"colloquy" poems
Beat a thousand beats,
Crumble a thousand crumbles;
But no single formula, nor restless colloquy
Can mend the deafening black gravity nestled in this cage.
May grow flowers, but disintegrates to ash.
Soars to the highest peak, then jolted with a fatal blow.
Comedy or tragedy, truth or dare, numbers or letters, fidelity or treachery;
What does it choose?
Courage, dear heart.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
find a lover who writes you sonnets
who uses the darkest flecks of your eyes as ink
and the shades of your skin as paper
writing along the edges of your wrists and arms
with tongue and teeth
with purpose, truth, and love
find a lover whose heart sings to yours
a pianissimo summer sonata, dolce
using their words sotto voce against your ear
melodiously humming against your body
with their lips pressed to your neck
with passion, fire and tenderness
find a lover who creates art
using line weight in colloquy and canvas alike
to paint you with diamonds, as they see you
watch them carve your essence
with rainbows and pearls
with intensity, feeling, and beauty
find a lover who gives to you
who presents all the joys of life
unselfishly and without expectation
and when they give freely and openly
ensure that you, too, become a lover
who writes, sings, creates, and returns
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 10:37 AM UTC
I'm tilted and insist that you know I am grateful now here we
are-
an alliance. Let's see ourselves onwards, be borne by our
fondness-in accord, be our love for the colloquy.
Spry, exuberant. We are free spirits draining oceans of ink, bathing in rivers of lies to find the truth while saturated by pride.
We are propelled to propinquity, as we seek for a better prospect while drowning in propensity.
Our hearts bleed onto the paper,
wanting more love of passion
to spill out endlessly,
so others can relate
to share this burning fire
Deep within our souls.
we seek endlessly for acceptance and relatability,
with someone who we can feel
safe to share these wonderful feelings,
feelings of want from our vulnerable hearts.
In sharing our vulnerable hearts,
I becomes We
the divine flame burns brightly, guiding lonely souls
to meet heart to heart on this happy road of destiny
a stream of gratitude flows from our bloods, and we discover that we write to connect
to the divine source that empties us and fills us.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC
can you feel
that?
the agonizing empathy
which trickles
onto your injured disposition
and I hunger for your fidelity
i long for your embrace
for the melody in which
your colloquy becomes my
asylum
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
I could drown myself in cups of coffee, in nicotine, old books, and whiskey.
But that won't make me crave you any less.
I could immerse myself in the deepest of enthralling literature, poems, a sea of colloquy,
Waves, strangling the current of my mind.
But you'd still be the resonant word.
I could listen to the sweetest of voices on repeat, golden like honey, sticky,
But my ears would only ever truly answer to yours.
Serpents tend to bite their own tails, a mythological and alchemic symbol of the cyclic nature of the universe: creation out of destruction.
But I'm not breaking my heart, loving you.
Swollen, yearning, daydreamed astray, gathered fast by night.
Curiosity deniable no more, innocence lost, hands wandered exploratory below.
Clambering desperate over themselves, those hands fell over folds of warmed flesh, over forgotten nooks and unfound crevasses, over trembling thighs and aching calves.
Astounded by the vast array of fresh delicacies, of unencountered sensations and deepest pleasures, she stood by loyal as those hands swiftly accustomed themselves to pursuing true ecstasy.
What divine rapture. What soaring heights of pleasure to ascend to. And what a delicious revelation to encounter such unimaginable ecstasy.
That twelfth year become a fourteenth, a fifteenth, a sixteenth.
And with the passing of each came a series of ever more adventurous trysts, the sorts of which Cousteau, Armstrong, and even Columbus could all be truly proud of.
Depths sounded, crevasses plundered, self’s nectars tasted and devoured, the pleasures of the flesh went unearthed.
Elaborate constructions lovingly shaped, waxed and honed, years of heady experimentation, trial and errors, fantasy and dreaming, all in the pursuit of even harder, better, faster, stronger ******* Perhaps it was that, or was it more a case of welcomed companionship? Ambidextrous frustration? A carnal appetite, most terrifying in its magnitude?
Isn’t it time then, you tried a little tenderness?
Be good to you.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
Pressure isn't always harsh.
It doesn't have to be the grim and guttural.
It isn't always in regard to the coarse.
There's the soft kind, sweet.
The gentle pressure of lips against a collar bone.
Fingertips tracing freckles,
Valves working at elevated speeds.
Pressure needn't be a villain.
It can be a tender confession by means of softly spoken words.
Poignant colloquy put down with clean intentions,
The hum at night of dulcet tones into a receiver.
Mellow pressures on the heart and mind are pressures, too.
The pressure of eyes directed toward skin,
A foot on a gas pedal.
The pressure caused by closing distance.
Pressure me.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
Upon the table in their bowl
in violent disarray
of yellow sprays, green spikes
of leaves, red pointed petals
and curled heads of blue
and white among the litter
of the forks and crumbs and plates
the flowers remain composed.
Coolly their colloquy continues
above the coffee and loud talk
grown frail as vaudeville.
1.5k
(I am sick of writing love poems for you, so here’s another)
Do not fall in love with me, I am a poet.
I’ll scrawl down your every word,
Your most innate gestures,
Your bent and whims;
That you will grow conscious of your natural being,
About how your skin breathes,
You’ll run your fingers down your face wondering if you are even normal.
Do not fall in love with me, you’ll hate me.
I’ll write about you incessantly and obsessively.
When I’ll hold your face to kiss you,
I’ll leave ink stains on your aerial lips.
I’ll write till my fingers weep and lungs rip apart.
Do not fall in love with me, you’ll feel empty.
Because I’ll kiss this crooked stick between my fingers more than your lips;
This pale paper brighter than your smile.
I won’t smell of perfumes and lilies,
But ink and *** and cigarettes.
Do not fall in love with me, I am a greedy scribbler.
I’ll make your every colloquy an artwork (against your will)
That you’ll crave normalcy.
I’ll stay awake to watch you sleep at night
For my words, for my penniless art.
I’ll feed on you like a parasite,
I’ll script your existence in my veins,
You’ll have nothing of your own.
Do not fall in love with me,
There will be days when you’ll be talking to me in a fine-looking coffee shop
But I won’t be listening,
Because I’d be writing in my head, nodding along, smiling mindlessly
And your soul will ache.
Do not fall in love with me because more than anything
I want to be an obsessive writer.
I’ll forget your name,
Thinking if I should call my character Kurt or Keith.
You will feel trivial and ignored.
Do not fall in love with me,
I won’t love you like an ordinary girl,
I will be self-absorbed and oblivious.
But oh my darling, my flame, do love me, else I’ll have nothing to live for.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 1:04 AM UTC
Not a professional writer
Not a commercial writer
Not an academic writer
—of tomes
Not a writer of poetry
Not a writer of prose
Not a writer of colloquy
—heaven knows
Not a writer of fiction
Not a writer of fact
Not for comic depiction
—do my words then attack
Not a writer in residence
Not a writer then banned
Not a writer of circumstance
—just a writer, I am
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 11:26 AM UTC
Star crossed lovers, were we
Passion burning bright
We took upon wings
It began to take flight
Wordless conversation
Your name on my breath
Macabre heart melodies
And the dance of death
My ultimate act of hope
An act of valor
Desolate tears
Adoration colored pallor
Acid dipped colloquy
Mind tires, succumbs
Angelic contradictions
Senses numbs
Whispers of footsteps
Paramours’ ceasefire
Blood spilled emotions
No longer my desire
Unwept severed promises
Hearts struggle to breathe
Disunite in same direction
Faceless anonymity
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 2:04 AM UTC
His colloquy, vintage, rich and bold
Unveiling nuances, young and old
Subtleties dance, like fireflies at night
Whispered innuendos, a gentle, sweet delight
His flavor, a lingering caress
Savoring bliss, in each
tender address
In this sensory waltz, entwined
A delicate balance of taste and design
Where words become wine,
and wine becomes art
Relentless aftertaste, a deliberate
imprint on the heart
Feb 11, 2025
Feb 11, 2025 at 9:31 AM UTC
I write poetry when thoughts infect me
catching colloquy in a web to feast
my thorax alates pearlescent scales
I capture nectar from dewy books
***** waxy words that form in the back
of my throat in honeycomb shapes
they taste sweetest directly from my lips
until you notice six legs protruding
or ten eyes staring up at you in fear
the apex of my elytra is rainbow chrome
but all you see is a hardened shell
admittedly, all I've ever had is ability
to filiform syllables and sounds
dangle lexicon delicately from silk pages
in hopes of creating all the beauty
that I have never felt I possess in this form
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
The taste is so pure
it drips with nectar
I savor each moment
remembering that it shall
be the first and the last of its kind
shedding layers like a snake
revealing more vibrant sentiments
with each sentence
whilst feeling the rain
fall on my face
each drop as unique as the last
***how precious
your words
are to me***
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
The shadows of youth drape my body
As the sun encompasses a tree
Beneath the leaves and scratchy bark
Water flows through veins
Each drip of sunlight
Passing through
To reach the ground below
Falls from my skin
And each inch of earth’s rotation
Goes unnoticed
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 4:02 PM UTC
-Why are you shedding tears? (raising the eyebrows)
=Why are being dunce?..you are(choking) departing dear(helplessly).
(The former passing a beam and holding his fingers).
-No,you are being dunce,(by wiping the tears of the latter) my hero. (Embracing).
=I love you(the former heaving a sigh). There you go,your Prince is waiting for you.
Daughter-I love you too Papa (clasping the hand of her partner,took a seat in the car,bidding farewell and the matrimony ends).
Poetry technique-Colloquy.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 4:56 AM UTC
sometimes,
my silence tells more than my words
and my throat is caught up
in a whisper
a crystallised murmur of something
i can't quite explain.
often,
our hopeless colloquy ebbs away
and my fingers desperately
reach out for you
but you are worlds away and we are separated by something
i can't quite explain.
always,
you promise as you fade from sight
we will overcome our pain
but our voices are stifled- a chasm of emptiness
an irrevocable feeling
i can't quite explain.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 3:29 PM UTC
Sometimes you feel so inferior that you will tear away the flesh of anyone in your path to simply ascend. You are struggling to breathe. Sometimes you are suffocating so intensley that you will slay the souls of anyone in your path in your colloquy. Sometimes you will set tempers ablaze from the embers within your belly. Sometimes you scar fabricated memories with truth.
Sometimes your heart burns to a degree that can and will collapse stars. Sometimes your temperament will destruct star systems.
Sometimes all you are capable of is cremating worlds. Embrace it, mother dragon. On every plane in every realm. You burn for eternity. You are the personification of hell.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 6:29 AM UTC
“Poetry teaches one to read casuistry and put into fluency of words,
A reality of contributing the internal thoughts of rapture in mending,
Come to pass but it is a poet’s way of living the arts of expression,
Art of expression for the poet as well as a benefit for the reader,
Life through philosophy of words affixed to realization of the subject
When there is obscurity another spectrum of an unusual piquancy,
A poet and writers life is always looking for that germane connotation,
Daydreams of delusion or a nightmare with a colloquy word equanimity,
When everything is onerous we reach a point of imperious efficacy,
Mind body and soul an inimical to dream and precipitous thought with no end,
An uninterrupted moment of solitude and words moments of cessation rest,
In all this words teach a poet care for loved one or dear friend to aplomb,
Until lovers or friends may meet once again earnest in Poetic Acclimation”
By Andrew Guzaldo 03/11/2019 ©
Apr 13, 2019
Apr 13, 2019 at 9:29 PM UTC
an undulating reverie
hangs heavy in the silence
past canyons abundant with sunlight
and dreams made out of cotton
there, beyond the intoxicating haze,
you stood.
my lips uttered no words
that the universe could decipher
but the midnight tide understood
what i truly meant
now, if only you could, ma chérie
but the scrupulous colloquy is bound to break
and the stratosphere rewinds again
past divine oculists and obstinate facsimiles
and beyond the desolate valleys
where no sunshine dares to embark
and what’s left in the end
at the very edge of such a disenchanting,
morose fantasy
is you, and me,
and an undulating reverie.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 1:24 PM UTC
Waking up, curtains closed near the bedside.
The alarm clock ringing, reading six past two.
You bring yourself to, walking past the obstacles scattered on the floor.
The entrance of the door, only arms length away.
You open it, only to feel betrayed.
You expected presence,
You wanted something more than solitary,
Something more than waking up alone.
You're only talking to yourself.
In your head, your conscious wanting insight on what lead you through this path.
You carry on the day,
With a weight on your shoulders.
Everyone you see is a familiar face,
Are you sure they're your friend?
Would you believe what they say, just for the sake of colloquy?
You go along with it, only to feel betrayed.
Approaching the buildings ahead, the debate conveys.
You stop & stare.
Consternation, fear, the crowds see through you.
You walk along, only to feel betrayed.
The facts keep on going,
You keep on showing,
Dreading, knowing, they remember the worst of you.
Unlocking the door, five stories above your home,
You study the people from before, lacking in trust, faith. Promises and fate. The closer they get, the more you hate.
You close your eyes, only to feel betrayed.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 8:00 PM UTC
*The heat opened a casket somehow
Entombed in a white hot vacancy
Rests my summers day melody
Of gentle feet patting crunchy gravel
Along the pink spines of swamp snails
Out there with listless goats inhaling
The moss infected water
And how I am trapped in my protective
Jalousies like a silly little lifeguard
Waiting for a dip in the surface
An action in the preface
The fields are screaming silver mutiny amidst
The drought on their legs
What travesty happened here?
What reverie of the cosmic nature?
They left it bald as an onion
Sifted as cement
I can hear their pleas
To drop them my sweat
Like a mother to her children
All to ease their parched throats
The wind hangs like a scandal
Whip there, calm somewhere
Or a fusion in between
As fickle as my feet could carry me
I feel like a sponge in all
My sublime holes
Waiting for rain to drop its mercy
Submerge me in its ocean of rumination
It is horrible
I am fried like chops
Of hard meat about to skitter and burn
Rare you say?Not possible in this
Omniscient oven.
The birds turn brown in my eyes
Like lumps of soil with feathers for feet
They seem to be getting along
With the unforgiving sky.*
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 2:52 AM UTC
I need a love:
Who moves as a poet writes poetry.
*
I need a love;
With deft hands
And slow,
Free fingers.
*
A love;
Who spills their colors in blots,
Without care if it blurs the colloquy.
*
A love;
Whose soul waltz as fluid as
Ink from a quill painting calligraphy.
*
Endless-
As the mind is to thought.
*
Constant-
with no regrets.
*
I want a love as a poem is to a poet.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
The poster read:
“Gone Missing”
The come-back-kid
has failed to show.
The Old Man saw him,
******* by the Rainbow Factory
wall, against the wind,
like a prayer no longer given
to the prism-surfing life.
He said,
“The come-back-kid, might
Not come back”..
He wrung his
swindled heathen, left
with haversack and Macintosh,
hummed ballad in a Sea-King crown,
the colloquy of shepherd lore.
head far too full to sing,
Caught riding
in a burnt out car of
rude December archetypes,
an engine feathered Westerling,
to think.
He went
to where they bury boats,
Where mud larks perk
for potsherd farthings,
red-shanked in the gallon slob
oblivious...
Far off the Ness
He’ll watch them go..
... on meteoric dawn patrols,
a contrast to his built-in
obsolescence.
In provinces
of platitude
He’ll form no evanescent tie,
invoke his tattooed waxwing
back against their lactic
saccharine, to beg
the notion die...
But leavened light may carry,
A bold ceramic dialect
that skitters off
the short-sun marsh
dissipates in linnet banter
winnowed from the winter barley
crossing out the county lines..
The come-back-kid
will not return,
a blue-eyed, fell, Promethean.
Disfigured by the absolute
He’ll beat his way
unrecognised.
Jun 24, 2019
Jun 24, 2019 at 12:30 PM UTC
Far moost o' me
three score minus one year
tethered upon terra firmae where
planet Earth doth veer
(spins upon the global axis
(tilted 23.5 degrees from the plane
of its orbit around the sun),
terrestrial genesis (perhaps accompanied
for Pete's sake by Gabriel
blowing his horn) in all honesty unclear
boot more oven concern
points to thermonuclear
and/or subnuclear
war, particularly at forefront
of thine primate noggin
actively hypothesizing
theoretical armageddon,
when non plus ultra gravitates
with e pluribus unum necessitating
each individual to bend over
and kiss his/her rear
goodbye unless total merciless queer
hue loss atomic fallout immediately
incinerates e'en
the moost savvy profiteer,
which aforementioned prognostication
arose from overbear
ring hazy, hot and humid
dangerous heat spell near
lee approximating insufferable
temperature nearing triple digits
(along Eastern Seaboard
of United baked States
makes this human,
an immediate convert to climate control
(though he happened tubby already)
basking, glorifying, and luxuriating
within delightful 60º Fahrenheit mere
really expressing gratitude for such
creature comfort donning my
stretched out birthday suit,
(yet thee moost comfortable leisurewear
then thrift store "special bag
mountain of clothes
as mooch as Yukon sales,"
no matter mine ill mannered
mirrored reflection doth jeer
at such a sorry sight, and/or
laugh reading interlinear
monologue colloquy,
which message gleaned between lines,
and should this poem be red aloud,
thy ******** passion linkedin
with humming HVAC, ye would hear
courtesy hove cochlear
(hollow tube in the inner ear)
sensitive to deafening sounds...so beware!
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
since that destined afternoon
when we met, I've failed at every attempt
to script a poem for you
for whenever I drew your portrait in my
palace of conception, it always was
amorphous and white for unrevealed
was what shall light the fire of muse
but last mighttide I poured in
colours and paints I conceived
from our short colloquy.
i saw strange shades
that laign with mine fortuitously
and I crave to see the colors and their shades
that sit quietly, unknown to me.
do not doubt these verses and even
though they intend to smear flattery, I
script no colourless lies when I say
in the world, you're the only poem in flesh.
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 6:05 AM UTC