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King Panda Dec 2015
I reemphasized myself again
this time straightening my back
to become as tall as possible
to intimidate and deliver the
words like heat seeking missiles
aimed for earth’s ever-beating
heart and before I could begin
I heard a baby giggle
this made me giggle
and the whole bowlful of crowd
laughed along with us as I let
the doves flutter out of
my hat
serpentinium Jan 2018
I remember a dog with matted fur lounging in the shade
of a collapsed arch, staring in a way that animals sometime
stare that makes me wonder if the beliefs of Kantianism are
nothing more than old wives’ tales spun from smoke and cinder.

I remember the faint smell of sulfur mixed with seawater
in the shadow of the volcano that poured out its wrath
by the bowlful, the golden urns of the gods spilling
fire and magma from the very cradle of hell.

I remember the empty bathhouses, the villas with
half-painted frescoes, the expensive red paints made from
crushed beetle shells, the overturned tables and chairs,
the uneven stone streets carved by horse-drawn cart wheels.

I remember the skeletons huddled in boathouses,
unearthed from their ash-spun graves for prying eyes,
for the rapid shutter of camera lenses, for the proof
of their existence, as if to leer at the living and say,

“We are all nothing but carbon and bone.”
i really enjoyed seeing the ruins of pompeii and herculaneum
Joseph Valle Nov 2012
Memory comes quickly and goes faster still.
Childhood blurs and bends from the action
to nostalgia to nothing to a surprise visit
and ultimately, back to nothing.
It's never formal, opting out of knocking
before entering with muddy sneakers
and corn-butter-dribbled chin.
The hues of a late, summer afternoon
filled with fireflies and barbecue smell
connect the doorbell circuit
and make itself at home
before ears or legs can bid welcome.
Smile and greet one another breathless
only to depart at a moment's notice
as if the nomad suddenly realized
that no crop or solace remains.

So distinctly different
than that of a severed relationship,
which typically takes its bitter, sweet time.
For months, that fracture can stay and continue asking
for another Earl Grey and bowlful of discontent,
adding in spurts of lonely self-conversation
every several, silence-ridden hours.
Eventually, ever so carefully and quietly,
it tip-toes away with lip-marked cup and peacoat
at the moment when you've unwillingly returned
from the kitchen to fill pained guest's requests
but the only thing that remains
are indents in the leather armrests
and moisture gone cold.

Flashed across mind's eye and on its way.
The hollow fills itself endlessly with present
and distantly connects with past to find
that neither can be here while the other exists.
Start again and re-ember remembering,
drifted away on a silent plane
of glazed eyes and wide smile.
Arindam Barooah Feb 2021
Muddled yet accountable.
Sober yet lively.
Impassive yet doting.
Mixed bag of traits
define him.
Bowlful of big hearted fondness
he carries to embrace all.
Conviviality and amiability
are his favourite words.
Pile of rendezvous,
easy reach outlook,
entangles him in a maze.
Still an apple of everyone's eye and
quite a loved soul.
Being you and always there,
with joy I proclaim,
cuddling happiness and ease.
Best of our camaraderie,
brimming with our fond memoirs
is yet to be savoured.
Attachment and affection remains,
Love, regard grows each day, to remain forever.
Blessed to have you brother, friend!!
ChinHooi Ng Nov 2022
After all these years
when i step into
the land of rye
i can still hear summer
its most authentic heartbeat
roar of the machine takes over
from the rasping scythe
cutting through stalks
when the grains are harvested to the barn
they'll be no more painful stubble at the feet
after many years
the summer is still so **** hot
i like it just as before
the season of mellow mango scent
and pleasant earthly aroma of barley
though all beings are a little deflated
no one wishes to light the flame
at the moment i miss the dense woods in the distance
because that's where cool breezes are born
i appreciate the hospitality of the cotton and corn
they keep bringing the joy of maturity
flowers are exceptionally generous
they keep painting the landscape
standing on the fresh verdant ground
let the rainstorm clean my dusty soul
summer is the season of zeal
i will extract the poetic fragrance
on every lush green plant
so that folks longing for a peaceful mind
can get a peaceful lyrical feeling
across this summer
i especially like the other side of the water
where i can dance with the shy lotus
this summer i've gathered
a bowlful of poems to read
with you.
Hayleigh Jan 2018
-
And each morning as she slept
I'd take her a tray of poetry
A croissant of commas warmed from the inside out
An ounce of assonance
A cup of freshly squeezed couplets
A bowlful of rhymes
That inside she might find
Our promises of forever
The memories we crafted together:

I’d take her a teapot of
The little things we’d forget
In the busyness of daily life
I’d take her a knife to spread
across the toasts we’d host
To the moments we cherished most
To our victories and our regrets
And every morning as she slept
I’d place a kiss on her head
As I placed beside our bed
A tray of poetry,
The words she so carefully, cordially, candidly
Composed out of me.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
close proximity word-compounds are sometimes the hardest to invert onto themselves, to craft a chiral pivot, notably due to the suffix-blindspot of the non-differentiated prefix antonym, even more so, when guarded by close proximity of words such as hubris / hiatus - esp. when was begins one's logical approach, inducing a misnomer tangle - due to the overtly laden verbum similis; and these little schematic squares of extremely confrontational, but also the more so extremely cohabitable ref. points, will always be harder to master, than say: a rigid rhyme schematic of a sonnet.

all this current talk of protecting free speech,
cf. with the writing i'll cite -
well, so much for a freedom that can
invite both the sophist and babbling of
slanging slurs -
      all in all, in defence of the "freedom" of
speech, is just as well, a: freedom for
idle talk - and if not idle talk, then simply
politicised intrigue, that once gained
the ears of salon ladies at liberty to an alt.
to ****** arousal.

and how did this come about?
   oh... well, what people talk about now,
is what people thought about in the 1920s
and the 1930s...
                  
as heidegger points out, regarding a herr
oswald spengler - der untergang das abendlandes
(1918 - 1922 vol. 1 & vol. 2 respectively):
the famous suggestion of a *decline of the west
:
paragraph opening -
          why is herr spengler in noting
a decline? not because of the heroic optimists
being correct with regards to this apparent
decline - modernity as the unfathomable
stretch toward a status quo eternity -
and with darwinism, the theory of relativity,
the big bang, quantum physics -
there's about as much worth of a question-worthiness
these days, as there is a needle's worth
in a haystack of airy tumbleweed answer-unworthiness...
these former optimists of the decline
   have turned into ardent pessimists of
there even being a decline -
      
the oeuvre of psychology did the most damage
in the end -
   still mingling with an archaic sophistry of
astrology, tarot and the voting ballot -
       no shred of a doubt that we live in a one
way street of: answers & denials only, please,
questions & doubts, ooh noo noo noo!
         we do not live worthy of a question -
since by question we mean: ridicule being
the only appropriate answer deserved by
asking a question.
              
    it came with the change of hiatus between
   the two factions -
   once the optimists took to hubris -
                   the pessimists take to hiatus -
if we called them heroic optimists -
we now call them optimists in hubris -
  once we called them lunatic pessimists
and ultra-religious leash bearers -
     now we call them: young people who
forgot to take chances, risks, and thrills...
  cushion padded wet charcoals that
have as much potential to burn as -
                               a dolphin getting dry.

and aphorism 105 (VI) does just that,
   100 years ago by my circa approach -
'the west will not go down, primarily because
it is too weak for that, not because
it is still strong.'

  which is why i ask: is free speech anything
to defend these days, when free thought
echoes so many years later,
  and what is now considered "free" speech
is merely idle superstition regarding
a "revival", the last supposed push?

there's absolutely no honour in kicking
a maned dog,
                    and in that act: of kicking
a maned dog, or giving a bowlful of bones
for a toothless dog to nibble on
is just as well... might as well spoon out
the marrow and give the old hag of the west
a pâté to slurp...
        yes, orthographically speaking:
very pedantic of the french to bend the macron
into a circumflex -
sure, ain't pretty, but i can assure you:
i'll be technical;

what the west can be thankful of is that it's
the first culture in decline,
   and once a culture is in decline,
among so many others, the others follow suite -
like a spread of cancer,
or any other plague -
     it probably begins by the european
decadence in not respecting antibiotics -
  infesting themselves with superbugs -
or thereby managing to craft some sort of
immunity to them...
  and they say that ****** if baah baah baad...
big pharma never kills, does it?!

i'm still confused on a close proximity akin
to thesaurus logic of synonyms -
i.e. decline of the west = heroic optimists of the decline
        (it must surely happen!)
or is: decline of the west = pessimists on hiatus?
                  i.e. it will never happen!

ah! that's what it was: i was thinking of hiatus
but wrote hubris instead... d'uh dum dum...

  i.e. the roles have changed -
now the pessimists are engaged in hubris -
                      while the optimists are on a hiatus:
the whole - i told you so...
             the whole i told you so since the 1920s
is irrelevant these days,
   given the great america never again ended
at the beginning of the 21st century...
                    the monologue from the grand ***
degraded from the grand satan is hot puff and
cinnamon smoke...
          
       once more: what is relevant about what's
being said these days? as much as was a passing
observation in the 1920s?
          i hardly think so...
   the so-called freedom that only gravitates
to idle-chit-chat and poseur antics of bravado?

given that not much is questioned,
   and whatever is questioned has lost its allure
to be fresh, to be alarming,
   all the questions asked are plagiarisms,
a dead-end, in imagery: a library with only
one book in it (i mean, a library brimful with
books, but all these books are the same book);
which makes these times so
answer-unworthy - is that they come so
easily, and are usually borrowed from
the same anglophonic sets of ideas,
regurgitated chick food from the peckers of
their parental guardians.
            
         well, if you live in times when people
have that idiotic audacity to ask a question
like: what's the meaning of life,
  why are we here, how did we form, etc.:
   all these inessential "essence" questions -
          and about as many historicals gaps
of memory lapse as a drinking session with
oliver reed in between...
               the only question goes something
like this:
   and ? found myself walking around the house,
walking by a mirror, ? peered in,
   and without a narcissus to mind
to slowly build a curiosity that would turn
into self-love, ? exclaimed: !,
   after which ? steadied by pace of questioning
adding the much needed: ?!
                      
what's as good a questioning dynamic / schematic as
you're going to get, these days.
Abby McMichael Jul 2010
Centered on the table, there sits a bowl
Filled with the fruits of a rainbow of shades
Colorful essence erupts in my soul
Maroon, chartreuse, rose, goldenrod, and jade

Ignore the mouth watering sensation
Caused by a vibrant banana - yellow
I cannot give in to my temptation
The priceless jewels lay silently, mellow

I gaze at the fruit in perfect rapture
Stroking my fingers against smooth cherries
Such sweet gems have my attention captured
I eye the dozens of bright, plump berries

I soon discover a fate so drastic
The flawless bowlful of fruit is plastic
I could be anything the way I wish
A bowlful of food an empty dish
A blade of grass or a redwood tree
But I want to be the way you want me.

I could be anyone the way I wish
Furrowed forehead or smiles that please
A heart rigid or a mind that’s free
But I want to be the way you want me.

I could be a face covered with veil
A man of dogma or with free will
Kissing wind or a stinging bee
But I want to be the way you want me.

I could be the man I thought I must
Winner in suspicion loser in trust
A narrow stream or the boundless sea
But I want to be the way you want me.
Woe to the Apathy









Woe to you who are apathy in Nigeria,
And to you who feel safe in Aso-rock,
You dignitaries of fraudsters of Nigeria,
To whom the poor depend on for stocks.



Woe to you who are apathy in Africa ,
And to you who feel safe in  America,
And then weep hard in their prison wall,
Now, is their calaboose a-mourning mall?



Woe to you who are apathy in Nigeria,
And to you who feel safe in ritual-wealths,
Yet, you die young and rot in Hades ever;
As your casket drop amid beast of maggots.



Woe to you who are apathy in many states,
And to you who reign terrors daily,
And to bowlful drunkards and fate-pests,
Your feasting and lounging will end sadly.





©AUTHOR KELLY JUUZ
[A salient prolific author...]
»» 02/07/2017
>> 11:57AM
John F McCullagh Jul 2012
They had waited on blankets, in cars,
to view the Chrysanthemum stars.
Instead of a pyrotechnic display,
The authorities sent them away.
A brief blast of frightening power
consumed at once many a flower.
It appears a computer malfunction
was the cause of the mini eruption.
The engineered boom had gone bust.
Makes you wonder- now who can you trust?


In the desert that night 'neath the stars
Jupiter, Venus and Mars
put on their free, nightly, display.
People on blankets, in cars
very seldom look up to the stars.
There a bowlful of wonder and light
goes sight unseen most every night.
The gift of a child's sense of wonder
goes unwrapped by these mortals down under.
Some thoughts on the cancellation of the  Independence Day fireworks display in San Diego. All the fireworks exploded on the ground in 15 seconds
Ottar Nov 2013
Colour is not the point,
like beams of light that
                     do anoint
the hour which I lay flat
and wait for rest, or at
which point in the dark
                                      do I wrest it from a faerie light
or must I wrestle with
a bottle, pills to cause my ills to slip away and let the
pillow absorb my day, my worries, my strain,
where the engine,
has no off switch,
this engine sits on
top of me not purring
not whirring but
running rough shod
through me, I will not
admit to being sleepless, for by the time I write this,
you will all be in the land,
that I am jealous of, see?

Oh colour?
Which pill will I take,
I have different shades
for different days, and Hades,
waits for me as well, for one
of these times I may take too
many, but I am sparse would
not want to be left without any,
so those gates stay shuttered
as I wrap up and shudder,
through another night
where the next days, and days
dawn and I fawn over
my appearance, eyes with
circles dark, pale image stark
in a mirror, to the point, the clown
smiles back at me and asks
to be happy or not to be sad?,
I need sleep so pass a whole bowlful,
of sleep that all of you have too much of,
                              and push and shove
me
with
your
bed time stories,
nursery rhymes,
and lullabies,
in poetry and I will read what I need
                         to let go and let sleep
steep me overnight, when I will wake
                 up and pour into another day,
the literary love you have shown this poets way.
NL, this ones for you.

Also see Sep 8 2013 something I did on Insomniacs etc
Boaz Priestly Nov 2015
i will stick to your teeth
am i spicy
or am i sweet
either way i will
bring back memories that
will make you cry

back when it was just
you and your little girl
and there wasn’t enough money
for a beach trip
but you still bought her taffy anyway
and the two of you sat on the
front porch
watching the world move by
and you gently washed the
taffy off your daughter’s face

but when your little girl
became too big to hold
when she squirmed away from your touch
and screamed about the bows
in her hair
you wondered where your baby girl
had gone
and it was hard to love her
because she was a stranger
to you
and to herself

and now your little girl is gone
leaving an arrogant
angry and impatient boy in her place
but ******
he learned it all from watching you

and now this boy
wearing your little girl’s body
eats a bowlful of taffy
trying to fill the black hole
that you left in the middle of his chest

is this boy spicy
or is he sweet
he sticks to your teeth
dries out your throat
makes your stomach hurt
and you resent him
for taking your little girl away
gmb Mar 2021
Thank you for your patience,
carelessness imitating restraint.

He mutters something.
Words stumble through the air,
delay at my earlobe,
they dare not climb inside.
I won't ask again.

(Heartache is ghosts in the walls. Heartache is socks-on-at-all-times 'cause the carpet is gummed up with **** and little empty baggies stick themselves to the soles of my feet as I walk. Heartache is a few days here and there without power, a bowlful of dead fish left to stew. Heartache is bath times in mold, never being clean, when you'd rather let the pillow suffocate you rather than taking it off your ears and hearing the screams--you say you know pain, how could you know? How could you even begin to understand?)


I say thank you for putting up with me
regardless. You know I keep it all inside--
I know why you stir in your sleep.
If I were you, the guilt would eat me too.

For the sun always sets in front of me,
and rises from the back--

(Have I convinced only myself that you don't want me? Have I convinced you too?)
Twas the night before Christmas,
When all through the house
Not a creature  was stirring,
not even a mouse;

The stocking were hung
by the chimney with care
In hopes that St. Nicholas
soon would be there;

The children were nestled
all snug in their beds,
While vision of sugar-plum
danced in their heads;

And mamma in her kerchief
and I in my cap,
Had just settle our brains
for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn
there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed
to see what the matter.

Away to the window
I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutter
and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast
of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of mid-day
to the objects below,

When, What to my wondering eyes
should appear,
But a miniature sleigh,
and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver
so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment
it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles
his courses  they came
And he whistled, and shouted,
and called them by name name:

"Now, Dasher !
Now, Dancer !
Now, Prancer and ***** !
On, Comet !
On, Cupid !
On, Donder and Blitzen !

To the top of the porch !
To the top of the wall !
Now dash away !
Dash away ! Dash away all !"

As dry leaves that before
the wild hurricane fly
When they meet with
an obstacle
mount in the sky;

So up to the house-top
the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys,
and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling,
I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing
of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head,
and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas
came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur,
from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were
all tarnished
with ashes and soot;

A bundle of Toys
he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler
just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled !
his dimples how merry !
His cheeks were like roses,
his nose like a cherry !

His droll little mouth
was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin
was as white as a snow;

The stump of the pipe
he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it
encircled his head
like a wreath;

He had a broad face
and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed
like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump,
a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him,
in spite of myself;

A wink of his eyes
and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know
I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word,
but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings,
then turned with a ****,

And laying his finger
aside of this nose,
And giving a nod,
up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh,
to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew
like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim,
ere he drove out of sight...

Happy Christmas
to all
and to all
a good-night
Twas The Night before Christmas (Classic)
IT'S CHRISTMAS DAY !
MERRY CHRISTMAS & HAPPY NEW YEAR !
nivek May 20
a bowlful of blue
poured into my skull

two pools of light
sea and the sky

-hold hands
make-believe for a day

no fighter jets roar
on their way to war(so far today)

— The End —