"denotes" poems
This little man that I know with money in his sockets and routine in his pockets has self proclaimed that he is a tight *** When I envision a *** such as this, I imagine a bundle -- of securely aggregated, perfectly sharpened number two pencils. The businessman just shy of adulthood and too tired to remember –even the beginning of his of disclosure, denied his struggle to acclimate a multifarious lifestyle, appropriately suggested in the form of a triangle, and a circle, both of which embody polar opposing adaptations of humanistic routine.
The two shapes: The circle, denies the break in motion by imposing a constant cycle of diligent compression, there is no room for pause only steady flow and relentless drive. This influence of life impression slows down the heart, body, and soul while speeding up time. This particular commitment accommodates the dry colorless beings that embrace and accept boxed imprisonment.
Traditionally, the triangle denotes rhythmic patterns that elevate and drop to a point in which imposes a healthy reflective pause: progression, reflection, balance. As stated, as a provincial approach, a regular triangle flat on its base, peaking at the top represents a healthy, solid life routine. In contrast, the triangle can be flipped upside-down introducing an entirely new dynamic, composed of flat-lined monotony, tapered off to a regressed realm of destruction, regret and disorder. Despite the uniqueness of the standard triangle model to the man in question, it is important to compare the negative reflection, for it applies to the entirety of this investigation.
We used to be lovers, he and I. We shared my giant pillow-top that I bought on the black market for a meager two-hundred fifty. -- A mere steal at that rate.
We occasionally exchanged ideas, mainly about ethical concerns related to globalization and the environment.
I attempted to give him a cooking lesson once, but that failed, indefinitely. The bust was not my doing, but simply, a great disinterest on his part; or better yet an inability of not being better than me at something.
Everything has gotten so crowded.
Jan 18, 2010
Jan 18, 2010 at 1:17 AM UTC
i've moved past my belief
in the Christian trinity...
for me...
the meditation stands
on the pivot of
the following translation
the hexagon,
start of david -
which translates
as the Holy Ghost -
which denotes
a congregation...
the pentagon?
of the befitting analogy
to the five senses...
the "son of man" -
or simply...
the myopia of man
having to excavate
the sixth sense
using telescopes,
microscopes, the like...
and, finally?
on a hand of five extensions,
there are four...
the square...
Y H
⠁⠑ read clockwise
like English traffic
H W on a roundabout.
which? denotes the father...
if the Hebrews "think" they
can hide their vowels?
the Latin answer is...
to interpolate Braille into
their language...
and Emperor Nero would have
appreciated it...
whether with, or without
the Byzantine propaganda machinery
of the nevus testamentum...
and it wasn't a propagandist
piece?
how much longer did the eastern
Empire, outlive the Western
empire, when the onslaught
by the Ottoman's reached
Constantinople?!
the Greek were craving
a cultural revival!
they believed the Romans
to have origins in Troy!
they plaid the weakest cultural
card of Judaism,
revamping it into Christianity...
hell... that's what i believe...
and i'm not about to meet
a Jehovah's Witness propagandist,
or some aged Pakistani
citing the Quran on a park
bench...
or some Scientologist
on Oxford St. with his wacky
machine...
or some pseudo Hare Krishna
monk with a book about
some guru, pushing it like
marijuana...
to change my mind on what
i'm digesting!
plus?
⠽ ⠓
Æ ( read anti-clockwise)
⠓ ⠺
fits in perfectly into the Adam
and Eve narrative -
as with all mythology -
given the extent of time...
nuance, metaphor...
abbreviation...
ars poetica!
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
484
My Garden—like the Beach—
Denotes there be—a Sea—
That’s Summer—
Such as These—the Pearls
She fetches—such as Me
8.1k
1483
The Robin is a Gabriel
In humble circumstances—
His Dress denotes him socially,
Of Transport’s Working Classes—
He has the punctuality
Of the New England Farmer—
The same oblique integrity,
A Vista vastly warmer—
A small but sturdy Residence
A self denying Household,
The Guests of Perspicacity
Are all that cross his Threshold—
As covert as a Fugitive,
Cajoling Consternation
By Ditties to the Enemy
And Sylvan Punctuation—
5.5k
Less than three denotes a heart
showing love between two teens.
Texting back and forth with words
created out of broken and squished words.
Back with “ilu,” “ilysfm,” “ily,” “ilusm.”
And forth “i<3u,” “ilym,” “ilylc,” “bilu.”
Outsiders don’t understand the slang
but they don’t know,
they do not need to.
Only the two who are in love.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
Holocaust Poem: "On The Slaughter"
by Chaim Nachman Bialik
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Merciful heavens, have pity on me!
If there is a God approachable by men
as yet I have not found him—
Pray for me!
For my heart is dead,
prayers languish upon my tongue;
my right hand has lost its strength
and my hope has wilted, undone.
How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end?
How long? Hangman, traitor,
here’s my neck—
rise up now, rise and slaughter!
Behead me like a dog—your arm controls the axe
and the whole world is a scaffold to me
although we—the chosen few—
were once recipients of the Pacts.
Executioner, my blood’s a paltry prize—
strike my skull and the blood of innocents will rain
drenching your pristine uniform again and again,
staining your raiment forever.
If there is Justice—quick, let her appear!
But after I’ve been blotted out, should she reveal her face,
let her false scales be overturned forever
and the heavens reek with the stench of her disgrace.
You too arrogant men, with your brutal injustice,
suckled on blood, unweaned of violence:
cursed be the warrior who cries "Vengeance!" on a maiden;
such cruelty was never contemplated, even by Satan.
Let innocents’ blood drench the abyss!
Let innocents’ blood seep down into the congealing darkness,
eat it away and undermine
earth's rotting foundations.
Al Hashechita ("On the Slaughter") was written by Chaim Nachman Bialik in response to the ****** Kishniev pogrom of 1903, which was instigated by agents of the Czar who wanted to divert social unrest and political anger from the Czar to the Jewish minority. The Hebrew word schechita (also transliterated shechita, shechitah, shekhitah, shehita) denotes the ritual kosher slaughtering of animals for food. The juxtapositioning of kosher slaughter with the slaughter of Jews makes the poem all the more powerful and ghastly. Such anti-Semitic incidents prompted a massive wave of Eastern European emigration that brought millions of Jews to the West. Unfortunately, there have been many similar slaughters in human history and the poem remains chillingly relevant to the more recent ones in Israel/Palestine, Rwanda, Bosnia and Kosovo. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, Bialik, translation, slaughter, massacre, God, prayer, executioner, hangman, blood, innocents, justice, false, scales, injustice
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 4:00 AM UTC
Already the month
of August 2018,
May never become
a je June'm
(Forget-me-not)
time of year,
especially for nouveau
homeless and,
penniless residents,
(now more like worrier),
who reside in the
(burnt to a crisp)
Golden State where,
towering uncontrollable
wild fire infernos veer
really did tax mental,
physical, and spiritual
oye vey iz mare (to
the bajillion power
of Google Plex) their
heirlooms, mementos,
and trappings of
das kapital lifestyle
went up in smoke,
which tragedy didst seer
the eyes (yes, iz traumatic,
but also the air)
looms with toxic
particulate matter,
though concerned former
propertied owners
(now ashen faced)
as utter grief doth rear
a scorched (bumping) ugly head,
yet the onset of Autumn,
(and the main
purport of this poem)
(oh my dog, that twill be
in approximately three weeks,
when Eastern Orthodox Church
denotes beginning of ecclesiastical
annum mull house
for straight or queer
(these times opening
doors to LGBT, or GLBT
(an initialism that
stands for lesbian,
gay, bisexual, and transgender),
nonetheless history
replete with app pear
chock full of factoids such as:
September (Latin septem,
"seven") with near
exhaustive steeped in
pagan glory of antiquity.
Ancient Roman observances
for September include:
Ludi Romani, originally celebrated
September 12 - September 14,
later extended to
September 5 to September 19.
In 1st century BC, an extra day added
in honor of deified
Julius Caesar on 4 September.
Epulum Jovis held: September 13.
Ludi Triumphales held: September 18–22.
Septimontium celebrated September, and
December 11 on later calendars
September called "harvest month"
in Charlemagne's calendar.
September corresponds partly to
Fructidor and partly to Vendémiaire
of first French republic.
On Usenet, September 1993
(Eternal September) never ended.
September called Herbstmonat,
harvest month, in Switzerland.
The Anglo-Saxons called
month Gerstmonath,
barley month, that crop
then usually harvested.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
The state of being with no suffering is Shakti
The state of awakening beyond sleep is Shakti
When love matures and sweetens that is Shakti
The fullness and fulfillment of masculine is Shakti
When the sweetness matures that is Shakti
The divine which resides in the thoughts is Shakti
Whatever work comes before us is Shakti
The state of mukti, the end, is Shakti
The braveness which destroys laziness is Shakti
The flame which is instilled in these words is Shakti
When the best of fruits are eaten that taste is Shakti
When thoughts of divine arise that is Shakti
Shankara who lives on top of the huge mountains, his lovely flame is Shakti
The lap where life flourishes is Shakti
The strength which guards the earth is Shakti
The flame which stops one from falling is Shakti (denotes inner strength that averts fall/defeat)
The tapas that eliminates confusion is Shakti
The finger which stops downfall is Shakti
The one who spans the whole expanse of sky is Shakti
Her highness who eliminates karma is Shakti
The inner flame which shines from within the heart is Shakti
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 2:09 AM UTC
My Woman, My Partner
we need today it seems identifiers moreover,
as we slice, dissect, and categorize the W’s of our
individual experience,
by defining ourselves as pieces of categories
Today, woke with this title-to-be-poem in my head,
My Woman, My Partner
I like particular, individuating descriptors that distinguish
rather than categorize, summary’s that capture the
roomy broad and small strokes, the subtleties of capturing~
encompassing an image total, and yet intuitively tasting and
comprehending the depths and flavoring of our totality,
a combinatory humanity
my choice was My Woman, which was comprehensive
and distinguished, yet upon consultation with said person,
for pre-authorization approval, it was returned to me with
an engine-heart additive, that was both a word that denotes a
binding, ties, equality, and takes it to another, even ever
highest level,
*this essay on how I came to title this poem, well, is the poem
in its entirety, it is the process, the point, the summary and the
minutiae of all I wished to convey.*
Sunday Aug 13 8:03 AM
Aug 13, 2023
Aug 13, 2023 at 8:11 AM UTC
I'm staining your raiment with blood while rolling my tongue to create a sputum so that I can wipe off that blood from your raiment. But, you know what I don't want you to clean your shroud because it is a paradigm of our potential—blood. This blood is so potent that it will remind you of me because it is our dark side where we encapsulate. It is something which makes us distinct in our privy shell. Smears of this blood can create revolutions. You know how? Its redness denotes the umlauts of our love and its states depends upon the crests and troughs of our relationship. When we are reaching the crests, it gets brimmed with oxygen and give rise to a new life but the best part is that our troughs don't boost up the mortality rate, instead bring us back to the life. See, how such a small drop of red liquid is so significant for the two of us. It's because it's not a drop of 'liquid' but life. Blood is life, life is blood. We are blood, blood ARE us!
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
She tells him this better be the last one--
the last first love poem he'll write.
The title, she says, needs to be brief,
something any lover can relate to.
Do you want me to leave the room
while you write it?
No.
With one step she's no longer in the
living room, she's in the middle of the
apartment kitchen. There are two bowls,
two spoons in the sink. The bellowing heater
acts as background, smoothing the space
with its hum. She squeezes a drop of soap
into each bowl. Fills both with hot water.
Any lover needs to be able to relate, she says,
but make sure you set it somewhere romantic--
not Paris, Rome, or anything like that--but
next to a body of water. There should be
birds. Clouds and rain. Not sunshine. Don't
you think?
He thinks.
She works the bowls over with a dishrag.
Dinner, breakfast--whatever you want to call it--was good, she says.
Good.
She dries the bowls, places them in the cabinet.
Have you written a line yet?
Yes.
Can I read it?
Not yet.
When I wake up?
When you wake up.
With a hand to each side of his face,
she denotes the spots he missed shaving
with her index fingers. Here, she says.
Here. Here.
The lines run from the corners of his eyes
as he smiles. Now she marks these.
She kisses him; she doesn't say, I love you.
Not yet.
Wake me up before you go to work, okay?
Okay.
With one step she's in the bedroom.
The bed's a couch.
She pulls the quilt up to her chin.
Her body curls.
She says, Hang out with me in
my dreams.
Wouldn't miss it.
Good morning.
Good morning.
A few minutes later her breath
goes steady, falling in line with
the heater.
The sun starts seeping in through
the blinds. The loose strands of
her hair become gold. He draws
the curtains so the light does not
wake her. She, he types.
In an apartment where once was one--
one toothbrush, one set of sneakers
by the door--now there are two.
Everything paired off and content in
its pairing.
Is a woman, he types. He hits the delete key once.
Then he types N again.
Her makeup bag is on the dining table.
Islands of stray powder dot the bag.
Her brush is on the coffee table
next to the couch. Countless
numbers of hairpins are embedded in the carpet.
I can't make it in today, he says into the receiver.
Yeah, not feeling too good. Thank you, sir. Will do.
Alright. Yeah, you too.
When he presses in beside her, she says, I've been awake
the whole time.
Have not.
Have too. Did you finish it?
Yes.
Can I read it?
After you actually get some sleep.
What'd you call it?
Is a Woman.
I like that.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
Familiar with the way to my village
I start my bike from my home
Sometime beg to go there
And many time escape without asking mum
Every turn, temple and tree
make me fly fear free.
Every plant, poster and pole
touches my senses, sprite, my soul.
As I approach my village
I feel pure, please and privilege.
But, the blur scenario of people's situation
is because of superstition and lack of education.
Every action of the people
denotes "what they think "
Every eye of the man
speaks they are addicted to drink.
Three things bring the battle
our history has the sign.
Same flows the blood here
Wealth, Women and Wine
These ***** unhygienic atmosphere
never suits to my prime.
Dad never lets me commit mistakes
As a mistake is a mistake once, next time its crime
I sense the air of my place
I sense the people of my kind.
kids playing on roads, ladies cooking on the courtyard,
I sense the mud, I am bind.
I love visiting my village
To feel me, my origin, my exist.
Something connects me to there
Maybe the blood in me, that persist.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 11:59 AM UTC
Your use of words
of late, I have noticed,
seize the cold light of day
snowball the pack ice
send a shudder down the spine
hail the dawn of an audible ice age
lest if only
One would listen
that loquacious nature
left to stew in the freezer
the embodiment of toxic wine
your preferred after taste;
the sediment of choice
demands a selective palate
we have bulldozed
The Garden of Eden
now only the Snake remains
offering the bitter-sweet apple
to those who oblige
pave the way for emotions
to argue their objections
a subjective nature
in acerbic tones
fierce and unwavering;
the adulation of the Other
A raised eyebrow
denotes a self-centred assuredness
that anyone else
with a deft hand for art or language
is clearly a copy of the blueprint
your ingenious creation;
such is the intellect you abide by
that of your own reckoning
Your argument
is the passing of an iceberg
perhaps fleeting
the early evening;
the disingenuous melt
of your carbon-cloaked temper
My riposte
will be your undoing
defeat by the warmth
of the passing Sun;
embrace that which you chase
see what you dont see
agree to disagree
is the sympathy
for your antipathy
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 1:52 PM UTC
**He clenched it tightly
He'd only used it once
"You have to pull the trigger first son, and BANG BANG BANG!
You can **** anything!"
With intense intent on his mind
His verge for vengeance grew within, now it's time
To show the bullies how he feels**
*He glared at them with and intensity
of a malicious lion gazing at prey.
They stared at him back,
paralyzed and gaping,
surprised, scared, shivering at the sudden ominous
cloud around this figure that once shook with
the demons that clawed at his being every minute of the day.*
**Teachers deigned to his prowess
Consoling him not to shoot
He glanced at that kid who kicked him, sneered at how stupid he is.
He screamed with angst, blood streaming though his fingers.
Trickled to pull the trigger, this is now or never.**
*Suddenly,
a whimper. He glances away quickly to see
his little sister's eyes swim with murky waters.
"danny..."
He looks away.
Then, shoots.
one,
two,
three,
four,
five.
He smiles,
watches the chaos erupt the way his mind does every night,
stares at the crimson velvet beginning to crawl out of the bodies as the ragdolls crowed with terror of the dead,
ghastly large eyes , desperately hollow,
wanting only the warmth escaping.*
**He feels alive, for the first time he's the fire to ignite the dark
Burning everything within his grasp,
Dictating any norm in his way.
The silence preaching him, Feeling remorse of that obscure stance.
He ruptured every enmity that denotes innocence. Screaming, "WHY DO I STILL FEEL SO ******* EMPTY!!??"**
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
What shall be said of this embattled day
And armed occupation of this night
By all thy foes beleaguered,—now when sight
Nor sound denotes the loved one far away?
Of these thy vanquished hours what shalt thou say,—
As every sense to which she dealt delight
Now labours lonely o’er the stark noon-height
To reach the sunset’s desolate disarray?
Stand still, fond fettered wretch! while Memory’s art
Parades the Past before thy face, and lures
Thy spirit to her passionate portraitures:
Till the tempestuous tide-gates flung apart
Flood with wild will the hollows of thy heart,
And thy heart rends thee, and thy body endures.
1.6k
"I would say I care about women's rights, but I wouldn't call myself a feminist"
"I think men and women should be equal, yeah, but I don't want to be called a feminist."
"Does that mean I can hit you?"
The word feminism rattles like a cracking cymbal crashing
just hard enough on pavement to scratch it
but not hard enough to break.
The word feminism manifests itself in our culture
in poisonous ways,
like the food dye in our candy'r
parabens we cover our faces in,
we don't say this word cos' it's scary
we don't want to make too much commotion
while white men in black robes orchestrate the court system
and have police by the neck, inserting money like a candy machine
we fear the word that gives us a step to bring equality
while white men in suits ask us "how we doin'"
and we don't admit that we're angry,
women don't show anger, it isn't polite
when the men in the subway puts his hand up our skirt
and says "hey baby you like that"
no, he doesn't ask if we do, he tells us out flat,
insinuating our satisfaction is a product of theirs
reminding us with a hand on public transportation
that anyone who has a **** can be one and we can't do ****
because we aren't supposed to be angry, it isn't polite
The word feminism manifests itself in delicate ways
we can't ask for too much, they won't take us seriously
****** intergrity? girl, try again
the right to not wear a bra?
Where do you think you are? this is america
An opinion
one that they hear
that isn't facilitated
out a white man's mouth
into a white man's ear
we aren't a filter
won't you raise your voice?
**** being polite,
please, make some noise
The word feminism manifests itself in ways you can't see
if you fear what it might make you lose
you haven't much yet by the hands of the man
so why are you choosing not to grab your sister's hands?
Stop saying sorry when someone interrupts you
stop moving out of the way for men who don't move
put your female foot down, don't say excuse me
you're a woman, angry with every right to be
stop fearing the word feminism
for the connotations are flurries
the word denotes storms we're starting
join us
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 9:30 PM UTC
A trophy doesn't designate
A winner
Anymore than swearing denotes
A sinner.
Think
Attitude,
Not
Platitude,
And
Wear a ribbon.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 8:36 AM UTC
Unheard-
They poke and ****
Absurd-
I don’t fit you description of a ******
So doctor, jump me.
I didn’t ask for the
Endless sob-
The rejection of fleshing
My health and anxieties
Into human form again.
You’re not a friend,
You’re a judgmental man
In a lab coat
Who denotes his time to
Giving patients unanswered answers
And more pills.
I’m never going to be sorry
I do not fit into this
Patriotic Addiction
That has taken so many from me-
How dare you…
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
Sine arte
A satire against modernity in the arts
O modern beast our captive arts release,
The laws of Nature wished your reign to cease.
What beauties does this modern art restores
By turning vestals young to Russian ******
How strange the painter draws his new reforms 5
Reducing Nature’s shapes to foggy forms.
All, I may add, by rambling thoughts conceived
If Nature’s order’s razed the goal’s achieved.
‘‘What then?’’ A tasteless judge if dared to ask,
To which the answer wears pretentious mask: 10
‘‘Dear Sir! ’Tis art, all ***** mere symbols made,
And ***** though crude, denotes the father’s shade’’
Go Man admire the fruits of twisted state,
Interpret ***** as something deeply great.
Let ***** Cupid stab his precious heart 15
To make our poesy more interesting art.
Let Cyrus wreck the might of Shakespeare’s throne,
And use her tongue to lick his hallowed stone.
Thus, give the verses blank to frenzied beasts,
Or let Rihanna burn Miltonic seats. 20
A simple critic might her craft enjoy,
But witty minds oft do their gift employ.
New Cornus comes with broken tools to teach
Yet none can bear to hear postmoderns preach.
They mumble days upon the wage and race 25
For them the world’s a strife, that is the case.
Dec 9, 2020
Dec 9, 2020 at 4:52 PM UTC