"congenial" poems
It becomes a secure and
congenial home
When a woman is around,
bonny circle..
If you treat them well
They bless your heart with
love and arouse
your intrinsic glow
Dear women..
You are strong and comely
May this day allay the
extreme heat
and assemble serene skies
Buven Thepoet
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 4:10 AM UTC
1745
The mob within the heart
Police cannot suppress
The riot given at the first
Is authorized as peace
Uncertified of scene
Or signified of sound
But growing like a hurricane
In a congenial ground.
6.6k
We climbed from bedrock
to Idyllwild the home
of Pines to Palms
and Suicide Rocks
but not for us
only for those
poor tired souls
for whom the world's gone
flat
refusing
the night threw
itself boldly into the fray
of winds which blew
from storm to calm
so this morning we awoke
to a placid knap
slipping on snowy piste
to turn cold snaps
hot
spiced Nepali tea
sipped from ice
nipped cups
I see promise
picks up
from backward leaps
time forward flips
breaking free range igneous
into pan
piped sizzling
congenial song
that carries on the tree line
like spring
water sprung from
creeks to go scurrying off
with wet socks
until pulled up
by old school granite skies
hanging pools out to dry
in sopping blue rinsed sun
ahead any bald rocks
or hairline fractures
are long since dialled in
as baseless fears
knowing this mobile age
can merrily slip like air
through numb fingers
while baseline hands declare
“hold me close to gather”
edelweiss echoes gone
rappelling through time
the route we've chosen's
to be tied to each other's
peaks in the way of sun
and moon
come what may
be it creases in our skin
or crevasses
we'll win the battle to slim line
any overhanging ridges
so I take care to tighten
my girth hitch to top notch
and hold firmly
to both your conviction
and reach
that setting
out to move mountains
we call home
achieves more than
staying home
and calling mountains
so bright
you have me forget
all things too trite
banal office hype
shopworn old hat
mowing lawn weekends
too dishy to be clichéd
you polish off the stereotype
slam the Dior on out of shape
and dull as ditchwater tripe
keeping a victorious secret
or two in the slip knot
too tranquil shade
taking allure to new heights
we'll never drop
down from
tonight
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
On the prom, in chairs of similar design
actors, support artists and crew.
Chatted in between takes as the sun shone
around the The Cafe' television set.
In a seaside town they each came together
that day it was unsettled weather.
The atmosphere was friendly nobody left out
congenial conversation not forced.
That created the mood for a great shoot
as a new comedy series was made.
On the seafront with a train ride there
passers by were everywhere.
Actors were also rehearsing another scene
under a canopy while it rained.
Fascinated I watched and laughed as well
feeling part of that moment.
In this privileged spot to observe first hand
by the sea close to the sand.
The Foureyed Poet.
Jul 26, 2011
Jul 26, 2011 at 4:17 AM UTC
529
I’m sorry for the Dead—Today—
It’s such congenial times
Old Neighbors have at fences—
It’s time o’ year for Hay.
And Broad—Sunburned Acquaintance
Discourse between the Toil—
And laugh, a homely species
That makes the Fences smile—
It seems so straight to lie away
From all of the noise of Fields—
The Busy Carts—the fragrant *****
The Mower’s Metre—Steals—
A Trouble lest they’re homesick—
Those Farmers—and their Wives—
Set separate from the Farming—
And all the Neighbors’ lives—
A Wonder if the Sepulchre
Don’t feel a lonesome way—
When Men—and Boys—and Carts—and June,
Go down the Fields to “Hay”—
4.1k
Silent stars reside
In the blue milieu
Continuing their stellar constancy by day.
They are there like my love,
silent, unpretentious, patient and kind.
Trace your finger along the sky, connecting the dots of your name to a safe, congenial and forgiving place to call home. Maybe your name will meet with mine in the night when the stars return, walking across the expanse of loving kindness that is within your reach.
See you tonight dearest one. Just look up.
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 10:15 AM UTC
ever
the disappearing man
habitually
vanishing
he stays disappeared
as this
be his will
he'll never appear
ever again
disappearing
is his lasting refrain
his disappearing act
doth aggravate
as he cares not
to be noted on the slate
he vanished
some two weeks ago
and since then
hasn't put in a show
should he decide to reappear
in the coming days
he'll be greeted
with a none too
congenial hooray
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC
Silent stars reside
In the blue milieu
Continuing their stellar constancy by day.
They are there like my love,
silent, unpretentious, patient and kind. Trace your finger along the sky, like a constellation connecting the dots of your name to a safe, congenial and forgiving place to call home.
Maybe your name will meet with mine in the night when the stars return, walking across the expanse of loving kindness that is within your reach. See you tonight dearest one. Just look up.
Oct 3, 2023
Oct 3, 2023 at 10:56 PM UTC
I remember her
in old
photographs
she'd been
daydreaming
all her life
in her under-age
world
spinning
like a top
eternity
in her head
but recklessness
on her tongue
crusading for
******* summers
in Europe
and all that comes
splendidly hither
when laid down
by the embers
in the groves
close to
the congenial sea
I rightly recall
before the page
turning
electric particles
shooting off
as fireworks
in each of her
copper eyes
and how destiny's
curtain fell
with such
suddenness
that morning of
the thin blue line
Mar 16, 2021
Mar 16, 2021 at 9:22 AM UTC
she
Eats mine emotions
And mars my veriest heed
Her arms is a fortress,a congenial devotion
The cannibal of whom I find peace
But certainly,the no creed
I inhere to●
■
Her
Breath speaks severity
But of fortune prudence and quietude
She sinks me the depths of her whims
Yet,ludicrously of null whips
■
Her
Eyes eclipse blunt my sights
And rancour the rhymes of my visions
But then,she is the fair breed of gleams
A pleasant hue of sparkles I beseige
■
Her
Tender tongue carriers coals
Of undying vengeance
Of which every touch trembles
Yet even as so
It feels finer than rosy Arabian night breezes
■
But
Her crest which be the counsel
Of which the wildest devilry passions is seeked
Chides and macerate my mastered pettings
■
Yet
She sets tables in her thighs
And serve the most but motley affections
■
She is despotic but decent
SADIST
©Historian E.Lexano
®Recalcitration With Excellent
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:29 AM UTC
My desire.
To swim with dolphins, in the warm roll of the sea of dreams.
To touch their shining silky skin.
Perhaps, I could be a dolphin too.
Tossing in the tide.
To roll from the darkness into the light.
To wave at the moon with her most blessed flippers.
As congenial dorsal fin slides her way through the waves.
She frolics and plays as she scoots through those waves.
That rover, this lady of the ocean.
Flips out in jollity, as over the waves she travels.
(c) Livvi
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 6:27 AM UTC
I woke up to the pious sunlight of broken dreams
drenched in the faded tear drops of yesterday
arcing like a broken rainbow down empty streets
leading to the septic tank of tomorrow.
Resplendently dressed in rhetoric
silk woven by congenial weevils
frantically fed on gypsum and diesel
weaving verbosity with loquacity
table a motion to make independence illegal;
keep the status quo unequal between certain people.
There once was a dream called change
proclaimed to be the prize of revolution by some
restrained and contained as hyperbole by others
the disenfranchised left muddled in facts unexplained
the vocal ambivalence of political unrest is to blame
as Union Jacks march on Glasgow with steel toe-capped boots
and in the George Square riots the Saltire burns in flames
as history repeats itself
and the thistle of Scotland is ripped by her roots
the first act as a welcome back
into the fold of the commonwealth .
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
A romantic realist such as Thoreau
or a magical realist such as Garcia-Marquez,
unable to fend off fate
or rain
might say to a tree
thank you for allowing me to ****** you
to put a roof over my mortal head.
To which a cynical but congenial tree,
as valuable as a metaphor
as it is as a roof beam, might reply,
that though I, with my brothers and sisters
gave you every breath you’ve ever breathed
you murdered me for momentary expediency
and possess the audacity
to write your poems on my dead skin.
Well, breathe as long as you can,
you romantic **** ant fool.
I’ll be a roof beam a hundred more years.
You’ll be nothing more than evaporated tears.
Larry Schug
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 6:14 PM UTC
A rampaging torment flows
with every passing wave,
escalating regression
and stockpiling the rage.
Clarity, now a fading memory
wilting in the shadows of a cave.
The price of congenial lunacy,
satisfactory for those who enslave.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
Tis done—and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o’er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh’ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.
But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen—
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest—
I should not seek another zone,
Because I cannot love but one.
’Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.
As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev’n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.
And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne’er shall find a resting-place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.
The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where Friendship’s or Love’s softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe;
But friend or leman I have none,
Because I cannot love but one.
I go—but wheresoe’er I flee
There’s not an eye will weep for me;
There’s not a kind congenial heart,
Where I can claim the meanest part;
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.
To think of every early scene,
Of what we are, and what we’ve been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe—
But mine, alas! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.
And who that dear lov’d one may be,
Is not for ****** eyes to see;
And why that early love was cross’d,
Thou know’st the best, I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.
I’ve tried another’s fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.
’Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o’er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.
1.6k
Let Folly smile, to view the names
Of thee and me, in Friendship twin’d;
Yet Virtue will have greater claims
To love, than rank with vice combin’d.
And though unequal is thy fate,
Since title deck’d my higher birth;
Yet envy not this gaudy state,
Thine is the pride of modest worth.
Our souls at least congenial meet,
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace;
Our *********** is not less sweet,
Since worth of rank supplies the place.
1.5k
- - - and i have been thirteen years out,
thirteen cast out, in it to
impress with some congress
and break a rhyming scheme
with some unrelated information
that could – and would –
ramble on and on, trapped in a
roundabout and listless format
pressed upon from birth in
mimicking action of that conception.
of anyones, of graphic denial
to linger in bliss and in blind
parasitic servitude.
- - - and i went for a cigarette,
and basked in the sun on a
November-ending day.
and i thought
of my plans, and how i am
pathing myself; and i thought
of my writing, and how i am
advancing myself; and i thought
of my life, and how i am
fulfilling myself; and i thought
of my death, and will i be
able to accept myself. and in on
in repetition, once again
in haste, in waste, in mending
of past-lives and weaving their
threads into this greater fabric.
- - - and my **** is constantly hard,
and i try to be shameful of Sin
on the long winter nights.
then there’s a point in exhaustion
when the mind stops. stoic absence.
“what brought you to this town?”
a bad decision, a woman.
“mind if i pray’d for you?”
if you want.
“mind if i pray’d right now?”
one hand grasped in both of his,
‘oh heavenly . .’
kindness out into the world.
and my ***** constantly hard
and my lungs tarred
and a harsh word traded for prayer.
- - - and perception becomes skew’d
with the last drop of sanity
cryin’ forth to ride the snake,
to nip at Apollo’s heels in
his retreat at the end of night.
and to wail from my place of rest
at the loss of the Sun’s mistress,
to the loss of a lover given.
logic null’d by the body of another,
inert love, nothing more than
a little friction.
we press’d against each other
with hopes that we could
impress upon anothers physicality.
venial sin, so long as confess’d.
congenial sins we are bound to regress.
- - - and i beg to be set free,
beg to be loose’d,
to have the notch that is me
relieved of a taut string.
to feel my force release’d
through the heart of another.
to be witness to a love
called ones own while Ross
wails on with his epic poem.
we fail as the red and white
haul us to a stroboscoping stop –
intermittent breathing and panic.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 2:49 AM UTC
she
Eats mine emotions
And mars my veriest heed
Her arms is a fortress,a congenial devotion
The cannibal of whom I find peace
But certainly,the no creed
I inhere to●
■
Her
Breath speaks severity
But of fortune prudence and quietude
She sinks me the depths of her whims
Yet,ludicrously of null whips
■
Her
Eyes eclipse blunt my sights
And rancour the rhymes of my visions
But then,she is the fair breed of gleams
A pleasant hue of sparkles I beseige
■
Her
Tender tongue carriers coals
Of undying vengeance
Of which every touch trembles
Yet even as so
It feels finer than rosy Arabian night breezes
■
But
Her crest which be the counsel
Of which the wildest devilry passions is seeked
Chides and macerate my mastered pettings
■
Yet
She sets tables in her thighs
And serve the most but motley affections
■
She is despotic but decent
SADIST
©Historian E.Lexano
®Recalcitration With Excellent
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 9:35 AM UTC
River, that rollest by the ancient walls,
Where dwells the lady of my love, when she
Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls
A faint and fleeting memory of me;
What if thy deep and ample stream should be
A mirror of my heart, where she may read
The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee,
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed!
What do I say—a mirror of my heart?
Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong?
Such as my feelings were and are, thou art;
And such as thou art were my passions long.
Time may have somewhat tamed them,—not for ever;
Thou overflow’st thy banks, and not for aye
The ***** overboils, congenial river!
Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away.
But left long wrecks behind, and now again,
Born in our old unchanged career, we move;
Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main,
And I—to loving one I should not love.
The current I behold will sweep beneath
Her native walls and murmur at her feet;
Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe
The twilight air, unharmed by summer’s heat.
She will look on thee,—I have looked on thee,
Full of that thought; and, from that moment, ne’er
Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see,
Without the inseparable sigh for her!
Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream,—
Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now:
Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,
That happy wave repass me in its flow!
The wave that bears my tears returns no more:
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep?
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore,
I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep.
But that which keepeth us apart is not
Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth,
But the distraction of a various lot,
As various as the climates of our birth.
A stranger loves the lady of the land,
Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood
Is all meridian, as if never fanned
By the black wind that chills the polar flood.
My blood is all meridian; were it not,
I had not left my clime, nor should I be,
In spite of tortures, ne’er to be forgot,
A slave again of love,—at least of thee.
’Tis vain to struggle—let me perish young—
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved;
To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,
And then, at least, my heart can ne’er be moved.
1.2k
I knew this man because I was this man
So it must be said; I was this man because I knew this man
And never did I faultier when he reached with his trusting hand
Bound by intent, his grip stowed the tension of promise and fruition
His is a lifetime laden with the cogs of internal creation
This is the summons, the congenial placement of his offer
Beckoning the self to again be rendered upon the plane of the psychotropic wood
Through this sanctified exchange the divergent union assumes singular being
A spiral of fleeting connectivity, lapsing as the hesitant tide breaks upon neither shore nor sea
So the invitation reciprocates moment to moment by way of residual eternity
The soul twists and skips in both agony and ecstasy
Bearing a jagged tolerance for lingering wait and the flash of re-entry
Thus begun my endless stroll within the confinement of mind
I am birthed each day anew in the cradling mist blanketing the forest floor
With shy eyes one surrenders to this emergent rim
Sentenced to wake beneath the towering monoliths, the fossil redwoods
Who lull my attentive ear with the ambient groans of their interned memory
Joined in chorus only by the hushed breathe of the creborus crows
These birds, these deities hung inverted from gray and rotted limbs
Whispering their imbuement to the aggregate dirge of pardon
This is the swallowing of supposed sensory
Set in impetus, this final paradigm may forever possess the gift of awareness.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
your arms-the thorns of my body so strategically placed;
protecting my vulnerable frame
your lips akin to petals; kiss tender 'n eager
every breath's aura so congenial
your support resembling stem to strengthen and meddle me straight,
yet staying amply meek
your faith is purely fervent and keeps you veraciously planted- just as strong roots
your charming quirks protrude similar to leaves
distributed throughout; nothing shy of perfect
your bold personae is exclusive;
a risqué hue of disposition-
solely invaluable
my darling rose
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC
Little is known about Graham
I see him everyday, yet, I know nothing about him
Nor does anyone else
He sits in a circle, the circle includes himself and stuffed animals
He sits there, in the yard of his beautiful house
Although he seems content, with his home and... friends...
I can't help but feel an aura of sadness around him
Why though?
He has it made! His parents were rich, he's never worked a day of his life for anything
I have heard rumors, however, that he's a nice man
Loving
and quite congenial
But how could anyone know that?
No one knows him!
People judge Graham based on what they see
And they see contentness
They walk by his home a glance over to a seemingly happy man
Surrounded by his stuffed animals, err, friends
Then why do I feel this aura of sadness around him?
Surely he knows they're not real...
That if he were to leave them, they wouldn't call for him to come back...
He must know that
He must...
But, there they are. Gathered in front of his perfect house
Happily chatting away, as if nothing is wrong
I'm sure one day he'll wake up and realize it
Realize that they're not real, the stuffed animals
are not real
That they don't care for him
That they can't care for him
All he needs
is to just
snap out of it...
and wake up
Hey guys! That was a poem that took me a long time to write, I know it's probably pretty bad, I'm only 16. But that poem was about me, how I'm surrounded by friends that aren't real friends, but they're there. It's true, I've never worked a day of my life for anything. Never worked to have friends, people just naturally like me I guess. But deep down I know im not who they think i am, that im not truly happy. Anyway, please leave feedback if you think i could've worded something better, anything is appreciated, I'm very new!
~Thanks,
-Graeme
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
All your friends are demons, I think I know
The past won’t let you settle as you grow
You don’t feel you can make life-changing moves
Half your life to fighting terrors you lose
There’s little you can do to take control
Put your smile hidden in a pigeonhole
Your emotions decline into freefall
Let’s give your heart and soul an overhaul
I can give you all the tools you will need
The hunger that dwells inside I will feed
I can give you love and trust hereafter
I can turn the pain and tears to laughter
I’ll help reach in to find the real you
Harmonizing with congenial you
We will fight, we’ll curse, we’ll scream, we will cry
In this war it’s only the past will die
Now and then, when they rear their ugly head
I’ll be there to put those demons to bed
When you say maybe I don’t understand
I will simply be there to hold your hand
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 6:43 PM UTC
Wealthy,
by dint of lucky birth
lavish,
by way of early learning,
the boy's body grows,
but his mind does not, and
with all things merely
given
he himself is
given
to taking
all desired things
without
a second thought
Profligate
in action, manner, and style
his brash displays of excess
appear to him
congenial acts of
tempered moderation
his slavish hedonism,
blinds him to the
folly of his ways,
like a child with an
insatiable sweet tooth
and the keys to a candy shop
he peruses the town
in ritualistic fashion
night after night,
sowing seeds of
licentious desire
which bloom
into Devil's Trumpets
of debauched
indulgence
one drink
then another
one line
then another
one pill
then another
one conquest
then another
attained in
rapid succession
pursued with
reckless abandon
awakening
in a different bed
each afternoon
sun beams
piercing the blinds
stinging his weary eyes
his temples throbbing
his vision spinning
his stomach churning
his desire remaining
the void within him imploring:
“ENDURE”
but soon
he discovers his
well of fortune
has finally run dry
the repressed knowledge
of this inevitability
descends upon him
like a Biblical plague
his cards decline
his key refuses to
open its door and
the doors of his conquests
slam in his face
and so
the destitute rake
stumbles pitifully
without aim
with body aching
with knees weakened
with ears ringing
with hands trembling
with vision blurred
with fear and doubt
mocking his every step
the concrete corridors
once so exuberant
now appear to him as
moribund and desolate
graveyards for the senses
the neon banshees
which once broadcast their
sultry siren songs
like choirs of cherubs
heavenly and divine
now sound to him
like the tortured screams
of the ******
rising up
to haunt his dreams
the emptiness remains
echoing his every
tortured thought:
"who am I?"
"what have I become?"
"why am I here?"
"what was it all for?"
awash in the tumult
of the dark night of the soul,
the handsome stranger's limbs
give out from beneath him, and
his mind collapses into deep
and dreamless sleep
whose
countenance mimics
the final embrace
of death
For him,
they are one in the same,
and of deaths,
this will be the first
of many
for he has
but yet begun
to learn.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 4:18 AM UTC
A congenial aura
elated trekking
Intoning treasured verse
attention beckoning
Diligence provided
continual checking
Confirming with gauges
complying with code
Merged flawlessly towards
turnpike- cautious mode
Along breezed a rig
with a copious load
Heedless of rush hour
he rumbled on by
Remained in his route
to switch didn't try
Hurled on the brakes
swerved- she let out a cry
The fish tail and slide
left black in its track
Furled over in excess
too dazed for fact
Copper tang on lips
beginning to act
Sinew taut
cerebral flailing
Knuckles clenched
composure failing
Ticker raging
pent up wailing
Red and blue strobes
redundant sound
Screeching and wrenching
the pros abound
Flame vaulting acrid scent
soot around
One outstretched mitt
cloudy hood right behind
Echoing directives
"you will be fine"
Such screaming
not even sure if it's mine
Hours? Minutes?
seconds ticking away
WHOOOMF!!!
explosion that seized it today
Claimed these lives
on the earth they did lay
What's happening?
ascending brilliant light
Are eyes sealed exposed
perceiving what's right?
Sense soaring heavenward
a tranquil flight
Radiance entices
no need to resist
While buoyant wafting
in a cool opaque mist
At last home free
beseeching those that I missed
Brushed against His Grace
her brows lightly been kissed
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC