"declaim" poems
The Violent Storm by the Water
(Do You Trust Your Imagination)
was not unexpected
but its fury was without compare,
poet awake in semi-preparation
living by water should be a human right for all,
even a small room, overlooking, gives new meaning to
perspective
we blessed with a patio door, encased in a glass window big enough for a smallish elephant to come visit and play with children
a storm is observed up close and personal as if one was in
an IMAX 3D theater, and the edges of existence were being redefined,
sharpened by fury, tooled by tools untouched by mortal hands
miles of bay illuminated with bass drum furious accompaniment
stand before the screen,
poets arms outstretched as a supplicant,
the light of the lightening passes through him,
yet , behind me, she still sleeps
then the entire house shakes, reverberates, as if to say:
”tremble humans, cower, you are not permitted to watch my majesty, for such it was when created heaven and earth”
bold poet window worshipping
risky answers:
“but who will know
if even a poet cannot declaim sights
no one else has seen?”
”true, true, but you must choose if poet truly,
do you trust your imagination human,
to prove that the powers of the heavens are limitless?”
write of storms unseen and nature endless miracles
***”then you may call yourself
a miracle too,
a poet***”
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
364
The Morning after Woe—
’Tis frequently the Way—
Surpasses all that rose before—
For utter Jubilee—
As Nature did not care—
And piled her Blossoms on—
And further to parade a Joy
Her Victim stared upon—
The Birds declaim their Tunes—
Pronouncing every word
Like Hammers—Did they know they fell
Like Litanies of Lead—
On here and there—a creature—
They’d modify the Glee
To fit some Crucifixal Clef—
Some Key of Calvary—
4.4k
No fancy words, no subtle metaphors.
No unnecessary rhyming, no forced stanzas.
No charming characters, no outraged emotions.
No known beginning, nowhere to reach to.
No false claims, no stories to declaim.
No pretentious wisdom, no poor philosophies.
No insightful analysis, no blind remiss.
No powerful principles, no meek cries,
A plain simple poem; read it as it is
before it dies.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
the common words used
don't qualify as diction
hold no versimilitude
leave me to ponder what is so compelling
about the word like
that you have to use it
several times
in every sentence?
i hail a car
in time's square
i'm going to Harvard
the world's premier academy
where i won't be asked
to stop using "big words"
but instead receive diatribes for being prolix
because they're too pretentious
to admit ignorance
you!
how dare you try
to say you never
shoved your tongue down my throat
no fancy words
no "flowery fluff"
there it is,
now fight it!
I hide in my room
pain isn't pellucid
in the dark
EEEE!
it's a womanizer
mujeriego
or a bat...
murcielago
i always mixed up those two words
an idee fixe
as i declaim
to anyone who will listen
in my Faux-cab-you!-lair-EEEEE!
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 4:38 AM UTC
The mockingbird in arbored sanctum
rehearses his newest musing
an addition to his lifelong
plagiaristic monologue
satisfied,
he ***** into the chaparral
to declaim his litany to
anything with ears.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 1:28 AM UTC
It is a fallacy we all believe.
As we vehemently exclaim six words
to prove the chastity of our thoughts,
to fill our pride with self-validation,
to ratify our existence with falsehoods.
"The Devil made me do it!"
"The Devil made me do it!"
I bitterly laugh at your blundering gaucherie,
as you lay blame on an eons old transgression,
as you smote the sinnerman flying with flames,
as you called him out for your own actions
impassioned by heresy.
Impassioned by heresy
You sought to relieve yourself from perdition;
brought upon by perjury declared,
brought upon by authenticated truths,
brought upon by the duplicity,
of your favored reverent ideologies.
Of your favored reverent ideologies
which is to laud your skirmish against evil
in order to remove yourself from auburn eternity,
in order to induct you as a citizen of argent fields,
in order to orchestrate contempt towards another?
Is there no truth to you?
Is there no truth to you
now that perfidy imputes your entirety?
as you declaim in front of paradise lost,
as you coerce to regain what is rightfully deprived,
as you throng duress by intoning your delusion:
"The Devil made me do it!"
"The Devil made me do it!"
Its recurrence is maddening to Him
while you, in all your sentience, chose to act unbecoming,
while the celestials perched on your shoulder bawl,
while He that you blame does absolutely nothing.
It is a fallacy we all believe.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC
the island’s delineating shape is not its realized limitations,
nor a redoubtable defense
against the elements or invaders of the mind
the skin of the land welcomes tides and waves
as gentil lickings,
a seductress’s first caressing volley enticing, firing
but calming
even when the crashing contemptible violent contretemps come,
the winter’s stormy wrath or hurricane tongue lashings of the fall,
partially forgiven for its forced renewal,
but only,
but only so much
the island - my home,
is not a prison but a happy imposition,
its restrictions make inward looking, mirroring, front facing,
a truthfulness demanding,
our self-exploratory word surgeries are precious, precision treks,
required to survive, then revive, declaim,
then exclaim
we are island folk and though our island's firmament defined,
it's poetry
is ever unlimited
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 3:57 PM UTC
Golden wave:
Noise muted.
Hands harvest blows.
Cicadas sing
Cedars on the horizon:
Voiceless words.
Birds declaim
The feeling of wet
Earth in wet air.
Gray clouds ragged
By a thousand lightnings
Released in a look.
Running water:
I Run with the stream.
Which mouth awaits?
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 5:19 PM UTC
Now for Iberia the Goat trips the Swan
To expound his Potentials his Win compete
His Wing - now Healed - placed Earnings on his Fawn
And ensure his Feet leave Imprints complete
Though needed it be keep Sweets in his Box
To open once his Strategy proclaim
That by Politic break Legs with the Fox
And sap one's Owl of its Senses declaim
Sport or Savoury either Ties relay -
May your Holiday Cheers by Random bless
Sustain Tomorrow; Else promote Today
The Road to the Gold your Instincts progress.
Should Hands for Wine toast; Cheer for Moment's come
Will my Handles flip; Transmute Wine into Rhum.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 5:33 AM UTC
Figure on the hill,
the vast and dark;
heinous conqueror
with single, vaulted eye.
That common passing mark
a whitish spear
who often in the morning
passed unheard.
Color in the walls,
the tangent all of space;
and I most meet
and he the thrilling knight.
Braggart of the ears,
where sleepest thou,
an curvature would bite
that runs upon the steely edge of wit?
In this repose, and let no man declaim
that music cannot work the bones of fame.
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 9:18 PM UTC
He sits on a porch-swing dying of heat.
The midday sun is merciless.
It juts out a golden face to ****
To test
To accuse.
He strokes the side of his face.
There is misery here but not remorse.
Sweat runs down the hollow of his neck
Traces his neck
Falls away from his neck.
He closes his eyes against the day.
And more besides.
The sky burns in opposite colors now.
His eyelids play the stars and scenes of an afternoon.
After a time, blackness swallows the image.
He is perfectly closed.
Off past the gate sound cicadas,
Locusts, call them here,
Like an African choir concealed to chant
Concealed to slough away
Concealed from commentary.
He hears the door and feels her weight
on the swing. The cicadas seem louder.
She's come outside to speak with him
To speak at him
To speak about him.
"I hate you," says a voice but not in words.
"I love you too," sounds the other with a tone that says more,
Much more besides.
The dusk is usually far more perfidious
But not tonight. The weather is still,
The sun has nothing more to declaim.
She is perfectly closed.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 6:50 PM UTC
At Etemenanki, the bell has rung
Echoing into the dark desert night
Apostates speaking the Adamic tongue
Though the sky is old, the earth is still young
And the world is still full of love and light
At Etemenanki, the bell has rung
Free the prisoners who have not yet hung
For even the ****** could never indict
Apostates speaking the Adamic tongue
Every voice cries out, every song is sung
While the jealous one looks on at this slight
At Etemenanki, the bell has rung
And from the ziggurat, his hand has flung
(As they all protest and declaim his might)
Apostates speaking the Adamic tongue
The crowd babbles and speaks and shouts among
Themselves, but none meet with any insight
At Etemenanki, the bell has rung
Apostates speaking the Adamic tongue
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 6:53 PM UTC
The opus begins in a tentative way
Each character playing their signature phrase
With gesture, with posture, with rhythm and grace
The dancers then enter the stage.
The conductors baton, Imposing control
Directing the tempo and pace
Blues jazz folk rock, rap and rounds
The singers are finding a voice.
The orators speak, the actors declaim
Crafted prose flows from their lips
While jesters and. punsters, irrepressible funsters
Are gagging and cracking their quips.
The master of ceremonies calls all the spots
He hopes the production will gell
The shifters and movers, and technical groovers
Do their jobs amazingly well.
The instruments thunder, brass blares, and strings soar
Drums are the loudest by far
Then silence descends, a pause, the applause
That’s all folks, lets go to the bar.
Jul 19, 2010
Jul 19, 2010 at 12:45 PM UTC
worthless words
fall from my mouth
to beat like moths
at the dim light bulb of your brain
we at present speak
different languages
and have no desire
to find a translator
we circle each other
and watch understanding
whirlpool down the drain
for the wont of kindness
we expire, we declaim
not my fault, as we take new aim
this is not a dual,
life at ten paces
not a race
no one wins
no gold for first place
this is life, and living
gritty bits and all
this is the big wide world
where all are destined,
to fail and fall
this is how you get up
not how you fell down
this is the world of world weary
and the panache of wearing
a truly battered crown
this is the sticking point
the stinking, smoking left-over joint
the left behind, the neverminds
this is your day
and yes...
you can live it your way
but you need to know
there are consequences
things that go bump in the night
things that in later years
you strive to make right
things that affect the trajectory
of your haphazard flight.
live your life!
live it free....
but sunshine,
in my class...
if you don' t hand
in your assignments
you heading for disaster
and this is the word.... from
the red ink master.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
Forty white birds ask us to be over forty,
Thirty-three wide, 40 long...
More space to see the sky from the earth...
Live time we are alive hearing pass the time.
Forty spread God's word behind us,
And 33 distributed to our entire main front...
Forty long by 33 wide...
It is the crypt of our dreams waiting Reborn.
Tracks 40 and 33 also,
We are told flies through the world and exclaims before the creation
Your experiences,
However it is measurable only those who drag us,
In our range of life 40 x 33 ... we remain trapped and limited...
Jesus has its coordinated laptop,
We walk exponentially multiplying our life within the limits,
And their word will continue to walk with his Gospel, larger crypt which deserves a mortal on earth.
Jesumani and not Getsemani,
Crimping Christian temples...
Via Crucis Vialucis and No Viacrucis...
Generosity and no Privacy,
All the world's forests exceeding your shoulders,
It will be waiting for your return, you release your body breathe
And consecrate the spirit of all over 40 long and 33 wide.
Jesumani is more to think about to be reborn...
Is coming with handfuls of experience back the changes gives us eternity...
Life is eternal,
Eternal is dreaming,
Eternal is glistening,
Eternal is eternal,
Eternal life is hyper,
Hyper dream,
Hyper heal,
Hyper revive,
Hyper resurrect...
Hyper the gentle voice of a child,
Hyper the voice of one or more,
Hyper oxidant and execration Dream,
Forty enough the magnitude of our crypt in Heaven,
So as being take a path,
So I'll get my hands icy missing 33 to gather the meditations I dare tell me, something lost in life not knowing what else I have to live and let me do it.
Thunderclap and thunders and lightning sound come,
Big thing altogether deafening even today not having ears...
As I said, every Easter to come hear me the white birds and I sing psalms growth of my crypt, my great all inclusive resort for all to visit me in my large crypt, in my renovated say ...
Declaim to stand without getting tired, just hearing 40 and 33.
Easter, World Holy, Holy Word ...holy Eternity...
Jose Luis, Easter 2018.
Majoris Hebdomadae Mundus Deo
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
L.O.L.
How great is your expectations toward me.
No acquaintance
No Relation
My mere existance provokes criticism
Child of the new age
Much is required of you
The bar is set very low
Rise up its time
Centre your stage
Valuable gems come tumbling down from your lips, hips and your tippy toed tango
Come on strong
Declaim
Declare
Frame
No time to gasp
Talk sense
Arise Oh Suffragette
Exist to Emancipate
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
Our temperate country roasts and burns flesh
with Apple devices cheerfully
advising that the temperature is
currently a three dicey digit affair
walk in the 100 degree overheating
atmosphere, where sluggish slugs,
once mobile New Yorkers, search and save shady places that proffer
a handful of degrees relief from the
brutalist sun, who was heard smirking after a wet Juno,
"oh yeah,
I'm back baby with the vengeance
of a squalling and squabbling infant!"
and to harmonize on our lack of immunity from the terrors of weather, and yes, it's still June, the quiet nighttime skies awake us a thunderous slapping of sheeted rain, squalling and squabbling,
rat-a-tat large caliber bullet/droplets drilling holes in our
template temples expecting early
morning serenity;
the Newspaper rags in search of pithy witty declaim:
Rainstorms To Crack The Heat Dome In NYC
neglecting the cracking of tempest tossed tempers,
furthy discombobulated composure
of forced sheltering in place
more, again, uhh,
as if parched thirst or drowning are a choice
ok rant over!
the displeasure was all mine
Jul 15, 2025
Jul 15, 2025 at 4:30 PM UTC
Watch what the pedant swine does- whose gargling
fills the Scabbards. Those near men who nestle in
with peers and well heeled cogs, Laced and misshapen
by all the verdant narcotics of the Time. For all to see
they'll Stand and declaim clotted regurgitations of
promises already Framed.
Their attire in constant lave, and limbs Strung up by
the unnatural- Their throats lined thickly to the teeth,
of figments and cruor, and the fiction they spiel forever
a plush Decor.
For, you see, all but few buy what they Sell- counterfeit
talk stocked pretentiously upon shelves. And all speedily
Corked fit in viewing eyes, plugged into those who've not
the time to Reason why? Bought in bulk- a Politician plying
his delicately chosen words.
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 7:41 AM UTC
HOW NOT TO SWEAR WHEN ONE IS SWEARING
After I hit it
with a hammer
my old thumb takes on
a now cartoonish character
pulses and throbs
grows biggerandbiggerANDBIGGER.
My three year old
gasps in astonishment
that an adult would/could
do such a silly silly thing.
"Bold Daddy!" she scolds "Bold Daddy!"
My mind screams in silence but
my tongue longs
to utter in the demotic
a good old fashioned Anglo-Saxon
ffffffffffFFFFFFF...word!
I somehow( don't
ask me how )
gaze into my little one's
baby blues
delete the expletive
carefully in slow motion
substitute the first
thing that pops into the mind
the first( as it happens )
of Mr. Joyce's thunderwords.
None of Eliot's
" Shantih shantih shantih "
I had the presence of mind to
"Finnegans Wake" it!
"BABABADALGHARAGHTAKAMMINARRONNKONNBRONN
TONNERRONNTUONNTHUNNTROVARRHOUNAWNSKAN
TOOHOOHOORDENENTHURNUK!"
"Funny Daddy!" she chortles "Funny Daddy!"
Now whenever things
go wrong and
they will go wrong
( as sure as words is words )
she begs me
to "...do the thunder!"
Waits for her little
bit part so she can
chime in with her
". . .TOOHOOHOO..."
and I gather her up
in my arms and we
both declaim
as one
". . .THURNUK!"
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 4:48 PM UTC
". . .THE WONDROUS ARCHITECTURE OF THE WORLDE. . . ."
I laugh
the road over the Hog's Back
closed because....it melted
was the sun ever so
back in your day
eh Kit?
and what do I read
Mr. Marlowe?
why words, Kit, words
that word magician
Dr. Burgess he presumes
to bring you back
to life again
and so it seems
I see your blood Kit
streaming in the firmament
nay only a Deptford sunset
dragged screaming from memory
your blood upon the page Kit...
mere cherry juice it
stains the words
and so to Deptford I
do go
thanks to Madame Remembrance
I a poor
purveyor of poetry
clutching at words
and here
a great reckoning
not in a little room
but on a lost street
staining the scene
a sickly yellow
and so enough
of Prologue...
Act 1 begins
a smiling ruffian
see his knife smiles too
the blade eager for blood
alas I
in so much pain I
have no fear of death
indeed would welcome
the flicked knife
if it would release me
from my life
a man prepared
to die if it be so
"Come live with me and be
my love..." I doth quote
in my best Passionate Shepard
"Wot?" he wots
scared of my insouciance
the ghost of Marlowe by my side
ahhh he the very villian
a scar from eye to smile
he aims to do the same to me
"Where, rogue... did
they get thee?" I mock
"VILLIANS 'R' US?"
Marlowe's ghost laughs
"Aye lad...aye lad
to him!"
"Only one of us..."
I warn my hellhound
"....will come out of this alive!"
I pause for effect
"And I'm afraid
it won't be( hee hee ) thee!"
I take a determined step
towards my would-be
now trembling killer
who all this wordage
being too much for him
he flees
ahhh the glint of words
defeats the glint of steel
he my would-be-not-to-be-death
"What God or Feend, or spirit of the earth,
Or Monster turned to manly shape
Or of what mould or mettle he be made...?"
I declaim to an audience
of cats and cans and
other streetly filth
I...I. . .unable to
find the next line
and so I etc., etc., etc.
and once more
I am of Guildford yet again
30 years or more away
and there melts a road
upon the Hog's Back
and I laugh to be alive
"Doth teach vs all to have aspyring mindes:
Our soules, whose faculties can comprehend
The wondrous architecture of the worlde.."
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 5:04 AM UTC
Who cares?
A daily hunger
that doesn't show.
Who cares?
A daily trip into that gag,
banished by reproach.
Who cares?
A daily path of reach
and retreat, retreat.
Who cares?
Who'd notice
if I'd not be there?
I don't care.
I've rested my case
and refuse to declaim.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC
CECI N'EST PAS UN... poème!
It's always
the same
the adverbs
blame the adjectives
the adjectives
the nouns
and the nouns
the verbs
for the imminent
collapse of this poem
The images declaim
we're not to blame.
The rhyme just
buggers off.
The figurative language
can't be bothered to get
up of their ar..
A senile simile smiles
wistfully
in a to be or not
to be voice.
The metaphors
have gone on strike.
Oh for Gawd's sake
doesn't anybody know
wot de !%&*
they're !%&* doing
I ask
using the demotic.
There is a sudden silence...
all that is to be
heard outside
a weeping willow
weeps for me.
How pathetic can one poem
get?
No...don't answer that
it was a rhetorical question!
The words all
look to me
to pass
sentence. . .
I tell them
that's it
( there is a collective
moan )
I'm calling this poem
- off!
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 7:49 AM UTC
The waters slowly recede
From shore, from sand
From coast and land
As the chill wind's blow
Grasps the calm of night
And every fading light's glow
Reflects the rising tide
This hurling wall of death
Unstoppable, with all its rage
Spared no bated breath,
It strikes unforeseen, into a sleepy town
And gushes into barricaded homes
As both opulent and poor fall down
Tearing every hope and gentle tone
The heavens yield and cry
As anguished screams erupted
From both earth and sky
It sweeps away every memory
Those stolen lives had held dear
For none could flee but only fear
The embrace of this surging sea
As dawn begins to stir and rise
It meets the bitter, poignant eyes
While they seek for their life and love
They strive to deny the truth
For the wave had washed their dreams afar,
the debris and loss did declaim
That nature's wrath had left its scar
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
Vouchsafest Thou?
Do you enjoy the word "vouchsafe" as much
As I? It isn't as musical as the phrase
"Thence forward," or “joylich,” “leman,” and such
Or "confusticate," - who says that these days?
“Wherefore,” “abroche,” let us now celebrate
“Antic” English words: “aforetime,” “perforce”
“Slowcoach,” “freshet”, “befall” - at this late date?
And dear “daffadowndilley” (but of course!)
“Declaim,” “forsooth,” “marchwarden,” and “descry,”
And let us not forget the sweet “day’s-eye!”
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 9:39 PM UTC
". . .THE WONDROUS ARCHITECTURE OF THE WORLDE. . "
I laugh
the road over the Hog's Back
closed because....it melted
was the sun ever so
back in your day
eh Kit?
and what do I read
Mr. Marlowe?
why words, Kit, words
that word magician
Dr. Burgess he presumes
to bring you back
to life again
and so it seems
I see your blood Kit
streaming in the firmament
nay only a Deptford sunset
dragged screaming from memory
your blood upon the page Kit...
mere cherry juice it
stains the words
and so to Deptford I
do go
thanks to Madame Remembrance
I a poor
purveyor of poetry
clutching at words
and here
a great reckoning
not in a little room
but on a lost street
staining the scene
a sickly yellow
and so enough
of Prologue...
Act 1 begins
a smiling ruffian
see his knife smiles too
the blade eager for blood
alas I
in so much pain I
have no fear of death
indeed would welcome
the flicked knife
if it would release me
from my life
a man prepared
to die if it be so
"Come live with me and be
my love..." I doth quote
in my best Passionate Shepard
"Wot?" he wots
scared of my insouciance
the ghost of Marlowe by my side
ahhh he the very villian
a scar from eye to smile
he aims to do the same to me
"Where, rogue... did
they get thee?" I mock
"VILLIANS 'R' US?"
Marlowe's ghost laughs
"Aye lad...aye lad
to him!"
"Only one of us..."
I warn my hellhound
"....will come out of this alive!"
I pause for effect
"And I'm afraid
it won't be( hee hee ) thee!"
I take a determined step
towards my would-be
now trembling killer
who all this wordage
being too much for him
he flees
ahhh the glint of words
defeats the glint of steel
he my would-be-not-to-be-death
"What God or Feend, or spirit of the earth,
Or Monster turned to manly shape
Or of what mould or mettle he be made...?"
I declaim to an audience
of cats and cans and
other streetly filth
I...I. . .unable to
find the next line
and so I etc., etc., etc.
and once more
I am of Guildford yet again
30 years or more away
and there melts a road
upon the Hog's Back
and I laugh to be alive
"Doth teach vs all to have aspyring mindes:
Our soules, whose faculties can comprehend
The wondrous architecture of the worlde.."
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 2:52 PM UTC