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zebra Oct 2017
Here is a primer on the history of poetry

Features of Modernism

To varying extents, writing of the Modernist period exhibits these features:

1. experimentation

belief that previous writing was stereotyped and inadequate
ceaseless technical innovation, sometimes for its own sake
originality: deviation from the norm, or from usual reader expectations
ruthless rejection of the past, even iconoclasm

2. anti-realism

sacralisation of art, which must represent itself, not something beyond preference for allusion (often private) rather than description
world seen through the artist's inner feelings and mental states
themes and vantage points chosen to question the conventional view
use of myth and unconscious forces rather than motivations of conventional plot

3. individualism

promotion of the artist's viewpoint, at the expense of the communal
cultivation of an individual consciousness, which alone is the final arbiter
estrangement from religion, nature, science, economy or social mechanisms
maintenance of a wary intellectual independence
artists and not society should judge the arts: extreme self-consciousness
search for the primary image, devoid of comment: stream of consciousness
exclusiveness, an aristocracy of the avant-garde

4. intellectualism

writing more cerebral than emotional
work is tentative, analytical and fragmentary, more posing questions more than answering them
cool observation: viewpoints and characters detached and depersonalized
open-ended work, not finished, nor aiming at formal perfection
involuted: the subject is often act of writing itself and not the ostensible referent

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Expressionism

Expressionism was a phase of twentieth-century writing that rejected naturalism and romanticism to express important inner truths. The style was generally declamatory or even apocalyptic, endeavoring to awaken the fears and aspirations that belong to all men, and which European civilization had rendered effete or inauthentic. The movement drew on Rimbaud and Nietzsche, and was best represented by German poetry of the 1910-20 period. Benn, Becher, Heym, Lasker-Schüler, Stadler, Stramm, Schnack and Werfel are its characteristic proponents, {1} though Trakl is the best known to English readers. {2} {3}

Like most movements, there was little of a manifesto, or consensus of beliefs and programmes. Many German poets were distrustful of contemporary society — particularly its commercial and capitalist attitudes — though others again saw technology as the escape from a perceived "crisis in the old order". Expressionism was very heterogeneous, touching base with Imagism, Vorticism, Futurism, Dadaism and early Surrealism, many of which crop up in English, French, Russian and Italian poetry of the period. Political attitudes tended to the revolutionary, and technique was overtly experimental. Nonetheless, for all the images of death and destruction, sometimes mixed with messianic utopianism, there was also a tone of resignation, a sadness of "the evening lands" as Spengler called them.

Expressionism also applies to painting, and here the characteristics are more illuminating. The label refers to painting that uses visual gestures to transmit emotions and emotionally charged messages. In the expressive work of Michelangelo and El Greco, for example, the content remains of first importance, but content is overshadowed by technique in such later artists as van Gogh, Ensor and Munch. By the mid twentieth-century even this attenuated content had been replaced by abstract painterly qualities — by the sheer scale and dimensions of the work, by colour and shape, by the verve of the brushwork and other effects.

Expressionism often coincided with rapid social change. Germany, after suffering the horrors of the First World War, and ineffectual governments afterwards, fragmented into violently opposed political movements, each with their antagonistic coteries and milieu. The painting of these groups was very variable, but often showed a mixture of aggression and naivety. Understandably unpopular with the establishment  — denounced as degenerate by the Nazis — the style also met with mixed reactions from the picture-buying public. It seemed to question what the middle classes stood for: convention, decency, professional expertise. A great sobbing child had been let loose in the artist's studio, and the results seemed elementally challenging. Perhaps German painting was returning to its Nordic roots, to small communities, apocalyptic visions, monotone starkness and anguished introspection.

What could poetry achieve in its turn? Could it use some equivalent to visual gestures, i.e. concentrate on aspects of the craft of poetry, and to the exclusion of content? Poetry can never be wholly abstract, a pure poetry bereft of content. But clearly there would be a rejection of naturalism. To represent anything faithfully requires considerable skill, and such skill was what the Expressionists were determined to avoid. That would call on traditions that were not Nordic, and that were not sufficiently opposed to bourgeois values for the writer's individuality to escape subversion. Raw power had to tap something deeper and more universal.

Hence the turn inward to private torments. Poets became the judges of poetry, since only they knew the value of originating emotions. Intensity was essential.  Artists had to believe passionately in their responses, and find ways of purifying and deepening those responses — through working practices, lifestyles, and philosophies. Freud was becoming popular, and his investigations into dreams, hallucinations and paranoia offered a rich field of exploration. Artists would have to glory in their isolation, moreover, and turn their anger and frustration at being overlooked into a belief in their own genius. Finally, there would be a need to pull down and start afresh, even though that contributed to a gradual breakdown in the social fabric and the apocalypse of the Second World War.

Expressionism is still with us. Commerce has invaded bohemia, and created an elaborate body of theory to justify, support and overtake what might otherwise appear infantile and irrational. And if traditional art cannot be pure emotional expression, then a new art would have to be forged. Such poetry would not be an intoxication of life (Nietzsche's phrase) and still less its sanctification.  Great strains on the creative process were inevitable, moreover, as they were in Georg Trakl's case, who committed suicide shortly after writing the haunting and beautiful piece given below

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SYMBOLIST POETS
symbolism in poetry

Symbolism in literature was a complex movement that deliberately extended the evocative power of words to express the feelings, sensations and states of mind that lie beyond everyday awareness. The open-ended symbols created by Charles Baudelaire (1821-67) brought the invisible into being through the visible, and linked the invisible through other sensory perceptions, notably smell and sound. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-98), the high priest of the French movement, theorized that symbols were of two types. One was created by the projection of inner feelings onto the world outside. The other existed as nascent words that slowly permeated the consciousness and expressed a state of mind initially unknown to their originator.

