"conjunctions" poems
I reserved a table for the two of us
at the only restaurant in the world
that not only offers atmosphere and setting
but tone and syntax as well.
First some articles for appetizers. They're
easiest on my pocket you know.
An an, a the, and an a.
Let's not even start on the punctuation,
I'm treating you to a rather large meal.
As large as the entire English language,
now back to the articles.
Sure these taste like lint but they still
taste. Petit fours but there you are.
Try to be disinterested or you'll
put me off my food.
Nouns now. My, what a variety.
Bit meaty, eh? These have staying power.
They taste like a bit of everywhere,
and everyone, and everything.
What's that? Surely they're not that bland.
Maybe you need some seasoning.
"Adjective" comes from the
French for "to the word."
So exotic aren't they? These
really are fantastic.
Exquisite, unique, zesty to say the least.
You must admit, they
make the meal worth it.
I hope you're not allergic,
I could have sworn I just
had something "nutty."
Oh, it had nuts "in it"?
There must be some prepositions
mixed in here.
(I'm glad we're getting through
these now, I've never been a big fan of them.
When I was a kid, I would always push my prepositions to the end
of my sentences. You just can't do
that in a joint like this, it seems.)
Ah finally. The verbs are served.
Well-prepared it would seem.
Yes, anything you can do to a verb
they've done to these.
Infinitives (too good to realistically be believed!),
gerunds, and participles (No, not particles. But we
did have some of those at the Japanese restaurant.)
Fairly lean too, as I can't see
any auxiliary fat.
For some reason
those adverbs (just to your left, under that
thesaurus) really go well with this.
Plus those adjectives from earlier, rather pleasantly.
Now a brief selection
of conjunctions, but don't ruin
yourself. They're not a meal of themselves,
just a link to...
Oh! Look at those interjections.
So delicate, so (Wow!) incisive.
I told you to keep your appetite.
Well, just try a little of this. Goodness, me!
And then everyone proceeds to
die
from a split infinitive.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 7:44 PM UTC
It all begins
With pronouns
I becomes the subject
Of my project
Adding you
And collectively we
I choose you and me
And I exclude the he and the she
Until I am certain of we
You and I pick verbs
actions
Inflect them to match
fit
begin narratives
Transitive verbs take objects
You touch
tickle
tease
taste
take skin
*******
lips
me with words
Words have become a clause
But still a simple construction
So, you tickle me where?
For this you need a preposition
To position your tickling ammunition
Do you touch
tickle
tease me ON my *******
*******
thighs
buttocks
****
Do you feel me INSIDE my mouth
****
soul?
Positioning is envisioning.
Then you use adjectives
To modify descriptions of
Sensory inscriptions
So, gentle complements touch
Soft and passionate kiss
And you become superlative
And adverbs elaborate experience
expression
exploration
You fill me deeply
thoroughly
violently with all that is you
But adverbs can also mean time
Not sweet or cursed time
Or time denoting age
But timing is always important
And grammar dictates
That
Time adverbs are placed
As a beginning or an end
Like a lover's embrace
Thus,
This morning, you woke me with
A demanding "here and now! " and I will reciprocate this, tonight, I vow.
Conjunctions are sentence connectors
And sentences behave like detectors
Bodies balancing with and, but, or
Otherwise subordinate
And the scale tips towards
Conditioning hypotaxis
Making actions a complicated praxis
(before my mind can connect, you will have to pursuade it /pursue it)
But we coordinate conjunctions
Equally
I touch you
You touch me
Exploring
Exploding sensory functions
So, together we cry imperatives
Completing our ****** narratives
Moaning
Whimpering
Begging
Yelling: Please... bind me!
touch me!
bite me!
take me!
come!
Oh! Please, come!
I love the English language... ;)
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC
The first cold letters, alone on the page.
A quick pencil found them,
and the lively and beautiful syllables blossomed.
The pale book felt the pencil,
and the terrifying, hot words entered.
The lines grew, living and sensitive,
gleaming as never before,
and I knew the unheard lines!
First, a tiny and unselfconscious sound.
A noun struggled to appear among overpowering words.
A strong, golden adjective ran out,
a short, fragrant adjective, beautiful in the early spring.
A young verb grew among tiny blue conjunctions,
and a fortuitous adverb understood, instinctively.
The first sentence dreamed of trees, and a sad cloud.
It dreamed a grey rain,
and the tall trees felt the rain.
There was a first and unknown river,
imagined, inconsequential, like snow in summer.
A red bird glided beyond reach,
as if it had never happened.
The soft sounds fitted the lines,
and the quick bird cried,
Remember the short rain!
Remember the sad poem!
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
me and i and nobody
nobody and me and i
me? who?
"who, him? nobody"
her.
her...
somebody. (anybody!)
her......
....
she--!
her: "you."
me: "...me?"
her: "you and me."
...
me: "you and i."
her and i, me and her, her and i, me and she
us....
us!
it! (mhm, that.)
us, and that.
us! us, us, we, us, we, we, us
us and them, us and those, us and some
them and me?...
...
us.
us and them.
me, and her and them.
me and her...and them.
and him. him...
him?
me and him...me...and you.
...
...
...
"her and him..."
him? him!? HER AND HIM!?
ME!!!!
me:
her and him
her and him
her and him
her and him
her and him
me: "you and him?"
her: "me and you!"
me: "you and him!"
her: "you..."
me: "YOU AND HIM!"
her:
me: "me or him."
her:
me: "you and him."
...
us...me and her...
...
her. and him. it. (that.)
(that!? her and him!?)
me and i and nobody
nobody and me and i
me? who? (her...)
"who, me? nobody."
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 6:24 PM UTC
Conjunctions creak, the adverbs ache,
nouns bear more than they can take.
Verbs are screaming for Ben-Gay
while pronouns atrophy away.
Adjectives have lost their bite,
possessives just give up the fight.
The subject's upset, naught agrees,
which weakens metaphoric knees.
Contractions all together moan;
the objects better left alone.
Ah, life is at a frightful stage
when poets and their poems age.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 5:34 PM UTC
People have asked why
I use so many conjunctions
And
But
Because
I love them.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
But I know I am not good enough,
Nor will I ever be,
So thinking about that makes me cry,
And I don't like that,
For it makes me uncomfortable,
Or I just can't stop crying,
Yet sometimes that's okay.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
Independent clauses never see cause for a
But, we coordinate conjunctions like its our job and,
So we work independently to avoid fused run-ons since who likes those anyway?
Pause,
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
There are periods that need to be put at the end of sentences that started with a thought, rambled onto paragraphs that branched into multiple ambitious topics that was then left hanging in jumbled confusion half-way through time. In the endless strings of unecessary conjunctions, painful careless adjectives, and inappropriate prepositions, a simple period, used at the end of a completed, sensible sentence, one in which you put an effort to complete, regardless of the distracting pauses of time...a perfect period like that could go a long, long way. It ends THAT sentence so that another, more mature, wiser, more sensible one that could bring forth beautiful thoughts in endless paragraphs, could then begin.
Such is the language of life.
Such is the power of a period.
It is called closure.
Sometimes, we should use more periods in our lives,
to make our sentences clear.
Yes.
Period.
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 6:56 PM UTC
This burden of breaths
Takes its toll at times
Conjunctions cloud these corollaries
For fog to float further
And away, and away.....
And away
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 7:37 AM UTC
tucked in, nice curtains
frame the photograph
while i google syntax
and superlative,
conjunctions, filling.
forgot the dentist appointment,
another dark mark on the horizon.
lead soldiers may cause lead poisoning,
the line come longers, the family taller.
yes, it was a lovely day, pat.
sbm.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 2:37 AM UTC
For years they'd tried and failed
in their conjunctions to conceive.
The wife prone to miscarriages
so a surrogate was decreed.
Her closest friend from college
took pity on their plight,
and volunteered to help them
by bringing forth their child to life.
It would be their bun, her oven.
Their tenant in her rented womb.
The pregnancy was uneventful
and their son was born last June.
It's a miracle of science.
to some couples it's a boon.
but the procedure is expensive
so don't expect a baby boom
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 11:30 AM UTC
Mnimalists uproot everything,
Aiding natural entropy.
Poets can do likewise.
Omit redundancy;
Scorn verbosity,
Make words work
Hard.
Articles shunned,
Prepositions abhorred;
Conjunctions - need none.
Edit,
For our sake.
Snip,
Fit words together.
Make words work
Harder.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
Your nouns are spread
On sheets
Of white impeccability
Attached complements provide
Detail
Description
Of beauty
Excellence
And we both inflect
Flex
Our verbs
With precision
In perfect concord
We take specific (pre)positions
Towards me
Around you
Inside
In out in out
Up
Upwards
Denying every possibility
Of negations
Conjunctions
Limitations in scope
And we end existence
In a loud
Exclamation!
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 4:14 AM UTC
The coordinated conjunctions know they have the advantage against
all other conjunctions. I mean, let's face it. The other conjunctions are just spastics.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
where do they go?
to mountains of synonyms
pushing lilac or purple
or puce or lavender
from valleys
of russet metaphors?
do verbs frollic?
nouns place themselves
before mirrors
asking themselves
"who am I?"
adjectives, do they
answer?
do the long words
most people don't
understand
do they go on
spending sprees
with their
million dollar
Lotto winnings?
do conjunctions
play matchmaker?
or hitch up
boxcars for
the more expressive
poetic engineers
to haul through
the long winds?
ghosts of past tenses
invade present
and mixed metaphors
haunt the nightmares
of learned readers.
gerunds run on
their little wheels
and stuff their cheeks
with prepositions.
where do words go
when they die?
they must hang as
DANGLING
PARTICIPLES.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 7:26 PM UTC
Late afternoon, haze hung low, heat and sky
holding breath. You’re it. No tag-backs. Asphalt
freckles our knees. Dinner is anytime: bologna
on white; Kool-Aid cut thin with tap. No hurry home
unless for the news. We don’t.
We want what’s coming, not what’s been.
Paper fortune tellers flutter open, close.
She writes the answers first, back turned.
Lift one flap: your dog dies. Another: a prince
charming. Another: best party in town,
limousine awaits. He lifts a flap: her name.
actually meant for you, her sister whispers.
Then rain, the blue-lined paper sags, ink settles
in cracks, bare feet scatter, futures wash
mid-fold into a storm drain. At Cheshire and
Green Meadows, a drunk witch swears Venus and Jupiter
will make us all rich. She leaves out how long
the sky makes you wait. Lunch money turns
to lottery slips. Rounding the corner, moving vans
idle over chalked hopscotch, our names folded under.
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 1:35 AM UTC
Of the world's most handsome poetry
Of the champagne of the tongue
The rapt lovers of cursive stroke
And the sweetest, most decadent paper caress
I like the cheap beer remarks and the box wine conjunctions
The whorish, scribbled word on the back of café napkins
The bitter inky graze and the rancid graphite touch
Some days
I have drowned in a sea of elaborately dressed words
With less intent than proud showmanship
And most days
I’d rather float on a Dead Sea of salty wit
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 1:28 AM UTC
Sunday morning
and I'm tired of macDs and cigarettes and diet pills and coffee
they don't make me happy
Im not thinking about you
because I think I hate you but I'm not really sure if it's hate or annoyance because
if we're to be honest I'd have to love the **** out of you to hate you, or even feel just the slightest bit of emotion
but I don't
because I've realized that's resent you for being such a ******** of a person
you disgusting , ******
I asked you multiple times not to drink my mother's coke and you assured me you'd bring a full bottle right before mothers came home from work but you had no intentions of doing that
you disgusting , ******
anyway this is not about you
it's about how I've burnt myself to ashes trying to understand where I am right now
and why
I think I love almonds cause they're good for me and are just what I need and the doctor won't warn me against it,
but almonds are boring and are nothing like the nauseating feeling of finishing a whole pack of ciggs alone outside of a lecture you know you're gonna pass anyway , unintentionally
Im here thinking about how I know I don't want any of these things but I do,
and conjunctions, **** conjunctions and the way they're meant to connect two things together but when it came to you and I ,
our only conjunction was the very scripture I was too scared to tell my sunday school teacher
because I made a deity out of you to the point where you were my king but the only time you made me feel one with your royalty was late night's on bent knees , when you held my crown to control the motion of your pride finding warmth right deep down my throat .
throat
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
My mind never sleeps my thoughts defeat me.
I just need some sleep.
my head spinning round and
round like a merry go round.
how do you sleep with a broken heart when
the one you want is so far gone?
Thoughts control my emotions leaving
me open. My mind is effortless it
leaves my breathless. its amazing how our
hearts and minds work.
A wonderful creation of art graven.
We all have the same functions
but different conjunctions.
When the mind never sleeps
the soul slowly departs the body
leaving an empty shell where once a
person dwelled.
Sometimes i feel like my life is a dream.
At 3 am i'm tossing and turning laying
restlessly..
Hoping one day i'll finally wake up and be stress free.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
*i have six beers and only two cigarettes
and no philadelphia digression.*
as a pronoun you can dissociate yourself
from nouns and common noun usage
and censorable noun usage,
and find that the deconstructive aspect of derrida
is not found in nouns but primarily in prepositions
& conjunctions
and the timing of adjectives to respect the manual labour
of cobblers & tailors is almost arbitrary
for the six digit people employed to use two five digit extensions
and swing less under par when unemployed on retirement
looking for busyness and 6am and the alarm clock’s chandelier at noon.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
Vulnerable smile, cherubic. Vessel in the well.
Watery eyes. First tooth. Nameless relation.
New birth. Memories. New joys. Old pain.
Overflowing love. Half-voice. Kin-sister.
Stars, crackling up in the creux. A relation called
Nights. Angling; moon. brumeux love, half-hug,
Nets wide cast; comets pass. folded in the wallet.
Pouring out. Half-gong. Calling to the valleys.
Brook. Shadowy corners. Tongues, welling up
Delight, discovery. voices, hushed whispers
Bleating with the sheep, hymns rising.
crying with the birds, Conjunctions of states.
whirling with the winds; Conjurer of fawns.
Casting; soil; roots; new growings;
smiling, spiralling around the hollow,
new life; a cherub, the new dawn.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 2:18 PM UTC
“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)
objects, humans, surprise and interrupt our
daily modalities, knocking us, yo! to the ground,
we, pounding it, for the word void appears,
the frustration of incapacity incarcerating,
accompanied by the loudest silenced scream,
of no poetry available, try again later!
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
we walkabout, thinking of the scheduled eventualities, or
the dates calendar-circled, though some questioned marked,
in pencil inserted, will I be a mother, find me a husband,
a human grander grandee, fit to be with me a noble progenitor
of more than our generation, watching the sidewalk cracks for an
inkling of when, on or about such and such an alteration,
a seam undone,
a stumbling, seeing a realization as we fall, hands extending,
a notice of arrival,
all needing reconnoitering, commemorating, a poem prepared,
but none to no avail
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
so we are in awe of words, so necessary, everybody knows,
the awe in awesome, a description for the pixels encapsulates
in I-phone photos,
the where and the why of when, I was grinning like a stupid fool,
the inability to deliver precisely when required the covering of
an appropriate description, your words, use your words, will
fail you spectacularly and so we remain awed, realizing
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
but awesomely awesome word worlds, near and dear, held forever
in scrapbooks, the literary overlay of the treasures of everyday life,
are the still life of our longevity contextual, the celebratory,
the unexpected losses, largest to smallest, in size order,
kept fresh when you flip through those poems in dusty binders,
in oversized sewing boxes, yellowing in concert with our eyes,
graying with follicles of past pluperfect,
recalling not just the when’s, but the more important, now, the
wherefore and whereupon, the words marking the conjunctions,
recoding the recorded synapses firing sequentially, brain to fingers, the ah so of the poetry of lifetimes
“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)
<>
Saturday
September
21st
2019
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
to buy a book at half-ten with
no time wasting. go back, await
instructions ‘cause ****** will
have their trinkets, with novelty
of accented voice. and i once
would talk often of a love – let’s
separate that word from *****
often of a love, but am rare to
fall to elaboration. and through
contemplation the soul may
ascend to knowledge of the
Form of the Good, penultimate
object of Knowledge but not
Knowledge. and often writ of
this love, writ of what was to be
then and never now. never to find
affirmation in fleeting memory.
oxymoronic oblate of the mind
– this soul. attempting for attainment
of Kenosis. shambling i wandered,
rambling i wandered, and humbly
wandering on to pluck till times
and times are done. and
the dogs of this life have re-
moved dearest effects. in turn, sho-
wing the vanity in materialism.
end turn, showing futility in ret-
ention and the sun's continuous gro-
wth forcing abatement of winters’
vespers. cradling a gourd filled with
oil from the skin of ages, to reflect
micorocosms of preceived death.
those silver apples of the moon. and
when vespers return in color, when
the ground aches tensing muscles.
this love, if only the conjunctions
had been denied. perhaps by abor-
tion of if, then could have been a
block for now. these times found
oblate of memory by zealous self-
truth of the wronged past, and
humbled by skewed memory of
the hermit on unseen path for
Kenosis. unseen growth of
those golden apples of the sun.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC