"biographical" poems
I am a thousand different things
I'm people, objects, nature, animal
I'm woman, man, girl, boy, child
toddler, baby, foetus
I'm all you could dream of (not) wanting
I'm all you wish you were (not)
I'm (your) anger, sadness, fear, regret
I'm (your) happiness, joy, hope, love
When I write, I'm a character
fiction, autobiographical, biographical
I'm lived, burned, broken, insane
I'm madness, virginal, loose, free
closeted, bi-curious, let's wait it out and see
I'm intrigue, a passer by,
I'm the observer, the observed,
voyeurism, peeping tom, negative film
Moss, McQueen, Klein
I'm art, symbolism, post-modernism,
I'm poetry; written and spoken
I'm the woman you read of; her
I'm the girl who made you cry
I'm full to the brim of (your) inspiration
I open doors to the past, then slam the door
in your bright doe eyes
I close doors to my future, and sneak back
through cracks in the floor,
just to get back
I laugh in your face, and burn holes
in skin at your absence
I kick dirt in my eye, then cry wolf
blinded,
I'm the severest of contradictions,
I say yes at no, no to yes,
I decide on impulse, and cry on cue
Beauty, romance, love, lust
poetry,
all the questions I am made of
I answer in the written word
mute,
You only know me,
(if of course you dare)
by reading my rhymes,
(non judgmental stance)
and loving me regardless,
(don't expect perfection)
If you're going down
the same road
start today,
face your demons,
be the contradiction.
© Sia Jane
--
*"So unimpressed but so in awe
Such a saint but such a *****
So self aware so full of ****
So indecisive so adamant
So rock and roll, so corporate suit
So **** ugly, so **** cute
So well-trained, so animal
So need your love, so **** you all"*
Robbie Williams - Come Undone
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
I want an after dinner poem
Because they are so delicious
A poem on a pillow
And one after I do the dishes
I want a poem for breakfast
Cause they are so mentally nutritious
But most of all
I want you in my poetry
Because you are the best
Poem I could read
Form in figure fitting perfectly
Moving and talking to me
You are poetry in motion
You are artistry in thought
You are the queen of my desire
Because you make my poems
Shockingly hot
So write me a love poem
A poem of love lost
A poem of philosophy
Of such sweet sophistry
And what you have gained
And all that it cost
Give me a biographical picture
Or a nature walk
I want a poem
That is the truth of you
And in exchange
I will give you the poetry of names
And call you humanity
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
That 1 lengthy and detailed conversation we had as I fixed her a hot bubble bath, it was very necessary to figure out the pattern in which each of our souls orbited around one another's life. Life. It seems that in the seams of this biographical regime, we get lost in between 2 wings, steering without a true tale, leading with our beaks instead of our two feet. Finding elation through impatience. Determination to fly without defining our own matrix. At that particular time I just wanted to slowly sit your soft body down into that pool of lavender scented steamed water, but everything you had to say nearly drowned me. The invisible crown I continuously placed on your head suddenly vanished as my imagination panicked. I always thought that my mind was backed up by my heart which was backed up by your art. Oh how gentle you scribble. I have to erase line by line, direction by direction, affection by affection, disconnect on top off disconnection. Difficulties I'm having while looking at you lather but no longer seeing you in the picture. Watching you lave as you give me your take on how our relationship was shaped was a bit unfitting. In my mind "it's inevitable that she's open for bidding". I'm lounged against the sink in a bind. Bonded by your fondness, then detached by your honest responses. How blunt you are and how drunk I'm soon to be. Wasted vibrations, my mouth began to tremble. Somehow I find an idea to cause the both of us to tickle. Temporary bliss. Moreover all of my hard efforts that night turned out to be the worst shift. I went from pleased to please. Expectedly you never tried to appease by appealing to my needs. Draining water like my decaying heart. Drying off reminds me of my suffocated feelings. Lotion as I drink this 40% potion. Hoping of hydrated coping. Can you leave? So I can shower, attempting to rinse away the most beautifully devastating hour.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
Towards
the end of his life
our protagonist
meticulously calculated
and found
(we should believe
without questioning,
as he was an ace accountant)
that he lived well
exactly ten days
of his long happy life !
please contemplate
this.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 6:54 AM UTC
In account of extreme conditions
The biographical sketching of
A Father spending all for the family
I fear the unknown & embrace
Essential to fail for the risk in
The end is the only true thing
That matters more than the world
Hold my hands dear child - Jump!
Inheritance of a soul
The body left behind
An entrance made of coal
On the horizon rests the stayed' line
A tending breath
Upon a supple breast
Where the young tests its best
Only to see history squirm
In its placid need for unrest
A night is only known
When the sun sets for its own atone
A breath for the naked
For the weary know no love
I press a kiss upon foggy
And see my mother's ancient face
She is young - no - she is old
She is everything that mother before
Her needed and wanted
Have I gone mad in these invisible words?
Do I press my own peoples lodged' souls
Within the caverns of my made body?
Are we in control anymore?
Have we ever been?
Are the questions of the age to Frank to
Be answered, for the youth is to young?
And the pressing of the wicked witch
Makes the toes of the frogs of centuries lore
In forgotten mythology of Crumbs masterpiece
Accept all that was forgotten from a mailbox of scrutiny
In turns we take the sisters we did not want
For mormonism is for the buyers of sires
The horn of the forgotten taxi driver
Whistles as they hear the virgins weep
The bottles bash against the dead of the street
And the neat clink their deadliest China
So all in all we are the same in the eyes God
And the only thing I need
Is a one way ticket to the bar
And the thing I see isn't too far
I gotta' keep on moving baby
I'll get there, it won't be very long
So take my heart, you see it there?
It's the one with the whiskers and
The eyes of pearly blue
And you know my mother? Her
Name ends with the sound of Sue
In the wind is the way of the forefather's
I make what you want if you got the price
We argue and we swear
In a world of injustice, we strive to be fair
Take a dollar from my pocket, see if I care
I'm alone now and without voice
Bear a child and see if you have choice
I'm no veteran, the bullets doth not know me
When the sun rises, assign my heart to flee
The night rests upon my weary shoulders
And the Parisian night falters in mine own view
It's majesty flickers upon my tongue like a lightning bug
Poetry is a dangerous dance where the God's lead with left feet.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 5:52 PM UTC
Two hours till Kentucky-
The world is on fast-forward around us
The side of my forehead is flat
against the passenger side window
Trees crowd behind guardrail for miles -
protesting highway pollution.
Two hours till Kentucky -
On the eighth round about this CD.
about around the fifth listen, songs began to blend into one another, morphing into ambient noise
that filled the empty moments between conversation
and the struggle against waves of tempting sleep.
Two hours till Kentucky-
I pause the song to explain
the biographical significance
of a particular lyric.
You're too focused on
the nerve-wracking traffic to indulge me.
Two hours till Kenricky-
My seat reclined, I am watching the clouds
creeping briskly across the sky
through the panorama of the windshield -
a silent movie.
Two hours till Kentucky -
an eternity of moments
gone as soon as they happen.
Evaporating into the air
We'll be there
in no time.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
shhhhhhhh,
kick back put your feet up,
take a tea, let it steep deep,
open a red let the air go to its head,
get a book, shut it all down,
power off your phone and leave it alone
get off the grid, if there is one, with power
where you live,
flip the page as your mind steps on to the
terrain of words,
while your socked feet,
touch anothers under the cover of
not enough leg room,
but you care,
so you share,
the ottoman
as your imagination
goes to automatic and into the words
that create pictures and stir emotions,
that take you places and show
you faces,
and lives,
and living beyond, the hurt,
the superficial,
the ache that seldom goes away,
the real world,
that may have spit
and you are hurled to the side,
and it always seems to be on the wrong one.
Take heart, this too shall pass,...
whether it be poetry,
biographical history,
a short story, pulitzer prize winner,
a novel idea,
or a series with or without a quest,
may it be the best time you spend,
while being grounded in knowing
someone, near or far is reading
what you are reading and
is with you and with you and
is on the same adventure too.
©DWE122013
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
O fog,
shrouding the busy highways
softly
muting their resonant roar
to distant growls
Unfurl your smooth fury,
crumple these cars,
shatter their frames across
and beyond their concrete tracks
that separate forests and hills
and thicken the air
with acrid smells
from exhausted horsepowers.
Embrace them,
O fog,
and guide their screeching tires
over the embankment
roaring hearses
unreigned
by your moist arms
* * *
&) Discovered recently among H. D.´s unpublished papers at Yale University Library, malevolent scholars take this poem as proof for the poet´s befogged imagination during some of her post-imagist periods. More englightened critics, though, point to the stunning topicality of H. D.´s mythopoetic mind in its accurate presentation of mankind´s archetypal struggle against nature. There is as yet insufficient biographical evidence that the mature H. D. possibly had a short but intensive attachment to the infant Ralph Nader, who later became head of the U. S. Environmental Protection Agency. – For serious information on the poet, see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/H.D.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
Your mistakes
and imperfections
the lines around
your eyes - small
miracles, little
biographical proofs
of your timely
existence.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 9:23 PM UTC
The full circle
from the drama that was
Fresh out of the kitchen.
Cut outside the box
with precision.
Now, I've landed on this page
in the book of my life.
Biographical account
of natural light.
Tactical insights;
Love. Loss. Fights.
Basic rights.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 5:16 PM UTC
devoted cleo
ensared when her roman falls
death by asp hurts less
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
Sleep abandonment.
Tachycardic nocturnal episodes
of complete emptiness.
Biographical disruption,
mind and body separation.
PTSD going down in flames,
in milligrams the memories
temporarily faint.
Open windows of spherical shape
leading her
to a paradoxical sleep.
The door is open,
to a blank world,
to a dreamless world
inside a dream.
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC
i don't know why people think
that poetry can ever reveal the
autobiographical...
know people want to revel
in an autobiographical
custom of allowing a light
to shine upon the dim
and the dull...
that's not how it works though...
i hate the idea that poetry
reduces me to a status of
a child: playing a game
of hide & seek -
but isn't it just that?
while reading poetry, am i
not playing a game of hide & seek?
to tease with covert biographical details
hidden within bare-bone-naked
poetic attains...
to don a niqab...
it's almost a subconscious
conversion...
i just can't
see the inversion of donning the niqab:
given that such poetics attires
itself in more shadow than
the niqab...
it puts on a pair of sunglasses:
and "shelters" the eyes,
or that perfectly known loss of
ever wishing to peer into the windows
of a soul.
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 10:00 PM UTC
The End
The wind howls as babies cry;
Let’s welcome the night and kiss this world goodbye.
What was that thing I had to remember?
I can’t recall, but never mind; how is the weather?
It’s raining again, but I won’t complain.
What did you expect? This is Britain; it always rains,
I’m at pains to say.
I have been whisked away to a faraway place;
A surprise for my birthday, now I’m old and grey.
It’s sad to hear them give a cheer,
When all we gained was another year.
A little light relief is all we need,
But who are we to dream?
When all we want to do is scream!
Blow out the candles and wish away your wish;
I never thought my life would have to end like this.
Now the time has come to tell the wife I love her
And wave her goodbye.
We had a good life together, but now,
It’s time I was leaving her behind.
Time steals your years and drags you towards the bitter end;
Now Death is your friend and he is back again.
He came calling for you before, but the doctors sent him away,
But Death cannot be ignored forever and now is my day.
My day of reckoning, my destiny calling;
My future beckoning, the end of my story.
My own biographical, graphic book;
This is the end my friend, so goodbye and good luck!
I always thought that I couldn’t;
I always thought that I didn’t,
Want to grow old gracefully.
Now all I dream of is some sort of redemption,
But that is just folly unfortunately.
The coffin lid closes,
I am buried with roses.
Goodbye…
This is the end.
My only friend, the end.
This is the end.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC
Counting seconds passing, on my left hand with my right.
Every so often when inspired I pick up my precious pen and write.
My boredom is becoming pain, as time and time again, nothing changes, its just the same.
Somewhat biographical, my life's become a chore.
Inside my head a box of issues all make war.
I'm poorer, than said church mouse.
The lord be praised, I still have my house.
Never used to be this messed up.
I have letters attached to the end of my name.
RGN.
Means nothing more than emotional pain.
Sooner it stood for wild pen.
At least my pen it doth release the piles of ******* from the top of the heap.
Let's me breathe and gives me peace.
Sick to death of eternal struggle.
My life is just one freaking muddle.
Kind and caring, always a curse.
Comes under the pseudonym, had enough nurse!
(C) LIVVI
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
Your face has been a maze. Was the lie
a hidden devotion inside? A hidden sigh?
Were you smiling, back then? And, why?
Was the beauty of your days
found upon your singular face?
Was Leonardo charmed by your womanly ways?
Were you a captive to the dark side of him?
Was your smile just a secret
held in the heart of his whim?
Perhaps, your Mona Lisa grin
was nothing more than
the artist's portrait of only him.
Was that why you smiled within?
Could your face have been
the biographical face of his sin?
Your smile was somber; yet sweet.
Was it of a hidden need?
A hidden tease? Or, a hidden conceit?
Was it dangerous and scheming?
The mystery lies in the night
of Leonardo's own dark dreaming.
Your face was this mysterious thing
to be handed down through the ages,
to dangle on the broken wing
of some gallery's whimsy and guile.
Where we could all be drowned in,
held captive by, that Mona Lisa smile.
Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 10:36 AM UTC