"ellipsis" poems
A Noun: The oblong: a thing:
The name of that lounge : a place
By the face of the strange shaped lake...
Dinosaur Egg / oval / green grapes.
An Adj.: Oblong Longboard
That’s such the coolest name
A person: Not a thing
oval shaped .
Mr. Ellipsis made no complaints
About tiny alien ant farms
“From Outer Space!”
The natives made to slave.
*Oblong grew his beard out
After the sideburns days
Mr. Ellipsis far far away*
Fires of the Sun
Will not discern—when
The Light returns
The wyrm will burn .
In oblong throes of defeat.
At peace : A Verb.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 5:10 PM UTC
So tired yet so awake
I sit at the edge of an ellipsis
crimping the charred innards of my tattered soul
to make a masterpiece of gore
and internal war.
over the years of self loathing
I finally love myself
but getting ****** up feels ****** perfect
and watching this world unfold anew with each hit
or shot
rocks my mind
unkind but exemplary in it's own fortitude
to prevail my own veils
aside they're cast and fumbled with
as thick smiles seed
and the pace is set for the evening
I can't help but think that leaving
could do me good
but who backs out before the last shot?
who leaves before the deafening toll of midnight?
Cinderella's umbrella of security
and purity
is at jeopardy
and with great haste she wastes away the good looks
for late night *****
and nicotine
forgetting to clean
her closet of supreme validity on
the functioning teen
trying not to be mean,
but completely obscene in gestures
with the barbie's manufacturers groping for caspers
in the utopian disasters of the girl they forged
many decades back, but lost track
of the track that played that summer night
in the moonlight of immaculate humor and love
above all the oozing essence that manifested
now tested, for virtual ******
your cerebellum will tellem the positive
credo
that we all know is hooked on the days drift wood with
byzantine benzodiazapines to guide her haunted spirit
till
the cracks turn to crevasses and prehistoric protons mate with electrons
in the vat that is abrewing to plot the lies
watch the skies fade to grey as it may
be about time for the ecliptic rhymes to find
reconciliation
in the bladed grains of mortality and sigh
for being high in this lowered juncture
of subsisting future
buys you time to mull over such a daydream
as your last breath
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
dear, you cut me off mid-sentence.
for all my skills, techniques and terms
here's a thing i can't find a way to convey.
a narrative even beyond comprehension to it's protagonist
a girl without a simile or metaphor applicable?
somebody to leave me laconic, short in syntax, unstructured.
will we discuss possessive pronouns now?
for in subtext, i am the possessive one.
i'm so lacking verbally
but i'm sure you'd understand it contextually
to punctuate: i can be the ellipsis, the implication of my omissions
but you're in my text as the most eager mark of exclamation
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
Writing is
the frozen music
of an ellipsis,
the silent song
of a lonesome poet
who sings in the dark
among howling winds
crossing swords
in the white shades
of unseen things -
a winter on the Pole
on whose obverse side
there's Rio,
and dancing
and mirth
and the sun's critique
of hegemony.
© Lazhar Bouazzi, May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 2:57 PM UTC
Writing is
the frozen music
of an ellipsis -
a silent song
of a lonesome poet
who sings in the dark
between howling winds
crossing swords
in the white shades
of unseen things -
a winter on the pole
on whose obverse side
there's Rio,
and mirth,
and dancing,
and the sun's critique
of hegemony.
© LazharBouazzi
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 8:36 PM UTC
There once was a proper noun,
who started hanging with the wrong crowd.
With alluring adjectives who handed out compliments like candy
− gob smacking gossipers with an opinion on everything.
And with thrill-seeking adverbs,
who buddied up to the most dangerous of companions;
crash, dive, hurl, and gamble (to name a few).
Until the day the sentence came rambling into town,
planting punctuation in the form of kisses
on the noun’s eyelids, earlobes, and collarbone.
Provoking such admissions as, “My thighs stuck
to the black leather seats under the hot, cloudy skies
of that August afternoon, and my hair whipped
like willow branches in the wind,
when I rode on the back of his motorcycle.”
or, “He greets me every morning with a sun-drenched kiss”,
and, “The tulips were picked fresh from the ditch of
a curvy, country road, but now sit in a
vase by my bed, and are slowly wilting away.”
It would eventually be made clear
that the sentence had a nasty habit
of propositioning prepositions,
only to leave them hanging,
and to place things in parenthesis,
that simply did not belong.
And so, the sentence would wind up leaving town,
or “run-on”, as the noun liked to tell it.
Went chasing after some particularly provocative expletives,
eventually trailing off with a faint set of ellipsis...
And the kindest of adjectives
came cooing after the noun,
calling to her; lovely, lustrous, listless.
And the adverbs brought with them
their gentlest of friends; comfort and console,
to speak with the noun:
softly, tenderly, lovingly- all witnesses.
But it was of no use,
and the noun whispered quietly:
“I have been enchanted with a single kiss
which can never be undone,
until the destruction of language.”
*based off of the poem Permanently, by Kenneth Koch
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
He drew a figure eight on my spine, absentmindedly,
and traced the nape of my neck with his fingertip when he said,
“You are beautiful to me.”
But the ellipsis in the silence spoke louder than he did, and the look in his eye was not born because I was lovely;
It was not because he loved me.
A thing too small for love-
But far too large to be lust;
Simple. Ugly.
He looked at me like he was hungry.
So sweetly he critiqued each curve, every line, blurring my edges with the images of every bent perception pulled from the mire of his mind;
and I
could not
satisfy
Pretty innocence diminished in the grip of his vice,
Pressed tight against my body, despised in dark eyes.
I am not the inhuman creatures you contrived in the middle of the night.
I am not the feminine expression of your ********* pride.
What a wicked crime,
to take a woman’s body and leave the woman behind.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 3:29 PM UTC
I saw him at work;
When he would visit the mangal
With a ***** over his shoulder.
He rolled up his pant legs and walked
Through the tidal wash. Once he had picked a tree,
He hacked for three days to cut
The mud and the mangrove
Free from the surrounding forest.
He piloted his self-made island into the lagoon.
Shortly, he became mangrove crazy,
A disease he called Rhizophoria
In the notebook he had taken along.
With mud lobsters and tree for his only company,
Of course he had mangrove on the brain.
His life became an ellipsis—
The two centers were the tree and himself.
From tubular mangrove branches, propagules fattened,
And seeds nested inside them;
He would scribble notes with delirium as they fell
Plumply into the lagoon
And were pulled away by the warm current.
Each time the tree condensed its salt
Into a sacrificial leaf,
He would sadly add a tick
To the tally of the dead he kept in his book.
He once wrote:
‘The salt is burning my eyes.’
Late afternoons, with beer in our hands,
We would watch him from the beach,
Five hundred yards away.
Eventually, his mangrove island drifted ashore—
He lay by the suberic roots
With a crust of salt along his cheek.
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 9:45 PM UTC
I play with these words out of boredom and habit.
There's so many of them! From "Aardvark" to "Zoo".
And then you add in all the odd punctuation
Like semi-and-hyphen; And Oh! Exclamation!
(and poor little Comma: He hops like a rabbit...
He's never quite sure if a Colon would do.)
I play with these words like a cat with a twitching
Small mouse in his grasp all squealing and itching
(the cat... not the mouse... for the mouse is a wreck...
With pussy's teeth grasping the small of its neck.)
The cat is quite happy! It just takes its time...
While Comma allows the Ellipsis the rhyme...
I play with these words and the dots and the dashes;
Parenthesis [brackets] and to/or/from slashes-
With all of the keys 'neath my ten little digits
"Somewhat like the cat with the mouse as he fidgets".
I've learned to write well from my Pa and my Momma:
Yet still I feel bad for that poor little Comma.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 6:13 PM UTC
Distance has a particular way of hurting:
It begins slowly, and is self-contained.
Because our mothers would often speak about Love,
and how everything falls helpless in Love,
Distance becomes a housebroken dog.
It is powerless, and whilst I love, I am powerful.
On Sunday, our fathers would teach us to put our faith in things unseen,
and so we grow confident and complacent.
Just when you think you’ve understood it,
It sinks its teeth in hard and deep.
An idealist tries to make it out light and easy
They will often write poems about finding
ideal love in the real world.
But I will write about knowing
real love misplaced in an ideal world.
It’s a world where comfort could come in binary files
filled with digital empathy and memories.
Where typed words and numbers that form
black and white promises could replace
the real and organic voice of reassurance.
Where wires between my webcams and your headsets
could entangle themselves in ways our fingers
used to be intertwined.
Where waiting for an email meant as much as
waiting for you to return home to me.
Where the strategic positioning of your punctuation marks
could transform these passive symbols
into active symbols of love and concern:
A comma, like a shared pause for when our eyes meet
Exclamation marks for when we wave to each other from across the street,
or as a passionate gesture from underneath these sheets.
A question mark for when you’re sick and I am by your bed
Worried, because you wouldn’t eat.
A semicolon for when we argue,
and a full stop for when we finally give in.
A parenthesis for containing moments of vulnerability
that only seem to leak out late at night.
You won’t know it but,
I dream mostly of an online conversation,
filled with time stamps that affirm your presence.
If I’m lucky, I will find an ellipsis
Small creatures of continuity with
heads heavy with hesitation.
…
And - if I’m really lucky,
I’d undo those black buttons of suspense
and see you once more.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
Everyday
I try SO hard to
talk to you
People say you're very busy
People say you're studying
People say you're tired
Yes i accept all that
I use ellipsis
Maybe you will try to guess how i am feeling
but
I guess i am wrong
I tried an ENTIRE month
Messaged you
Tried to make you laugh
It continued
for
that moment
Then
it just Vanished
Simply vanished into the clear blue sky
I really just hope
One day
You
will take the initiative
to maybe, talk to me
Is that really too much to ask for?
After i have initiated the conversation for an entire month?
I really don't know
I really want to keep up this friendship
We won't be in the same class
And i have this feeling
This dangerous feeling
Feeling
that if i don't salvage this friendship
Now
then it will just die and rot like a log
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 9:21 AM UTC
you were a beautifully constructed sentence
you were complete in thought and made sense
i wanted to be with you
i wanted to be a part of you
i thought i could be a period
and show you you how things end for us
then again, how about a comma
so we could pause and think of what's next
i also thought about being a question mark
so we'd both ask what we do not know
or an exclamation mark
to let your immense feelings show
an apostrophe maybe
to show the world that i belong to you
quotation marks, you see
i would enclose your brightest ideas
what about a colon
so we could begin a list of your dreams
maybe a semi colon
to join our common parts and themes
but i'll choose to be an ellipsis
so only i, can know and hide
some of your words and secrets
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 1:18 PM UTC
Here he comes
The elliptical young guy
Shaky
Anchored in his
Interrogation wood
An interjection hanging chest
Pieces of the night between backquotes
Certainly
He lived glory days adverbial
Between clouds of exclamation
Today, he lies circumflex in itself
Barefoot. With faltering feet
About oval ellipsis.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC
The ellipsis
was sulking and
in a pensive mood….
And so I said: Well?
And Ellipsis said: What?
I said: You’re sulking…
And Ellipsis erupted
like pimples on an adolescent’s face:
*You wrote poems on every tribe of my race;
you wrote of the full stop and the comma and the dash
and about every other freak that jumps up
on a printed page…
And now you ask me, why I sulk!*
So, I said cautiously,
what do you want me to do?
*So, write me a freaking poem on me -
The Ellipsis!*
And I scratched my head, and I said:
*A poem about the Ellipsis?
Hmmmm…*
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 11:38 AM UTC
behind my eye twitches) not a whisker
stirring from immense sleep leaps arcuately
determined of slim air to meander in precise
dithering cuteness (a fat and orange ellipsis
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 3:08 AM UTC
Writing is
the frozen music
of an ellipsis,
the silent song
of a lonesome poet
who sings in the dark
among howling winds
crossing swords
in the white shades
of unseen things -
a winter on the Pole
on whose obverse side
there's Rio,
and the Sun,
and the Samba
and the revenge
of the color.
© Lazhar Bouazzi, May 31, 2016; revised, August 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 4:26 PM UTC
Maybe it was fate in the threads of that
skirt as short as temper and temperance
that ended the ellipsis breathing.
A dancer needs an answer
on life enhancers, dear romancer.
Your smile was more than good enough.
I drank of it, the cup of Christ that turned
my blood into whining moments of
insecurity.
Call security, you say, making the call on
what I am because I am transparent,
transdimensional, traversing the bridge
of your nose with my high-risk eyes.
You say that I am, and they cry.
As your hands ticked at your clock-click keyboard,
I waited, passed the time wondering the
difference between naive and navel.
Harm came like rain in winter, the words
of Zephyrus slipping from between those
amber lips, lithe on naked fingertips.
You take the names of gods in vain,
into your veins, let them convert only
the white blood cells. You'd crucify
me for vanity.
You accuse the recluse of abuse,
and it suits you, tailored because
hatred sized you up the moment you met.
The orchestra disbanded, the buds of May
have yet to burst, yet to blossom like you
say you always will,
but the spring in your step when
you walk away from the last word
tells me more than the chirping birds
nesting in your hair.
You remind me of Paris
on the walls of Troy,
thief of hearts and fool indeed.
Bringer of fire, brander of hell,
but only because you were already the
Tartarus Employee of the Month and
enjoying Elysium.
This is the
beautiful mystery
undone as her clothes and
naked as the day Rosemary Matron gave her
to the world.
This is the beautiful mystery
returned to voids as tangled as her hair,
the nonspace between the curls hiding
secrets and conviction.
This is the beautiful mystery
concluded, all the movements of
her symphonic body no longer to allure.
This is the beautiful mystery
answered, the riddle of the Sphinx
leaping from the pillar, a killer
not quite so strong as her eyes.
This is the beautiful mystery
laid to rest, buried alive in a life discarded.
This is good-bye.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 9:42 AM UTC
**You are
My ellipsis dots,
trailing away, unspoken
. . .
You'll always belong
on my horizon.**
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 8:31 AM UTC
How many Someone’s lay planked on their waist and stare aimlessly at the candle’s flame?
Who of You is daring enough to close Your eyes and in space alone, simply drive- drive away?
The same Someone’s and Who’s-of-Who’s, on occasion holler at the moon with expectation of a bark back; or is God but a prestige to fools that We allow to wear Normal on Their crummy ******* name tags?
Sometime around Christmas there is a salivating peace, sifting downward on ordinary people, whom really don’t feel like being cold, you know?
This is me, rotting away on the carpet, a blanket’s blanky for the floor, just staring through the shutters on the vent below my brow; in the reality of it, I should probably schedule a spring cleaning…not for the vent folks.
You see- and I’m trying to be as casual as I can- I’m about to ******* pass out, you know what I’m saying?
This is that incredible moment where I’m the Bob Feller of dozing off, 9 innings of shut-eye talent, but at 2 or 3 in the morning…it looks as though I’m bringing in Mariano Rivera to close it out,
I can almost smell the scraps of mowed grass, kicking up from his cleats as he jogs closer to where home is; I never really find out if he makes it to the mound…
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
30 years of this and that
tea with cream and sugah please
the dress has changed
the color soft, the
panther walk returns
butchered biscuits sweet jam too
cautious crouch she roams the room
sitting perched a chatty chair
his cage lair fare
framing faces firelight
white glove distance dynamite
sippin heated cognac tea
they just gotta believe
speechless curtains cooling flames
she's easing into her humanity
dust drawn ellipsis sputter crack
his arm he almost reaches out
his meteorific muse starlight shade
conceptual covers commence
subtle surprise he's sittin sidetracked
his design devised, his
pipe dream purring panther
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
I started to write the best story I had ever let myself imagine when it abruptly stopped. The main character's focus shifted and there was nothing I could do to change it. I looked back at it later and realized it's better if I don't pick it apart or try to rearrange the words. Or try to embellish. It's too complex to be reduced to words.
(You're my unfinished poem. The perfect ending that will never transpire.)
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
You tread so, unfondly and almost—
too carefully after the echoes
of wintry whisperings, yet swerve—
and twirl in a grand vesture
of fireflies, of distant worries;
dream like a glowing summer
amongst dwindling youths
and enraptured stardust:
solemnly, and dearly too.
"I will be happy, if you were..."
insistent, you professed; yet deny me—
your caged heart.
Your silhouette casts over
the fiery meadow, over—
the vibrant ruins; finds harbour
only, in the eyes of the serpent
and prance wreathed in light.
Caress your clipped wings; embrace—
yourself and bear in mind, always:
I will sit with you in the dark.
Jan 7, 2023
Jan 7, 2023 at 9:52 AM UTC
The traditional story has a beginning and an ending. Between these two are strife and conflict and dragons and witches and handsome knights and beautiful princesses. The middle, they say, is the heart of the story, the journey which rises or declines to the ending. This is where the carefully crafted beginning is torn asunder, where valiant heroes attempt to stitch it back together, where most of the time it only ends up flayed further open like a wound.
Or an unread letter. Or a broken fist. Or shattered chains. Or dying stars.
And.
And it is the storyteller's choice how it ends. Whether they all live happily ever after or they all become nothing but windswept ashes. Most of the time the story is just beginning, middle, and end—not necessarily in that order. One will never know how it really ends.
And.
And that is the happiest end to any story. Start with the middle, continue with the end, and end with the beginning. End with the knight on the dragon's back screaming a war cry, or with the princess locked up in the tower, or with the witch falling asleep. End with a sentence cut into a phrase, with an invisible ellipsis, and no 'The End'.
One will look at a universe of different endings. Here is a galaxy of sadness, here is a solar system of bitterness, look, there's a star drawing its first breath, perhaps this is happiness. It will be like looking at the vast expanse of the sky and seeing stories written in the clouds, in the silhouette of mountains with their hunched backs telling a different ending of their own.
You will see a princess in every woman, a knight in every man, goodness in a grain of sand.
Or a drop of rain. Or a blade of grass. Or a pebble in the riverbed.
And.
And they will say you are a dreamer, disillusioned by forestalled endings, but dreamers are the happiest people in the world. They live in captured moonlight, thrive on dappled sunlight, see emeralds in leaves and gold in autumn's touch. They fly in oceans and float on tempests. They walk on treetops and ride horses crafted from twigs to the burning sunset.
This is a world of endings.
And endings are always the best part of the story. And if it remains unknown, all the better.
Look here, at the ink that traces every letter of every word, dancing with utmost gaiety like a raptor in unbound flight. Swooping down, down, down, and spiraling up, up, up, gliding through the clouds, resting in the breeze like an eyelash on the cheek.
Look here. The ending is nowhere.
The ending is everywhere.
But look here, at this words, because this is a story that will never, ever end, only swirl in eternity like ink in water, billowing like, perhaps, a valiant knight's cape as he perches on top of the dragon, roaring a war cry along with the beast, while the witch falls asleep, and the princess waits in her tower.
Look. Or read. Or stare. Or write.
And.
And so they lived…
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC
I dreamt that wax
sqeezed out from my ears
like toothpaste.
Dripped onto my feet
casting a mold.
Statuing my legs.
Zipping up my hips.
I dreamt my throat
was a metal pipe
running dry.
Vibrating echoes
cut short and
replaced with a dusty ellipsis.
Passively shrinking
inside a shell
that I'll never be
strong enough to crack.
How did this happen?
How did the thing we're made of
become the thing to **** us?
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 9:11 PM UTC
comma, ellipsis
anticipated sequel
It’s asymptotic
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC