"bode" poems
Here's an ode to myself, or what I once was
For each day we change and begin
To become different people and it's okay because
Sometimes we need to be different to win
Here's an ode to myself, or what I won't be
Because I've ventured this path for too long
My eyes closed, I fumbled, and failed to see
All the good deeds in life and the wrong
Here's an ode to myself, for I've never once heard
That it's taboo to talk of one's self
Though truth be told I could use that one word
That I padlocked away on the shelf
Here's an ode to myself, or as much of an ode
That will ever be written to me
For I fear in the future all poems will bode
An ill sort of meaning for me
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 1:17 AM UTC
I shalt taketh her to the tadpole galaxy
Than to hoag's object
Than we shalt bypass the whirpool galaxy
Than onto sombrero's bright swirl.....
Than onto the pinwheel galaxy
Wherein we shalt be its pinballs,
Than up against the blackness of God's curtain of the universe abroad.... Onto the Andromeda, LMC to, than the milky way, earth's creational dust brew....
Bode galaxy shalt open us, to terrace of the aura, I shalt swayeth with mine home (mi amour') of distant mascara....
Yet she needeth no mascara, for her eye's art already arousing, **** elegant picture's, a model made in birth, her poetic stature's daily groweth bigger....her look's art a trigger, to take thee to thy face, making thee SEEITH dream's of thing's of holy grace!!!! An elegant being, with the spirit of an eagle, she soar's me to planet x, she's pure.....
The opposite of evil!!!!!!
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 11:12 PM UTC
I don't want to
Throw up or Cry
& Overthink everything
At the same time
But I'm drunk
And it seems to be all
Which comes to mind
I really shouldn't drink so much
But who is to tell me
What to do
When all I need is rent
& food is a secondary expense
This adulting thing doesn't bode well
Too many bills
Too many responsiblities
Too many expectations
With blood comes too many questions
And isn't it easier to
Tell a story than
Actually speak the truth
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
you are the Pres
Oh Donald Trump
it seems like America
has hit a bump
your pitiful braggart
mean as a cuss
a bludgeon for a mouth
with a mind full a ****
its understood
you hate the press
you like the shadows
to relieve your stress
well big boy
you are the man
some people say
your loved by the clan
thanks for telling us
about the size of your *****
while conservatives smile
and give it a lick
your a star studded pageant
of confusion and lies
do you work for Putin
are you one of his spies
show us your taxes
are you a ***** for a foe
are you owned by a devil
we need to know
your purging the swamp
is that what you say
Exxon and Goldman-sax
so thats how you play
you talk so big
why not give it a rest
lets see what you can do
besides be a pest
it doesn't bode well
that you don't pay your bills
let subcontractors go under
so what if it kills
break up some families
of Latin decent
with a heart like a razor
are you really that bent
are you big blabber mouth
but don't a have clue
about our constitution
that keeps us true
we trust you completely
let your kids to the job
no problem at all
are you still friends with the mob
are ethics for others
ah to hard for Trump
will America wither
are you cancerous lump
we need some one
who can help us out
not a reckless fool
that fills us with doubt
you are the Pres
Oh Donald Trump
it seems like America
has hit a bump
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 9:07 PM UTC
Last week we decided to just be friends
Even though I like you and you like me
It’s clear that now, friends is all we can be
Our union is something no one recommends.
We’re too polar, for even our own pretends
Your Aquarian audacity
Coupled with my religiosity
We just don’t mix well, there are no “depends”
As we share our brains through books and music
We also share philosophy on life
Though to be “together” would prelude strife
Our contrasting faiths may seem ironic
But such conflicts will bode cuts like a knife
'Guess I rather would keep this platonic.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 11:45 PM UTC
Pour us more Palm-wine!
Said the groom as he stood
Mama sodiq, you sell the best Palm-wine in this village
Palm-wine! Palm-wine!!
Poured into the cup of my consciousness,
As I move through today, I call on you to give me
Thy guide as I dive into the storm of weaving waters
Ever since that day, blessed by the gods
When I met my Ajoke, at the òdún ìgęsún night
Adorn greatly with sweaty shaking breeded waist
Of the Omidans of our village
Bimpe! Kunle's resting stool,
The little mouse àlonpé from the village of Alarape,
With the help of mope, yours is not the matter of kowope.
Your intellect surpasses that of wole the head of the palace gaurds
Moving from one palm tree to another
Just to get my message to ajoke
Bode ògbójú ode
A rare friend whose great guns of words
Fired down enemies standing as storms
I pray you find true love with Dupe
Iya olu, thy words are divine
The milk of experience through which my suckle lips
Drill out knowledge from thy breast helping me
To solve the puzzles of life
I pray you live long to see thy grand child......
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 10:29 PM UTC
1378
His Heart was darker than the starless night
For that there is a morn
But in this black Receptacle
Can be no Bode of Dawn
2.5k
You deserve an Ode, so here I shall bode.
You are the freckles on a child,
sporadic, excessive, and just as wild;
the raging dots of acne on a teenager,
hormones and stress as the main factor;
the bullets from the bullet point to-do list of an undergrad,
and maybe sometimes the actual bullets
in a graduate who would rather eat bullets
than check off another bullet
from their bulleted to do list.
You are many. You are few.
The wrinkles of the elderly;
the cracks on a highway;
the hairs on a head;
the texture on my ceiling.
I exist secularly. I lie here alone. But you.
You are all encompassing, omniscient, and misunderstood.
Not only visible at night, as you claim,
but forever present in the eyes of a lover.
Not capable of granting wishes as they say,
but still worthy in the eyes of humans to discover.
They discover and uncover another and another-
a never-ending game of hide and seek.
And you laugh, scoff at those who feebly scramble
in search of a higher power,
when there is no power higher than the stars.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 7:32 PM UTC
/
Many and
Many years later
My Poetry books
That I had lost
From the middle of the bookshelf
Within Thousands of many other books
Where I have found
Utterly Unknown
Some Pages
Yellow
Pale
Is very difficult to read
Yet quietly reading
I read with a lot of the force
Crawling.
As a Small child walking
Many years later,
Understand
Know
Become that Strange Poem
The Poem
Showed me Dreams
Told me to Love
Strikingly,
Bought all the Colors of my Canvas
Drawn your Images
That happened,
Many and
Many years before
In my Heart and the Soul
Then
You and I
Grew as a highly Sophisticated
Metaphor,
In an extreme
Cohesion,
Nice One
My Heart put on your Heart
In a Romantic Tune
Bode on a Small Boat
Toward a Tough Sea,
That happened,
Many and
Many years before
In the Song of the Sea
Then
Sudden Sea Storm Came
Made Substantially Vortex water
We Drowned
Lost you
That also happened
Many and
Many years before
In this Sea and my Soul
Today I have found you again
In a Sprung Dream
As I lost you
Many and
Many years before
As if I'm standing
On the Shore of the Sea
You as a form of Sea Angel
Come forward to me-
/
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
Careta era o cavalo
A quem o sal dado
Em mim sangrava.
Tinka, um dos 2 cachorros –
Meu predileto era o Leão.
Brigavam como cães e gatos.
I Think era como o chamava -
ao primeiro dos cães
o americano missionário.
Shibiu, ou será Chibiu?
– era o cachorro de dona Modesta
Nossa mãe adotada: sempre atenta
A que nenhum bicho nos agarrasse.
Lembro-me também do Bito –
Aquele disgramado, culpado duas
Vezes por esta cicatriz que trago
No meio das costelas e no fardo
Pessoal que carregamos vida afora.
Bito não era bode expiatório
– mas cabrito imolado tampouco.
Acho que era o diabo tocando viola.
Eu alimentava os porcos
Sem expulsar ninguém
Morro abaixo...
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
"I don't know just where I'm going"
Arms encircled around porcelain, clean,
wavering strength, and eyes closing feebly
"when I'm rushing on my run, and I feel just like jesus son"
There are many more people than I want to see.
I pull up against the wall and, for balance, I lean
"and I guess that I just don't know, and I guess that I just don't know."
whiskey, for the Father
marijuana, for the Son
prescriptions, just for me
"I have made the big decision, I'm gonna try and nullify my life"
Still though, Lou Reed isn't dead, just clean
and so, this night, just won't bode well for me
"it shoots up the dropper's neck, when I'm closing in on death"
It is hard to remain dignified when in a wasted state, vomiting.
"You can't help me now guys, all you sweet girls with all your sweet talk"
It is hard to remain dignified when someone attacks my integrity.
"And you can all go take a walk"
It is hard to remain dignified when I am acting so senselessly.
*"Oh, and I guess that I just don't know,
oh, and I guess that I just don't know "*
I try to sleep through,
while foreign fingers swirl softly on my sides, to feel my *******
*"And that blood is in my head,
then thank God that I'm as good as dead"*
I try to sleep through,
while a small ring lies atop of a postcard, with an Indian head.
*"then thank your God that I'm not aware,
and thank God that I just don't care"*
I guess, I just don't know.
*"and I guess I just don't know
and I guess I just don't know."*
after the echo, I need to leave.
so I go, again, and press repeat.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
Layman's troubles, you fickle bode,
Who picks apart my breaths incentives,
And hastens my growing old.
Oh why can not you find
But one excuse to leave me,
For if the move was partnered
I'd grin and jump across the sea,
To find a locked up place to hide
Til' you decide to change your mind,
And sure you will,
You have before,
Then came with troubles new;
Searched, and found me hidden beneath the floor.
I hope some day you'll understand
My eyes of darkened shades,
And why they churn a fire burning,
Wishing you would end these days.
Only then will I choose to leap
Across the sea once more.
For a chance to walk on ground not burdened
By my troubles
That burn all open doors.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
they say home is where the heart is
well my heart sits inside this
war-torn body going through the motions
breathe in
breathe out
smile
suture together the gaping hole
that screams from the center of my mass
tugging on the ragged edges
trying to fold in on myself
my own ouroboros
subsisting off my own flesh
eating my muscles
a supernova collapsing with a crushing
blow that rattles my bones
and reverberates through my heart.
so this is home
the lodging where my
beaten soul and battered consciousness
have wiped away the dust
taken the sheets off the unused furniture
and curled up with their feet tucked up
underneath their body
paying no attention to the
leaky roof
pitter patter of water droplets
heavy with the chaos and ire
of the outside world
as they land definitively in pots and pans
littered throughout my body
lingering in my liver and
sopping up moisture that springs
traitorously into my eyes
burns straight through my retinas
and reminds me of my weakness.
how can i be my own big bad wolf?
alternating between a warm bed
and hearty meals that
bode a bountiful harvest
suddenly replaced by howling wind
and razor sharp rain drops
cutting into my skin
and i welcome it.
i let myself be cut to ribbons
until all that remains is
shredded flesh clinging precariously
to ivory bone
hanging by a thread
an elephant at the edge of a cliff
tail tied to a dandelion.
i relish the destruction
in razing my corporeal temple to the ground
reducing myself to ash
and scattering to every edge of the earth
until I burst forth from this atmosphere
this geological prison
my dermal incarceration
and fly as star stuff
to become a distant universe
for didn’t the liquid power of the stars
always run through my veins
an oil fire burning higher and higher
until the black acrid smoke
consumed the entire world
and absorbed the sun’s rays
to bring about a never-ending night.
close my eyes.
it doesn’t matter if it’s dark outside.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
Ode to the belt
And how nice it never felt
Ode to the fist
That knew just how to make my stomach twist
Ode to the bruises
Which left no excuses
Ode to my jaw
For that punch it never quite saw
Ode to my ears
All those nights when I could hear my brothers' tears
Ode to my dad
And every time he's ever gotten mad
Ode to the world
And every obstacle its hurled
Ode to ode
And how well it never quite bode
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
Quite often,
a memory of you will to settle lightly on my forehead
whilst I lay in bed.
I brush it away, and then the persistent little fly will inevitably find its way back onto my deadened hide to
lay
down
its
pestilence.
Though, last night,
I did resort to set these thoughts to flame,
and then I watched your vestige float away
on melancholy clouds of loveless smoke.
Drifted then did I to restless sleep.
And there,
the sullen ashes from my fire fell
amongst impassioned ghosts you'd left behind;
hiding there, in refuge of my mind,
and words held captive with them intertwined.
So then with every settling debris,
from sleeping lips a fickle utterance fell,
"Leave me, darling, come not now, for see;
a vow from you will not once more bode well."
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
The last time she meekily made love,
she painted woad on her arms
and bemoaned the children she never bore.
She summoned their names as "Iso" and "Tope",
to her bemused lover she retorted
"I want to make Roar, not Love".
She bode on the straightest longitude
to Banyas and bathed in its spring,
fortified by Tennessee Honey,
to Quneitra, she bore wire cutters
having already wept for a town
destroyed by un-love,
where she could simply set up a commune,
To grow Kohl Rabi and learn new days.
Instead Apache helicopters and glints of Uzis
Cast the spectre of World War Three
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
*Let <3 be Heart and the equation all makes sense...
1<3 +1<3= 2<3
But make it logical...
2<3 - 1<3= 1 < / 3
And suddenly its all nonsense....*
Mathematics of the Heart
Doesn’t bode well at all.
The statistics say you’ll never win;
Equations’ answer everything…
Math states you never stay
With your first love,
And that marriage is a lie.
Math states that not matter
How hard you try,
it always ends in divorce.
But then again, why trust Math?
Is there really a simple equation?
Think about it hard and long…
For math can’t tell you
The fraction of your heart you’ll lose if broken,
Nor tell you the percentage
Of happiness you’ll gain when in love.
So Mathematics of the Heart
They sound foolish when spoken aloud.
For truthfully think the matter through;
How can you tell with logic or understanding
When while in love all is illogical
And suddenly…
Math
no
longer
exists?
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 9:31 PM UTC
As the story goes
Only the young men know
These secrets that follow thee
This deceit that reckons thee
A forbidden passion
Reserved in rations
These secrets beckon she
For all the ships
In all the seas
Only the young men know
The dreams she used to
dream
So it seems
You deny her screams
That ever longing need
Only the young men know
The story that is told
She once had a lover
Then she carried four other
If only did you know?
That her love soon bode
Only the young men know
These secrets that heed thee
These secrets that follow thee
Into the deepest of trees
A hurt, so threatening
Only the young men know
What her future holds
And so, she must know
How much promise it hold's
If only could she learn
Lost In the mist of the night
She soon earns her light
Shinning so bright
No longer afraid
of what lurks in the night
And as the story goes
Only the young men know
These secrets that live in thee
© 2012 Christina Jackson
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 2:38 PM UTC
On I walk a winding road
choked by thicket on both sides,
A lonesome path seldom strolled
but for a raven eyed
Sky dyes to red,
plagued by smothered light
The Vagrant seems to emanate
never within sight,
He follows in my gait
as fright blooms into night,...
On we walk the winding road
feet fall stride for stride,
The Ravens cries do not bode
well of what will betide
The Wanderer begins to goad
a creeping suicide,
It matters not, what cycles rot
nor incubus I sheath,
His laughters in my very thoughts
The echoes raze beneath
On I walk the winding road
Only one, I stand
The Raven flies overhead
we walk it hand in hand
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
Reality obliterates.
An overdose of anything is bad.
I saw you standing by the gate of my castle one night.
It’s a fight, baby, a fight.
I’d rather not bring this up now, now or ever.
Poised to evolve, to create and be,
Ah, this mystery. It is not for me.
Twenty nine, you said. I wish.
Now your cue: ‘It was only a kiss – how did it end up like this.’
Poles split apart. Lives break.
Dices’ fate?
Never too late
For you and I to make
it.
Priorities, priorities. We all must have some.
Or that’s what I was told.
By someone old
and presumably wiser than I.
I don’t think I understand yours.
To be so clear now, so transparent, may not bode well for me.
Anyhow, the problem persists. I do not know.
I can only make sense of what you show.
Like a teacher, a guide, a mentor might.
But ah. What if the disciple lacks the insight?
Inside me. Inside you. Inside something beautiful.
Flew away, flew away: that one and her nuances.
And left us with this wonderful,
Incorrigible mess of things.
Like twisting beads into a big ball of yarn.
Or letting the dog mangle it up with salivating earnestness.
The beads, they make all the difference.
And you are my beads.
Of all shapes (mostly round),
Of all sizes (mostly large),
Of all colours (mostly nothing – mostly them all.)
And you know what? I like colours.
Colour me unrecognizable
(By anyone but you.)
There was no other
I could give myself to.
I cant ascertain
Whether it’s me I lost, or gained.
You I made proud, or shamed.
Respect lost, or love regained.
This would be easier in nonsense verse.
Flibbertigibbet very nicely puts me in retrospect.
What am I doing?
I can’t phrase poetically,
Much less understand what I say.
It may be for you to know.
For you only, for you forever.
Hide this.
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 9:02 PM UTC
As a waterwheel shall rise bounds
in a river where power will flow higher above stream
so mist does braze her skin which heightens stance with a kiss
where rain sought close by the rim yet wise
an owl on a branch that will sing
notes that nocturne has played here but still kept it away
from any current and rapidly churning sequence
how, cleverly those parts may bode in harmony awhile in a
canoe afloat in tranquility that programs a hydra just ashore.
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
I wish I had a time machine to go back and kick my own ***
Or at least try to talk some sense into myself.
"Listen kid, this **** doesn't bode well. You're burning alive and headed for hell."
Maybe writing is its own kind of time travel.
Billy Pilgrim knows what I'm talking about.
"Chin up child. Stop playing wild. I know you're trying to make your own style,
but you'll lose more than you'll gain."
But before I step in and turn the dial, my future self comes back to slap my hand.
"Let it be," I'll say to me.
One day you'll understand.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 11:09 AM UTC
Maybe it's cause I refuse to give up my ideals
Maybe it's cause I can't live up to them myself
Maybe it's cause they're compromised by how I feel
Emotions don't always bode well with Ideals
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 8:52 AM UTC
So, love began as it had— always been,
Stars exploding beyond the rays of gold,
Younglings new, born of bode and wonder,
The dearest waves, lept on forgotten time,
Among the furrowed hope of fields we grew,
Days sprung from long vines, handy grapes
Croft with sparkle in the bloomy meadows,
Hands knotted with clear, open eyes and all
The afternoons of spring rejoining, pebbles,
Divining from the told tale of forks in the hills
And reaching to loamy shores of lost ponds
For now, to be on at last warmly and grassy,
Dials of sun and summer cleansing showers
Under the peaceful wake, the never sleeping
Pines, yes and then we were highly held aloft
In the loom and yarns of green steps, storied
By forest upon shires, sandy uncovered eyes,
Happily, lost in the woods of lamb white days.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC