"colloquially" poems
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is not a poem. This is about a poem.
Poems require words. This poem does not require words.
This poem requires memories' muscles.
This poem requires what is called colloquially love.
Learn that what we share here is not poetry.
Your poetic senses that produce the words that mark you present
are but surgical tools to extract, release the whole and the parts of you that help shape that single sense borning in your chest that defines you at any particular moment.
Quæ est mater Laureat.
She is the Mother Laureate.
She is the boundary you must learn to cross to be more than a re-arranger of letters and alphabets, but a translator of the human essence and fill our veins with the a sense of awe and wonder felt when we read each other and think aloud,
"yes, exactly, that was and is precisely what I was feeling."
She is the glue that keeps us sticking here, sticking together, each of us sticking to it.
You do not know her?
No worries, she will find you when you least expect it, perhaps
when you need it.
This is not a poem. This is a human who's a poem.
Understand the difference and then you may begin a journey
that has no destination other than weaving the connective tissue that makes us anticipating excited when we log on.
Happy Birthday Mother Poet Laureate!
I do not think I can write a better not poem for you.
Forgive me then, if going toward, I repost this every
October 24th as long as the chemical composition of
blood, God, spirit, logos or reason runs free within,
exiting as words encased in tears that formulate into
human poetry.
nattyman
P.S.There are 800 poems here with Sally in the title, and least 700 are about Sally B. If you like, please feel to free to add yours, old or new.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 12:42 PM UTC
For my craving, satisfy me
of this spicy, loathsome
inclination of my restless soul.
You, from the Caribbean Sea--
Santiago, let your
ambrosia signifies of how
your people colloquially
refers you, as "Rock".
Santiago, a refuge
you were once for the Jews.
As desirably firm as you are,
abolish me of these crisp desires
for they renders me with nothing,
but mere pertubation.
Oh Santiago, obscure me
inside your dry rain - shadow
areas, relatively.
For a while, conceal me
so I may somehow be
healed of this tempestuous outburst.
Sing me a lullaby, Santiago.
With such unique culture
of yours, infect me.
To be vibrant, and
to become Jamaican.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 2:39 AM UTC
Held in the highest esteem but inept in equality
Unprecedented equality she can never guarantee.
Yet she is dimmed perfect.
Imperfect is aiding the poor at the expense of the bourgeoisie
Yet vice versa of this infamy is dimmed rational.
Rationally speaking, we all can't be rich.
Thus why there would always be tiers.
With the upper tier benefiting at the expense of the proletariat
Yet the humanists are seen as rivals
And stigmatized via false credence.
These men, rooted in selflessness are considered dangerous.
With their movement colloquially synonymous with political abhorrence
As long as we all can't be rich.
Pursuit for Capita is as futile a venture as underwater basket weaving.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC
When i was a younger lad,
i just couldn't wrap my head around
why t'is that females
are so oft referred to
(albeit colloquially)
as *******
by certain demographics,
particularly
a certain complementary ***
i just so happen to be.
It just struck me as a bit
unfair, y'know?
But,
now that i'm a bit older,
though, t'would seem,
nary a bit wiser,
i realize
t'is indeed quite unfair,
and that's precisely why
they tend to be called
*******
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
haggard and black eye circled,
I stood before her,
(in the special silence of the shocked
"I can't believe what I'm seeing")
The Goddess Witch of the Bathroom Magic Mirror,
in my awoken normal deplorable e-state,
taking a poll of the the toll
the working years had blessed me with,
crow's feet nests, red eye eggs, and forehead furrows
colloquially called the Mississip-pis,
saggy used as a compliment,
rotunda my unsupine fecund shape,
as in,
"what a nice generous cowling^ you have!"
a nose that looked clown-borrowed and improperly affixed,
looking like the wreckage of a ship
that accidentally crashed
into a harmless oil tanker
a three-times-my-size destroyer
named Life
the bathroom mirror looked upon me
with haughty askance,
imputing and impugning my
raggedy Andy human exterior,
until it at last
laughed so hard,
it cracked into a 1000 pieces
as shards bloodied my hands
and now, in addition,
checker-boarded my scraggled unshaven cheeks,
a voice from the bedroom screeched:
*did you ask again the mirror
who's the fairest
in all the land
*********
Warned you,
she hates when you take
advantage of her,
with your white male privilege,
calling her,
**The Goddess ***** of the Bathroom Magic Mirror**
clearly a simple case of mistaken identity,
upon looking in the mirror at myself
all I growled was
***"you one ugly pasty white son of a *****
<•>
8-22-17
1:11am
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 1:50 AM UTC
<|>
for some time,
in these troubled moments,
midst the uprooted formless firmament
where rawest poems come from,
and the saddest gentled, go to die,
colloquially a place, a space,
we call,
time
in these, them days of lockdown quarantine,
time has lost its preeminence,
the swagger of precision-swiss-definition
of the imposing measuring stick of
routine
is lost to that very
formless firmament
we look at each aghast,
with wild puzzlement faces,
inquiring of each other,
“what day of the week is it?”
the eavesdropping, spying voice of this device
answers,
“see the upper left corner”
which is kind of a miracle
but not nearly as amazing that
a few hours later,
or some time span of an approximate relevancy,
(we assume,)
we ask each other, once more,
in a reverie of hopelessness,
with total no-pretense of the
when,
no, worse,
the frightening pointy needlessness of
why
it matters
“*dearest darling,
pray, pray,
what day of the week is it?*”
Apr 29, 2020
Apr 29, 2020 at 4:38 AM UTC
<>
“These are really the thoughts of all men, in all ages and lands,
they are not original with me, If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next to nothing, If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are nothing, If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing.”
Song of Myself (1892 version) by WALT WHITMAN
§§§
*exactly, for if not to mystify and to demystify,
why do we write, opine large, secretly confessing,
what is know to all soto voice in the chamber of secrets
that lies between the brains four chambered ventricles,
that leads to a Grand Canal through which flow riddles,
all these thoughts, yours, mine, and overlapping crazy
solitary, they merge within the river of combination,
then known to all, colloquially named Ours, then too,
answers arrive in the scrivening, when each plain to see,
once the riddle posed, the answer is freed to exposure,
like veins blue to red, when oxygenated, our mysteries,
all colors, untied, there is but one color, reddened blood
these thoughts, become yours, more than mine, for
in the taking is the additive chemical that enhances,
making the distance closed to only closed, here I pause,
fearful, I hesitate, you do not understand, sunshine can
blind any man, sickness humble any body, we are alike
in commonality, more than different, we are all riddled
and next to nothing is everything, all worth knowing,
you, write my poetry, as I write of you with breathless
ease and comfort, for the thoughts of all men in all
ages and lands, are original to where our eyes espy
each other, where our lips kiss to cross, cross to kiss,
what is the what, this simplicity, the great difference*
§§§§§
Fri. May 15
Manhattan Island,
Isle of Man
10:26am
Jun 3, 2020
Jun 3, 2020 at 10:14 AM UTC
African American plight
Incessant fright
Dark days into night
Equality, a concept
unbeknownst to we
Or is it me
Not born locally
And speaking colloquially
Now disillusioned
For a society alienated
Is a society decapitated
And the people dilapidated
When you turn a blind eye
And hope not to hear their cry
Malignant systems
Elected officials to fix them
When all they do is fix them
To individual greed
And the corporate elite
Disenfranchised youth
Incarcerated they lose
Communities gentrified
And families undignified
A Marginalized people
Seen as second class
But a man of colour is no different from another.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 5:21 AM UTC
What is reality?
Reality itself cannot be comprehended in whole, thus its truth;
And hence in incredulity,
Reality being nothing more than the sum of perceptual senses translated into mental Interpretation,
It can be said that its very infeasibility grants sanity in its exiguous comprehensibility;
We spend our time attempting to prove and disprove things in this realm of reality, ultimately proving to ourselves the cessation of progression,
And with these interpretations we acquire what is colloquially called knowledge,
Reality is what is known, but not all that is known is reality.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
In A Cloud Of God
I meditate
In a cloud of God,
The phrase enticing,
Spicing up my inner vision,
Paradis-ing selfsame vision
Into supervision.
This decision to be deep in thought
That isn’t thought exactly
But a tactful way to find the mind
Without a wandering in imagery,
Colloquially speaking,
And between you, me, i.e. we, us
Who chance to meet on this
Our [quasi] paper
Is escape of noblest kind,
Leading blindly on pure trust
To someplace nice – yes, nicest!
In A Cloud Of God 11.13.2017
God Book II; The Processes; Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
exactly,
*for if not to mystify and to demystify,
why do we write, opine large, secretly confessing,
what is know to all soto voce in the chamber of secrets,
that lies between the brains four chambered ventricles,
that leads to a Grand Canal through which flow riddles,
all these thoughts, yours, mine, and overlapping crazy*
*solitary, they merge within the river of combination,
then known to all, colloquially named Ours, then too,
answers arrive in the scrivening, when each plain to see,
once the riddle posed, the answer is freed to exposure,
like veins blue to red, when oxygenated,all our mysteries,*
becoming all colors, untied, there is but one color, reddened blood
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 7:33 AM UTC
Colloquially bent
With a positive alignment
Breath without falter
That’s what I put at the altar
Visions of what I wish I could be
But that isn’t me
I’m sorry
And for what I may never know
Feb 26, 2020
Feb 26, 2020 at 2:20 PM UTC