"designation" poems
~
where clear blue sky meets water's deep
his sunbeams reach her waves to tease,
to warm her currents, foaming spray;
dawn to dusk when daylight fades,
till only afterglow remains,
an interlude of celestial stage.
he speaks to her on written sky
and in the mournful sea-bird's cry,
wraps sultry ribbons in her tresses,
his fingers linger in caresses,
and in soothing choreography
he gently stirs her ocean's breeze.
he sends her gifts of palm and dates,
wrapped on waves in salty sprays;
watches her with much delight,
he sings to her each eventide,
love songs with the calling gull,
and rocks her tween the gusts and lulls.
wedded at horizon’s edge,
devotion to her he has pledged,
to have forever and to hold,
his comfort to her storm-tossed soul;
his tender kiss on tear-stained cheek,
where clear blue sky meets water's deep.
~
*post script.
when one gazes
into the vastness
of sea and sky,
of what is from
height to depth
an endless blue,
one cannot but think
of eternal devotion,
of the relationship
between two who have
pledged their forever troth!*
*as i wonder from what recesses
this one came, i remember…
our 36th wedding anniversary
is fast approaching...
i’ve been thinking of what to gift her
that will make her cry anew.*
**thank you to Hello Poetry for
the tremendous honor bestowed
with their designation of this poem as the daily
and to all who have expressed their heartfelt
love and appreciation... your message
came through loud and clear...
there can be no denying it,
i am an incredibly blessed man
because of each of you!
thank you, truly,
from the bottom of my heart!**
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
I came along to your garden, to see your chillies growing
Unaware of what laid in wait, or what was really showing
There stood a glass a lidded drink, familiarity of knowing
If that's what I think it is, I don't want it overflowing
Do my eyes forsake me, is that a fluid from the body
Is that froth of a good beer, or from a head that's shoddy
Does it look like what it is, a very dodgy toddy!
Ghoulish drinks will turn you green, like Goblins are in Noddy
What the hell you thinking off, with water that's distilled
It smells like the local gents, so it should not be spilled
I don't mind a special brew, but this time I'm not thrilled
Unusual cocktails are okay, but not ones you have filled
Aren't beverages supposed to be, refreshing and thirst quenching ?
You say that it's good to drink, but really it's gut wrenching
An endless supply you may have, but it should be toilet drenching
Don't ever make a wankers drink, by using a fist clenching
You wouldn't want this drink on tap, it defies imagination
It's just the same as a lady, drinking her own ************
It maybe the water of life, but it's just urination
Aqua vitae is not my idea, of a real drink designation
Even just the thought of it, makes me feel sick and hazy
To drink a glass of this stuff, you must be ******* crazy
Well talk about recycling, or are you just bog lazy
Is Harvey Denton related, or do you live in Royston Vasey
People like to drink sometimes, is there something I have missed
You seem to have your own ideas, but with a certain twist
A brand new meaning you have brought, to getting yourself ******
Golden showers are one thing, but that's when your sexually kissed
There's one thing I'd like to know, so what do you say
Why do you think that drinking **** will keep the germs away
It cant be very good for you, it's an inside body spray
Your just drinking toilet water, hay Jay are you ****** today ?
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
*Talentless with no position (Goon)
Talentless with position (Doom)
Talented with no position (Doom)
Talented with position (Boom)
Valuable is the caliber of a designee
Designation in itself is incompetent
Talented can exalt the lowest position
With talentless authority bears the brunt*
Bharti
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
*the light brightening-to-shadow,
gradating
what
can be done,
what
we call it,
when
humans color,
bleach and dye their body's
hair
if only
we could gradate,
gray-date,
our lives,
select the days
we graduate
when
where
the light dissipates into shadow,
bleaching and dying
our lives
when, where,
we could be the being,
the changeling,
dyeing the destiny of our designation*
why would we need poetry?
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 11:44 PM UTC
teenage girls are goddesses -
born of goddesses since time
began; the first mother on -
earth named Demeter; from
Inanna [not a name at all, but
a designation like night or -
mother] for the Queen of day
& night & her 1000 daughters;
Demeter: the mother; earth -
daughter too is not a name but
a title like queen or princess -
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 3:35 AM UTC
A lot many times,
Constantly,
Innumerably,
Perpetually,
I am too handicapped to write
A sentence
Or
Two... words, one word, three words, four words...
Like a poet. I am too unconfident or inconfident or disconfident or... Is it unconfident? No, yes, no. Yes.
I am too broke, mentally, exhausted reserve of words, letters and alphabets that I am not native to, but are mine since I was born and my real language is lost amongst the chaos of my broken English. I can't be a good writer like this.
I can't be a poet, I am a person merely aware of a few things in life and can't express it clearly so I think vague poetry helps, even though I write it I can't interpret someone else's poems.
I am not qualified to be a poet. I haven't written 200 sonnets or a 1000 poems on various themes of life, not qualified to write poems on all stages of Human Development. I have only written a 100 poems... Actually, 150. But you can think it's 100.
I am not a poet. I am not old, I am not famous. I am not dead. Why should I be called a poet?
I am just a person who is expressing oneself, I shouldn't get so haughty and give myself a designation. Yet.
Let me grow old and decay in time, so when the earth swallows me up, provided people know me then by luck or chance, I might become a poet. I might.
I am not a poet.
But then, who IS poet?
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 5:17 AM UTC
This brown buff speckled throstle of a bird sits in the higher most branches of a yet to be leafed poplar tree . . . and sings. Such a song in the April morning air it greets the day, celebrates the rising sun. Above a suburban street the bird’s song catches the reverberation of a double row of houses, their windows bouncing sonic reflections of unaccompanied melismata.
Olivier Messiaen loved this bird for its répétition égale. Walking the mountain woods around his summer home he would wonder that the grive musicienne could make so exactly repetition after repetition of a complex phrase. A proto-minimalist perhaps? The male mistle thrush appears in several ***** works but most prominently in Saint Francois d'Assis singing luminously on the clarinet.
Although this is the ungregarious male singing away on this spring morning his name carries a female designation Turdus Philomelos. Poor Philomel, whose name means one who loved song, she was a princess of Athens lusted after by King Tereus who took her to a cottage in distant woods and ***** her. Then, he cut out her tongue.
Vengeful Philomel alone in the woods, but a most resourceful and artistic young woman, she set about weaving a tapestry that told all.
*‘She set up a Tracian loom
And wove on a white fabric scarlet symbols
That told in detail what had happened to her*.’
She sent the finished piece to Tereus who promptly ordered Philomel's death and that of her sisters (one of whom he was married to). As the girls were about to be slain they were changed magically into three birds . .
Joanna Laurens play The Three Birds takes the only fragment we have of Sophocles telling of this strange tale. Laurens is both musician and linguist and the text is a marvel of strange sounds and rhythms as the sisters communicate with each other in their personal private language akin, it is said, to Jersiese, an ancient Breton dialect.
So thank you dear song thrush for this morning's wonder: a song sans pariel.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
<•>
too oft, so oft, the absence, the imagining, that
no such comfort exists, that remorse may n'ere complete its course,
when a time for love is beyond beyond, is a bridge too far,
a notion so fraught, a vision unwrought, that we do not
recognize the why and the wherefore to step forward
even for for the next breath small, the in of inconsolability,
a deeper welling
so consequential there is no seeing a piercing light
*then come to me, come to me then, when words can be
a symphony of violins, an orchestrating examination of
thy wounded chest, and caressing slow repetition
deep moaning, understanding waves upon the shores of my arms, my shoulder, my chest, any piece that can be yours,
a shoreline of relief, and listen with great care as the subtleties change, the pastoral comes in an ever ascending
crescendo of lifting, a stabbing, resurrecting but not fully repairing,
restoring but replacing sensation, for inconsolability is a disease
difficult to defeat, deserving of being memory-recalled,
but the ability, the cure, the rhyme of
hope and upward slope of open eyes will penetrate surely as the potion of the music of my words lay you down and rise you up,
and that is enough, to begin the renewal,
the campaign of commencement, the possibility of clarity,
it is the journey,*
***the changeling we call the
destiny of our designation,
which is forever the next destination***
9/17/17
7:20am
<•>
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 7:39 AM UTC
some of us walk insistently,
instinctively, and instantly to
and upon the edged path,
this physical nexus & abstract mental locus,
a cliffside enticing rock strewn trail,
drawn of men, by men, for men
(yes, men are people too, still)
enthralling views,
down to the riverside,
where eyes intuit the
beauteous aroma of
precious precocious
precarious precipices
and the near-stench of
mortality
amidst
wafting scents of inane undesirable need,
hints of destruction, or,
alternating eager relief,
like a ****** infused, instant attractiveness,
making weakness in the knees, all too real,
trembling with a delicious accented edge of
a fresh, familiar scent, fresh baked bread,
an all enveloping consumption need now!
to
crave what we fear,
to fear what we crave
our cravings are craven,
this twisted sense, annuls
our common sensibility, yet,
titillates our pleasured imagined relief,
releases, our unsated, even better,
our insatiable curiosity to tremble,
an entire body enjoined by vibrato~
enticing tremulations, shaken and stirred,
this danger choice releases something primordial,
escape? a reckless wrecking so deeply designed,
it has its very own designation…death wish
multitudes of easy choices afforded my senses,
and by accident, all mine chosen, all nearby,
I travel the esplanade près de the East River,
where even if calm is the sole visiblilty,
undercurrents and the unpredictable passage
of container wakes and the larger freighters
will hand you down, so easy, to become parcel
to a littered river bottom of centuries’ artifacts
but even more tempting, the balcony,
a hop, skip and a jump unlocked,
mere ten steps, no need for a running start
why it’s the “height of convenience,”
he ruefully winces, and not even any
TSA lines or inconveniencing “conveniences”
Why this calamity seems so desperately desirable,
Why this unabrogated feat so featured, nay, even
feted in our hot? cold? bloodstream
“Why just men?
*I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.*”
Dec 5, 2023
Dec 5, 2023 at 5:42 PM UTC
She made breakfast
of sausage, toast and eggs,
sunny-side up.
With a smile that reflected
my shattered perception,
I scarfed the food down.
It was a pitiful apology.
The toast was burnt;
the sausage cold and
the eggs were runny.
It was a meal put together
by someone that knew
they could do no wrong.
I ate every crumb in a false show of good faith.
You see, breakfast comes every morning
with or without our participation.
The tears on my heart, however,
are only made with her designation
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 8:03 PM UTC
the mother fixes nothing so she ain’t gotta hear of it breaking again. the father saves on the sly for a rabbit. the brother lives long enough to see one of his eyes challenge the designation of his sister’s foresight
as a miracle
of brevity. the neighbors argue over whether it’s a migraine or a headache. what one tells the lord, another tells an angel. the god is the god that teaches a snowman how to have a stroke. the animal learns to speak by having none recall what it plans to imagine.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
Forbidden night, with your sheltered hours.
How I long to paint you in broad strokes, adding water to the brush,
That you may spread and extend your precious mercies beyond the borders of your designation,
up and out into the wicked day.
May the sun forgive me for bankrupting its grand offering in favor of the always-waning dark, when it’s easier to walk between worlds without touching.
Daylight brings out the conquerers and also the conquered,
creating a vacuum that devours the air between gaps in the dimensions,
the grind and squeeze of many lungs contracting at once.
And although every period of light and compression is followed by a period of darkness and grasping strangeness, I am never unsurprised by the strength of my enduring love nor less enchanted by the singularity of our shadowy and permissive embrace. I have traveled great lengths to con my own rhythms into abandoning their posts.
Oh night, I hold on to you like a new bride at a military wedding,
resolute in the knowledge that you will only return once you’ve already gone.
No sooner do you pull from my arms do I finally rest, too early and too late for a gentle landing onto the unforgiving surface of the sunrise.
the hourglass breaks and so appears Morpheus, great and ancient, to call down black night upon the wretched world.
For it was agreed that once per cycle, the world must lose itself in necessary madness, and thus rests the cosmic balance upon which fares the day
Dec 13, 2021
Dec 13, 2021 at 3:08 AM UTC
Beyond cascading screams in a melodically honed vibration,
Within a fading abyss of infinitesimal separation,
A dreamscape of a constant creation, so vivid by design,
An interesting compilation to the manifestations of my mind,
The psyche demands a certain control and designation,
A tether to the super consciousness without a single deviation.
But as we sail away on waves of cosmic revelation,
To travel the universe for a more profound contemplation not quite Euclidean in nature.
But as a product of Sol, there is a certain elemental configuration,
That fuels the intent of the most colorful dreams,
Bathed in the warmth we call divine,
I have seen solar systems and even far beyond,
But that was only in my mind,
As dreams are harder to navigate when it is difficult to see them straight.
One does not debate such pointless substrate.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
eight years on,
she, airplane borne,
takeoff - a minute from,
texts a parting thot
"love you madly"
you can't recall ever
that prescient précis designation
on any earlier editions
of your other old lovers resumes
this tidbit of reckless abandon
moves fury fast,
direct to the top of the list
madly, manly madness,
when you man,
allow the crossover to occur,
when boundaries twixt honesty and
sensibility
are declared
voided laws
when the white cloth napkin of careful sanity knocked, swept to the floor
maddening love rawest realized
conceded
in madness, completion is indivisible,
indivisible, completion is madness
manly madness
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
My lady, my lady.
This I swear to you.
If I was a knight you would never have to walk.
If I was a knight.
Upon my horse you be with your arms around me.
Where I would deliver you to your designation?
Oh, I would be so gallantly to you.
That you just have to notice my noble side.
If I was a knight.
With my armor own and my shield in my hand.
I rightly will defend you from any harm.
You would notice my bravery mixed with my charm.
If I was a knight.
Even if I wasn't knighted I would still stand out.
Because my strength of chilvary comes from within.
I would be devoted to my lady.
Highly respected with merits of sovereignty in your eyes.
If I was a knight.
I just believe I would be the man you seek in tough times.
Your warrior for all times.
Ranking higher in your heart.
A man filled with dignity and respect.
Called the best of the best.
If I was a knight.
While I just a noble soul.
I still would protect you like a gentleman should.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
The feeling one gets
From swallowing food down the wrong pipe
That erupts in coughs of desperate breaths
That is how my love bursts for you
As if short gasps spastic
Longing for oxygen
Toxic
is the lack of the air you reside in
Eyelids filling with biological tears
Uncontrollable in designation
I must stop here and stand for a while
To regain my composure
A pause;
T'was a shock that made me lose all routine reason
Normally
I am quite skilled at delivering food gastronomically
It was the thought of thee looking directly at me
Made me choke and lunge for the particles
No one can see
A fit of admiration
I have no constraints
Nor restraints
Nor act tame
To disguise this repertoire,
All I can do is stand far
And sit in recovery
Wondering thusly
If these bursts of desire
Will take my breath away
Once more.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 2:14 PM UTC
Verse One
A simple complication
Shapes the way we see ourselves,
A fatal disconnection,
To be just like everyone else,
Find the spark in your heart
And let out the flames,
Kiss the scars on your arms,
You were never to blame,
Turn on the lights in your mind
And throw out the dark,
You were never made to break this way,
Trauma never fades to grey
Chorus
Paint with watercolours from your tears,
A prism you made from your fear,
Chase the spectrum and touch the light,
Crystal clear and it shines through the glass
Of your heavy soul,
You want to be whole,
Fill the cracks in the flaws only you can see,
Perfection isn't what it seems to be.
Verse Two
A desperate resignation,
Starve your body from the hate,
A fatal designation,
Purging pain until it's too late,
Put the nightmares to bed,
And lock up the door,
The voices will cease to exist any more,
Kiss the scars on your thighs,
And fall in love with your skin,
You will never break again,
You are stronger than the strongest of them
Chorus
Paint with watercolours from your tears,
A prism you made from your fear,
Chase the spectrum and touch the light,
Crystal clear and it shines through the glass
Of your heavy soul,
You want to be whole,
Fill the cracks in the flaws only you can see,
Perfection isn't what it seems to be.
Bridge
Rainbow refractions of years to come,
Mirrors that show the person you've become,
Crystal reflections
Will show unique complexions
Of yourself,
Perfect the way you are,
You've put up a fight and you've come so far
Chorus (x2)
Paint with watercolours from your tears,
A prism you made from your fear,
Chase the spectrum and touch the light,
Crystal clear and it shines through the glass,
Of your heavy soul,
You want to be whole,
Fill the cracks in the flaws only you can see,
Perfection isn't what it seems to be.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
The orchestral and harmonic vocals of monks echo down spiralled and cast-iron staircases to the dungeons of our carefully crafted castle chambers of submission.
It is all in the warmth of our carotid pulse.
Oh delusional salesman of presumed superior status, it is important to acknowledge those spasmodic and physiological celebratory responses which resound like cross-cultural and cosmological anthems within the questionable corridors of fitness to stand trial.
I can feel your quivering pulse.
However, we must recognise that the required reports are not dissimilar to a beautifully carved chicken which is subject to the paradoxically crude and culinary eloquence and deviance of the gleeful pyromaniac.
The geometry of midnight has clearly outlined her symmetrical shapes, which require seasoning and the skillful administration of being quartered.
Chef, can I ask you: is designation superior to our authentic anthropological status?
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
I'm not saying
I'm in love
w/you
except
I am.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 6:41 AM UTC
As I review the periodic table of elements
I have resorted to some thing so Idiotic
That the scientist have adored the relevance
of some infantile youthful designation.
I wondered... if one hydrogen atom
became two in what state,
what would two hydrogens be in another state.
Shiftless bonds, or double 0 eight.
Is H2o oxygen or is it O2 in rain drops.
How exactly do I love your poetry.
Do I breath as do tears fall from my eyes.
Are we all spying in on the great love.
Does a capitol L make us doves?
Ive never had such a crush,
To turn down. How much of a hug
is a lie to another friend. Ive had so many
affairs. That the friar asked me to spell affiar again
aware of a fraudien slip.
I listed turned and down again I went as
I listened to my mother speaking to frenchmen.
The diety, the diet, the destruction of language, I just
stood there smiled and again I said... I wish you knew
what you were saying in Latin as the
holy spirit convenced him. She said in uncertain
latin, the angle (angel) condemed us to understanding demi gods
and taro cards from matter to benevolence.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
people collect labels
like scars and gold stars
to decorate and define
the deliberately drawn lines
of their existence
dotted, pencil, pen.
sometimes people mistake names for explanations
e.g "I don't eat meat
because I'm a vegetarian"
but circularity
negates all meaning.
socially prescribed pigeonholes
don't determine
who you are
why you are
how you are
or
who you'll be.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 1:28 PM UTC
points of dust, moted light,
coded messages,
of indecipherable love,
from the sun and this day's dieties smile.
are....
siphoned through,
the dappled, green eucalypt
to become....
shafts of godly grace,
that tickle, wrinkle
and play hide and seek,
with the contours of your
handsome face,
weekend stubbled
and lax within,
the shadows of sleep's
suburban fringe.
curled up, on your lap
your child, golden, halo haired, head,
asleep.
ear at your heart's designation,
hand anchored,
in the flannel of your shirt,
foot tucked into, your trouser pocket.
a little, love limpet,
attatched firmly, to you.
you, and the littler you lie, serene and unaware,
in the old, striped deck chair.
quiet and together in,
restful, repose.
the remains of lunch...
now just, crumbs and
sticky fodder,
for busy trails of ants
and attracting the lazy bee's of bumble, that hover and hum, above.
and book reading's are open,
unfunished, scattered on the table..... waiting for the
eventual waking...
along with the cat,
perched imperial,
and purring,
on one ant free corner
of the old and faded,
rattan chair.
he stands watch,
dotingly, over,
his dozing clowder....
this is ... the wonder of,
sunday afternoon naptime.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
Eli tended toward mothering his louche
friends, not that he was any better. He
had a bank account that never tapped out
& his pals were so low rent no one ever
saw any money; worthless rubles & rupees
or priceless dollars & Euros. He had a
name that was as good as a meme. Eli
Simple. The leading blue-chip painter of
his 'generation', a somewhat elastic
designation.
Eli had no 'generation'. Ivan & Igor
had busted out of the confines of mere
State censorship by publishing nothing
or producing the cheapest squalor. They'd
made a fortune. [ZOZO] One way or
another either Ivan or Igor are related
to Eli, whose fortune was made on the
auction house circuit; priced as invaluable,
Eli Simple's work stood beside such esoteric
notaries as David Hockney, Francis Bacon,
& Jean Michel Basquiet; He could get any
price he asked for anything whatsoever, his
imprimatur guaranteeing a fortune. Gold-
diggers were not Eli's type. He liked women
who had nothing & could care less. That was
their charm. A female body was enough
of a chore. He'd been raised Mennonite &
always hungered for more. He'd made it to
the top on Wall Street, Fifth Avenue & Holly
wood
w/out breaking stride & w/ only minor setbacks
that seemed enormous at the time. Accused of
murdering an A-lister's father dampened his
popularity but not his budget. He was huge in
Europe & Asia; a bankable Blockbuster. In
America no one cared about Art w/ the Royal
Capital 'A'. He had never had an American
retrospective, never even been offered one.
That got Eli's goat just than & furious, he
attacked the girl. Then he called his dealer.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 6:29 PM UTC
Like a wild-bush,
Frenzied on growing,
My empirical designation,
Of self-implosion
Falls like Berlin walls,
And Stalin statues,
I wonder if the night can see like me,
Or if the daunting blue figurines of my watch,
Dance like the dozy white flakes of a cold winter storm,
In the midsts of battle we learn decisiveness and impending insanity,
Summer heat brings showers of agony and glimpses of pleasure,
Like fleeing from some unearthed Hell we forged ourselves in,
The Earth she moans to the dark strands of nowhere,
"Please take me home." She cries
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC