"capitals" poems
Algeria a rich land poor people,
Angola seems to have kings,
Benin is blessed with voodoo,
Botswana blood bulls diamonds,
Burkina Faso can't cope coups,
Burundi twelve years a slave,
Cape Verde has half a million,
Cameroon got cocoa,
Chad's lake is shrinking,
Comoros has under a million,
DRC is third largest,
Congo is it's neighbour with capitals facing,
Côte d'Ivoire has few elephants,
Djibouti's on the horn,
Egypt has mummy's,
Equatorial guinea struck oil in 95 but didn't loose change,
Eritrea has 5000 running annually,
Ethiopia's great rift is pretty ******
Gabon is subject to black gold,
Gambia got a peace of it after 65,
Great Ghana oasis of peace,
Guinea is diverse,
Bissau too,
Kenyans have beautiful smiles,
Lesotho is SA's baby,
Liberia oldest republic,
Libya needs liberty,
Madagascar where are the penguins!
Malawi has warm hearts,
Mali is 8th,
Mauritania is 11th,
Mauritius marvel,
Morocco fine leather,
Mozambique keeps the dugongs,
Namibia Windhoek ah,
Niger after a river,
Nigeria makes zuma rock,
Rwanda listen,
Sao tome and principe 2nd smallest,
Senegoals,
She sells Seychelles,
Sierra Leone free?
Somalia loose,
S. Africa reign,
South Sudan independent?
Sudan - black,
Swaziland more than solo men,
Tanzania trade,
Togo up down,
Two knees yeah,
Uganda teacher come simeon,
Zambia's peace?
Zimbabwe got rid of Mugabe.
Always thought zed was co.za but we're actually co.zm,
so what's zim?
One way we'll loose change is when the overseers begin to acknowledge the under looked.
-nyanta
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
If you were literature
I'd tattoo you all over me
and let you seep through my skin
filling my veins with your words.
There are a lot of pieces that make up the English language:
capitals, semicolons, that ******* Oxford comma
but you,
you give english a definition.
Love, when you speak to me
I see the word bubbles levitating above your head
pinning down each sentence with fragments of your voice
your lips form stories,
the kind I actually like reading
the poems that leave me wanting more
and trust me
I DO WANT MORE.
But I'm Dr. Suess
and you are Shakespear.
I'm sorry, I'm not what you deserve
that my lines are crooked
and pages wrinkled
that you deserve heavenly white sheets
to share the curvature of your letters with
If only I could hold the spiral notebook that is you
caress your leather cover
I would whisper all the definitions
inscribed in my brain associated with your existence,
trying to untangle the string of words you knotted.
But reality isn't written.
I cannot serenade you with my words
you will forever be on top of this modern caste system
and there are no ladders
how can I talk to you at a football game
when you're the one on the field
that today is survival of the fittest,
if someone were to take you into their arms
it would boost their reputation,
but you are not my reputation
You are the language I want to speak
You are the lyrics to every song
You are all my favorite words.
And yes, I may just be the
routinely period at the end of your sentences
and the chances of being with you shouldn't even be considered
"chances"
but since someone such as you exists,
I can promise.
I can promise you
all these imperfect sweet nothings
until my pen runs out of ink.
Always.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
for Barry and Tina
Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed,
the fitness of waking up and going back to bed
50 years on the trot.
But I look to my father’s hands and see
all twelve-thousand morning mists
he has seen.
A gristmill heart, grained hands
and workshop walking feet are
all hidden from view.
He writes in capitals, written
with precision, and crosses the T’s
as he goes along,
So not to prolong the sentence writing chore,
making more time, conjuring up the minutes
to potter around and mend unbroken objects.
-
Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed,
the fitness of waking up and going back to bed
50 years on the trot.
But I look at my mother’s hands
and see remedies read about in those magazines,
all to look younger in the staff canteen.
A watermill heart, smooth iron fingers
and contoured, sculpted chiselled
corridor feet are all hidden from view.
She scrawls her sentences; they become the tide
hiding letters and numbers in the swell
of punctuation and dotted I’s,
The T’s cross themselves and she moves on,
another phone call to attend too or
a new BBC this-time-more-accurate historical drama to view.
-
Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed,
the fitness of waking up and going back to bed
50 years on the trot.
But if you keep on going, stay out of strong sunlight
so not to rot, those years will pass
as a striking blur leading to coastal Big Sur
roads, where the next 50 miles
bring just as many smiles as the last 50.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
We see so much inequality in our world
And its only been enhanced
And put under a microscope.
Because while the people are suffering,
The bankers,
The CEO's
The politicians,
And the capitals;
They're all getting richer.
I don't believe in bailouts for
Corporate CEO's,
For stock market traders,
Or for banks.
What I do believe in is bailouts for
The poor,
For the students
For the workers.
I most certainly do
Believe in justice.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
SO TODAY I AM TYPING (2/11/13)
IN CAPITALS
BECAUSE
I AM INFATUATED
WITH SOMEONE WHO DOESN'T CARE.
SO TODAY I AM TYPING (2/15/13)
IN CAPITALS
BECAUSE
HE LOOKS AT HER
THE WAY I NEED HIM
TO LOOK AT ME.
SO TODAY I AM TYPING (2/24/13)
IN CAPITALS
BECAUSE
SHE PUT HER ARM
AROUND HIM
AND HE SMILED, AND HIS
EYES DID THIS THING
THIS BEAUTIFUL, CRAZY,
AMAZING THING.
SO TODAY I AM TYPING (2/29/13)
IN CAPITALS
BECAUSE
HE SMILED AT ME
AND HE SEEMED UPSET
I SAW IT IN HIS EYES
MY WHOLE WORLD
IS HIS HAPPINESS.
SO TODAY IM TYPING (3/4/13)
IN CAPITALS BECAUSE
SHE LEFT HIM
AND HE WAS SO HEARTBROKEN
THAT IT MADE MY OWN
HEART HURT.
SO TODAY I AM TYPING (3/9/13)
IN CAPITALS BECAUSE
HE SMILED AT ME AND
PUT HIS ARM AROUND ME
AND I GOT THIS FEELING
THIS BEAUTIFUL, CRAZY,
AMAZING FEELING.
SO TODAY I AM TYPING (3/14/13)
IN CAPITALS BECAUSE
HE KISSED ME
HE KISSED ME THE WAY I NEEDED
HIM TO KISS ME
WITH LUST
WITH PASSION
WITH NO TASTE OF REGRET ON THE
TIP OF HIS TONGUE.
SO TODAY I AM TYPING (3/20/13)
IN CAPITALS
BECAUSE HE ASKED ME TO
BE HIS GIRLFRIEND
AND HE KISSED ME AGAIN
AND I THINK
I LOVE HIM.
SO TODAY I AM TYPING (1/25/14)
IN CAPITALS BECAUSE
HE PROPOSED TO ME
HE WANTS TO MARRY ME
FINALLY
I HAVE GOTTEN THE LOVE I DESERVE.
so today i am not typing (6/12/88)
in capitals
because
he is gone
he died
he left me
alone
back in this old feeling
this awful
old
feeling.
m.g.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
My thinking is in bold,
but my words in lower-case.
She dreams in italics,
but,
unfortunately,
speaks in CAPITALS.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
A born salesman,
my father made all his dough
by selling wool to Fieldcrest, Woolrich and Faribo.
A born talker,
he could sell one hundred wet-down bales
of that white stuff. He could clock the miles and the sales
and make it pay.
At home each sentence he would utter
had first pleased the buyer who'd paid him off in butter.
Each word
had been tried over and over, at any rate,
on the man who was sold by the man who filled my plate.
My father hovered
over the Yorkshire pudding and the beef:
a peddler, a hawker, a merchant and an Indian chief.
Roosevelt! Willkie! and war!
How suddenly gauche I was
with my old-maid heart and my funny teenage applause.
Each night at home
my father was in love with maps
while the radio fought its battles with Nazis and ****
Except when he hid
in his bedroom on a three-day drunk,
he typed out complex itineraries, packed his trunk,
his matched luggage
and pocketed a confirmed reservation,
his heart already pushing over the red routes of the nation.
I sit at my desk
each night with no place to go,
opening thee wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo,
the whole U.S.,
its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones,
through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
He died on the road,
his heart pushed from neck to back,
his white hanky signaling from the window of the Cadillac.
My husband,
as blue-eyed as a picture book, sells wool:
boxes of card waste, laps and rovings he can pull
to the thread
and say Leicester, Rambouillet, Merino,
a half-blood, it's greasy and thick, yellow as old snow.
And when you drive off, my darling,
Yes, sir! Yes, sir! It's one for my dame,
your sample cases branded with my father's name,
your itinerary open,
its tolls ticking and greedy,
its highways built up like new loves, raw and speedy.
2.3k
Let's
Go for a walk
Down the higher spheres
And I word to show thee the estates and isles
Of the heavens
For
Thy name shall I crochets in their capitals
And let the
Unheeded and hidden secrets
Of each one of them in thy palms
Let's
Go for a walk
Down the higher spheres
And I word to buy thee the charms of castles
Lying cuddly on the cosmics
For
Thee shall be my god and thy servant shall I become
And perform all thy whims to the very last syllable
Let's
Go for a walk
Down the higher spheres
And I word to clad thy soul with garments of the rainbows
For
Thee shall gloss and *****
The sights of crafts
Running on golden asphalt
And make them collide with the pillars of the rays
Let's
Go for a walk
Down the higher spheres
And I word to get thee the finest jewelleries
That sparkle better than the figurine of the stars
And on thy finger
Shall I sit the most piety of all diamonds as my theme of love
And make the angels glower with chagrin
Let's
Go for a walk
Down the higher spheres
And I word to teach thee how I brew the storms and weathers
For
Your care shall I leave the whips
Of the recalcitrant thunders
And make thee assimilate them with thy counsel
Let's
Go for a walk
Down the higher spheres
And I word to lay thee on the hallowed beds I nursed
There
Shall I leak the ***** of my prowess
Into thine ears
And lick thy feet,showing thee the heavens
A Word For A Walk
To You Getrude
So much love❤
©Historian E.Lexano
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 5:29 AM UTC
We being so hidden from those who
Have quietly borne and fed us,
How can we answer civilly
Their innocent invitations?
How can we say "we see you
As but-for-God's-grace-ourselves, as
Our caricatures (we yours), with
Time's telescope between us"?
How can we say "you presumed on
The accident of kinship,
Assumed our friendship coatlike,
Not as a badge one fights for"?
How say "and you remembered
The sins of our outlived selves and
Your own forgiveness, buried
The hatchet to slow music;
Shared money but not your secrets;
Will leave as your final legacy
A box double-locked by the spider
Packed with your unsolved problems"?
How say all this without capitals,
Italics, anger or pathos,
To those who have seen from the womb come
Enemies? How not say it?
2k
The thing is Boy,
Yes, YES! I did need a shower this morning, and ****** lovely it was.
Aye cracking........
Let me tell you three things I got just right with my shower this morning.
First of it was HOT.
Not warm, definitely not lukers, as you said when you where a lad, but ****** lovely and hot.
Like the shower after a shift in The Pit.
Now, notice the capitals there, on The Pit.
Not to make it a loud word, I am simply showing due respect to The Pit.
I spent enough years down that colliery to show it that due respect.
The Pit indeed.
Secondly, there was enough water.
In my shower, not the mine now, pay attention!
It can be hard for folk to hang on to my words, I digress so much, hanging on to my words is like trying to grab a slimy mackerel on a sunny day at Porthcawl Pier.
Now that is a ditry pier, due to littering.
And fishing.
Speaking as a fisherman, with you will notice, a SMALL f, as I do not profess a great degree of skill in that area, but speaking as a fisherman, I will admit that there is an occasional tendency towards the dropping of litter.
On the pier, that is.
Quite likely elsewhere as well, but then I only fish the pier, see.
Anyway, yes, water.
Enough of it.
Not a ****** half-hearted trickle, an apologetic drip, but a deluge!
Fair flooded me out, it did.
****** marvellous.
Smashing.
Now, there was a third good thing.....
Ahh. THAT was it..
Someone to scrub my back.
Very important indeed.
You see, in The Pit, or at least, in the colliery shower, after a shift, we had good showers.
Hot, they were. Hot and wet, and we would stand there, warming ourselves under the water.
By Christ, my arms were sore after a day on my side with a pick.
And the soap was hard too, like a ruddy brick.
But the water helped see, took the pain away, it did.
Aye, and all the Boys, we would wash each others backs.
That was the way then.
In the showers.
Aye.
I new my mate's backs better than my missus'
Thirty years scrubbing them.
"Whiter than white" I would say.
When they asked me.
"How is my back Bryn?"
"Whiter than white".
Aye
Good days.
Now this shower.
A ****** good one too, It was today.
The Girl who comes in got it just right.
Halfway between five and five and a quarter.
Bang on.
And she washed my back.
Not as hard as the boys would have done,
but good enough for a youngster.
Not bad at all.
All in all, a good shower.
And that means a good day.
I can wheel my chair to look out the front later.
You'll pardon me for going now,
but I have to go to the bathroom see.
A big ****** task for me now.
Still, no-one in till teatime, and I can manage,
if I take it slow.
And thursday I get another shower.
And I will tell you about the days in The Pit again.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 6:57 AM UTC
I EITHER WRITE IN ALL CAPITALS OR NONE AT ALL
and yes, i smoke every ****** cigarette to the filter
yet my sadness never fades
i have bent and creased my sorrows into tiny origami butterflies
and sometimes when it rains i am the happiest i've ever been
and when the sun runs away
i am the only one here on earth
everyone is teeter-tottering on the moon
i truly feel alive
and no,
i cannot take away what others have given
and no,
i cannot find solace in my own words
we are all together in this cosmic game
when your favourite pen runs out of ink,
i hope you think
of me.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 5:21 PM UTC
I am a speed-dialled emotion
an ex-employee from hell
my name is [ ]
written in capitals
all over narrow alley walls
where blood traded its lingered beauty
in kind
the wind envies me
for the way I blow into oblivion
the unforgettable truth
and its reason
disguised in a moment
of adorned power
a flightless bird
is flapping its wings out of instinct
this is the apology of a tsunami
on the peaceful shore of a Sunday morning
my trail is a promise
but I will pass
Mar 3, 2010
Mar 3, 2010 at 1:22 PM UTC
We shall not ask for the precious pearl of the Duke of Sui,
nor for the priceless jade disk of Master **
We merely ask for the recent news of our homeland.
The Palace of Spiritual Illumination must be still there,
surrounded by desolation.
What's happened to the stone statues buried deep in the grass,
still guarding the Imperial tombs?
Is it true that our people left behind in the occupied territories
are still planting mulberry trees and hemp?
Is it true that the rear guard of the Barbarians
only patrols the city walls?
This widow's father and grandfather were born in Shantung.
Although they never held high office, their fame spread far and wide.
I remember when they carried on animated discussions
with other scholars by the city gate.
The listeners were so crowded that their sweat fell like rain.
Their offspring crossed the Yangtze River to the South many years ago.
Drifting in the rapids, they mingled with refugees.
I send blood-stained tears to the mountains and rivers of home,
And sprinkle a cup of earth on East Mountain.
I imagine when Your Lordship, His Majesty's envoy, upholding the Imperial spirit,
passes through our two capitals, K'ai Feng and Lo Yang,
Thousands of people would line the streets and present tea and broth
to welcome you....
Announce that the Emperor's heart aches for the suffering people---
they are his own children.
Let them understand that the Will of Heaven remembers all living beings.
Our sagacious Emperor offers his trust which is as brilliant as the sun.
There is no need to negotiate many times after the long chaos of the years.
1.8k
My obsession lays only with Calvin Klein.
A proper noun with capitals.
A drifting strong aroma.
Another obsession in my world.
Is sometimes somewhat lighter.
I am an obsessed pusher.
Obsessed only with my pen.
If I can create an image well.
Then hell so be it.
Real people I don't like much.
It's only words I wish to touch.
Desire fires obsession.
It's just a bunch of words.
Sweet strawberries so succulent bring words of summertime.
Clouds weigh down around my head
Dark winter days of misery.
Moments when I wish I was dead.
I put my pen to work.
Writing darkness scarily black.
About bursting eyes.
Where no-one dies,
Except emotion cruelly slaughtered.
By the one known only in kindness.
As the smiling devil's daughter
Definitely no relation.
Just the mother of eccentricity.
Kindness in persona.
To be so dark.
That's very rare.
In a heart that's ribbon bound.
I write my words with tender care.
Sometimes, just to remind the world that I am still there.
Moreover, like a hornet.
I cheese you off and get stuck in your hair!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 6:28 AM UTC
i like you.
i shouldn't like you,
it makes my life harder
and leaves me confused and jealous
but i like you
and it feels good.
i like how casual we are--
so casual that i don't even have to use capitals--
and how you touch me just to make me shiver,
how you steal small kisses
and then laugh because you know you shouldn't have
i like how i tell you everything
and you don't even flinch:
if i ran up to you tomorrow,
threw my arms around your neck
and screamed in your ear
"i have leprosy and a brain tumor!!!"
i know you would rough up my short short hair
and say
**** that's probably serious."
and then buy me a cup of coffee
while i told you my leprosy and brain tumor troubles
i like how you put your hand on the small of my back
as if you own me,
as if you won me,
as if you're pretending to shout to the world
that i'm yours now, and you know how i take my coffee,
and you know which shirt is my favorite, and you know how to make love to me
and that they should all take that into account
when looking at us together
as we walk through the aquarium or the park or the restaurant
i'll never admit it
but i like it when you get frustrated;
"just kiss me," you say
and i always say "i can't"
but secretly i'm thinking about that crooked tooth of yours
and if i could taste what we had for lunch
and if our glasses would make a plastic noise
when they collide, frame to frame,
snuggling like we are
and it makes me smile a secret smile
that i have just for you
and no one else
and yes, i sleep next to someone else,
someone i love more than life itself,
someone i made a home with,
someone i won't leave
but i like you.
May 4, 2011
May 4, 2011 at 6:26 PM UTC
i step further forward
with every breath
and down deeper
with every step
and i'll give my excuses out loud
to everyone around
except you
branches intertwining above our heads
roots down below, invisible
everything is so much more poetic
less with the carefully thought-out adjectives
and well-placed commas
and more with the phrases
that just drop from the sky
leave the capitals and punctuation behind
i'm forgetting the english language
and i kinda love it
further forward
with every breath
and down deeper
with every
single
lower-case
step
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 2:30 AM UTC
she longed for Love,
but looked
in all the
wrong places.
love wasn't enough
to fill the
difference.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 12:21 AM UTC
capitals irk me.
parentheses are comfortable, like my love embraces me, like i slide letters into envelopes, or don't, rather.
uneven lines and fragmented line endings feel more accurate,
real, everything that is not posed or
staged, everything that keeps you
hanging on to the last syllabic
exhale.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
well it was the alternative to gregory isaac’s night nurse... but then the bouncer on the catwalk with flares... skidding up on a rhyme and cooling it with an edge of the appropriately cut fashion... chased it.
innit kamikaze (rap’s shortchange in shaken pears
for martini bond and chanced cockney slang in shakespeare,
all 90’s groove though)
lyric’o gangsters
in the mollusk slush
two’s up freed
with the sly sly s.o.s. sloth
chinning up to the chariots of nero’s double for portrait:
naa na na na na na na na na na na na na naa,
naa na na na na na na na na na na na na naa
(i miscounted... didn't i?) -
where kurt cobian’s yeah yeah yeah used to be
along with r.e.m.’s cowboy astronaut.
come mike jagger with me the liszt skeleton
of b & w’s worth of crescendos tipping lazy waitresses
with a toreador’s worth of breezy napkins folded, flapped and sneezed into -
i’ll be dumping my shadow into splits for extras to boot frying it in
the hiroshima of paparazzi’s blinking.
failures are worth other people’s success when playing the lyre to a burn out of capitals:
anyway, edinburgh is the ultimate cameo in the literary bloodline
begot by paris for the 20th century ultimatum of identity scripted.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
i know how to jump start a car and
i know thirteen different ways to light a fire and
i know that i sleep better when you're here.
i know how to make a pipe with an apple
and i know how to roll poplar bark into twine and
i know what you're afraid of.
i know that sometimes turkeys drown because they stand
with their heads thrown back in the rain.
i know all the state capitals and
i know all the books of the old testament in order and
i know how far you'd have to jump to be sure you didn't survive.
i know that my biggest fear was always the time stretched out between
today and the end and i know that
lately i am not so afraid.
i know it's at least a little bit
because of you.
i know that my lungs crave mountains
like my fingers crave dirt
like my hands crave yours.
i know how the world looks on your seventy second hour awake
and i know how thirteen tabs of acid feels and
i know how to steal things without getting caught.
i know how thirty-year-old hands squeeze
sixteen-year-old hips.
i know that ******** isn't a compliment.
i know deep breathing techniques,
calming rituals,
and numbers for help lines i'll never call.
i know that frogs breathe through their skin
and that sometimes
they die when you touch them.
i know that i do not breathe through my skin,
no matter how often i forget.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
1. Sometimes I have conversations with you in my head – “you said there was nothing here” (blue biro)
2. Do you think of me at all? (black pen)
3. You better apologize (black pen, “you didn’t” is added later in blue biro, underlined)
4. I think I’m in a better place (faded blue biro)
5. I hate this (big letters, blue pen, scratched in)
6. I miss you, you idiots (pink pen)
7. I miss you, you idiots (the ‘s’ of idiots crossed out with blue pen)
8. I miss you, you idiot (crossed out entirely, two lines)
9. Why didn’t you notice (pink pen)
10. Do you think you matter to me? (blue biro)
11. I am done with you (black pen, capitals, scratched in)
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
i only write in capital letters for a purpose
when my words are silent, i don't speak up
capitalization is symbolism for power
for cries and outbursts of dreams spread forth and shot down
because of the american dream
i only write in capital letters WHEN I WANT TO BE HEARD
to put forth an emphasis on my actions, to mask true emotions through my powerful speech
i want to write your name in capitals just so you know what you mean to me
(YOU)
(YOU)
(YOU)
YOU are ENOUGH
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC
Could you contain my sighs of solitude
by harboring the anxiety in this fragile sea?
On your streets lies the tenderness, aging,
incandescent wind shelters and recalls
them in the distance
the flame anchored in your colors.
Habana,
Lucid, shadowed reminiscent garden
in an infinite insomnia
harnessing the dawn.
Throbbing uniquely,
uniquely understanding,
following the beat, freshness,
watercolor eyes of the city.
Giraldilla, proclamation, mystery,
chaste voice in a calm urge.
I consecrate your vitreaux,
sensing your baroque capitals,
Dusty, unraveled.
I'd like to talk:
Game, rainbow, love,
People, noise, cars;
Essays on flavors.
A captivated rumor,
your arbor dances a naked certainty:
A park, a cloud, summer, God.
The boundary hurts the clef,
the litany resorts to music,
when the stars nurse your elusive chant.
Far… blood calls for your passion,
Languishing, nobody edifies it,
in the absent dwelling of your sun, your moon.
The corner dwellers come to my mind,
the adjacent towns, trembling bedrooms.
I seek within you, dear city,
that home, The Cathedral,
that childhood, concrete flesh,
mother's kiss fading goodbye:
upholds my venerated memories.
Translated by Vanessa Cresevich
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 2:05 PM UTC