"clement" poems
The ball of wool
got smaller and smaller
as it ran across the rug,
reflected upon the untrained eye
it looked just like a bug
The cat was intrigued,
decided to pounce!
but the ball just carried on dancing
and lost another ounce
Getting quite frantic now
it's dancing got faster and faster,
the needles did their work
the scarf got taller
but the ball just got smaller
Spotlighted by sunlight
due to clement weather,
disappearing!
it had reached the end
of it's tether.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 3:10 PM UTC
A milk udder lure between her thigh
though her chanty where bin nigh
as day her ungulate would stack
their jugs full in this wooden shack
while shop worn gloves did amount
a shine must replete but always count
only first total inside their raw clement.
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
A paintbrush on fire
it isn't yet done.
Paints in broad daylights
in cool cloudy darks
often relaxes down the line
when the rain pours down
and the flute is on play
it isn't yet done.
The sea at the clement eve
strives to splash over
this rainbow-kissed brush
the moon will thaw the billow
with moonlight
before the waking
sleeping beauty's eyes
and the night will pour over it,
it's full bowl eternally pitch black
only to see lighting up
zillions of stars
on the paintbrush
it isn't yet done!
Apparently that looks only kohl
the night eyes in within a colour
eternally weighed down
out of sight mass hues
looking to visualise a scoop
paints yet one more first light.
Full of colours the paintbrush
it isn’t yet done!
Aug 17, 2022
Aug 17, 2022 at 1:13 PM UTC
There is a boy Ash Ketchum
He has a buddy named Pikachu
They came into the Kalos region
So ash can try to be a Pokémon master
They landed in Lumiose city
Where they met Clement and Bonnie
He tried to challenge the gym there
But got kicked out because he had no badges
He’d saved a Garchomp
Because team Rocket tried to control him
He then went to Santalune city
Where he met viola and Serena
He challenged the gym but lost
Because of the moves viola’s Pokémon had
Then he trained with viola’s sister
And her Pokémon, Noivern
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
[Being an humble address to Her Majesty's Naval advisers, who sold Nelson's old flagship to the Germans for a thousand pounds.]
WHO says the Nation's purse is lean,
Who fears for claim or bond or debt,
When all the glories that have been
Are scheduled as a cash asset?
If times are bleak and trade is slack,
If coal and cotton fail at last,
We've something left to barter yet--
Our glorious past.
There's many a crypt in which lies hid
The dust of statesman or of king;
There's Shakespeare's home to raise a bid,
And Milton's house its price would bring.
What for the sword that Cromwell drew?
What for Prince Edward's coat of mail?
What for our Saxon Alfred's tomb?
They're all for sale!
And stone and marble may be sold
Which serve no present daily need;
There's Edward's Windsor, labelled old,
And Wolsey's palace, guaranteed.
St. Clement Danes and fifty fanes,
The Tower and the Temple grounds;
How much for these? Just price them, please,
In British pounds.
You hucksters, have you still to learn,
The things which money will not buy?
Can you not read that, cold and stern
As we may be, there still does lie
Deep in our hearts a hungry love
For what concerns our island story?
We sell our work -- perchance our lives,
But not our glory.
Go barter to the knacker's yard
The steed that has outlived its time!
Send hungry to the pauper ward
The man who served you in his prime!
But when you touch the Nation's store,
Be broad your mind and tight your grip.
Take heed! And bring us back once more
Our Nelson's ship.
And if no mooring can be found
In all our harbours near or far,
Then tow the old three-decker round
To where the deep-sea soundings are;
There, with her pennon flying clear,
And with her ensign lashed peak high,
Sink her a thousand fathoms sheer.
There let her lie!
3.2k
It's a much sweeter today
than yesterday indeed.
Radiant meadows are on fire
beneath the trees
indulging blue fairies'
summer bowl of sun shines
abundantly overflowing
lavishly enough to render in
every rose of humming bees.
Pop up to flowers and bouquets
maybe the song on the birds' lips:
Time is today to jump in
on a London summer clement scene!
Jul 8, 2022
Jul 8, 2022 at 2:08 PM UTC
(From a Persian Carpet)
Ash and strewments, the first moth-wings, pale
Ardour of brief evenings, on the fecund wind;
Or all a wing, less than wind,
Breath of low herbs upfloats, petal or wing,
Haunting the musk precincts of burial.
For the season of newer riches moves triumphing,
Of the evanescence of deaths. These potpourris
Earth-tinctured, jet insect-bead, cinder of bloom—
How weigh while a great summer knows increase,
Ceaselessly risen, what there entombs?—
Of candour fallen from the slight stems of Mays,
Corrupt of the rim a blue shades, pensively:
So a fatigue of wishes will young eyes.
And brightened, unpurged eyes of revery, now
Not to glance to fabulous groves again!
For now deep presence is, and binds its close,
And closes down the wreathed alleys escape of sighs.
And now rich time is weaving, hidden tree,
The fable of orient threads from bough to bough.
Old rinded wood, whose lissomeness within
Has reached from nothing to its covering
These many corymbs’ flourish!—And the green
Shells which wait amber, breathing, wrought
Towards the still trance of summer’s centering,
Motives by ravished humble fingers set,
Each in a noon of its own infinite.
And here is leant the branch and its repose
of the deep leaf to the pilgrim plume. Repose,
Inflections brilliant and mute of the voyager, light!
And here the nests, and freshet throats resume
Notes over and over found, names
For the silvery ascensions of joy. Nothing is here
But moss and its bells now of the root’s night;
But the beetle’s bower, and arc from grass to grass
For the flight in gauze. Now its fresh lair,
Grass-deep, nestles the cool eft to stir
Vague newborn limbs, and the bud’s dark winding has
Access of day. Now on the subtle noon
Time’s image, at pause with being, labours free
Of all its charge, for each in coverts laid,
Of clement kind; and everlastingly,
In some elision of bright moments is known,
Changed wide as Eden, the branch whose silence sways
Dazzle of the murmurous leaves to continual tone;
Its separations, sighing to own again
Being of the ignorant wish; and sways to sight,
Waked from it nighted, the marvelous foundlings of light;
Risen and weaving from the ceaseless root
A divine ease whispers toward fruitfulness,
While all a summer’s conscience tempts the fruit.
2.6k
Poets DO have issues!
Poets are insane!
We have a different record groove,
We have a different grain!
We have a different wiring
Don't respond to "normal" tests
We are the fish who climb up trees
Of this I can attest!
(chorus)
Poets hear their colors,
Poets see their songs,
Poets touch the music notes
They taste to sing along!
We wear t-shirts in 10 feet of snow
Coats in sunny climes!
We have no sense of timing
'Cept when we write our rhymes!
We go out in stormy weather
When it's clement we stay in!
We eat pizza in the morning
Write limericks on a whim!
(chorus)
We are calm when life gets frustrating
Mad when things go well!
Write rants when times are blissful
And sonnets when it's hell!
We travel to the Moon and back
Wear Stardust in our hair
We sail the very Cosmos
Sitting in our chair!
Our pens they scratch a tympany
Our pages plumb the depths
Of profound Pacific trenches
Or drown in puddles wept...
We have a different wiring
Don't respond to "normal" tests
We are the fish who climb up trees
Of this I can attest!
Poets hear their colors!
Poets see their songs!
Is that so ridiculous?
Folks, is that so wrong?
Poets hear their colors
The colors of the heart!
Come and see this song with us
**Let your mind fall apart!**
SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc
(C) 7/10/2016
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 1:07 PM UTC
Day eleven, I'm missing you
and I'm feeling like sinning,
maybe I should start from the clement beginning.
Day one, I see no more sun for I am alone
contemplating how I accrete age
and how many seeds I have sown.
Day two, palimpsest problems
weigh in heavy on my choices
and my mind has many voices.
Day three please don't look inside hollow me,
the pregnant wasteland of my heart
has been growing ruin from the very start.
Day four and out all my emotions pour,
I'm breathless from a sight of you
and my whole world returns anew.
Day five is crepuscular in nature, a perpetually playful night,
authored by your omnific fingers
and hidden behind the curtain, a sun just out of sight.
Day six, I've uncovered a skeleton making me love you even more
and I asseverate promises,
becoming blurred by family uproar.
Day seven is driven by a sensation of imbrication
and we know an end is coming,
lost in the easy salvation.
Day eight starts with our bodies huddled and our minds muddled,
you are a plagiary of my emotions
forgotten in loo of body illustration and soul cultivation.
Day nine is propelled by the intoxication of an end,
conclusion of what extent?
and filled with eristic thoughts of surrender to this utopian ascent.
Day ten and you're caught,
in my arms is where you ought to be,
and I keep hearing how just awakened you sought for me.
Jul 2, 2010
Jul 2, 2010 at 9:56 AM UTC
Sport Alliteration.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Can you canoe white waters in a bucket ?
Slam dunk that punk for stealing your best car
Watch pool aces take it from your pocket ?
Or pretty perky jockeys riding last.
Tennis stars still have their cake and eat it.
Chess masters checked from mating much
this year.
Simple sailors question whether weather’s
clement ?
A runner’s been a runner from the start.
Notice now a notice board to board to notice?
TV covers the sport. Sport covers the TV.
I rest my case for alliteration Who really cares?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip
December 2nd 2018. ~
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 9:04 PM UTC
What was likely apple jacks
that resembled arroz con leche
was the primary factor in
an eleven
year
anxiety
attack
the frozen inability to enter
muraled cafeterias
clement j zablocki
you hold torture chambers
"call my mom I am sick"
distract me from my nausea
my mental nausea
I am not ready for this confrontation
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 10:10 AM UTC
Poetry
Self-interest
Entitlement
Title Fight
Fighting Rights
Dining light
And finger ******* away feelings.
I wanted to make that stuff that’d rhyme
Only to realize I’ve yet to mime
And find time
To reference the Power Rangers in a piece.
Nobody does that.
Why did I do that?
Whobody does what?
Whybody does who?
What the **** am I?
Who the **** are you?
Language, Mr. Clement, language.
Reign that tongue in before I stick it to a frozen pole
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
Father Mckenzie
Turk’s Head teased my shadow
free last evening along the arroyo
our separation minute yet
edging toward the clement lip
accruing like the thunder eggs
I keep in a jar by the door
God long since departed, drifted
away on the high desert wind
that drew us here long ago
rifled pages of the Book Of Common Prayer.
A sodden breeze from home last night
a tang of salt, a churchyard hush
low plaint of cello’s lurking around
these adobe walls for a way inside
my callow words returned to claim
their hollow sound and mouth
all that was left unsaid
an old man darning socks
in the night when nobody’s there
crossing the room to leave
the door ajar to old sermons
bible black sky pierced with diamonds.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 8:43 AM UTC
Aksis (Greek: ἁψίς; majority apsides, Greek: Enhancements, Improvements) is the highest point in the course [orbit] of one thing. 10000.001 1000 hours on the moon and the moon [2] ... 34C Horse and P4 / 4 (see Cicero / PH3 screen) 4P * 1000-1010 = 3-2 George. ... (July 73) Jul 42 in Italy, Poland, Picture of Hiroshima P2 Columbus, Georgia, Europe, Columbia 100 MTN Toonberg [People] About 1683 - P ***** 4/4, Chen Xin Shibiru. Cicero / P / [2] ... 1000 to 10,000,000. The King's King after many high speeds of 3-4p of Master Cranial Winter of Hiroshima HD HD-DA ... Mother's Scandic Faced Keira is a poor and unhealthy injury.) I've got a headline. Taurus is in charge of the drivers, IPA women's wives (BBC Taurus IPA), IPA women - Pastor BBC Taurus - after suffering, woman and bishops hit on the easiest arrow for the arch. Hunter, the commander of the powerful is new. Papa Andrew you Howl Yellow Chicken Mm Agbarus Bosma Test for Sinestro 1 / 3-1000. Smart 4P George Elvira, December II - Pilot 2 ... 73 [2] 3 Original Script file. 3 42-38000 Preparing People in Georgia, Georgia Paz Two Years - Shell HTS Hiroshima, Paul, George P. 2. 1683 ... English, French, Colombo, Nintendo, Canuck Black Rory, agree with national laws . .. [2], Greece, Italy, United States in sports groups ... demand for space [4] [5] [6] ATL one but we do not read, "I have heard the head twice" but this is the idea, good. When a leader dies ... buried in the Paris Labyrinth, Tess and Brie and the Kronogods Ready | A pleasant place of residence held August 1570 [11: 5] Clement Bach Bali - the world's largest Cicero sea. More than two years Hydroponics / L-2 George ovulation stream.d special at the end of four years, [4] Google has more pressure 5. [7] Using the backpacks of Dr. Clarke's four Gadgets and Sara. "The German Parliament says the House says 4/357 100 Evolve Mobile 4 R / 3 1000 MPS: 3-10000 years ago to Mali P4 2.3 2.1 (4) Investing 100 years ago", George Thomas (he less than 3).||
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 6:30 PM UTC
Manda
sweet loving
really good
poet
nice friend
respectful
manda
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
Sol o Sol!
Come be our guest,
Come & imagine a lunch with us.
Sky o Sky!
Most clement you are,
You are invited to lunch along us.
The stove is just so cold,
The stomach is hot as oven,
Warm bread is our daydream.
May some day come our way,
Our poor daydreams be realized,
Drinking the water in steel tumblers.
Delicious potato-tomato greens,
Sour tamarind sauce will be there,
Such a day has always been on the list.
We toast to our mini picnic,
Gulp chilled water brought along,
Yes so would be our hot celebration.
Let us sit under a tree's shade,
Enjoying our picnic time the best,
Melting some butter on warm bread.
Just for the sake of our joy,
May birds be our music system,
Today we shall feed them as well.
Sol o Sol!
Listen to our invitation,
Come & imagine a lunch with us.
Sky o Sky!
Accept all our offerings,
You are invited to lunch along us.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 1:01 AM UTC
Santa stood by the fire
With a pipe in his teeth
With smoke in the air
Circling him like a wreath
Clement Clarke Moore
Said this so long ago
But, what kind of pipe
I'm sure you don't know
Santa, a smoker
That's nothing new
If you remember the poem
Then you'll know it's true
The pipe, oh so slender
A small bowl at the end
A slight whisper of smoke
In the air, it would send
It arched to the floor
To the end of his beard
If it ever got close
Then his beard would be seared
The tobacco he smoked
Was a Turkish fine blend
With cloves and some nutmeg
Just how much, would depend
Was he giving out presents
Or sitting down by a fire
That determined just what
He would put in his briar
The pipe had a name
It was a Churchwarden pipe
Made of briar so old
A now long extinct type
Red Man tobacco
Some days he'd switch
But, not very often
It made his nose itch
The pipe is a classic
It shows Santa had style
Though it had a small bowl
It would last him a while
He could make rings appear
And they would circle his head
Or he'd just taste the spice
And form a small cloud instead
A Churchwarden pipe
Can be smoked by so few
It's a long way to draw
It's a tough thing to do
The scent that it leaves
Is of burnt spices and pear
And if you should smell it
You know Santa was there
So, this Christmas instead
Make it your pre bedtime goal
To leave out some OHM Turkish
To replenish his bowl
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 6:32 PM UTC
The earth without the light
is unseen not because it's dark.
Every morning shines on it
a new picture-perfect sunrise!
It's the sun's upside down heaven black canvas
the arch painter can paint on it from afar
off the sky until it takes a nap in shadowy twilight.
The earth by the sea isn't a beauty only skin deep
beneath its barely scratched surface billow seven seas.
Over the abyss down this way nothing is dark
with all the stars wake is half-lit clement moonlight.
The waxing moon again will be full looking on the sea-mirror
but won’t drop in the deepwater can’t touch the bottom line.
****** earth a veiled beauty packs the power flow in the heart
so fluid in its midst the river, the sea, the ocean all run melodious!
Aug 14, 2019
Aug 14, 2019 at 12:12 PM UTC
It’s evening. Isaac walks to the beach as if he’s lost.
He climbs through artificial dunes, through false ramparts
pushed hard against the ocean’s erosion—cliffs of sand.
So let’s call him Clement Cliff and let’s say that he’s
an actor and distant cousin of Montgomery Cliff—
that he’s a stage of sand, a progression of the beach.
Blind, he walks to the beach each evening now
because I make him walk. He hates the water’s soul.
He feels its fear. He goes because I make him go.
He does this now (we do this now), so I can walk;
walking, it seems, is very bio-mechanical.
So-bio, so-mechanical: the brain’s music.
We call this beach Pangaea, for it looks to be
a map of early earth; it looks a plan for earth cut by
the tides before the continents were torn
asunder. (My, how Biblical, my dear, ‘asunder’.)
It looks that way when I stand on the cliffs—
like lands formed in jest. I love the air up here.
I love it that these cliffs are not a place
for sacrifice or suicide. Jump and you will
take a tumble. Jack fell down and broke his crown
and Jill will land on the soft sand of Pangaea.
Pretending flight, they fall. Don’t cry, honey. It’s just
a bruise. Give it a kiss. Isaac, he laughs.
It was right that he should die before me.
Every night we stand right here among the cliffs.
(Prominent among the bluffs.)
We watch and listen as the ocean sings.
The ocean is alive. Pangaea is where sun and sea
must meet. Pangaea, the sea, the soliloquy.
We go down to the sea in ships.
A thousand must set sail every day.
(All launched by your face, my dear.)
Tonight we sit and listen.
The ocean makes its music.
I leave on a singing ship.
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 10:56 AM UTC
*We slipped into our socks, eyes were closed
Soaking boldly within us, acedia's warm coat
View the clement fate, endless reaches cold
Every step lead to atrophy past the belt post*
______
*City's first pinching, whipped us into a storm
They pin down our wings so we'd conform
Every breath is an option to plummet or soar
Yet like a moth, i'm drifting down to the floor*
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 10:44 AM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
i found
her alone
seated amid
sumptuous shelter
crafted of a most clement
terracotta watching
as those chaotic
worldspun towers
whirled around, piercing
through vehement welkin
then stretching down
to ground level.
they went
weaving through the coils
of an ethereal copper jungle
and gifting her skin
with bruises
as they
fled—
each one,
the sputum
of a septic recess
that was ceaseless
in its diction
of ruses
in her
head.
some
people
called her
the dark passenger,
yet she talked herself idyllic
using only stolen words.
*only
twenty
years old*?
what a mess!
several life events
had her under
duress
that augural
September day.
she was depressed
yet she was
pressing
answers
from the void
beneath the drop—
a top-to-bottom
nonsensical
blessing;
funneling logic
behind such curtains
had her stressing out daily.
she grew arrogant and twisted
with the shifting of seasons;
she grew humbled
and wary
for the worst
of reasons.
her life
had become
a shell in every sense,
but it made sense
in the utmost
of naïve and
senseless
respects
...
then
I opened
my mouth
to speak
again.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
a song of gallimaufry!
of that lively—
lonely street
a Troubadour a'play
his fingers clog at fret passé
as charming women bravely seek―――――
“Red rouge and diamond eyes of gray
this fair and mellow-mannered mare!”
his brilliant eyes went spying (and
they stole the skies of May from there!)
to spite the clement nightmare!
of that pungent—
porter street
the cleats of noble mounts
they pace the pleasance he recounts
his smile and case lay wide and chic――――
“Red felt, if you would be so kind,
solicit further coin and bill!”
his learn’ed ears went hearing (and
what ditty does remind him still?)
of the love and subtle thrill!
of that gloom ick—
ridden street
a drunk man kinks apace
an eager look be on his face
in wayward want of his mystique―――――
“Ready nigh my pick-n-anchor
pick on of mutt-n-mutineer!”
his gentle heart went jarring (as
did he of sob'ring rancor spear)
t’ward gameless
watersweet
of that lone yet-
lively
scene . . .
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
A wayfarer gardens
and yeaning wake his soul
on this Market Square
still he shops and sleeps
where his abode is nigh
and their goods are cheap
like his barbecued cecils
now such gazes he's met
that fires their clement
if City Hall landslide elects again.
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 8:44 AM UTC
buried beneath warm feathered blankets in the rust tinted morning glow,
two exhausted soft breathing still bodies lie next to me fast asleep,
I awake.
5:40 AM.
the clement essence of worn clothing and moth eaten Sage daintily flow,
unharmed.
Jun 16, 2010
Jun 16, 2010 at 6:45 PM UTC