"beautification" poems
Everything has a connection,
for it continues with a punctuation,
as you wish for some clarification,
end up with water, that underwent dehydration,
that thinks of the beautification,
you lose time that has division,
you want to go on a integration,
but end up with encapsulation.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 7:50 AM UTC
Your are the beautification of love,
that has been held as a prisoner, of war.
The war of life.. The fight..we fight inside
inside of ourselves..with ourselves,
to learn to love ourselves
so we can love someone else
right at least, so we can be at peace..
At night as we sleep,
And give God our souls to keep,
but your heart.. Its safe with me.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 3:28 AM UTC
...You, dearest vagary, aplomb--were
brought to bear.
Vicissitude of memory which is the
dispersion of identity.
Of a time, and of a place--you, a
mellifluous bronze dusk poured upon
a meadow, a solitary immersion, a
moment that harnesses the whole of
the earth, as you are...dearest vagary.
You were afforded as by the citizenry
of the air, lent by an intercontinental
wind.
An undying eloquence featured for all
time--the swaying bud blown to bloom.
You...the beautification of possibility,
its matrices never left in want.
As in withstanding place the round is
made, and remade about you, the whole
of the earth.
Thus, you've no confounding words...
have you?
Thus, this sidelong expenditure that you may--
shall breach the earth you shall.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
A fruit and vegetable vendor,
simple and humble,
Always seen with his handcart,
alongside the road, which was parked.
On my way back
from the gym,
Bought the fruits and vegetables
daily from him.
**Neither the quality!
Nor the variety!!**
But his greetings "Namaste Didi" with that innocent smile,
caught my attention for a while.
That friendly gesture
made me feel familiar.
Balming the lonely and tired soul,
in the foreign soil,
in this city of strangers,
accommodating many dwellers.
While lost in own thoughts,
or busy in the cell-phone chats.
But this simple guy never failed,
seeing me come, he sweetly hailed.
"Namaste Didi"
Once, when I resumed
after a vacation,
Found dozers, excavators
busy in construction.
An all new road, footpath
for beautification,
It's the "smart city" project's
much awaited implementation.
I realized, that something was amiss!
"Namaste Didi", welcoming, friendly voice!
I looked for him all around,
Standing near a pole, he was found.
Neither cheerful, nor fruit or vegetable?
Uttered him, now the business not feasible.
Not allowed to park his cart anywhere,
As "The Smart City Mission" started here.
Go to the big stores now,
for the daily needs,
Roadside vendors
pulled out like weeds.
Neither friendly smile, nor simplicity!
"Namaste Didi" swallowed by "the smart city"!!
Do we really need a "smart city",
or simply a city?
addressing the needs of all,
retaining its simplicity.
The social warmth
and existing friendliness,
Accommodating all
with self sustenance.
**Isn't socialism, just a myth!
No offence, this way I think!!**
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 5:45 AM UTC
If your love was transportation, no hesitation I'm on a mission, your company heads to the rightful destination. State of elation. A thought of you equivalent to paradise, BLESSING haven. She's beautiful like heaven.
(TAGS)
Love, transportation, destination, beautification, blessing, Heaven - C9fm
Apr 28, 2023
Apr 28, 2023 at 5:00 AM UTC
The ninth beatitude
Blessed are the transformed
and the transformers
For they shall know gratitude.
Hair attitudes are our beatitudes
How can I not love my hair
Short, cropped. *****
Long, cascading locks
Braids falling adoringly
Embracing cheekbones of
Historical beauty.
Hair diva's
Divinity, defying gravity...Black hair
Submitting to heat, or the nimble.
Fingers of scientist, chemist who
Are born to a life dedicated to
Beautification of her sisters and daughters
None since Madam C.J. Walker has had
This talent in abundance.
She put her wrist in the twist.
And the "aid" in the braid… new wave
Whose passion is to adore what
She's put into you; She is the true
“goddess of hair”
You are In good hands as
She dares you to move, or
bat an eyelash less
She bashes you, or threatens
to abort the mission Leaving you to
Your own device-Her advice is to become
at one with her- Become putty in her hands.
Her hands plant, plaiting love and patience
into every wrung…Moms,
And Hair Magicians, growing hands
That loom, weave and condition;
Grooming reluctant ducklings.
Into graceful swans
Grooming you for greatness.
(To my best friend)
https://scontent-ord1-1.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xfp1/v/t1.0-9/11026273_1641865029363011_1932455644687694397_n.jpg?oh=2c95a0eb069b5f996f26494e277bd734&oe;=56C6FF8B
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
The secrets of Art are esoteric
in favor of those who suffer.
Sorry, that's just how it seems to be.
If you want to be an Artist,
that is, a prism of the Other,
know that in one way or another
you condemn yourself to Pain
and the beautification thereof.
That isn't a bad thing at all, though;
we need to have more alchemy of pain into pleasure-
Life is Pain and
Pain begets Art;
what if, then,
Life is an Art?
I'd sure argue it is
in one way or another.
Living with a Mind
is an Art and a Science-
could this be an element of why living is so afflicted by suffering?
Whatever the case, take heed;
seek to grow from your Pain
and not to completely avoid it;
do not shut it away, for that feeds thy Shadow
and undermines what control of it
you may yet have.
Pain
is usually an illusion
but it serves a purpose;
t'is a strict teacher,
a cruel mistress-
It can open many doors
and bridge many gaps
between this world
and many others.
All the while,
seek to minimize the pain of others
and to do no harm to any living being,
yet, allow them to experience what they do,
for it serves a purpose if only they know how to find it.
This falls among
the aspects of the Art of Life;
so many have been forgotten.
Seek to remember what once was known.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC
No more long stares
spent phenol syringes fresh on the streets,
barbiturated ruffians riddled,
denizens lost into this killing machine,
over dosed on Laudanum yesterday's ***** with temerity to spare,
turns tricks down
tomorrow someone laugh and high kick her,
those new Barista Gangsters , their marketing strategy
stretches the mind,
enough to **** a healthy Ox.
Lean close and hear
this requisitioned block is a pleasure dome
suitable for gilded beautification.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 2:02 PM UTC
Well.
I think that warning came
A tad bit late
*We must not forget
That curiousoty
That Childhood
Innocence
We must never lose
That inner child*
All that innocence
Is just an illusion
A beautification
Of a twisted
Ugly
Truth
It falls apart
Eventually.
Everything does.
Everyone does.
It's just that
This break came
Early
And now that
Little girl
Is long gone..
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
Please, don’t be shy- join us for the baptism and the requiem of both destruction
and creation. Bring flowers to both their graves; bring flowers to both their births.
Teeth corroded with a lust for madness, you smile, though tears
stream down your ***** thin cheeks. Trees, burdened with ripening
despair surround you, their tenants long gone and their leaves long shed.
All searching for life; all fearing their deaths.
There is an immense amount of beauty in the burning of an old
house, of old pictures and blurred memories. As this occurs, a paradox is formed, from the striking of a match,
to the collapse of a foundation, to the blackened snowfall of ash.
The creation of destruction, the destruction of creation. A flaming catalyst fluttering
downward through the muggy autumn air, a blazing, kamikaze
butterfly plummeting down toward earth. Drop one into a pool of regret,
which, unbeknownst to the world, is flammable. Let it lick and devour its prey;
let it paint the land red. And as you allow flakes of tarnished life to blanket
the ground, and the shoulders of your shirt, the divine intervention that is
creation is underway, and in the midst of destroying, you have created. Space!
What entity is responsible for such indescribable beauty. How wonderful it is
to look out and see nothing, all the while seeing everything. What a magic
it is, to see life growing within that very nothingness.
But, do not fear the fraying of man’s existence. Marvel at your creation.
Liberation of death! Confinement of life!
Insanity can be one sad, beautiful thing.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
there were dandelions on the grass
dear girl, the smell of an Alcatraz flower is fresh on my linen
but sometimes I look back
and wonder if this city wears a too thick a coat
while it struts pantless over the sidewalks of
Macarther Park
there is liturgy mumbled, a woman waving her hands in the air–
Sunday school prayers being learned in Spanish
tri-folded pamphlets on the floor
and gum over the pavement blackened by the cooperative march
of immigrant workers speaking in all tongues and carrying
on their backs, the tower of babel while halted at a red light
heavy cargo trucks speeding down Alameda Street
wearing down the road and the patience of drivers
tents multiplied, and R.V's lining the streets
the old buildings being torn down and neighboring apartments getting face-lifts
"beautification"
costs
more than headshots–
more than a rhinoplasty–
more than the real estate of DTLA–
when you see two kids come out of a tent with their school backpacks on
–you begin to grasp the price
Is this what Keats meant: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever "
even while destitute
the neon pink on their bags seemed like another gift of spring
and their perseverance the paragon of a psalm of life
Mar 10, 2020
Mar 10, 2020 at 11:07 PM UTC
you?
made of pixels?
hah, if i wanted pixels i would have played nintendo 64 with my neighbour down the street and angrily whispered "h-e-double hockey sticks" under my breath as one of my pixelated hearts faded away.
you are anything but intangible; i can feel your pulse across two countries.
our hearts are undeniably made of flesh.
i know that word grosses you out,
but the blood pumping, orifice-filled organs in our chests constantly beat with the ferocity of 109 percussionists drumming on the queen's birthday.
hearts are not meant for beautification; one cannot get a cosmetic surgery on their heart to impress the girl next door.
it's up to you to pair with your just-as-ugly brain to prove how beautiful love can be.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
My imperial , stoic raptor standing watch over sun swept , dew infused dale .. Many thanks for kinship , service and timely Hill Country beautification , long days of valor filling weary minds and ear with noble ballads .. High above , camouflaged within the wind racked Pines , soaring warm Georgia air in quiet retrospection , filling hearts with passion and awe ..
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
It wasn’t always this way
She was lovely once…
A beauty to make a brothers
Chest ache… And
Breath come short...
Before
Too many dreams deferred
Deadened a too free spirit
Too many pains
Damaged a too big heart
Too many losses and not enough gains
Too much liver killing corn whiskey
And soul stealing violent man
Made it now easy
For her to enfold herself
In the tragedy of the day
Anguished runny jaundiced eyes
Sunken under fake lashes that
Look too heavy for the job
Her late idea of beautification
Trying to work with what shes got
Only to accentuate the misery
In the much worn brown face where
Cheap foundation
Does a backwards slide
Into tale-telling lines that
Scream louder a narrative
Of brokenness
And she sits… alone
Always
On that stool
In a dark and dingy
Numbing place
Leaned on one elbow
Slightly to the left
Blond wig perched on her head
Like a church lady’s pillbox hat
Only this ain’t no church
And she ain’t no lady
Not no more…
But it wasn’t always this way
She was lovely once...
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
painting is butchery
is beautification of breaths
as they bubble hastily out
sometimes mad
like suddenly breaking glass
or pond
sometimes springs
tinkling down stones
painting is thunder
slowly rising
or the perfect fury of it
I hesitate, stuck astray,
as the hues awaiting
wait
reap or harvest, must I burn or
decorate?
but, tentative, I breathe
inevitably on
and suddenly
it is all here
Mar 8, 2022
Mar 8, 2022 at 10:47 PM UTC
Sweet as the pantries,
She basked herself in a fanciful coating of clothes and accessories,
Longing to find what she termed her "Identity" in her self-proclaimed journey of seeking Truth.
Basing herself upon these coatings,
The sweetness, the addictive tone of hanging on to the securities of being visually appealing had been the sole thought harnessed in her underutilized mind.
"What should I wear?" "Am I looking too ugly in this?".... undisclosed, subtle yet toxic cycle of thoughts kept protruding from the braincentre.
Things unkempt, bottles scattered over the floor, food wrappers uncleaned....she continued glorifying herself with her trance-like state of consciousness: Calling it "Nirvana" as she glanced over her new list of Boy-friends on Facebook.
While ignoring being a pejoratory display to others, she went on profusely with her self-consuming obssession on "Beautification"....with few occassions of gaining a few disapproving glints of nostalgia from her used-to-be down-to-earth mates.
****** Her work was disorganized, she was casted out from the team she used to collaborate with on a Science project, and became merely an alluring visual representation for pack of hungry alpha wolves.
Disintegration, down to the floor her teardrops were drained from her tearducts as she pushed every bottle of her exclusive make-up products away. "Useless, worthless...."the self-degenerating dictionary of vocabulary swarmed her psyche, attacking every single optimistic living cell in her.
Few days had passed when she found herself sleeping on the cold, hard, unrelenting floor. With a slow recovering stance, she gets up with the final thought of taking a chocolate bar for sugar.
Now she is a healthy, spiritual woman committed in empowering others to find their true identity
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 4:34 AM UTC
I gazed at the moon that night
My eyes looked on at that light
A welcoming shine was that sight
The urge to keep staring I tried to fight
Would I miss such beauty of creation?
Not my own wandering sense of imagination
Can create such enchanting beautification
I laughed at my own artistic limitation
Look! There comes those twinkling dots
Little, but amazing in all sorts
They fill my lingering turbulent thoughts
And tales of theirs I write in jots
Darkness engulfs the vast land
Nighttime brings down its hand
The beauties rise in their lovely band
All made and placed by the Creator's hand
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
Sometimes I wish I wasn't me
When the washing machine leaks buckets
and you stand transfixed and never tell me
or I want a badly earned cup of tea
but you decided it would be fun to pour the milk away
Sometimes I wish I was someone else
When you smash one of my favorite things
because you like the sound
or you use the toilet on display
to relieve yourself
And boy just sometimes
do I wish I wasn't me?
When all your questions leave me addled
and all your screaming leaves me deaf
with fear of another thundering sameness day
Who would I be?
The posh Mary with the new fence that never rusts?
The perfect house and shiny windows
No not for me too boring
The women that rent the new complex
I dont even know there names
Than dress up in all the latest gear
Go to the woman with the green door
for beautification
have meals out and wine at home
No, not me at all.
Right now I'm glad I'm me again
As you wrap your arms around me
Towering over me,
and give me a goodnight kiss
None of those other women
are as sure as me that
the kisses they get are as loving
or genuine as the ones you give me
None of those other glamorous women
with their uncomplicated lives
and false nails
are as sure of a lifetime of love
as I am
I just forgot my gratitude
If I wasn't your Mom,
I dont know who Id be.......
Yes I know now
I know who Id be!
Id be bewildered!
May 9, 2011
May 9, 2011 at 4:33 PM UTC
I torture myself
watching you leave
until out of view,
Knowing that
walking away
is just as painful
for you.
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 4:00 AM UTC
Ask yourself, how are you feeling?
Sad, mad, happy, glad?
Maybe stuck in a hurricane of gloom, Where angry grey skies loom
High up above your head,
Even when they aren't near,
Your heart is filled with fear.
How are you feeling?
Write it all out
Maybe compare it with a simile or a metaphor so the reader feels it too,
You need these devices only for beautification,
So the reader connects with you.
One more tip,
I will make it quick
It is only for the comfort of lips,
That we make it all rhyme,
But it's not necessary,
Since at times we try rhyming it, and it doesn't make sense,
Like celebrating marriage (death) anniversary.
It is all up to you, what you have to write,
It doesn't have to be a structure,
There are no rules, no regulations,
Only you and your heart,
So let the ink flow to its natural tendency
And what will be will be.
So my dear writer, I hope I helped,
I hope you see it clear and bright,
It's your turn to tell me
How are feeling? Is everything alright?
Just write and write and write.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 11:25 PM UTC
Tropica, botanica of poetry's heaven,
Tropica, santonica that groweth so free;
Let thy pen jot down and stroke the cloud's
Carelessly....
Tropica, a basilica awaiteth thine thought's
I knoweth thou art down, lonesome and depressed
But so many careth for thy heart's pain and loss........
Tropica, friend of mine, sun that Shine's
Let the day for thee be anewed, paint the world blue
As thy tear's turneth from cloud's to rainbow's bright and loud;
Tropica, hepatica growing wildly and untamed, knoweth ourn creator is near, do not fear, nor dread, thine head's lingo is as beautification on display.
Tropica, let thy poetic melodica sing it's angelic sound, wherein when thou doth feeleth down, knoweth thou shalt always hath a friend in me, as god wilt guideth thee, in the fire and freeze.......
Tropica, art thou now smiling (:::::::::::::
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Tropica cheer up dedication/friendship dedication
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
Piling up a dynamite
In a coffee cup
Steaming aroma flying up
Defying gravity of nasal cavity
Pumping pride
In pompous ego flame
In this reggae night
Jewels of jumpy sounds
On bumpy rocks
Frolicking in rocking airs
Don't really need conversation
That leads to confrontation
Enough aggravation
Fueling frustration
But come joy of beautification
On this night of glorious satisfaction
Friends keep love banner aloft
Foes beware of selling wares
Of animosity, stoking fire of death
Remember life is a flash of a firefly!
Mar 8, 2021
Mar 8, 2021 at 12:32 PM UTC
It is human nature to doubt everything;
It is human nature to feel with the senses before belief.
The creator knew this, hence children resemble their parents
In look and character, to eliminate doubt and establish belief.
It is natural to abuse the body for praise and glory;
It is natural to cut the body for beautification.
The creator knew this; that’s why some body parts regenerate; while
Some he made important that we feel the need to protect.
It is natural to like and desire beautiful things,
It is human nature to be greedy and cruel;
The creator knew that, so he removed desire and strength
In old age, so that humans could find rest from their nature.
The creator knows his creation, so he put checks and
Balances in place to give his creation peace of mind.
Aug 10, 2019
Aug 10, 2019 at 3:34 PM UTC
He gives her the butterfly as an act of beautification
Hoping nature can exemplify his feelings; A fragile life,
Balanced between death and existence in his fingers
Making sense of all the nonsense in his head.
He gives her the flowers in an act of affection
Even though they both know they are dead,
Only water prolonging the inevitable demise
Of colourful blooms returning to the earth
From where they once grew, like their love
Beautiful under the sun, natural and charming,
Until you told them that love is shown with silver
And gold, diamonds and pearls, chocolate and cards
High octane fast cars, exclusive meals in top restaurants
Theatre tickets and front row concerts, but the butterfly
***** it’s wings and somewhere in the world,
There is a hurricane.
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 1:36 PM UTC
jesus!
a jarred pickle!
what do you think,
you think pickles
come in bathtubs?!
well, no,
but i didn't think
goosebumps had a
permanence on
cucumbers pickled.
it's called chinese stubble
you idiot;
five o'clock beautification?
yarn ball in the plateau wind
across semesters of
earth and hours dividing
begun with coordinates of Greenwich...
and so the cat yawned
becoming bored from man's
encouragement of play...
cat said: god giveth sleep,
god taketh sleep away -
live it, and seize the augmenting argument
of borrowed inspection of beliefs
as necessary, given you only ****** on
a taboo, and inspect no further.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 7:08 PM UTC