"colloquial" poems
cuz like,
carrots are alright
and washing them is part of an every day thing.
Think about it..
We could build our lives around
the creation and destruction of carrots.
Everyday could be like black satin astrolabes
in a carrot sized environment.
No more would we have to wait in line
at complimentary fashion tables
for what we once remembered as carrots.
"Does it fit in the paper?"
Yeah.. I would think so.
I would think it really, really fits.. ok?
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
I.
*“You can only fight the way you practice”
― Miyamoto Musashi, A Book of Five Rings: The Classic Guide to Strategy*
His lessons started late
As always, and as always
What is thrown is a question
You grip tightly
around your fingers
as one would,
as one always should.
With a branch he beckons:
“Come” he asks,
*“if a stick is struck from this angle,
what would your answer be?”*
Always, the old man taught
With each strike, each parry,
Each disarm and lock,
Each time my knuckles
Would hurt. This way
he makes it sure
that my body
remembers.
This is always
the first step.
My mind might forget.
But the body
Remembers.
II.
*“It is difficult to realize the true Way just through sword-fencing. Know the smallest things and the biggest things, the shallowest things and the deepest things.”
― Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings: Miyamoto Musashi*
With him, everything starts
The vague quality of nonwords
Taught from pain, simplified
Through science:
the fulcrum and the lever.
Each joint, each turn,
a pattern to comprehend,
all things work in context:
*A framework of the undeniable
Fact:*
*the world is separate
In only these two words:*
Taub at Tihaya
The colloquial words for
Face down and face up;
This is a pattern
of the body.
III.
*“If you wish to control others you must first control yourself”
― Miyamoto Musashi, A Book of Five Rings: The Classic Guide to Strategy*
Tihaya
The lesson starts
When he presses
His thumb forward
to a hand asking for alms
like turning a doorknob
too far to the right.
Taub
when I pull back
four fingers
on a giving hand
too far to what is left.
these are the means
for control.
When I know
How much is necessary
To push or to pull,
To teach or to break.
- 18 October 2017
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 5:57 AM UTC
A bridge from colloquial to courtly fare
A span where idealism and fantasy pair
A railway to the existential realm; celestial lair
A conduit through which rational discourse can flare
Deep medium to: forage, inculcate, and inform
Broad brush to paint rare beauty; sculpt surrealistic form
Incisive scalpel to surgically alter the societal norm
Delicate utensil to educate on civility and decorum
A literary ***** a prosaic construct
A mechanism our syntax to deconstruct
An analytical tool; an observational viaduct
Introspective milieu to reduct; extrovertive sphere to reconstruct
A semantical edifice that aspiring wit, lofty orations implore
An experimental structure gramatical anomalies to explore
A thematic repository in which concrete ideas, abstract notions to
pour
A vernacular cathedral butressed by an idiomatic core
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC
My New Year’s Eve
was spent
collecting fragmented recollections
to confirm
that my dignity
had truly died.
Soberly,
I perused
the bars and clubs,
and walked aimlessly
up and down crowded streets,
feeling like my life
had somehow
been shifted
into slow motion,
while the rest of the world,
engaging in joyous celebration
and ffestivities,
was knocked out of rhythm
from my existence.
How in the world
could the clock strike midnight?
How could people embrace, and kiss
at the dropping of the ball?
How could they laugh and smiile,
and wish each other a “Happy New Year!”?
More importantly,
how could those god **** traffic lights
have the audacity
to continue changing
from red to ggreen to yellow,
then back to red again.
My dignity had just died.
My dignity had just died.
My dignity was dead.
My dignity was gone.
In the days and weeks
that followed the death of my dignity,
I noticed
that life faded
from colloquial to iconic,
like something mystical,
or an intangible object
of deep longing.
And recurrent images
of those *******
obnoxious traffic lights
insensitively
switching colors
replay in my mind
to remind me
over and over
in the greens (go),
the reds (stop),
and the yellows (be careful),
that my dignity
had died.
Memories
of the ddays
before my dignity had died
run through my mind
like old home movies
with centuries
of black and white film
stuck on repeat,
and slowly fraying,
around the edges,
because of the harsh demands of time.
It is life’s
harsh and cruel irony
that these images,
once my greatest joy,
have now become
inflicters
of the greatest pain
that I
have ever felt.
Like a sound wave
of pain,
so powerful,
that it has silenced
any other pain
that my heart
has ever heard.
So now I know,
it is true
life is a bitch.
The fading
of my dignity
has made me
overly aware
of the earth
turning on its axis.
As spring approached,
for the very first time,
I noticed
the way the flowers
seem reluctant
to bloom,
as if uncertain
of their
welcome invitation.
Such a cruel reality,
that the flowers
would choose
to bloom,
and nature
would choose
to carry on,
slipping
further and further
away from the day
that my dignity died.
And still,
to this day,
those ****
traffic lights
keep switching colors
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 8:32 AM UTC
Practicality is the reality
of ignominious totality
the devices of all sizes
and the grammatical mentality
of systematic duality.
Punctuation is the **********
the *********** of every generation
the permutation and saturation
of wordsmith temptation for re-calibration
the aberration and consternation
that leads to misinformation
and condemnation and annihilation
of the constellation colloquial conversation
the abomination of language urbanization
the fermentation and ionization
of linguistic complications
the desolation of commas and semi-colons
the affirmation of their vs they're
the augmentation of amalgamation
is just the lyrical ************
of a hooded basketball top nation
the culmination of devastation
the gestation and interpolation
that leads to appreciation isolation
and justification acceleration
the modification and assimilation
of poorly-worded implementation
and the contamination of myriad exploration
alienation in illumination
punctuation is the salvation of documentation
against the tides of violation
and the extermination of regurgitation
the classification of discrimination
and last but not least
the liberation of misrepresentation.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
He was a frat guy.
he spoke loud at the dinner table across the room and I listened
Someone touched him as a young boy
And daddy's expectations and denial of homosexuality fueled his sons speech
Speaking hypothetically about the colloquial term for jacking off two dudes at once and if that name increased quantitavely what then was the appropriate term for jacking off 100 dudes
His friends laughed
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
Diggin' in the dirt
have a little fun
drink a little beer
have another one
Sun is really hot
and I just want to play
gotta go outside
gotta get away
Go swimming at the crick'
Maybe catch a fish
cook it on the bank
we don't need a dish
Get a little tan
get a little burn
Doesn't really matter
cuz I'll bet we'll never learn
Grab onto the rope
and come on for the ride
It's way too nice out here
for you to stay inside!
Cherie Nolan © All Rights Reserved 2016
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
There is rutabaga, and ratatouille, gotta love alliteration
Then Albuquerque and Tallahassee, are somewhere in our nation
And Saskatoon, Saskatchewan found in Canada, my dear
In old colloquial, there were hooligans and shenanigans, I fear
At school I use a dongle it connects me to my work
I hope I didn't bumfuzzle you, didn't mean to be a ****
Just one more word on my short list and to see what it can do
Find the one you love and in sweet soft voice just turn and utter "pooh"
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 9:30 AM UTC
Miles and borders
wedges
Wanderlust children
locked in the Sun's hula hoop
claim visions of sugarplum prairies
Downplayed mountains
speckle the globe
like tectonic acne
Topography's tease
The paper was so promising
Dimensions spawn
in the tatters of ambition
like fused particles of
colloquial bridges
Keyboards sprout vocal chords
and philosophies huddle under
shy amusement
humming to the hymn of a discovery
wrapped up in the chords
of enraptured choirs of fingertips
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
That Old Drug Checklist? Completed. No Shame. So get over it.
(It's rather colloquial, however, revealings as well. This is what I said to a boy from driver's ed who wanted to be my boyfriend... So I tried to scare him off. Hahaha. Rationale a la 15-year-old):
Maple: It's not exactly something I talk about, ever, because it just demonstrates my insanity. But, I want to try everything. Every substance, every drug.
Justin: Um, why?
Maple: Why not?
Justin: Well, cause it’s bad.
Maple: If you believe in good or bad, right or wrong. I don't know what I believe except that we're all robots of each other and nothing matters anyways.
Justin: Hmm, that’s a different way of thinking about it. I think that curiosity isn't bad, just be careful. . .
Maple: I don't know if I am, but, meh. Is there really any good reason to do anything?
Justin: Umm, no, not really. It’s what you feel, not what others feel. Well. . . just be careful.
Maple: Safety is a conspiracy.
Justin: Why do you say that?
Maple: Think about it. You can insure everything you own, walk on the right side of the road and follow strong Christian morals that give the illusion of safety, as if you’ll go to heaven if you’re good and hell if you’re bad. But, with one fire, one plane crash. . . well it's all gone. The entirety of you. And who even knows if there is that insured heaven anyways?
Justin: Hmm, you know I think that the way you think is very interesting and mostly true, I mean, nothing is ever completely safe. You can't always be careful, but I also think that you should use this and try to live life to its fullest.
Maple: Thank you. But what is living life to it's fullest? Everyone always says that, but what does it mean?
Justin: Well, like you, I know that what you’re doing is unhealthy, but your not afraid to try different things. You experience more then anyone else, cause most people play it safe in their comfort zone.
Maple: Exactly! Always judging but never trying. Society has made these things into taboos, but are they really? I know that getting addicted is a terrible idea, but everything in moderation. Why always sit on the sidelines making assumptions behind whispered hands and backs? Why not jump into the game?
Justin: Yep, that’s right. You can't sit there say that’s bad or you should do this if you haven't done it yourself. Because if you haven't, you don't know what it’s like and you’re being hypocritical.
. . .
Maple: Um. . . Says the boy who just told me not to do drugs “cause it’s bad.”
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 9:48 PM UTC
if beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
then hell, you've got to be blind
i fail to understand when you tell me
how you feel and conclude that you
must have lost your mind
i suppose i did, too,
somewhere else along the line
and that's what love can do to you,
one of the traits you will find
among others, you will see
that love itself is the hardest word to define
then, it seems love is in the eye of the beholder too,
and so we call it blind.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 2:40 AM UTC
Power pulsating between my legs
Irrational intrigue between my ears
Alacrity asunder between my ribs
-Heretical human blender-
Serving up cleverly crafted cocktails
I am
Spouting sureness from between my lips
I am
Stirring in sweet sultriness
Soliciting sour sabotage
Submerging you in salty squeamishness
-Colloquial courtesan, curtly castrating consumers-
Inebriating you equally with inevitable irrationality
Welcome to my "Reader’s Digest"
Prepared especially for you with my psychologically indigestible
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 10:35 AM UTC
Listen closely and hear our collective vernacular in a state of constant mitosis.
Live and see our language begin to rival our own complexity.
A myriad of inter-connecting word highways with more twists,
turns and travelers than that of any physical road.
A body of thought massing in our collective conscious,
an infinite man-made addition to our finite physical reality.
Every addition is another color, another taste,
relative to the user in enunciation,
becoming ever less limited by geography.
Emotion attaches and tints the tone of individual words as we grow with age.
Without it enabling us to define ourselves, we are left ignorant and insular.
Memory accumulates casting a shadow and adds depth,
communication cultivating perception to leverage change in corporeality.
Pulsating slang spreading locally with fresh life to be globally colloquial.
A wordsmith may use this power to celebrate
or condemn their perception of reality,
more still- will wield words like plowshares
and escapism flourishes with such an expansive field
where all of humanity is brought out to play.
And sometimes-
for me,
it is just barely enough to grip a word with impunity.
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 9:11 AM UTC
“I have something for you to remember me by,” said Tim.
He held a little foam Hippo – the lone play animal supplied by the loonybin to patients in need.
It was brand new – just as every Hippo looked – and I wondered why he’d chosen something seemingly impersonal in comparison to his other, odd gifts.
However, what he did next made his hippo – my hippo – absolutely ideal. To people like Tim and I, that is.
For, to my astonishment, he casually took the toy in his hands, twisted, and ripped it cleanly in two.
He ripped off its head, which he gave to me, whilst he kept the body.
I will never get rid of that mutilated, foam hippo head. For he understood what no one else had ever come near.
In this way – perhaps – Tim and I became synonyms. Synonyms for what ignorant perceptions would later christen ****** or merely, crazy (the latter - coined by those who remain too depressingly colloquial to invent unfounded diagnoses).
These epithets, catalyzed post personifying such societal taboos as Tim or I committed, follow me still, and have yet to disperse.
A criticaster disaster, personified.
Yes; in this way – Tim and I became synonymously insane.
•
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 7:22 AM UTC
****** Bag in sunglasses
donned indoors where
fluorescent sunlight cannot justify
the obfuscation of haughty eyes
so the visage is one
of pure pretension
and cockiness,
dichotomized
as self-assuredness
and the colloquial term for the phallus,
a literal ****
(I see him strongly in the memory of a high school field trip returning home school bus late night he sits sideways back to the window head leaning back sunglasses donned smug grin I rendered him the vessel and the scape goat bearing my burning hatred for the inflated ego wrapped in an undesirable chic I deem deplorable, hate hate hate)
Smug grin,
I wrote this poem from a bean bag
in the corner of the library third floor
whilst wearing sunglasses and
a taste of irony
on callous lips
twisted in an invisible sneer.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
i see you
formulate in the sky,
until a permanent cloud remains,
for all to see.
You settle in a montaged dream sequence,
a sweeping sentiment of sweet innocence;
in the equilibrium of your natural habitat.
Just a rain clouds tears away.
A utopian notion,
broken reluctance inspired by emotions.
A colloquial calmness
confronts the surface,
we burrow
down,
deeper,
for the winter in preparation of the hibernate soul;
The harsh cold paradise takes toil into the parable.
In the midst of Nirvana with a frozen heart.
A lake remains.
The tears turn to rain and solidify likes scars.
The reign is over,
You melt into my arms.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC
Jotting down a few words
As I update a journal
Influences of her perfection
Adds a status quo
Marvel by her ways
I put together a sentence
Like a songbird
Verbalizing a perch
No dictionary can match
Her superb dialect
Barriers of longevity
I discovered myself
Doubts in her words with captivity
Lost in a colloquial speech
No woman on earth moves
As if she does
Intriguing to the thoughts
Her grammar
Has many episodes
Which causes drama within
Shall I abandon
What have I learned
Knowing my love
Is just a few acronyms
Can sell no less
In terms of our
Endearment
Apr 6, 2010
Apr 6, 2010 at 10:43 PM UTC
Dear Ambidextrous Man,
I hear you write words with both of your hands
How does it feel? How does it feel to fight with your hands?
One scrawls your joy, while the other your pain
Together they paint a dull world of gray
Luxurious, lovely, lustful letters
Flirting together on fragile lines
Thick contradictions dancing around
Weaving in... and weaving out...
Potent words piercing the pages
Eloquent chains that tactfully twist
Clashing together in colloquial cacophony
A civil war complete with friendly fire
Black... White... Black... White.... Gray
Dear Ambidextrous Man,
How does it feel to fight with your hands?
Awfully good...
Awfully good...
Awfully good?
--Christian J. Clark
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
one, two, three shots
a cold basement, a cold count
the sound of laughter and half-hearted attempts at conversation
i feel myself loosen up and even get a bit
friendly
confident
i have my lover at my side and it feels like everything makes sense like
everything is supposed to be this way
this is how people like me have fun
i love how the alcohol warms and coats my throat
until
i feel my mother
(can I call her that?)
her hair, a flame of tangled curls and the smell of
men
drunk off of her and her magic
radiating inside of me
my colloquial tone begins to fall away as she
climbs
up
up
up
and i try and try
but i can’t hold her down
she is suffocating me with her illness and she whispers to me in a drunken tone
she tells me that this is the way to live
see all the people laughing, my dear?
they aren’t sad
hearing their cries boom off of their bedroom walls
trying to pretend the beating of their heart is a death drum
shuddering and shaking violently to the beat of the song at their early funeral
no,
they are loving each other and talking
in their own tongue
this is the way to find me, your mother.
to feel my liquid embrace.
warm and
sharp
so drink, my dear.
drink until you pour your insides into some stranger's toilet in the early hours of the morning.
you won’t worry about the fact that you just got sick,
and your mind has the possibility to get sick like mine did,
that every step of life could easily take a violent turn that you won't be able to stop
you will be happy that your stomach is empty and you are finally
finally
hollowed out
the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, my dear, and the past repeats itself and
i have handed you mine
so drink up.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 12:37 PM UTC
The Cannibal’s dream and the inverse conclusion
Twist of the seam, sunken scattered illusion
Shouts of the spy fastened tight to the pylon
Sacrifice sweating; bygones can’t just be bygones
Mustard gas moans, whip lashed in the fire
Cunning glass masters burned alive at the pyre
Miscarriage minister delivers the sponge-bath
Alive at the eve of divination, the wrath
Blasphemous cries vindicate putrid powder
Sweet crystal cradling, swaddling sheets on the shrouder
Arcane sessions in the cavern deep
Turbulently righteous ideas to reap
Divine purification at an alchemy flame
A zenith of nostrums, bad medicine, blame
Strip off the layers and chant benediction
A hand, from the mind, reaching out for conviction
Sharp swords of lead, heavy, shifting to gold
Sentient beings search for truth to behold
Excavate, deviate, a stranger to demonstrate
Colloquial séance with panic to elevate
Head leads body, a path of insurrection
The soul and the mind at war for correction
The crotches of branches, slits of the eyes
A crevasse of lonesome; wedged in, we writhe
Anticipating the sting that comes with the change
Of transforming the cave into a mountain range
Jul 14, 2012
Jul 14, 2012 at 1:04 PM UTC
insides dead,
driftwood emotions,
oceans of regret.
swept under the waves.
Betterdays,
in the horizon.
Hard to find them
in the abyss
of bad habits
that i’ve inhabited.
Agoraphobic,
closed off,
like a treacherous day.
Doors locked,
subdued,
constant moods,
brooding storms in submarines,
under the weather
&
under the sea.
show me the coral reef,
of beautful feelings,
and creatures,
the features of life.
Evade me by day,
and escape me at night.
i can’t fathom the colloquial,
of the same old ****
i’m down with my nothing,
and i’ll sink with the ship.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 5:51 PM UTC
Colloquial evanescence unbuckled
Made hard to find
Coffee hot and *** high
Pulling bagels out from where they hide
Mouth full of food and lies
Chew and swallow
I am fine
Weather requires a jacket day
No guests for who I can comment
Pull the door closed from the outside
Without your sun,
I appear blind
Repeat on and on
Till 5pm
Repeat all again
I am fine
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
My definition of truth is: An action synonymously described as it happened, within this barrier of admission, an image portrays a substance, occurance, or incident. This social term can and will be deviated for manipulation, self interest, and out of blatant ignorance. In society truth is hardly colloquial in politics, media, and law; recognizing that it is used to manipulate and persuade for power, control, or materiallity. There are cases in which deception is the best choice in the longevity of a subject larger than ones self, a substance of this will and shall never occur in a mindful, intellectual, and adept utopia. Sadly, in the global aura we see as today; we lack faith, trust, and ubiquity in fault of karma, the perpetual domino effect of deception, and the ignorant facade of physical dominance. From this computer screen, the pants you are wearing, and the mind you hone are all subject to the absent, mistreated, and altered reality of honesty versus deception.
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 1:40 PM UTC