"courtesies" poems
I believe in equality. In life and death. In the ever existent turning of the earth and the burning heat of the sun.
I believe in equality. In people’s hearts and minds. In the rights that we choose to indulge in. And the ones we choose to ignore.
I believe in equality. In the little things. The common phrases. The not-so-common courtesies that we extend.
I believe in equality. For those who are well respected. For those who barely exist. For those who cannot afford to pay for their own meals.
I believe in equality. As human beings. As men. As women. As whatever the hell you want to be. As whoever you are, have been, and will become.
I believe in equality.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
We are protected from so much pain. For example: graves.
The earth’s roots and brown-black blood are busy
covering the soft, violated bodies of our loves.
Death is a secret, and the rain with its many hands
washes off the streets to the gutters death’s thick surprise.
The automatic shutter of the eye never fails,
the courtesies of the tongue. What goes on in the rooms of houses
is guarded from us by the hardwood doors,
the carefully closed windows. Whatever was said or done,
night will come, eagerly, to clean up.
And death will shield us, in time,
from the sun’s megalithic promise:
Tomorrow, the same day.
Tomorrow, the same day.
For example: A flower
is the most beautiful lie.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
I hurt with the pleasure of carving knives
plunged into blood-lusting hands.
Standing in the storm of stab wounds
and searching for Gods dressed in human
to give me mental medicine
for wounds that they must trust me to see.
I am the glass-tongued mediator.
I am the vortex that turns worlds to ink-soaked scenery
and words to black noise.
They gurgle out blandishments like they're true! And to them,
I'm a glass door to better days;
they put their famished hands
onto my handle and tug for good luck.
I open and warble out what they want to hear;
a fortune teller who cries courtesies and fills her glass ball
with a concoction of
tears and liquid caution.
I don't want to lose them.
But I choke on their
distorted, glazed looks,
I stuff my throat with gauze,
my chest fills with blood
as they throw their clocks into the garbage
and raise me on glass pedestals
and drool praises as I cry for me
and for them and
for us
and for-
Useless. I am useless.
Wasteful. I am wasteful.
Broken. I am and should be broken.
Did anyone ever realize? How would they
when I am so selfishly unselfish?
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 8:18 PM UTC
i.
unfiltered asiatic plaything seeks
hypoactive cradle technocrat
evicting meaningful poach,
mendacious transcripts of
past events found in his
memoryless playhouse.
poplar crowd scribbles observations
outbound punch of laughter
sighs to the scrambled, ethnic
postgrad nation.
microfiche telegram exploits
meaning to deeper courtesies
current surrendered upon
entry.
ii.
psychotropic sustenance
fizz thru ***** vein corridor
secret mission lifestyle
learning fast in enormous packs of
tiny lies.
spew logic chagrin mediated
bloodstain; cerebus twitching
outside of beingself.
iii.
heart ceases,
sacred whitepaint moans.
o infidel,
strike thrice; a chord
binding us- nasty, *****
beads bleeding rich.
cloaked bushes tasting,
hisses cured human oaks;
tapered horns that sob,
casting waved heels.
iv.
dawn fallen, only concrete
possible now. separated by
thousands of what is not,
shocks disintricate; undwindling
patriots mailing lessness,
laughter sounds fetching
offband pitch.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 7:11 AM UTC
YOU gave, but will not give again
Until enough of paudeen's pence
By Biddy's halfpennies have lain
To be "some sort of evidence',
Before you'll put your guineas down,
That things it were a pride to give
Are what the blind and ignorant town
Imagines best to make it thrive.
What cared Duke Ercole, that bid
His mummers to the market-place,
What th' onion-sellers thought or did
So that his plautus set the pace
For the Italian comedies?
And Guidobaldo, when he made
That grammar school of courtesies
Where wit and beauty learned their trade
Upon Urbino's windy hill,
Had sent no runners to and fro
That he might learn the shepherds' will
And when they drove out Cosimo,
Indifferent how the rancour ran,
He gave the hours they had set free
To Michelozzo's latest plan
For the San Marco Library,
Whence turbulent Italy should draw
Delight in Art whoSe end is peace,
In logic and in natural law
By ******* at the dugs of Greece.
Your open hand but shows our loss,
For he knew better how to live.
Let paudeens play at pitch and toss,
Look up in the sun's eye and give
What the exultant heart calls good
That some new day may breed the best
Because you gave, not what they would,
But the right twigs for an eagle's nest!
December
2.2k
1305
Recollect the Face of me
When in thy Felicity,
Due in Paradise today
Guest of mine assuredly—
Other Courtesies have been—
Other Courtesy may be—
We commend ourselves to thee
Paragon of Chivalry.
1.7k
Left with no suga for lemonade..
You didn't give me any.
Its the bed you made.
My suga hidden locked away I always keep plenty.
Yet you should've given me some.
You didn't give me any.
Should things become unraveled undone.
Behaviors..
Like gentle flavors
Gifted courtesies.
Texting etiquettes.
Is like a lumpy preserved sugar cube.
Know that rules in texting has its magnitude.
Proper mannerisms set for the right attitude.
Like sensual videos from youtube.
Proper texting skills.
Sets the flow for good word adjectives.
If texting don't just walk away.. at least say bye have a good day.
You were texting me and simply vanished away.
Didn't hear from you till some other day.
No good morning no how are you.
No Sorry I hadn't replied back to you.
The stems that builds proper relationships.
Simple actions that can untie good friendships.
Rude mannerisms, actions, bad timing..too many crazy smilies.
Too much giving, too much doing, way too many gifs cheezies.
Texting at wrongful innappropriate times.
Like at the movies or on a date no good signs.
Manners gone like public phone booths uneeded dimes.
Your rudeness Your going I can't miss.
You have no suga cubes.
Just sour lemons..
Easy to dismiss.
You gave me nothing to make lemonade.
Can't fix this mess you have made.
No suga for lemonade!
By selinasharday all rights reserved..3-2018
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 7:53 PM UTC
388
Take your Heaven further on—
This—to Heaven divine Has gone—
Had You earlier blundered in
Possibly, e’en You had seen
An Eternity—put on—
Now—to ring a Door beyond
Is the utmost of Your Hand—
To the Skies—apologize—
Nearer to Your Courtesies
Than this Sufferer polite—
Dressed to meet You—
See—in White!
1.4k
Between you and me,
Those lies have come crashing on
Reality,
Fake
Pretenses stripped off of
Our nakedness; look
At all the scars on our bodies.
****** flaws.
These tattoos I’d hidden from you. All conversations ever do,
Under the dissimulation of words
(I could laugh),
Lash out at us the acute lack
Of conversations. The absence
Of meanings, the shredded ruins of laughter, some very
Jagged melodies that cannot be
In-tuned into a single code, no no. Courtesies.
These
Courtesies have put up quite a show.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
Intangible computer guy
The one you trick yourself into feeling closest to,
When in reality he is the farthest away.
Hell, an entire ocean separates the two of you.
But none the less,
He has gained importance.
Your life has become so lack luster
That more and more you find anticipation rising
As you near your PC.
It practically singes your fingertips
As you reach for the keyboard
And paw at the mouse.
Your body is
Taken over by an infestation of cyber butterflies;
Flapping their steel bolted wings
So hard,
That they thin your breath in anticipation of his next paragraph
Of small talk words;
Adorned with innocent courtesies
And make-shift smiley faces of semi-colons and parentheses.
Perhaps you’re eager because of the complement he threw in near the end of his last message?
As you scroll slowly down the page,
You see that he has not replied
Even though it has been two days.
In that instant
you realize that “intangible computer guy”
Is only so intangible to you;
For on the other side of the Atlantic,
He lives a life that is real.
Maybe it is you who is intangible?
Your shell of a life has been a bit depressing as of late.
For you,
A 20 year old
Who should be having flings and going to parties,
Has only been kissed once and never been touched;
Stuck living a life not your own.
Maybe “intangible computer guy” is so real
That your pathetic life can’t fathom the fact that he has one too.
You realize this as the mild depression
That has been like an infestation of maggots,
Gnaws at your senses;
Causing your eyes to burn, redden and cry.
Yes.
You realize that with Mr. Computer Guy
You get the chance to be charming
And talk about yourself,
When in reality you can barely get a word in edgewise;
Too busy living for others
That you,
In a sense,
Have begun to fade.
Becoming almost…
Intangible.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
My home has been invaded.
Not by the usual suspects.
Instead, by the ravenous locusts of judgement.
Of the "I told you so's" and not good enough's.
A territorial plague that infests the very structure of molecules.
Never has a room so full felt so empty.
They digest.
Devouring the fabric of electron bonds
To where the air itself is heavier than water
And my lungs choke,
Desperate for smoke.
The condescending eyes,
The pollution of a space I once called mine.
A space once pristine has now
Festooned itself in patternous greed
Where opinion is paragon before law
And the laws once laid
Leave a cavitated wake
As they lay helpless by the wayside
Waiting for a passer-by
To claim the unclean deed
And draw away what sickens me
The raw and busted hide
Plays brave but cracks to the festering wound
Of unbridled, wild pride.
So strong are those that sit on perceived thrones
That even in another's home
Basic courtesies are considered contrived.
And the sickness soaks
Deep in the bones
Of the worn and weary
We should all hope to press without due regard
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
You are one hell of a book,
Written in a simple style.
A song with a catchy hook,
Complicated page to file.
Your plot is intricate,
but you are still intriguing.
Your petals are colourful and delicate,
You got me hallucinating.
Been scripting this piece-
Its nearly a week but still,
Rehearsing it like a first kiss
Punching lines like a till-
Suppressing thrills,
Chasing footsteps of shadows and thoughts.
Swallowing bitter pills-
Thoughts being cast everywhere like votes...
And writing heart desires- as if my poem is a will.
With words that burn as forest fires.
Thoughts of you bring my world to a standstill.
Your stubborn attitude
and the Monalisa smiles,
Raise my heart like altitude.
Ironic enough memories of you keep piling like files.
Your silence captures my curiosity,
Preying on it like a predator.
Your quiet moments are pretty-
Lips made of nectar...
Your expressions are strong-
They challenge my mind set.
You are a hit song,
Your beat makes one sweat.
I hate to play you,
Because your melodies are too deep,
And your lyrics are too true.
So if I fall for you I will forever slip.
You are hard to forget,
When did I learn your facts?
Actions and reactions-a magnet?
You are warm, deep inside like pockets.
No conclusions-
Just casting controversial cute courtesies,
Confused for confessions yet caressing illusions-
Maybe social prophecies...
Thoughts of you are without a conclusion-
Limitless, bottomless-
They run deep like confusion.
So I crowned them with words like a princess.
Naked truth-
True lies...
OutspokenArt #2014
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC
Left alone to wander
Down the black stone road
Gushing, splintered, homebound
Spinning from the fall
Tightened, tinkered, totaled
Forced to reconcile
Is a call to arms in order,
Or is this just a trial?
Patched by panes of forgiveness
Light seeps through the blinds
The hurt is not well hidden
It’s just a matter of time.
Swelling, steaming, simmer
It flows over the brim
Caught by common courtesies
Stifled by general decency
Animalistic glances
Looks of sheer desire
Civilization is not well organized
Let’s set the ******** on fire.
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
No sun-no moon
No morn-no noon
No dawn-no dusk-no proper time of day
No sky-no earthly view
No distance looking blue
No road-no street-no 't' other side this way
No end to any road
No indications where the crescents go
No top to any steeple
No recognition of familiar people
No courtesies for showing them
No knowing them
No travelling at all-no locomotion
No inkling of the way-no notion-
"No go by land or ocean-
No mail- no post
No news from any foreign coast-
No park, no ring, no afternoon gentility
No company - no nobility -
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds
Only November!!!
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
Silence upon other silence grows;
Taller than any skyward cathedral,
Wider than divisions, between two brothers.
The only sincere silence is natural,
Or found by a flickering candle’s flame,
And the latency, of a sleeping child.
After a death, some silence may roar
Down zigzagging corridors, of dazed;
Haunting midnight's vertiginous dreams.
Numbness opens vast reservoirs of quiet
And in the resultant- preternaturally stilled-
Silence sometimes finds its earthly voice.
I now present to you, Silence itself-
Bereft of courtesies, or dignified flourishes;
Bare as a babe at death- or birth.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 2:12 PM UTC
Social graces are--
becoming overrated
far away from our minds.
We're finding vines
of thorns in the gardens
of our blooming lotus thoughts.
There's an echo of drums and primal screams
and we feel lower than dirt
disconnected beneath the earth
our cosmic tongue severed
and waiting to grow
out from the ground.
We shout out--
silently hoping
for meaning in the greening
grass smoking
choking up
& burning down
old rickety clown cars
we thought were sound ideas for living.
What-does this matter?
Courtesies bug splattered
against our windshield--
a metaphor representing
plowing through the ****
to find the truth
of us.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
quick -- hand me your
clinical nest
so easily disguised
in the form of
beautiful
white tears that
glisten with hints of
subtle blue
they tend to find easy
refuge
on the edge of
my lips
when they see the
leaves
are falling
honey, don't you know
if you keep the
window open
eventually I'm going to
fly away?
we can't count our
courtesies
as often as our
conflicts
& you were never there
to know
the difference
one day you'll stop trying
to predict my
wings
& I'll stop trying to
remember
how well you
could
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
A hundred-forty west-bound miles of
Montana Highway 200 see a summer
Traveler somewhere between
Grass Range and Jordan,
Deep in grass and antelope.
Waterless miles of meandering
Dry creek beds and barbwire alleyways
Herd the occasional car or truck
Down narrow asphalt chutes of road.
Speed limit signs stamped "70 mph"
Stand mortified and silent at Speed
Demons hurtling westward to Great Falls,
Round Up, or Flowing Wells, or east to
Jordan, Circle, Richey, Lambert, and Sidney.
Extreme heat and cold on the open plain
Demand courtesies of the West;
Travelers always stop to
Help the stranded.
So it was I came at speed to Sand Springs,
A sultry July day, heading to Billings,
Sad to be leaving my lover and my bairns.
A long way off, I saw her car,
Hood up and steam rising.
I shifted down and idled to a stop.
"Can I help you?"
An older woman,
Crow, I think, looked out,
A bit confused at first
Until her eyes cleared.
"I need a ride," she said,
And so began our adventure.
I made room in the truck
And turned around to find
The ranch where she cooked.
Ten miles back, we left the road
To take a trail that wound back
Into hills, dry with early heat.
"About five miles in," she said.
We found the place,
Resting in a scrap heap
Of old vehicles and broken corrals,
Middle of nowhere,
But she was home
And opened up the door.
She asked me to wait a bit,
So I sat, wondering what was next,
While she walked in through her door.
In a minute she returned
Her offering in her hand.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Nodding, I took the gift,
Shifted into reverse,
Left her there.
The braid of sweet grass,
An unburned prayer,
Rode on my dash
All summer long....
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 12:33 PM UTC
The Dark mist, it beckons,
It curls its manicured tip.
I twist, no, I resist,
Pleas die softly on my lip.
I conjure my life's images,
Of decent well adjusted folks.
Crumpets, giggles and tea bags.
Pinks and yellows that it evokes.
But fragile as an egg shell,
The cracks they show some more.
Lust and desire bubble forth,
Crimson lies sprawled upon the floor.
I'm told that I'm the Good Girl
Of frocks, and poise, and grace.
Yet the cracks they draw me in,
Fingers touch velvet and lace.
The Good Girl she suffocates,
In deaf silence she screams.
Awake she hides the gaping cracks,
Plays freely in her dreams.
So, Good courtesies in the light,
Smiling pleasantries at the fore.
But with heads turned I come to life,
Filled by the Dark I fight no more.
Two lives I live in parallel,
Soft moan sneaks past my lip
I am the dark, I am home,
I curl my manicured tip....
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 2:47 AM UTC
i hate it;
i ******* hate the way you hold me in your arms
-and make me feel like nothing could ever matter more,
and so i sat in the rain for hours
until i went numb
felt anything but your touch;
dancing on the tips of my skin
carving courtesies in the pores of my heart
and every drop burnt like acid
-because the rain was an intruder beginning the tango
when i had only ever learnt;
the waltz
so then my bones chartered swiftly with the violin that was your voice and with the waltz that is this heart
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
*All hail these small and sweet courtesies of life.
For smooth do they make the road of it.
Grace and beauty – each cut so deep like a knife.
They beg all these inclinations toward love at first sight.
Yes, ‘tis those courtesies which let the stranger in.
With tones and mannerisms - they do have such meaning.
Oh - ‘tis such a blessed thing,
One for which I could lose myself
To the honor of my aching.
I feel a heart which bears all to itself.
Oh yes, tis' open – ‘lest I shut it all out.
So I ask, “Are not my eyes the scout
For which my heart journeys?
That vision, is it not flowing through my arteries
Bringing my heartbeat’s rhythm in tune?
Oh, let that beat be mine none too soon.”
With that said, she laid out her arm in front of me.
Taking hold of her fingers in one hand, I aptly
Applied two fingers of my other hand to her wrist -
Firmly - and begin counting each heart throb.
“One – two – three – four,” counting out aloud
Measuring each heartbeat as it happens –
Hoping to find the art of her fever.
I close my eyes as I continue to count – thinking –
There is no occupation in the world comparable
To feeling a woman’s pulse.
And when I had counted to twenty five
I looked up into her eyes and
At that instant I felt her pulse quicken.
She clutched my fingers tighter in the one hand
While pressing the wrist of her other hand
Harder into my account.
Is it possible for two to become one flesh and bone?
And if 'tis true, what is everything else to become?
Sometimes yours while at other times the other has it?
All the while to be generally on par tallying up the score
As we each permit the other to share in ourselves –
At least in as much as a man and a woman have the right to.
Like a bag full of pebbles which started out jagged
And rough, with very little gleam.
Only ‘tis after being years in the bag together
Do the stones, having had many amicable collisions
Wearing down their angles and edges, do they
Become well rounded and smooth with the brilliance
Of their combined luster.
Nothing to either could have been
Accomplished alone.
She looks back into my eyes as she presses her wrist into me
and asks,
“How does it beat with you?”
Placing her hand on my neck I say,
“Feel for yourself -
‘Tis an improvement –
‘Tis my evidence.”*
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 8:22 AM UTC
*Five months ago
things didn't seem
to matter,
this spiral
I've crashed down
into was my
every day norm.
Five months ago
I'd allow myself to
be talked to
any type of way,
find comfort
in your
taunts
lies
games
and
******
fulfillment
since
I thought
five months ago
he would change,
I praised myself for
being in a
toxic relationship
& staying strong,
thought
I'd be weak if I left.
Five
months
ago
I thought
I needed
you,
thought that
I was your soul catcher
the one meant to
protect & support your tyrant ways.
Five
months
ago
I'd listen to
you & follow
your lead,
pray for us
prayed for me,
the answer came
when I felt lies welling up
constantly
drowning on em choking from
them swimming deep
like sharks attacking
me over & over
I five months ago
felt the magnitude of betrayal
felt what I thought was
my world caving in,
hurt me with your
words then love me
in bed so slowly,
I laid there most times
thinking what the ****
am
I doing here-
then
you'd make
my body react,
make me feel so good,
five months ago I'd let you.
Let you control and demand things
from me more of myself
to where
I had barley anything left to give.
I'm grieving a loss
that's easily mending,
Five months
I'd of begged
even pleaded,
Five months ago
I'd of ran into those
strong open arms,
now
I've recapture
the woman
I wish to become
the woman
I'm working on.
How's it
I've allowed you so
much authority
over me & courtesies
of my life,
I made you boss
and
I like the luggage & baggage
I still carry,
you where the one
playing with my strings
the puppet- your dummy
a fowl fool
I've been
but that's
no longer
relevant
since
that was
FIVE Months Ago!*
Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright 1977 - Present ©
K.A.C.L.N ©
All right reserved ®
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
Funny
but not in a polite way
Witty
Daring
Razor-sharp
Basking in a round of warm-beer-belly laughs
Pillow soft
No-man's land
Lay down your weapons
on my shoulder.
Confident
Never bossy.
An everyday diplomat navigating courtesies
A heard point.
Attractive
******
On
my
own
terms.
By
my
own
rules.
Liked
or unliked
The choice is theirs
I have little time for it.
To be all this at once
or not at all
on my count
Take aim
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 12:51 PM UTC