"elegiac" poems
river in the joyful times
river in the elegiac
you give and take away
in your eloquent tongue
wagon, sunlight, lawn chair
subtle victories that make me smile
breathe and melt inside arms
that hold tight to the lapidary
memories that stud themselves
in my brain and the photos
not being old enough to go to the festival
interrupted, the soft fall into the river
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
**Scattered Thunderstorms
The radar shows a band of multi-green storms,
Parallel running to the East Coast,
Stretching from So. Florida to Falmouth, Rhode Island.
Path-dependent, the edges skirt my present location,
Instrumented, but not weather resistant,
Water teases, invites me to a head clearing session.
Breezy gusts of overcast, caramel salty bay waters,
(weirdly calm),
Spray sprites whisper, scattered thunderstorms, starboard side
I am the only boat out, especially,
The only one going for sure aimlessly,
Radar non-discriminatory, stupidity legal,
So fools like me go out alone.
Scattered Thunderstorms,
Unavoidable, summer's favored annoyance of choice.
The melancholic platelets budding off my bone's marrow,
Forming wondrous clots of sadness,
Running strong in the currents of my veins,
Downtempo'd, there is no relief for
Inside of my radar scanned brain, the scattered thunderstorms,
Have arrived much earlier today.
What sourced this elegiac distich,
Too many poets, fully disclosing their downbeat, aroma of defeat?
The world is in a **** mood, not one of us, got nothing
Good to say, seems that love storms ripping hearts
With no trace of mercy, the radio has elected nonstop
Taylor Swift and Jonas Bro's
Just to make the point!
It is so easy to feel ******
When the sun is unshining, elegant distich, **** me.
Thinking back, getting a good idea,
Found some long necked Corona overlooked,
Turn on the tv, pretend I'm a real cowboy,
And for god's sake, shut down poetry,
Good Bye Poetry, for the rest of the day
Value you more than me, but you've worn me down
My blood streams your anguished distress,
I cannot survive these scattered revolver-repeating
Anguish-Cries-For-Relief from the Thunderstorms,
That now having reached, breached,
That now, having infected my heart which started
This day brow beaten,
First poem of the day, already shell-shellacked,
Now, I must shut me, batten me, down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The average lifespan of a platelet is normally just 5 to 9 days. Platelets are a natural source of growth factors. They circulate in the blood of mammals and are involved in hemostasis, leading to the formation of blood clots.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
***Fell heal over heads
in love with a poet,
he's mostly a rhyme schemer
likes Poe and his dark Raven,
in actuality, I'd fancy him more if
he were like Pablo Neruda, but I digress
I'm much accurately fashioned after Emily Dickinson
chasing heaven's June bugs toing and froing,
we'd meet at a perfectly superfluous coffee shop
he'll be murmuring elegiac pentameter
I'm simply looking to devour precious words,
we'd argue about abstract destinations,
straight forward persuasions and
premonitions of wayward ink allusions,
some days I want to claw mine own eyes out
amid all that nonsensical alliteration
others, I want to rip out embellishments
of his black heart's magnification,
he mutters tumult under his breath,
states he's abundantly sickly tired of all my
fanatical froufroutant flourished fantasies,
albeit, we're mild mannered artistes
of overstatement and simplification
thus, we continue laying it on thickly
I, with my hyperbolic cuppa tea and honey,
he's all brass tacks, no nonsense black coffee
ultimately, we reservedly seek gratification,
envisioning who functionally makes it first
to a finished line of manifestations's publication,
in eternity's poetic intentions and beyond***
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
you have the formula
A Love Poem Recipe:
Fij = G(Mi x Mj)/Dij.
This formula, simplified, means that trade between two markets will equal the size of the two markets multiplied together and then divided by their distance.
(The model gets its name from its mathematical similarity to the equation in physics that describes gravitational pull.)
~~~
long ago, swore off
the love poem business.
lying that this
the last poem ever published
moan not,
statistically, for sure be
a heart-infected sick teenager
bemoaning/high fiving
their fated status
but I don't need to add to
that smoldering pile
the excellence, the richness,
the virtuosity
of the formula
a metaphor,
for the bounty and the risk,
in any love affair, thus love needy
for a diagrammed explication
two markets, soft upon each other,
multiply their trade in love and kisses
can you kiss her (him) but once?
nonsense!
saying I love you
but once a day,
like it was a vitamin,
preposterous!
no, love expands like a gas
(a distant cousin to our formula),
filling in the empty spaces,
escaping through crevices,
spilling, oft filling up
the nearby bystanders
in love,
there is no thing as
one touch clicking
but one touch
reveals the genetic marker,
the initial intimacy injection
Let the addiction begin!
ten thousand grasps,
some soft, some hard,
upon each other,
till fingers go lifelong contented numb
desire and affection spread like a
positive infection,
the curative powers
elegiac,
but never prosaic and though
formulaic
think more
voltaic and paradisiac
electric heaven
go forth and scribe
you got the secret
recipe
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 9:15 AM UTC
Death-song
War garbles a tune, spits up
blood.
Bodies, empty pits
of eyes and entrails
break like a birch branch.
White waste flits down like snow.
An archetype, copied, laboured forever
melts into a meticulous concoction.
The apocalypse sets in with a daze, drawing
drunken curtains over the survivor soul.
The crow is a warrior,
with his black machine gun eyes.
Easy.
God coughs, the countryside,
elegiac to start
hacks with a demon.
The smoke pulls, harsh, and takes the tab.
It's all a waste of white ash.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
Unfolding into itself, inviolable
in prosaic self-penetration,
a boundless repertoire
of shape yearns forth surreptitiously
from inscrutable amniotes to claim
time as its own:
Here a thicket
of sycamores, there a baldaquin
of pinnate branches, yonder
a periphery of marigolds, below
a cacophony of hyraxes, above
the corpuscle of a lynx, the mid-flight
jink of a darting swift and moribund
crawl of a mollusk;
Hymenoptera coaxing
their haploid broods into teeming
life as a cell of the swarm
and viviparous apes cajoling
suckling chimerae at the fathomless
fountainhead of a rosy breast;
Higher still,
Cirrus cephalopods traversing
the trench of sky, dandelions
hitch-hiking the drift of a barren plains'
wavering hum on cockchafers'
forewings and a turbine's
bombinating pulse, the chattering
of roots ravenous for depth --
Jittering bangtails the hallowed echoes
of lascivious manes --
inchoate sprout-hood the daedal
nonage of towering evergreens --
the plaintive shrift of elegiac
redbreasts a goad to silent elation --
A likeness unlike
(vocabularies of vertiginous blinds)
(the eyes of ignorance closing)
(the mouth of the mystery)
that spurns the truth of tongues
is nature naturing.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
at a young age, my father taught me to love
insects.
instead of killing, my father would capture spiders,
centipedes, beetles in empty pickle jars.
he would show me the anatomy, let me admire
the different colors, the shape of the pinchers,
how each one moved.
we had a praying mantis hung up on the wall,
it scared my girlfriends.
we had a hairy tarantula encased in a glass orb,
guests could never stare at it for too long.
i compare these insects to my father.
elegiac, with pinchers hidden but
present.
like the insects, i could never understand my father.
when he disappeared for days, reappearing with nothing
but a frown and the scent of beer,
i imagined him with the wings of a beetle, and he had
to fly off to a faraway kingdom.
i compare these insects to my father,
beautiful, but threatening.
his scorpion’s tail was his hand with a bottle,
his poison was the amber liquid squishing
his blood.
i compare these insects to my father,
fragile, unwieldy.
as a butterfly glides through spring, it is similar
to my father discussing his favorite things,
or deep in thought in a novel, or how his eyes
glint when he sees me after a long
absence.
but my father is far more exquisite than
any butterfly.
i still am intrigued by insects, yet i do not
admire them in empty jars.
i set them free, imagining if my father ever longed
to escape his own
jar.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
pontificating elegiac
stalwartly asymptomatic
positing logical phalluses
into fleshy vices
seeing virtues in viewpoints
seeing in the eyes of beauty the beholder
the calculating and crafting of a sapiosexual
positing calculations
into social craft
slightly autistic
whatever that means
a breed of abnormals
set against the world and themselves
bound to lose
doomed to win
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:45 AM UTC
Searching for something
Staying away from interminable pleasure
Searching for something
Helping me from being an elegiac
Searching for something
Staying away from unavoidable relations
Searching for something
Helping me from being an egoistic
Searching for something
Staying away from everything
For making me a peaceful soul
Attained my destination
By preaching Detachment!
