"ayes" poems
*all those in favour
of the weekend
say aye
AYE!
All those not in
favour of
the weekend
say nay
-
-
-
HURRAY!
The
AYES
have
it!*
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 5:48 AM UTC
<•>
BusBusNYC (A Live Love Bus App)
•<>•
if you made it this far, so fare one,
be undressed with thyself and impressed as well,
for thou joints me in holy matrimony upon a living map
where our presences can meet
in virtual real time as if eye new what that meant
but that blue dot is where this body possessed can be located by the nearest satellite finger snaking down from the heavens to Cain mark my foreheads location,
just like on Game of Thrones
don't you desire me, or rather,
the knowledge of mine
whereabouts?
the who of me, that very useful information, can best be
seen moving crosstown on the M72,
which is a mythological bus for in twenty years eye never
seen it come, go, though all its stops clearly marked
see me moving in fits and spurts of bursts of movement,
leaping streets and avenues in a single
unbounded, unstoppable superbus leap
in a city of anonymity where all who walk it streets,
ride the tides of its buses,
all ask a single Job-like question,
regardless of age,
"I am desirable, do you want me?"
eye say the ayes have it,
no,
this is not a great poem
but!
this live bus map app is the dating site ever created by
geeky human cells
alll this virtual meeting possibly leading to coitus
with a stranger while Pandora serenades
with perfect synchronicity, playing and plying us with
Romance for a Violin and Orchestra in F Minor,
a combination musical **** work of
Dvorak-Mehta-Midori
this bus app is
the social media's most immediate,
so meet me on the bus
at Broadway and 86 Street
where our metro cards can be
merged and we will be recognized
as a legal couple(ing)
in the eyes of MTA,
a multi-state agency and be bound in bustrimony
(legally married when riding on a city bus, only)
jeez, a crazy poem, not just, not a good one
but a true tale from the one who rides the buses and only
alights and delights with regaling tales and tellings
of love sortie sorrow maybe tomorrow the busbusNYC
app wil apply itself a smidgen better and
let me love you even with
a good under the hood
bus poem
but!
someday we will,
this, thy poet,
who does desire youalone,
will hijack you and a NYC bus,
and visit the poets from India and
the Great Northwest
won't that be a fabulous poem!
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC
Natalie!
at present I am present on a small isle,
which is so green genteel
to the eyes and the ayes,
you might include it
among yet unmastered possibilities,
living here forever.
indeed, the crescent beach so welcoming that
francais et l'anglais des anglaise is spoken here,
but actuality
has a way of intruding,
like
Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Bleu,
saying I know you,
even if it doesn’t
this breeze bearing load suggests your name
as a candidate for future, honours, an MBE,
a practiced curtsy for a queen,
whatever is he babbling about?
why I am presenting an outline for a screenplay that
will make you a little rich and somewhat fameuse
so you buy a house on the water,
party all night,
write in the miracle wonder of the late afternoon
on a summery isle,
modestly hungover
say!
where is this isle so sheltered,
where nooks are set aside for poets and drunks
to pub crawl, to stand on tables and Irish sing of
those things that poets endlessly babble?
so add :
come here and let us listen to all your possibilities
and cross just this one,
your presence here,
off the list
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 3:40 PM UTC
the unthinkable is our specialty
~
there are special periods of varying length
when we are given grants of capability
where solutions transferable like shared salt drops
and red gummy bears
you need, I believe, and the
no contract is signed and commissioned,
belief is suspended,
for the eyes have the evidence,
the ayes win the nomination,
the shaken but unbreakable longest kiss
secures the deal,
and the local island newspaper banners a headline,
“miracles on the island expand contagiously!”
this is when
this is where
one walks the streets and the dirt roads
sing song smiling,
the tide always incoming,
the peeks of sun
perfectly strong,
installing a feeling
of safe and home and not alone
where is shelter?
*here here,
here is shelter,
hear is shelter,
in words and deeds and on our
embracing fingertips*
9:45am
April 11, 2019
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 3:44 PM UTC
**Collaboration with
Arcassin B
SS**
There's someone
On Capitol Hill
There amongst the
***** and swill
Got your number
On a bill
They've SOLD OUT
For a thrill
Every vice
Martinis chilled
You are just
View to a ****
Someone up there
Privatized
Someone up there
Just said "Aye"
Someone up there
Told some lies
Someone up there
Has some eyes
Someone up there
In the skies
Someone up there
Wants to pry
Someone up there
Makes you cry
Someone up there
Makes you die..
AB
While the toetag still
Keeps you alive,
All the unfairness
Becomes deprived,
Exposed and identified,
What's the Pentagon up to,
They about to have
New nation full of immigrants,
What are you gonna do,
Plotting the demise,
Subliminals in your eyes,
You wonder how the people
Broke off pride,
Someone up there
Demoralized
Someone up there
In disguise
Someone up there
Serve without pay
Someone up there
Love one's die
Someone up there
Don't act surprised
Someone up there
No time to be shy
Someone up there
Don't want this life.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
One dream shall ever die,
Words promised only said,
Two gold rings tossing ayes
By gleems of moon we laid,
So gentle was strike of time,
Cruel night conquering day.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
I realize
I have real eyes
That see real lies—
~Nearsighted
(rule of law)
~Farsighted
(rule of lies)
~The "ayes" have it
(hidden agenda)
~The "ayes" have it
(secret addenda)
~The "ayes" have it
(hate crimes)
~The "ayes" have it
(critical times)
~Undocumented truth
(entombed)
~Unmitigated lies
(exhumed)
I realize
I have real eyes
That see real lies—
~As the world cries
Dec 13, 2019
Dec 13, 2019 at 5:06 PM UTC
all things green are not created equal,
what brings mean hearts a revival,
the green that some die for,
the green the mint strives for,
there are no green initiatives, only a green economy
there is no interest, that will starve the old, their bank
cupboards bare, soon they will eat their own flesh.
they ayes may have it everywhere so be aware, watch your step there
the green that binds our hands,
binds our feet, binds our minds,
bind us together in defeat.
this may sound like a call but really it is one voice with a bad echo,
bouncing off the walls of misappropriation and missed understandings
stewardship is taking care of what was given, (not earned)
he who made stewards of us is going to call (out our names)
to find what we did with the Terra entrusted with us (what a rush)
embracing the wrong green blinds us as it binds us to a rocky
spire, that double edge blade hacking at the legs of God's footstool.
the light talk about saving a planet, ****** Janet, what fool's
we have been, we blame colour blindness for corporate greed,
oh the
green that bind us
to every wrong to which we own,
will now cost us the best spot closest to the throne.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
One dream shall ever die,
Words promised only said,
Two gold rings tossing ayes
By gleems of moon we laid,
So gentle was strike of time,
Cruel night conquering day.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 5:49 PM UTC
Gratitude and Grace Awoke This Morning
Twin Adventurering Path of Light and Gird
Throwing Down the Stairs of Life
Tiger Adventure of The Day
Grateful And Grace Paired
Together Within Footsteps
Heavenly Full Leo
Yes!! Ayes Roar!!
Start Again
Never Slain
Eternal Life
Precious Gratitude
Lifting Elixars Vice
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 8:15 AM UTC
Few muscles expand
In an upward curve doesn't
Make a smile dear
Muscles should expand
right. But the radiance that
pervades the heart ayes
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
After great war
Comes great peace
Says SIRI
In her
Intellectual musings
Ayes
Agreed Swamy Downey
Not piece
But pieces
Of many
Bodies
Of wasted lives
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 2:36 AM UTC
.
One dream shall ever die,
Words promised only said,
Two gold rings tossing ayes
By gleems of moon we laid,
So gentle was strike of time,
Cruel night conquering day.
.
