"connoisseurs" poems
Match, match forward and go, you heroic sons of America
Reconnoiter into the strongholds of boko haram,
And restore our captive girls from the foul custody,
Lawlessly held hostage by the connoisseurs of terror,
Go on and recover poor souls from ribald of religion
Impishly created by Moslem from the satanic verses,
Regulating foray of terror on the poor of the poor
****** mahyeming, looting and executing massacres,
Match on and on yee angels of democracy,
Don’t stop in any haste or in any wonder,
To help in the sham flabbergastations,
About the Igbos who fought the Biafra,
And the Yorubas who federally defended,
Under the aegis of Obasanjo the Sandhurst
General, where are they all to save the girls
Of Nigeria from the Islamist terror
Excuted by boko haram the handmaid of evil.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
Have we all become mere automata
guided by the ring of pings and notifs?
The spray of lather from a sea of data
carrying with it wrung celebrity whiffs
have stung us with a certain aphasia...
The written thought was a lifetime ago
long abandoned by the times and all--
where once there was soundness to follow
nonsense amassed like a rising cymbal
whose crash sent reason to the gallows.
The news of the day presents a delectable entree
of a hodgepodge of this, that, and nothing much.
Wherefore we find our tongues compelled to say
something about the aftertaste or to prejudge
as if we were connoisseurs--it must've hid faraway.
Are we perhaps amusing ourselves to death?
I am by no means a Luddite to such a degree,
but I believe we have bombarded and blessed
ourselves a little too much to see...
only time will tell us reason's final breath.
Sep 19, 2023
Sep 19, 2023 at 10:38 PM UTC
Belonging to no masters
Bowing to no shiny idol
Formed as crashing waves
Tsunami and the tidal
Freeing enslaved minds
Requiring no police
From simplistic limerick
To powerful treatise
Capable to be inclusive
of every type of mind
From hideously critical
To the wise and kind
Between sanity - insanity
The line delightfully blurs
A home for loony writers
Saboteurs and connoisseurs
Ignore at poetry's peril
This most mediocre rhyme
The more that verse is policed
The less that it will chime
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 7:30 AM UTC
We're very much alike.
Poetry is our inspiration,
we were born writers.
People call us BBQ sauce snobs
wine connoisseurs
and brothers.
But he likes to dance
at night--
in the headlights
when the air pierces the skin.
His deep dark pockets
are an oblivion of cigarettes
and full minis of Jack.
Remind's me of Harpo.
He walks like a snake slithers--
body swaying
and a gleaming mischievous twinkle
in his eye.
We both enjoy crisp, autumn days,
but he prefers them cloudy--
dark.
He says it brings out the color
in the reds and orange leaves jumping off the trees to twist in the breeze.
Listening to stand-up is our solace,
though he says Hicks is god.
I say Carlin
His shadow reminds me of a demon--
the long lost son of Medusa.
He's not afraid to say what he thinks,
cause he knows he's right.
Sometimes I believe him--
he speaks with such nonchalant confidence.
There's always a needle on his words
swiftly flitting and flickering
like a flame he's flicking off his tongue.
And if his words hurt breaking the skin?
"Don't be such a ***** he'll snarl
before turning the charm back on
with a giggle and ironic wink.
He likes to collect
the faults in others
cause his thinks his **** don't stink.
He keeps reminding me of mine.
He enjoys needling
people.
We've known each other
for a long while.
Seems like longer....
but that's cause my roommate is me.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 8:08 PM UTC
fed the birds
my monday. held out my hand,
and fed them mirth
from a lifeline pun.
blackbirds.
early morning
connoisseurs
i fed them
my monday.
all gone pecked. now, first suspect -
in a ****** of crows. i rose
from the damp. surveyed
the scene of the crime
and bled. no contest
nor are there ribbons given
even if you don't
want one. you'll find
another monday
with a stray
dog star... a crown
for a chipped
tooth.
it will always say " You shoulda' seen The Day Before...." then promptly -
plop on your stoop... and vaguely,
as if seen from three paces
behind stained glass...
Sunday sulks into view
like Dostoyevsky
belching "Hey Jude" backwards,
just strolling down
East, Main street
with an egg-cream
and a fist of
kettle corn.
soggy in his meaty paw
an earlier downpour
you slept through.
or maybe, this just happens to me ?
now then. birds fed,
i wandered off. biting my
upper lip to keep
Christmas in
my Edelweiss
grip.
left the birds a book called " How To Fly "
and they still flew
away.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 10:41 AM UTC
I once scurried through a jungle of tomes
From the languid turf of hazy hagglers
To the esoteric sphere of cryptic connoisseurs
The jagged rhythm pulsating with a staccato of pebbles
Not a placid clime but a wonky wilderness
Where your eyes rove for honey of rising cadence
Only to decelerate
From an alien territory to a corny scenery
The voyage of discovery must continue...
As sojourners of change
Onuchi Mark © 2010
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 6:51 AM UTC
It is incumbent upon us to interpret various environments in this multi-dimensional tapestry of holistic landscapes, where celestial ecosystems abound with pulsating organisms of diversity.
So, let us translate our literary concepts in silence, as we traverse cross-cultural vistas of universality.
As indigenous beings reach beyond the sparse and pompous settlements of our ******* city towers; there is something incomprehensible which transcends our ambling walk through this urban pasture, as the train departs from the classical platform of El Chorro.
I am mesmerised by linguistic creativity, as she echoes throughout distant galaxies of enriched and unspoken mystical vocabularies.
As empirical verification is not possible, I must beseech thee: Where are the connoisseurs of this poetic dimension?
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
I did not know that poetry has rules.
‘Tis not a craft for ordinary fools.
Those, that form and meter never master,
Are ever doomed; they are the poetasters.
As opera singers, out of tune, do make
Discerning listeners do a double-take,
And chefs, who sprinkle salt instead of sweet,
Serve meals that connoisseurs would never eat;
A writer with a wretched poet’s curse
Will never craft a great Heroic Verse.
So as I count my syllables and feet,
And wonder if my metaphors will meet,
I pray that hypermetrics are okay,
(For I have used a few of them today,)
I’ll leave the verdict, reader, up to you,
Affirm that to my mission, I’ve been true,
Or if the ending to my verse bathetic
Christen me a poet most pathetic.
Heroic Lines in Couplets, I intended;
Judge me, reader, now this verse has ended.
Phil Lindsey 12/24/15
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
Huddled within boundaries highlighted by the craftier. Stubbornly, yet unwillingly willing, escorted to the connoisseurs of morality. Structured, consistent, but reembodied into randomness, the more the merrier.
Spoiled, unripened, famished and fat.
Pleasant, fresh, fit, chubby and… adolescent.
In the name of manipulation, and its ***** messengers, we honour the catalogued pious. To Venus; the untrue, the shameful, the blasphemous. We serve peace and love, abandon the lies of Gods, join your cherished sisters below.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
~for Marion~
all poets are junkyard scavenger connoisseurs
who wear suits to Manhattan faculty afternoon tea parties,
broken-in jeans to Brooklyn midnite poetry slams,
regalers, tall tale storytellers, subway words pickpockets
of the extra-ordinary,
claiming innovations but from all saints stolen,
insights inside other's waste,
refusing to acknowledge the true owner's title
by fusing other's refuse.
the original recyclers,
junkyard dog liars,
willful sufferers of the plague of overhearing,
exceptional excerpters of the gems of coal dust noise,
*"Connoisseur of old thoughts
Bound in new gilt bindings"*
them's me.
~
12:37am may eighth
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC
Why is it that drinkers of wine
All fancy themselves connoisseurs;
As they sniff, swirl, sip and spit-
They’re all Robert Parkers I’m sure.
They talk about bouquet and fragrance,
hints of chocolate they find in the wine.
I sip on the wine and I’m puzzled
as I never find chocolate in mine.
My brother’s a beer connoisseur
Pour ten different beers in good light.
Though he may drink them all to be sure,
He distinguishes each upon sight
“There are different shadings of gold
and some give you more head than others.”
-Who would ever imagine that beer
would have something in common with lovers.
So go have your new Beaujolais
You Francophile drinkers of wine
I’m sure Orson Welles would have told you
They’re selling it way before time.
Back at the bar named McCullagh’s
They’re playing pool in the back room
Uncle Jimmy is schooling some suckers
It happens once in a blue moon.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 7:29 PM UTC
-from Venice: a tipsy gentleman
bursts into song for his escort girl
If I only could admire your feet, forever,
I would pray to live on
and live on - pray, forever.
I know I am not the only one.
So glad to follow this tranquil lot,
these fine and happy admirers,
who bow to pay your offertory.
To join this choir,
these humble connoisseurs
who yield to your glory.
I stumbled, hit the bottom,
today lost all that I possessed.
My head, my mind, my soul -
so incredibly clear now,
ready to follow, eager to bow
for the urge of my heart.
To join this song,
sung in eloquent silence,
turning to the mystery of your feet.
This moment is eternity,
far away my petty desires.
It is perfect time, the only time,
never started, never ends.
If I only could admire your feet, forever,
I would pray to live on
and live on - pray, forever.
No sound, no sight, no smell, no taste -
this channel opened in my heart.
No boat, no lapping waves,
no misty vapours shining in the night -
just the clarity of clarity:
a foothold for us all.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 10:06 AM UTC
There's a lot more to love
without the expectations
So many facets to explore
Its intricate designs
respected by the connoisseurs
of Love
Many hues, reflected
from each unique facet
Chiseled by the master craftsman
aware of the depth of love
Light that shines through
the beautiful soul
creates a beautiful rainbow
Smeared with aromatic potion
waiting to bring eternity
to the essence, called Love
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 2:25 AM UTC
Inspired by Allen Ginsberg’s Love Returned.
Tonight, there will be no merging onto
The wireless info web highway-
She returns, with smiles,
From thousands of miles,
To honor unresolved promise.
No longer anonymous, humming
My love song to someone in particular.
I weave my way across the margins,
Through a web of puddles and pebbles,
As puzzle pieces of sensual treble resonate,
Drizzle amiably down on my burgundy umbrella.
And she evolves, a silent tempest
That swells in the warmth of the night.
Is it the unaffected loyalty,
Or the sweetness of her smell?
The strength of her autonomy,
Or the completeness of our honesty?
As we peel away protective layers,
I hope that we remain,
Two connoisseurs of romance,
Who continue to slow dance.
Staying learned and childlike,
Earnest and mild, like
Students of truth.
From the thoughtful naiveté
Of maturing youth,
I offer my blessings to her.
It’s fitting that she, lovely
As a coveted Viyella,
Seems free of material expectations,
Or ring-around-the-rosy words.
So all that’s left to do-
Make our cozy escape, and find rest
Inside this departing Acela.
Calmed by the self-propelled motion
Of our northbound locomotive,
I consider a future inside fifty-two sunsets,
And finally set my sights upon
A sound, stone bridge.
It’s as though her auburn words,
Along with the acute angles of her smile,
Are anticipating my every beat.
I wonder if she knows that
Her eyes, a mélange of the
Steel blue Merrimack, below
A tall granite overpass, loom
Over these familiar train tracks,
A painted Methuen sunset.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 3:48 PM UTC
Obey no one
but the call of
your inner most self
and walk barefoot
upon the Earth
like you were meant to
before modern man
became portfolios
diversifying arrogance
instead of his head
No one looks you
in the eye anymore
connoisseurs of rude
Walk forward now
and don't look back
Dodge bullets
with a smile as your
secret weapon
*And laugh with
the best them*
Making good as pretty
as you go...
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 4:56 AM UTC
The sanctum sanctorum of love
Reverberates with the waves
From the souls that are in harmony
Welcomed with a tranquil presence
Uplifts you from mere existence
Surrounds you with the freedom
Where hearts run wild with euphoria
Dances to the signature tunes
Each note birthed from the souls
Prepare for a symphony of grandiose
Ostentatious display of true feelings
None, but the connoisseurs of Love
Are captivated with the harmony
When Love is interpreted from heart
This is for Love that does not alter
Remains etched in the mind, forever
Love is not a word, but a feeling, true
Neither what the world deciphers
It is not what we see everyday
Only with access to the sanctum sanctorum
Feel the love that's rare
Therein, lies the truth
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
I divested myself
of the constrictions
of modern society
that suggests my curves
are borderline obese
but an artist eye
doesn't see this
It pictures the dips
and hollows of life
bearing another soul
over and over
Connoisseurs of Form
appreciate my nakedness
as I'm transferred to canvas
with pigments of ochre
and red and charcoal blacks
Smudges are incorporated
into telling lines that lie
But there are no easels
nor a paintbrush in sight
I'm standing naked under
a moon full and bright
for the sake of art
the only person painting me
in perfection
is me
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 11:14 PM UTC
what has our intelligence done for us
other than soften our instinct
slow down our reflex
made us into habitual
connoisseurs of convenience
curators of insta-gratification
creatures of know it all
without the need
to understand anything
the universe just
a night sky out of reach
just a spattering of stars dot the sky
all the cosmos overhead
and we are too consumed
by the blue screens that feed
the narcissism of our egos
to look up in awe and wonder
to question the arrogance
of our intelligence
to see how little we know
about the things we know
as we have killed the view of heaven
with the artificial light of our pollution
facts blurred with faith
and we ignore all the fiction
that causes so much friction
that we allow our children...
that we force our children...
to ****** other children
boys feeling like men
poisoned by patriotism and pride
in such a rush to die
for the words of freedom
never stopping to question
the definition of the repetition
and redundancy of war
never stopping to question
the repetition
and redundancy of war
never stopping to question
the redundancy
never stopping
the redundancy
the redundancy of war
as we will not question the intelligence
that infects us with
the sovereignty to be exalted
by our own cruelty
how else could we excuse
our history that keeps repeating
keeps its transcripts written
in the death and blood of the innocent
mislead by prejudice and hate
taught by fear and ignorance
all brought to us
by what we call intelligence
why were we given these hearts
this muscle beating below our ribs
what good is it
if only driven
by the intellect of our minds
our self indulgent intelligence
why have hearts at all
if we never stop to listen
listen to the message
of its beating
its pounding on our ribs
if we never stop to accept the wisdom
it sings in ever silent word
words that need no definition
need no ink or blood
written down in a declaration
of its reason to be living
it needs not our intelligence to survive
our intellect to live
it has its own wisdom
the wisdom of love
and in our grand intelligence
we are too blind to see
too deaf to hear
too unwilling to feel the truth
of how useless any intelligence is
without the wisdom of love
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 5:10 PM UTC
Insomniacs ? give it up.
Early birds ? poetry nerds. Holla .
If you feel me. write a line.
Espresso connoisseurs take it to the head.
blink back at the cursor.
and fire of a line.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 8:12 AM UTC
if i had an art museum,
it would have a blue roof
and white walls, and
it would be filled with
nothing but mirrors.
one by one,
people would walk in,
expecting to see a dali,
da vinci, or van gogh
along the hallway.
but instead, they would
spend the day becoming
connoisseurs of their own
curves, freckles, and
wavering footsteps.
and i'd sit in a corner
with a notepad in hand
and an unseen smile.
people sometimes forget
that they too are art.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 3:20 AM UTC
*Unknown musicians paying their dues
Grill smoke , multicolored blankets , children
riding seesaws , lollygagging on swings , curing my blues
Laughter and celebration ,the smell of Brunswick
stew and barbecue filling the Sunday air
A fews hours with zero cares , a sweet smile and
auburn hair , a beach towel for two , we gaze into
cobalt sky blue
Searching for angels , faces and Presidents
Feeding the nuthatches , the thrushes and the ravens
We're the hot dog and hamburger mavens , we're the connoisseurs of plum wine , brie , swiss and shortbread biscuit , sweet tea picnic table caramel corn cravings
Holding each other tight in sleepy , piedmont sunshine
Savoring this memory forever* .
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 7:04 PM UTC
Talk - it's cheap and full of sheep.
Air moving, mouthing, making
words to distract and bamboozle,
meaning is used to confuse you.
Colour - superfluous and intangent.
It divides just as much / as it unifies,
the masses and controls our thoughts,
trick of the light, a tailored emotion.
Taste - individuality in isolation.
Eating. Engulfing, endlessly entropic.
Consumers call connoisseurs canon,
Sordid selfish sense, seldom shared.
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 10:25 AM UTC