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"cavil" poems
Here. Attempting to write something To match your eyes. Something that will make you see things The way I see things. Noticing. Every mark. Torn by  fences climbed To get away from those who didn't take your hand And fly. They left intricate laddered rips in your jeans, Though you try to hide the fact that you know, That I know that is the case. We play childish games of denial Because all romance is to be transported to a time when we were innocent. Back to a place where ‘I love you’ is what your parents said When all the screaming, laughter And the innocence of loud noises stop And is replaced by silence. ‘I love you’ made that warm feeling Growing and radiating out Eventually finding the tips of your fingers and ends of your toes And bursting out, Moving through to the next person you touch. *Contrary to popular practice, ‘I love you’ is not just three words to be said When you are trying to break the awkward silences Left between two people who have simply gotten used to each other.* I love red licorice. It gives me a warm feeling of sugary goodness. Though artificial, In the times when the weight of the world is the weight of your sheets That lay a top of your body Which you tell yourself over and over and over It is not good enough for that person Who gives you the inner warmth That a campfire gives your shins; I find that artificial red licorice warmth is good enough. And sometimes good enough is the best we can get. Here. In the hope that the words that must be said Stream from ink to page. I hope my hand moves so fast over the page That smoke starts flowing and my words mean something... But no words come. No letters. No ink scratches the page. I just want you to see the way I do.
0
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 7:48 AM UTC
egaeus-thompson
6. Cavil In The Moonlight
Here. Attempting to write something To match your eyes. Something that will make you see things The way I see things. Noticing. Every mark. Torn by  fences climbed To get away from those who didn't take your hand And fly. They left intricate laddered rips in your jeans, Though you try to hide the fact that you know, That I know that is the case. We play childish games of denial Because all romance is to be transported to a time when we were innocent. Back to a place where ‘I love you’ is what your parents said When all the screaming, laughter And the innocence of loud noises stop And is replaced by silence. ‘I love you’ made that warm feeling Growing and radiating out Eventually finding the tips of your fingers and ends of your toes And bursting out, Moving through to the next person you touch. *Contrary to popular practice, ‘I love you’ is not just three words to be said When you are trying to break the awkward silences Left between two people who have simply gotten used to each other.* I love red licorice. It gives me a warm feeling of sugary goodness. Though artificial, In the times when the weight of the world is the weight of your sheets That lay a top of your body Which you tell yourself over and over and over It is not good enough for that person Who gives you the inner warmth That a campfire gives your shins; I find that artificial red licorice warmth is good enough. And sometimes good enough is the best we can get. Here. In the hope that the words that must be said Stream from ink to page. I hope my hand moves so fast over the page That smoke starts flowing and my words mean something... But no words come. No letters. No ink scratches the page. I just want you to see the way I do.
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48
The business man, the acquirer vast, After assiduous years, surveying results, preparing for departure, Devises houses and lands to his children—bequeaths stocks, goods—funds for a school or hospital, Leaves money to certain companions to buy tokens, souvenirs of gems and gold; Parceling out with care—And then, to prevent all cavil, His name to his testament formally signs. But I, my life surveying, With nothing to show, to devise, from its idle years, Nor houses, nor lands—nor tokens of gems or gold for my friends, Only these Souvenirs of Democracy—In them—in all my songs—behind me leaving, To You, who ever you are, (bathing, leavening this leaf especially with my breath—pressing on it a moment with my own hands; —Here! feel how the pulse beats in my wrists!—how my heart’s-blood is swelling, contracting!) I will You, in all, Myself, with promise to never desert you, To which I sign my name.
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5.4k
Walt Whitman
Souvenirs Of Democracy
The business man, the acquirer vast, After assiduous years, surveying results, preparing for departure, Devises houses and lands to his children—bequeaths stocks, goods—funds for a school or hospital, Leaves money to certain companions to buy tokens, souvenirs of gems and gold; Parceling out with care—And then, to prevent all cavil, His name to his testament formally signs. But I, my life surveying, With nothing to show, to devise, from its idle years, Nor houses, nor lands—nor tokens of gems or gold for my friends, Only these Souvenirs of Democracy—In them—in all my songs—behind me leaving, To You, who ever you are, (bathing, leavening this leaf especially with my breath—pressing on it a moment with my own hands; —Here! feel how the pulse beats in my wrists!—how my heart’s-blood is swelling, contracting!) I will You, in all, Myself, with promise to never desert you, To which I sign my name.
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14
1217 Fortitude incarnate Here is laid away In the swift Partitions Of the awful Sea— Babble of the Happy Cavil of the Bold Hoary the Fruition But the Sea is old Edifice of Ocean Thy tumultuous Rooms Suit me at a venture Better than the Tombs
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3.3k
Emily Dickinson
Fortitude incarnate
1217 Fortitude incarnate Here is laid away In the swift Partitions Of the awful Sea— Babble of the Happy Cavil of the Bold Hoary the Fruition But the Sea is old Edifice of Ocean Thy tumultuous Rooms Suit me at a venture Better than the Tombs
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13
I do not like my state of mind; I'm bitter, querulous, unkind. I hate my legs, I hate my hands, I do not yearn for lovelier lands. I dread the dawn's recurrent light; I hate to go to bed at night. I snoot at simple, earnest folk. I cannot take the gentlest joke. I find no peace in paint or type. My world is but a lot of tripe. I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted. For what I think, I'd be arrested. I am not sick, I am not well. My quondam dreams are shot to hell. My soul is crushed, my spirit sore; I do not like me any more. I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse. I ponder on the narrow house. I shudder at the thought of men.... I'm due to fall in love again.
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2.1k
Dorothy Parker
Symptom Recital
I do not like my state of mind; I'm bitter, querulous, unkind. I hate my legs, I hate my hands, I do not yearn for lovelier lands. I dread the dawn's recurrent light; I hate to go to bed at night. I snoot at simple, earnest folk. I cannot take the gentlest joke. I find no peace in paint or type. My world is but a lot of tripe. I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted. For what I think, I'd be arrested. I am not sick, I am not well. My quondam dreams are shot to hell. My soul is crushed, my spirit sore; I do not like me any more. I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse. I ponder on the narrow house. I shudder at the thought of men.... I'm due to fall in love again.
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20
Come to think of it, Garrison Keillor reads poetry like he'd feign be Bukowski or something. (sonnets #MMMMMCCCXXXII and MMMMMCCCXXXIII) I Bukowski. If I'd known--and there must trail Off seeking an excuse to bother hence With aught. Nor should I have writ these his sense Of our supposed age could acknowledge bail For, since his voice kills any spirit's frail Hope of existance, while he coughs from thence To fiercely say the madness dictates whence As chopped, clipped phrases whereby he'd prevail. And Shelley, who saw further than now's poor Horizon, said art veils her glass whilst through The centries curs as ole Bukowski tour-- To vanish, sans a note. Yet here all who Aspire think vile is tops, our work as twere In vain and refuse. Cuz such never knew. II Lo, ****** Surrey, Wyatt, and aught hence Who bowed themselves to Petrarch's mincing scale, Yes, "polished our erst homely," ruder tale Of lines and poetry, whose manners thence Became refined thus as we yielded, whence Far more rebelled than dared submit, t'assail What set us 'part from beasts as if in frail Excuse to cavil suited their intents. He said the "mountaintop" was mine as twere T'enjoy, but if I wanted friends maunt do, As they all wallowed in the mud, each boor Disgusted save by filthy scents. Sans clue Of our high calling meant to raise th'obscure Light for our fellow man, ye can't, who knew. 24Dec15c,d
0
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
JennyGordon
He'd Flip Me the Birdie...Yes, Fallen From Grace
Come to think of it, Garrison Keillor reads poetry like he'd feign be Bukowski or something. (sonnets #MMMMMCCCXXXII and MMMMMCCCXXXIII) I Bukowski. If I'd known--and there must trail Off seeking an excuse to bother hence With aught. Nor should I have writ these his sense Of our supposed age could acknowledge bail For, since his voice kills any spirit's frail Hope of existance, while he coughs from thence To fiercely say the madness dictates whence As chopped, clipped phrases whereby he'd prevail. And Shelley, who saw further than now's poor Horizon, said art veils her glass whilst through The centries curs as ole Bukowski tour-- To vanish, sans a note. Yet here all who Aspire think vile is tops, our work as twere In vain and refuse. Cuz such never knew. II Lo, ****** Surrey, Wyatt, and aught hence Who bowed themselves to Petrarch's mincing scale, Yes, "polished our erst homely," ruder tale Of lines and poetry, whose manners thence Became refined thus as we yielded, whence Far more rebelled than dared submit, t'assail What set us 'part from beasts as if in frail Excuse to cavil suited their intents. He said the "mountaintop" was mine as twere T'enjoy, but if I wanted friends maunt do, As they all wallowed in the mud, each boor Disgusted save by filthy scents. Sans clue Of our high calling meant to raise th'obscure Light for our fellow man, ye can't, who knew. 24Dec15c,d
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33
I grieve for you in the cold quiet of winter My absent child, my long lost son Warming my hands over dying flames, frost covered smouldering clinker, By the wood where icy streams run Through the shrunken sedge, and barren fields Stretching for miles, empty of meaning. The landscape like a worn photograph yields Your tremulous smile, then nothing. Here, you ran with startled steps Through the yielding sheaves, yelling with surprise, Chasing indifferent spiders, and discomfited birds With hatred in their pebble pool-dark eyes. Querying awkwardly spoken words, small Tenacious fingers that caress and clutch Every passing object, loudly chuckling, wisely playing me for a fool A silly father who loved too much. On the anniversary of your leaving I required solitude Partnered only by memory Away from familiar crowds, the booming, barking fusillade Of the present day commonplace urban itinerary, Where only the crackle of snow And the fleeting trajectory of birds Distracts my slow Marshalling of comforting thoughts. The cottage where we lived haunts the shallow glade, A shrouded ghost swaddled by the half-light, Positioned squarely like an old man, its cladding beginning to fade, White branches like dead-fingers that gleam in the night. In the closet are your dust-sprinkled toys, a yellow plastic duck, A cheap skateboard, ancient video games, A guitar you never learnt to pluck A chess board on which you pulverised my endgames. In the preserved furnishings of your bedroom Your school work gathered into stacks Barely visible in the gloom, Our life together in disorganised packs Denoting year and level Development and academic achievement, If any, (but I mustn’t once again cavil) Indicating, even in your earliest years, a specific bent. Standing on the mantelpiece, propped up against the wall, Are brightly coloured, polished pictures Of you. Plump, blonde, agreeably small Dancing, standing, jumping, grinning, absurdly wistful mixtures. A bitter echo resonating from the shadows A cold thought darkening into memory The spectre of your voice disappearing in the meadows Having left all of us! Having left me!
0
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
stanley-wilkin
LOST
I grieve for you in the cold quiet of winter My absent child, my long lost son Warming my hands over dying flames, frost covered smouldering clinker, By the wood where icy streams run Through the shrunken sedge, and barren fields Stretching for miles, empty of meaning. The landscape like a worn photograph yields Your tremulous smile, then nothing. Here, you ran with startled steps Through the yielding sheaves, yelling with surprise, Chasing indifferent spiders, and discomfited birds With hatred in their pebble pool-dark eyes. Querying awkwardly spoken words, small Tenacious fingers that caress and clutch Every passing object, loudly chuckling, wisely playing me for a fool A silly father who loved too much. On the anniversary of your leaving I required solitude Partnered only by memory Away from familiar crowds, the booming, barking fusillade Of the present day commonplace urban itinerary, Where only the crackle of snow And the fleeting trajectory of birds Distracts my slow Marshalling of comforting thoughts. The cottage where we lived haunts the shallow glade, A shrouded ghost swaddled by the half-light, Positioned squarely like an old man, its cladding beginning to fade, White branches like dead-fingers that gleam in the night. In the closet are your dust-sprinkled toys, a yellow plastic duck, A cheap skateboard, ancient video games, A guitar you never learnt to pluck A chess board on which you pulverised my endgames. In the preserved furnishings of your bedroom Your school work gathered into stacks Barely visible in the gloom, Our life together in disorganised packs Denoting year and level Development and academic achievement, If any, (but I mustn’t once again cavil) Indicating, even in your earliest years, a specific bent. Standing on the mantelpiece, propped up against the wall, Are brightly coloured, polished pictures Of you. Plump, blonde, agreeably small Dancing, standing, jumping, grinning, absurdly wistful mixtures. A bitter echo resonating from the shadows A cold thought darkening into memory The spectre of your voice disappearing in the meadows Having left all of us! Having left me!
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48
Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car Sitting in its congested patio, Beheld the sky That sky spilled over the sky Stars squirmed and threatened to jump down immediately We were like the children beneath the mango tree who do not rush to school Even after the last bell The wind may blow any moment Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car Descried the sea Sitting inside its smoke-filled, odorous kitchen That sea overflowed the sea The fish swimming along in the deep asked, “coming?” We were Like the fisherman waiting for the snakehead murrel Though it is noon and he is hungry The sea fish do not know The grooves of tears and the little waterway Rainclouds can arrive anytime Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car Saw the woods sitting near its un-curtained window Those woods got darker than woods Trees pretending to cavil for my being late Moonlight clear and fuzzy amongst boughs Us, like fireflies watching ripened paddy stalks There are wounds that are hidden A lightning can strike any moment Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car Sitting in its spaces coarse otherwise We quenched each other’s thirst and hunger Argued Prayed Perused the holy book Often, while no one watched, We fed the dolls Sung them lullabies On these occasions, I went out pretending that I wanted a smoke Thereupon, between us Sky sea woods.
0
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
kuzhur
12 year old sky sea woods
Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car Sitting in its congested patio, Beheld the sky That sky spilled over the sky Stars squirmed and threatened to jump down immediately We were like the children beneath the mango tree who do not rush to school Even after the last bell The wind may blow any moment Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car Descried the sea Sitting inside its smoke-filled, odorous kitchen That sea overflowed the sea The fish swimming along in the deep asked, “coming?” We were Like the fisherman waiting for the snakehead murrel Though it is noon and he is hungry The sea fish do not know The grooves of tears and the little waterway Rainclouds can arrive anytime Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car Saw the woods sitting near its un-curtained window Those woods got darker than woods Trees pretending to cavil for my being late Moonlight clear and fuzzy amongst boughs Us, like fireflies watching ripened paddy stalks There are wounds that are hidden A lightning can strike any moment Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car Sitting in its spaces coarse otherwise We quenched each other’s thirst and hunger Argued Prayed Perused the holy book Often, while no one watched, We fed the dolls Sung them lullabies On these occasions, I went out pretending that I wanted a smoke Thereupon, between us Sky sea woods.
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40
The Quiet of a Pickwickian World By Sy Roth In the silence of my Pickwickian world, A transcendent quiet stands vigil. Left to its own devices it rattles around, a lonely brown-suited courier, Hefting weighty cargo from one sooty corner to the next. Seeks tranquility in a world where, Fettered by golden reins Hobbled by unceremonial chain mail Lanced by coronets of thorns, Astride, a long-in-the-tooth steed Spurred on to wrestle shredded windmills, A cavil of unrepentant correctors rest. And they still come-- Tidal waves of disturbances, Tsunamis that rip ashore and sweep all away Into a loathsome pile, Bilious flotsam of a generation bereft of empathy. A forced silence clings to the dusty rafters Where sages once stood Hanging like KKK castoffs In a closeted Jim Crow attic of rules and regulations gone mad. A quiescent quiet demands quiet. Nestles behind muffled screams Of ages of piles of rotting flesh. Dolorous vision of a peaceful world Where peace packed for a long vacation To Edens that exist only in fairy tales. Bring with them untruths of understanding Swaddled in ****** soiled bedclothes. Leave me to my silence, Lave me of the Ash Wednesday smudge Where realities come home to roost in the dim corners Where the highwaymen have no access.
0
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
sy-roth
The Quiet of a Pickwickian World
The Quiet of a Pickwickian World By Sy Roth In the silence of my Pickwickian world, A transcendent quiet stands vigil. Left to its own devices it rattles around, a lonely brown-suited courier, Hefting weighty cargo from one sooty corner to the next. Seeks tranquility in a world where, Fettered by golden reins Hobbled by unceremonial chain mail Lanced by coronets of thorns, Astride, a long-in-the-tooth steed Spurred on to wrestle shredded windmills, A cavil of unrepentant correctors rest. And they still come-- Tidal waves of disturbances, Tsunamis that rip ashore and sweep all away Into a loathsome pile, Bilious flotsam of a generation bereft of empathy. A forced silence clings to the dusty rafters Where sages once stood Hanging like KKK castoffs In a closeted Jim Crow attic of rules and regulations gone mad. A quiescent quiet demands quiet. Nestles behind muffled screams Of ages of piles of rotting flesh. Dolorous vision of a peaceful world Where peace packed for a long vacation To Edens that exist only in fairy tales. Bring with them untruths of understanding Swaddled in ****** soiled bedclothes. Leave me to my silence, Lave me of the Ash Wednesday smudge Where realities come home to roost in the dim corners Where the highwaymen have no access.
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35
Oceans of if's running rough yet smoothly, In a mind filled with diffidence and hesitance; Far-flung revelries of reveries in thoughts acquiescently, Yet a heart searching possibilities with such adamance. Piercing emotions fleeting through a murky surface, Lulling the deadened soul with such alluring beguile; Limerence spurned, suddenly pervading transient abyss, Denial in persistent negation of emotion's cavil. Depths of stolen glances seeking truth beyond words, Waiting for signs of undefined warm requitals. Beyond observations, I've only seen fjords; Chilly shoulders and disregarded affectionals. Force your eyes and heart, my presence descry; And let's have a dance until twilight and time recedes, For might've we not a chance again, not even in a scry. Lest make a foolish heart's wish finally give up and accede. Despite all eyes looking at us, Did you ever feel something special? Mistake my intentions not, I don't desire a fuss. But I only yearn to figure, if in your heart you've got a lovely fractal. To depths and beyond, I covet to seek. The precious brilliance of your cloaked human shades, Filled with beauty offering silence and meek; A plausible sanctuary for a soul as it ages and fades.
0
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 10:27 AM UTC
SilentSanctuary
To Depths and Beyond
Oceans of if's running rough yet smoothly, In a mind filled with diffidence and hesitance; Far-flung revelries of reveries in thoughts acquiescently, Yet a heart searching possibilities with such adamance. Piercing emotions fleeting through a murky surface, Lulling the deadened soul with such alluring beguile; Limerence spurned, suddenly pervading transient abyss, Denial in persistent negation of emotion's cavil. Depths of stolen glances seeking truth beyond words, Waiting for signs of undefined warm requitals. Beyond observations, I've only seen fjords; Chilly shoulders and disregarded affectionals. Force your eyes and heart, my presence descry; And let's have a dance until twilight and time recedes, For might've we not a chance again, not even in a scry. Lest make a foolish heart's wish finally give up and accede. Despite all eyes looking at us, Did you ever feel something special? Mistake my intentions not, I don't desire a fuss. But I only yearn to figure, if in your heart you've got a lovely fractal. To depths and beyond, I covet to seek. The precious brilliance of your cloaked human shades, Filled with beauty offering silence and meek; A plausible sanctuary for a soul as it ages and fades.
Continue reading...
24
a calyx in chaos. a crack in chalky crown, crimson, cratered, clowns cry crystal shards.... clothe me in crimpolene in shades of clinical ivory and cream. come hither they cry and carp, cavil,caterwaul. come hither, come, come, come. cypher the cyan, from the cyanide castigate, the casting, of the conversational. be cognisant, within the cogs of the  clock... click-ticking..tick-clicking in chorus, chant of canticle. be the calm, within the clemency. and the core, of the courageous. concede not, contemplate, with conscioncious, clear the concepts of conotation above all be incomparable, capricious, canny and considerate a conglomerate of cause, corpus and crux..... both curious and a curiosity. cause... creation, cherishes a clever n' curious, curiosity.
0
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
betterdays
curio in middle c
a calyx in chaos. a crack in chalky crown, crimson, cratered, clowns cry crystal shards.... clothe me in crimpolene in shades of clinical ivory and cream. come hither they cry and carp, cavil,caterwaul. come hither, come, come, come. cypher the cyan, from the cyanide castigate, the casting, of the conversational. be cognisant, within the cogs of the  clock... click-ticking..tick-clicking in chorus, chant of canticle. be the calm, within the clemency. and the core, of the courageous. concede not, contemplate, with conscioncious, clear the concepts of conotation above all be incomparable, capricious, canny and considerate a conglomerate of cause, corpus and crux..... both curious and a curiosity. cause... creation, cherishes a clever n' curious, curiosity.
Continue reading...
31
The man stood there, in the dark with a look of askance. No one asked him, they just past him. He was benign With a face to intimidate Still blank in the dark, Pondering existence. Welcome back sinners Cutting wood, Attenuating the wood. He thought he was useless, Cavil of himself. He was a charlatan, A man of dark, An open heart, He fell so far. This would defeat him. You can not be the light in the distance, but only the spark of resistance. Tisk tisk, now remember this. Clocks only show time of decimating existence. With an axe in hand The man oscillated it. Striking wood... Striking wood! A gun to tame But missing its holster Throw it down... Throw it down! [silence] Because the only thing running through his mind is a Bullet. So let's hang up the night sky, And die in the dim Lighght. Reaching his eyes A luminous hole struck. Opening wide The man dropped his gun Towards the light His faith had won Exit the dark Leave with conclusion. Oh god was he cold...
0
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 12:33 PM UTC
chandler-william-iii-rose
Look of Askance
The man stood there, in the dark with a look of askance. No one asked him, they just past him. He was benign With a face to intimidate Still blank in the dark, Pondering existence. Welcome back sinners Cutting wood, Attenuating the wood. He thought he was useless, Cavil of himself. He was a charlatan, A man of dark, An open heart, He fell so far. This would defeat him. You can not be the light in the distance, but only the spark of resistance. Tisk tisk, now remember this. Clocks only show time of decimating existence. With an axe in hand The man oscillated it. Striking wood... Striking wood! A gun to tame But missing its holster Throw it down... Throw it down! [silence] Because the only thing running through his mind is a Bullet. So let's hang up the night sky, And die in the dim Lighght. Reaching his eyes A luminous hole struck. Opening wide The man dropped his gun Towards the light His faith had won Exit the dark Leave with conclusion. Oh god was he cold...
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42
She finds something to cavil at in everything I say Winter, summer; spring, autumn; night or day I will love her, more than life; no matter what Every April; June, July, August; even May Saturday, June 20, 2015
0
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC
esfoni
The Bickering Beauty!
She finds something to cavil at in everything I say Winter, summer; spring, autumn; night or day I will love her, more than life; no matter what Every April; June, July, August; even May Saturday, June 20, 2015
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5
I wake from sleep and I fear. It’s like the years did not happen And clapping my hands for light Doesn’t dispel the long nights When the fights still went on And dawn didn’t erase the war For the world is at it again Men hating other men over skin And ****** is no longer a sin If it is done with flags waving. The raving of insane rulers Revelers in hate and genocide Have again set aside the gods, The ones they swear about And shouted down all opposition Taking the position it's fine to **** And still claim the victims are godless And the murderers are good. Why don't they question any evil That doesn’t cavil at hypocrisy But jealously protects its power And rains down hour after hour Of lies and obvious obfuscations To nations powerless to stop them? Whims of evil men should be taken As words to be shaken off, ignored As if from bored, evil childish brats, Not taking off of hats and bowing, Plowing under civil rights like weeds And laughing at the needs of the weak. Speak up before it’s too late to deny That kind of guy respectability! We still have the ability, the right. Fight so we don’t become **** Germany. Don’t let that be our national destiny.
0
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 2:22 PM UTC
brent-kincaid
ARBEIT MACHT FREI
I wake from sleep and I fear. It’s like the years did not happen And clapping my hands for light Doesn’t dispel the long nights When the fights still went on And dawn didn’t erase the war For the world is at it again Men hating other men over skin And ****** is no longer a sin If it is done with flags waving. The raving of insane rulers Revelers in hate and genocide Have again set aside the gods, The ones they swear about And shouted down all opposition Taking the position it's fine to **** And still claim the victims are godless And the murderers are good. Why don't they question any evil That doesn’t cavil at hypocrisy But jealously protects its power And rains down hour after hour Of lies and obvious obfuscations To nations powerless to stop them? Whims of evil men should be taken As words to be shaken off, ignored As if from bored, evil childish brats, Not taking off of hats and bowing, Plowing under civil rights like weeds And laughing at the needs of the weak. Speak up before it’s too late to deny That kind of guy respectability! We still have the ability, the right. Fight so we don’t become **** Germany. Don’t let that be our national destiny.
Continue reading...
35
i thought you were exactly the same person i used to love back in the days. i probably confused the line between the nostalgia of loving you and cavity of missing you. unsure and insecure i take pleasure in the middle of the two. i neglect to cavil and regret on things which i might have done or otherwise. so then i try to rescue the burning house. endure the pain of a dying hot romance. but things have slowly taking form. while i believe that it does not hurt, for a moment in my life i asked the taste of death. i felt torture within the crevices of my heart. but we are prepared for this. and we knew we would come to this. the only thing that keeps you holding onto me is fear. fear that one day when i stop loving you, i will finally realize how terrible person you are. exact words you said to me. be that as it may i still have a space for two. one reserved for me and the other one for you. instead of letting strangers rent, i am willing to let you in anytime you wanted to...
0
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 9:16 PM UTC
CtianSantaMaria
Mala Amore
i thought you were exactly the same person i used to love back in the days. i probably confused the line between the nostalgia of loving you and cavity of missing you. unsure and insecure i take pleasure in the middle of the two. i neglect to cavil and regret on things which i might have done or otherwise. so then i try to rescue the burning house. endure the pain of a dying hot romance. but things have slowly taking form. while i believe that it does not hurt, for a moment in my life i asked the taste of death. i felt torture within the crevices of my heart. but we are prepared for this. and we knew we would come to this. the only thing that keeps you holding onto me is fear. fear that one day when i stop loving you, i will finally realize how terrible person you are. exact words you said to me. be that as it may i still have a space for two. one reserved for me and the other one for you. instead of letting strangers rent, i am willing to let you in anytime you wanted to...
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17
When a petal was a rouse weighted a ruffed grouse only this accusation arose their superstition today my summation grew with rust nestled wing that alighted by a house as wood in a broom let in the ravine a newness in Celtic and at their word again upon this knoll in soon grazed on brome ignited their noble cavil.
0
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 7:07 AM UTC
poetman
A Petal And A Rouse
When a petal was a rouse weighted a ruffed grouse only this accusation arose their superstition today my summation grew with rust nestled wing that alighted by a house as wood in a broom let in the ravine a newness in Celtic and at their word again upon this knoll in soon grazed on brome ignited their noble cavil.
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14
I do not like my state of mind; I'm bitter, querulous, unkind. I hate my legs, I hate my hands, I do not yearn for lovelier lands. I dread the dawn's recurrent light; I hate to go to bed at night. I snoot at earnest, simple folk. I cannot take the gentlest joke. I find no peace in paint or type. My world is but a lot of tripe. I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted. For what I think, I'd be arrested. I am not sick, I am not well. My quondam dreams are shot to hell. My soul is crushed, my spirit sore; I do not like me anymore. I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse. I ponder on the narrow house. I shudder at the thought of men-- I'm due to fall in love again.
0
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 3:16 PM UTC
traci-sims
Symptom Recital by Dorothy Parker (1893-1967)
I do not like my state of mind; I'm bitter, querulous, unkind. I hate my legs, I hate my hands, I do not yearn for lovelier lands. I dread the dawn's recurrent light; I hate to go to bed at night. I snoot at earnest, simple folk. I cannot take the gentlest joke. I find no peace in paint or type. My world is but a lot of tripe. I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted. For what I think, I'd be arrested. I am not sick, I am not well. My quondam dreams are shot to hell. My soul is crushed, my spirit sore; I do not like me anymore. I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse. I ponder on the narrow house. I shudder at the thought of men-- I'm due to fall in love again.
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20
Consider the intellectual ramifications! Consider the inviduous suggestions! You cavil over the idea but I have nothing to add.
0
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
keifus
No argument
Consider the intellectual ramifications! Consider the inviduous suggestions! You cavil over the idea but I have nothing to add.
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3
CORTÉS             How now? What’s the debate? AGUILAR                                              The Inquisition:             It’s linked itself with tethers to our church,             Like two, aloof, reluctant mountaineers.             I fear, when that unholy office trips,             And plummets in the popular regard,             Its drop down estimation’s precipice             Will pull down our religion in its tow. OLMEDO             We cavil, boys, as if there were two Spains. CORTÉS             One good, one evil? OLMEDO                              Not so simple. Yet,             One, global-bent, one isolationist,             One liberal, one counter to reform,             One, eyeing Greece, one stirring with the Moors,             Who, like the fatal twins of Oedipus,             Will not consent to reign in tandem more,             But rather wound each other mortally.             In Europe, there’s a word in currency:             Renaissance- It is not a Spanish word,             And there’s a reason. CORTÉS                                And it is? OLMEDO                                               Some flaw             In Spain’s own character that’s culpable-             Catholic fanaticism, feverish pride,             Or warped deliriums of vanity.             We thought we were the new elect of God,             Mistook our patriotic egoism             For fealty to the church. Hence, our divorce             And isolation from the rest of Europe. CORTÉS             No, it’s not Spain, not Catholics, nor our race,             But frailties of the human constitution,             Which frequently reverse the gains achieved             By previous generations, in the name             Of progress, culture, and civility.                          Trumpet is heard.             A parley sounds! See what those Mayas want.
0
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 6:24 PM UTC
david-betten
The Floral War 2:6:42-72
CORTÉS             How now? What’s the debate? AGUILAR                                              The Inquisition:             It’s linked itself with tethers to our church,             Like two, aloof, reluctant mountaineers.             I fear, when that unholy office trips,             And plummets in the popular regard,             Its drop down estimation’s precipice             Will pull down our religion in its tow. OLMEDO             We cavil, boys, as if there were two Spains. CORTÉS             One good, one evil? OLMEDO                              Not so simple. Yet,             One, global-bent, one isolationist,             One liberal, one counter to reform,             One, eyeing Greece, one stirring with the Moors,             Who, like the fatal twins of Oedipus,             Will not consent to reign in tandem more,             But rather wound each other mortally.             In Europe, there’s a word in currency:             Renaissance- It is not a Spanish word,             And there’s a reason. CORTÉS                                And it is? OLMEDO                                               Some flaw             In Spain’s own character that’s culpable-             Catholic fanaticism, feverish pride,             Or warped deliriums of vanity.             We thought we were the new elect of God,             Mistook our patriotic egoism             For fealty to the church. Hence, our divorce             And isolation from the rest of Europe. CORTÉS             No, it’s not Spain, not Catholics, nor our race,             But frailties of the human constitution,             Which frequently reverse the gains achieved             By previous generations, in the name             Of progress, culture, and civility.                          Trumpet is heard.             A parley sounds! See what those Mayas want.
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39
Yup, you red correctly, this noggin must go perhaps donated to the Salvation Army, or Good Will cuz, said atrophied cranial horridly styled comfortably numb skull, the source of immeasurable beg hot ten woe, from dawn to dusk nothing boot eve ville hollow cavity mainly comprised of wooly webbed weaving waste, uber sawdust, sans Schuylkill River effluvium and runoff rotten rill hence, e'en a think tank designated as Abby Normal formerly atop a body named Phil lip, or Wright winged Orville one half brotherly duo, the other sibling Wilbur, whom both made a mill yen legends getting airborne their lil mechanical contraption atop Kitty Hawk, North Carolina with bi sic **** mechanical aptitude, when born aloft **** Devil Hill synonymous making fin hushed blue prints emulating flying fish, whose grill like cartilage backbone precursor to Evil Knievel, who soared on his motorcycle a devil lush daring stuntman, whose helmeted crown full pursestrings muted cavil ling critics with legitimate enterprise earning gobs of legal tender, whence aye aver his mugshot ought to appear on common denomination bill and/or honoring throughout the entire month of April.
0
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 2:50 AM UTC
matthew-scott-harris2p
I Wanna Head Transplant
Yup, you red correctly, this noggin must go perhaps donated to the Salvation Army, or Good Will cuz, said atrophied cranial horridly styled comfortably numb skull, the source of immeasurable beg hot ten woe, from dawn to dusk nothing boot eve ville hollow cavity mainly comprised of wooly webbed weaving waste, uber sawdust, sans Schuylkill River effluvium and runoff rotten rill hence, e'en a think tank designated as Abby Normal formerly atop a body named Phil lip, or Wright winged Orville one half brotherly duo, the other sibling Wilbur, whom both made a mill yen legends getting airborne their lil mechanical contraption atop Kitty Hawk, North Carolina with bi sic **** mechanical aptitude, when born aloft **** Devil Hill synonymous making fin hushed blue prints emulating flying fish, whose grill like cartilage backbone precursor to Evil Knievel, who soared on his motorcycle a devil lush daring stuntman, whose helmeted crown full pursestrings muted cavil ling critics with legitimate enterprise earning gobs of legal tender, whence aye aver his mugshot ought to appear on common denomination bill and/or honoring throughout the entire month of April.
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43
I comport myself with quiet pridefulness, plus intellectual whimsy aware that "FAKE" pretentiousness, could be mistaken foreign egotistical vitae furthering, feathering and figuratively undermining jestingly, poetically, and zealously oozing, gushing, bubbling over with faux snobbish suave re: pulse sieve literary fatuous haughtiness, and ludicrous narcissistic pre ning all the while chuckling to me self, and indifferent if some anonymous browser with Dutchman's breeches rolled up upon cresting wave over Zyder Zee disparages mine harmless badinage, hence if ye might qualify as such nitpicker, who doth cavil - dee crying wading thru quagmire of verbiage, a gentle reply to thee might be more wise to turn energy toward, how in many another country the village people haint so free spouting, sporting, and spoiling, vis a vis intellectual sparring (albeit innocent) black barbs hatch chee ving, and raising urgent attention against he (who **** squelching constitutional rights) re: pressing, rescinding, reviling, et cetera access toward key underpinnings within these fifty constituent United States of America beckon alacrity for obliging citizens across all points of the compass to alee v8 his indiscriminate flee sing, sans bedrock nation could tee tear on the brink of calamity, which political plug quite inadequate to staunch hemorrhaging, viz upending many a sacred liberty, and foo to you reprimanding against any agree gee us objection to pen about polly lee ticks and/or religion!
0
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC
matthew-scott-harris2p
No Inflated Cheekiness For This Logophile
I comport myself with quiet pridefulness, plus intellectual whimsy aware that "FAKE" pretentiousness, could be mistaken foreign egotistical vitae furthering, feathering and figuratively undermining jestingly, poetically, and zealously oozing, gushing, bubbling over with faux snobbish suave re: pulse sieve literary fatuous haughtiness, and ludicrous narcissistic pre ning all the while chuckling to me self, and indifferent if some anonymous browser with Dutchman's breeches rolled up upon cresting wave over Zyder Zee disparages mine harmless badinage, hence if ye might qualify as such nitpicker, who doth cavil - dee crying wading thru quagmire of verbiage, a gentle reply to thee might be more wise to turn energy toward, how in many another country the village people haint so free spouting, sporting, and spoiling, vis a vis intellectual sparring (albeit innocent) black barbs hatch chee ving, and raising urgent attention against he (who **** squelching constitutional rights) re: pressing, rescinding, reviling, et cetera access toward key underpinnings within these fifty constituent United States of America beckon alacrity for obliging citizens across all points of the compass to alee v8 his indiscriminate flee sing, sans bedrock nation could tee tear on the brink of calamity, which political plug quite inadequate to staunch hemorrhaging, viz upending many a sacred liberty, and foo to you reprimanding against any agree gee us objection to pen about polly lee ticks and/or religion!
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51
(what...me write vernacular English???) Okay, the gist of anemic checking account averred asked from one FaceBook English Literary bird, I could plainly enumerate Sachin be cured of spellbinding nightmares, and not accused of acting demurred the esse cent chill dime a dozen premise ensured prime merrily to discover visa wells Fargo sieve err (ala Eratosthenes) forward solution, whereby means to save money against being gored no...no...no...not to be stingy, nor selfishly hoard meager unearned social security monthly allotment, aye ignored to mention as key piece of information a dub bill lit tete ting bout with anxiety, obsessive compulsive, not cavil air lee shaken off and schizoid personality disorder like evil mailer daemons, which undermined ability to full fill quality existence, and even prescribed about, a half dozen medications help ill psyche, though nonetheless mill yens of precious moments pill furred with pro fuse sweating still interferes supplementing, stoking, and socking away reserve till, last creased furrow sought out here in Schwenksville Pennsylvania most likely, where one last gulp of oxygen will finally deliver cremated ashes into eternal void where psychological state free from being destroyed and forever exempt trying to be write lee employed!
0
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 2:49 AM UTC
matthew-scott-harris2p
Adumbrated Aeration Against Antiforeclosure -
(what...me write vernacular English???) Okay, the gist of anemic checking account averred asked from one FaceBook English Literary bird, I could plainly enumerate Sachin be cured of spellbinding nightmares, and not accused of acting demurred the esse cent chill dime a dozen premise ensured prime merrily to discover visa wells Fargo sieve err (ala Eratosthenes) forward solution, whereby means to save money against being gored no...no...no...not to be stingy, nor selfishly hoard meager unearned social security monthly allotment, aye ignored to mention as key piece of information a dub bill lit tete ting bout with anxiety, obsessive compulsive, not cavil air lee shaken off and schizoid personality disorder like evil mailer daemons, which undermined ability to full fill quality existence, and even prescribed about, a half dozen medications help ill psyche, though nonetheless mill yens of precious moments pill furred with pro fuse sweating still interferes supplementing, stoking, and socking away reserve till, last creased furrow sought out here in Schwenksville Pennsylvania most likely, where one last gulp of oxygen will finally deliver cremated ashes into eternal void where psychological state free from being destroyed and forever exempt trying to be write lee employed!
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51