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"distinctive" poems
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine. At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal. It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity. (A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds) A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past. Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre. Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators. I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success. However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative. A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message; Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages. To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past! Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors! Purcy Flaherty.
0
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
The media machine and its lack of authenticity
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine. At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal. It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity. (A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds) A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past. Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre. Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators. I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success. However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative. A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message; Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages. To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past! Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors! Purcy Flaherty.
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14
Permanently fixed to the rest room wall, waiting for the golden rain to fall, oh you've many a tale to tell, The stains on your sides, the distinctive smell, That gum in the drain hole, spat out in haste, The crown and glory ‘mongst the human waste. All those members, large and small, have hung over your orifice, you've seen them all, Your starting to choke on the ***** hair, While drunk men with whiskey breath, look down and stare, no one seems to notice your vitreous gleam, under the constant haze of the ***** stream, you just suffer in silence and long for the day, When you’re no longer needed and they take you away.
0
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
Toilet ******
From my window, in corner of an eye, see a pink flamingo. Broad curves, into familiar shape, grounded legs, Iron weighted. Been there for years, quietly sitting, amongst roses. Pushed by storms, changing winds, yet surprising, inner strength. Retains balance, keeps small piece, staked out, of much larger plot. Slowly losing, it's distinctive hues. Dissolving, fuchsia to palest pink. Every family has their own, pale pink flamingo
0
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
Pink flamingo
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery, Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery, Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy, Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers, Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay, Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity. Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile; But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses, Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes; But less understood even the painter’s invention, Theories and laws built around Science and Law; But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery, Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms; But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile. Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences; But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile. I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery, I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye. She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her, Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it; Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write. She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy. She’s been decked with melody and rhymes, And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon, Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found. She took me with her beyond the horizon, And I followed her with no utterance till our destination. She laughed at me for my silence; Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable. She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me; She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer; Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry. “Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee, She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.” I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile, I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile, Let me not move away from the garden of poetry Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me. I waited and waited and I found the answer: Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence. My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within. She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile, And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.” I know why Mona Lisa smiles. She loves me with her silent Smile.
0
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 5:17 AM UTC
Why Does Mona Lisa Smile?
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery, Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery, Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy, Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers, Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay, Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity. Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile; But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses, Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes; But less understood even the painter’s invention, Theories and laws built around Science and Law; But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery, Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms; But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile. Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences; But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile. I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery, I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye. She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her, Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it; Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write. She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy. She’s been decked with melody and rhymes, And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon, Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found. She took me with her beyond the horizon, And I followed her with no utterance till our destination. She laughed at me for my silence; Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable. She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me; She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer; Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry. “Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee, She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.” I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile, I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile, Let me not move away from the garden of poetry Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me. I waited and waited and I found the answer: Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence. My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within. She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile, And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.” I know why Mona Lisa smiles. She loves me with her silent Smile.
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45
the magnolia was a bit of a ******* (as far as trees can be ******** and like very many other things— like japanese candy from the Fugi Mart in Greenwich (across from the McDonald’s and next to the music shop where I got my viola) and like pokemon cards and nintendo gaming systems and like Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” on a pink CD in a Hello Kitty radio —that ******* of a magnolia was a distinctive taste of the years I spent growing up in my house at the end of Wyndover Lane. the ******* thing was almost perpetually in bloom. it barged into both spring and autumn (it didn’t give a **** about timing) those pink and white spongy petals padding the ground and at first you think it’s ******* beautiful sitting in the crook of the trunk where it split into two large separate branches tilting your chin back to catch a glimpse of blue between fat blossoms then the petals start rotting water-retentive little ******* and you can’t sweep ‘em away because they stick to the patio brown clumps slipping under rubber soles my dad lets loose a string of curses and the magnolia shakes with laughter I tried pressing the petals in a notebook once while I was in that naturalist phase it seems all little girls go through when you make fairy houses out of bark in the backyard and put flowers between the pages of books because it feels oh-so-much-more significant than picking a pretty thing and showing it to mom but the magnolia seeped through my spiral ring and when I opened it up a month later they were dry tan papery things not at all velveteen and rosy and there were garish pink bloodstains all through the ten pages on either side magnolias don’t preserve well except, honestly they do don’t they then of course there’s that childhood tragedy that everyone has when your dog got hit by some soccer mom’s suburban or your teddy bear was lost in an airport or maybe you just liked to cry because some things were just really worth the tears at the time but when I came home and found out they cut down my ******* ******* of a magnolia I bawled there wasn’t even a stump.
0
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
Magnolia
the magnolia was a bit of a ******* (as far as trees can be ******** and like very many other things— like japanese candy from the Fugi Mart in Greenwich (across from the McDonald’s and next to the music shop where I got my viola) and like pokemon cards and nintendo gaming systems and like Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” on a pink CD in a Hello Kitty radio —that ******* of a magnolia was a distinctive taste of the years I spent growing up in my house at the end of Wyndover Lane. the ******* thing was almost perpetually in bloom. it barged into both spring and autumn (it didn’t give a **** about timing) those pink and white spongy petals padding the ground and at first you think it’s ******* beautiful sitting in the crook of the trunk where it split into two large separate branches tilting your chin back to catch a glimpse of blue between fat blossoms then the petals start rotting water-retentive little ******* and you can’t sweep ‘em away because they stick to the patio brown clumps slipping under rubber soles my dad lets loose a string of curses and the magnolia shakes with laughter I tried pressing the petals in a notebook once while I was in that naturalist phase it seems all little girls go through when you make fairy houses out of bark in the backyard and put flowers between the pages of books because it feels oh-so-much-more significant than picking a pretty thing and showing it to mom but the magnolia seeped through my spiral ring and when I opened it up a month later they were dry tan papery things not at all velveteen and rosy and there were garish pink bloodstains all through the ten pages on either side magnolias don’t preserve well except, honestly they do don’t they then of course there’s that childhood tragedy that everyone has when your dog got hit by some soccer mom’s suburban or your teddy bear was lost in an airport or maybe you just liked to cry because some things were just really worth the tears at the time but when I came home and found out they cut down my ******* ******* of a magnolia I bawled there wasn’t even a stump.
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49
*A parade of fluorescent silhouettes, Aim against a tranquil lit afternoon sky, In a collage of interwoven blossoms, Casually stretching, Side by side. Releasing a pleasant aroma, Interlacing within the calming sea, As the water creases, upon a bed of shimmery grains, Below a shade of fluffy clouds, A place you would never want to leave. When the tides slowly washes in, In a rich and mild lather .... lacking impel, Underneath a ribbon of distinctive seashells, Leaving a mesmerizing imprint, And a magical spell.*
0
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
A Tranquil Lit Afternoon Sky
It is absolutely breath-taking.. how each of his exquisite poems sing.. a distinctive melody, how his mind works like magic... sculpting the most incredible forms no one could. Brilliance just shines through his woven pieces... no words could really define how awe-inspiring his work is. *His meticulous sublime words... uniquely create ingenious and flawless stanzas,* *making each and every one of his craft... out of this universe.* That is truly.. how gifted he is.
0
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 10:35 AM UTC
Gifted
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery, Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery, Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy, Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers, Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay, Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity. Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile; But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses, Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes; But less understood even the painter’s invention, Theories and laws built around Science and Law; But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery, Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms; But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile. Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences; But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile. I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery, I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye. She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her, Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it; Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write. She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy. She’s been decked with melody and rhymes, And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon, Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found. She took me with her beyond the horizon, And I followed her with no utterance till our destination. She laughed at me for my silence; Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable. She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me; She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer; Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry. “Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee, She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.” I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile, I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile, Let me not move away from the garden of poetry Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me. I waited and waited and I found the answer: Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence. My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within. She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile, And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.” I know why Mona Lisa smiles. She loves me with her silent Smile.
0
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 3:07 AM UTC
Why Does Mona Lisa Smile?
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery, Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery, Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy, Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers, Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay, Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity. Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile; But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses, Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes; But less understood even the painter’s invention, Theories and laws built around Science and Law; But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery, Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms; But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile. Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences; But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile. I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery, I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye. She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her, Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it; Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write. She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy. She’s been decked with melody and rhymes, And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon, Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found. She took me with her beyond the horizon, And I followed her with no utterance till our destination. She laughed at me for my silence; Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable. She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me; She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer; Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry. “Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee, She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.” I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile, I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile, Let me not move away from the garden of poetry Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me. I waited and waited and I found the answer: Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence. My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within. She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile, And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.” I know why Mona Lisa smiles. She loves me with her silent Smile.
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45
*On a bright and delightful Easter morning A furry white rabbit, wiggled her pink adorable nose Peeking through lush bushes In a lovely and distinctive pose And jiggled her cottony soft scut Aiming into a vegetation On this sunny day With so much motivation Quietly hopping into a blissful garden Placing decorative filled eggs in pastels With little time to rest As she quickly inhales Adding vibrant colours, to an emerald spiky blanket And into a rainbow of unfolding tulips Enlightening her way, like a dazzling carnival For little peeps enjoyment, upon soft winds movement Beginning in the latter daylight hours, as tots of all ages Eagerly carried empty interwoven baskets, on their quest Pacing through, as in peekaboo And observing who competes the best*
0
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
On A Bright And Delightful Easter Morning
365Nectar #46 The High Priestess of Soul Fri. November 8, 2013 10:38 P.M. Deep in the distance dancing upon the horizon a deeply distinctive voice defies definition bending genres to her will clearly breaking boundaries an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues Little Girl Blue lettin' it all out with a wild as the wind Sinner man just tryin' to feel good absolutely refusing to be misunderstood a strong-willed priestess turns tempermental tunes into blazing beautiful harmony putting a revolutionary spell on you belting emotional songs of freedom and spirit Peace of Heart Nectar of Truth just in time to do what you do... an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues. Born to a preacher handyman and housemaid minister a gospel pop fusion diva emerges from the Glory of Love a strange volatile fruit blossoms into young, gifted, and Black spitting storms of spiritually smoldering Black Gold from a silky soul that scorches the earth an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues Masterfully mesmerizing Black rock Blood and Candlesmoke a fiery flow of tangy, tantalizing and titillating under a fog of duality genius bears two heads vibrant and intricate a saucy songstress swings with passion and honesty an empowered diva breaks down and let's it all out just energetic expressive jazz injected with well composed folklore live at Ronnie Scotts an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues From Newport to Baltimore an exiled priestess feeds forbidden fruit and hypnotizes the masses with tantalizing love me or leave me alone torch songs a powerful Four Women high on Lilac Wine blush from Broadway Blues Ballads in Baltimore See-line woman goes to hell to save Little Liza Jane and shelters in Barbados Cotton-eyed Joe feeds Brown Baby controversy behind Blue Prelude Did it move you? Yeah... Hell yeah.. it moved me too! Mr. Bojangles wave bye bye to a Blackbird in chilly winds that don't blow while willows weep something seemingly symbolic of soothing to an African mailman in Central Park and an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues The High Priestess of Soul caged but still singing shivering sensations from stubborn sweetness under sweet strings that sharply spill and scatter strength to the sorrowful that daily dine and devour silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues.
0
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
The High Priestess of Soul
365Nectar #46 The High Priestess of Soul Fri. November 8, 2013 10:38 P.M. Deep in the distance dancing upon the horizon a deeply distinctive voice defies definition bending genres to her will clearly breaking boundaries an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues Little Girl Blue lettin' it all out with a wild as the wind Sinner man just tryin' to feel good absolutely refusing to be misunderstood a strong-willed priestess turns tempermental tunes into blazing beautiful harmony putting a revolutionary spell on you belting emotional songs of freedom and spirit Peace of Heart Nectar of Truth just in time to do what you do... an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues. Born to a preacher handyman and housemaid minister a gospel pop fusion diva emerges from the Glory of Love a strange volatile fruit blossoms into young, gifted, and Black spitting storms of spiritually smoldering Black Gold from a silky soul that scorches the earth an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues Masterfully mesmerizing Black rock Blood and Candlesmoke a fiery flow of tangy, tantalizing and titillating under a fog of duality genius bears two heads vibrant and intricate a saucy songstress swings with passion and honesty an empowered diva breaks down and let's it all out just energetic expressive jazz injected with well composed folklore live at Ronnie Scotts an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues From Newport to Baltimore an exiled priestess feeds forbidden fruit and hypnotizes the masses with tantalizing love me or leave me alone torch songs a powerful Four Women high on Lilac Wine blush from Broadway Blues Ballads in Baltimore See-line woman goes to hell to save Little Liza Jane and shelters in Barbados Cotton-eyed Joe feeds Brown Baby controversy behind Blue Prelude Did it move you? Yeah... Hell yeah.. it moved me too! Mr. Bojangles wave bye bye to a Blackbird in chilly winds that don't blow while willows weep something seemingly symbolic of soothing to an African mailman in Central Park and an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues The High Priestess of Soul caged but still singing shivering sensations from stubborn sweetness under sweet strings that sharply spill and scatter strength to the sorrowful that daily dine and devour silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues.
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90
tell me what words are there to articulate this savage parade not here, not in all the Lebanons whose crystal castles sparkle like broken glass on the dark horizons at the jagged edges of the world from which cultured minds have receded and all humanity has been relinquished to the barbarity of the frenzied flavours of fools who will speak for this wild parade without impediment to mythical protagonists tell me where are the energised arguments against sophisticated yet false laments where testament is torn through weeping cedar trees producing the unpredictable accidental quality that memorialises phantom caresses that have neither been invented nor encouraged the hallow that inaugurates the distinctive features of destructive energies that are both exuberant and hard to comprehend this parade where there is a savage sensibility capable of apprehending contradictory ethical imperatives that vouch for a mocking stream of tragic political consequence displayed vividly in the inextricability of civil order and political violence that defies exclusive claim by casting itself as freedom warrior in disguise as militaristic humanism and burns the temple tree and where human identity becomes an elusive possession owned by a few who in the inevitability of ignorance refuse to recognise their tragic error and the world does not mount a strenuous protest at this headlong dash for Ephesus where antagonistic language and neutral expression of thought converge and here the value of valulessness repudiates, even in a single poetic moment
0
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
Syria
tell me what words are there to articulate this savage parade not here, not in all the Lebanons whose crystal castles sparkle like broken glass on the dark horizons at the jagged edges of the world from which cultured minds have receded and all humanity has been relinquished to the barbarity of the frenzied flavours of fools who will speak for this wild parade without impediment to mythical protagonists tell me where are the energised arguments against sophisticated yet false laments where testament is torn through weeping cedar trees producing the unpredictable accidental quality that memorialises phantom caresses that have neither been invented nor encouraged the hallow that inaugurates the distinctive features of destructive energies that are both exuberant and hard to comprehend this parade where there is a savage sensibility capable of apprehending contradictory ethical imperatives that vouch for a mocking stream of tragic political consequence displayed vividly in the inextricability of civil order and political violence that defies exclusive claim by casting itself as freedom warrior in disguise as militaristic humanism and burns the temple tree and where human identity becomes an elusive possession owned by a few who in the inevitability of ignorance refuse to recognise their tragic error and the world does not mount a strenuous protest at this headlong dash for Ephesus where antagonistic language and neutral expression of thought converge and here the value of valulessness repudiates, even in a single poetic moment
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47
The Purple People come in many sizes, from small to extra-large – some are quiet and smiley, while others are louder and chatty. What they have in common, apart from the obvious distinctive pigment, is a welcoming demeanour that makes you feel that you have perhaps met them before or that you would like to meet them again. I first met a Purple Person as I climbed the steps, looking for reassurance that I wasn’t late and that I wouldn’t stand out too much in my nervous newness. I’m not sure what it was about their purpleness, but I felt one step closer to acceptance as I walked into the warm. I saw the matching purple banners and smiled at the attention to detail and the attention given to me which, while practiced, was far from forced and held a genuine purpleness. I met other Purple People at intervals, each with the purple family likeness of a smile, even though their heritage varied in shade. The further I walked, the more I relaxed and found that some of the Purple People weren’t wearing the signature purple tee shirts, but it was clear they came from the same palette because their welcome carried the same purple weight and the same authentic purpleness. This shouldn’t have been surprising, as I soon discovered that they each bore the same purple family likeness of the Purple King who welcomes everyone.
0
Jul 3, 2021
Jul 3, 2021 at 2:48 AM UTC
Purple People
Resplendent rose, luminous green, Lucid paradisaical palette, The jewel delivers It's dyed, distinctive sheen Graciously, unassumingly Casting a pink and emerald crewel Coalescing into traces, Cuisine for sunbeams Brushing nature's easel -- Bedecking the constellation lighting on earth, Realizing among tureens: Scalloped edge profusions offering The spoonbill waif Sweet adrenaline, Fueling it's sojourn in the atmosphere. Bird of prey, humming minstrel, Airy, iridescent meddler Between red blooms, Distant gem's sparkle Gracing redolent, languid afternoons Cloaked in shimmering velveteen, Beating velocious wings, remaining still.
0
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 9:11 AM UTC
Hummingbird
People sometimes ask me why I study so hard. The question always stumped me. Why do I study so hard? Why do I stay up till the wee hours of the morning to study? Then, I realised. I don't have looks. I don't have a good body. I don't even have a good personality! All I had was my brain, and my words. Knowing this pushes me to study harder so that I won't be left behind. Maybe I just want to belong. I mean, each clique has it's distinctive trait which unites a group of people. The good-looking (and typically popular people) group together. The outgoing ones group together. The athletically inclined ones group together(and they run in every single marathon that they can.) I don't fit in any of those. I can only hope that by studying hard, I will not only get good grades and a sense of accomplishment and pride but, that I'll belong. And that's all that I've ever wanted.
0
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
Belong
*Upon a bright spring morning, In the warmth of the ember sun, Adorable chromatic koi's pose, Graciously leaping in a distinctive pond. Casually stroking their fins, In a flattering array, On this delightful, And cheerful beautiful day. As they glide smoothly, Hiding underneath huge stones, Preciously playing peekaboo, Each in a beauty of their own. Near a tall brick wall .... beneath the purities of cascading waters, Portraying a lively show, As the zephyr gently embrace, And the waterfall plays a soothing percussion, as it flows.*
0
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
Preciously Playing Peekaboo
Can you spot those wild zebras, trotting across noisy plains of green? Can you spy them with binoculars, huddling together in familiar scenes? Can you observe these wild zebras, emblazoned with their traditional stripes? Can you recognize distinctive patterns of opposing colors of black and white? Can you form an opinion regarding the thoughts of wild zebras at play? Can any semblance of ‘Fashion Sense’ force a duality of stripes to rule the day? Can you number the size of the herd or even call out specific zebras by name? See their necks encircled by dangling whistles, as they continue… to officiate the football game. -Joe Breunig, Poet/Author, Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory
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Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
Poem: Wild Zebras At Play?
A certain wildness can still be found within a heart When a new scent fills the air A distinctive flicker of flame to restart A smoldering ash Lying there A rising mist ascends from a pool thought run dry Floating and flying in the air Weaving intricate patterns to erase the shy From within the heart Beating there A vanished voice is heard once again throughout Now softly ringing crystal clear Reigniting a certain wildness in a scented shout Erasing all shyness Waiting here Tender footsteps dance into these waiting hollows Sweetly kissing fire anew Promising joy in all my tomorrows Filled with the wonderful Scent, of you
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Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 5:12 AM UTC
Scent
Can you spot those wild zebras, trotting across noisy plains of green? Can you spy them with binoculars, huddling together in familiar scenes? Can you observe these wild zebras, emblazoned with their traditional stripes? Can you recognize distinctive patterns of opposing colors of black and white? Can you form an opinion regarding the thoughts of wild zebras at play? Can any semblance of ‘Fashion Sense’ force a duality of stripes to rule the day? Can you number the size of the herd or even call out specific zebras by name? See their necks encircled by dangling whistles, as they continue… to officiate the football game. -Joe Breunig, Poet/Author, Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory Learn more about me and my poetry at: http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
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Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC
Poem: Wild Zebras At Play?
The rolling stone always remains disturb And does not maintain his status _________ By leaving selfishness one can emit light as human do The martyr observed the cruelty of the unwanted persons _________ And condemns their supremacy A martyr shows a distinctive confidence Which is matchless _________ A time is coming when you will find a deserted way and nothing else But you’ll be alone without me.
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May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 6:12 AM UTC
=== A DESERTED WAY
you said you didnt love me anymore. yet your face tells everything everytime we steal glances of each other. how your cheek grazes my eyes, burying every sinful lie within each and every moment. you try to hide your feelings inside and pushed the love i gave to you that you denied. i see light in your eyes, darling. now why couldn't you just let it be and see how you truly mean to me, see the countless times, the consecutive tries of trying to make you mine again. now darling, i'm waiting for you. waiting for you to take me back one more time. i just need one try to prove to you that i was worth it all the time. and i dont know why youre fighting back the truth and burying them with distinctive lies saying that i never loved you and you never loved me too and that we were never meant for each other but deep down you know it wasnt true. so doff your pride and don a smile, run to me with arms open wide and accept me back with the love that never once died.
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May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 1:09 AM UTC
beyond a shadow of a doubt
Pale and swift the moorings lie: Roosting on the masts were nye. Peculiar was the indigo in the water's moonlit glow. The ship was ailing through the night casting wayward, staggered light. And oceanic tides were bound to throw the ship into the sound. But though the water pulled and fought the Phantom ship could not be caught; The cargo stayed and sat to mull well within the sturdy hull. It was a most peculiar eve, though the average won't perceive. The queer and devient, however, noticed that the sky forever loomed with great intensity with clouds as far as eyes could see. What secrets held this murky water? Burning mysteries, growing hotter? I was there, I hope you know I have a ship, my own, and so: remembering that eve's deception, I take my boat in that direction. Standing now to face the sea, deciding where and whom to be. For pale and swift the moorings lie; Roosting on the masts are nye. Distinctive be that indigo in the water's moonlit glow. Yet ** My schooner dipp and quaff And with that, I must be off.
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Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 7:17 PM UTC
To Sail
With an azure drinking cup studded with lapis, wait for her In the evening at the spring, among perfumed roses, wait for her With the patience of a horse trained for mountains, wait for her With the distinctive, aesthetic taste of a prince, wait for her With seven pillows stuffed with light clouds, wait for her With strands of womanly incense wafting, wait for her With the manly scent of sandalwood on horseback, wait for her Wait for her and do not rush. If she arrives late, wait for her. If she arrives early, wait for her. Do not frighten the birds in her braided hair. Wait for her to sit in a garden at the peak of its flowering. Wait for her so that she may breathe this air, so strange to her heart. Wait for her to lift her garment from her calf, cloud by cloud. And wait for her. Take her to the balcony to watch the moon drowning in milk. Wait for her and offer her water before wine. Do not glance at the twin partridges sleeping on her chest. Wait and gently touch her hand as she sets a cup on marble. As if you are carrying the dew for her, wait. Speak to her as a flute would to a frightened violin string, as if you knew what tomorrow would bring. Wait, and polish the night for her ring by ring. Wait for her until Night speaks to you thus: There is no one alive but the two of you. So take her gently to the death you so desire, and wait.
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Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
Wait For Her (A Lesson From The Karma Sutra)
Distinctive success found in the roads of effort rewards diligence.
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Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 9:39 AM UTC
Accomplishment
Fading stains record the tender scheme of flagrant deliberation Transparent in their defense of the illusion Depicting careful consideration of honesty and reserve While shattering the picture of your delusions A saturation of recollection, distinctive in its eloquence Briefly coercing the eyes to conceive The continuation of a scheme hid in a shroud of confusion Which refuses to change or ever leave What would ever stain, yet without any imperfection Expressing clear in all of its defense Completely raw and uninhibited in the purest honesty Yet leave your values standing on the fence A love beyond comprehension is your tender scheme The stains are your records of transparency A continuation one cannot deny, when looking in your eyes No illusions, just the pureness of honesty
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Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 10:03 PM UTC
Honesty
I'm trending love. I'm trending hate. I'm trending the fact that you always reply a little too late. I'm telling you that you are less than enough. And when you **** me, its a little too rough. Pounding away like you're shooting a gun. All too soon. I never come. Too pretty to make you feel let down. Fake it always, you're the shittest rodeo clown. Take off your ****** face. Eat me wide, go on, give me a taste. Sink your teeth into my bare flesh, feel my history in my blood seek me out in all my mess. I am showing you darling in my very sweet tones that my succinct naivety is nothing more, than what you want from your white ash bones. I am trending you I am trending your **** I am trending the look you wear and the music you rock. I am seeking a feeling more than text, a wink or smiley face. Look, At, ME. Am i that easy to replace? Bitterness is found in the sweetest pill i'll bend your *** i'll bend you over, I'll **** you at will. I will move my trend towards your neck outpour my lack of interest in your ear, tell you what it is you want to hear. **** you, and **** your nation. **** your distinctive'taste', and your senseless judgement and interrogation. I am not some sweet-ass-fuck-drive-by-shooter-girl, I have ******* brains, I am seconds away from tearing apart your world. I am living safely from behind my defensive line of white hair, **** that **** i don't want closeness rip my clothes off, don't leave till i'm wanton and bare. Oh and i am trending your messages I am trending all of you. I am not trending depression, ****** up or feeling blue. I am trending love, trending the great divide. I made it through and over, to the other side. I am not what you will ever believe me to be a glimmer, of a hint, in a riddle, is all you will see. I am trending what is insane, and what is not, I am thinking, your thinking of, 'what the **** has this girl got?' I am not here to make you laugh, or for you to wish for more, I am here to be left broken and wet, on your kitchen floor. I am trending honest, i am trending passion and life, I am trending a big fat ****** smile, Because I am not your possession or your future wife. I am not trending your **** size, or  your 16 positions in one night, I don't want you to cry on my shoulder I am not trending 'your mother', i have earnt that right. Look, At. ME. Second chances rarely come as few and when i walk away, i will walk away with a taste of you. I am sweetness, i am luxury divine, make me bite you, scratch your back, forget the time. But at my cost, at my control, this will be, you are not my attachment, my soul is not your key. I am trending love, i am trending ME for what is locked within, is never for free. **** Me. What a trend
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May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
Quick ****** trend
I'm trending love. I'm trending hate. I'm trending the fact that you always reply a little too late. I'm telling you that you are less than enough. And when you **** me, its a little too rough. Pounding away like you're shooting a gun. All too soon. I never come. Too pretty to make you feel let down. Fake it always, you're the shittest rodeo clown. Take off your ****** face. Eat me wide, go on, give me a taste. Sink your teeth into my bare flesh, feel my history in my blood seek me out in all my mess. I am showing you darling in my very sweet tones that my succinct naivety is nothing more, than what you want from your white ash bones. I am trending you I am trending your **** I am trending the look you wear and the music you rock. I am seeking a feeling more than text, a wink or smiley face. Look, At, ME. Am i that easy to replace? Bitterness is found in the sweetest pill i'll bend your *** i'll bend you over, I'll **** you at will. I will move my trend towards your neck outpour my lack of interest in your ear, tell you what it is you want to hear. **** you, and **** your nation. **** your distinctive'taste', and your senseless judgement and interrogation. I am not some sweet-ass-fuck-drive-by-shooter-girl, I have ******* brains, I am seconds away from tearing apart your world. I am living safely from behind my defensive line of white hair, **** that **** i don't want closeness rip my clothes off, don't leave till i'm wanton and bare. Oh and i am trending your messages I am trending all of you. I am not trending depression, ****** up or feeling blue. I am trending love, trending the great divide. I made it through and over, to the other side. I am not what you will ever believe me to be a glimmer, of a hint, in a riddle, is all you will see. I am trending what is insane, and what is not, I am thinking, your thinking of, 'what the **** has this girl got?' I am not here to make you laugh, or for you to wish for more, I am here to be left broken and wet, on your kitchen floor. I am trending honest, i am trending passion and life, I am trending a big fat ****** smile, Because I am not your possession or your future wife. I am not trending your **** size, or  your 16 positions in one night, I don't want you to cry on my shoulder I am not trending 'your mother', i have earnt that right. Look, At. ME. Second chances rarely come as few and when i walk away, i will walk away with a taste of you. I am sweetness, i am luxury divine, make me bite you, scratch your back, forget the time. But at my cost, at my control, this will be, you are not my attachment, my soul is not your key. I am trending love, i am trending ME for what is locked within, is never for free. **** Me. What a trend
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