"connotation" poems
a connotation of infinity
sharpens the temporal splendor of this night
when souls which have forgot frivolity
in lowliness,noting the fatal flight
of worlds whereto this earth’s a hurled dream
down eager avenues of lifelessness
consider for how much themselves shall gleam,
in the poised radiance of perpetualness.
When what’s in velvet beyond doomed thought
is like a woman amorous to be known;
and man,whose here is alway worse than naught,
feels the tremendous yonder for his own—
on such a night the sea through her blind miles
of crumbling silence seriously smiles
76.1k
Municipal Gum was written by Oodjeroo Noonecaal. Municipal Gum is about the changes in society and the tendency of people to want to control everything. Oodjeroo uses various techniques to convey this idea.
At the beginning of the poem Oodjeroo is addressing the tree. This immediately creates empathy for both the tree and her people. By the last line she has emphasised this with the pronoun “us” to show that they suffer a similar fate.
This poem expresses how life in Australia has changes especially for Aboriginal people. In the first half of the poem Oodjeroo is talking about how life was for her and others. It explores the changes in society and the displacement of the Aboriginal people from their land.
“Whose head hung…Its hopelessness”, the author uses this as further re-iteration of the immorality of the situation and by the use of analogy comparing the tree to her people to further emphasise the shame and lack control of that the Europeans have inflicted upon her and the environment.
Oodjeroo uses extended metaphor technique in the very first line of the poem ‘Hard bitumen around your feet’. This means that the gumtree has been placed in the city scape where it is suppressed and not allowed to spread out and be unique in its own way. This is clear and immanently direct link to the pain and suffering endured by the Aborigines post European settlement.
Oodjeroo uses vivid language to present these ideas. For example the use of the word castrated is very effective. The connotation of the word is very demeaning. With castration often comes a sense of a loss of pride and power. The word castration is symbolic of how Oodjeroo feels the European have treated Aboriginal people and the environment. Castration also refers to the fact that what is done is done. Nothing can undo what they did and the damaged they have caused.
Other symbolism includes the title “Municipal Gum”, municipal meaning community, implies that the gumtree belongs to the community. One of the vast differences between European and Aboriginal law is that Aboriginal people did not believe in the ownership of land or of animals and plants. Municipal Gum is a reference to the Europeans assumptions that everything is theirs to own and control.
The rhetorical question, “O fellow citizen, What have they done to us?” is the conclusion of the implications that have been made throughout the poem. Oodjeroo, is advocating for her people and all things wronged by the controlling behaviour of the Europeans. Rhetorical questions are used to provoke thought and to stimulate a pre-determined response. “What have they done to us?” They have “castrated, broken… strapped and buckled” and ultimately changed things to a point that they cannot be fixed.
In conclusion, Municipal Gum is a poem about the constrictions and change that the European invaders forced upon the Aboriginal community and the environment she believes that the Europeans have deemed themselves ever powerful and practice their power in a manner that is immoral.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
Anticipating the anticipation,
Anticipating the living-life-on-the-edge days.
The ones you hear about
Or you think you've heard about.
You, you've fallen into monotony,
An inescapable feeling of restless contentment.
Some call it depression,
You call it boredom.
They're one in the same,
Except boredom has a much less negative connotation;
And a much shorter life-span.
Mostly, it depends on your age;
The children are bored,
The adults are depressed.
Filling days with self-innovated anxiety,
The kind that didn't always exist,
Or you don't think it always existed.
A drive to be taken by storm
Overwhelmed.
Engulfed.
Something to shake you out of this trance you have been stifled by.
Like a visitor from afar,
You continue to sit in that hotel room,
Anticipating the anticipation of travel.
While you glance
Between the alarm clock,
The room service menu,
The T.V. Guide.
Bored.
Depressed.
Anticipating the anticipation of living.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 6:02 PM UTC
Please forgive my hesitation
at instigation of flirtation.
Did I ensure my elimination?
My romantic assassination?
I'll gladly partake in any placation,
for any chance of indoctrination
to the centralization of your concentration.
An operation of admiration.
A correlation of inflammation.
Your gravitation brings animation,
exclamation and elongation.
My specialization is duration.
Not to hint at a connotation,
but I feel a certain **********
by an obligation to a certain destination
where your presentation gives me restoration.
Petrification?
Total mind evacuation?
Would clarification bring fascination?
Stimulation!
Salivation!
Gratification!
Insinuation of fornication?
A simple salutation to syncopation.
Would a single bright carnation
be enough of a motivation,
for a two way relocation?
Would poetic recitation
be sufficient lubrication
for collaboration?
A consolidation?
Or an exacerbation of isolation?
Please hold no reservation,
I've only got one aspiration.
To achieve a higher elevation;
by means of inhalation,
or a certain recreation
involving a bit of perspiration
along with physical communication.
Does this seem such a bad situation?
Or are you ready for pure elation?
Feb 18, 2010
Feb 18, 2010 at 12:56 PM UTC
The words are a playground,
no bell to call me in.
And wander I must
past fences, over grasses verdant
finding trees that take words
and split them like branches.
I eat the apples
leaving some of me behind along the way.
I am a constant poet.
If every morning that began with words in mind prompted a new poem, then I'd be a constant poet. Like this morning, would have been a bit about gerunds and how you just shouldn't gerundize some nouns because it isn't right. And then some are right but not because the connotation of the word or context remains the same. Take pan and paning, for example. One is breakfast and the other in film. But anyway, if I'm allowed to not make sense often then perhaps I am a constant poet. I asked the question, "Why is the expression take a **** Taking isn't what we do..." Perhaps the language affords us many luxuries of interpretation that forgive literal correctness and rules. Like writing a paragraph of prose for Hello Poetry. But maybe we are here because we question the limits and take the license and more. The words become a playground, not a chore. Yes that's it! My morning meandering leads to a single poetic thought.
The words are a playground,
no bell to call me in.
And wander I must
past fences, over grasses verdant
finding trees that take words
and split them like branches.
I eat the apples
leaving some of me behind along the way.
I am a constant poet.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
To even commence to define how profoundly I fell in love with you, I would need the capacity of a thousand-page manuscript written in the most romantic idiom.
Each, and every retention of us is stowed into the back of my conscious, and concealed deep into my heart.
Every beautiful memory plays through my head like soft music.
I would say my heart is immovable. There are days that I try to sojourn the thoughts of you, but its intolerable for me to do so.
I am so engulfed in your perfection. I do not think there has been a single day that you have escaped my thoughts.
I can feel your presence with me if I ponder our memories deeply enough. Your presence weighs heavily in my heart. It is as if part of your soul occupies its crevasses, and fills my cracks.
Your eyes are echoes of a hundred distant galaxies no man has ever revealed. Vast windows that reflect the constellations.
My heart is certain the universe resides in them.
As I begin to study your face, I feel like nothing but love can exist.
Your porcelain perfection never ceases to weaken me.
You weaken me with love, trust, and desire. Like the finest specimen created by the hands of Gods.
As I anticipate the connotation of love, the implication is “you”.
Even if the fire for what you feel for me dies, I do not reason the passion I have for you will ever dim.
I do not begin to recollect if I had ever felt this susceptible.
I let this passion be valued like the rarest stone.
I would give up the entire world if it meant I could have you in my life endlessly.
Your happiness is of grave importance to me, when I study your smile, I can overlook the darkness of this decaying reality.
Every heartbeat of time my mouth declares three unpretentious words.
“I love you”.
I say it like an invocation.
Not one moment did my tongue express profanity against these golden words of poetry.
I love you. “ I Love You” . And solitarily just you.
I wallow in my own sorrows at the thought of the culmination, when we shall one day part at death's hand.
For I deeply distinguish that you love me equally, and this brings vast pleasure to my temperament.
I sense security in your encirclement, your heart is my home.
My heart qualms of my fragile weakness that I consume when I dream of you.
You make me susceptible to the sickness of love.
If love was a poem, you would be the title.
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
When I decided to write my first poem, I thought back to the days,
when we were studying poetry and the teacher would amaze,
she'd make me write down words and things, I'd be chasing praise.
But looking back at my book now, I know what I should do,
and so here follows my glossary of things I'll write for you:
I have - Alliteration, Antagonist, Allegory and Anapest.
Characterisation, Complication, Convention and Connotation.
Elegy, Elision, Epigram and Exposition.
Free verse, Falling action, Falling meter and also Fiction.
Literal language, Imagery, Lyric poem and Irony.
Rising action, Resolution, Rising meter with Recognition.
Acatalectic, Anacreontic, Amphimacer and Amphibrachic.
