"conjugation" poems
In Spanish, VIVIR means To Live, the proper conjugation of which to when you say something as improper as “I live” would simply be translated to “Yo Vivo”.
I live, as a Colombian-American.
I live, as “You don’t look Hispanic”
I live, “Woah! You and your brother look nothing alike. You’re so… white.”
I live, “My mom came home once and talked about a man who simply replied with a horribly pronounced “Me gusta” when my mom said she was Hispanic.”
I live, “My dad condones abusive behavior because he thinks Latina aggression is ****
I live, my mom asking me “Would you rather celebrate the Sweet Sixteen or have a quinceanera party?”
I live, as the white boy sitting across the room in Spanish class asking “When will I need this in real life?”
I live, as the “Yes I DO have a friend with a skin complexion similar to mine, and yes, he is Hispanic.”
I live, most of my friends are beautiful people of color.
I live, when will you open up the tab in Google and search some Hispanic History to fill your mind instead of “Latina ****
I live, the messages on the Internet saying “You’re Hispanic? I bet you’re great in bed.”
I live, there are NO gender neutral nouns in Spanish
I live, yes I DO love coffee
I live, no it did NOT stunt my growth
I live, one kiss per cheek at family meet-ups
I live, “Eskimo” nose rubs
I live, "if you’re hispanic, why aren’t your ears pierced?"
I live, being expected to remember Spanish just because it was my first language, but growing up with an American dad made me whiter than fresh bed-sheets sold in America, made in South America, Hecha en Peru.
I live, my mom breaking into tears as she is so proud that I can sing in Spanish
I live, my mom used to be so embarrassed, when I replied “un poco” to her friends asking “Tu Hablas Espanol?”
I live, "if you’re Hispanic, is your mom an Alien?"
I live, "But your dad looks so white!"
I live, being subject to racism hidden in a joke, hidden in a remark about how pale I am, hidden behind a judgmental look, hidden behind a scoff, a laugh, a pity shrug, a fetishized assumption.
I live the bulletproof clothing and horrible crimes I am warned about when I say I wanna go to Colombia I wanna go to my mom’s home.
I live, as a Colombian-American.
I live.
Yo vivo.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
please be impatient with me for I am Female, Age 19 Please be impatient with me. Three quarters woman in a body, a quartered quartet. The crying viola, off tempo, present but unavailable. The boys want me. The men, more, more. The women most of all. The American Girl dolls on the shelf dusty, witnesses to all my demander’s impatience to take, to own, possess & desire my poses all to pleasure them, wanting many morsos (small bites).
Then, when discarded, my body reeks of
con-f u s i o n. A perfect conjugation, an imperfect conjunction; Conning my mind into letting my body be-fused.
The dolls weep real tears in the city of my mind; flipping out, they too, are impatient with me, and flip me off for they have no good words to express their utter chagrin.
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation
raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down
she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”
gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet
she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm
I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup
her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments
parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,
”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”
and she would be wright...
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
Ephemeral lips blooming fully crimson, loosening
Harmonious conjugation of rosewater and saltine sweat
Underneath my effigy of innocence
3 brittle thorns stick detached and of no use; pressed precisely, pinned to place
Making of me a bumblebee, lifeless in strong uninvited arms
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’.” “The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying ‘kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent’ , it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed Gumby ****** Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
*I can still remember that dusk,
We stepped out in the drizzle to collect
The pebbles of sun.
They kept swirling in the airstream,
So soft, so free like your thoughts
Inside my ribcage.
Cold sprinkle made some of them wet,
Some even vanished before we touched their senses.
Mostly oval and round shaped,
With the playful brightness of seven colours.
You moved through them,
And let your skin absorb their vivid glow.
Fragments of violet brushed your eyelashes,
Hair accepted the waves of green.
While I placed
Sensual conjugation of orange and red
On your palm.
And it blushed like the primitive dawn,
The dawn of creation
When sun had first dropped its pebbles,
On the bare chest of earth.*
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
Your complexities
are compounded by my simplicities,
and since
you came to me
like the alphabet of a language
I cannot read
you will,
when you leave
depart unchanged.
Whereas,
I will be changed forever
like a root verb
which is built upon
to express
a more complex idea.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 6:42 PM UTC
je t'écris les petits mots français
parce que tu les as entendus en anglais.
je veux être la seule femme tu adore;
tu voudrais, tu a besoin d'encore.
mon coeur te connaît bien,
et tu peux l'avoir, si tu le tiens.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 7:58 PM UTC
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’. The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying", "kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent" , "it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed porker of a Gumby ******* ***** monger Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 1:26 AM UTC
Honey,
You're just a conjugation of the elements
And sadly I'm the same
We exhaust the thought of something greater
But really who's to blame?
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 4:09 AM UTC
Ingredients
My fingers skate along the sleek surface if the finished cedar box , although it has been varnished it still somehow finds a way to harness a whiff if the scent to push in my direction every time I open it . Recipes , basically a conjugation of ingredients , when melded together in perfect amounts , create a complete meal, my recipes , amassed from a lifetime of existence , instances collected individually , and blended on to the parchment that is now being filed amidst the rest of the nourishing collections within this wooden encasement , I have organized them based on feelings, " moods " the perfect ingestion , for any experience , it is well acknowledged that often we find our way to someone's heart with the perfect recipes , food for the soul , but this is my collection of food for the heart, this box contains a life's worth of poetry , little daily doses of not soul food , but food for the soul , little inspirational quotes and quills , for any emotion that may full our belly with that hallo feeling that comes with chaos , our emotional nourishment , which is why you will never find this treasure in the pantry with the rest of the " cook books" for this has a place on the corner of the nightstand , along with the rest of my hopes and dreams .........
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
The man gets old,
as he has been told.
The woman is older still, and though looking so young,
She is in pain a lot and knows that.
The man is just an old, silly linguist, not even real
Just a computational linguist.
The woman is a sexto-grammarian and an expert and teacher,
She loves it, and still teaches people everything.
And although their love is unquestionably strong and true,
Their time together is all too short,
Their all too short "conjugal visits" are
More about "conjugation" than anything else.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
Conjugation between our heart's desire and of the Lord's,
As we seek forgiveness and build our Spirit,
Regaining His trust to help Him in completing His mighty will,
Being fully equipped for His economy.
Happy New Year.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 3:51 AM UTC
begin this life in a wordy
but wordly habit, daily,
father-gifted, though different,
in form and language selected,
‘tis the one and ‘tis the same
tally, a counting combination
of all that has been done, for both
better & worse, blessing/curse,
the key: revamp review reset
this day upcoming and welcome
all the major tasks, minor miracles,
that one can effect, select, elect!
by choice, a freedom so great it
tenderly rips joy thoroughly into
and from my cells, and my body
is enlightened, uplifted in this,
now a preposition, a conjugation, a
state of composition,
for the tasks given, the granted,
those that must be taken, those most
difficult, when knowing their choice,
entails pain, untempered, and
requires establishing a two edged
position of composure…
this is a hard and an easy
new proposition I create,
hard for I write on a tiny
phone screen, in letters so
small. it keeps me humbled,
a reminder of having
lived a span well
beyond belief,
for one took\gave body a
careless comfort,
giving little
of the differring
kind of nutrition in order
to live life, well and purposed
hard too, for my body has wept,
a steady stream of silent tears.
unceasing as I scribe,
making vision difficult, the
insight salty but clear and the
words contained within them,
flood for easy laying-down
for this AM workout of counting,
lists up and down, so many items,
of differring nature, even now
noticing for the very fitting first time,
the subtle hint within
differring,
for it possesses a doubling
of the enormity, the division
of what has been already
accumulated and what yet,
needs accomplishing, the tally
needy for resolving looking past,
for seeing with yet more tears
fast-as-you-can-forward
the tally never ends, paused only
for a quick question/happy deletion
of, and a resolute immediate, moving on:
***Where do I stand,
what is my position?***
keep on keeping on,
tallying has no finale,
no sunning/summing up,
for another day
will yet follow,
for you, and
your own
tallying must
goes on, on
and
not even,
nor even,
odd,
when mine,
mine no long,
and the
and yets,
no longer
commence
Dec 19, 2024
Dec 19, 2024 at 12:33 PM UTC
Oddities of nature;
Simplistic conjugation of effects,
Experiences,
Actions,
Thoughts.
One not without the other.
However simplistic,
It is rarely made aware to the consciousness of any living form that nature is odd.
Therefore our misuse of time,
Conjuring and confusing our ideas of our nature,
Would be better spent falsifying the idea of time itself.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
Ultimate universally unwarranted weather Yankee tools. In-extremis extremity nuance. Spatiotemporal telemetry tactician's trajectory extant. Implicit implement implicate. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity. After all, how can one stand next to the person they're standing next to if they are carrying on right through them?? Conclusively replete induction. Reality should be of tool in hand's conjugation. Diabolically maniacal dementia's brusque macabre abrupt. Chicanery dynamism's fealty's social contiguities. Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma. Objectified manifest's diminutive minutiae iotas of self inductive intersticial collusion . Umbra ultraism and penumbral platitudes incisiveness. The shade in the shadow of silhouette's sojourn.
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 4:16 PM UTC
She,
Dragons scales for eyes
(although verging on blue-gray)
He,
That too-bright-white cloud
(it was overcast that day)
Two to their conjugation
Body cast in glass
On a red hot fiery day
Cosmos bound elevation
Clear blue night landscape
Drinking in the milky way
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
And it is only after the last text is sent,
the last dinner enjoyed,
the last weekend spent in the mountains,
the last flower picked
or taken and destroyed ,
the last conjugation of two calloused hands,
the last artwork smashed,
the last passionate kiss shared,
and the last “I love You” spoken
will you know what
it is truly like
to bleed.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
WHEN I WAS FIFTEEN, THE FIRST PERSON I WOULD EVER GROW UP TO LOVE TOLD ME THAT TO BELONG WAS THE GREATEST THING HUMANITY HAS ACHIEVED.
"JE SUIS A TOI, TU ES A MOI, I AM SORRY FOR MY AWFUL VERB CONJUGATION."
I AM THEIR AGE NOW AND DO NOT UNDERSTAND.
WERE YOUR IDEAS FORMED LIKE HYDROGEN TO HELIUM OR WAS IT OXYGEN, LITHIUM, CARBON, COPPER.
I AM NOT YOURS, YOU ARE NOT MINE. MAYBE ONE DAY I WILL WANT TO BELONG TO SOMEONE BUT I WILL NEVER WANT SOMEONE TO BELONG TO ME.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 8:33 PM UTC
I draw upon my memories, the ones, of artistic need
and have a small epiphany, of all things, you, and me
Lines, and shapes, and angles, a life all of their own
bodies wet, and tangled, ****** sighs and moans
The heights, and paradigm, of climatic revelations
complex thoughts evoke, a perfect, conjugation
Acting out the palette, and dancing to the tune
a sultry game of possible, in each, and every, room
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 9:23 AM UTC
In the expectation of some conjugation of verbs
I walk slowly run to the window and look outside
on the street for some.
Grammar puts its spell on me
inaction cannot dwell in me
I look again to find some sympathy and all I see
is fast cars on the autobahn
****
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 4:45 AM UTC
How does it feel to be stabbed
Not in the back, but in the chest
Just to make those wretched feelings rest
Stubborness is what caused your mess
You, holder of the sin of lust
Not because of dark conjugation
But wanting for deep and trusted affection
Perish in your despair of wanting it as a must
As your persistence deepens and continue through
The severance of bonds continue, you harvest what you sow
It's your fault anyway, weep down in sorrow
Best leave it be for a better tomorrow
You, the one pursued by this person
Has your thoughts of him worsen
Has his determination, became his execution
Then, admit with volition and deliver him condemnation
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 6:58 AM UTC
*Flurries of notes performing in the
musical winds , operatic showers of love ,
pain and trivial little things , score sheets of marigold
in the key of imagination , trees brushing the blue felt
o'er golden strings playing hymns of life , earth and star conjugation
The waters and the moon in tonal blend ,
the biological song that never ends* ...
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 2:58 PM UTC
I am consistent; you are regular;
he is invariably monotonous.
Dec 14, 2019
Dec 14, 2019 at 10:50 PM UTC
The expectation of a world that forces me to feel,
Like medication on the wounds of battles from the past,
Through meditation on the hope that one day scars will heal,
To resignation of the fact that nothing good can last.
This hesitation in my mind of all that could go wrong,
In relegation of my dreams and hopes for days ahead,
This trepidation on each truth I've held inside so long,
Brings elevation of the fears locked deep within my head.
Through dedication to the wants of anyone but me,
Like desperation for the praise and pressure that I need,
The revelation of a life not lived as it should be,
Shows recognition of the time spent letting my heart bleed.
When flagellation of my soul at last comes to an end,
The desolation of my mind will surely take its hold,
That isolation of a life devoid of any friend,
An affirmation that the fire inside of me is cold.
With conjugation of my choices and the life I see,
Comes realisation that the road I walk is one I made,
An affectation for dramatic verse and poetry,
Just confirmation that my soul has been too long in shade.
Though condemnation of the past is bittersweet at best,
A retribution for a curse imposed upon myself,
This contemplation of the present ever seems to test;
The concentration on my future state of mind and health.
While recitation of these thoughts could be cause for concern,
Continuation of this written therapy is key,
Through repetition of these lines the pain will slowly burn,
And immolation of the past will someday set me free.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC