"disquisition" poems
**Mauve is my favorite Color
A sister to Burgundy,
dusty Rose, soft Purple hues..
Love variations of Creams,
buttery Golden Yellows,
Blues, Teals, Pinks and Crimson
Not so much..the Primaries.
So very saturated and bright,
What captives my attention
is the endless, sumptuous possibilities
blending of spectrums and
hues providing me the most delight
Huge fan of Black...
A non-color
the definitive definition defining
lack of all Color.
Which is actually a dichotomy...
As to create black is to chose a base tone
Then blending a series of other Colors
So that every black
The exception being formulations
becomes a variation of a theme..
The debate continues,
If Black is truly the definition
of lack there of, therefore not deserving the title
of being a Color, where does that leave those that insist that Black is their's (favorite)?
Hmmm, maybe Black is my favorite Color too...
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC
*Smoke emitting from our lungs,
truth and lies dripping from our tongues
Again I will succumb,
strung out on a dream that may never become
Real
Jaws as blunt as guns,
But used to shield wounds that I never knew how to heal
Wary to feel too,
unresponsive or despondent
For the fear that I may never come back
But I'm unsure that I'd even want to,
continue to want you
And use you to conduce an excuse,
for what's wrong with me
Transfuse my confusion unto you,
Because really I don't want to face the truth
Austerity I'd have to spit out like a strong whiskey
So truly, what's the use in this abuse of romance?
Advancing on a mere chance that your soul might want to dance
With mine-
I feel cornered, confined,
But dare I cower ?
Or feel empowered to believe flowers can sprout from gunpowder?
Now we're years past a simple encounter, now or
Never is a little too late,
ground work
of slate and mistakes
...If only I could promise you that it will fade*
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
Her fortress wall stood exactly 12,410 empty memories tall.
Crumbling brown bricks of broken promises.
Empty words precariously balanced upon lonely days and set among nights spent in the arms of another.
Until the artists' foolish knock.
Dubious exchanges of self, through fractures in her wall in which the sun peered through, risked permeating the soul and casting color by way of the elaborate stained glass windows he dared to solicit.
And so bricks she threw.
Disquisition of frankincense and myrrh.
Tarnished metals and warped wood tirelessly became freshly painted and brightly adorned stones of poetry and brass he proposed would sit where rock once rested.
And so bricks she threw.
One by one, and amidst her chaos of metaphors, he patiently picked up the shards of decaying wall she hurled.
Carefully tending to each flaw, he sculpted her a throne of good intentions.
Well formed promises he would keep, graceful words he would speak.
Inspiring sunrises and passionate sunsets in his arms of what could be her tomorrows.
Fragmented adobe became priceless art and rare gems far too precious to throw.
Her stronghold became a rare exhibit of her fears sealed away in well lit display cases.
From her towering stockade emerged a glass palace and everyone knows not to throw cinder blocks in homes of stained glass.
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 10:24 PM UTC
Retention of repetition in modified replication reflects the information of evolution's disquisition demographic disposition to ferry the merry who listen
Psych out the vex and hex the wicked complex
Circumstantial reason in the season its civil unrest
Complacent implications ignited by degradation
The muted separation of lungs and aspiration
A few maybe more to mob the truth be unexplored
Forsaken by tradition of wishing never more
Disputing time and relativity inability to be given free
Verse the heart though be not amazed by the lack or hidden empathy
Commiseration of unmitigated hesitation casting darkness before the integration of our heart is a meager part devoted to the subtle structure of ones nature developed underneath the poise of well built character to divide and conquer if one were to try and squander the real power and only wander for it's those very same demons of the past that are now used as fuel for the fires of the future. How will you temper the flames that burn so?
Oct 6, 2017
Oct 6, 2017 at 9:00 PM UTC
Writing poems may save my place in the book
of life. But I think my life is better seen
from a distance. Close up there are issues, dents
and some old popcorn under my chair.
Mar 8, 2021
Mar 8, 2021 at 4:19 PM UTC
Worn dull, tired of lab grown
language stone carved
The way that can happen
Not just the obvious sonant brutality
acid bare knuckles
Other words, shaped for obscurity
slide
ar o u nd and a ro un d and
a r o u n d and
Skirting certain description
hiding behind
Below
like earth, unlike earth
unverified, unburied, not bare
Dec 6, 2020
Dec 6, 2020 at 8:10 PM UTC
a belletristic
which a
disquisition did
portend a
law if
we alluded
to alphabet
lor many
made a
grand entrée
this trial
but to
fit glorious
clouds without
wilded rains
in our
peace accords
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 7:19 AM UTC