"declarations" poems
A flawless red curve of
Seductive lips
Your bold tongue
On the cusp of mine
I savor your words
Reckless declarations
Breathed down my throat
Slashing my soul
A wound that won’t heal
Exposed to the memory of
**********
Memories that make it my ruin
The way you wrenched my heart
Racked my mind
Molested my soul
The desolation you left me with
When you were done
I look for Pink
To comfort and inspire
My emotional essence
You will see if you
Look into my eyes.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
I wish for you to see me...
Alone in my room.
Singing,writing about you.
Crying,begging darkness.
Throwing notes,paintings,
Watching our memories rain down.
Covering my floor in
Tear-drenched declarations of love.
Watch me prove predictions,
I said,
without you, I'd be dead.'
Save me...
You're the only one watching.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
I though he carried the light
where words would illuminate
driving me to a euphoric ******
a man without a face or a trace
unhindered in a double live and lies
a bubble of psychotic psychic surety
his passion was an addiction
my reservations moved a notch
addicted to a body of ideology
the stances of philosophical terms
uncovering ancient possibilities
the unfelt mysteries of history
veiled in icicles of pretence and lies
as if a Marxist, a closet bourgeoise
The stoicism of present bargains
questioning Socrates and morality reasons
a fatal dose ,examining the unexamined
as colourful as his mind blew my inner glow
he was lost in sad and low dialogues
afraid to face the earthly shallow shadows
yet his spirits moved deep within mine
and it paralysed and fed on my energy
and his delusion became my seduction
but he woke my inner poetic tongue
letting it caress all his inner wounds
A shadow hiding behind Frankenstein’s
a sly monster who lied to my eyes
ghosting in with the a pen that weakens
romancing with letters of a fiery doom
a penpal whom I met within my lowest
but whose words lay in a deep unending quarry
his warmth I could never ever tell
his kiss only a draft on the dewy grass
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 5:29 PM UTC
Fifty years of peace,
Not always been bliss,
But they've all been filled with hope,
Seeing things get dope ;)
Going up the slope,
Christian nation,
So proud of this declaration,
But it doesn't mean other religions we can not allow,
There's always been freedom of worship even upto now.
Mother Zambia,indeed you're as peaceful as a mother,
Interesting and vibrant like a brother,
Loving as a sister.
Free from disaster,
Blessed are you among all nations,
These are my simple declarations,
That you shall exceed,
Greatness you shall supersede,
As I continue to intercede,
For your eventual success
You shall stand out in the masses.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
One fleeting chance to catch you between trapezes
Yet my head was bowed, my thoughts immersed
In another dream of another life that i longed to live
A moments lapse careers you to that downward spiral
Through all those safety nets, all those webs we wove
Once so secure borne from our labour, love and toil
Exposed now like a promise of night through a civil dawn
As you fall through each of my declarations of trust
You blow out the candles and knock out the lights
Of celebrations and occasions now shattered like glass
Blackness descending through this never blinking eye
As those moments and time perpetually relive yet resist
The blood still refusing to flow freely through my veins
As i sit and wait for this evening coffee to run cold
That i may embrace the sanctuary of night once more
For I was one that could never dream in the dark
No more than one who could ever make amends
Between those two trapezes that signaled our end
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 5:54 PM UTC
I want to whisk you away
Hold her hand like it's the only thing anchoring you to this planet
Let her wear your jacket (she likes the way it smells)
Tell her she's beautiful
Not hot.
Not ****
Lot's of girls love themselves from the shoulders on down
Don't make the same mistake
Serenade her with corny declarations of love
I wish I lived in your socks, so I could be with you every step of the way
When life gets hard for her
Do you have a band-aid? Because I think I scraped my knee falling in love with you
When believing you love her gets hard for her
You should be a baker, because your buns are perfect
When looking in the mirror gets hard for her
Let's play Titanic: You be the iceberg, and I'll go down
When you get hard for her
Kiss her on the forehead (but only if you're tall enough to do so easily)
Worship her personality in front of friends
Worship her mind in front of parents
Worship her body in private
Worship her body in public when no one's looking
Never let her go to bed without hearing I love you
Tie her shoe for her
Wrap your arms around her when she cries
Don't be her Prince Charming
Don't be her Knight in Shining Armor
Be the WHOLE **** KINGDOM
Be her best-friend, boyfriend, and bed-buddy
Don't be a baby: let her take pictures of you
Remember- every touch makes her heart race
Make her heart race
Then whisk her away
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 6:25 PM UTC
I
This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.
II
Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.
III
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers' declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.
IV
Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston's or Crawford's:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
4.7k
The Physics of Love: The Equivalency Fallacy
the poet places his Sunday porcelain coffee mug
upon his bare chest, purposed to heat the heart to a
higher degree, equal to hers, next door, three feet away,
in their communal bed
two identical alarm clocks, one on each nightstand,
confirms the degree differential, for far beyond time-telling,
it informs on me, providing the room temperature,
and her side of the bed, 5 degrees warmer
the collegial scientists posit theoretical excuses,
the rooms wind currents, proximity to the A/C, body mass,
all refuted after visual and mechanical inspection,
all indelible proofs of the Equivalency Fallacy
despite the visual evidence abounding all around,
despite the surrounding starlike quantity of busted,
love songs, poems and the other artistic churn,
depicting the principle, one requires love physics to validate the
living principle for the living, that love is rarely identical
in quantitative quality, typology, representation and
manifestations measurable
each greets the other with morning declarations of
mutuality, trying to find those hundred different ways
to love her/him today, employing imaginative artifice to proof
the impossibility, that in every aspect your living love ability
is precious capital precision equal
and ha! each love is the greater...
you knew this?
then you knew, his coffee spills (intentionally?) and the
Fighting Fallacy rules,
every thing is fair in love and war, for they too, are
identical and equal, in so many ways,
but never quantifiable exactly
8:33am, 73 degrees, on my side
11/12/17
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 8:45 AM UTC
The owl and the ***** cat***
Were out having tea
After a simple beach side walk
The owl took out a guitar
And sang to kitty brash, kneeled
Before her Crimson chair
A sweet romantic ballad it was
Yet ***** cat was too busy
Observing owl and noticing
What a dainty meal he'd make.
Interrupting his declarations
She stole him away
Under the starry midnight sky
Whereupon in the woods
Her claws she unsheathed
And silenced his poetic display
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 5:30 AM UTC
Wound up a rubber bands
Balsa airplanes high on a breeze
Dandelion wishes
Wildflower **** bouquets
Squeals carried on the wind
A lazy swing in the warmth
Never ending declarations of love
With the sweetest of all smiles
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
The teamwork we use
transcends anything
and everything I know.
Despite our sometimes
polar opposite views
the connection does show.
All the loud and bold
declarations you make
teach people to live.
All the simple and kind
motivation I offer
teach people to give.
How can two people
that have different views
be such a good team?
Well, that's because
the one thing we do share
is our ability to dream.
The way our union
works is so complex,
that it's hard to comprehend.
But I'm so grateful
that I know you and
have you as a friend.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 3:28 PM UTC
I come from sunshine.
Sunshine thick enough to form a blanket over tanned skin
And African insects that bite to live,
Empty stomachs and full hearts
And dancing in the sand before the sunset.
I come from winter.
Where the drunkards freeze in streetways
And there is hot stew for dinner
And my grandmother is a young girl who loves the way the sky turns dark so early,
And sugar sandwiches.
I come from rain.
The different personalities of the sky
Whether Big Ben is spitting on you or weeping for you
And the grey matches the bags under our eyes,
Where everyone is always moving.
Everyone has a place to go to.
I come from love.
Declarations too many years ago, and
The way a story sets my stomach alight
And holding a loved one in your arms
Holding a pet in your arms
And listening for the one verse where one phrase puts the planets back in orbit.
I come from anger.
Thrown against my own kind,
Born for another,
And internal screams that writhe beneath skin,
And the injustice of the person that didn't win
And a history blacker than the same skin it burned with no remorse,
Righteous anger that was never right
And a growing frustration at the living.
I come from destruction.
The sound that trees make when they break under the caress of steel teeth
And the way that houses grow where forests died
The pictures of animals that used to breathe
And a pollution so thick it has turned my blood to sludge.
I come from an hourglass
And clocks,
A repetitive countdown,
A marathon or sponsored run
And the last stretch.
I come from blue.
And green.
And the black that means nothing,
Space
And a planet revolving
Repeating.
Revolving.
Repeating.
Revolve.
Repeat.
Then end.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
1
in the fish market of religions
and faiths
and suppositions and declarations
and fierce revelations
much of the commerce is done
on the principle:
*Who shouts loudest
and shouts longest
and shouts often-est
gets to empty the most pockets
of bewildered customers*
(You always empty their minds
first)
2
You never lose in this fish market
Even the quiet ones
the ones of mild manners and timid ways
can trawl a good number
of faithful customers
3
You can sell fresh fables
or smelly old tales –
they are all good commerce
4
Of course some slap you
right in the face
with their fish:
That too seems to catch customers…
I think you stun them with one blow
and they remain stunted all their lives
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 5:11 AM UTC
Man becomes woman woman becomes man
headline dictation that makes you understand
but what's this? The scene goes beyond extremes,
the black/white photograph is of color underneath.
But **** me, I'm being erratic. I'm standing on tables
shouting so your disdain's automatic. What's up with
this new fad? Uhmurika never had it this bad. We have
a literal metric ton of whining millennials wanting to be
special snowflakes. Man, who could take all of this social
pressure? Being held accountable for a miserable, literal lack
of knowledge about the world around us? Man, definitely not
for me. But seriously, bro, did you get your **** cut off? What's
up bro, **** you get your **** sewn on? That ******* ***** lacks
a ****** That motha ***** lacks the design that gives him a similar
package when his blood pressure rises. Don't talk to me about feelings
before you've had the operation -- because before you've done that step
it's better if you don't implore my empathy or patience because you're
just not real, I won't feel the weight of your complaints and frustrations.
Matter of fact, for you, ess jay dub, my emotional core's on vacation.
Leave me alone with your dialogue.
Discourse is not for me.
Leave me alone with your dialogue.
How do you prefer to ***
Is it this hard to admit to your audience there's something else outside
yourself? I can see how defining the lines with alacrity makes it easier
to breathe the air you breathe to stay alive. It must be nice to stand tall
and be you and not have to bray declarations of self to stay confident
and true to the compass. Walking is all it ever takes you yet when I say,
"Actually [...]" it's enough to make you think it's me getting in your face
with another liberal lecture, but I'm just keeping real straightforward
about which terms I prefer in our vernacular. Shut up, you **** up, we
advocate for your finish, only requiring you fit into our premise.
Leave me alone with your dialogue.
Discourse is just not for me.
Leave me alone with your dialogue.
How do you prefer to ***
I just think it's best to have some canned material
in case you need it.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
Religion is a striving of the finite to reach out to the infinite.
Religion is a source from which to obtain moral discipline
Religion is a meeting place to find those on the same path.
Religion is a common reference point for moral and ethical discourse.
Religion is a social tool to bring remembrance and deliberate actions into our daily life.
Religion is a description of actions, not a title.
Religion is action, not declarations.
Religion is a more perfect person, not a more perfect doctrine.
Religion is a tool, not an idol.
Religion is a means, not an end.
Religion is a path to God, not a god in itself.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC
അ** Getting closer, to the just bloomed flower
that bewitched him in an instant,
the honey bee gets intoxicated
by the web of love,
the sweet flower threw around,
it felt more like a gentle caress
to which his heart jumped!
He starts to do an ecstatic dance,
never thought he could,
till this sweet moment arrived,
merely touching her soft petals
he flies high as if to proclaim his pleasure
buzzing a new tune he composed
for this special moment,
he circles the flower
as if to adore her beauty
form all possible angles
making the moments of love
so special for them both..
ആ** A butterfly enchanted by the flower,next
has a dance of love so different,
he would flit around and hover above
adore her beauty in a more relaxed pace,
he appreciates her silence to his soft declarations,
his love songs have no words, on air written
by the sprightly moves of his colorful wings,
he knows she loves it and his dance tells it all.
Like a kite on the waves of wind, he bobs on air
gently descending,looking at her eyes.
ഇ** The tailor bird who never misses
mother nature's children all,big and small,
in their myriad ways of loving and living
watches what's going on,
without batting an eye lid,
she has a doubt
"Who among these
lovers are more intense?"
she thinks aloud.**
ഈ** The sonorous singer,
Bulbul watching it all
from the hanging branch
of a Champak, flowered in
riotous profusion answers:
ഉ "Both are poets, no doubt,
of distinction too,
each of their deeds
spontaneous demonstrates,
with hearts full of love
they wave poetry around us
in ways ingenious
paired with flowers.
why compare them?
Mother nature's brush
dexterous paints each one of us
with such loving care and kindness
to infuse celebratory spirit,to the world,
never forget that,learn from the bees and butterflies."*
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
you are essentially an object to me.
no one dare invent words that pick and **** and litter our ears
with shards of doubt, dismissive declarations.
the victorious are those who cover their ears and screen their eyes from
someone else's misery: bruised knuckles and a wall that wouldn't budge.
but all I see is a woman crumpled on the floor, her pride
posed like a crow on a branch in the open window frame,
mocking her failing strength and shattered resolve;
someone's fist tingles with accomplishment
for putting that Thing in her place,
close to her true place,
on the shelf
she dusts and polishes fastidiously,
lest he call her out on her "half-assed attempt,"
no one dare invent words
that limit little girls to the plastic boxes
for their plastic dolls
with plastic smiles.
when the seed grows buds,
that become flourishing leaves on a solid stem,
reaching up, up, up
can they see me yet?
but all they want is the fruit.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
Every day the cards were played
Everyday you lost
I won.
Every day you’d come back
With declarations of future success,
And when proved false you’d smile,
All lopsided and sheepish,
With a “next time perhaps”
And now your gone.
And next time won’t come.
I guess I won after all.
You always said
I was a queen of diamonds
But my dear,
You were the Ace of hearts.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 2:42 AM UTC
let us consider
declarations of independence
as remedies
for election ills..
democracy has been
deadened
by flows of money
reaching ego ends..
competing parties mirroring
yet exaggerating differences
knowing one and all
precious power is the prize..
independence
allows consciousness to
arise at last..
good then is found
in left and right
shadow enclosing both..
paradox rules oppositions
and detachment soothes
the din of boisterous claims..
new freedom
brings new strength..
money flows
lose direction when
feedback polls confuse..
and democracy then
may deliver promise
once again...
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 5:35 PM UTC
Of that cold spring day when our hands froze
Clutching cones of your favorite strawberry ice cream
Of the following warm summer day when my favorite
Chocolate ice cream coated our tongues
Of that day we escaped our classes
And found ourselves held captive
By the soft cherry ice
With nuts on top
Of bubblegum sonnets, of almond praline declarations of love
Of fig and honey serenades
With soft coffee angels singing in the back
And cookie cream cherubs whispering in our ears.
Of the best first taste.
Of the worst last lick.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 12:06 PM UTC
I still think of you
when I hear a song that moves me
And wonder what it would follow
on the tape I wish I could make you.
This is the standing stone
on an emotional landscape
that has changed as fast as technology,
seen music shift from soulfood
to occasional backdrop
and solitary teenage bedrooms morph
to joyful family homes (thank God).
I wouldn't go back -
but here's a song, unexpected, blissful
which can't quite touch me as it should
Because I can't press 'record',
watch the reels go round
and imagine you listening
when the tape crosses the country
and fetches up at your front door.
No more padded envelopes
nor blotted biro liner notes;
no more declarations hidden in plain sight
in ninety minutes of love
I knew no other way to send.
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 3:02 PM UTC
I’ve wasted all my money on ****
again.
I don’t even like it, the stench, the habit, the headaches,
the fake smiles, declarations of “I’m so high”, I’m done.
I’m done splattering my guts in the morning
displaying my vulnerabilities to the world,
the world of 275 girls. I just can’t seem to find
the acceptance I want,
but don’t deserve. what I need is a pill to forget
who I am and what I’ve done, because I haven’t done enough.
**** kids my age travel to Tajikistan, hack government websites,
cure complex diseases in their sleep.
I just lay on my futon, plop dvds into my Mac,
and waste my life away.
another day wasted, staring into a screen. which reminds me
I also waste too much money on dvds,
while my Netflix account remains untouched.
could I be anymore of an abomination,
with my tattooed skin, and pierced face,
cutting the crusts off of my bread. as mementos of my past
seep into my mind, I wonder
when I’ll see the starting line,
or if it’s already left me behind.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 2:37 AM UTC
I don't know what Jonas has been preaching,
There's a pigmie on the roof
And claymores in the kitchen.
I never rejected nothing
Cept when I was dazed and dazed and confused and confused
If I wanted to leave
I would use the door I saved for later
That leads out into the void.
I need to take a day away
Or breakdown and watch Casablanca all day long...
Because I thought it was a forever song I was singing,
But I'm out of tune,
And my rheumy eyes are liars,
And I want to christen my great granddaughter
But I'll be dead...
I just wanted my declarations to resound,
But in a town of disrespect
Chain link fences make for noisy neighbors.
I have every bit of it on the line for YOU.
I'll drop it,
But it will stand on end,
Like a trick quarter.
Four in the morning
Forty five caliber bullets blasting
I found myself in the backseat
Of a burned up police car.
Every thing is rotten,
Except the infantine seamstress
Who doesn't come out anymore,
Because you scar(r)ed her.
I just wish I could eat a bag of salt brine soaked
Ballpark peanuts, shells and all without having a **** stroke.
I wish I could, smoke, without Jiminy Cricket, calling my doctor,
And the red squad arriving with the straight jackets,
And the bear mace.
I can't project the rigght radiation,
I get that, but its not for lack of dying.
So this is my death letter, to be read to my reincarnated infant self
Twenty three times, by twenty four different people,
I want a life size wax model of Eeivel Keneival
To throw rice at me thrice
Once for each marriage,
But on the third throw wild rice
Because that is what I think of when I think of you.
The burglar ate my begging strips
And the ravenous dog
Is getting impatient....
I've seen the truth in the darkness of the soldier core.
Why not open the gate to abracadabra land,
Give me a list of your one thousand forms
In code of course,
And I will pay the piper
So he can finally change this doggone song.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 6:56 AM UTC
By accepting the terms of this agreement, you represent and warrant that you have the capacity to love.
Any similarity to a previous love is circumstantial; this love is not affiliated with other loves.
We assume no responsibility for for the shortcomings of prior loves;
we do, however, assume all responsibility for any loss, error, or communication failure incurred while in possession of this love.
It is, after all, love.
Love is available as is; no specific results are promised.
If you are at all unhappy, you are encouraged to return love.
If you find love to be damaged or defective, well, it's love.
Slight imperfections are to be expected, and add to the character of love.
Love may occasionally send you poems, letters, or declarations of its continuance. If you wish to opt out of this correspondence, you may cancel your account at any time.
The service may be temporarily unavailable from time to time; this may be due to maintenance, or periods of reflection. It in no way implies or forecasts termination of love, unless specifically stated so.
By accepting this agreement, you agree not to abuse love by acting in a manner inconsistent with the provisions listed above.
(please say yes)
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 2:19 PM UTC