"conspicuous" poems
Happy or sad,
or beautifully mad.
In love, oblivious
Confused and conspicuous.
No matter what I feel
When I am with you it's so unreal.
Playing or fighting
In this friendship, we're trying.
But I don't want to be friends
My feelings last till the end.
Hold me tight, turn my head.
You make me blush really red.
Hold my hand, try again
My feelings for you are so insane.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC
awakening with the gradual rise
of the subdued heather hued sun
a palpable spectral silence permeated the air
the anticipation of celebration intercepted
by an enveloping phantom black malaise
hiding in obscure shadows
the terror of the twin towers final doom
elucidated quivers of melancholic nuances
rippling through the greying vicinity
my birthday september 11th a tuesday
my night to sing at abravanel hall
with the utah symphony
unable to serenade death
our voices remained indubitably silenced
in hushed wistful reverence
ensuing 9/11s channel somber sentiments
cloaked with annihilation while
dark visions occupy smudged iphone screens
this anniversary i will dissipate despair
transmuting dark despondency
splashing all with lucent petals of delight
i’ll live this day with passionate intensity
and those subsequent with equal ardor
ferociously painting back the light
i will raise my voice with effervescence
and sing in wild abandon
for my precious brothers that were lost
demonstrating devotion through a refusal
to be silenced by fear bestowing honor
with a conspicuous message that love wins
©2016janetaylor
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
Mum had been gone a couple of months, six I think… (An ordinary day, feeling hollow but doing OK) …when I realised I could get rid of the sofa.
I thought it was ugly, she thought it was a bargain. A sofa’s not a keepsake and it was certainly no heirloom. I’d not inflict it on my kids. I got rid.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. Even if it meant keeping the sofa.
Redecorated. Bought a new telly. Spent frivolous amounts of cash on scatter cushions. She disliked scatter cushions. I thought they were cosy.
My little boy drew on one of the cushions. On purpose. I was about to smack the back of his legs… (Mum would have, she smacked me when I was little) … I stopped.
I never wanted to. Had known all along, somehow forgotten.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. But she would not smack my children.
Mum had been gone a year… (Planting bulbs, feeling conspicuous carrying a shovel ‘round the churchyard) …and I missed her.
It was as hot as the day she died. There was no breeze up on that hill, no cloud. Beautiful views stretched right out to the sea.
My little boy had grown, he helped carry water and dig holes. My baby was learning to walk, she wobbled on uneven turf between the headstones. I wanted Mum to see.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. No question.
Mum had been gone three years… (Bulbs were doing OK. There was nothing left to plant that rabbits wouldn't nibble) …and I realised it was time to move on.
I kept the ghosts quiet while agents showed people round. The house sold. We moved away. A warm, terraced place in a small town by the sea. Dad died.
Mum has been gone eight years and I miss her.
Looking out from the Downs across cliff-top and sea, the churchyard seems nothing more than a soft-grey fleck on the green edge of town.
If I could bring her back now? Everything’s changed.
Ghosts exist. They sit in empty chairs and speak kettle-whistle. Wishing us well.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
Are there lawyers in heaven?
who sells fish in a Seven-Eleven?
How do you prove guilt or innocence,
with the devil conspicuous in his absence?
Are there barbers or pastors in Heaven?
Until the End-of-Days, it is unproven;
If we are to do some speculation,
Better to do more charitable donations.
But one profession, I quite understand,
whether in hell or God's Disneyland,
that will not make a good living;
that's doing double entry accounting.
So where do accountants go, you ask;
now you really need an oxygen mask;
In hell, in heaven, or anywhere you look,
there's just no place to cook the books.
Someone may now ask about exorcists,
I hate to answer, but I just can't resist;
ask your grandma or grandpa,
they are in a real big dilemma.
In heaven, no demons to trouble you,
In hell, there are more than quite a few;
In heaven, all are good, so no originality,
In hell, who works for nothing for Eternity?
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 5:09 AM UTC
"where it stops nobody knows"
Just a few words connect
threads of thought
in a passing moment
A fray dangles
by a strand of fiber
— a conspicuous
temptation—
an interesting
thread to pull:
If it begins to unravel,..
it just might not stop
until the tapestry
is a tangled ***
of unspooled thread
Jesse Stillwater ... September 2018
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 11:31 AM UTC
Viking chiefs Valhalla bound,
at death, were not interred I've found.
On a fire ship they 'd place their chief
and cremate him per their belief.
Was it an obsequious grief
that gave rise to this strange belief?
For seafaring folk it scarce seems mete
to lose a captain, then burn the fleet.
With Dragon heads fixed fore and aft
Those ships brought terror, sword and shaft.
Irish Monks would think its fine
to burn one to the water line.
The ship of death was burning bright
as it sank within the fjord that night
carrying the Viking chiefs cremains
to his Viking gods' domains.
Was it conspicuous consumption
that drove the Vikings to this junction?
Perhaps after a life , ****** and gory,
they craved going out in a blaze of glory.
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
The world's on fire, peace is extinct
Look how fragile peaceful minds can get
All hostile minds are having a ball right now.
It's like peace got embellished in chaos.
Where's peace at, what happened to her?
Regional, global local, peace is in short supply.
This is the renaissance of a new world order
Where partial peace coexists with total chaos
People only search Google for mostly facts
Not for solutions to some distorted peace
What is peace then, how can it be?
Just a routine rhetorical question
Coming from the disturbed mind in me
Listen, One-minute partial peace
Bang, another minute total chaos!
Nowadays, Instability everywhere is commonplace
As unscripted hate rhetoric freely echos,
From jihadic podiums to confused minds.
The conspicuous birthplace of premeditated evil.
The mind, soft spots of those totally confused
Call it the hotspots and playground for the devil.
I, the skeptic, to say the very least,
See this quiet storm as a distorted peace!
twitter @ivaclappers
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
the hundred year old stairs
wakes up from its dreamless slumber
to find the world has spun
for an infinity too long
it once roamed
and ruled
the household of Chathanathodi
making way to the rooms
upstairs
that conspired a thousand
whispered secrets
simultaneously
sprawling its termite-infested legs
to make way
downstairs
that injected an aura of
omnipotence
its laddery body was now a little chipped
and its creaky joints, a little shaky
but it didn't matter
as it was still conspicuous
and strong
like Hercules
leading unsuspecting mortals
upstairs and downstairs
to its universe of Gods
Shalini Nayar
© 2001
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
.
Feint is the Muse,
that looks upon me,
challenging my existence
with deep baleful interest.
Its struggles hard
to contain its indifference
at the mere mortality
that I conduct.
And conduct I do.
As melody takes
centre stage
in a flight of fancy,
constrained by rhythm
temperate, steady,
and insistent.
The cadenced beat
of skins keeping time
to a fanfare of sound.
But my voice is silent,
conspicuous by its absence,
in mute violation
of speechless freedom.
The words won't come,
no song message birthed
for altruism
nor benefit of composition.
The flight of fancy stalls
and gently rocks in a cradle
of anticipation.
Rhythm drops to a meagre
pelvic twitch,
insistence foregone and forgotten
in a cynical parody
of the vocal deficiency.
Velvet drapes lick
the wooden floor stage,
and the performance
has just begun.
© Pagan Paul (14/11/18)
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 6:56 PM UTC
I'm a Kool g rockin' coogis poppin' coochies
Haters get murked like Colhese my rap lease
Debutin' numero uno the heavy weight sumo
Born on Jupiter raised on Earth my heart's colder than Pluto
Mic judo flows stickin' of ya corticals
Check me in the articles I be the broken particle
Of the universal ya need rehearsal **** goin' commerical
I lay raps like a hearse flow for rappers funeral
I a criminal none keep gats by the abdominal rhymin' phenomenal the mighty Apollo
Blazin' my cocoa flippin' crime like Bardellino
One luv to my nino got it locked like a Vegas casino
We checkin' ya dough at the front door so stop ya show
Fronting and stunting once my nines get the hunting
Bullets spikin' like kickers punting raw taunting
Game hungriest similiar to the lochness
Mon-star far from subpar rhymes ride bizzare
A pharcyde takin' ya into a spiritual homicide converged to the angelic hide
Still a crime shame all of 'em say the same
Thing flexin' diamonds on they pinky rings yet another sad soul that sings sub siblings
To the underworld debators contract initiator so you can create a
Pace between the stage and the audience face
**** that rather keep a gat tucked in the front or the back
With wisdom to rack
Imagine that fools breakin' for stats? see where my heart at?
Diggin' reachin' into the minds of the youth with the brutal truths
Chippin' my tooth
From killin' booths once I plot ya will ya loose
bringin' the ghetto blues and cruising *****
Still a sober jealous God am I call me Jehovah
Tactics of a Cobra one strike it's over
Venomous ridiculous hataz so conspicuous
Hatin' us only to anger my artillery surplus and who bust?
More rounds than Matt Dillion coatin' ya brains
With my lyrical penicillin stealin'
Back the spotlight
Catch the bright sunshine that stares into my mind
A Pharoah prophecy laid in the back of me
Head til I touch my final resting bed I'll embed
The realist **** ya ever heard shooting a bird
To all my enemies I blast at 'em with as the bullets herd
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 12:40 PM UTC
there are no limits
on speed,
no bumps to impede
that singular rush of inspiration,
that surging wave we ride
to euphoric highs
defying doubt and disbelief
within and throughout
these paths least-travelled
where rhythmic beats
of compulsion
thrill the air
way beyond the mean,
and we glide
over ambiguous bell
curves
dispelling conspicuous myths
and null hypotheses
with relative ease
where iambic warriors
and wordsmiths,
high on lyrical amphetamines,
wage epic battles
of verse and rhyme
and the blood of creativity
is spilled onto
finite scrolls and screens
where the thoughts and dreams
of poets, peasants and pimps
reign
eternal
~ P ( Pablo)
(8/2/2013)
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
I Love Feelings
I love it when excitement blesses me.
When my heart beats quickly
and I feel adrenaline flowing through me.
happy and sad !
at times beautifully mad
In love, oblivious
Confused and conspicuous.
How can this be?
What's happening inside of me?
I just want to feel completely free.
Questioned Again n' again !!!!
Oh I feel so #Insane
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 10:15 AM UTC
Early on, we passed this pebble between us,
each in turn
trying to avoid possessing it.
The pebble
is worn smooth,
each palming it off on the other,
refusing to
acknowledge it even exists
so we don't have to talk
to each other.
After all, it's a tiny pebble.
A pebble of non-communication, but tiny.
Nothing to it.
Over the years the pebble becomes
a stone, albeit a small one -
more conspicuous,
more awkward.
The words between
us grow sparse, and if we do speak,
the words are sharper,
more piercing as we attempt to disown
the stone.
But by now the stone is a boulder, massive,
like some squat, ugly beast it has come between us,
pushing us out of our lives, what was our home,
the dreams
we were going to share,
the dreams
we would once talk about.
--
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 6:52 AM UTC
Red faced and wasted
I saw you naked
And fell in love
With your ancient body
Gone is the impulse to run
And all i can do now
Is to write simply
Lies and truth
Mixed together
Like oil and vinegar
We are fumigating
Our own bodies
Remove these carbon copies
And quietly daydream
About the faces of lost
Summer lovers
Fundraisers say goodbye
To yesterday's vacations
Just as we long to cry
We catch ourselves
Smiling for a moment
What do the turtles wish to communicate
Are we awake in our shells
Or have we fallen into the spell of limitation
Consternation and ************
Facts and figures receive their adulation
While we attract only tender triangulations
Please finish up your investigation
I blame you for instigating this comedy
A catalyst of abomination and dichotomy
Which followed me into retirement
Let's give banquets back to the government
And return to ancient lands
Devoted to camels and drunken apologies
It's apocryphal
Pornographic phantasmagoria
Fantastic fan-fictions
Describing sacredly sadistic rituals
Glorious duality
Radically alters our expectations
Yet manages to satisfy your frustrations
In dissimilar situations
We liberate our agitation and consternation
Over magazines and barnacles
We are more conspicuous
Than an empty gap in the sky
Made by two constellations
Taking a long vacation
Intrepid sailors raise their sails
And navigate by stars and compasses
Renaissance dancers are porous instigators
They initiate our imitations
We dream of political sovereignty
To remediate these tragedies
I breathe warfare and cleanse the air
Of apathetic non-negotiaters
Harboring criminals like butterflies
Sometimes the means do justify your eyes
Targets never argue
And bullets never lie
Finances and fiancées
Certainly have some value
Yet we underrate our skies
Miles of lost continents
Drift out from your skin
We begin an embargo
Hoping in the future we will win
Metaphysical furniture
Effects the state of mind you're in
The record players turned down
But you heat me up to begin
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 4:05 PM UTC
*you have wandered into my heart
without wiping your feet,
and have planted your garden
with some peregrine seed,
uprooting suspicion to feed the roots you know i need.
not the slightest premonition
hinting at this fires ignition,
with harmonies conspicuous,
it brought me to a full fruition.
you make me become me,
scraping tar from ancient condition
a reassessment of the needs,
a very natural division.
and though many of my deeds,
however morbid they may be
fade from your conscious recognition;
oh my true soul, you've made free.
so you may walk upon my heart.
tread heavily, with boots of lead,
for you have become the reason
for it to even bother to beat.*
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 11:53 AM UTC
1530
A Pang is more conspicuous in Spring
In contrast with the things that sing
Not Birds entirely—but Minds—
Minute Effulgencies and Winds—
When what they sung for is undone
Who cares about a Blue Bird’s Tune—
Why, Resurrection had to wait
Till they had moved a Stone—
2.2k
It’s contagious
And outrageous
Not very courteous
And quite ferocious
It is ridiculous
To call me pretentious
And it’s very conspicuous
That I am, au contraire, extraordinaire
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
Conspicuous Consumption
Look at all I have
I've got money burning
In this power grab
Between the haves and have nots
I'm one of the haves
Enjoying this life of luxury
Sitting in its lap
Conspicuous Consumption
Take a breath and breath in deep
Take as many as you want
Although this stuff ain't cheap
Money is no object
It means nothing to me
Now that you ask, yes Virginia
Money does grow on trees
Conspicuous Consumption
In this world of give and take
If it's no longer suitable
It becomes throw away
Even if you tire of it
No need for it to break
Conspicuous Consumption
The phrase of the day
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
A jaundiced adaptation
of fillers raucous threats
attempts obsolete mimicking
in a conspicuous pomposity
of disfigured reckonings
slipped us the tongue of your
ostentatious audacity
mid judgmental manifestations
Disengaged, as our eyes grew dim
' neath the masquerade
of multiplex duplicity
**who the ****** hell do you think you are?**
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
The pool of rain shadowed the sun, dancing with a tepid demeanor. City lights' glamour reduced the light of the sun—melancholy was evident on her face, accompanied by the distinguished incorporeal's breath of air. The late-afternoon tea and dried-out smoke of snowy November.
It turned into night; the sun was still blatantly drowning in the pool of light, where a small trickle of its shadows tantalized the mockery arrayed in her face. Followed by the sickness in her stomach, pinching herself as she naively believed he loved her for all she is.
After all, he was the one who called her a goddess and even paralleled her in the universe in which Aphrodite takes part. Surprisingly and naively, still believed conspicuous lies. It scarred her. A mountain that cannot be climbed; a river where blood flows continuously; a garden full of thorns. The face of a fool.
The glamour wore off when he saw her on stage, where all of his queens and muses were. He wasn't even paying attention to her, and yet she was the only one who performed on stage—she rose and fell; she sang and moved like a goddess, surprising and naively believing he could take back her youth.
He watched her rise.
He watched her fall.
He watched her lose her life.
She hopelessly believed, with her skin and bones, that he'd choose her this time. He didn't.
Mar 9, 2024
Mar 9, 2024 at 3:28 PM UTC
leather of codes
child of no garden I want to be trash shining metal bucket streets
echoes of his scars crash deeply from his quick glance and words
his crushed inner faces blow by me like shotgun shells flipping ejected
a warm burn enters my ear and falls to the ground like pure seed
there has been a siberian tiger heart perhaps
a trumpet's bright coming tip in the night is his voice
but night has no color, only the air of space and eternal infinite collossalness
he has not been there, he knows I think I have been
his voice hunts in silence the opening of his throat
I never felt my neck arch as though I were angelic spinning holy pollen
my feet are broken from my birth's uncertain angles
my white skin is somber to me and it dreams of thick, muscular hair
his back hunts me like a prowling silent perfect killer
he has no meat for me in his most beautiful kind thoughts, nor ice
I know he does not want my soul, its irrelevance like bad country music
he glares at me his eyes are beautiful in their transubstantial wizardry
as though I a child with no hope to ever be less or more
this is the way beer cans bounce of cars better than wet silken ******* may rise
he has felt his lover's wine fully enter him in his sweetest moments
I am a child of no garden he would have
but thoughts of exclusion are often only private codes of want
his serbian tiger motion is utter but I am child of no garden until I can dance
I know he so poignantly relevant would in some fierce and mad
teach me of my father
that I might be coddled beyond redemption my white skin
he wants to giggle a soft stance or a minion of pretense
I am fully truly what he sees, yet I cannot touch him
he has no time for me I would see my heritage's murderous take
he knows I bow down to his conspicuous innocence
he has forgotten the child he knows I think I have been
he wears a leather of codes I can never remember
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 8:51 AM UTC
Have a look at this intricately fashioned globe
How it has been beautified with perfect contrast
Soothing green carpet and calm blue canopy
Compels you to admire its each and every lobe
Have you ever imagined it without these colours?
How it would appear with all its ink gone…
Dull, boring and blank is a portrait without paint
Life would surely lose all its vivid flavours
Have a look at the sky, brushed with black
How it has been studded with priceless jewels
Far beyond the reach of Kings are these colours
Dazzling for the artist is this silver round on black
Have you ever imagined it to be washed off?
How it would appear with all its glitter invisible
Surely no one would bother to look above
You and I love to live due to these colours
Have a look at whatever you swallow and chew
How it has been made mouth watering for you
The perfect blend of colours tempts you to eat
Nature has already garnished all that you need
Have you ever imagined all this to be colourless
How it would appear with its blank coat
Probably no one would relish this feast
Your sense of sight might seem to be useless
Have a look at the humble king of flowers
How it has been made a symbol of love
Those red chunks resting among green carvings
So inspiring is this beauty which nature showers
As I look towards the roof of this globe
The rays of the golden ball give me hope
Colours encourage me to move despite all obstacles
I owe my existence to these conspicuous colours
Written by: Fakiha Hassan Rizvi
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 5:57 AM UTC
451
The Outer—from the Inner
Derives its Magnitude—
’Tis Duke, or Dwarf, according
As is the Central Mood—
The fine—unvarying Axis
That regulates the Wheel—
Though Spokes—spin—more conspicuous
And fling a dust—the while.
The Inner—paints the Outer—
The Brush without the Hand—
Its Picture publishes—precise—
As is the inner Brand—
On fine—Arterial Canvas—
A Cheek—perchance a Brow—
The Star’s whole Secret—in the Lake—
Eyes were not meant to know.
1.8k
What does it take to learn that
naïveté is foolishness
disguised as magnanimity.
Trust is a poor excuse
to turn a blind eye
to the apparent and conspicuous.
Respect is harder earned
than it can be
carelessly stripped away
and wilfully taken...
What does it take
for me to learn that
we are only human.
And therein lies the flaw.
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 6:07 PM UTC
metromonic irregularities
of flawless infinity
particularized by lack of action
to create a participation in time
is the savage reprisal
of defiant elements
that challenge conspicuous masks
of isolated illusory expedient frugality
where there is an instistance on a fiction
of invented death without recognition
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 4:34 PM UTC