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"authored" poems
Stumbling into ancient scripts, authored a decades plus ago, ago being a modifier of time quantities, minute or large, unspecific without an objective adjective additive, that faucets a stream of an interlocutory elocution of a batter of rooted emotional histories, but not histrionics fanciful words for dredged up memories, acute, but tarnished, powered yet worn by a cousin of ago, a/k/a, age and yet renews as of, at this very second, as if it were a first, a tumult of visions, swelling of remembrances, embodied scars, and I weep anew but not for me, as much for the resonating simpatico souls with whom they even  now vibrate with resonance of the immediacy of If not now, When? Aside: The exterior environment is noisy wet pelting of thunderstorms and ****** sheets of bulleting rain, piercing projectiles, but I am safe in the sunroom, sadly happy my dog is no longer here to shiver and tremble, cuddle and be soothed by steady stroking But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg: Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered, now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more, the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bare twice the outrageous misfortune of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** **** these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago   freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity. Enough whining: *I wrote those poems to eject out those pains, and I write this now, once more, to realize that so so many still face uncertain and unrelenting similarities, doing their own sums, and I wish them easing, strength to compose and thereby dispose of the ineloquent and eloquent words of staining suffering* 3:30am Thur July 10 2025
0
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 5:39 PM UTC
nat-lipstadt
Older poems, new readers, familiar thoughts...
Stumbling into ancient scripts, authored a decades plus ago, ago being a modifier of time quantities, minute or large, unspecific without an objective adjective additive, that faucets a stream of an interlocutory elocution of a batter of rooted emotional histories, but not histrionics fanciful words for dredged up memories, acute, but tarnished, powered yet worn by a cousin of ago, a/k/a, age and yet renews as of, at this very second, as if it were a first, a tumult of visions, swelling of remembrances, embodied scars, and I weep anew but not for me, as much for the resonating simpatico souls with whom they even  now vibrate with resonance of the immediacy of If not now, When? Aside: The exterior environment is noisy wet pelting of thunderstorms and ****** sheets of bulleting rain, piercing projectiles, but I am safe in the sunroom, sadly happy my dog is no longer here to shiver and tremble, cuddle and be soothed by steady stroking But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg: Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered, now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more, the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bare twice the outrageous misfortune of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** **** these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago   freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity. Enough whining: *I wrote those poems to eject out those pains, and I write this now, once more, to realize that so so many still face uncertain and unrelenting similarities, doing their own sums, and I wish them easing, strength to compose and thereby dispose of the ineloquent and eloquent words of staining suffering* 3:30am Thur July 10 2025
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40
porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog, in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled get done with weather, the crops, the neighbors, the weird, and the truly neighborly, grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling, bs’ing and tall tale telling,  breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live, open another Bud for the buds, did I forget to mention farm equipment? skirt politics cause nobody wants any nothing-to-be-done-damn-aggravation, leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the absent women no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed, but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer as now nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last, a very manly-way of ordering things, big silent pauses in the converso conversation, guy-sighs many, as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored, denotating the generalized listings of how they drive us crazy, listing the repetition of ever changing instructions, which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms,  non-differentiating just  humanism-isms and the peculiarities of each (a list kept) in a compare and contrast, an end of the day summation, and the boasting-outbesting, of each of their specialisms which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed other than it’s now ten and all that’s left is to sleep, perchance, to dream, of private things and bigger and better John Deere tractors
0
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
nat-lipstadt
Songs of Oregon: No. 4 when men talk about their women, when they are not around
porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog, in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled get done with weather, the crops, the neighbors, the weird, and the truly neighborly, grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling, bs’ing and tall tale telling,  breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live, open another Bud for the buds, did I forget to mention farm equipment? skirt politics cause nobody wants any nothing-to-be-done-damn-aggravation, leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the absent women no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed, but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer as now nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last, a very manly-way of ordering things, big silent pauses in the converso conversation, guy-sighs many, as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored, denotating the generalized listings of how they drive us crazy, listing the repetition of ever changing instructions, which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms,  non-differentiating just  humanism-isms and the peculiarities of each (a list kept) in a compare and contrast, an end of the day summation, and the boasting-outbesting, of each of their specialisms which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed other than it’s now ten and all that’s left is to sleep, perchance, to dream, of private things and bigger and better John Deere tractors
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44
your blood shot eyes so red and round their juicy plumpness compels me to eat my baby tomatoes the pungent smell of your ***** second-hand smoke fills me with desire for some beef jerky the sickly sight of your slimy, greasy hair leave me desperate with longing for some succulent string cheese when you scarf down your food as if the world was ending i can feel my partially digested turkey sandwich make its way back up my throat and spew out all over your yogurt ruining it calculus. (co-authored)
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Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
birdie
Mary Jane Takes Calculus
your blood shot eyes so red and round their juicy plumpness compels me to eat my baby tomatoes the pungent smell of your ***** second-hand smoke fills me with desire for some beef jerky the sickly sight of your slimy, greasy hair leave me desperate with longing for some succulent string cheese when you scarf down your food as if the world was ending i can feel my partially digested turkey sandwich make its way back up my throat and spew out all over your yogurt ruining it calculus. (co-authored)
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21
Up early as usually but this time with a mission to complete Halloween Costumes. Not a pain free day most definitely, but have kids who rely on me to be a good mom. Everyone has haters; the two faced, "your girls" wanting your guy or envy clothes style, or randoms you never met, desiring your life, home or new car bought with hard work. Most days what's posted on sites about me makes not a bit of difference in my world, I ignore and move on with my life, know haters have nothing better to do than gossip. No news is good news and nothing from my usual "Town Criers" saying "Guess What?" One day got messages in text, "You have been labeled Babylon's ***** by Craiglisters!" Not a "lol" nor "Roflmao" situation. Thinking, What in the world? and How in the world? Me, Ms. Abstaining and they, who love assuming and posting drama without thought. Their world; small town America and believers of truth in "all" internet rumors and media, not willing to give benefit of doubt, once minds, so limited in thought, have been made up. E-mail inquiries from potential employers I never met from destinations far far away, asking and informing that person with such low morals shall never be part of their world. Drama finds me and neither welcome nor do I seek it out, way too emotionally draining, believer in live and let live, authored "Celibacy" poem to stop jokes made to my kids. Who knew that trying for your dreams could bring forth bringers or illogical pure hatred? Who knew that emotions of my children whom I love, would be affected by narrow minds? After family conference and with full support, by the way, had to explain ***** to son, this mom carries on and still on second journey pursuing dreams and making realities. If I give up dreams it will never be because someone posted bold faced lies on open forum, it will be because I choose to do it with good reasons and those reasons are mine alone. Pitfalls? Have been numerous. Will? Strong and still determined to see this through to end. Tomorrow isn't promised and hear my dad say, "Daughter, go forth and let haters be fuel!"
0
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 4:01 AM UTC
betty-ponder
Irrational Haters and My Children
Up early as usually but this time with a mission to complete Halloween Costumes. Not a pain free day most definitely, but have kids who rely on me to be a good mom. Everyone has haters; the two faced, "your girls" wanting your guy or envy clothes style, or randoms you never met, desiring your life, home or new car bought with hard work. Most days what's posted on sites about me makes not a bit of difference in my world, I ignore and move on with my life, know haters have nothing better to do than gossip. No news is good news and nothing from my usual "Town Criers" saying "Guess What?" One day got messages in text, "You have been labeled Babylon's ***** by Craiglisters!" Not a "lol" nor "Roflmao" situation. Thinking, What in the world? and How in the world? Me, Ms. Abstaining and they, who love assuming and posting drama without thought. Their world; small town America and believers of truth in "all" internet rumors and media, not willing to give benefit of doubt, once minds, so limited in thought, have been made up. E-mail inquiries from potential employers I never met from destinations far far away, asking and informing that person with such low morals shall never be part of their world. Drama finds me and neither welcome nor do I seek it out, way too emotionally draining, believer in live and let live, authored "Celibacy" poem to stop jokes made to my kids. Who knew that trying for your dreams could bring forth bringers or illogical pure hatred? Who knew that emotions of my children whom I love, would be affected by narrow minds? After family conference and with full support, by the way, had to explain ***** to son, this mom carries on and still on second journey pursuing dreams and making realities. If I give up dreams it will never be because someone posted bold faced lies on open forum, it will be because I choose to do it with good reasons and those reasons are mine alone. Pitfalls? Have been numerous. Will? Strong and still determined to see this through to end. Tomorrow isn't promised and hear my dad say, "Daughter, go forth and let haters be fuel!"
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24
~~~ “To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.”  Henri Bergson well in that case, I’m either the most immature teen here, or Rip Van Winkle the re-creation process is six, nearly seven, decades long (you thot days, ha, no way), can’t recall the last name I called myself the delving, the researching, the forgetting, the fifty first dates of no short term memory, the checkdown, throwback Thursday of did I write that? no recollect, the pretense of prehensile strength to touch you and me simultaneously might, could be true, if you claim I authored it, ok with me and all that life taught me this, the one who oft  hangs around very young kids learns a lot, and soon recognizes maturity indeed endless but not senseless just a poem-of-the-day process indeed every sense says the minute difference between this morning and this approaching midnight, an opportunity to grow up, stand straighter, uprighter, write down my failures one more time, cause that is the sterling hallmark impressed upon thyself, ourselves, that is genuine maturity, the courageous wisdom to start all over again the clock has transgressed, moving past the 12:00am digits, which for cause makes me giddy, it’s permission to write a new one, of course, maturely thinking I still got one within, a newbie, an aged day-old brand new baby, a poem, of course god bless, I’m all grown n’ growled up, with wisdom to know I don’t got nada, but own the immature youthful courage of maturity, to keep on trying, endlessly, being your obedient-servant ~~~ *p.s. this is kind of love poem of thanksgivings, a love poem with no misgivings, a thank you for the fragments of sharing - hold so dear, the best reason to mature, the best reason to change, the best reason to write right now, here comes the mojo my newest oldest friend, reminding for the last and first time that I’m all growed, using the bigliest words I’ve known to say baby, hey baby, good night good morning write us a poem, a thank you note, from one who blessedly forgets his name, day in and year out* For that guy, you, that ancient kid, That poet-in-retrograde so rewrite the title, a refresh, are you immature enough to write? 1:12am ~for the crew~
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Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 1:28 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
Are you (im)mature? The best reason to write
~~~ “To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.”  Henri Bergson well in that case, I’m either the most immature teen here, or Rip Van Winkle the re-creation process is six, nearly seven, decades long (you thot days, ha, no way), can’t recall the last name I called myself the delving, the researching, the forgetting, the fifty first dates of no short term memory, the checkdown, throwback Thursday of did I write that? no recollect, the pretense of prehensile strength to touch you and me simultaneously might, could be true, if you claim I authored it, ok with me and all that life taught me this, the one who oft  hangs around very young kids learns a lot, and soon recognizes maturity indeed endless but not senseless just a poem-of-the-day process indeed every sense says the minute difference between this morning and this approaching midnight, an opportunity to grow up, stand straighter, uprighter, write down my failures one more time, cause that is the sterling hallmark impressed upon thyself, ourselves, that is genuine maturity, the courageous wisdom to start all over again the clock has transgressed, moving past the 12:00am digits, which for cause makes me giddy, it’s permission to write a new one, of course, maturely thinking I still got one within, a newbie, an aged day-old brand new baby, a poem, of course god bless, I’m all grown n’ growled up, with wisdom to know I don’t got nada, but own the immature youthful courage of maturity, to keep on trying, endlessly, being your obedient-servant ~~~ *p.s. this is kind of love poem of thanksgivings, a love poem with no misgivings, a thank you for the fragments of sharing - hold so dear, the best reason to mature, the best reason to change, the best reason to write right now, here comes the mojo my newest oldest friend, reminding for the last and first time that I’m all growed, using the bigliest words I’ve known to say baby, hey baby, good night good morning write us a poem, a thank you note, from one who blessedly forgets his name, day in and year out* For that guy, you, that ancient kid, That poet-in-retrograde so rewrite the title, a refresh, are you immature enough to write? 1:12am ~for the crew~
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78
twice by god's accidental interference, our crash vehicles, super sized shopping carts, connect, we are manger-penalized for unnecessary roughness and disturbing the supermarkets peace what better way to judge character than to examine a single persons shopping cart  contents? hers, all organic, milk, heirloom tomatoes, even the Chardonnay, grown upon the farms of the island and vineyards on the forks that shelter the isle from the ravages of the Atlantic mine, Hebrew National franks, yellow mustard, very classy brioche buns, a six pack of Corona Light, and funny colored, funny looking, rusted russet potato chips with a tremulous smile, and an overly loud, derisive sniff, pronounces me dead man walking sooner than later, to which, I respond, then, teach me, where shall we dine tonight? later that night, after a thousand kisses of her fluttering eyelashes, she props herself upon an elbow and in a tone sincere and caring, extracts from the poet promises of natural exclusivity from now on, healthy, natural only, organic and pure, from the soul soil of our shared habitat her suntan skin, garden-digging hand, I clasp, softly climbing on top of her, announce with total genuine sincerity and solemnity; I swear it, from now on, all my loving will be sourced locally rewarded with a laugh and a gentle but hard enough, garden to table (with her free hand), head smacking, I noting nod, good naturedly that both the laugh and smack, as well, *sourced locally, sourced lovingly,* which then seeded this new only love jointly authored poem, planted in our mingling blossoming crashing bodies 5/29/17 i 12:43pm
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May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
onlylovepoetry
Everything, Sourced Locally
twice by god's accidental interference, our crash vehicles, super sized shopping carts, connect, we are manger-penalized for unnecessary roughness and disturbing the supermarkets peace what better way to judge character than to examine a single persons shopping cart  contents? hers, all organic, milk, heirloom tomatoes, even the Chardonnay, grown upon the farms of the island and vineyards on the forks that shelter the isle from the ravages of the Atlantic mine, Hebrew National franks, yellow mustard, very classy brioche buns, a six pack of Corona Light, and funny colored, funny looking, rusted russet potato chips with a tremulous smile, and an overly loud, derisive sniff, pronounces me dead man walking sooner than later, to which, I respond, then, teach me, where shall we dine tonight? later that night, after a thousand kisses of her fluttering eyelashes, she props herself upon an elbow and in a tone sincere and caring, extracts from the poet promises of natural exclusivity from now on, healthy, natural only, organic and pure, from the soul soil of our shared habitat her suntan skin, garden-digging hand, I clasp, softly climbing on top of her, announce with total genuine sincerity and solemnity; I swear it, from now on, all my loving will be sourced locally rewarded with a laugh and a gentle but hard enough, garden to table (with her free hand), head smacking, I noting nod, good naturedly that both the laugh and smack, as well, *sourced locally, sourced lovingly,* which then seeded this new only love jointly authored poem, planted in our mingling blossoming crashing bodies 5/29/17 i 12:43pm
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43
Ganders...gargantua--ensconced in far-fetched space... (attrition)...LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT... ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY...predilections. A soul's inalienable fracas...on bend and knee...hop...and whoop...miasmic gargoyles poppy-wreathed... for all-too-lucid dreaming...chanting etceteras of bare riff raffs. Golden breastplates...weeping willow wings...empurpled-- fending fang trumping lines of: yuck, cluck, claw and kook. ...Listless eyes...alphabetize...think a blind oracle's informed absentia...holy and bovine. Redolent airs...perspiration of spume's most distancing shore-- eyepieces for the specks and logs in the oculos of brothers and sisters. As dust to dust doth not settle...heart's yonder score...nay cease of interstice...off-world amorousness. Gather ye yarrow sticks...hurl them at days...roofless arcady... live into the spectra of their worlds, come friend or foe...Fate's foundling. Lines strung as prayer beads...curs-ed beads...forget-me-nots enclosed in letters baiting Long Farewells, in the great literary correspondence of authored and Author. ...Ye gorgeous gargoyles come perch and push. Persona non grata...the wide world...unisex prodigal...All--returneth. LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...(attrition)...ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY. NEBULAEIC FANFARE...come perch to push...lo...ANGELS!
0
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
Onoma
Gorgeous Gargoyles
Ganders...gargantua--ensconced in far-fetched space... (attrition)...LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT... ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY...predilections. A soul's inalienable fracas...on bend and knee...hop...and whoop...miasmic gargoyles poppy-wreathed... for all-too-lucid dreaming...chanting etceteras of bare riff raffs. Golden breastplates...weeping willow wings...empurpled-- fending fang trumping lines of: yuck, cluck, claw and kook. ...Listless eyes...alphabetize...think a blind oracle's informed absentia...holy and bovine. Redolent airs...perspiration of spume's most distancing shore-- eyepieces for the specks and logs in the oculos of brothers and sisters. As dust to dust doth not settle...heart's yonder score...nay cease of interstice...off-world amorousness. Gather ye yarrow sticks...hurl them at days...roofless arcady... live into the spectra of their worlds, come friend or foe...Fate's foundling. Lines strung as prayer beads...curs-ed beads...forget-me-nots enclosed in letters baiting Long Farewells, in the great literary correspondence of authored and Author. ...Ye gorgeous gargoyles come perch and push. Persona non grata...the wide world...unisex prodigal...All--returneth. LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...(attrition)...ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY. NEBULAEIC FANFARE...come perch to push...lo...ANGELS!
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25
Pradip is newborn (impossible wisdom) “a new day, a new chance for my soul... to heed a small voice ... to give flowers, to plant new seeds. to not trample on wildflowers and unwanted weeds...” Sally “Sweet baby with your head on my shoulder I'm no more growing older...” Pradip ~ the unpredictability and randomness of the winds, seed carriers, of small voices, yearning to be heard, powerless in appearance only, for within are powers superior heroic, who can grow others       who can feed                                  who can sustain multiple living creatures each seed unique, a poem composed and complete, authored by precedents, authorized by predecessors, utilizing the cocoon of soil and sun, rainwater from space and deep driven to the clear milk of underground railroad rivers, to give nurture to its revisional generational code these new children of an old mix, are quiet lifesavers giving proofs positive, that those who will one day grow old, with deep gnarled roots, are most capable of finding ways of manufacturing fresh youth whim within, to those who give babies homage, in attendance this then the newborn miracle, the new seed, wind borne, replants itself in old soil, taking but more so giving, injecting bits of vitality into its arterial ancestry, how can this be?*** *I do not know the why or the how, but am evidence of the therefore, and the thereafter, of impossible wisdom* 7:07am 4-5-19 a newborn poem for poetry passing grandparents
0
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 7:19 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
Pradip is newborn (impossible wisdom)
Pradip is newborn (impossible wisdom) “a new day, a new chance for my soul... to heed a small voice ... to give flowers, to plant new seeds. to not trample on wildflowers and unwanted weeds...” Sally “Sweet baby with your head on my shoulder I'm no more growing older...” Pradip ~ the unpredictability and randomness of the winds, seed carriers, of small voices, yearning to be heard, powerless in appearance only, for within are powers superior heroic, who can grow others       who can feed                                  who can sustain multiple living creatures each seed unique, a poem composed and complete, authored by precedents, authorized by predecessors, utilizing the cocoon of soil and sun, rainwater from space and deep driven to the clear milk of underground railroad rivers, to give nurture to its revisional generational code these new children of an old mix, are quiet lifesavers giving proofs positive, that those who will one day grow old, with deep gnarled roots, are most capable of finding ways of manufacturing fresh youth whim within, to those who give babies homage, in attendance this then the newborn miracle, the new seed, wind borne, replants itself in old soil, taking but more so giving, injecting bits of vitality into its arterial ancestry, how can this be?*** *I do not know the why or the how, but am evidence of the therefore, and the thereafter, of impossible wisdom* 7:07am 4-5-19 a newborn poem for poetry passing grandparents
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34
Title : Beauty Within Beauty Poet : Phyll Genre : Love/Beauty/flaws Year : 2018 P/Swno. : 260 BEAUTY WITHIN BEAUTY As Authored By Phyll Love, You stand so bold, And so sleek. You have this Beaut... Beautiful, Rich, dark, And chocolate complexion. Your smooth, Chocolate skin... So smooth. So soft. So silky. So sweet... So sweet like a piece of candy. When I try and speak, My words get so mashed up. I end up not saying anything! You give me this sense of urge... Urgency to be the best... The best person I can be. You have this beauty about you, That i can't go a day without. I have this chronic disease, The doctor called it ATAY; Always Thinking About You! Even though you are already mine, You have this beauty about you... You make me feel warm and safe. Your beauty is mor... More than just beauty! Your beauty is a thing I call; .B..L..A..C..K. .B..E..A..U..T..Y. Never fall; For anyone else! They'll just hurt you in the end. Trust me cause for them, As easy as it was to get you It'll be even easier to replace you. Believe me when i tell you; Your BLACK BEAUTY, Is not your ideal beauty. Your beauty, Is the way you carry yourself; In this high esteemed way. That I don't care, About what you say or do wrong. Cause to me, It's what your beauty entails. The way you make words sound; So smooth and so good. You give me this sense; Sense of protection and comfort. Whenever we hug, To me the world is just for two; Just me and you! When we make eye contact, And our eyes lock; I can feel what you feel, You feel what I feel? But I can't say how I feel, With my words. We can't say a thing, This connection is wordless... I just can't explain, I just don't know why. I want to get to know you, More than I know myself. Despite the fact that I'm a gent, You make me feel beautifu... I felt a certain way for you, Ever since I first met you... I don't doubt you feel the same, Ever since I first saw you. Just never had the courage to say anything, But i am now your beholder. Your BLACK BEAUTY, Portrays it all. That's why, I not only like you, But i love everything about you! Feel Special my .B..L..A..C..K. .B..E..A..U..T..Y. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED COPYRIGHT BY PHYLL [email protected] (C)2018.*
0
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC
Phyll_Spoken_Arts23
BEAUTY WITHIN BEAUTY
Title : Beauty Within Beauty Poet : Phyll Genre : Love/Beauty/flaws Year : 2018 P/Swno. : 260 BEAUTY WITHIN BEAUTY As Authored By Phyll Love, You stand so bold, And so sleek. You have this Beaut... Beautiful, Rich, dark, And chocolate complexion. Your smooth, Chocolate skin... So smooth. So soft. So silky. So sweet... So sweet like a piece of candy. When I try and speak, My words get so mashed up. I end up not saying anything! You give me this sense of urge... Urgency to be the best... The best person I can be. You have this beauty about you, That i can't go a day without. I have this chronic disease, The doctor called it ATAY; Always Thinking About You! Even though you are already mine, You have this beauty about you... You make me feel warm and safe. Your beauty is mor... More than just beauty! Your beauty is a thing I call; .B..L..A..C..K. .B..E..A..U..T..Y. Never fall; For anyone else! They'll just hurt you in the end. Trust me cause for them, As easy as it was to get you It'll be even easier to replace you. Believe me when i tell you; Your BLACK BEAUTY, Is not your ideal beauty. Your beauty, Is the way you carry yourself; In this high esteemed way. That I don't care, About what you say or do wrong. Cause to me, It's what your beauty entails. The way you make words sound; So smooth and so good. You give me this sense; Sense of protection and comfort. Whenever we hug, To me the world is just for two; Just me and you! When we make eye contact, And our eyes lock; I can feel what you feel, You feel what I feel? But I can't say how I feel, With my words. We can't say a thing, This connection is wordless... I just can't explain, I just don't know why. I want to get to know you, More than I know myself. Despite the fact that I'm a gent, You make me feel beautifu... I felt a certain way for you, Ever since I first met you... I don't doubt you feel the same, Ever since I first saw you. Just never had the courage to say anything, But i am now your beholder. Your BLACK BEAUTY, Portrays it all. That's why, I not only like you, But i love everything about you! Feel Special my .B..L..A..C..K. .B..E..A..U..T..Y. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED COPYRIGHT BY PHYLL [email protected] (C)2018.*
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94
When the soul seeks the song frozen in time, Divinity obliges by sending a few echoes down my path. They reverberate across the blue champagne waves of inertia to awaken reminiscences of our harmonic rhythm. Moments flow syllable like to find a meaning between the lines etched on destiny's canvas as a presence converges into resonance. Every word is amplified together into honest understanding breaking apart the rational mind icebergs that predominate love.
0
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 12:49 AM UTC
Nikunj10972
Resonating again - Co authored with Sara Fielder
When the soul seeks the song frozen in time, Divinity obliges by sending a few echoes down my path. They reverberate across the blue champagne waves of inertia to awaken reminiscences of our harmonic rhythm. Moments flow syllable like to find a meaning between the lines etched on destiny's canvas as a presence converges into resonance. Every word is amplified together into honest understanding breaking apart the rational mind icebergs that predominate love.
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18
None of these verses are authored by me... My brain's being held hostage by a couple of thieves. They drain me of images and words every night... They're so thuggish I won't even dare to put up a fight. They tell me if I'm good they'll expedite my release... but now I'm on my knees begging them please. I have some deadlines coming up soon I need to touch-up some paintings so they don't look like cartoons. But the conspiracy plays out, the plot thickens.... they won't let me refuse.   These wanna be poets, my demanding hand and a partner...the pencil, its Muse.
0
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 2:07 AM UTC
A-NU_0LD_POET
The Co(cons)pirators
None of these verses are authored by me... My brain's being held hostage by a couple of thieves. They drain me of images and words every night... They're so thuggish I won't even dare to put up a fight. They tell me if I'm good they'll expedite my release... but now I'm on my knees begging them please. I have some deadlines coming up soon I need to touch-up some paintings so they don't look like cartoons. But the conspiracy plays out, the plot thickens.... they won't let me refuse.   These wanna be poets, my demanding hand and a partner...the pencil, its Muse.
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23
Do not stress over the broken dreams of yesterday, Cracks in the walls of your good intentions allow the glimmer of light, Neither sought or understood, To shine through. You cannot know what awaits, Not can you have more than the slightest effect on your life's outcome for 'you' as you know yourself to be is nothing more than a grouping of molecules more complex than the universe you reside in and your thoughts and designs no more authored by you than your eventual fate. So please do not angst over broken hearts and what may have been, You never really had a chance anyway, Yet realize that something good and often better will come for within you resides the universe just as you reside within it.
0
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 3:18 AM UTC
Mooretosay
You are the Universe in Which You Reside
Do not stress over the broken dreams of yesterday, Cracks in the walls of your good intentions allow the glimmer of light, Neither sought or understood, To shine through. You cannot know what awaits, Not can you have more than the slightest effect on your life's outcome for 'you' as you know yourself to be is nothing more than a grouping of molecules more complex than the universe you reside in and your thoughts and designs no more authored by you than your eventual fate. So please do not angst over broken hearts and what may have been, You never really had a chance anyway, Yet realize that something good and often better will come for within you resides the universe just as you reside within it.
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9
A trinity of three styles one man no religion one morning over a lifetime Temporary (we tat too) Temporary love has no precision definition so if I say love you forever, as I do, know know just know this particular phrase is temporary, unique and forgivable as temporary as our permanent tattoo, the one embellishing you,   the one marking me, the two hearts tat that means we are a tat two If you begin a poem, a love, a tat with temporary, usually, but not always, you have already failed See http://hellopoetry.com/poem/if-you-begin-a-poem-with-i/ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Invalidation my living bones, twisted. my words, slurred, disfigured with a panache, that makes the mirror turn away, ashamed invalid. in valid. I have been invalidated, I spit at your too late heroics, unwanted. I spit at myself, for missing the moment, when choice was mine I would have self-destructed, freely, reborn in an act of self-validation, be my own living will, if only I had not been enslaved to my ********** Fear invalidation, the Cain mark of every failed man ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Bootyoir three day weekend has commenced. it's con-occlusion now in rapid descent mini-vacation, maxi-sensation. the only question remaining, present but debated, as yet undecided, whose turn is it to answer the doorbell, when the delivery guy brings our break~fast for it is forbidden, a transgress, to egress from the bootyoir, except for the call of nature, and naturally, I am calling you, comeback comeback hungry time it's time we co-authored some bootyoir poetry
0
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 7:58 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
Trinity: Temporary Invalidation Bootyoir
A trinity of three styles one man no religion one morning over a lifetime Temporary (we tat too) Temporary love has no precision definition so if I say love you forever, as I do, know know just know this particular phrase is temporary, unique and forgivable as temporary as our permanent tattoo, the one embellishing you,   the one marking me, the two hearts tat that means we are a tat two If you begin a poem, a love, a tat with temporary, usually, but not always, you have already failed See http://hellopoetry.com/poem/if-you-begin-a-poem-with-i/ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Invalidation my living bones, twisted. my words, slurred, disfigured with a panache, that makes the mirror turn away, ashamed invalid. in valid. I have been invalidated, I spit at your too late heroics, unwanted. I spit at myself, for missing the moment, when choice was mine I would have self-destructed, freely, reborn in an act of self-validation, be my own living will, if only I had not been enslaved to my ********** Fear invalidation, the Cain mark of every failed man ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Bootyoir three day weekend has commenced. it's con-occlusion now in rapid descent mini-vacation, maxi-sensation. the only question remaining, present but debated, as yet undecided, whose turn is it to answer the doorbell, when the delivery guy brings our break~fast for it is forbidden, a transgress, to egress from the bootyoir, except for the call of nature, and naturally, I am calling you, comeback comeback hungry time it's time we co-authored some bootyoir poetry
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76
Day eleven, I'm missing you and I'm feeling like sinning, maybe I should start from the clement beginning. Day one, I see no more sun for I am alone contemplating how I accrete age and how many seeds I have sown. Day two, palimpsest problems weigh in heavy on my choices and my mind has many voices. Day three please don't look inside hollow me, the pregnant wasteland of my heart has been growing ruin from the very start. Day four and out all my emotions pour, I'm breathless from a sight of you and my whole world returns anew. Day five is crepuscular in nature, a perpetually playful night, authored by your omnific fingers and hidden behind the curtain, a sun just out of sight. Day six, I've uncovered a skeleton making me love you even more and I asseverate promises, becoming blurred by family uproar. Day seven is driven by a sensation of imbrication and we know an end is coming, lost in the easy salvation. Day eight starts with our bodies huddled and our minds muddled, you are a plagiary of my emotions forgotten in loo of body illustration and soul cultivation. Day nine is propelled by the intoxication of an end, conclusion of what extent? and filled with eristic thoughts of surrender to this utopian ascent. Day ten and you're caught, in my arms is where you ought to be, and I keep hearing how just awakened you sought for me.
0
Jul 2, 2010
Jul 2, 2010 at 9:56 AM UTC
B_Lid
Day 11
Day eleven, I'm missing you and I'm feeling like sinning, maybe I should start from the clement beginning. Day one, I see no more sun for I am alone contemplating how I accrete age and how many seeds I have sown. Day two, palimpsest problems weigh in heavy on my choices and my mind has many voices. Day three please don't look inside hollow me, the pregnant wasteland of my heart has been growing ruin from the very start. Day four and out all my emotions pour, I'm breathless from a sight of you and my whole world returns anew. Day five is crepuscular in nature, a perpetually playful night, authored by your omnific fingers and hidden behind the curtain, a sun just out of sight. Day six, I've uncovered a skeleton making me love you even more and I asseverate promises, becoming blurred by family uproar. Day seven is driven by a sensation of imbrication and we know an end is coming, lost in the easy salvation. Day eight starts with our bodies huddled and our minds muddled, you are a plagiary of my emotions forgotten in loo of body illustration and soul cultivation. Day nine is propelled by the intoxication of an end, conclusion of what extent? and filled with eristic thoughts of surrender to this utopian ascent. Day ten and you're caught, in my arms is where you ought to be, and I keep hearing how just awakened you sought for me.
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33
imagine all the cells that form to join in your sensation all the stars that blew your bits together for proper procreation being born with every breath and reaching death through exhalation-- i simply can't exist without you nor you without i, and of this we can be sure that (though the sureness of my i obscures the many in us all[ mere words to ***** for thoughts we cope with] )it will rumble beneath and explode at the surface to delayed surprise of just reprise (mistaking inflation as progress) that libations of dogmas won't change a thing: when you look at the fibers in the fabric of being (spun finely by spiders invisibly swift) and if our knowledge were but a fly we'd see ourselves trapped by its infinite web, both victim to its trap and servant to its host (though this is the nature of matters sticking close[ especially light years away]) just as the lattice of language roots deep inside double-helix libraries unimaginably tall filled with books authored by curious protons, excited electrons and fleeting photons, composed of sentences by snarky quarks and gluons lying in -eate groups with unseen companions (read between the lines) working in union to fashion a sum greater than summation could do-- an alchemical-calculus of fractal fluidity, finding contexts for novelty to sing songs like Earth (though just a planet in other eyes) to give conscious rise within the cosmic playground embodied by us, but not encompassed by us; rather extended through us as curiosity mirrored.
0
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 2:37 AM UTC
travis-dixon
mirrored
imagine all the cells that form to join in your sensation all the stars that blew your bits together for proper procreation being born with every breath and reaching death through exhalation-- i simply can't exist without you nor you without i, and of this we can be sure that (though the sureness of my i obscures the many in us all[ mere words to ***** for thoughts we cope with] )it will rumble beneath and explode at the surface to delayed surprise of just reprise (mistaking inflation as progress) that libations of dogmas won't change a thing: when you look at the fibers in the fabric of being (spun finely by spiders invisibly swift) and if our knowledge were but a fly we'd see ourselves trapped by its infinite web, both victim to its trap and servant to its host (though this is the nature of matters sticking close[ especially light years away]) just as the lattice of language roots deep inside double-helix libraries unimaginably tall filled with books authored by curious protons, excited electrons and fleeting photons, composed of sentences by snarky quarks and gluons lying in -eate groups with unseen companions (read between the lines) working in union to fashion a sum greater than summation could do-- an alchemical-calculus of fractal fluidity, finding contexts for novelty to sing songs like Earth (though just a planet in other eyes) to give conscious rise within the cosmic playground embodied by us, but not encompassed by us; rather extended through us as curiosity mirrored.
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39
*A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.* Ecclesiastes 3:5. long, long long have I known the contradictory meaning thereof, for I authored it, time immemorial till the day came when understanding parted, left for another prophet, another poet, for this how the world's words go, round and around left me re commencing re imaging re imagining, new era words, newer versions, new heards newer mergings stones and embraces ha! "Two of my favorite things" no, that's been done... "Let's go get ****** and..." nope, that's been done So, spark sublime divine give me a second chance, compose me a vision that gathers these mutual funds of contrasting similarities in a bow tied connection singular, worthy of song and daily recitation! *her embrace was a stone necklace around my throat, sackcloth was my shroud, to the sea bottom was impaled, by the stony apparition of the unrequited embrace* Ugh *My beloved's embrace, cracked the stones that surround my uncaring register, the cold still waters that hid it now boiling from her gathering me in* better. one last try before I repent *embrace the stones that obstacle the journey, gather them in, together keep, for they are the markers, you have used, you have been, you have exhausted, so long after the body ashed, these words will trace for those that follow the path you marked with these same stones you gathered in olden days of simple joyous embrace* this will, must have to do, for the stones of the angels of sleep have arrived and undeterred, upon my chest have, inscribed and placed, while bidding me adieu, tucking me in, gathering me to my rest, a closing eyeing embracing, in drowsy voices half clear: sleep prophet, the work done, the words piled, the stones now mark your the you final resting place upon them ecrivez, In The Future, Keep It Simple Stupid
0
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
nat-lipstadt
Stones and Embraces
*A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.* Ecclesiastes 3:5. long, long long have I known the contradictory meaning thereof, for I authored it, time immemorial till the day came when understanding parted, left for another prophet, another poet, for this how the world's words go, round and around left me re commencing re imaging re imagining, new era words, newer versions, new heards newer mergings stones and embraces ha! "Two of my favorite things" no, that's been done... "Let's go get ****** and..." nope, that's been done So, spark sublime divine give me a second chance, compose me a vision that gathers these mutual funds of contrasting similarities in a bow tied connection singular, worthy of song and daily recitation! *her embrace was a stone necklace around my throat, sackcloth was my shroud, to the sea bottom was impaled, by the stony apparition of the unrequited embrace* Ugh *My beloved's embrace, cracked the stones that surround my uncaring register, the cold still waters that hid it now boiling from her gathering me in* better. one last try before I repent *embrace the stones that obstacle the journey, gather them in, together keep, for they are the markers, you have used, you have been, you have exhausted, so long after the body ashed, these words will trace for those that follow the path you marked with these same stones you gathered in olden days of simple joyous embrace* this will, must have to do, for the stones of the angels of sleep have arrived and undeterred, upon my chest have, inscribed and placed, while bidding me adieu, tucking me in, gathering me to my rest, a closing eyeing embracing, in drowsy voices half clear: sleep prophet, the work done, the words piled, the stones now mark your the you final resting place upon them ecrivez, In The Future, Keep It Simple Stupid
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90
I flirt with falling Weightless in the illusion Catch me, air Catch me, trees Catch me water Dangling over ripples Interrupted, they scatter Soaring circles Arcs in time We are interlocked, intertwined. "It's like titanic" But I'm the only one with my arms spread wide I shuffle my feet closer to the edge All is emptiness And fullness "I feel like I'm floating" Two smiles hover either side The third has found solid ground And my favourite people in all the world are here And scattered in the other-land Left behind: One *** ***** of foreign species One single-authored message "He stole the paper back" Eyes are anxious caricatures But that's just how he do. Under now, Earth clings: "Don't leave me again" We serenade our climb With discordant harmony
0
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
TuesdayPixie
Discordant Harmony
I flirt with falling Weightless in the illusion Catch me, air Catch me, trees Catch me water Dangling over ripples Interrupted, they scatter Soaring circles Arcs in time We are interlocked, intertwined. "It's like titanic" But I'm the only one with my arms spread wide I shuffle my feet closer to the edge All is emptiness And fullness "I feel like I'm floating" Two smiles hover either side The third has found solid ground And my favourite people in all the world are here And scattered in the other-land Left behind: One *** ***** of foreign species One single-authored message "He stole the paper back" Eyes are anxious caricatures But that's just how he do. Under now, Earth clings: "Don't leave me again" We serenade our climb With discordant harmony
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31
and now you're singing karaoke... so ha ha and Kyoto. and this is the part where i tell you i love you? it sounds like it's the part where i **** your dog off and laugh; or maybe that's the part where i say i'm scooch-peppery-ish! tangy! mm hmm! solid gold worth's an advert! aha, Elvis just rolled up his sleeves! while Shoon can-can the worthy, sire nigh nigh the knighted made speeches at a royal funeral that made 20 kings abdicate, we all thought of Monaco and Senna... lipstick Helsinki... crisscross Albania and: Waterloo... when Napoleon sniffed glue... oh Waterloo! i too built Stockholm in a day, based on the pop culture of Europe casually so. but indeed Sean, the flowery basin of all that's Essex, Sussex and Kent, i.e. Scottish, show... i'm ashoored it'sh Shcandinavian cartoon or at least halfwit Belgian with the moustache, dumb-flicked Hercules Poirot... authored by a nagging Agatha Christensen.
0
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 11:34 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
western conquest of communism
and now you're singing karaoke... so ha ha and Kyoto. and this is the part where i tell you i love you? it sounds like it's the part where i **** your dog off and laugh; or maybe that's the part where i say i'm scooch-peppery-ish! tangy! mm hmm! solid gold worth's an advert! aha, Elvis just rolled up his sleeves! while Shoon can-can the worthy, sire nigh nigh the knighted made speeches at a royal funeral that made 20 kings abdicate, we all thought of Monaco and Senna... lipstick Helsinki... crisscross Albania and: Waterloo... when Napoleon sniffed glue... oh Waterloo! i too built Stockholm in a day, based on the pop culture of Europe casually so. but indeed Sean, the flowery basin of all that's Essex, Sussex and Kent, i.e. Scottish, show... i'm ashoored it'sh Shcandinavian cartoon or at least halfwit Belgian with the moustache, dumb-flicked Hercules Poirot... authored by a nagging Agatha Christensen.
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23
Drugs Drugs Drugs Drugs Drugs, What have you done to my life? But ****** it all up. *** Authored hearts on sleeves, So biblical, I’ve held her, Peaceful as a psalm.
0
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 6:04 PM UTC
paul-james-valhalla-clear
Haiku, Because I Can't Effin' Sleep Pt. 1 & 2
Drugs Drugs Drugs Drugs Drugs, What have you done to my life? But ****** it all up. *** Authored hearts on sleeves, So biblical, I’ve held her, Peaceful as a psalm.
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7
I look like I'm not troubled. Fact is, deep within, I'm in a ball, curled and doubled. Inside of my Soul, Piercing shrieks are all that are heard The opacity of night is brighter than magnified light compared to the darkness that is so profound. Within the Inside of my Soul, To reach my demise is a wish upon a star, of which is only a vague experience dreamt . Within the Inside of my Soul, On the surface I may feel fine, traverse deeper... there, now you are where the madness is withheld. Further yet, and I know not what you shall find! Within the Inside of my Soul, This region is neither authored by my body nor my mind. The Inside of my Soul, Consistently it stirs for either omniscient peace, or to end the constant turmoil and cease Within the Inside of my soul, I see no imminent release, Within the Inside of my Soul, As does the Sun, my Soul either rises or sets, yet it never rests... even when unseen Within the Inside of my Soul, As my heart beats the blood that constantly flows, So too never is there rest within, The Inside Of My Soul! -end- Revised from Feb. 18th, 2009 which is as follows: "Inside of my soul"(Original) I look like I'm not troubled, but the truth is, I'm in a ball, curled and doubled. Inside of my soul, only screams are heard and the night is light compared to the dark that is so thick with in the inside of my soul death is a wish upon a star, of which is only dreamt, inside of my soul. Yes, I might feel fine, go a little deeper, then you will reach my mind, there, now you are where my madness is withheld. but further still, I know not what you shall find. Inside of my soul, this place is not under the control of my body or mind. My soul, it constantly stirs for either peace or to one day cease. I CANT GET A GRIP! So I pray for a release; Inside of my soul. Like the sun, it either rises or sets, yet it never rests, even when unseen Like the blood that flows from my heart to my body, there is no rest with in the Inside of my Soul. -end-
0
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 3:52 PM UTC
joshua-vincens
"Inside Of My Soul"--June 25th, 2012
I look like I'm not troubled. Fact is, deep within, I'm in a ball, curled and doubled. Inside of my Soul, Piercing shrieks are all that are heard The opacity of night is brighter than magnified light compared to the darkness that is so profound. Within the Inside of my Soul, To reach my demise is a wish upon a star, of which is only a vague experience dreamt . Within the Inside of my Soul, On the surface I may feel fine, traverse deeper... there, now you are where the madness is withheld. Further yet, and I know not what you shall find! Within the Inside of my Soul, This region is neither authored by my body nor my mind. The Inside of my Soul, Consistently it stirs for either omniscient peace, or to end the constant turmoil and cease Within the Inside of my soul, I see no imminent release, Within the Inside of my Soul, As does the Sun, my Soul either rises or sets, yet it never rests... even when unseen Within the Inside of my Soul, As my heart beats the blood that constantly flows, So too never is there rest within, The Inside Of My Soul! -end- Revised from Feb. 18th, 2009 which is as follows: "Inside of my soul"(Original) I look like I'm not troubled, but the truth is, I'm in a ball, curled and doubled. Inside of my soul, only screams are heard and the night is light compared to the dark that is so thick with in the inside of my soul death is a wish upon a star, of which is only dreamt, inside of my soul. Yes, I might feel fine, go a little deeper, then you will reach my mind, there, now you are where my madness is withheld. but further still, I know not what you shall find. Inside of my soul, this place is not under the control of my body or mind. My soul, it constantly stirs for either peace or to one day cease. I CANT GET A GRIP! So I pray for a release; Inside of my soul. Like the sun, it either rises or sets, yet it never rests, even when unseen Like the blood that flows from my heart to my body, there is no rest with in the Inside of my Soul. -end-
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39
in the theater, (awaiting the curtain rising), woman looks at me, (I say) Tangerines. punches me in the arm, again (and again) read her mind, knowing silently making shopping list. in kitchen, looking confused, what the heck did I come in here for, surreptitious smiling, (i suggest) cuppa tea be nice. looks at me queer (and says) **** it, stop doing that!* in car, home bound, turns to me (I say,) *veggie burger, a great idea for dinner.* can't hit me cause doing the driving, makes instead she-laughing, teeth gnashing grunting noises (most comical) no Houdini, (who dat?) 5 years on read her like the book. book of poems she has co-authored entitled the mystery of no mystery
0
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
nat-lipstadt
Version Two
in the theater, (awaiting the curtain rising), woman looks at me, (I say) Tangerines. punches me in the arm, again (and again) read her mind, knowing silently making shopping list. in kitchen, looking confused, what the heck did I come in here for, surreptitious smiling, (i suggest) cuppa tea be nice. looks at me queer (and says) **** it, stop doing that!* in car, home bound, turns to me (I say,) *veggie burger, a great idea for dinner.* can't hit me cause doing the driving, makes instead she-laughing, teeth gnashing grunting noises (most comical) no Houdini, (who dat?) 5 years on read her like the book. book of poems she has co-authored entitled the mystery of no mystery
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47
As the crowd engulfed me, I couldn’t help but Scrutinize each person who brushed my side. Each face unique which tells a distinct story. Each story with its own plot, climaxes, and resolutions. Each soul harboring its own worries and ambitions. I’m overwhelmed by the vastness of the ocean I’m in, A single fish among multitudes of all shapes and vibrant colors. My story is merely a page among billions that comprise The Story of Humanity. A collection of individual histories that has propelled, In one way or another, our species. Every tear, drop of sweat, and ounce of effort Has fueled the fire that blazes within us. The Story of Humanity-- Bound by threads of fate, Inked with blood of the fallen, Soaked with ardent passions and desires, Authored by love.
0
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 6:35 PM UTC
daniel-ospina
The Story of Humanity
As the crowd engulfed me, I couldn’t help but Scrutinize each person who brushed my side. Each face unique which tells a distinct story. Each story with its own plot, climaxes, and resolutions. Each soul harboring its own worries and ambitions. I’m overwhelmed by the vastness of the ocean I’m in, A single fish among multitudes of all shapes and vibrant colors. My story is merely a page among billions that comprise The Story of Humanity. A collection of individual histories that has propelled, In one way or another, our species. Every tear, drop of sweat, and ounce of effort Has fueled the fire that blazes within us. The Story of Humanity-- Bound by threads of fate, Inked with blood of the fallen, Soaked with ardent passions and desires, Authored by love.
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18
Together they lamented a generation with newspaper vision In a mesh perspective, young and old I have a bad habit of falling In love Everywhere I go, said young Is that jazz on your record player? I do believe it is becoming my most passionate affair of all Each Skiddly-doo bahp, *** dum walk, deedly-dee And keyed swung run Are like wild spirals of fireworks, tie dyed tentacles swirling about Hugging my weightless all-ear, a train for fractal tracks on-spot created I hear their hoof beats, and I think zebras He told old how he intended to learn To morph his pain to bop And achieve the wordless cohesion of sardine schools Through plucked coiled steel, if it cost him all his years He knew the notes, but now he would conjure color And shade them through his pineal prism Until his dancing phalanges could spill coral reefs and sunsets Old told him how music had saved his life And in the war he was permitted to leave his truck To press on black and white, tamed but untrained The Japan grand was lame, but officers smiled Some night, he said, when you're smashed and uninhibited Gather your tools and let your inner self become a melody When you manage to break your gates in sobriety You will be an artist Listen to the wind Beauty is improvised He handed young his authored book, which carefully he'd signed Never lose it friend; your greatest gift is your appetite They sat in his office while the record spun a standard Fuzzy magic rang out forever, it seemed Like signals to space or whale songs through the depths Most listeners are scared to lose control Ashes piled as the fire died But young knew his never would Him and jazz had fallen in love That night, he knew he'd lived
0
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 12:04 AM UTC
ERRPoetry
125. Jazz 1/4/12
Together they lamented a generation with newspaper vision In a mesh perspective, young and old I have a bad habit of falling In love Everywhere I go, said young Is that jazz on your record player? I do believe it is becoming my most passionate affair of all Each Skiddly-doo bahp, *** dum walk, deedly-dee And keyed swung run Are like wild spirals of fireworks, tie dyed tentacles swirling about Hugging my weightless all-ear, a train for fractal tracks on-spot created I hear their hoof beats, and I think zebras He told old how he intended to learn To morph his pain to bop And achieve the wordless cohesion of sardine schools Through plucked coiled steel, if it cost him all his years He knew the notes, but now he would conjure color And shade them through his pineal prism Until his dancing phalanges could spill coral reefs and sunsets Old told him how music had saved his life And in the war he was permitted to leave his truck To press on black and white, tamed but untrained The Japan grand was lame, but officers smiled Some night, he said, when you're smashed and uninhibited Gather your tools and let your inner self become a melody When you manage to break your gates in sobriety You will be an artist Listen to the wind Beauty is improvised He handed young his authored book, which carefully he'd signed Never lose it friend; your greatest gift is your appetite They sat in his office while the record spun a standard Fuzzy magic rang out forever, it seemed Like signals to space or whale songs through the depths Most listeners are scared to lose control Ashes piled as the fire died But young knew his never would Him and jazz had fallen in love That night, he knew he'd lived
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40
From that first moment Tired of repeatedly failing As I looked up instinctively And beheld a cute petit figure Gliding gracefully, oblivious of me! Captivated by her laughter Charmed by her brown eyes Enchanted by her sheer beauty Mesmerized by her angelic aura I heard my heart whisper, “she’s the one”! With divine reassurance I embarked on the ultimate task With a red account and a blue heart It seemed an obvious Mission Impossible But our love story had been authored in heaven! In the last 365 days We’ve argued, we’ve fought We’ve kissed and we’ve made up In one year, many things have changed But one thing is constant - we’re still in love!
0
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 6:41 PM UTC
raphael-uzor
Happy Anniversary!
From that first moment Tired of repeatedly failing As I looked up instinctively And beheld a cute petit figure Gliding gracefully, oblivious of me! Captivated by her laughter Charmed by her brown eyes Enchanted by her sheer beauty Mesmerized by her angelic aura I heard my heart whisper, “she’s the one”! With divine reassurance I embarked on the ultimate task With a red account and a blue heart It seemed an obvious Mission Impossible But our love story had been authored in heaven! In the last 365 days We’ve argued, we’ve fought We’ve kissed and we’ve made up In one year, many things have changed But one thing is constant - we’re still in love!
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20
I saw her softly combing her chestnut hair Each motion like parting smooth ocean waves. I had to know her and how she behaves. Yet my heart filled with terrible despair. My friends told me to turn back, but I braved the restless sea. I seem to have a knack, For finding any key. I found her reading my favorite book. She was delighted to know I knew it. Nothing was more obscure than our love, for a writer more obscure than his peers. I dreamed of her every night her passions warm our victory right; in either dorm. Every meeting with her I carried my fantasies: a shell eclipsing the very truth I failed to see, or so they said of my nights' shameful proclivities. We shared our hearts like pastries, devouring one another's thoughts until we knew the taste by rote. Of course, we were so engorged upon the fictions of our authored lives that something had to be real; had to be tangible beyond mere spooling tales wagging to tune. Ignited like a forest fire was the lust coursing through us and in gleaming moonlit fits of ravenous lips and tender bits our bodies danced in only so many ways two chiming instruments can rattle the soul knocking and injecting essences to quench the flame that can never ever be quenched... Oh, Lord! I lay there breathing wishing to die in the moment I knew I loved her that I may immortalize the knowledge thusly ending potential doubt and teeming lies. A month later, we were still burning and alive and burning alive but we don't threaten our haven, we just consider ourselves lost in a wonderland of *** Then a man, a few years my senior came, and he wanted words, he felt entitled. He felt entitled to her, her mind, her body, her genius, her love and her *** A month later, at a bar back at home, I saw it all too clear and regretted ever knowing her, ever loving her every succumbing to the *** that drug. She's somewhere now, loving him, because he was entitled; his name was on her history, in her language, on her books, in her mind, on her, in her, every time I thought it was just me, he was there dancing with her, holding her my hand was a ghost all along. My darling portends the end of an era, but my life began with her and that soft kiss. My darling portends a life of searching for, cure to a heartbreak that mends with further pain.
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Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 12:49 PM UTC
DEW
My Darling Portends...
I saw her softly combing her chestnut hair Each motion like parting smooth ocean waves. I had to know her and how she behaves. Yet my heart filled with terrible despair. My friends told me to turn back, but I braved the restless sea. I seem to have a knack, For finding any key. I found her reading my favorite book. She was delighted to know I knew it. Nothing was more obscure than our love, for a writer more obscure than his peers. I dreamed of her every night her passions warm our victory right; in either dorm. Every meeting with her I carried my fantasies: a shell eclipsing the very truth I failed to see, or so they said of my nights' shameful proclivities. We shared our hearts like pastries, devouring one another's thoughts until we knew the taste by rote. Of course, we were so engorged upon the fictions of our authored lives that something had to be real; had to be tangible beyond mere spooling tales wagging to tune. Ignited like a forest fire was the lust coursing through us and in gleaming moonlit fits of ravenous lips and tender bits our bodies danced in only so many ways two chiming instruments can rattle the soul knocking and injecting essences to quench the flame that can never ever be quenched... Oh, Lord! I lay there breathing wishing to die in the moment I knew I loved her that I may immortalize the knowledge thusly ending potential doubt and teeming lies. A month later, we were still burning and alive and burning alive but we don't threaten our haven, we just consider ourselves lost in a wonderland of *** Then a man, a few years my senior came, and he wanted words, he felt entitled. He felt entitled to her, her mind, her body, her genius, her love and her *** A month later, at a bar back at home, I saw it all too clear and regretted ever knowing her, ever loving her every succumbing to the *** that drug. She's somewhere now, loving him, because he was entitled; his name was on her history, in her language, on her books, in her mind, on her, in her, every time I thought it was just me, he was there dancing with her, holding her my hand was a ghost all along. My darling portends the end of an era, but my life began with her and that soft kiss. My darling portends a life of searching for, cure to a heartbreak that mends with further pain.
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