Sep 21, 2021
Sep 21, 2021 at 10:41 PM UTC
Catcalls, tangled up hair,
Red cheeks, tears and ayes,
Rumpled dress, jokes so wry,
A neckless of polished shells,
Restless night, anxiety, tickles,
Fright, moonlit promises, garlands
Of wildflower, stolen kisses, a palm
Full of down from the thistle, laughs,
Larks, dried roses in a basket, a frog,
A crow feather, my uncaught breaths,
Being chased on the shores, tight hugs
In rain, held hands by the quays, hopes,
Rushes, joys and warmth of tomorrows
To come, some worries, awfully happys,
Winsome things sure fair, without strings,
Powerfully gifted, now, all things naught,
Of this I am sure, my dear unfaithful boy,
Your ginger lassie, she wanted more.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 8:20 AM UTC
En la tranquila casa donde la tía vive
Todo evoca el recuerdo del tiempo que pasó:
La sirvienta ya cana y el patio con su aljibe,
Y los cuadros y espejos que un siglo deslustró.
El salón aun conserva los tapices de antaño,
Do ninfas y pastores van danzando un minué:
Y en sus ojos parece brillar el fuego extraño
De amores de otro tiempo, tiempo feliz que fue.
Del clavicordio antiguo, que en un rincón reposa,
A veces un suspiro se alza y huye al azar,
Como un eco de tiempos lejanos, cuando hermosa
Tocaba ella romanzas de Glück y de Mozart.
Un armario de sándalo luce en la oscura estancia...
¡Cuántas reliquias guarda, tesoros de su amor!
Cartas, retratos, pomos que respiran fragancia...
¡Parece que de un siglo se aspirara el olor!
Entre aquellos recuerdos de ternura infinita
Que hay entre las gavetas, vese un libro, y en él
Hace ya sesenta años duerme una flor marchita...
Es el libro Zaíra, y es la flor un clavel.
Con el libro, en los días del estío radiante,
A la ventana se hace rodar en su sillón,
¿Es el sol lo que anima y enciende su semblante?...
¿Por qué con fuerza siente latir el corazón?
Sobre el clavel marchito la blanca frente inclina,
Pues teme que al tocarlo se pueda deshojar,
Y en su mente un recuerdo canta canción divina,
Mientras las ayes cantan en el vetusto alar.
Piensa cuando el fragante clavel recién cortado,
En las hojas del libro guardó un amigo fiel,
Y humedecen sus lágrimas el libro siempre amado
En donde sesenta años ha dormido el clavel.
1.2k
i saw in your eyes
my windowed soul
my naked self freed
alive yet dousing now
joyous tear and burst
of cloud ringing stars
yay i am sure drowned
overboard in lifesaving
blooms wilds flowering
of irises touch so dear
and lay awake bathing
only to dream for sight
with looks blissful keep
the near deepest unrest
and i am fairly held nigh
holy in pagan fairy pools
of skye by sunken lochs
into bluest shyest violets
glowing moons ashudder
what unlived eyes of mine
could nae see ever before
what life held by saving us
ayes set in promising glaze.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 2:58 AM UTC
Los frescos pintados en la pared
transforman el "Salón Reservado"
en una "Plaza de Toros", donde el suelo
tiene la consistencia y el color de la "arena":
gracias a que todas las noches
se riega la tierra con jerez.
Jinetes en sillas esqueletosas,
tufos planchados con saliva,
una estrella clavada en la corbata,
otra en el dedo meñique,
los tertulianos exigen que el "cantaor"
lamente el retardo de las mujeres
con ¡aves! que lo retuercen
en calambres de indigestión.
De pronto,
en un sobresalto de pavor,
la cortina deja pasar seis senos
que aportan tres ****
Los párpados como dos castañuelas,
las pupilas como dos cajas de betún,
***** el pelo,
negras las pestañas
y las extremidades de las uñas,
las siguen cuatro "niñas", que al entrar,
provocan una descarga de ¡oles!
que desmaya a las ratas que transitan el corredor.
La servilleta a guisa de "capote",
el camarero lidia el humo de los cigarros
y la voracidad de la clientela,
con "pases" y chuletas "al natural",
o "entra" a "colocar" el sacacorchos
como "pone" su vara un picador.
Abroqueladas en armaduras medioevales,
en el casco flamea la bandera de España,
las botellas de manzanilla
se agotan al combatir a los chorizos
que mugen en los estómagos,
o sangran en los platos
como toros lidiados.
Previa autorización de las ****
las "niñas" van a sentarse
sobre las rodillas de los hombres,
para cambiar un beso por un duro,
mientras el "cantaor",
muslos de rana
embutidos en fundas de paraguas,
tartamudea una copla
que lo desinfla nueve kilos.
Los brazos en alto,
desnudas las axilas,
así dan un pregusto de sus intimidades,
las "niñas" menean, luego, las caderas
como si alguien se las hiciera dar vueltas por adentro,
y en húmedas sonrisas de extenuación,
describen con sus pupilas
las parabólicas trayectorias de un espasmo,
que hace gruñir de deseo
hasta a los espectadores pintados en la pared.
Después de semejante simulacro
ya nadie tiene fuerza ni para hacer rodar
las bolitas de pan, ensombrecidas,
entre las yemas de los dedos.
Poco a poco, la luz aséptica de la mañana
agrava los ayes del "cantaor"
hasta identificar
la palidez trasnochada de los rostros
con la angustiosa resignación
de una clientela de dentista.
Se oye el "klaxon" que el sueño hace sonar
en las jetas de las ****
los suspiros del "cantaor"
que abraza en la guitarra
una nostalgia de mujer,
los cachetazos con que las "niñas"
persuaden a los machos
que no hay nada que hacer
sino dejarlas en su casa,
y sepultarse en la abstinencia
de las camas heladas.
1.2k
No he visto el mar.
Mis ojos
-vigías horadantes, fantásticas luciérnagas;
mis ojos avizores entre la noche; dueños
de la estrellada comba;
de los astrales mundos;
mis ojos errabundos
familiares del hórrido vértigo del abismo;
mis ojos acerados de viking, oteantes;
mis ojos vagabundos
no han visto el mar...
La cántiga ondulosa de su trémula curva
no ha mecido mis sueños;
ni oí de sus sirenas la erótica quejumbre;
ni aturdió mi retina con el rútilo azogue
que rueda por su dorso...
Sus resonantes trombas,
sus silencios, yo nunca pude oír...:
sus cóleras ciclópeas, sus quejas o sus himnos;
ni su mutismo impávido cuando argentos y oros
de los soles y lunas, como perennes lloros
diluyen sus riquezas por el glauco zafir...!
Ni aspiré su perfume!
Yo sé de los aromas
de amadas cabelleras...
Yo sé de los perfumes de los cuellos esbeltos
y frágiles y tibios;
de senos donde esconden sus hálitos las pomas
preferidas de Venus!
Yo aspiré las redomas
donde el Nirvana enciende los sándalos simbólicos;
las zábilas y mirras del mago Zoroastro...
Mas no aspiré las sales ni los iodos del mar.
Mis labios sitibundos
no en sus odres la sed
apagaron:
no en sus odres acerbos
mitigaron la sed...
Mis labios, locos, ebrios, ávidos, vagabundos,
labios cogitabundos
que amargaron los ayes y gestos iracundos
y que unos labios -vírgenes- captaron en su red!
Hermano de las nubes
yo soy.
Hermano de las nubes,
de las errantes nubes, de las ilusas del espacio:
vagarosos navíos
que empujan acres soplos anónimos y fríos,
que impelen recios ímpetus voltarios y sombríos!
Viajero de las noches
yo soy.
Viajero de las noches embriagadoras; nauta
de sus golfos ilímites,
de sus golfos ilímites, delirantes, vacíos,
-vacíos de infmito..., vacíos... -Dócil nauta
yo soy,
y mis soñares derrotados navios...
Derrotados navíos, rumbos ignotos, antros
de piratas... ¡el mar! Mis ojos vagabundos
-viajeros insaciados- conocen cielos, mundos,
conocen noches hondas, ingraves y serenas,
conocen noches trágicas,
ensueños deliciosos,
sueños inverecundos...
Saben de penas únicas,
de goces y de llantos,
de mitos y de ciencia,
del odio y la clemencia,
del dolor
y el amar...!
Mis ojos vagabundos,
mis ojos infecundos...:
no han visto el mar mis ojos,
no he visto el mar!
1k
And the Ayes Have it!
Glance across near vacant room.
Elicit kind response.
Silent soul sits in the corner.
Twiddling with a skein of scarlet embroidery thread.
Elderly lady rocks on her wooden chair.
Muttering to herself.
Her nose in the air.
Small brindle puppy.
Curled up in front of the open hearth.
Sleeping peacefully.
Two people and a dog.
Sat in near silence.
The rockers on the rocking chair.
Swinging back and forth as if a metronome.
In a world of their own.
Taps time near silently.
Click clack.
Occupants look up.
Eyes of starlight.
Sudden sparkle.
Life apparent again.
Time moved fast.
A grey afternoon.
Sudden thought.
Said she, with nose in the air.
Like she didn't care.
Think there's a job to be done.
Need to walk the dog.
'Aye,' said the near silent one.
The heather called loudly in a blaze of mauve.
Aged lady.
Silent tear trickled down her cheek.
'Aye,' you have to in sorry retort.
Misses days walking the dog.
In the good the old days.
When she could still walk!
By ladylivvi1
Something different for a change!
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
The peerage and the steerage class.
(Titanic's in the dock)
The benefit,
the bit the government decreed is
enough to fulfill your every need,to
clothe and feed and get you through and
pay for fares to each job interview.
Meanwhile
in the House of trouts where
those who don't know they are dead still
have their snouts in the trough,
the ayes have it.
Yes
this species of faeces who don't have a clue,
give voice to the bills that tell us what to do.
I don't know about you but
to me that doesn't seem right.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
.
One dream shall ever die,
Words promised only said,
Two gold rings tossing ayes
By gleems of moon we laid,
So gentle was strike of time,
Cruel night conquering day.
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 1:46 AM UTC
aint got no home?
watz wit der smokey ayes
aint got no famly
no roof?
wur you goin, bro?
i aint got no dolla
no mo pahwuh
no momma
son gone stoopid
dotter freakin out
in der good
im broke and dun fer
gotta a spare coin?
i can sing
from me soul. yeah
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 10 days ago
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
Today is the day
according to May
half in & half out
is how it will play.
Cut a maggot in two
the divide as we do
don't care if it lives
I haven't a clue.
Ireland is split
think we give a ****
I stood on the border
faced south so to spit.
I'm done with that lot
one and all is a sot
nothing but troubles
since the year dot.
I know we can win
if we try once again
starve into submission
with another famine.
The Ayes to the right
with a unified fight
for one and for all
no mind of their plight.
FURY AS TOP TORY WARNS: ‘WE CAN STARVE THE IRISH’ | AOH Home ...
brooklynirish.org/2018/12/10/fury-as-top-tory-warns-we...
British Tory MP suggested using the possibility of food shortages in Ireland to coerce negotiators into dropping their opposition to the remilitarisation of the border area after Brexit.
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 2:57 AM UTC
.
One dream shall ever die,
Words promised only said,
Two gold rings tossing ayes
By gleems of moon we laid,
So gentle was strike of time,
Cruel night conquering day.
.
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 1:55 PM UTC
though a stranger in my eye
i bowed to her demands without why
a young blood she was
entwined between my blankets
i was trapped in her love nests
my name she moaned softly slowly and slowly
killing me with ecstasy
she was here for me to nail
she was my night ****
my bare back she tore with her nail
as she arched her body up against her will
the moan turned to wail
as she urged me to go deeper
faster i gave her my stroke.
my whole body swan in euphoric sensation
as the bed rocked with our love rhythm
she whispered 'don't finish' b'cos i was doing
it just right
her hips worked on my body
like i was made just for her
i breathed heavily under her coitus spell
boring through me with her eyes
just made me nod in unison with inaudible ayes
her nail;s raked my back deeper
drawing sweat and blood
i cringed with pain
yet she kept going she was on the gain
ecstasy masked my pain
turning my life upside down
away we faded
died and rose
bated breath
spelled our
sinful night
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC