"declaimed" poems
it ain't easy, when you relate, restrict and delegate,
when you draw a narrow lane on a highway that says
only left footed
poets need apply
<>
it does not say
**slow cars stay to the right,
only trucks,
or oddly even,
no trucks**
I love seasonality,
without thickly thinking
you take a break
from the poetry writing
one day I'll figure out a way
to monetize my love poems,
publish them as Shakespeare's couple(t)s,
"new edition plus
a couple of
newfound poems!"
maybe some fools will buy some thinking Shakespeare has been, resurrected!
*love grows goes hot all over and
grow slower older
and grow colder,
in between those fine
ticklish teasing moments*
when the miracle of resurrection repeats itself
something is said
a gesture is made
a finger strokes the cheek,
unexpected
and it all comes
rushing back again,
overfilling
that coffee cup mug she bought
just(ice)
for you
*ain't gonna check how long it's been
since last I declaimed, disclaimed,
inflamed,
these pages with an only love poem
but I do know this:
it is something I think about,
It is something I know about,
it is something I feel about
daily
even on the nothing days,
when routine takes over
I know you couldn't remember of its passage,
is the waking up and the lying down to sleep*
but the poets eyes are always open his emotive secret senses,
always alert,
what's that thing they always say,
his heart just wasn't in it!
(🥴if they only knew the truth😘)
Jun 25, 2025
Jun 25, 2025 at 6:04 PM UTC
soul brothers from other mothers,
fellow city dwellers,
one up downtown
one down uptown,
fellow riders,
of the underground
of the by-NY-ways
of America
we met years ago ruminating on poetry,
late one night/early one morn,
just like us,
there is no difference,
call the hour what you want,
we spoke one language,
long long ago
in the early days here at HP
the I, lion of gray stumbled on me,
with a smiling, stunning midnight crosstown compliment,
kindred instant
he stole
my breath, with work that..
declaimed notions of
quiet unshouted artistry excellent
and a new appetite was birthed
in my head, in my bed
one night
the young black man-father and the
aging white-grandfather
so little in common,
but in the early morn,
we both haunt the hallways
of the city of poetry,
speaking the poetry of the city,
where blood is but
two colors
black and white,
like the poem words we share
that you are now eye-reading
and
in our torn,
but not yet shredded country,
we find ways to speak
I am long done, past being the past,
he is the dapper father of the future
and the river boundaries we share,
on different sides
are lines of connection
not demarcation
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
countless generations of bards and preachers
and poets and sages
and honorable and revered members
of our respectable societies
countless such generations
have spoken and declaimed
have sung and serenaded
on goodness and cruelty and avarice -
and yet put them in power,
and scrutinize their lives
and their words
become thin
and their lives shallow
and their songs are cherubic lies;
a long line of saints and philosophers
and prophets
and mild-mannered selfless carers
ah such holy stewards
a long line indeed
has nurtured humanity, its sick and downtrodden
and radiates love in all directions
but oh scrutinize their actions and
their motives
their lives are but comic contradictions
pathetic self-delusion;
ah, let me not seek to change the world
but see to myself first
rather than jump into
hot-air sermons and vain exhibitions
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 2:14 AM UTC
Night after Night,
Day after Day,
He declaimed the words
he'd been given to say.
His costumes selected,
Each cue prearranged,
Little freedom of movement
Just a pawn in the game.
Each move blocked and taped.
The audience roared
at the droll repartee
he had heard oft before.
His understudy waits,
like all of his kind.
For the day he would falter
and be left behind
Beatrice and Benedict
time after time
No chance in a million
of forgetting his lines.
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 10:21 PM UTC
Without melodies in words,
we modify the wonderful daydream
which one day we doubted exist.
So, sweat drips slowly by the body
until touching in this drought surface.
Outside, the cold embrace us strongly,
and drops under the skin become,
again, sudden wishes.
Know that even though I have done
several trips inside this place,
I feel ready to go for real;
forgetting all the anguishes.
During sleep which city had,
a pale face was watching me.
And it was fragility of its eyes
which captivated me, and once,
it was the tenderness in its voice
which woke me up.
The anxiety invaded our minds,
making us die of melancholy.
This is so stunning
which I lose myself in life
while I try to live it.
However, your sighs finished
and I heard someone talking next to me:
'a little caress would do well.'
Declaimed the wild heart
which long time it felt lonely
for never having been treated with sincerity.
They taught us
this form of love,
now we depend on it.
They prepared us
to support all,
except our own feelings.
They promised us something different,
but my eyes only see
the monotony which the world's become.
Such love came too fast
and with it an irreparable pain.
We should have lived longer
before dying in the dark.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
I
Write parnassian verses under my skin,
because today I don't want something meaningful,
but detailed and rational.
I'll be impassible, but objective.
Nobody was never as memorable as you,
maybe for having been someone sincere.
So sincere that even I recall your poems:
loose phrases in old papers.
I feel like we've never met
when suddenly we began
to seek perfection of words.
I feel like we've been lost
inside a world
which doesn't value us.
II
Write symbolist verses under my skin,
because today I don't want something realist,
but dreamlike and mysterious.
I'll be suggestive, but subjetive.
Nobody was never as sentimental as you,
maybe for having been someone crazy.
So crazy that even I admire your lack of lucidity,
declaimed by sung verses.
I feel like we've never met
when suddenly we began
to reject our own reality.
I feel like we've been lost
inside a world
which doesn't satisfy us.
III
There's no perfection in those verses
just like there are no colors in that life.
And I feel like we've been lost
when, in fact, we've been free,
because we're freer
when we're alone.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 2:04 PM UTC
i see people
they’re wearing those sneakers
i’m wearing those sneakers too
but i first saw them laced
upon my music saviors feet
in 1980 something
and not on the pretty girl's
her poetry is sad
i throw my head in the voice’s direction
i sigh
when the girl who mourns for consolation
claims ownership
they think she’s specials
beautiful broken
deep as the sea
i wonder if i seem just like her
i wish there was something special
i touched your back
as you cried
because i wished for your repair
you didn't feel it between all the other's
as they touched your back
filled with curiousness
searching for a cause of your woe
you declaimed your hate of the world
to me
i sat beside you
grasping your words
tossing them between the fingers of my thoughts
they sat beside you
anticipating their next turn to speak
and what that would lump consists of
feeling only a fraction of apprehension for your words
you thank them for listening
and not me
i wish the world turned on genuine intent
now it feels wrong and mixed up
to exist as i do
despite assumable unawareness
i understand them
i have no right to say this anyways
i’m scared because
i’m probably just like them
and maybe they’re just like me
everyone is different
are we though?
maybe we all have the same soul
just different comprehensions and articulation
i’m scared because
i’ll never know
i cant explain half the things i feel
nobody can explain half the things they feel
maybe i’m wrong about it all
we're all so small
it doesn't matter that we wear the same shoes
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
papers, a fire ripped
them in halves & thirds
poets, with a quiet complaisance
were scarcely producing a grin
they were glad about the fire's
wild presence
together around it
the last pieces of memory
were declaimed
in a rowdy choir
papers, burnt to ashes
covered dead poets society
no one was breathing
or noising
though in the air the life was alive,
herself shouting
"the poets laughed
with the hope that
their masterpieces will not be used
to make fun of people anymore"
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 6:11 PM UTC
It is a bet against the world-the
Authority of its reality; and all of
Life leads to a final confrontation.
Standing up with the soul's last
Breath; standing up to pain and
Declaimed with hell heaped upon
Your grave for not repenting and
Yet you stand because you must
Saying in your being that : Do what
You will I will rise again from this
Earth and in it be. Oh death be
Not proud. My wager stands.
I was before and after will be.
Nor shall I brag of this for I am
The commonest of men and shall
Not speak more of it when I return.
I will not forget that I am always
When I come again my Father's
Child I will not remember death
Nor believe the world that it is so
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 1:29 PM UTC
Gwerful Mechain - (1460 - 1502)
The female genitals
Every foolish drunken poet,
boorish vanity without ceasing,
(never may I warrant it,
I of great noble stock,)
has always declaimed fruitless praise
in song of the girls of the lands
all day long, certain gift,
most incompletely, by God the Father:
praising the hair, gown of fine love,
and every such living girl,
and lower down praising merrily
the brows above the eyes;
praising also, lovely shape,
the smoothness of the soft *******
and the beauty's arms, bright drape,
she deserved honour, and the girl's hands.
Then with his finest wizardry
before night he did sing,
he pays homage to God's greatness,
fruitless eulogy with his tongue:
leaving the middle without praise
and the place where children are conceived,
and the warm **** clear excellence,
tender and fat, bright fervent broken circle,
where I loved, in perfect health,
the **** below the smock.
You are a body of boundless strength,
a faultless court of fat's plumage.
I declare, the **** is fair,
circle of broad-edged lips,
it is a valley longer than a spoon or a hand,
a ditch to hold a ***** two hands long;
**** there by the swelling ****
song's table with its double in red.
And the bright saints, men of the church,
when they get the chance, perfect gift,
don't fail, highest blessing,
by Beuno, to give it a good feel.
For this reason, thorough rebuke,
all you proud poets,
let songs to the **** circulate
without fail to gain reward.
Sultan of an ode, it is silk,
little seam, curtain on a fine bright ****
***** in a place of greeting,
the sour grove, it is full of love,
very proud forest, faultless gift,
tender frieze, fur of a fine pair of testicles,
a girl's thick grove, circle of precious greeting,
lovely bush, God save it.
Dec 14, 2019
Dec 14, 2019 at 9:45 PM UTC