Cliché, Common Measure, Couplets and Catalectic.
Deconstruction, Dispondee, Dialect Verse with a Dictionary.
Iambic Meter, Incantation, Impromptu with Inspiration.
Laureates and Limericks, Light Verse poems and Linguistics.
Metaphors, Mock-Heroics, Middle English and Movement Poets.
Oh gosh that seems a little worse, than I had it made to be,
I was expecting just to write a poem 'bout my cat and me.
I guess it's harder than it looks so I'll just give up now;
I'll let those big brave poet people, write them all somehow.
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 11:55 AM UTC
If the Sacred Fire of Vesta went out, it meant one of two things:
meant
1. Rome was in danger;
meant
2. A Vestal ****** a guardian of the flame, was having ***
Chastity and fire
are two attributes that are directly correlated. If one is lost,
the other will follow. Trust me. This is fact:
only ****** women
can be celebrated.
The ****** Mary,
the ****** goddesses,
the way **** was seen as a crime
against the father, not the daughter:
women
must
remain
pure.
Do not eat the pomegranate seeds,
do not touch the fruit of knowledge. A
statue of a young boy
holding an apple
does not hold
the same connotation
as a woman holding an apple. Offering it to a man who
could have refused. Getting blamed for the fall from Eden.
A woman
with a snake draped around her body is not Eve,
is Lilith, but it’s close enough. They are both to blame for
all the evils of the world, so what does it really matter anyway? Women
are more susceptible to wavering in their faith in God,
to worshipping the devil, to practicing witchcraft—
The flames are out. Rome is not safe. A ****** is buried
alive for her sin. Lilith is slaughtering women in childbirth.
Babies are dying. A man is celebrated for his multiple
lovers. **** shaming in 79 AD. The beds in Pompeii
brothels are made of stone. St. Cecilia is face down in the
dirt. Women on the same level as slaves, if not lower. The
goddess Vesta as a housewife.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 10:47 AM UTC
waste matter discharged from the mother's bowels; feces,
excreta, stools, droppings; waste matter,
ordure, dung; **** poo, dirt, turds, ****
"cleaning up ferret excrement":
mid 16th century: from French excrément
or Latin excrementum, from excernere ‘to sift out’ feces;
act of defecating;
a contemptible or worthless person;
something worthless; garbage; nonsense;
"this book is **** unpleasant experiences
or treatment; "I went through a lot of **** last year"
things or stuff, especially personal belongings;
"he left all his **** in my apartment"
events or circumstances;
_"some crazy **** went down last night"_
any psychoactive drug, especially marijuana [the good ****
good **** verb: **** 3rd person present: *****
past tense: ******* past participle: *******
past tense: **** past participle: **** past tense: shat;
past participle: shat; gerund or present participle: ********
expel feces from the body,
soiling one's clothes as a result;
expelling feces accidentally; very frightened.
tease or try to deceive someone or thing.
"I **** you not" exclamation
exclamation: ****
[exclamation of disgust, anger, or annoyance]
Old English scitte ‘diarrhea,’ of Germanic origin;
related to Dutch schijten, German scheissen [verb];
_The term was originally neutral and used without ****** connotation_;
*********** from Greek κόπρος,
kópros—excrement & φιλία, philía—
liking, fondness, also called scatophilia
or **** [Greek: σκατά, skatá-feces],
is the paraphilia involving
****** arousal & pleasure
from specific feces;
meanly, his mother said, _u can drink my ***
but don't eat my **** then she ****
& *** & the boy drank but when
he put the warm **** to his mouth,
she slapped it out of his hand &
yelled, I told u not to eat my ****
& the boy began to cry & feeling
bad his mother turned to let him lick
the bowl & rim the moist wet hole between
her pudgy cheeks & then gave him more
of her tangy *** to drink like lemonade
& chocolate chips, sometimes it was
more like sweet sherbet; but she never
hit him again & he's been eating her ****
ever since; now, his wife lets him drink
her *** & he eats from the baby's *****
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
Ebony.
Skin smooth as silk.
A yellow tint or cocoa hue.
You do not experience what we do.
Being viewed as the enemy is imminent.
And it's evident, that the color ebony's negative connotation is remnant.
Of a past connection to Nubian kings & queens--
Stripped of their crowns.
A piece seen, in my name.
No...it is not fabricated, but actually holds meaning.
It's the closest thing I got to my slave ancestors.
Stop trying to degrade me...
And chain me, with your everyday preconceptions.
The concept that I'm beneath you, when the foundation of this nation and slave bones lie beneath you.
Looking out your peripheral, unspoken prejudice fabricated.
Wondering how I'm dressed respectably, like "That's an expensive fabric, ain't it?"
Cause the last time it caught your eye, my ancestors were picking it.
When you see me hold my head high, you feel the right to question it.
But I already told you, it's a new day
Don't saturate this generation with racism
Like you did civil rights marchers with hoses.
We've come a long way, but I still have a question for you...
If God holds all humans in the same regard,
Then why is accepting the color ebony so hard?
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
An art movement is a tendency or style in art
with a specific common philosophy or goal,
followed by a group of artists during a restricted
period of time, usually a few months, years
or decades or, at least, with the heyday of the
movement defined within a number of years.
Art movements were especially important in
modern art, when each consecutive movement
was considered as a new avant-garde;
According to theories associated with modernism
and the concept of postmodernism, art movements
are especially important during the period of time
corresponding to modern art. The period of time
called "modern art" is posited to have changed
approximately halfway through the 20th century
and art made afterward is generally called contemporary art.
Postmodernism in visual art begins
and functions as a parallel to late modernism
and refers to that period after the "modern" period
called contemporary art. The postmodern period
began during late modernism, which is a contemporary
continuation of modernism; and according
to some theorists postmodernism
ended in the 21st century. During the period of time
corresponding to "modern art"
each consecutive movement
was often considered a new avant-garde.
Also during the period of time referred to as "modern art"
each movement was seen corresponding
to a somewhat grandiose rethinking of all that came before it,
concerning the visual arts. Generally
there was a commonality of visual style
linking the works and artists
included in an art movement. Verbal expression
and explanation of movements has come
from the artists themselves,
sometimes in the form of an art manifesto,
and sometimes from art critics
and others who may explain
their understanding of the meaning of the new art
then being produced;
In the visual arts, many artists, theorists, art critics,
art collectors, art dealers and others mindful
of the unbroken continuation of modernism
and the continuation of modern art even into the contemporary era,
ascribe to and welcome new philosophies
of art as they appear. Postmodernist theorists
posit that the idea of art movements
are no longer as applicable, or no longer as discernible,
as the notion of art movements
had been before the postmodern era.
There are many theorists however
who doubt as to whether or not such an era
was actually a fact;
or just a passing fad.
The term refers to tendencies in visual art,
novel ideas and architecture,
and sometimes literature. In music it is more common
to speak about genres and styles instead.
See also cultural movement, a term
with a broader connotation.
As the names of many art movements
use the -ism suffix, for example cubism and futurism,
they are sometimes referred to as isms
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
You’re a wolf -
A connotation.
You’re a breed
of imitation.
You’re a guise
among the sheep.
Snagging lambs
while they’re asleep.
Your smile sings
with consonance -
but your howls vibrate
with dissonance.
You’re a liar
with eyes of fire -
The termination
of my desire.
You sparked a change
in my perception.
You were the Alpha
of pure deception.
May 25, 2023
May 25, 2023 at 1:13 PM UTC
This journey:
this path I’m on seems ever circular, bringing me back around to the same old lessons that for some strange reason I am just too dense to understand.
There is something I feel I should be learning – or something I need to let go of – or is it grasp? Maybe it’s both…. I don’t know.
I feel like I’m on a roller coaster –
one minute I’m strong –
I really believe I can do this…
the next, I am hiding again…
allowing myself to be lost in shame and self-hate.
A few months ago, I felt like I took this huge leap forward...
self-care, healing, opening emotional pockets…
knowing full well that I needed to keep reminding myself about the lurking shadows...
the ones who provoke me and make me feel bad even in the midst of making strides forward.
So here I am, feeling those same old feelings of guilt and shame and hatred.
I suppose I know what the shadow is that lurks, but I just don’t know what to do with the shadow. How do I bring it into the light to stay?
My husband tries to use my “achievements” to bolster my confidence, help me shed this bone crushing feeling of self-defeat, but those achievements are a smokescreen – an elaborate, disguise, the stronger I seem, the less likely anyone is to guess what a coward I truly am.
I can fool others- but not myself.
The first time, I lost, it was to him
this time, it comes at my own hands….
And that seems to be so much worse...
I can feel myself backsliding …. So much up and down!
When does it does it stop?
Does it stop?
The term “survivor” implies a certain level of triumph or victory. The term ‘victim’ carries connotation of guiltless submission. I am neither a survivor nor a victim. I am a fraud, a shell of a person hidden inside a carefully constructed facade. I have not triumphed over my past, and the damage it continues to cause is due to my own personal failure to set it aside. I have managed to surrender my whole identity because I lack the courage to claim my truth.
Healing is a lot like daylight savings time...
fall back, spring forward, over and over and over again.
It makes me dizzy, sick to my stomach and depressed...
all of this back and forth.
Now I feel the path has once again ended
and I am left standing alone.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 9:10 PM UTC
In this modern world of seldom proper and overused punctuation
the smallest of them all seems to leave the biggest connotation
the dot, or period, as some would say under the proper observation
has given text-ers and type-ers of this technology driven generation
and easy way to send a message in a short-hand communication
One dot can signify the end of the certain conversation
and three dots can lead one to believe that there will be continuation
Five dots can relay the writer's growing frustration
as he believes the recipient might not've read his brief annotation
and with growing anger at the recepients subtle procrastination
he can send the word 'hello...' as a sign of quizzical agitation
Three dots can be used to signal a reader to use insinuation
as in 'They went into the bedroom and then...(use your imagination)
Professionals use the multiple dots when invoking exaggeration
by skipping parts in a speech to warp the innocent quotation
such as 'The senator voted against the new... school legislation'
We know that dots after every letter are a definite implication
that the word is an acronym, and there's one for every situation
such as O.H. P.O.O. means Overly Happy People Offer Osculations
Yes, the period can be used so freely, with such adaptation
depending on the context, it can symbolize a sigh of exasperation
It is a punctuation so versatile, it has almost no limitation
and more than one of its forms can be found in every publication
I don't hesitate, as you can see, to submit this postulation
flexibility will always be in the period's reputation...
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 7:52 PM UTC
And in the moments before she sleeps,
when thoughts begin to feel like dreams,
she often wonders to you.
She's a painter with her words,
but a clown with conversation,
so she stumbles through to give and take,
lost in ill translation.
So what she meant to say,
when she asked you every stupid question,
was she wished you longed to hold her close
with zero hesitation, and...
no ****** connotation.
Just the comfort of your touch.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 1:54 PM UTC
I
Under vibrating lights
The mystique of two of us collide
Too late in the night
Speaking of home and vast distances
Your x-ray voice and venomous cynicism
Are melting
A rooftop, city under our feet
Cars screaming like wild birds
You’re touching my arm
Through bricks and cement
And solid air of defence wall
Cut and transformed, pasted in wrong places
All we ever been
New words tingle through me
This given thing is unveiling
Wrapped up in a see through metaphors
It was always here
II
Nonchalant touch, a look, a sigh
Catalyst to my complete degradation
To this state of demolishing chaos of you
Running through the boulevard of prohibited
Propinquity
Past every connotation of time
When innocence is in demise
My vows are burning me
Around my finger
I’m melting like a Wicked Witch of the West
Selling myself to this unstoppable force of Nature
This twister inside of me
With your breath in my ear, like a butterfly
Clapping its wings to start the cycle
Nerves are twitching
Skin under your hand, screaming
I hide
My head under your neck
You smell surprisingly sweet
For a tempest
Your hands are holding me against the wall
Like a prisoner of this absurd war
I roll my eyes up to
Vermilion lights trembling above us
We’re simultaneously breathing in
Myriad of incandescent particles
Of materialized desire
World is sinking into oblivion
III
The arch of you above me,
On your chest, suicide turned into butterflies escaping
Transforming you into my ultimate
Fall from grace
Breathing underwater, in this liquid limbo
I’m breathing in absolute fire
Between every particle of sweat is sin
My skin is inked with handprints
Bones showing
I sink in the ethereal on this cold floor
Under velvet waves
Seeing all red
Those butterflies now fling above me
Out of some fallen creatures head
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 1:04 AM UTC
a connotation of infinity
sharpens the temporal splendor of this night
when souls which have forgot frivolity
in lowliness,noting the fatal flight
of worlds whereto this earth’s a hurled dream
down eager avenues of lifelessness
consider for how much themselves shall gleam,
in the poised radiance of perpetualness.
When what’s in velvet beyond doomed thought
is like a woman amorous to be known;
and man,whose here is alway worse than naught,
feels the tremendous yonder for his own—
on such a night the sea through her blind miles
of crumbling silence seriously smiles
E.E. Cummings
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 4:07 AM UTC
All of us write,
late into night,
Simple rhymes becomes prose,
As night draws to a close,
Connotation becomes denotation,
Expressed or implied,
Painting pictures with words,
Of a world much denied,
Of heartfelt regret,
Or anger or pain,
We elude to the simple,
And write about rain,
To illuminate others,
Of that which we see,
Another perspective,
Of what may be,
We invite opinion,
Of comparitive worth,
The definition of judgements,
Are all that we need,
So bleeding and ugly,
Take care to impart,
A wonderful meaning,
To a forlorn heart.
'...He went like one that hath been stunned...'.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 6:18 AM UTC
7.19.15
I've never quite trusted in love,
so I can't offer an explanation to you as to the reason why,
the reason why that when I saw you I experienced heart palpitations
I couldn't then.
Multiple individuals ask why i'm attracted to you,
They don't ask that in a negative connotation,
it's just we are Polar Opposites,
Night and Day,
Introvert and Extrovert,
Optimistic and Pessimistic.
Though I never seem to be able to conjure an explanation,
So I just smile..
Though here I am at 6:28 in the morning racking my brain attemping to fathom my thoughts and feelings,
vigorously scribbling them onto the paper.
****** Hell!
I can't understand them,
I can't offer explanation,
I don't need it for them,
I don't need it for myself,
I need it for you
Because I can’t explain it.
So I'm left mumbling the words into your ear,
Praying to a God that I'm not sure exists anymore,
That you believe me when I say,
I love you..
Well yes and no...
I love you.
I love you.
....
No, I'm in love with you.
That’s the only explanation.
I am submerged in the idea of love.
8.21.15
(5:43 in the morning)
I should have known the second your brown eyes glanced into mine.
Opposites attract,
Even my 3rd year science class taught me that.
Opposites charges attract,
and make pure energy..
I saw you,
and from my heart,
emitted pure love.
I love you.
Though throughout this month I've began learn...
Pure love, isn't easy.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 5:44 AM UTC
We didn't say much that night,
but the silence loudly spoke.
We were burning moonlight
watching it go up in a puff of smoke.
We both felt the fire,
but it couldn't last long.
For one of us or the other
the heat would soon be gone.
There was no fear, just separation;
the night bore a connotation
of terminal proportions,
and an impending self-condemnation.
Awash there in the silence,
watching the night hang overhead,
we sat, as though watching kin
slowly slipping away in their deathbed.
Like, we know that it's coming,
there's no impending sense of dread.
We'll say a prayer and throw some flowers
Then both sleep in our own separate bed.
We almost force a smile
when our eyes meet.
It takes a while of trying
Before we both look back at our feet.
Still, she leans into me,
Closes her eyes against my shoulder.
The only warmth left between us
So I wrap her up and hold her
and we sit there,
cloaked in the waning night.
The clouds have blanketed the stars
and we've burned up all the moonlight.
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 7:19 AM UTC
I have so much to say
but I can't write it down
thoughts are spiraling through my ears and into
my eyes but my hands
cannot translate
the murky, opaque chain of consciousness
weaving in and out of view.
I'm frothing, bubbling
ready to burst, to sing to something.
I'm trying to write words I know but
is a name
a word.
My rule is that I don't write names, it's cheating.
Names are far more powerful than words and name has a story
a background a connotation an emotion a lump in my throat when you stopped staying.
And if "you" is a pronoun and and a name is a proper noun does the extra "per"
mean the name takes up more percent in my mind?
I have so
much
to say.
Nothing is working just words, no proper ones.
I see it. I see what I feel and I feel it. I feel what I see.
I can't write it.
It feels like a warm ocean, unexpected, nice, then suspicious.
It feels like someone took the blood from my veins and replaced it with liquid doubt
now pulsing through every artery.
It feels like a favorite toy being glued back together. Still beloved, but never the same.
It feels like drowning.
It feels like falling.
I have so much to say.
Take my hand.
And help me.
please
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 1:25 AM UTC
If I could but learn to discard a wounded piece of self
If I could part with the beautiful symmetry
Of the cogs, driving forth the machinations,
Churning with their white noise, that
Turn to shape maiming thoughts
Then I might one night close my eyes,
Not to images of words bound by self-deriding connotation,
Comprised of typos and back-strokes
But to a peaceful blackness
Yes, I might lie down, close my eyes
Out of a will for rest, not contrived
But organic and my own
And so I know this as my waking dream
Relegated to wake for the night has been
Deemed the world of painful perfection
A place where protection is offered
With a backward hand, carefully made
Patron to the lovely polished mental instruments
Used to bludgeon simplicity and idiosyncrasy
Used to leverage pressure on the scales of the heart
So to tip downward the side of known cyclic indifference
And lift upward toward heightened neglect
The side of pleasure, the side of silenced retrospect
I grow, each sleepless evening, more fearful
That the ugly, backward hand might never forgo its leverage
And, if life is a wellspring of knowledge
Feeding into a stream of lessons
Then my strife stems from reading of the
Same page in the same chapter of the same textbook
A book filled with words bound by self-deriding connotation,
Comprised of typos and back-strokes
On this page, one learns a fundamental formula
It derives the relative weights of who we are
And the happiness we might find
Through some convoluted tale of misfortune
My page was written by an ugly, backward man
So, through unsagely studies, I’ve concluded
That the art of well defined reprimanding thought
Does outweigh in its beauty, the unseen hope
Of a future left to whim and bliss, or perhaps
The simple elegance of chance, goodness unsought
So, for the first time in my life, I seek to unlearn
I seek to roll back the defining lines that once flowed
From the pen in a backward hand that yearned to sow structure
But the vaulted walls that hold the scales of one’s will
Are so dauntingly difficult to unbuild or puncture
This, truly, is the weight that each sleepless night
Bares down upon my sleepless heart, so heavy
If I cannot pull exacting, formulaic pages from my sight
I fear the only peaceful blackness I will find
Is one against no patron hand can levy.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
out-seeking the world in
crave of ascertation. to
crave realization of know-
ledge, of others’ wisdom.
seeking experience via lack
of self-preservation, but
the sun rises for this land
of the Old Settlers.
[/thesis]
force settled the young to
drybed rivers. all with killer
statement epitaphs, that is,
words to remember as
darkness follow’d rifle blast –
white shame’s legacy.
images of barbarism as
a means of civilizing, of settling,
pioneering. and cowboy is
racist to the non-farmers of
Texas. (are farmers a race?)
doesn't matter when
they write the epitaphs.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
There is no connotation nor denotation to a word in existence among us retched mortals that can be used to describe the superlative nature of my goddess' supreme and utter beauty.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 6:24 PM UTC
The sun cheerfully rises every morning
As does my hope
Coffee flavored with a hint of ambition spiked in the liquid caramel drizzle
The curtains are drawn back
Just like my despair
Hidden beneath all of my "to-do's" and "do-later's"
A cluttered mess I hope to never sift through
Three missed called from an old enemy Depression and I'm too busy to ever call back
I crave my quotidian omelet like I crave a fulfilled life
Inside, surprises delight my enchanted taste buds
And my appetite for being alive is heightened with the spices electrifying their energetic flavors
Caffeine sparking my newfound devotion to activity and business to leave no room in my schedule for sadness
But as the sun sets every evening
My hope and beliefs are suddenly invisible in the vacantly somber sky
The stars shine like my thoughts
Ricocheting ideas in the back of my mind
Inching their way forward like the caterpillar in the cage
As the darkness sets in, my eyes adjust in a timely matter
A form of classical conditioning I picked up on early in my life
My irises only responding to the anchors holding me down
I vent to the moon all night about my confusion and unhappiness
And it laughs at my tears, begging for me to "wait and see" when the sun comes up
But I hone in on the negativity surrounding me like the pictures of him and the music of the crooks in the night
We aren't all bad people for feeling this way
To choose a side is to choose night or day
To choose a connotation for my life
My autonomic response is negative
Night and day are merely metaphors for life
And every aspect I experience on a daily basis
It's enough insanity to drive my car off the cliff at night
Only to rise to the top and reverse it all in the morning
Waiting around to make your own sunshine in the world of darkness is complex and seemingly impossible
To fall to an impasse or to rise against?
Ask me in the afternoon how I feel
And I may end up letting you know
I am a night owl
No matter how hard it hurts me
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 9:09 AM UTC