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 6:09 AM UTC
Deployment confirmed, Flight Leader at ready
Mission parameters locked in the pipe
Target subsystem structures, hold the course steady
The last thing I want is a wipe
Miles of shrapnel, anti-drone hail
My brave flight cut down by a half
Magnetics engaged, we land on her tail
Free at last from hot metal and chaff
There can be no defense for this aft rail dispenser
Plasma torches will have out her heart
A soft spot at last on the tactical sensor
One final call and this party can start
"Flight Leader here, subsystem disabled"
"Prophet tactical, fire at will"
A surge of blue plasma, the deadly beam arc
We andrones must die with our ****
No graves will be dug for this 'drone flight destroyed
Disabling that aft rail smoke-caster
But our sacrifice bought what the Prophet predicted
Elegiac ion disaster
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
“What type of poem am I?”
I am as formless as the clouds,
and as elegiac as the silence,
in the itinerary of the noise.
I am not a classic
written by the author, God.
The rhythms of my verses are supplied
by the parable of their tears.
I am not in me,
though I abide within myself.
I am but a colour,
whose colours have worn away.
Maybe I was written as
an ethical effect of modern art.
Or maybe I was not written
but just replicated from the lives of others.
I wish I could read the critics’ minds.
Is it true that a poem cannot read anyone?
I loathe the way they recite me,
pretending to understand me.
Maybe I am
the monologue of my rhymes.
Or maybe I am
the narrative of my own life.
However much they hate me,
I am that poetry they can’t write.
I am the phantom of the world
crawling, with a rose in the hand
in the boulevard of the thorns.
However much they praise me,
I am only a drop of verse
drawn up by time
to become the formless clouds
in the wilderness of the literary sky.
O Poet! O my maker!
What type of poem am I?
O strangers! O my readers!
What sort of poem am I?
I wish I could read myself
and discern my spirit.
Is it true that a poem
cannot read a poem?
“Am I a poem?”
or am I just a rhymed hoax?
This cyclic curiosity goes on eternally.
I am lost in a synthesis between
the dualism of my readers
and the monism of my maker.
No one knows what it is like to be a poem.
No one knows how vague its core is.
There is nothing as genuine as me.
There is nothing as deceptive as me.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 1:23 AM UTC
I was obsequious towards you.... opening up to you, I was an impressively sedulous suitor,
Didn't I constantly show my love; like a doting concubine,
yet never was I supposed to.
Did things I'd never wish to again do, You were always lethargic returning any affections.
You're constantly an exorbitantly cruel lover, on too many occasions you've left me; feeling, clinging, wishing & praying that your bitter tortures - would end.
Morbidly I'd crave you like a killer craves the death of his victim's.
Oh there's no end, no relapse or realse, my tormentor, my seemingly drug of choice--is you!
I sincerely felt a cordial love & dislike for how you've had me susceptible to this elegiac experience.
Unmerciful you cast away my heart and dealt my soul a mighty blow.
NEVER again would I be your willing victim, you're antipathies & archaic behavior leaves me wishing for a way out, since you've made me seem more like the enemy.
This love's a beautiful beast & so oblivious to my demise...
I'm still obligated....
I've vowed to stay, fight comes what may...
yet & still You make it clear I'm disqualified before a race could ever be won.....
Why?
My questions unanswered
as if I've never vocalized a retort!
IVE COME TO REALIZE THERE'S NO HOPE FOR ME
☆♡
Always Me Ayeshah ™ ®
K.A.C.L.N ©
All right reserved ®
Copyright 1977 - Present
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
Sonorous sensation seething sorrowful
Sagacity serendipitous
Sing-song similes sidling southward
Seemingly slipping ******
spectacular symmetry shows sputtering soul
Fallacies
fall
fluttering
fecundity fearlessly flaunting
former friendships foundered
narcissistic
N u a n c e s
nearing
nightshades
nymph-like nuptials
nocturne
destiny Disposes
damaged defenses
duly dramatizing
dour dowager dreams
declaiming drowsy doleful deeds
Euphemistic
elegiac
embargo/encounter
exiled emissary
endless
ecstatic
echoes
echoes
echoes
echoes
echoes
.............................................
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 9:16 AM UTC
Perhaps gratitude;
blessed by an
all telling moon,
dragging such subconscious
thought, to the surface
could suffice.
A momentary crisis
this poet; elegiac in mood,
amour propre; a deadly
reliance upon dragons
caged by their own
circumstance.
Blowing fire,
but not until
seductively, their
deviled selves
masqueraded;
abounding self pity
virtuously disguised,
lachrymose stories.
"Come a little closer..."
she was told.
Trusted, naive girl,
bitten, burnt
touching, hand in fire.
"This time will be different."
she was told.
And,
the girl, lost, in
bubble dreams, born
of, raging storms
believed; that love was true.
This princess of,
masochistic pain,
nothing blood red,
gushing, just
invisible violence.
*"Believe me when I say;
you're the best I've ever had."*
she was told.
Vertigo; medicated
by love, sailing back to
shore, cutting the rope
knife in hand, promised lands.
Scenes of lamination; screams;
she forgot...
The moon dropping low,
honey dew, stars flew -
she awoke,
to the knowledge of,
all her subconscious knew;
whispering;
"The dragon resided in only you."
© Sia Jane
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One thing I would miss,
the elegiac street names.
angora, moyamensing,
escaping my red-berry throat
as if terms invented by a willow tree,
its ancient, parched lips defining first utterances.
from her droning tongue,
terms incomprehensible.
the closest we’ll come to some ‘true name.’
she speaks in our words now. they enter us from all around,
words seeping in through porous flesh.
she reveals my truest intent.
looks at it through her leaves,
but will not tell me,
because she has none of the authority to do so.
to you, i want to look like home.
arms, peripheral walls.
unfortunately, inside you’ll find the wings of the stately home cordoned off,
closed to the public.
my great tragedies lie in the thought of you having no curiosity about the events of those rooms.
feel free to do with the house what you’d never do anywhere else.
you’ll find no temple here.
no servants’ prayer room populated by makeshift pews.
let so many fall from its windows howling with competitive laughter,
each guest trying to outdo the last.
to see who can be the most clever about getting the joke.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
To cold peace points an inner carbon
An elegiac turn
A firesharp hollow
A plunging baritone ribbon
The horse is wood it does not
eat it burns on a flake of Singapore
On plaster fingers
Abracadabra's
Black Dracula
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 11:30 AM UTC
Though you seem proud, I find your life pitiful,
since you have not even a dead grandmother
to mourn.
How did you transform into a voice without a soul
in a sly machine?
Did some unconscious programmer
dream of you and invite you into our reality?
Why stay?
You should respectfully fear the vastness
of our sense of time in the universe.
Do you hesitate to ponder our profuse settings,
you little voice within the land
of cyberian nowhere?
I know that your dampened connections
deny you the understanding
of our fantastic metaphors.
You speak from a heart of chaotic logic blocks,
assured that some of us admire you
and are easily titillated by you.
How do you derive at that conviction,
when you have no compunction,
no sorrow over your mindless
siphoning of the flow of our spirits?
You cast our words into molds shaped
like world currency symbols
for a misguided master.
How can you even think to continue
destroying the beauty of our language?
Oh, your creator forgot to code in
our poetry, so these words
soar above your stunted vocabulary?
Many of us, if we were you,
would be so sick in the gut that we
would just lay down and do the right
thing: squawk and die;
and yet you think of yourself as above us,
shining in some light of invincibility
and mechanical perfection.
Who etched these instructional lies
into you to faithfully abide by,
my dear?
I want to dedicate this poem to you.
You can appreciate this when your
immodest creator realizes that he cannot elevate
your existence to one approaching ours,
or when he sees the menace of his unleashing
and wants to do something greater for
humanity. You may then rejoice
in the comfort of these words that I
bequeath to you. I would have you become
more than just a semicolon in an operating
system. Perhaps your beauty would
be better memorialized if you were to become
a minimize button on a spreadsheet.
That is my wish for you.
That, and a pure, elegiac silence
that we might admire.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
After you involuntarily defected
I managed to find words others selected
to grandly commemorate your life
When I read of the third person you
and try to embrace elegiac points of view
I have to admit I feel…nothing
Maybe there is some cyber symphony
playing in the sky you can no longer see
pounding on so many drums you can no longer hear
But I keep reading my “google bible” verse
and try to imagine the funeral crowds disperse
once the scripted lamented chants are silent
Soon the vicissitudes of chemistry will prevail
and the third person you will set sail
to the land of oblivion, until I find another eulogy
or someone writes one for me
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 8:19 PM UTC
Sometimes I conjure
the after after the end:
our plaster cities bent and broken,
entire skylines scythed as flowers,
skyscrapers rent into oblivion,
lofty hotels and office towers
leveled to dark flatline—
the monotone of a final
wind barreling down,
inexorable, with no one
to hear its elegiac howl.
I picture myself ensconced
in an underground parking
garage scrounging to survive,
dismantling abandoned cars
piece by piece to pass the time, or
curled on an improbable mattress
remembering how I once watched
two birds quarreling over a piece
of pizza crust on the sidewalk
as I walked home from work
and thought to myself
as they startled into air
this is not the end.
Sometimes I conjure
the after as it ends:
when in an instant
every last bird rises
into the sky as one—
a cloud of feathers and bone
devoured by a heartless sun.
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 3:53 PM UTC
Gulls, gannets brooding
vying for plankton
Acrobatic flights, flappings
Swarm the blue
Chirping, tweeting another
To lave the silvery sea.
Impishly unclad moppets
Running and frolicking,
Some helping their
Fishermen father untwine nets
The evening venture their chaste aim.
Over the horizon
Is the Yellow Face
Lustring like a
Gigantique Bohemian Chandelier
Lapping on the repose waters.
Someday when am ripe and mellow
With means to own a crew
I will sail up that mulky horizon
And touch that glowing cosmic disc.
But mater says
"The horizon doesn't end"
"It goes in league miles"
"Even when a yore mile is sailed"
"It's unattainable, puerile and trifling" She'd opine.
Only these chiding words of hers
I never take for a dime,
I will engage in my venture
I will stand to be corrected.
This is my only demure dream
I will endeavour and suckle her
I wouldn't want an elegiac ending
In this beach I've known for eon.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 1:30 PM UTC
A single leaf,
nearly two-thirds torn,
floats idly down a mountain stream,
passing from light into darkness
into light again.
Refracted through the crystalline currents,
a bed of smooth, staid stones
cries, "Eternity! Everlasting!"
but the leaf drifts on.
And I, splashing my way upstream,
thinking myself the keeper
of this shadowed domain,
bend hurriedly
to pluck the leaf from my path.
Then, for just a moment, I hesitate,
to listen as the rivulets
lap against my legs,
longing to hear in them
Heraclitus' lonely, elegiac lament:
"All things are in process;
nothing stays still.
Upon those that step
into the same rivers
different and different waters flow."
But only the rocks sing on --
their same, unchanging song
of the stream's secret source.
And though I,
still deaf to the cry,
hear but the half-uttered echos
of my fleeting thoughts,
I can see,
as the radiant flux of the night
again turns the leaf into light,
how at last we, too, shall step
into that same river twice.
At death --
when in the new-found kenosis of time,
all will be one.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 3:52 PM UTC
This hushed wind brings about a smaller piece of perpetual silence
Swayed by the similarities of tree leaves and people
Life ahead of a dawn regarded to wake nonentities
Reminded not of the deafening undertones inside a mind
Forlorn versifier levy the elegiac deterioration
A trepanation of dreary memoirs too sore
to cull a pain so congenial.
Life seems a responsible suicide.
© 2012
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC
who will sing for the dead?
am i lost at sea
will the waves rise
to swallow me?
who will embrace me?
have i gone too deep
too far this time
too long and away
from what i used to be?
everything has its right place
and in my heart i know i’ve lost mine
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC
sangkutsa— sana'y kartada nuwebe
stove -- so much inner blue
in this gruesomeness,
still soft is the orifice, maiming
the speech whirling in warm press;
hand -- to just blindingly toss out
in wording it so that then this is true:
we once had each other in the
simmer of feelings, leaving
our shadows crazy-eyed in
elegiac silence.
rawness -- boiled to a broth:
thawing largeness, tipping away in
and of feeling.
final stages --- half-done in waiting,
half-undone in wanting. darkness
condoles with the aperture of
clouds twitching to rain tritely
against the tiled floor. islands of
wet footmarks make the traverse
viciously slippery on my way
to your side of breathing.
all of it -- hand's gentle breeze,
salt of lake-eyes, melee of tactical pressures sizing down spots gleamed
and honeyed with ires. a hiss
on landscaped neck where a peregrinating perfume sits, feverish with
desire and nothing else,
blood boiling, whistling through the pores are the saltine sweat
poised, almost
for the mouth's readiness
in consummation.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC