer I think I am
to reaching your soul.
Your base-level.
Soul.
... People should be more hesitant
in using that word.
It is used
too lightly,
too readily,
too frequently.
I doubt people
know a soul
as often as they think
they do.
Intimacy
is different.
A soul
is different.
But that's what I'm interested in.
I've gotten glimpses.
I am comfortable
around you.
We have a lot of fun together, don't we?
Huh?
But I like
that we can just be, too.
So.
That’s something I think.
There.
And I wish I could draw for you or paint or cut but writing is my medium, my form.
So I describe for you
how I can.
What I can
in words.
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 3:31 PM UTC
I was a loner when i was born
I will be a loner when i'm gone
The good,the bad and the ugly....the highs and lows of life....
....i've seen it all
There were times when i wished i were dead
And then there were times when i had a ball
I've never had no expectations...coz whenever i've had one i've lost it all
Isolation's been my best friend
One misery in my life followed by another...that's been the trend
I once looked at the stars..
...How they seemed to shine so bright!!!...
....It's like they were making love to the universe
Out in the dark....in the open sky
Some in a cluster...
While some spread so very far
As far as my sight went..right up to the distant horizon
.....Beautiful assemblage of lights
Just looking at them made me high...
I guess we r all looking for that one particular face(the star of our life)..somewhere out among the stars.
Alas!!!... i don't have this luxury with me
SSHHH!!!!.........can you hear it??....
.....The serene silence of Death
..the bitter taste...the elixir that frees you from the chaos and confusion of life
I sometimes want it so bad....
Truth and falsity....hope and regret...they all find peace in death
As my body grows old with the advent of time
And my soul is but aching...
Life has reduced me to a caricature
...All i wish for is to go to that place of eternal sleep
...and for Death to engulf me in it's fury-filled grasp.
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 5:53 AM UTC
By Jennifersoter Ezewi
I found a place:
Where plagiarism fears its
license.
A place where works attracts
its audience.
It is a place of publicity:
Where reviews encourage its
own.
The assemblage of legends.
It is a place of refuge:
Where works standout.
A place of honour:
Where applause exchange
glances.
It is the latest place:
A very safe place
Wherein we say 'hello!'
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 7:24 PM UTC
for Beau
this mixte bag of nutty facts,
compote of this's and that's,
fragrant but yucky tasting potpourri,
sordid assortment of
seemingly unseemly
random collection of
facts, whoppers,
recipes and formulae, and his 'n her
stories (my fav!)
useless motorized drivel,
running around my head
that you have with me creme-filled,
data conglomerated,
transformed by mongol hordes of grey cells
urged on, nay transformed,
by **** and beer into
a magnificent miscellaneous mile of jumble,
virtuous and verifiable grab bag of
ever so humble,
tuneful melodies of a medley of
snatches and patches
of Jagger and Liszt,
a verifiable pastiche of
vital and downright dumb
Factors and Factoids,
I thank you suchly muchly
musta taken years, maybe even
decades to collect and codify,
this assemblage of verifiable factoids,
after-all, took you twelve to
feed me in eye dropper ingestible quantities!
though with Wiki this and Wiki that,
I coulda save us all some time,
and since it is all on the Internet,
and any way 99% I forgot
like a cell phone number
no matter, I can reads and counts
and writes term papers downloaded,
but caught my eye you wrote
of a mutton stew denominated as
hotchpotch,
but we variant truants,
ici, aux Etats-Unis, on dit
and spell our salmagundi as
hodgepodge
but in summary summation,
thanks for teaching me creative thinking,
for without this skill,
I would but be,
a tool
of Wikipedia
and not its creator
P.S. It's gadzooks,
not gad zooks,
according to Wikitionary,
even them Oxford fellas agree,
tee hee,
you could look it up
on the internetsky,
Teach....
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 5:50 AM UTC
On a certain July, she found a new home,
Unused to the idea of openness,
An open terrace called her towards itself.
She was nine back then,
And the terrace was bright of sun,
For a long long time.
The terrace overlooked the horizon,
The clouds would merge and submerge,
Forming unadulterated child’s dream,
An imagination growing in itself.
She is seventeen now
She came to the terrace,
And closed herself to the sky-
It helped her, the tears of her first breakup;
She took out a cigarette and smiled her first,
The clouds were of smoke,
And the terrace took away her sorrow
She is twenty five now,
Cigarette butts have cornered their way,
Her father had arranged her marriage,
She didn't know him -
She didn't want to.
That day, amusingly, she didn't cry.
The tears wouldn't come.
Assemblage of marriage went through her home.
Her home wasn't her anymore;
A new family awaited her existence.
She couldn't go to the terrace that day,
And someone locked it inside out,
That night, the terrace flooded with rain,
For a long long time.
Nobody busted the terrace anymore,
The old man had arthritis,
And his wife had passed away.
Clouds still merged and birds still flocked,
It was closed for years.
A taller building got made, it obstructed the horizon.
Now its horizon overlooked windows of nothingness.
Algal invasion and cracked corners,
Weren't taken care of,
Wasteland of wasted memories;
The terrace was of no use now-
A girl who used to run, a teen who used to weep,
A woman, left it all behind.
The old man died, and the house was sold,
The tall building wouldn't let the sun come,
And the terrace turned dark,
For a long long time.
Maybe a girl would run again,
The lock was getting rusty;
Maybe the shade would light up open,
Maybe the life would take a toll,
And the rain and sun would come again,
Maybe her sorrow will make its way?
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC
1. The moment my beloved asked me, "How does one lose his mind?"
Being mindful of my selflessness, the wind blow -- "Like this"!
2. It is never more than a single glance- the leisure of existence !
The cheers of the assemblage exist until a dance of the spark!
3. She, having come into my dreams, could at least give comfort to my restlessness!
But, only if the convulsions in my heart could give me an opportunity to sleep!!
4. You asserted that why would there be disgrace in seeing a stranger!
Rightly you remark, truly you speak; do say it again, for why would there be!
5. My heart had made an offering for the appearance I so longed for!
But upon reflection, the strength of my vision weakened and then vanished!
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC