"concoct" poems
time flies by
and so does the wind against my window pane
rain drops concoct a symphony:
plink
plink
plink
my body is comfortably numb
though,
my thoughts are quite the opposite
time flies by and so do the feelings inside my head
they are lost
searching for some sort of salvation,
searching for you,
running,
walking,
crawling
for you.
time flies by and so do my memories of you
i revisit them
the good, the bad,
and the broken
if it's healthy-
it hurts
if it's haunting-
it hurts.
time flies by while i waste away in bed
and i wonder if you are,
too.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
Senses explode, WWII,
Nuclear warfare on this expanse of bare
Skin supposed to be closed at my age separates,
I let the saltwater seep into this,
Slick. Time passes, hardly passing,
But, oh, how well we move. Dance
Around our icy fire, escape from the pain
Constantly eating, feeding.
We are a buffet of things to harm
Come for another plate, fate.
Do us more harm? No. We will not stand, we can't
When we are in this state of mind. We have no state of mind,
Lust driven creatures, but we can speak. Command, tell me what
You want. You want a simple thing, but so complex.
And I want it, too, but simpler for me. A simple thing, unless thought of.
Believed in, felt deeply in ways not physical.
Arching and deepening, we will not be broken down by a measly
War outside of our windows.
Fire scorching the wooden figures, but we are sheltered by stone.
We have escaped and we are left with a heavy air and the smell
Only we can concoct. Nonexistent fabric leaving traces on my skin and yours, indent.
And your eyes are all I see, even in the dark. I know their color by heart, greenbluegrey-everchanging. But I can figure it out.
Your pupils dilate you know. You look at me and I see them. You seem drugged, dear.
Let me feed your addiction. There are many nuclear weapons left, buried
Throughout the world. We can travel and love,
Never ending.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
steel
oil
engineering
labor
converge
round a
Rocket 88
dead man’s
curve
prescient
precocious
capitalists
concoct
Edsels
Vegas
Chevelles
leaping
Impalas
leak
oil
staining
every
American
driveway
Pintos
chase
Gremlins
across
The Great Plains
gassing up
at
Rt 66
fillin
stations
scramblin
Midnight
Ramblers
detour to
take refuge
with Goats in
Big Sky
Indian
garages
440
Mustangs
nip
327
Stingrays
and
Mach IV
Cobras
get
snake bit
by Dart
wielding
Mopar
muscle
cars
long fins
chrome bumpers
and round fenders
still get bent in
Havana
but
Motor City is broke
nations outta gas
whole **** country
needs an overhaul
Ike Turner/Jackie Brenston: Rocket 88
Nelson Riddle: Route 66
7/19/13
Oakland
jbm
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC
Cock-a-doodle-do! Cock-a-doodle-do!
Cockcrow! Wake up, you poor humans!
The crazy, heartless sapient-irrationals!
You glug your cocktails in our names,
And slay, roast, and offer us to God,
And atone slyly your un-atonable sins.
Our lovely sickle tails, you used, once,
To concoct the cocktails you gulped;
And coveted our red comb and wattle,
The bright yellow of our cape and hackle,
The glittering blue of our wing bows,
And the violet-red of the back and saddle.
Oh no! Don’t strip us of our fair plumage
Our sickle, main tail and the lesser sickle,
Our fluff, hock joint, shank and the spur,
To the toes and claws, for you to toil
Hard, to fry--stir-fry—us, **** in your oil,
For your vain cocktail-less cocktail summits.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
Cock-a-doodle-do! Cock-a-doodle-do!
Cockcrow! Wake up, you poor humans!
The crazy, heartless sapient-irrationals!
You glug your cocktails in our names,
And slay, roast, and offer us to God,
And atone slyly your un-atonable sins.
Our lovely sickle tails, you used, once,
To concoct the cocktails you gulped;
And coveted our red comb and wattle,
The bright yellow of our cape and hackle,
The glittering blue of our wing bows,
And the violet-red of the back and saddle.
Oh no! Don’t strip us of our fair plumage
Our sickle, main tail and the lesser sickle,
Our fluff, hock joint, shank and the spur,
To the toes and claws, for you to toil
Hard, to fry--stir-fry—us, **** in your oil,
For your vain cocktail-less cocktail summits.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
One phonecall? Alert the public
Who would you call in a stance of conundrum in case the sky's falling down?
Desperate measures in desperate times
I carry an emergency kit with extra ink for my rhymes
And a band aid for my lips to cover up the disease they diagnosed me with;
Of Spitting up filthy ****
Labeling ill kids,
With conditions made up like myths
Deluded? Please.
Excuses are sad pleas to ensure the public's attention skips the obvious.
So I'd rather lock myself away,
And use my notebook to convey my love;
For the person I'd dedicate one last phone call to.
Lock myself away like Anne frank in the attic and write so much fire it produces sparks
the static is electric; the rush through my veins has me lost,
In the cosmic abyss of my thoughts
While I'm lit... I concoct schemes to conquer mics
If you dissect my insides with jabs, I'll retaliate with clever forensics;
Cut myself open for the world to see,
That all I'd bleed is metaphors in overdose...
Infinite similes are the catalyst to my rhythmic metamorphosis
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
so if we
stand still
smell the heat
of an enemy's
bullet through our veins
for once
court outcome
of supplanting views
imbibing another's sweat
casuist's bile
scrawled on prison walls
of savaged confines
they salute
their spiel
with the same
toxic hold
as we concoct
world views
venomous elixir
polymorphous maze
shadow of a sphinx
looms clearer
as steps leading
to torn pages
of feted book
uncover dichotomy
of a self split
so that shooting a child
of shunned genes
amounts to nil
for in but a blink
his uniform
arrives home
to stroke the
golden locks
of his only daughter
playing Chopin
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 5:31 AM UTC
Change tackles a broad spectrum of life.
You change your hair, you change your underwear, you change your shoes.
How the hell could someone change their Personalities in the blink of an eye.
Can some one so thoughtful and sensitive turn into such a **** with the turn of one sentence phrase and punctuation.
She storms in on her high horse ready to take the world by storm with her fury.
She may say im her world but what have i done to deserve such punishments.
I asked a Question.
The fatalities of words and sentence structures leave a gaping hole in the ego and sense of trust.
Sense of what is right and wrong cuz what is right by all does not apply to her.
Her mind twists and bends to form views and morals that not even a twisted fairy tale can concoct.
What she fights for doesnt fit the way of the world.
She believes in things that will never happen, that make no sense. She fights for views that will leave her fighting forever.
She is a non conformist but she conforms to stereotypes that go against her better thinking.
The way she used to think.
Stress has got her in a headlock, cutting off her brain's circulatory flow of intelligent words and clean blood.
She inhales.
Breathes in a mixture of smoke and unclean thoughts.
Yea, she can stop.
She's walking corruption.
Digesting poison in the pit of her stomach killing the butterflies she claim died.
Yea they died.
In a fiery pit of lies and hypocrisy that gets you nowhere.
She tells me her worst thoughts and wishes but her honesty doesnt justify the unjust actions that go against who she was.
Who is she becoming?
Someone who is dependent on drugs and drinks to make her happy Cuz she doesnt have the ***** to go against the grain and
Stick to her guns and stay clean and fresh,
Keeping her lungs pink and her brain free,
free to believe and grow with each intake of air not smoke.
I hate to see it happen but she is just like the others.
**** views take the form of rolled up paper.
Not an application but a temptation.
Non conformists need not apply.
Jan 3, 2010
Jan 3, 2010 at 12:35 PM UTC
I can't hear the choir from my couch
It becomes a funeral pyre in a pouch
Like the unnatural fire in my slouch
That is where I retire
To superficially admire
A world I'll never see
Placing trust in the screen
I'm as lonely as can be
Until couches set me free
From a life worrying about others
The couch becomes my banal brother
That is where I concoct my cowardly plan
To avoid my fellow meddlesome man
Living a life in silence
The couch creates pylons
Determining where I can go
Determining what I can know
This Ottoman Empire
Lights the world on fire
With cushions that fuel
Flames and drool
I attempt to stand
But life seems bland
With feeling constant comfort
So my personality I import
From the images on TV
And my brain it impedes
When I can't think for myself
I put my life on the shelf
And flee into furniture
The couch my burning cure
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 7:05 AM UTC
Would it matter if the solid was ethereal?
Would it be real if eyes couldn't see?
Would it make sense if systems of knowledge didn't exist?
Would words have meaning if there was no language?
Would there be telepathy if silence was all there was?
Would there be colour if there was no light?
Would there be waves if there was no sound?
Would there be electricity if there wasn't magnetism?
Would the sky fall if you walked on your head?
Would you scale the underground bases if your feet could think?
Would worlds be dreamed by higher powers if thought wasn't?
Would reason breed perception if the beam of knowledge was narrow?
Would you understand if there was no essence?
Would you be if you weren't passed from a tether?
As you learn about the degrees of light, the frequencies, and leagues of the seas, the moment you sieze, time is lost and you are at a point of entirety
As you concoct the architecture and manipulation of all that is; you learn about the ladder, the prism of cycles, you learn about the source of all creation. You learn that you are connected to the essence of creation, you embody the tether, you connect as you climb up and down on the wisdom ladder.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 11:02 AM UTC
IF you ever decide
the dream is NOT dead
I left you my pillow
laying on your bed.
There’s a drop of my blood
on the floor of your bedroom
from when the fan almost cut off
my long clumsy fingers.
I have shed my gold hair
all over your city.
Just like the cat
and the dog
that I am.
This would be enough
to concoct a magical potion
IF you ever decide
the dream is NOT dead.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 3:19 AM UTC
Flames Slowly Start To Engulf My Hatred
And Quickly Rekindles My Love
Two Pairs Of Amber Orbs
Stare Into Eachother
Reading A Cryptic Script
Ingredients To Concoct A Brew Of Passion
To Beautifully Stain Life's Pages
My Hand Lies In Yours
And You Tentatively Kiss My Lips
Your Greyish Blue Eyes
Stare Into My Pine Needle Green Irises
And You Don't Look Away
When You Tell Me You Love Me
The Sun Hides Underneath The Horizion
The Only Light Is From Our Flame
Which Burns On The Forest Floor
But Is Too Gentle To Destroy The Thickets
The Stars Above
Guard Our Wishes
And We Both Know
Every Wish Is About Eachother
A Star Dangles From My Neck
Your Promise To Me I'm Forever Yours My Wish That Your Promise Will Never Be Broken
As You Softly Whisper In My Ear
I Feel Your Breath On My Skin
You Hold Me Tight In Your Arms
Which Is The Nicest Home I Could Ever Own
The Crickets Are Now Dead In Falls Grasp
But The Music Of Our Love
A Silent Beat In The Night
Is Music To Our Fire
Which Warms The Night
Tree Branches Are Our Ceiling
And The Ground Is Our Chairs
The Sky Is Our Blanket
And Our Heartbeat Is Our Furnace
A Dream Of True Love
Is Finally Real
You Were The One For All This Time
That Really Helped Me Heal And As You Come Show Me Who You Really Are
I Have To Say I Love You Even More
As Our Flame Grows As Bright As The Sun
We Burn Down To The Mantle Of The Earth
Sniging Away All Of Our Past Sins
It's Just You And I
And Our Heats Beat As One
*And As We Resume Our Lives Apart
We Are Closer Than Ever Before
And As You Gently Kiss Me Goodnight
I Realize I Met You For A Reason*
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 9:52 PM UTC
No wrongs to right, no lost love to mourn,
I must concoct an awful lot of falsified accounts.
But why should I neglect my life,
For self-burnt homes and hidden doubts?
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 11:22 AM UTC
I will **** you with a metaphor
My feelings censored
Behind beautiful words.
I dare not say it to your face
The euphemism
When I am burning with anger.
Toying with the void
Here I concoct
The right expression;
My sweet weapon
Retort with an oxymoron.
Then nothing; no paradox or pun
I am even at a loss for a rhyme.
For when our eyes meet
It is poetry I read,
Without a word
We say it all.
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 7:57 AM UTC
Pictographs concoct
Quaint flavors
An appetite blooms
Ginger locks descend
Passion skates
A micro death sparks
Pixels synthesize
Collections
Of synchronized whines
Lips laced with temptation
Eyes descending sunsets
Elements of resolution
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary
The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com
.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:14 PM UTC
You take a seat next to me, and I brush up against your smooth, porcelain skin.
My pupils dilate, the anticipation of your attention captivates my soul.
You say nothing, but your cerulean eyes scold me for my past sins.
Your holier-than-thou ego clashes with my happy-go-lucky mood,
My spirit whimpers and suffocates once again,
My newly repaired heart becomes unglued.
After being forsaken by your eyes, my gaze fixes on your chaste lips.
The daily struggle persists, I fight the urge to kiss the immaculate pink flesh.
For the only thing I shall ever receive from that part of your perfect body are relentless quips.
Like a hopeless, abandoned child, I follow your every move
Yearning to be your untainted doll, like a puppet on a string,
Falling all over myself, feigning euphoria, desperately hoping you approve.
You are the inclement wind, I am the decrepit, shredded leaf.
You shove me along, disregarding my waning will, placing me wherever you want.
You do this merrily, without thought, shame, or grief.
You concoct schemes, working tirelessly, reminding me that I am far too easy to replace
When you become weary of me, you toss me aside, allowing the demons in my head to besiege me.
I am isolated, petrified, and after the devil has his way, my emotions vanish without a trace.
Yet, I will linger, waiting for you, everyday, until I grow old and die.
My soul lusts for the times when you will love me once again.
I covet the days when your amorous words and merciful, cerulean eyes made me feel so high.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
another day, another lotion,
sighed, “much rather be making potions.”
*tedium, boredom, boil and bubble,
add a spice, then add it double,
stir it well and let it settle,
in a kettle,
made of metal.*
what's your fancy, what's your trouble?
basin clogged with dwarven stubble?
make one balm,
you've made them all!
concoct a cream, a cream?—a cream!
one more grog burn,
swear I'll scream!
*tedium, boredom, boil and bubble,
add a spice, then add it double,
stir it well and let it settle,
in a kettle,
made of metal.*
give me dragons, give me daggers,
give me jewels with emerald feathers!
give me—“what?
what's this, right now?
of course I know exactly how!”
roots to find, true essence to distill,
adventure?
no, but pays the bills.
Aug 13, 2020
Aug 13, 2020 at 5:47 PM UTC
The Passionate Pen
Pulsates with luminescence.
Its source transcendent,
Pages radiate, injected with ink incandescent.
The sun squints when the strokes soak.
The sheets must be sheathed in a quote's cloak.
'Tis no quill
Taken from a bird's nestle.
'Twas a thrill
To concoct the ink, with a firm pestle.
Lava for determination,
Stardust for high hopes,
Starlight for inspiration,
Glacier water for rejuvenation,
A drop of the Savior's blood for salvation
And a speck of His sweat's salt for eternal preservation.
Finally, I siphon a raging scream of emotion
Into the cartridge to keep the mixture in motion.
Swirling like undercurrents of the ocean.
Merlin has never known so potent a potion.
An elixir of passion.
I mix it with passion.
The pen glows
And throbs with a tempo.
It plants seeds,
Watch the stems grow.
The false poets—watching at bay—
Flock, & they say,
"Long live the Passionate Pen!"
As, once again, the Passionate Pen
Conquers the day.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
My god, I'm sick of belonging
I'm sick of being owned
I'm sick of being limited to what ever the **** it is that some ***** decides is fitting to define me as
you don't know me
I don't even know me
what the **** makes you think that you,
with your cookie-cutter shape, stereotype inducing, boxed-into-labels mentality of thinking is going to understand me?
I am a planet in my own right;
as a result of my own entity,
my own ******* thoughts and claims and efforts and achievements,
rather than as an assosciate of another or a product of someone else
I am a ******* constellation of thoughts that your mind
could not even begin to fathom
once glance of my mind would send yours sideways
a one minute preview of what wraps itself around the deep,
bottomless, abyssal interrior of my skull
would entise you to smash your own
inside of me there are a thousand words, stirring
arranging the perfect sequence within their placement of my being
in order to concoct a storm worth being read;
not skimmed and mistaken as a light drizzle
but instead,
thoroughly scanned and recognised
as the tornados, the blizzards that they are,
kicking up a fuss and wiping out everything in their way
I possess an entire novels worth
including a sequel and trilogy
I am a story in my own right;
a book that you believe to have conquered and completed
a vaguely transparent, generic tale in which you believe to have mastered and defeated
but little do you know
that you have ventured barely as far as the first page
what lies within me is far beyond the reach
of the dainty intermediate level
in which you consistently surround yourself in
as though it is your safety blanket or comforter
as though you are a child with anxiety and mediocrity is your prozac
I am more than a brick in the wall of the kingdom
that you box your entire tiny, narrow universe into
and confine yourself within
in seek of refuge from a great perhaps
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
Almost a year since the presence was known, gave me time to roam,
she was busy gardening an idea that couldn't be grown.
Times change. The mind got rearranged. If I stepped in untimely then I'll burn too quick in the fame.
My past is in the past and she's not one to be passed. But I'm not sitting in crosshairs because I've already got my own aim.
I can't start something that has no substance, or at least a hint of,
But a constant trajectory to the revolving door is what I could easily get sick of.
I have my own value, sad & true. If there's no space to place it then I guess I'm just passing through.
For now, I'm giving it time to see what the ride might brew.
I'm all in. Take every inch, every thought, every sin.
I don't trust a soul because there tends to be bite behind every grin.
If you want all of me there's a simple recipe:
Be true to yourself and then I'll bring the mess of me. Restlessly.
I can sense the powerful energy.
Life is what you make it. I've grown with every ache and confronted anything I've been faced with.
When you concoct your potion hope it's not poison it's laced with.
If you mean every word, bird, we'll paint the sky with our symphonies.
Make rainbows jealous with our palette of memories,
Sitting tight, sipping fine wine as you bring out the best of me,
Turn the atmosphere on it's head while we chill in our new heavenly mezzanine.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
Away from the ways mapped to shackle slaves
outside of the sign through the door
as you search and search you find answers more
in a distinct distant distance as you become indistinct
you soon find that you exist
you soon find that you live outside or beyond matter
...
Constricted by the golden ring
you feel the strength of the serpent
you learn of its trickery and deception
You soon begin to see that you are beyond these things
as leaves fall from trees
flying away into the wonder
searching for shade, finding it under
the azure pompous cloud
...
That you too as the leaves wish to know more about the tree
away from these things,
civilization and doctrine
you find the true Laws of Creation
That you are one in the many of The One
The more you separate yourself from the Universe
you learn just who or what it is that composes the Verse
It is at this time that you will see through the prism
The Prism of One
Serving none but the balance of the sum
Judging none but healing some
Making mundane creation fun
A keyboardist or guitarist who would masterfully strum
Sounding the bells of the temples that have souls come
come to place where music is not ever undone
The selves of one self soon multiply
The spine keeps one supine
we crawl, walk, run and soon learn to fly
defying the laws of aviation leaving scientists unable to concoct a reason why
A life a life of lives, gravitating to higher levels of Consciousness
A student grading earning graduation
Evolution of the mind where thought and heart are intertwined
The prism in itself of itself revealing its face to its selves
The dawning of wisdom and liberty
where all answers will be revealed
and all dark forces healed
where death will be a stepping stone as we teleport
when we soon learn of home
Where we will be learned of how we ruined it all
When the all or many becomes the One,
and the prism sleeps
until creation of a different order is softly sung.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
Trees strung with Catkins.
They hang on tight, bewitching the eyes of the watcher.
The observer, who so sees them twitching in the breeze of spring.
Perhaps, they belong to the Manx cats who left their tails behind when they played.
Or perhaps they're just the tails of mischief making local kittens, their tails got snagged when out at play.
Poor *******
The woman from the florist shop stopped.
Picked one or two.
Such a perfect accompaniment too.
A few spindly twigs.
To concoct a springtime creation.
For the lords and the ladies.
Of this great nation.
(c) Livvi
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 3:56 AM UTC
Intertwining and overlapping
Fingers wrestle to weave its tresses
Silky and smooth as it rests atop its lair
The light frolicking on the surface's glare
Bustling conversation and echoing laughs
Intertwining and overlapping
Diverse aroma's are transpiring and lingering
The sound and the silence are successfully mingling
So prim and proper they sit prepared
Dressed to impress in their clothes so bright
Intertwining and overlapping
A chaotic order concealed by the wrapping
So carefully selected and beautifully disguised
An assortment of emotions concoct within
As i enter the room it cues the clapping
Intertwining and overlapping
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
She has an exquisite smile
She makes my day
She makes me
My breath has shaken hands with gasping
She has my heart clawed close to hers
I lost my yearn for nasty
When I saw those flirty eyes
That renounce my spirit from other feminists
Her look transcends me into a
Mordent day oblivion
I yearn for her
She's the first Angel I think about
And the last love story I concoct
Judge me not on my feelings
I am still healing
I Am human
I am one with myself
Relate me not with the universe
For my wings have fallen
Silently into pieces of feelings
Love
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 1:38 PM UTC