"cavalcade" poems
Seeking a reality,
bridges, boats, and canopies.
Calamity surrounds and swarms
my skin of wicked tragedy.
A cavalcade of traveling;
a taste of fleeting sanity.
Settle with the is or question off into the can it be.
Bridges, boats, and canopies,
Bridges, boats, and canopies,
Ripples in the water always fade but follow straggling.
Bridges, boats, and canopies,
Vistas, view or craft the scene,
Settle with the is or question off into the can it be.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 1:20 AM UTC
A tiny seed once tarried in stoic stillness
treasuring in its womb
an embryo with cosmic imprint on its soul...
and the tiny seed hibernated to a mystical trail!
Frosty squalls, summer torments, marauding insects –
all came in a cavalcade!
It dreamt the mighty tree
slumbering in the core of its being,
arching over the earth,
spreading its majesty for every eye to behold!
It yearned for the calming lullaby of the rain,
for the burning kiss of the raindrops
to fire its soul,
to caress to fullness the dormant life in its gravid womb.
In silence, it gazed heavenward –
and lo, an intense raindrop tugged its heartstrings
to a melodic ecstasy
releasing the music of the seedling
from its womblike soul!
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 3:39 AM UTC
The sun, a heavy spider, spins in the thirsty sky.
The wind hides under cactus leaves, in doorway corners. Only the wry
Small shadow accompanies Hamlet-Petrouchka's march - the slight
Wry sniggering shadow in front of the morning, turning at noon, behind towards night.
The plumed cavalcade has passed to tomorrow, is lost again;
But the wisecrack-mask, the quick-flick-fanfare of the cane remain.
Diminuendo of footsteps even is done:
Only remain, Don Quixote, hat, cane, smile and sun.
Goliaths fall to our sling, but craftier fates than these
Lie ambushed - malice of open manholes, strings in the dark and falling trees.
God kicks our backsides, scatters peel on the smoothest stair;
And towering centaurs steal the tulip lips, the aureoled hair,
While we, craned from the gallery, throw our cardboard flowers
And our feet **** to tunes not played for ours.
2.6k
*Italic drumroll...
imperial cavalcade with Roman horns, eagle standards raised*;
♪ ♫♪♫ ♪♪♫♫♪♪♫♫♪♪♫♫♪
ALL HAIL !
Ye screen-fed sacrificial citizens, seething simpletons and volatile voters:
attend now, with republican fervor, tempered by democratic zeal, to the golden-tongued orator of our epoch, gallant guardian of American greatness, avatar of avarice, the Jeffersonian gentleman, anointed autocrat and Sultan of Swell, windswept Wazir of Wonderful, emissary of towering eminence in empire, The Anti H-Rod: Donald J. TRUMP !
(Plebeians look up from their circus-bread for a second—)
And may Our Sovereign Savior & Almighty God also bless his worthy opponent and adversary *HILLARY ("H-Rod")*
(Patricians murmur, nod; a few salute)
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
meaning of wishtastes
desires drive delusion
devils delve deepening
seeds to root loathsome leaves
smelt cinders graying goals
craving strangled contentment
under backalley blackness
beats heart sneeze two
cavalcade blue
cacophony in fast dreams
reseized by letting go of circus surlplus
reassurance of real love is real gone
gone is the relooped sad troupe armies of needinesses
truth proofed **** the magician disappeared
withdrew tears,fears, smears, and leers
now amongst new artful peers
The lions tail was a cobra coming with teeth under the door
awoke then broke my dreams end and don't hafta go back again
ego sinning by ego being a sin says ego
leggo my ego waffle a proper prophet
the jewels three sweet gleams eaten
gifts even the ego cant teacher the reached rifts
sewn up all dischordian accordian polka poked out eyes
belief swam away to the island of surprises
can I ? I can will it . Will then be faithful to real action.
kung fooled schools chop trees sticks
paper stones throw away
I can walk 6 feet on airs invisilbe stairs
ears heard alistening stream just the branch that froots
Shotgun riding to the holy holy holy
Dee vine
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 11:16 AM UTC
tall green trash bins
stand sentinel - each side -
for this cavalcade of one
branches wave, leaves applaud
the stout school crossing guard
flags me by
keepers at the drive-through gate
nod in recognition -
a goblet of dark roast
handed over in salute
a stop light that's never green
is evergreen
until this parade passes
exiting to the expressway
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 12:40 PM UTC
Sewer rats bottleneck into a Carnival of Depravity. Due to the bizarre circumstance of their fingers, they allow their limbs to become limp. As Valkyries, they are aware of the juxtaposition of their clown pantaloons and their hobnailed mudboots. In this benefit carnival, a ferris wheel runs amok. Within it, GI’s holler their way through the vermillion skyway, zippoing the dented carapace with their M16s. In a true practice of youthful bliss, the 5.56 returns to the cosmos. However, the bullets, streaming out and homewards, are soon constrained to the circular path of the wheel itself.
“Centripetal farce!” goes Lance.
“Hey what, man?” whimpers Mr. Clean.
“Well, y’see: centripetal fOrce makes an overwhelming amount of sense. So much so, that when superimposed on the Carnival Cavalcade™, it must make no sense, for it’d shake us all up something mad.”
“So, the bullets aren’t real?”
“Oh, they’re plenty real. Just touch it, it’d melt you, starting with the neurons, cat. Other than little blue reality though, it’s out there. Its dancers are not chained to any concrete block of nature.”
“Oh, they’re sufferin’?”
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC
The flowers pass in waves
Waving as they go
Colours fit to burst
Petals pure as snow
The serenade of spring
The love new life will bring
Blossom on the trees
Fragrance on the breeze
While flowers pass in waves
Waving like they know
Colours fit to burst
Petals pure on show
The cavalcade of spring
When pigeons coo and sing
Heart strings stretched out tight
Each day’s a new delight.
(Plucking in the night ;)
Feb 12, 2023
Feb 12, 2023 at 3:03 AM UTC
What is the Rust Belt?
Can we define it?
- on a map, we mean -
Can we circle in black marker,
topographical green and brown, one mound,
from Canada on down to
Kentucky and say
well, there -
America’s sore fingers in old age
floating, separate, in the pond,
white and knobbed and wrapped around something
a lever, the haft of an oar,
the tuning dial to twist to Cavalcade,
the body of the eel which just keeps swimming away.
You said it in a message -
“Rust Belt” -
and a great blank region was filled
by old poets in corduroy
better than their surroundings
and if not better precisely
then at least when they drink
they drink in bars like smokestacks
with hubcaps on the walls, with weak plumbing,
listening to conversations, not having them.
Rust is something I know well:
I feel rust (but I don’t wear corduroy).
Rust like a signal ingredient
all through the cupboards.
Shot through, something you have too much of
and could never want to write about.
Rust in this message, too.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 10:27 AM UTC
A tavern built on misdeeds and insurrection,
House of rascals, whisky and imperfection
A hideaway for rebels and racketeers,
Where drinks are served to outlaws and mutineers,
Where the pianist plays for pirates and privateers,
Where the wicked and the wayward can be served,
And are respected however undeserved.
It’s a rag-tag bunch of outlaws and anarchists,
A cavalcade of rough revolutionists,
So come on in my dear insurrectionist,
Welcome to our lawless little band,
Welcome to the Tavern of the ******
Come and join our banished battalion,
Join our cause, oh revered rapscallion,
So calling out to nature’s abominations,
We’ve got bourbon, bombshells and indignation,
Come and wait for imminent and sure damnation,
No matter what your deviance may be,
Come and join the drunken reverie.
It’s a monument to lost souls and deviants,
A shrine to every small disobedience,
A riotous, cathartic experience,
Where radicals are safe from reprimand,
Welcome to the Tavern of the ******
Welcome back, my worshipped renegade,
To the place where freedom’s sweet as lemonade,
Where skanks and outlaws, sing so intoxicated,
The anthem of the unkempt and agitated,
The mantra of the evil and of the hated,
Laughing as they sing their merry tune,
Unified by their impending doom.
It’s a testament to chaos and anarchy,
A haven for the worst of humanity,
A house of lawlessness and profanity,
Welcome to our lawless little band,
Welcome to the Tavern of the ******
Aug 19, 2020
Aug 19, 2020 at 6:59 PM UTC
The night is breathing apartment aroma
and the drunks are tumbling
d o
w n
w a
r d
through marina side
alleys
where the
Jamaican trumpeter
sharpens the brickwork
with clamor
brass rifle bullet sounds.
I get my depression half price at the supermarket,
that man made melancholia/
dehydrating all senses/
gunpowder to a broken barrel.
Sleepless for that distant girl explosive!
She's moving to the big city,
yeah there she goes!
To live in a place where many go to die.
Mango the sky
and ashclouds-
autumnal daisy/
center sunshine/
opalescent ecstasy
reminding one of Indonesia
and Darjeeling balcony evening
on the cubist block
on Kuta
on dreams and nightmares simultaneous
(THE PARANOIA OF PARASITES)
wet air
vapor rain
February pain
in the July bone!
Celebration VOICENOISE
passing phantom
thru paisley sheet
corridor.
Life is strange..
the strangeness of days
receding via the mattress
to time
and memories and
remembering the happenings
of ceremonies
this year
past year
CAVALCADE!
SPECTACULAR STARLIGHT!
OVERVIEW THE FIELD OF TENTS
AND LOVERS!
Life is an unrecognizable chameleon
T R A N S M U T E
to some other color
iridescent
(Where do I go? where do I go?)
Say by December the
name of my Valentine
by boardwalk boreal
and I recall
the current
Summersun
pearl/red
beautiful and beating
(BEDAZZLED LIKE
THE HEART)
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 3:57 AM UTC
When You and I
Waylaid in wilderness
And the path is lost!!!
I shall shower
My love on you
Everyday, in new ways
Love dainties host.
My soul into you
I shall pour.
Each part of body
Will be an island tour
With loving glance
My heart will click
The choicest kisses
In silken shades flick.
On every island
An age will be stake
In each age love’s
New flavor and shade
Sometimes as lotus
I shall bloom
Sometimes as
Jacaranda zoom.
Panorama shots
Of love arcades
Flowers and trees
Make cavalcade
In it love’s sweet
Fragrance blows
Love birds tweet
Lilting music flows.
From age to age
We shift our stage
We shall bind ever
To new cage
Where pain and hunger
Do not strike
Life unfazed
By price hikes.
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 10:51 PM UTC
Love's a loaded craps game, played
by ****** people, lads who dream
a sweet and willing cavalcade
of perfect mates who can't exist
(though in the yahoo's mind they must,
or how would any man get kssed
or be excused the wolfish lust
of ****** people, cads who dream?)
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 9:42 PM UTC
this creative sea
you, me, us
a cavalcade of pronouns
dead tigers
swimming and spinning
through cascades of metaphor
and simile maldefined.
so sick of seeking truth
a battle poorly placed
awkward timing
skinny lines
of belief, disbelief and nonparticipation
waiting for clarity
in the waves of obscurity.
“as you know, we’ll never know
and blindly ford the river of paint
horse hair in hand
to an actualized bank.”
scoffs, she does, and moves face and nose to her art
up for air, and down again
actualizing the truth
that was never there, always.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
An explosion of motion
It is morning
The day lies open
Water runs between my claws
I pretend I am the permeable colors of glacial melt
Where I am distinctly heedful. No eyes. No hands
I want to be invisible;
the lazy colors of gold and blue;
unable to recall any identity or reality
I can’t say why. Invisible hurts. Maybe its easier to feel the hurt of invisible but know that the struggle of existence will never be in me
I’m sick at the prospect of a cage but it’s easier than freedom
So I quietly dismantle myself during your sleep. I wait in my constraints for the machinery in your mouth to turn
That sound is my cue. The only evidence I know
Maybe I’d be good for a living hell; tied to the incessant bluster of gods with animals heads, munching holes in each others pale golden horns
But the war is at a pause for now. The cavalcade is sitting down
Is it still morning?
I sleep to shelter my head. But good sleep never really comes
The drop line reaches down my throat and hoists a voice
How condemned I feel
Condemned to action and reaction, burdened with contempt, choked by doubt, commanded to love
How can I be, if I cannot know what I am?
Why can’t I be invisible?
Some enchanted morning senility will be upon me. And when my body begins to cool, let it be
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
Silently I stand
Surrounded in stoicism
Submerged in saddening sorrow
Saddled by stacking sour and soulful screams
This pressure building heavier
Yet I endeavor
I carry this weight
Always knowing
The load I bear
Will at some point
Give way
Releasing a cavalcade
Of despair
My life has not been easy
Albeit easier than others
This pressure grows on you
Sometimes so much it smothers
And covers
The screams
That replace my dreams
That shine
In my eyes
Over time
It has died
All that's left is grime
My eyes
An everlasting echo
Etched into everything
I've ever erased from memory
A cliche I'll enter
I hurt myself
To make sure I can still feel
I meet love head on
Full of zeal
Incessantly inquiring for that iconic
And inspirational ideal
But to no avail
My heart seems
At least to me
A fun thing
For people to step on
I rush to aid the ones
Who remind me of myself
Because for me
No one cared
No one dared
So maybe I should
Maybe I could
Offer my opinion
Grant a little guidance
My lack of direction
Makes me a foul figure
To follow
So my advice is unheard...
I apologize for this dump
Recently I've been in a slump
Just wanted to say this stuff
And also ask the world
****
When have I given enough?
Nov 12, 2021
Nov 12, 2021 at 3:49 PM UTC
The wind is always blowing here.
It rushes down out of the canyon
to the east
like a cavalcade of rhinoceroses.
The cyclists
struggle against it
the pedestrians
have to lean into it
the motorists
spend two dollars and ninety cents extra
each time they gas up
to compensate for it.
The trees on the eastern edge of the cemetery
are bowed-
to the west-
and their leaves don’t fall
they’re ejected
like screaming pilots from flaming cockpits
at wonky angles
until they crash into the grave markers below them.
And the headstones are all weathered
prematurely,
names and dates and histories
erased
while below,
wrinkled shells dressed in sunday suits
sit in metal boxes
pretending
that some shred of them
will last forever.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
prolific bending( )you,re an over counter top
upper halfed
and i was tired knees
grousing with the unstable permanence of
weary laminate
with oral benedicting
a plush whip
of crashing plump
breaths
on the alabaster cavalcade of your innerest thigh
i tend the heaving bloom
of thy impossible salt
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 9:59 AM UTC
Perhaps I’m insane,
It wouldn’t be the first time someone would think that,
He thinks that I am,,
Cat lady in training
But little does he know,
I have a secret,
A light hidden,
Yes, hidden in my soul.
There, words flow freely,
It’s deeper than anything that he could comprehend,
Couldn’t even wrap his head around it,
His soul is new and naive,
Mine is antique,
Wiser,
Stronger,
He is muscular
Physically stronger,
I am feminine,
Softer,
but yet I am still 3 times the man he is inside.
So walk along boy,
Boy,
thats what you are,
Because a real man would see this light,
This gift.
See my worth.
Shoo fly,
Go on back to your cavalcade of short skirted, high heeled kittens,
Where looks alone makes your world go round.
Your soul will always just be on the surface....
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 7:41 AM UTC
On the horizon, I want to see,
four elephants marching slowly to be
joined by two zebras in stripey white coats,three stoats with hair tinted,a polar bear minted and in a sign of the times,a cavalcade of ***** that walk in straight lines.
On the horizon, I want to see
the new moon arising and setting for me,
Jupiter calling,Mars at war falling in love with his Venus and Uranus can do as it pleases, while in the lap of Saturn I map out my eyes on
what I would like to see on the horizon.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 4:37 AM UTC
MUCH madness is divinest sense,
for the naturally inclined
toward the colorful; hence –
a world where matter lies
in erroneous order:
the nagging flies are,
stately kings – kings who fall
to reverence when,
the cavalcade of ignorant childs
whisper truths like
‘this one is mine’, in tones of such
finality they are proclaimed as law;
their confidence boundless and
raw with unabashed passion – while,
the worms remain unturned in beds,
mouthing silently unspoken poems.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
*I sometimes wonder what would happen
If I took a box of colorful crayons
Out back into the garden
And into rows I plant them
Would some grow into rainbows
For all the unloved kids
Who have not had happiness
Shown unto their little eye lids
While others grow into colorful things
Of pinks and blues, yellows and greens
That fill those kids heads up with dreams
Like cotton candy, waterfalls, puppy dogs, and parties
But alas some kids will never know
Of brightly colored festive parades
Without their colorful seedling boxes
Being nourished in magical escapades
So I'll take from the crayons crop
Bring them into town and hand them out
To all the kids that have never known
The beauty that colorful crayons can grow
For in the rainbow's loving care
Kids everywhere will be happy to share
Crayon colors spread all about
A cavalcade of joyfulness that will forever ring out*
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 7:08 AM UTC
even the dullest of knives
can **** —
a smile has fallen deep into
the silence.
wincing on and off
like terrible vertigo.
it is you lashing across
dispersing images
seeping like ruthless mileage
underneath the bone.
you come in the room
full of these hours splintered
an outpour with a foreboding,
like spindrift you wet my lips
sealed shut and silence
is all the language i understand.
what good is there that this hungry
cavalcade gapes its mouth
and metastasizes like an opulent
laugh as maniacal as drum-taps?
your are river with feet or pond
sprawling mad, enigmatical.
is this the clearing motes depart,
unhinging the crepuscular
and fade out, as a cat shrieks tumbling writhing fornication of metal and rust?
even sleep cannot manage such realness,
and the doubleness of its comatose
or say, a war in spite of its radical
artillery. between two cities lost,
its indefatigable exertion pullulates
to a hand, laying garlands
over the same blue lament of sky
and the unawakened orioles.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 6:03 AM UTC
She is a miasma of regret and gin
My resurrection Mary bound by sin
We all have white mice and black dogs
We all have white mice and black dogs
We all have songs we cannot sing
Burdens to bare upon our wings
She is a gilded crown one cannot wear
A ghostly smile, a forbidden stare
Dancing graveyard tangos before mother lune
She swirls and cascades and flies up to the moon
Her smile the jagged blade that ripped her wrist
And yet her shadow still persists
A spectre of memory upon my pealing wall
A heartbeat echoing from beneath the floor
A happiness known only to be ******
Inundated by **** and sand
She comes to me with wailing moans
The intolerable moments I am alone
She comes to me with obscene plans
And how I long to take her hand
To take the claw, take the blade
Bid adieu to sweat and shade
Oh bells and flame and an absence of pain
That endless slumber, oblivion, peace
Where broken girls find sweet relief
To be judged by lord on high, to be saved
To find the comfort I forever crave
To hug once more that girl I loved
Who visits me from far above
But she is a spectre of my dreams
My ignoble suffering, my pain and though it seems
She offers paradise she offers nothing but
She is an absence, a fissure, an empty plot
Where does that ****** maiden dwell?
There is no heaven, there is no hell
There is but this moment now, this moment now
For she is gone, and take note how
She cannot suffer, but nor delight
In warm winds nor the sordid ballet of night
In songs that come from god’s own choir
Or the devils dance of deep desire
Where live your smiles, if not on my own lips?
What persistence have you, if I did not exist?
She is dead
She has ceased to be
While every moment moves in me
Her waters still, mine swarm and flow
Onwards and upwards with any dream to know
So yes I dream of death, for she is sweet
To remember why my life I keep
A toast, a cavalcade of praise and love
I send to thee up high above
But understand why, my darling friend, I cannot follow
For I still long to taste tomorrow
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC