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"aug" poems
Many people write a "bucket list" of things they want to do before they die.  Now in my 80th year, I don't have the time or the energy to do things that others might aim for, but I have during my life visited many places, seen many things, and enjoyed many experiences that I would have been sorry to miss. There have also been some events that I would have preferred not to experience, but which have enriched my life in different ways, and which I remember with a kind of sad affection.   Some of these are very personal to me, and would not be interesting to most people, but read the note if you wonder why I chose them. Here then is what I might call                                                   My Reverse Bucket List Towns and cities – architecture & atmosphere    Barcelona, Spain    Venice, Italy    Oxford, England    Jerusalem, Israel    Luxor, Egypt    Varanasi, India    Hiroshima, Japan Pompeii, Italy Other locations    Galápagos islands, Ecuador    Great Barrier Reef, Australia    North Woolwich, London Churches    St Paul's Cathedral, London    Sagrada Familia, Barcelona    Coventry Cathedral    Córdoba Cathedral, Spain    Blue Mosque, Istanbul Other structures    Taj Mahal, Agra    Auschwitz concentration camp, Poland    Royal Festival Hall, London    London underground system (because it was the first, and I rode it for a long time).  Also the more splendid underground railways of Mexico City and Moscow.    Avebury Ring, Wiltshire, England (the largest prehistoric stone circle in the world, and much more primitive than Stonehenge)    Bayeux Tapestry     "Angel of the North" statue, Gateshead, England    "Christ the Redeemer" statue, Rio, Brazil Events    Messiah at Royal Festival Hall, Feb 1959, with the girl later to be my wife    St John's night, Spain, early 1990s (?)    Death and funeral of Diana, Princess of Wales, Aug 1997    Oberammergau passion play, 2010    Destruction of World Trade Centre, Sept 2001
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Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 9:16 AM UTC
Bucket List? -- Not Me!
Many people write a "bucket list" of things they want to do before they die.  Now in my 80th year, I don't have the time or the energy to do things that others might aim for, but I have during my life visited many places, seen many things, and enjoyed many experiences that I would have been sorry to miss. There have also been some events that I would have preferred not to experience, but which have enriched my life in different ways, and which I remember with a kind of sad affection.   Some of these are very personal to me, and would not be interesting to most people, but read the note if you wonder why I chose them. Here then is what I might call                                                   My Reverse Bucket List Towns and cities – architecture & atmosphere    Barcelona, Spain    Venice, Italy    Oxford, England    Jerusalem, Israel    Luxor, Egypt    Varanasi, India    Hiroshima, Japan Pompeii, Italy Other locations    Galápagos islands, Ecuador    Great Barrier Reef, Australia    North Woolwich, London Churches    St Paul's Cathedral, London    Sagrada Familia, Barcelona    Coventry Cathedral    Córdoba Cathedral, Spain    Blue Mosque, Istanbul Other structures    Taj Mahal, Agra    Auschwitz concentration camp, Poland    Royal Festival Hall, London    London underground system (because it was the first, and I rode it for a long time).  Also the more splendid underground railways of Mexico City and Moscow.    Avebury Ring, Wiltshire, England (the largest prehistoric stone circle in the world, and much more primitive than Stonehenge)    Bayeux Tapestry     "Angel of the North" statue, Gateshead, England    "Christ the Redeemer" statue, Rio, Brazil Events    Messiah at Royal Festival Hall, Feb 1959, with the girl later to be my wife    St John's night, Spain, early 1990s (?)    Death and funeral of Diana, Princess of Wales, Aug 1997    Oberammergau passion play, 2010    Destruction of World Trade Centre, Sept 2001
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Just beyond the sunset Someone waits for me Just beyond the sunset Lies my destiny Where the purple mountains Lie in deep tranquillity There I’ll find the treasure Of love eternally Just beyond the sunset Waits someone so fair Just beyond the sunset All alone they wait there Their hair is golden The colour of the sand Their eyes sparkle in the night Like diamonds in your hand Just beyond the sunset Lies a home for me Where the world is peaceful Like a paradise should be Just beyond the sunset Someday is where you’ll find me Written - July or Aug 1966 by David Harris
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Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 5:06 AM UTC
Just Beyond The Sunset -- (D. Harris)
What poem will you wear, when first we meet? How will I recognition-you, when you transverse my land? Unknown our faces, our voices, Only silent words electronic exchanged Will lantern, it be: one, if by land, two, if by sea? Will your ID badge, passport stamped and state, Your chest bear a witness-sign? The Arrivals Board flashes:                     une poétesse est arrivé                     eine Dichterin ist angekomme                     a poetess has arrived                     una poetisa ha llegado Will there be a haiku in your hair, A limerick exposed by raucous grin, Or just ten words allotted for your entire visit? **Desperate to locate Urgent to sensate Matters I take Into two cupped hands, On the shoeshine stand Climb and recite-shout** Know me by my words, Know me by the lilt lyrical Of my American accented, Canadian Tongue of my mother Know me by my words, Carved by time on my forehead, Poetry is the blood of this fool's soul, Hear me, find me, look upon me slamming Poems are the thorns in my palms, See me crucified, bleeding stanzas Upon my shoeshine stand cross Recitation resuscitation welcoming: Benedicting Gloria, Gloria, Gloria But if this should fail your attention to secure, Or the TSA unappreciate my second coming, Look for the crowd gathered round, A man of moderate height, in a tall hat, Beard scraggly, looking sorrowful Reciting the Gettysburg Address Either way, Should be easy peasy to find me, Grab your bag, off to short-term parking This is how an Americana poet meets n' greets Arriving poetess from a foreign land Is there any other way? ------------------------------ Postscipt **Alas, five years on and I know in my heart that you are not coming...**
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Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
What poem will you wear, when first we meet? (Aug. 2013)
What poem will you wear, when first we meet? How will I recognition-you, when you transverse my land? Unknown our faces, our voices, Only silent words electronic exchanged Will lantern, it be: one, if by land, two, if by sea? Will your ID badge, passport stamped and state, Your chest bear a witness-sign? The Arrivals Board flashes:                     une poétesse est arrivé                     eine Dichterin ist angekomme                     a poetess has arrived                     una poetisa ha llegado Will there be a haiku in your hair, A limerick exposed by raucous grin, Or just ten words allotted for your entire visit? **Desperate to locate Urgent to sensate Matters I take Into two cupped hands, On the shoeshine stand Climb and recite-shout** Know me by my words, Know me by the lilt lyrical Of my American accented, Canadian Tongue of my mother Know me by my words, Carved by time on my forehead, Poetry is the blood of this fool's soul, Hear me, find me, look upon me slamming Poems are the thorns in my palms, See me crucified, bleeding stanzas Upon my shoeshine stand cross Recitation resuscitation welcoming: Benedicting Gloria, Gloria, Gloria But if this should fail your attention to secure, Or the TSA unappreciate my second coming, Look for the crowd gathered round, A man of moderate height, in a tall hat, Beard scraggly, looking sorrowful Reciting the Gettysburg Address Either way, Should be easy peasy to find me, Grab your bag, off to short-term parking This is how an Americana poet meets n' greets Arriving poetess from a foreign land Is there any other way? ------------------------------ Postscipt **Alas, five years on and I know in my heart that you are not coming...**
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52
The yearning gentleman journeyed near and far Hoping to acquire his long-sought heart's desire Pictures carefully painted from a copy of a euphoric time A multitude of young memories drawn from an aging mind From storybooks he conjured up the delicate princess and the pea Next came the white-eyed fairy beauty sailing deep lavender seas Red headed was the other with eyes of fire Nought satisfied his slowing blood And hearts desire Life with a light kiss Sprinkled upon him a touch of madness and sublime Flung before him mountains with invisible peaks to climb Sympathetic were the gods in their mercy In forever withholding the knowledge Alas there were no princesses to rescue And no more fire breathing dragons All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Aug. 8, 2018
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Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
No more Princesses and Dragons
inspired by https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5120189/love-cannot-be-controlled-or-confined/ <> Love is Meant…… and there, I stop… <> nnnnyup; continuing on, this phrase a self~sufficiency, is it not? no conditional clause, dangling particle, no conjunction peg upon to hang your wintered hat, no adjacent adjective for summer's ending sadness, no preposition to lead us to sunny places, where we search more for nouns and pronouns, or to project/protect, in adjectives to clothe our irrationality in logic-e, logic to define, logic to confine, illogically love permits one to say to another human, you mine, hu-mine, [an aside: "you mine,' (really?)] a preposterous prepositional insanity notion, that needs no explication, love is meant, love is meant, love is mean, dream & yet, meant! stadium sized. concert hall big, mini pup tent, love is clean+dirty s i m u l t a n e o u s l y don't you see the self~sufficiency in that? yet you still seek definition, reasoning, seasoning, love is meant to-be bent irregular straightaway, love is meant, to be/not, cold 'n bot, silly hot, lover is inert, hurt, ert,(1) love is every point of, of a sword's length hilt & blade, yet ironic, the tip alone is a self sufficient ***** to be full~on damaging enough to **** to fully comprehend, that  love is meant needs no further modifying defying pointless phrasal modification of explanation… s u n d a y (if the week did not commence with a sunday, hu-mans would have needed to create one, to understand, love is meant) 4:39am Sun Aug 10 Twenty Twenty Fidelio (5) in a new york city frame of mine
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Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 8:06 AM UTC
A Sunday Declaration: Love is Meant...
inspired by https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5120189/love-cannot-be-controlled-or-confined/ <> Love is Meant…… and there, I stop… <> nnnnyup; continuing on, this phrase a self~sufficiency, is it not? no conditional clause, dangling particle, no conjunction peg upon to hang your wintered hat, no adjacent adjective for summer's ending sadness, no preposition to lead us to sunny places, where we search more for nouns and pronouns, or to project/protect, in adjectives to clothe our irrationality in logic-e, logic to define, logic to confine, illogically love permits one to say to another human, you mine, hu-mine, [an aside: "you mine,' (really?)] a preposterous prepositional insanity notion, that needs no explication, love is meant, love is meant, love is mean, dream & yet, meant! stadium sized. concert hall big, mini pup tent, love is clean+dirty s i m u l t a n e o u s l y don't you see the self~sufficiency in that? yet you still seek definition, reasoning, seasoning, love is meant to-be bent irregular straightaway, love is meant, to be/not, cold 'n bot, silly hot, lover is inert, hurt, ert,(1) love is every point of, of a sword's length hilt & blade, yet ironic, the tip alone is a self sufficient ***** to be full~on damaging enough to **** to fully comprehend, that  love is meant needs no further modifying defying pointless phrasal modification of explanation… s u n d a y (if the week did not commence with a sunday, hu-mans would have needed to create one, to understand, love is meant) 4:39am Sun Aug 10 Twenty Twenty Fidelio (5) in a new york city frame of mine
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The First-Born Blues Sara L Russell 22nd August 2014 20:59 revised 27th Aug 2014, 13:58 So I bite down on bitter words and I eat my humble pie for those who will not understand me Until the day I die. self-pity's for the birds, where the golden egos fly; if you will not understand me should I bother to ask why? So you know I'm always me and I never will be her and you know she's gone forever things can't be the way they were I survived, unworthily though you think I should concur that death struck out unfairly - should have taken me, not her. So I wear my comfort cross and I carry my cross of woe - each a spiritual placebo from the God I used to know; and an eerie sense of loss follows everywhere I go for this poor downtrodden ego that you always overthrow.
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Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 4:06 PM UTC
The First-Born Blues
*break astonishment at perception of a third-world child making it up that totem-pole amidst paltry conditions even beyond the half-way mark* 1. a standing man in silent message and the woman in red with thin-sling shoulder-bag holding lipstick, weekly-ticket and purse oh, how she frightens honchos out their skull draped round her sister's head shroud eternal coughing sore 2. grannies recount lively griot-tales where hope is never barren young boys play in swamped dirt-trails drawing absent father-figures in the sand the wind has carried them off to mines deep in the crust of earth's ire adolescent future sits on labour-farms where keen spirit is dulled with worthless hops keeps the sly farmer happy and he tells them the fruit is free yet they've already paid for it manifold when she reaches twenty she will have at least two kids whose lives lie in the granny's luxury while she runs off to the golden city-lites to jump through higher hoops for ****** spoils all cheapened by long-term neglect 3. there lies hope unlost in every girl-child who goes to school who finds encouragement from words kindly given if but from a stranger *no hand-me-outs no forlorn begging* she... the empowered mother of boys will help them to grow into young men of such sensibility as to keep their hands to deeds of honour who, in turn become fine fathers to daughters they love and cherish raise to be luminary *each step up from that totem-pole such a steep climb strengthens invisible wings and unworldly rewards and when final rung is reached heralds untainted take-offffffff*...... S T,  27 aug
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Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 11:01 AM UTC
totem-pole
*break astonishment at perception of a third-world child making it up that totem-pole amidst paltry conditions even beyond the half-way mark* 1. a standing man in silent message and the woman in red with thin-sling shoulder-bag holding lipstick, weekly-ticket and purse oh, how she frightens honchos out their skull draped round her sister's head shroud eternal coughing sore 2. grannies recount lively griot-tales where hope is never barren young boys play in swamped dirt-trails drawing absent father-figures in the sand the wind has carried them off to mines deep in the crust of earth's ire adolescent future sits on labour-farms where keen spirit is dulled with worthless hops keeps the sly farmer happy and he tells them the fruit is free yet they've already paid for it manifold when she reaches twenty she will have at least two kids whose lives lie in the granny's luxury while she runs off to the golden city-lites to jump through higher hoops for ****** spoils all cheapened by long-term neglect 3. there lies hope unlost in every girl-child who goes to school who finds encouragement from words kindly given if but from a stranger *no hand-me-outs no forlorn begging* she... the empowered mother of boys will help them to grow into young men of such sensibility as to keep their hands to deeds of honour who, in turn become fine fathers to daughters they love and cherish raise to be luminary *each step up from that totem-pole such a steep climb strengthens invisible wings and unworldly rewards and when final rung is reached heralds untainted take-offffffff*...... S T,  27 aug
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is like no other early morning, man reborn, in the delivery room of sky blue, the offsetting water deeper bluish hue, the trim-all-around of the mixed salad greens of the staff's scrubs as they usher in unity,  with no imp-unity, the risks, while the supervisory sky, disperses cumulus clouds in peppercorn patterns of white chains, or big wide solitary brushstrokes on a a ****** canvas, gettin' the feel in the palm of the heft of brush, the viscosity of the paint, the day's palette reflecting available colors in order to create a uni~cued original of what has been painted an uncountable times before, and before… tho short weighted, was the sleep of the prior night's restful, he awakes to the early morning light, the sounds of early island rouse him, even, arouse him, for the August chill foretells of the early onset of memory loss of the peculiarities of this summered simmering, human warming and baking and natural braking of the slowing of the heart rate, to better accommodate, nature's hints and hidden reminiscences of the true purpose of the summer's intervention upon our collective and unique bottling, our individualized containers, un~lidded, uncovered, eager for the fuel of sunrays replenish- ing the length of our lives by the elixir of the summer it is a chill 63 Fahrenheit at this time of day as we crossover to the nigh day, from the cooling air conditions of dark, the occasional helicopter intrudes upon the morning's calm, the water placid, the geese honking regarding my watchful rewarding presence, a slew, a bevy, of female vocalists, to ease this transitory performance unfolding, and though one feels the existential of his solitary singularity, as he thinks, nay believes, he is the only one in attendance at this ritualized emergence, he takes in the cool of, the heat of, the admixture of both, the clashing integers of each, and he, fully invigorated, goes silent, for once more, he has uncovered new combinations of old words to accept and describe a new day's creation, miracle of miraculous, defying the odds of this ventures's success, his own continuance  on this sheltered but open all around island implanted tween two tines of land, as if all the surroundings were created just to protect this, wholly holy place… 7:00am Silver Beach Shelter Island Aug 19 2025
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Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
this particular day...
is like no other early morning, man reborn, in the delivery room of sky blue, the offsetting water deeper bluish hue, the trim-all-around of the mixed salad greens of the staff's scrubs as they usher in unity,  with no imp-unity, the risks, while the supervisory sky, disperses cumulus clouds in peppercorn patterns of white chains, or big wide solitary brushstrokes on a a ****** canvas, gettin' the feel in the palm of the heft of brush, the viscosity of the paint, the day's palette reflecting available colors in order to create a uni~cued original of what has been painted an uncountable times before, and before… tho short weighted, was the sleep of the prior night's restful, he awakes to the early morning light, the sounds of early island rouse him, even, arouse him, for the August chill foretells of the early onset of memory loss of the peculiarities of this summered simmering, human warming and baking and natural braking of the slowing of the heart rate, to better accommodate, nature's hints and hidden reminiscences of the true purpose of the summer's intervention upon our collective and unique bottling, our individualized containers, un~lidded, uncovered, eager for the fuel of sunrays replenish- ing the length of our lives by the elixir of the summer it is a chill 63 Fahrenheit at this time of day as we crossover to the nigh day, from the cooling air conditions of dark, the occasional helicopter intrudes upon the morning's calm, the water placid, the geese honking regarding my watchful rewarding presence, a slew, a bevy, of female vocalists, to ease this transitory performance unfolding, and though one feels the existential of his solitary singularity, as he thinks, nay believes, he is the only one in attendance at this ritualized emergence, he takes in the cool of, the heat of, the admixture of both, the clashing integers of each, and he, fully invigorated, goes silent, for once more, he has uncovered new combinations of old words to accept and describe a new day's creation, miracle of miraculous, defying the odds of this ventures's success, his own continuance  on this sheltered but open all around island implanted tween two tines of land, as if all the surroundings were created just to protect this, wholly holy place… 7:00am Silver Beach Shelter Island Aug 19 2025
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A follow on poem to 'In the Sunroom (Suicide)"  (1) writ many years later... ~For MWK~ <> A stray thought. a burring burrowing, thorny tawny: A wish, yet to get, but vetted for each of us. *This within, this redoubt, a contemplative oasis, my indoor poet's nookery rookery sanctuary each one, each is, deserves, all, one such, a place holy filled, with lice and dirt of a life, strained and trained for emission and transmission of the best of the worst, and the triumphant emergent commission of our individualized most excellent fresh best where crumbs of apple crisp pie solidify, vanilla bean ice cream melt offsets the oven heated warmth, and from this interactive contrasts combative, a poem pie reborn, newly disguised, familiar words, yet unheard and before this very never, went unspoken and now goes forth svelte and unbroken *rhymes of yore, forgot from a before, but making up the walls of the here and now, a sunroom to spread out the lit lights of egress and entrance, of fire door no exits that now are chiseled closed, lock in, lock up, and somehow, one, stills to learn from the stilling quiet solitude. to penetrate the prostrate kneeling grinning grief, how to expel and spell the words that grant relief visit my sunroom, though no fiction. the sun rays *********** create the friction of that which cannot ever be withered nor contained, and your mouth opens wide and a poem birthed and delivered, pastiche paste composted of truth and dreams of fiction, fine diction, with a shrug, a smile, a satisfaction extracted extraordinary, you garner moments of satisfaction but cloud cover returns, and the process of sunrise exposition recommences, and one revisits the elemental sequencing of all the predecessor pain, but this time, for gain, for gain, <> written this sabbath Saturday 12:38am EST Sat Aug 2 2025 in the sunroom, on Shelter Island
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Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 12:59 AM UTC
Each of us needs a sunroom
A follow on poem to 'In the Sunroom (Suicide)"  (1) writ many years later... ~For MWK~ <> A stray thought. a burring burrowing, thorny tawny: A wish, yet to get, but vetted for each of us. *This within, this redoubt, a contemplative oasis, my indoor poet's nookery rookery sanctuary each one, each is, deserves, all, one such, a place holy filled, with lice and dirt of a life, strained and trained for emission and transmission of the best of the worst, and the triumphant emergent commission of our individualized most excellent fresh best where crumbs of apple crisp pie solidify, vanilla bean ice cream melt offsets the oven heated warmth, and from this interactive contrasts combative, a poem pie reborn, newly disguised, familiar words, yet unheard and before this very never, went unspoken and now goes forth svelte and unbroken *rhymes of yore, forgot from a before, but making up the walls of the here and now, a sunroom to spread out the lit lights of egress and entrance, of fire door no exits that now are chiseled closed, lock in, lock up, and somehow, one, stills to learn from the stilling quiet solitude. to penetrate the prostrate kneeling grinning grief, how to expel and spell the words that grant relief visit my sunroom, though no fiction. the sun rays *********** create the friction of that which cannot ever be withered nor contained, and your mouth opens wide and a poem birthed and delivered, pastiche paste composted of truth and dreams of fiction, fine diction, with a shrug, a smile, a satisfaction extracted extraordinary, you garner moments of satisfaction but cloud cover returns, and the process of sunrise exposition recommences, and one revisits the elemental sequencing of all the predecessor pain, but this time, for gain, for gain, <> written this sabbath Saturday 12:38am EST Sat Aug 2 2025 in the sunroom, on Shelter Island
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Dear Poet Friends, Here is a poem by a young Canadian poet named Darien, which I found while browsing the Net! I would like to share this with you as a prelude to my poem about the 'Rise of The Third Reich', - which I hope to post on this Site shortly. Thanks, - Raj Nandy, New Delhi World War II - ADOLF ****** by DARIEN,  Aug 21, 2006 Austria raised a man so vile and vicious His life was dark, callous and malicious Passions of hatred engraved in his mind As he plotted to create his own mankind A soldier for Germany in World War One War to end all wars had only just begun The National Socialist Party appeared fast Their numbers grew rapidly as time passed Charismatic oratory and propaganda his tool False promises made, people he would fool Were Nazis the one to bring hope? Perhaps Without their help Germany would collapse The Reichstag Fire would be a stepping stone Germany's President died, he took the throne He became the fuhrer leader of all Germany And would start the worst war of the century War had been started with a Nazi-Soviet pact Together with Russia, Poland they attacked England and France were not ready for war Marching of Nazis soldiers was not ignored. Mussolini became his ally and supported him For all other countries their chances were slim Many countries were defeated in a few days the Fascist and Nazis would give him praise Blitzkrieg was a strategy that worked most In defeating all his enemies he came close The Nazis would spread all across Europe But it would be at Stalingrad they would stop Communist regimes were one group he did hate Yet it was the Jews he would try to annihilate In all cruelty, bloodshed, war would soon end There was still so much for people to defend On V-Day he saw all his armies demolished ****** and fascism in Europe was abolished World War Two ended the areas were secure From that evil, monstrous beast Adolf ******                                       - By Darien. (Canada)   ..........................................................................
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Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
WORLD WAR II - ADOLF ******
Dear Poet Friends, Here is a poem by a young Canadian poet named Darien, which I found while browsing the Net! I would like to share this with you as a prelude to my poem about the 'Rise of The Third Reich', - which I hope to post on this Site shortly. Thanks, - Raj Nandy, New Delhi World War II - ADOLF ****** by DARIEN,  Aug 21, 2006 Austria raised a man so vile and vicious His life was dark, callous and malicious Passions of hatred engraved in his mind As he plotted to create his own mankind A soldier for Germany in World War One War to end all wars had only just begun The National Socialist Party appeared fast Their numbers grew rapidly as time passed Charismatic oratory and propaganda his tool False promises made, people he would fool Were Nazis the one to bring hope? Perhaps Without their help Germany would collapse The Reichstag Fire would be a stepping stone Germany's President died, he took the throne He became the fuhrer leader of all Germany And would start the worst war of the century War had been started with a Nazi-Soviet pact Together with Russia, Poland they attacked England and France were not ready for war Marching of Nazis soldiers was not ignored. Mussolini became his ally and supported him For all other countries their chances were slim Many countries were defeated in a few days the Fascist and Nazis would give him praise Blitzkrieg was a strategy that worked most In defeating all his enemies he came close The Nazis would spread all across Europe But it would be at Stalingrad they would stop Communist regimes were one group he did hate Yet it was the Jews he would try to annihilate In all cruelty, bloodshed, war would soon end There was still so much for people to defend On V-Day he saw all his armies demolished ****** and fascism in Europe was abolished World War Two ended the areas were secure From that evil, monstrous beast Adolf ******                                       - By Darien. (Canada)   ..........................................................................
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*got.an.appointment.to.keep can’t.be.late.at.all got.an.appointment.to.keep* Cycling hard in the taciturn rain In the English countryside Feeding  chunks rassis to hissing Eton-swans Pitch-black hot tar inside Running relentless along the vacuous side-halls Carrying mercy on three-legged cur Crying for Odin . . .  leaving soon Won’t make it down that clockwork-stairs And can’t show up late for its own demise-appointment *taking.flight.to.a.never.portion of the.ever.furious.wanderer (no latecomers allowed) to.keep.that.appointment to.never.go crying.for.Odin* s t        27 aug
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Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 3:36 PM UTC
Crying for Odin
How wonderful it is, I say, to the retreating yellow form of your feelings I mistook For Infatuation, you’re a romance heckler far and far away from Accepting fruition within classrooms and being labelled as an angel. And it was within forbidden hell of euphoria, I found You nestled in the society’s psyche neither content or calling For help. Neither did you neglect the pink spectacles of the society, Even found yourself moulding and moulding into a fungi green That I could not recognize, within that half-sanctum, half-oasis I found you absentmindedly Bathing in, you were already out of its waters. And I was no longer seeing you within the dry desert or the sibilance of my desires, but instead in cement woodlands and Within artificial communication and Intimacy I gave willingly. Now how does it feel, to have your heart in one piece, How does it feel to not use whipped cream to fill in the Cracked, salty sections of your own ***** that, Out of confusion, continues to play its favorite song but in all the wrong beats. Somehow within cacophony I found you, nestled, comfortable in Bogus, fraudulent wings of a former angel- who now weeps under our Feet in theory- Somehow, somewhere, I lost you within an epiphany That reeked of bliss and pleasure- Somehow, we end up losing Twins of the heavens when all is well. How wonderful. How wonderful it is, I say, to your lost, secretly-weeping figure That I can’t tell whether transparent or yellow your figure is. But I keep speaking- “Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is- To love the first angel I’ve set my eyes upon- “Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is- To lose an angel, no matter how phoney, to a social heaven.” - enriko. aug 5. 11:45pm
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Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 12:32 PM UTC
Empty Residence Of Aforementioned Angel In Training
How wonderful it is, I say, to the retreating yellow form of your feelings I mistook For Infatuation, you’re a romance heckler far and far away from Accepting fruition within classrooms and being labelled as an angel. And it was within forbidden hell of euphoria, I found You nestled in the society’s psyche neither content or calling For help. Neither did you neglect the pink spectacles of the society, Even found yourself moulding and moulding into a fungi green That I could not recognize, within that half-sanctum, half-oasis I found you absentmindedly Bathing in, you were already out of its waters. And I was no longer seeing you within the dry desert or the sibilance of my desires, but instead in cement woodlands and Within artificial communication and Intimacy I gave willingly. Now how does it feel, to have your heart in one piece, How does it feel to not use whipped cream to fill in the Cracked, salty sections of your own ***** that, Out of confusion, continues to play its favorite song but in all the wrong beats. Somehow within cacophony I found you, nestled, comfortable in Bogus, fraudulent wings of a former angel- who now weeps under our Feet in theory- Somehow, somewhere, I lost you within an epiphany That reeked of bliss and pleasure- Somehow, we end up losing Twins of the heavens when all is well. How wonderful. How wonderful it is, I say, to your lost, secretly-weeping figure That I can’t tell whether transparent or yellow your figure is. But I keep speaking- “Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is- To love the first angel I’ve set my eyes upon- “Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is- To lose an angel, no matter how phoney, to a social heaven.” - enriko. aug 5. 11:45pm
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56
I felt her presence, hovering over my grave like a mothers last prayers Like a fathers burning sorrows after thirty years drunk Alone she stood, framed against the soft blowing trees, and the dancing wildflowers that were placed as an ode to the dead She held orange petals to herself, close to her chest, as if to let them hear a heartbeat, but the ear of a flower only picks up meaningful noises, not the slow tempo of a withered muscle, overworked from exhaustion She wore black, knee high leather boots, and a matching jacket Her hair was wild, and she looked ***** She smelled of ***** and no showers, cigarettes and sweat and blood She looked of regret, and her eyes sang tunes of pessimism Anxiously she removed the bright flowers from her ***** Poppies, by the look of it She presented them to the face of my headstone, cracked and eroded with age, my name barely recognizable Left with nothing, her fingers went to her short blonde hair, matted and encrusted with dirt She ran her hands nervously throughout, eyes constantly distracted Suddenly, she focused hard on the headstone A tear fell from her eye, and I watched it soak into the concrete Her lips moved in familiar shapes, but words were lost to me Every word But one A name Abigail And she turned away, walking crookedly into the wind and rain And though I know she was talking to me, I could feel the name on her lips, see it in her eyes She scratched the insides of her arms as she disappeared from sight, and I felt a longing in my own "I walked away from myself that day. I gave it all up for hope. I guess this just goes to show what it's worth. Maybe I'll understand it one day, but for now, I am dead to everyone including myself." Abigail Hollow Jan 1992 - Aug 2008 A loving daughter, sister and poet.
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Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
Dreams ****** Headstone)
I felt her presence, hovering over my grave like a mothers last prayers Like a fathers burning sorrows after thirty years drunk Alone she stood, framed against the soft blowing trees, and the dancing wildflowers that were placed as an ode to the dead She held orange petals to herself, close to her chest, as if to let them hear a heartbeat, but the ear of a flower only picks up meaningful noises, not the slow tempo of a withered muscle, overworked from exhaustion She wore black, knee high leather boots, and a matching jacket Her hair was wild, and she looked ***** She smelled of ***** and no showers, cigarettes and sweat and blood She looked of regret, and her eyes sang tunes of pessimism Anxiously she removed the bright flowers from her ***** Poppies, by the look of it She presented them to the face of my headstone, cracked and eroded with age, my name barely recognizable Left with nothing, her fingers went to her short blonde hair, matted and encrusted with dirt She ran her hands nervously throughout, eyes constantly distracted Suddenly, she focused hard on the headstone A tear fell from her eye, and I watched it soak into the concrete Her lips moved in familiar shapes, but words were lost to me Every word But one A name Abigail And she turned away, walking crookedly into the wind and rain And though I know she was talking to me, I could feel the name on her lips, see it in her eyes She scratched the insides of her arms as she disappeared from sight, and I felt a longing in my own "I walked away from myself that day. I gave it all up for hope. I guess this just goes to show what it's worth. Maybe I'll understand it one day, but for now, I am dead to everyone including myself." Abigail Hollow Jan 1992 - Aug 2008 A loving daughter, sister and poet.
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40
She constructs by hand Seven circles in the sand A seed of life Part of the flower Of her life’s power In word and art Oscillating vibrating Harmonic healing Sent to me Sacred geometry r   1 Aug 13
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Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
Her Sacred Geometry
armed and dangerous, 20 oz. of hot hot coffee, tablet on lap, sitting on the deck overlooking the bay, and once again, unusual for me, I am touched by the sanctity of the serenity pervading, assuaging, by waves just loud enough to sway to, the off/on chatter of the early bird's convocation of the morning's blessing, have survived another night to greet greatly the outlines of loveliness in the all~of~surroundings, which hacks my brain, for I am by forty years of habitation more accustomed to a rough and tumble city boy trader, screamer of: buy/sell/straddle/strangle/crush/kill/mercilessness, no quarter, no mindfulness in me naturally, until nature robs my tools of denial,  and I smell the sanctity of fresh sheets laid on bed, the warmed blood, vein coursing, suggesting just listen, listen, the hot shower water eradicating the prior day's sinfulness, the highly valued sensations of sensational emptiness, and words drifting from the surround movie theater of a vista beloved, coming for to fill and fulfill this always~in~mourning soul by the overhauling of a crisp, cleansing day break I, familiar with notions of perpetuity, and at best, conceptual, though my mind permits a drift to the thoughtfulness that this place, this moment, this performance art  of spectacular breathing of another dawning day, after thousands upon thousand of its predecessors, and the possibility, not remote, but not promised, to anyone, just may occur at least once more, and one must learn contentment from but that idea, and sip the cooling dregs of coffee, the sounds of human interference, car door slamming, the heaving breathing of morning joggers, the wind rising, the white caps snapping, precursors and signs that natural perfection is never permanent, always in transition, and a whispery smile crosses my cheeks, as a silly thought invades, nature is so very human~like and yet, immortal… composed between 6:30 and 8:30 am this day Wed Aug 20 twenty twenty-five Silver Beach
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Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 8:34 AM UTC
the moment of sanctity...the sanctity of the moment
armed and dangerous, 20 oz. of hot hot coffee, tablet on lap, sitting on the deck overlooking the bay, and once again, unusual for me, I am touched by the sanctity of the serenity pervading, assuaging, by waves just loud enough to sway to, the off/on chatter of the early bird's convocation of the morning's blessing, have survived another night to greet greatly the outlines of loveliness in the all~of~surroundings, which hacks my brain, for I am by forty years of habitation more accustomed to a rough and tumble city boy trader, screamer of: buy/sell/straddle/strangle/crush/kill/mercilessness, no quarter, no mindfulness in me naturally, until nature robs my tools of denial,  and I smell the sanctity of fresh sheets laid on bed, the warmed blood, vein coursing, suggesting just listen, listen, the hot shower water eradicating the prior day's sinfulness, the highly valued sensations of sensational emptiness, and words drifting from the surround movie theater of a vista beloved, coming for to fill and fulfill this always~in~mourning soul by the overhauling of a crisp, cleansing day break I, familiar with notions of perpetuity, and at best, conceptual, though my mind permits a drift to the thoughtfulness that this place, this moment, this performance art  of spectacular breathing of another dawning day, after thousands upon thousand of its predecessors, and the possibility, not remote, but not promised, to anyone, just may occur at least once more, and one must learn contentment from but that idea, and sip the cooling dregs of coffee, the sounds of human interference, car door slamming, the heaving breathing of morning joggers, the wind rising, the white caps snapping, precursors and signs that natural perfection is never permanent, always in transition, and a whispery smile crosses my cheeks, as a silly thought invades, nature is so very human~like and yet, immortal… composed between 6:30 and 8:30 am this day Wed Aug 20 twenty twenty-five Silver Beach
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30
Here are the names of my lovers, The women I sleep with, whom I use, like they use me. Spent, they discard me, for when their pleasure needs Satiated, they climb aboard another man. What they do not know, Is that in my mind, in my ears, everywhere, I did not let them, or you go, We are still romping, For I Take them as needed. I need them all, For my pleasure needs, like my unshaped heart, Addictive, endless. If your is name is here, I do not Apologize. Pink Adele Lilly Allen Anna Nalick Bess Rogers Beyonce Brandi Carlisle Cat Power Colbie Callait Duffy Eva Cassidy Evanescence Alison Sudol Fiona Apple Florence Welch Grace Potter Ingrid Michaelson You Joni Mitchell K.D. Lang Kate Nash Kate Voegele Leona Lewis Lizz Wright Madeline Peyroux Marie Digby Mary Wells Norah Jones Regina Spektor Sara Bareilles You Sara Haze Taylor Swift and Tracy Chapman Tristan Prettyman Vanessa Carlton So many others, used so long ago, I can't remember the faces, Which can't be googled. Use them hard, use them often, more than daily. Bluntly, I tell you Your name is on my list, Even if I do not disclose it.
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Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 9:31 AM UTC
Here are the names of my lovers, including you! (Aug 2013)
It has to be better than this The lemonades are turning to dust Silverlinings have all rained down Life's got to be bigger than this The flower that once was Now a thorn sharper than dead dreams Stabbing all hope This dark vacuum is ******* me in I'm holding on to the last beam of light But my grip is slipping and I'm scared Aren't things supposed to work out? Well begun is now all undone (Los Angeles, Aug 22 2017)
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Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 3:43 PM UTC
Adulthood
4:21am Tue Aug 12 <*> restless is the thinking brain, rapid repeated beating from an overheating sun in a room of full-on dark, difficult to weep, harder to silent breathe, one listens to his arrhythmic heart, sending out messages incessantly & incomplete every single sin ever committed comes in with cheery face, a greeting of, still here! in this , our temporary final resting place finish us off by completion, makes us full of restitution, by seeing to our undoing, revolving, unending, the finally of sufficiently those old curses we can only face by turning our faces away, drop in, like best friends, come to sunrise visit though dawn is yet eons of minutes far away, though relief can never be fully attained, though "though' is the first ****** word of excusal, though betrayal is always next, the secondarily, refusal, there is never a dot of period, only a comma of pause, because, there is no ending in completion only in forgiving by your harshest critic, yourself, yourself, our selving, this unsolvable function of forgiveness upon this, this, the two-days of Tuesday, to day
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Aug 12, 2025
Aug 12, 2025 at 4:56 AM UTC
f(x): Forgiveness: it is the two-days of Tuesday, to day x7
The Doctor has a Sense of Humor! <|> give a surgeon a scalpel and an excuse, and the artist emerges, for creativity is a good surgeon’s natural habitat Sure, sure, there’s a plan, with best and acceptable outcomes, but when messing with a real heart, a sly ***** with numerous deceptive guises at its disposal, you never for sure never know, despite all the advanced imaging techniques, exactly what you will find once you go spelunking in caves of life and death so, he takes a bit from here, and a bob or two from there, there a cut, here an incision deep, Old McDonald provided a body, or a canvas, and the Doc is happy. So I uncover holes where he probed, redeploying the healthy, like a good designer, Doc rearranges and repairs, a travelogue of splicing and dicing, his handiwork Now standing over you for many hours, can get tiring, though each ***** be different, unique even, but leaving a little marker, a stylized signature, is well, is the rightful discretion of the artiste! So you can imagine my surprise when the tubes removed (ouch!) the bandages ripped off in a signature move of a delighted nurse whose loves seeing grown men cry from lesser trivialities, you cannot imagine my surprise when I discovered my new tattoo, upon my chest front and center! *Herein please find your heart repaired, and revitalized: Please Note! We guarantee our work for minimum 15 years (Aug. 3, 2038), but our disclaimer we assume NO  responsibility after that if you should happen to live for 30 YEARS or more* Dr. P.
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Sep 21, 2023
Sep 21, 2023 at 7:58 AM UTC
My Doctor has a Sense of Humor!
The Doctor has a Sense of Humor! <|> give a surgeon a scalpel and an excuse, and the artist emerges, for creativity is a good surgeon’s natural habitat Sure, sure, there’s a plan, with best and acceptable outcomes, but when messing with a real heart, a sly ***** with numerous deceptive guises at its disposal, you never for sure never know, despite all the advanced imaging techniques, exactly what you will find once you go spelunking in caves of life and death so, he takes a bit from here, and a bob or two from there, there a cut, here an incision deep, Old McDonald provided a body, or a canvas, and the Doc is happy. So I uncover holes where he probed, redeploying the healthy, like a good designer, Doc rearranges and repairs, a travelogue of splicing and dicing, his handiwork Now standing over you for many hours, can get tiring, though each ***** be different, unique even, but leaving a little marker, a stylized signature, is well, is the rightful discretion of the artiste! So you can imagine my surprise when the tubes removed (ouch!) the bandages ripped off in a signature move of a delighted nurse whose loves seeing grown men cry from lesser trivialities, you cannot imagine my surprise when I discovered my new tattoo, upon my chest front and center! *Herein please find your heart repaired, and revitalized: Please Note! We guarantee our work for minimum 15 years (Aug. 3, 2038), but our disclaimer we assume NO  responsibility after that if you should happen to live for 30 YEARS or more* Dr. P.
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51
Happy birthday to all mothers out there alive or in angelic form. You will forever be missed Angelina Descovia Aug 1, 1958 Time to return home to your glorified kingdom. Jan 6, 2006. Do not rush your time to leave this realm somebody other than you needs your story in order to survive! If you are here today, somebody other than yourself needs you alive! I know we are all human. Humans aren't eternal, for on the contrary the soul is! I pray your life becomes a "legacy", for you guided me at a point as inspiration as many of you have. They say angels never cry. It puts my mind in wonder on where rainfall comes from since heaven is beyond the skies. I'll never forget your voice. I'll never speak of you in vain. I'll always remember that you brought us love to keep us free from harm and pain. It hurts to go on with your energy. I do not condemn this world or any God. No source is at fault for your departure. I believe this much is true Everyday I break and rebuild myself until I'm good as new. In the skin that I'm in I feel lost I have not done enough to earn my wings or to say I have a "Golden Heart" I will never forget quotes and poems you composed in your journals of your journeys You're in a place of safety and harmony where love is eternal. Heaven is a place for angels and for we will meet again. I will always remember the memories that give me strength to fight and protect our youth. You empowered many and open eyes to many truths. I will forever remember. I will forever fight for light. I will never forget you. Thank you for everything mom. ❤️
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Aug 1, 2021
Aug 1, 2021 at 9:22 PM UTC
You are Eternal (Rest In Paradise Angelina Descovia)
Happy birthday to all mothers out there alive or in angelic form. You will forever be missed Angelina Descovia Aug 1, 1958 Time to return home to your glorified kingdom. Jan 6, 2006. Do not rush your time to leave this realm somebody other than you needs your story in order to survive! If you are here today, somebody other than yourself needs you alive! I know we are all human. Humans aren't eternal, for on the contrary the soul is! I pray your life becomes a "legacy", for you guided me at a point as inspiration as many of you have. They say angels never cry. It puts my mind in wonder on where rainfall comes from since heaven is beyond the skies. I'll never forget your voice. I'll never speak of you in vain. I'll always remember that you brought us love to keep us free from harm and pain. It hurts to go on with your energy. I do not condemn this world or any God. No source is at fault for your departure. I believe this much is true Everyday I break and rebuild myself until I'm good as new. In the skin that I'm in I feel lost I have not done enough to earn my wings or to say I have a "Golden Heart" I will never forget quotes and poems you composed in your journals of your journeys You're in a place of safety and harmony where love is eternal. Heaven is a place for angels and for we will meet again. I will always remember the memories that give me strength to fight and protect our youth. You empowered many and open eyes to many truths. I will forever remember. I will forever fight for light. I will never forget you. Thank you for everything mom. ❤️
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27
Aug 22/2000 Don’t think you’re doing me a favour by keeping me company If you don’t want to be here then I much prefer you leave ‘Cause I’ve already wasted too much time in loving you And I don’t need your sympathy but I do deserve the truth CHORUS: *So don't tell me love me if you don't feel it Don't try to hold me if you don't mean it Just let my tears flow at least then I'll know that I should just let go* Loneliness is a burden that I must bear alone It’ll take me a while to get over you but I’ll make it on my own So please don’t pretend you care ‘cause my heart is far too real And the way you act is contrary to the way you say you feel CHORUS: I’m not some fragile robin and you’re not the only man It’s just that I love more deeply than you can understand And I know of nothing more hurtful, to the heart and to the soul Then to watch a love held dearly, suddenly turn so cold CHORUS:
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Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
Don’t Tell Me You Love Me
Sometimes it's all about the *** though mostly it isn't. Sometimes it's about the play, about enjoying the effect that I have on another or, less so recently, about seeking to please and enjoying whatever is given. Sometimes it's about wanting to hold and be held in return to feel the love and the connection and the closeness and that warmth inside. Sometimes play isn't enough when it ignites my desire and frustration strains the pleasure sometimes holding someone isn't enough either when the warmth turns to heat. So sometimes it becomes all about the *** and yet that's so elusive when my attentions are unwanted or I find my desire impossible to express. Sometimes I feel in need yet nobody picks that up none come forward to ask to writhe with me, entwined to seek mutual fulfillment of a shared lust. Sometimes it's not about the *** because that's not on the menu. Cynthia Pauline Jones, Aug 2013
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Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC
Sometimes it's All About the ***
The Mendacity of Beauty,  Marvels of the Mundane <1/1/2023 10:38 PM> commissioned by Pradip^           <> A special carnet permits the day, though day itself unremarkable, permissioning of a thousand, even, tens of ten thousand grasping new love poems all mundane, all marvelous an aborning of odes re the vastness of sea, sandy sky, multifarious penumbras of hewn hues, vibrantly diverse, still, requiring the expanse and pretense of “new” adjectives and metaphoric in combos recalculating precisely, it’s the enormity, of the difficulty of verbal capture upon tablet of these natural treasures, once, more, yet again, but in somehow in a new-never quite-before conceptional~postulation-realization I sojourn amidst both man made and natural beauty, provoking, invoking, a steady stream of potable knowledgeables, performing as a hand-written-thank-you-note for the grace, the imagination of their mishmash existences addressed only to “whom it may truly concern…” I’m eager to confess that the poetry inherent in the mundane, requiring not-so-easy mining, a sales taxing innovation to capture the subtlety of less visible flecks of gold, that present a rarer challenge to the poet’s senses where glory abides in pyrite pebbles strewn and trod upon by most indifferently, *ah, write of the marvel of the mundane, **** dare you!* <> ^Pradip: “writing of the mundane is mandatory for me…” Aug 12 2022
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Jul 1, 2023
Jul 1, 2023 at 11:10 AM UTC
The Mendacity of Beauty, Marvels of the Mundane
the isle meets us gruffly, ferry over rough seas, meaner winds, bay size puddling lakes a/k/a local  flooding, roads littered with tree debris, all saying an uncoded message: "see humans, you come to stay only with my forbearance" But I know that familiar voice, disguised as nature, a first derivative of the alpha of that god who comes, torturing me with requests for forgiveness I am nature too, I am human nature, and I too, am not in a forgiving mood, and one-word reply: Barcelona ashamed, the ugly skies ease off and next morn, an August beauty provided but I am neither assuaged, bought off, forgetting, address the hiding-in-disguise master of the universe: "*you trifle with us as if we could not count, keep tabs, and weary be at the newest sabbath carnage never ending give me storms, keep your glories, fell trees, drown us, if it pleases, we are neither perfect nor innocent but take impotent responsibility set us not one against the other, there, here, Charlottesville, keep your false free choice that always comes with a wink and nod, a little nudge, and exclaims of humans doing your work*" I light a candle not to you, but for you and be terrified when I no longer do <•> Aug. 19, 2017 12:14 pm
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Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 1:14 PM UTC
Barcelona (the first derivative), Finlandia, Disguising God
My Woman, My Partner we need today it seems identifiers moreover, as we slice, dissect, and categorize the W’s of our individual experience, by defining ourselves as pieces of categories Today, woke with this title-to-be-poem in my head, My Woman, My Partner I like particular, individuating descriptors that distinguish rather than categorize, summary’s that capture the roomy broad and small strokes, the subtleties of capturing~ encompassing an image total, and yet intuitively tasting and comprehending the depths and flavoring of our totality, a combinatory humanity my choice was My Woman, which was comprehensive and distinguished, yet upon consultation with said person, for pre-authorization approval, it was returned to me with an engine-heart additive, that was both a word that denotes a binding, ties, equality, and takes it to another, even ever highest level, *this essay on how I came to title this poem, well, is the poem in its entirety, it is the process, the point, the summary and the minutiae of all I wished to convey.* Sunday Aug 13 8:03 AM
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Aug 13, 2023
Aug 13, 2023 at 8:11 AM UTC
My Woman, My Partner