None of this came about without cultivation, and indeed dedication. Poets focused on the inner life. They explored strange cults and countries. They wrote in allusive, enigmatic, musical and ambiguous styles. Rimbaud deranged his senses and declared "Je est un autre". Von Hofmannstahl created his own language. Valéry retired from the world as a private secretary, before returning to a mastery of traditional French verse. Rilke renounced wife and human society to be attentive to the message when it came.

Not all were great theoreticians or technicians, but the two interests tended to go together, in Mallarmé most of all. He painstakingly developed his art of suggestion, what he called his "fictions". Rare words were introduced, syntactical intricacies, private associations and baffling images. Metonymy replaced metaphor as symbol, and was in turn replaced by single words which opened in imagination to multiple levels of signification. Time was suspended, and the usual supports of plot and narrative removed. Even the implied poet faded away, and there were then only objects, enigmatically introduced but somehow made right and necessary by verse skill. Music indeed was the condition to which poetry aspired, and Verlaine, Jimenez and Valéry were among many who concentrated efforts to that end.

So appeared a dichotomy between the inner and outer lives. In actuality, poets led humdrum existences, but what they described was rich and often illicit: the festering beauties of courtesans and dance-hall entertainers; far away countries and their native peoples; a world-weariness that came with drugs, isolation, alcohol and bought ***. Much was mixed up in this movement — decadence, aestheticism, romanticism, and the occult — but its isms had a rational purpose, which is still pertinent. In what way are these poets different from our own sixties generation? Or from the young today: clubbing, experimenting with relationships and drugs, backpacking to distant parts? And was the mixing of sensory perceptions so very novel or irrational? Synaesthesia was used by the Greek poets, and indeed has a properly documented basis in brain physiology.

What of the intellectual bases, which are not commonly presented as matters that should engage the contemporary mind, still less the writing poet? Symbolism was built on nebulous and somewhat dubious notions: it inspired beautiful and historically important work: it is now dead: that might be the blunt summary. But Symbolist poetry was not empty of content, indeed expressed matters of great interest to continental philosophers, then and now. The contents of consciousness were the concern of Edmund Husserl (1859-1938), and he developed a terminology later employed by Heidegger (1889-1976), the Existentialists and hermeneutics. Current theories on metaphor and brain functioning extend these concepts, and offer a rapprochement between impersonal science and irrational literary theory.

So why has the Symbolism legacy dwindled into its current narrow concepts? Denied influence in the everyday world, poets turned inward, to private thoughts, associations and the unconscious. Like good Marxist intellectuals they policed the area they arrogated to themselves, and sought to correct and purify the language that would evoke its powers. Syntax was rearranged by Mallarmé. Rhythm, rhyme and stanza patterning were loosened or rejected. Words were purged of past associations (Modernism), of non-visual associations (Imagism), of histories of usage (Futurism), of social restraint (Dadaism) and of practical purpose (Surrealism). By a sort of belated Romanticism, poetry was returned to the exploration of the inner lands of the irrational. Even Postmodernism, with its bric-a-brac of received media images and current vulgarisms, ensures that gaps are left for the emerging unconscious to engage our interest

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IMAGIST POETRY
imagist poetry

Even by twentieth-century standards, Imagism was soon over. In 1912 Ezra Pound published the Complete Poetical Works of its founder, T.E. Hulme (five short poems) and by 1917 the movement, then overseen by Amy Lowell, had run its course. {1} {2} {3} {4} {5} The output in all amounted to a few score poems, and none of these captured the public's heart. Why the importance?

First there are the personalities involved — notably Ezra Pound, James Joyce, William Carlos Williams {6} {7} {8} {9} — who became famous later. If ever the (continuing) importance to poets of networking, of being involved in movements from their inception, is attested, it is in these early days of post-Victorian revolt.

Then there are the manifestos of the movement, which became the cornerstones of Modernism, responsible for a much taught in universities until recently, and for the difficulties poets still find themselves in. The Imagists stressed clarity, exactness and concreteness of detail. Their aims, briefly set out, were that:

1. Content should be presented directly, through specific images where possible.
2. Every word should be functional, with nothing included that was not essential to the effect intended.
3. Rhythm should be composed by the musical phrase rather than the metronome.

Also understood — if not spelled out, or perhaps fully recognized at the time — was the hope that poems could intensify a sense of objective reality through the immediacy of images.

Imagism itself gave rise to fairly negligible lines like:

You crash over the trees,
You crack the live branch…  (Storm by H.D.)

Nonetheless, the reliance on images provided poets with these types of freedom:

1. Poems could dispense with classical rhetoric, emotion being generated much more directly through what Eliot called an objective correlate: "The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked." {10}

2. By being shorn of context or supporting argument, images could appear with fresh interest and power.

3. Thoughts could be treated as images, i.e. as non-discursive elements that added emotional colouring without issues of truth or relevance intruding too mu
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PROSE BASED POETRY
prose based poetry

When free verse lacks rhythmic patterning, appearing as a lineated prose stripped of unnecessary ornament and rhetoric, it becomes the staple of much contemporary work. The focus is on what the words are being used to say, and their authenticity. The language is not heightened, and the poem differs from prose only by being more self-aware, innovative and/or cogent in its exposition.

Nonetheless, what looks normal at first becomes challenging on closer reading — thwarting expectations, and turning back on itself to make us think more deeply about the seemingly innocuous words used. And from there we are compelled to look at the world with sharper eyes, unprotected by commonplace phrases or easy assumptions. Often an awkward and fighting poetry, therefore, not indulging in ceremony or outmoded traditions.
What is Prose?

If we say that contemporary free verse is often built from what was once regarded as mere prose, then we shall have to distinguish prose from poetry, which is not so easy now. Prose was once the lesser vehicle, the medium of everyday thought and conversation, what we used to express facts, opinions, humour, arguments, feelings and the like. And while the better writers developed individual styles, and styles varied according to their purpose and social occasion, prose of some sort could be written by anyone. Beauty was not a requirement, and prose articles could be rephrased without great loss in meaning or effectiveness.

Poetry, though, had grander aims. William Lyon Phelps on Thomas Hardy's work: {1}

"The greatest poetry always transports us, and although I read and reread the Wessex poet with never-lagging attention — I find even the drawings in "Wessex Poems" so fascinating that I wish he had illustrated all his books — I am always conscious of the time and the place. I never get the unmistakable spinal chill. He has too thorough a command of his thoughts; they never possess him, and they never soar away with him. Prose may be controlled, but poetry is a possession. Mr. Hardy is too keenly aware of what he is about. In spite of the fact that he has written verse all his life, he seldom writes unwrinkled song. He is, in the last analysis, a master of prose who has learned the technique of verse, and who now chooses to express his thoughts and his observations in rime and rhythm."

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OPEN FORMS IN POETRY
open forms in poetry

Poets who write in open forms usually insist on the form growing out of the writing process, i.e. the poems follow what the words and phrase suggest during the composition
palladia Jun 2013
awkward is a promiscuous word. it flirts unintentionally. it seduces mentally. but most of all it's so disruptionally absurd even the first-come-first-serve basis comes 15 feet behind the typical quota. but it really isn't that serious. it would be awkward plus if i wasn't active right now. does that sound appealing to anyone? well it better. i'm no vanguard when it comes to distribution of emotions. they'll be distributed equally, thank you, and don't worry about getting more 'cause they'll be pieced out safe and fair. lord jesus, we need some sorrow-getter-overs in here! i'm always telling those who ask me for advice to relinquish the suffering and let the good times roll. not that it'll save their hides, i snicker mimically and divert the attention to something inappropriately interesting, like a ***** bumper sticker or a animal corpse on the side of the road. and you are gonna turn into one if you don't stop that crying! man i need some fresh air and i'm not talking about the innocent kind. it's more of the obvious, over-cynical cyanide-soaked air that formaldehyde would blush over. there are two r's in sorrow because the s and the o and w need to be capsized into one rowboat. i never thought i would compromise intimacy with loudspeaker attention-grabbers and then the sailboat does a belly-flop and lands head first in the witches' cauldron. which is like Hamlet's, but a lot less systematic and bunches more pagan. it's synthetically miserable but enigmatically moral. dance of the morals is another program i like. it has to do with the regard of selfish hope and loose pragmatism. pagan! ****** i know it's pagan but it's pigheaded trash like that which gets stuck in the garbage disposal ever so often and we don't have no time to clean it out. i use a fish net that once occupied a corner near the stove which had the net chewed through by ***** rats that inhabit the lower quarters of the bathhaus. it's nothing significant really but more or less a principle in not making leftovers from the unknown trashpile near the barn. attention: entrance alert. "too bad for" who cares. i'm sick of this. "too bad for". that's all said? "let's chat a lot" what? i thought maureen was coming over at 7? who left the cat out again--the dog's gonna have a field day playing cops and robbers, and there are always reallive guns. and i'm stuck back at square/ground one/zero figuring out how i'm gonna get the next day's meal without having to cut off my head or make the microsoft paper clip icon appear with those embarrassing clips telling you how you should appear to your boss on your first interview. and find out that he's a man after all. and ultimately regret what you said every two minutes. wish i had contributed crescents more to the goodness, and not brush over like a stuckist's paintbrush. he's actually using blood instead of acrylics- that's when i get running. wish i hadn't have done that. wish i hadn't. we "hadn't" too much, you know? i wish we had to have "hadn't" before it hadn't have been created. still my emotions are sold and i've cast a mold far too ugly to be a stupid cupid. can we get on with the show, please? no thank i've had enough cranberry pie for right now, maybe buttercup the parrot can have the rest? the cat hates water. then why is he swimming in the dog dish? i'm not complaining, just hesitating to say how i feel when i want it. yeah, i know you're looking at me make a sucker outta myself on your camera. all those poses weren't hard to accomplish but you aggrandize the bad and disregard that i actually have good talent after all. crazy 8s. thought i'd never compromise. thought i'd never make a sport out of tantalizing the shopkeeper's parakeet. yeah, they're playing that game everyone calls a bore cuz it is one. why not roast a marshmallow then find a salamander caught between the chocolate and the *******. and we can't have them crackers anyways cuz there's got gluten in them. can we take a walk, i have something to tell you? i have to tell you about my personal life. i don't care if you're bored. darwin was never bored, fyi. i don't want to hear your juvenile complaints anymore. you're always telling me your problems but you never let me talk. but why would you care? and no way am i gonna share? not there. still. you're still not coming around cuz you're crying and i can't take it anymore. stop the tears, i already told you just take another pill and you'll relax. your life can stop in a heartbeat because some freak told you to stop ******* with the power outlet and make an attempt on making it right. how am i gonna make it right? seems good to me to get up and go and never return. seems right to let it all hang lose and think of excuses as a way to win some money. i'm not the principle breadwinner around here, but i'd bake enough bread to feed an army if i had to. a whole cohort of emotional bigots who don't care anything about their stupid, money-******* societies. it's leveled to the drain again, yeah i know you don't understand. i'm done asking. please? do it for me? don't you know i'm hurting myself because... i'm not listening. don't you want to know i'm cutting my flesh because... i have to water the garden. oh dear what was that? whew! almost another collision with a bee. whew--another close one. what about the spiders in the cabbage bed? what why didn't you tell me? yeah, the cabbage patch has produced more memories than heads, and no not those types of heads. a mashup of what i hate most and what i hate least scourged outta me in a whirl. she's going to take a walk. the radio's on and it's hot in here. those maudy days of summer, but i love every shred of them like i do a coat in the winter. the radio's playing my song: doomsday magnificat! i like leather and metal combinations that are sold in a 60s oz town. you can tie and whip me if you conscience can, but not now. it's another adage gone to the birds. oh no the shopkeeper's parrot is out again and i didn't do it! how come i'm blamed for things i don't do? get over it. another fact of life. another testimonial head my way. dodge! that was a flying saucer that almost razed your head. you wouldn't care though because enough has happened today to make your head spin even faster than it already is. and they're real-live which makes me keeping fumbling my too-short curls disintegrated by sheer chauvinism and belated princeness. that's alright. i know how you feel. i know how the world feels because i am the world. and the world is my canvas. and i may dictate what you are allowed and i may waver onto what laws of principalities are shooting up everywhere, but it's okay 'cause there's a lot more to shoot than good time. and those wacked people can form an alliance and take down the stronghold because in reality, you know that you are wacked yourself to say that. i'm sorry you did. the world will keep spinning, snipers will keep killing, conservatives will keep protesting, parents will keep levitating, children will keep withholding, the days will keep heating, the pool will be more refreshing, and yeah mrs. renttib is still coming over. the world is new. and i am young. but we will all stay safe and good in this empyrean. because and i created it. and i established the surveillance cameras, which are everywhere, but don't feel pressed. yes, i'll forever watch your every move, and even though you've done good, i'll still send you to hell. because you belong there. you may begin now. make your tread strong yet gentle. it's not my expense, the water is cooler out here,
                                                                ­                             anyways.
i've had a rotten day, but i wasn't involved, rather- others force it upon me, for condolence's sake.

ah, you've got plenty to be thankful about so why bother complaining? i often try to analyze this, because my life isn't perfect and i'm often ****** into an uncomfortable state, even when i had nothing to do with it. this was written during (+ after) a family argument about help and those who shouldn't help us, and telling others first, and letting everyone know. i think it's better to keep it to yourself or see a psychologist than starting a whole mess like this again. i know people hate that i don't like opening up and sharing but i'm doing it for the good of everyone. i'm the breadwinner of myself; others will only make me file more tax returns, it seems! so i'm upset and nervous and kind of scared. i want to explore it in a different angle and if i have to be crass and confrontational to do it, i say "full speed ahead!"
Edna Sweetlove Dec 2014
I took my ****** sister Marigold to the cinema,
she had asked specifically and eventually
(she doesn't speak a lot on account of her awful stammer
and amazing cleft palate which has won prizes)
so I knew that this was something she really wanted,
and I teased for her bad taste
when she told me that she wanted to see
"Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Charlie
and the Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Chocolate Factory".

It was a Saturday evening and the local picture house
was showing a re-run of the classic starring Gene Wilder
as the enigmatically stylish ***** Wonka,
and not that steaming great pictorial **** served up by Tim Burton
and I knew that town would be busy with oiks
so as a treat I dressed her up better than usual,
and even gave her a hosedown to get rid of the poopy pong.

She had stopped crying by the time the feature started
and I think the Ooompa Loompa costume grew on her
but that maybe the orange paint was a bit of a bad idea
as people had stared as it was Day-Glo and she stood out
like a bulldog's *******, but I stand by my decision
to dye her hair green, it had taken thought and planning;
it was meant to add to her excitement of the day,
so I meant well, even if I was ineffectual in the end.

I sat her on my lap in the picture house
but still paid for two seats but I do get one ticket half price
though because of her disabilities, so it wasn'€™t all bad,
every cloud and all that, you know what I mean?
She tends to get a little down every now and then
but a £1 cinema ticket partly makes up for being born legless.
I knew from past experience that the cinema staff
prefer me to carry my stunted sis rather than wheeling her in
(I do recall that the time I taped her to her skateboard
proved somewhat a disaster - but really, the fat usher
had a torch and should have watched her step
or otherwise she wouldn't have bust her neck).

The Ooompa Loompa costume allowed Marigold
to amuse herself during the screening
(as there were no leggings to the costume).
She barely noticed when the fat little hero
got blown up on screen except to dribble "chocolate"
from her own little chocolate factory.
It was, all in all, quite an eventful outing
and one I might consider repeating but
probably in a different cinema next time,
mainly because we got banned for life
when the manager saw the condition of the seat.
Stored up enough,
but the energy now takes on its
own purpose.
If only I could draw;
I'd create picture books
on exactly what the ending looks like.
Rough sketches left collecting
for many months,
before I ever once thought of putting
color to them.

The why, would be as mind trancing
as tracing catch phrases into the many
levels of dust accumulated.
I'd write something so cliché, like,
"With this oily finger I remove the collection of time."
or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut
through time."
I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget
where I left off, and distract myself
again with writing.

A small recluse emotion of mine
objects viciously, but my attention to every
words incentive laced meaning would
leave the visual to again rest unchanged,
not colored.

So's the plight of one who likes to think
himself an artist. There's that scandalous
narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up,
reminding you just how beautiful your words
are, and how small in intellect those who
don't get it are.
Upon that shelf your pictures sit.
I can only write as a narrator,
because our "philosopher,"
"philanthropist of word volley, our
genius of word play,"
is once again too caught up in the
descriptors to finish the real
picture.

Not that this idea will stand the
test of time, but I do believe more
writers will commit suicide, selfishly
of course.
Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing
so enigmatically that no one gets
your "deep soul."

While upon that shelf,
within a fiber of your overrun
writer's ego, there's a drawing begging
to be finished, colored, maybe even
shared.

But just where does it reside?
Did the alternate you place it
in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found?
If it's too early it just can't be worth it,
can it?

He'll have to learn to put down the pen,
rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers,
set up an easel, squeeze out some paint,
and realize there are other mediums
where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations.
Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist,
sweeping arm, no words, images
are now your letter blocks to construct with.

Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen.
Stop being so foolish "Writer man,"
if your ego clings too sharply to words,
simply remind it,
"This could be another pen name."
"...I love that idea, what would it be?"
"Narcissist Ugly."

"So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
Diane Jan 2014
From whence this identity comes
Malts, hops, father’s approval  
What he holds in his arms
Is of no surprise
‘Just missing’ each other
Not likely coincidental
Star couplings, mishap earthlings
Persons never to be known
Crossed streets to  
Strange neighborhoods
Lawn games… how odd
In quiet hours on the highway
Gripping, understood, elusive and all wrong
Remembering, but more forgotten
Ring passed over luminescent waters
Love, not enigmatically magical
Autumn hues in baby fine hair
Righting the nightmares
Nothing mattered more than this.
Jenny Aug 2017
How can I be happy when the one I love, loved someone else?
Is it always my destiny?
How can I even smile and act like I was too supportive and happy?
When the truth is lost, wrecked, broken and hurt will best define me

Suddenly, I became proud of myself
because I can hide my emotions behind that narrow shelf
Leaving no clues nor negative reactions like an elf
Hiding and hiding it in my unorthodox actions, holding my own breath

Girl, you are so lucky
that you are the one chosen and not me
but let us play the long game of destiny
If he'll end up with you or with me.

I am amazed by him even with all his flaws
I accepted him with all his words and jokes
I noticed him because of things he truthfully shows
I love him for who he really is, that is what I only know.
Love knows no time. It will just came to you in the most unexpected moment.
Jack Piatt Nov 2011
We are surrounded by silliness.
Don't make it obvious, but look over your left shoulder.
Slowly.
There, not feet from your face sits silliness.
Something silly breeding and FedExing its brood
to the best and brightest corners of the earth,
ensuring equal part shadow for every ray of shine.
If you find yourself disbelieving, please turn on your Television set
and flip (at your own risk) through the charmless channels
hovering enigmatically inside Mr. Pixel the “Babysitter.”
“Reality” shows, as if we weren't neck deep in enough reality
for a thousand years worth of open bars,
lamenting on how seriously, serious this soiree of sorts seems to be,
neighbored by celebrity rehab shows,
housewives from all over the country
desperately seeking attention
and augmentation
or attention to their various augmentations,
  divorce courts with quirky judges,
pawn shops in the ghetto with true grit, or is it true **** …
hard to say but they have attitude!
The endless scripts pour into HollyWeird from somewhere far, far away
from anything vaguely resembling reality …
a little place called – the Jersey Shore.
(Wait did he say scripts?) But ...

Ah, hell, it needs no description or justification,
in the land of the Super Silly,
it is the trophy wife of King Silly Bo Billy himself.
And no more time to waste on silliness wrapped neatly in a magic tube.
No, no, silliness is loose, running amok through the streets,
jumping with it's eyes closed on your neighbor Ricky's industrial size trampoline.
(Ricky only lost one of his nine children  last year to “roof to trampoline” diving)
tragic, yet the other eight get a little more tuna casserole on Wednesdays.
Silliness is fearless. It charges helmet-less into oncoming traffic
singing Christmas jingles in Latin,  
mid-February with no regard to Lincoln
or the people he is said to have helped liberate.
It defies logic, gravity, good intention or worst (best) of all – common sense.
You will find it in every church no matter the dogma.
Every court room, police station, financial institution, school, university,
tall building with more glass than steel …
yes, silliness grows there like mold in a dingy basement
overpopulated with sprickets.

Silliness is a disease.

Not to be confused with silly smiles and clowns at the circus.
This is not the silliness of your youth, but the silliness of adults
who have sold their love of the moment
and lust for life for the deadly elixir of conformity.
Conditioned by an unrelenting tidal wave of negative energy
and condemnation, they sign their death certificates long before they die.
Dreams and happiness are replaced with life insurance policies,
401k's and 403b's. In this lies the silliness.
As the masses line up one by one at the top of the cliff
and follow in suit as the jumping begins.
Into the abyss they leap, medical and dental plan in one hand
and neatly mowed lawn in the other.
As the happy children play to their parents dismay,
the merry-go-round spins blissfully around
as daddy slowly drowns.
Jeffrey Pua Mar 2015
I can only pledge my love
And not my heart,
For they are two different things,
They are different—
The truth and the confusion,
The smoke
And the fire,
Though they present themselves
Enigmatically
As one.
Know that you can carry my love with you,
For that's what you deserve.
And I can carry your heart with me,
For always.
So when I love you, when
I love you
Know that I empty myself.
So when you love me, I know
That it is true.*

© 2015 J.S.P.
martin Jan 2014
Great news Marjorie!

I have had tasar treatment on my eyes, so I am finding my keyboard much easier to abuse.

What a week I have had!  Since you sent my letter to the local paper, I have had several people contact me. I had no idea the scribbles of an old woman like me could generate such interest. A young reporter  even called round, and I thought I was going to have to call an ambulance, the poor boy went red and laughing all the time. In fact I was certain he needed medical attention but he assured me he would be fine in a minute. He did not tell me what it was he found so amusing, but young people can be quite strange, don't you find?  He may have needed the toilet but was too shy to ask.

Despite this we did get on well, and he even said he wished I was his Grandma, which I thought was very sweet of him, while making odd gestures with his hands.

After we had enjoyed a mice cup of tea together I showed the young man around the garden and he seemed very interested in the greenhouse, remarking on its spaciousness. I asked if he had green fingers and rather enigmatically he replied  'sometimes'.  He enquired if I would be interested in renting it out to him, an idea I found rather appealing. I think he wants to grow salad plants for his family.  My faith in the younger generation is restored.

His mobile telephone rang while we were in the garden, and feeling it was rude to eavesdrop I went back into the kitchen, but I did overhear him say that he hadn't had so much fun since his granny died,  so I suppose they must have given her a good send-off.

I am rather enjoying my position as a minor celebrity in the village. Even the bus driver was more cheerful than usual today, so I smiled and gave him a cheeky little w*nk as I got off, and I'm sure he noticed it.


                                        Ever your devoted fiend,           Dottie  **
K Balachandran Nov 2012
Life is a seductive maiden,
extending two vials,
looking equally nice,
on her lovely hands
for you to choose from;
one contains, elixir of life,
the other poison
for  slow extinction.
She enigmatically smiles,
making you irresolute;
you have to select one,
here and now, it'll decide,
what your fate will be,
in the long run.
*Don't flinch or dither a bit,
this moment is paramount;
look at her eyes intently
and extract a clue, act!
Happy thanks giving Day\Let this be the message of the day
L T Winter Jul 2015
'Why is the raven
Like a writing desk?'

I asked winter--
Crying icicles
Into palpitations.

Of wings croaking
Words and phrases
That evolve us,

Enigmatically
--Sometimes
As we sleep
With seizures

And lifeless seeds.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
i sometimes watch a cooking show and feed myself, finding old italians very funny with everything simple being a milanese delicacy, ambrosia of a doubly baked bread, sprinkled with water, a juicy tomato and some olive oil... mmm, yeah, am bro sia... where’s the salt? if this is ambrosia please give me a haggis in a bagpipe. by the way... the best sarcasm is found in a hangover.*

i still don’t know how a cat managed
to knock on my bedroom door
while slayer’s seasons in the abyss
stopped me munching on violins and cellos:
i got paranoid being the only person in the house
with that eerie sound of knock knock...
but i guess greeting him in the morning
with a head-**** utilised his head for the ‘being human’
initiation... only yesterday he managed to open
the door to the kitchen using the handle -
and like any man with his ******* outstretched
in defiance... he did the same, but with a thumb.

p.s. poetry and collage have a lot in common,
as does poetry and music, i still don't know
why philosophy started the fight, poetry has
nothing in common with philosophy to be
even remotely related for a boxing match,
it's poetry as music and collage, the classical stances
of philosophy are becoming more and more obsolete;
i guess someone had to point that out and side
with plato rather than socrates, but i have to add
one blatant innovation i'm working on,
no not the plagiarism of tristan tzara by william burroughs
of the famed 'cut up' method of writing poetry,
i'm talking Bach, yes, BACH, polyphony, multilayering,
spontaneity, and everything that tzara attempted
picking out bingo ball snippets of newspaper
articles from a bag like some ****** doing the same,
writing a abduction-ransom letter to a rich girl's family
enigmatically... also enclosing a portrait of the girl
done with crude pointillism in cartoon shock colours
with a signature that ræd: antoinette warhol -
yep, and some people will be famous for 15minutes in
a repetitive loop.
K Balachandran Apr 2017
Under the enigmatically colored sky, I did wait,
in the place where you were  expected
days, nights, weeks and months passed by,
years added their handiwork on my body,
but my spirit, refused to fail, kept awake

I traveled through the freeways of the sky,
learning the art of flight, all by myself,
asked the birds repeatedly about you
except the time they sang how you inspire
but they remained mute to my questions
                                      "Fly towards east
where light is" I heard a wise one say
I found light at the dawn and struggled
to keep it alive at night, only thinking
about you,I needed the heat to survive.

In the blue watery depth of the sea,
I dived, heard the music of silence.
It was your paens silence kept on singing,
Through the fertile planes i walked,
saw the corn speak of plenty.
you bestow on us, the peace it brings.
I wandered through the mountains and hills,
the grass was green and flowers on the vines,
had fragrance that reminded me your presence,
ripened fruits hanging on trees spoke
on the sweet love we shared.
Though you were away from me
and i wandered with a heart full of questions.

A song bird on the tree of wish sang,
it was all about your love for me, I was amazed,
my weary head paused and felt peace at last,
I fell in love as the hands of mountain wind caressed.
In my dream you came and sat near.
I was transformed, did I wake up from that ecstasy
or am I still asleep,I and  you are no different.
Sydney Mar 2014
Your words, they are not eloquent.
No, they do not posses the lustrous flow that I so often find myself falling for.
Instead your words come enigmatically skidding from your mouth.
The slang you use travels through the air and meets my ear as nothing but ostentatious calamity.
It is incomprehensible to me.
I cannot fathom why I am falling for a boy who's vocabulary is so minuscule to mine.  
Shall the answer go unbeknownst?
No, for the elucidate lies within me.
I just have to go in quest of it.
March 6, 2014
phil roberts Jan 2017
Quixotically adorned
In a creaking suit of armour
Stumbling from set back to let down
I am learning to smile enigmatically
As though my thoughts are far away
Which is so often the truth
And my memories are bitter sweet
Because that's what they are

And so.....

Behind this slight disguise
I bumble and fumble through life
Assuming a face of serenity
A face which is not really mine
But one I wear for public view
My creaking suit of armour
Protects my vulnerability
And hides my secret heart

                                    By Phil Roberts
Meagan Moore Jan 2014
Floating
engulfed in penny light

the coppery-brine amalgamation penetrates my mouth
swallowing
viscous globe of blood-riddled ***

the shards of shell
spines split by the tide
echo my sentiments

current eschews shallow alluvial grave
cognizant cicumvolution
ambient gyre
diffuses carapace shrapnel into my calves

gulls enigmatically screech-stripped
slap briny padded patterns into the shoreline
pausing only upon my primal glottal stop

toes curl about inundated sand
clouting divets shift
dilatory run – slammed inert by invariable wave

cochineal effluvium plumes lilt
crepuscular rays refract further distortions

Neath the water I blindly ***** my body
Ridged projections jut from smoothed flesh
Puckering at my own touch

I sink beneath atmosphere
liquescent folds embrace promptly
I drop beneath chaos

Bare palm dig into viscid terrain
rung after rung demanding presence into the depths
I claw forth onto a sand bar

emerging
shard flanked form
eyes blazing
cuticles numb

pulse flit
patina of blood and grit

Fulgent tread propels
Upon shore
I walk back to my residence
A warrior - mortal
plated in copper and brine
Linne Lanne Feb 2013
I am wide eyed;
Attentive and glittering and eager.
Consumed
By your incessant stream of enlightened expression.

Your eyes,
Enigmatically, agressively determined,
Seek constant, ruthless contact with mine.

I  constrict, I turn away
From the acute awareness of my inadequacy.
Of my comparatively weak mind,
Eclipsed by your emphatic,
Evocative words which lead
Me deeper, deeper into the black, unfamiliar,
Imbalanced analysis wherein you thrive.
Elevated, blinded, confounded by your eloquence.

But you are only beauty and truth and goodness and power.

And even in my stunned state of disordered mediocrity,
This I understand with irrevocable clarity.
Santiago Jan 2015
Cancer woman is always an interesting lady for a Scorpio man. She is full of such feminine mysteries which a curious Scorpio man always wants to unfold completely but gently. She has a reserved outlook in the beginning which attracts him but soon she shows him her great sense of humor which makes even a serious person like him to smile. She brings colors & joys to his life & provides him with a companion who is always by his side to love, care & understands his feelings. She is actually one person who understands him well deep to his soul & knows what goes on under his cool & composed surface. Loyalty is the biggest trait that makes him feel comfortable with a Cancer woman. Though to his dislike, he can find her to be possessive & bossy at times & also has to tolerate her mood swings but with such love & loyalty in return, he understands her value & keeps a cool temper while dealing with her mood swings. Cancer woman is enigmatically feminine. She is a gentle & her feelings are sensitive & tender & her loyalty is spotless. Though, she may not look very strong, but she is a tower of strength for her dear ones & perfectly able to manage herself, if alone. Patience is her dearest virtue & flexibility is her biggest weapon to win in all circumstances. Being in love with a Scorpio man, stirs the deepest emotions of the Cancer female making her a perfect match for a passionate male like him.
<3
Jana Chehab Oct 2014
I am enigmatically saturated
in a silhouette
that deluded the eyes
of my innumerous bits

has it
or has it not
bewitched the demons
and turned the scale
from black to white

But I shall implant
the keen arrow
and spill the venom
of X and Y

now I see
a bow in your right hand
rage in your left
that took the arrow
with a tighter grasp

as it creep,
into the deep
into the crimson liquid of mine

how my cries
desperately thrive
how they bloom
in a gown of gloom

yet how they sleep
by those bits, unreleased
against your silhouette
saturated
un deceased
Elizabeth Burns Dec 2015
The air is thin
And the light is dark.
But the warmth of this moment brightens the room
Transcending beauty this is

We sit
And we allow our minds to run over all that sits in our hearts and eats away at our souls

We sit
We drink the steamy cups of coffee
We allow our taste buds to grasp the flavour of the beans
However, as delight touches our taste buds
We converse
We listen
We see
We sit
Us three

Us three
We are souls that have been lost
We have eyes that tell tales
Tales that are not told in words, but hidden in the way that we watch
And note the world

Us three
I see her heart is on her sleeve
Her mighty, unwavering heart will not be stifled
She may not allow such passion to be withheld from the world
For she is made for His Glory.
She is made to drink from the fountain of youth with no fear
She is made to conquer
And stare down at their meek faces
As they watch her
In awe
In wonder
And in adoration

Us three
We prefer not to stifle that part of ourselves
That part that will be set free
That part that is bashing at the cage, begging, pleading
to be let out
To be
let out into the night
To go into enigmatically

I am nostalgic
For my former self
The girl who never allowed herself to focus on the dark, the girl who believed in flying
The girl who now never believes she will be taken out from captivity
From this dark pit
Oblivion,  
I believe I am there

She interrupts me and puts down the cold caffeine


Us three
She says that I cannot make more mistakes in my life than she has
She tells me that God has a plan, and the pain will soon end
She says that my Destiny will soon unravel from the tight coil
She says that His plan is delicately detailed and outlined in solid black
Like a work of art...

However, the dragon tends to blow his fire at the edges of the delicate page
No matter how small the burn, it makes a change
To the plan
What remains,
Is the art

No matter how much he taints it, my dear, it will still be a work of art
Your Destiny will be fulfilled.
Your heart will be set free

I weep.
I shake.
I gasp for air.
And I always believe in the moments of
Us three.
Emily Jones Feb 2015
Branching from the recess
Stretching wide arms into the ether
I enter into
The cosmic embrace
                   the stillness
was not empty
But
deep
and yet again
deeper still
Diving further into the fount of reality where divinity loses its transcendence
Only to become the interconnected creative potentiality
Reality expressed by itself
An event in the making in the cosmic ontology of change
Where I am more than what I am
Who I am
When I become
But rather a process
A way in the making
Enigmatically I leave stero's behind reaching down with freed hands
And an open Heart
phil roberts Mar 2017
Quixotically adorned
In a creaking suit of armour
Stumbling from set back to let down
I am learning to smile enigmatically
As though my thoughts are far away
Which is so often the truth
And my memories are bitter sweet
Because that's what they are

And so.....

Behind this slight disguise
I bumble and fumble through life
Assuming a face of serenity
A face which is not really mine
But one I wear for public view
My creaking suit of armour
Protects my vulnerability
And hides my secret heart

                                    By Phil Roberts
Kumar Abhishek May 2015
The shiny silhouette
Of an immaculate figure
Laying next to me
Her bare back is all I could see
Caressing the smooth skin
Could feel the goosebumps sink in
Those effervescent eyes of her
Froze the epoch in eternal animation
Her erogenous smile
Killed every bit of sanity concealed
My surreptitious virility
Cajoled to serenity
The intriguing aroma
Free strands of hair
Like a pulchritudinous portrait
Covered her face enigmatically
The bliss of air
Traversing a new path today
Kissing her neck & shoulder
Curse those lucky ones
A veil over the wise
An ingenious ingredient of disaster
**** thou dark eyes
They burnt a raging fire
Bright & blue
A sweet intoxication
A heart wrenching addiction
Conjuring up & discovering
Unexplored corners of heart
Let us play this game again
Where I’m a slave
And you’re the King insane
Unable to fathom my fate
The stupendous serendipity
Which brought together ends of infinity
Broadly speaking on a narrow field of subjects,
it's how you put it, said the..
..oh, that joke's probably banned.

Tuesday.
not got over it yet?
you will.

there's usually an outcome going somewhere when you're looking for somewhere to get out.

The thing about Tuesdays is
there are so many of them
maybe more than Fridays,
they certainly seem to last longer.

Grammarly's still on at me
correcting me
grammatically
I look on
enigmatically
with that
Mona Lisa smile.
Endia Chardea Aug 2014
The world
can look very dark
and enigmatically
with few bright stars
but once you look thru your telescope  
there is much more to come
Alex Oct 2019
We were once all kids
Youngn's, 
Wildly childishly dumb
Some threw fits
Become a nuisance
Some prudent
Possibly a ton
Maybe you wined and kicked
Because your chores weren't done
Probably clueless
Of what the world had yet to come

Then there's the misfits
Who never fit in
Who blew scales of fish
Then threw fists
Took a few to the ribs
So now threw brew to lips
Taking double dipped Blue Cupids
Letting blotter strips melt to tounge

An endevor to numb the constant misuse
Just endlessly pursues
Never able to outrun
The pain forever maintains 
Only abstains for some


We all knew one
A problematic student
During our unsystematic youth
One kick ball captins wouldn't choose adamantly 
Or picked on traumatically 
For reasons enigmatically obtuse
Easy to dogmatically accuse
So now he's pragmatically recluse

He walks out of school
Without any excuse
But doesn't go home
Because there's no escape free from abuse
Done it so many times 
Has a bracelet above his shoes
The only safe place he can seem to think
To avoid feelings profuse and being upset
Is the old Willow tree on a swing 
With a noose around his neck
16 year olds
Shouldn't contemplate death

Anyway he picks up the goose
Can't complain it's better than the latter
Sensation so placid
Lamination built couth
Decides to drop some acid
As he heads up a ladder
To the top of the mall roof

It is now 6 stories up
This is how his story shut
Crying apparently seeing stuff
Lying guaranteeing to the kid 
He'd fly away if he just jumped
Without a single condemn
Not a single to hand to lend
Not one person that he could depend
This day became his end
Nobody heard his voice again
Guilty unable to make amends
As he fell to his doom, his death
To a better place he'd soon ascend
A misfortunate event
But God will assure he is now content
I guess you could say its unfortunate
At the least it's for the best
In piece may his soul rest
And forevermore be blessed



R.I.P my freind
©thrags
Time pantomime charades the masquerade to entity acquiescence
Misty wistful wispish shrouds of ephemerally opulent quiescence   
 Evoke the mystic myriad with subliminally subjunctive quintessence  
Enigmatically adrenergic anecdote concatenational analogs the essence

Evocative emulation scenarios ecstatic
Intriguingly intrepid verve fanatic
Exuberant veracious audacity emphatic
  
Endergonically protensive integrations eidetic
Translucent transitive effulgence mimetic
Numinous noumenal ***** aesthetic
 Mnemonic’s nostalgic allusions pathetic
 Opaque obdurate emissions copasetic

Heuristic pantheism paradigm epistemologically metamorphic psychokinesis personification
Probity avaricious semantics inherently indigenous endemics edification
Satiation indulgence intrinsic virilities fertility inherency gratification
Vicarious recalcitrance adumbrates obdurately suborn temerities mortification
Irrefragable felicities tenacious intransigent taubla tapestry rectification

Erudite vexatious obstreperous existentialize venial corruptness
 Diabolically maniacal dementia brusque macabre abruptness
 Psychic regalia panaceas astral projection seductress
Orthogenesis overtures!!
Yours truly just a fluke of the universe
worming his way hook, line and sinker
thru the meandering time stream,
which current speeds up the older I get.

A garden variety (generic) agrarian wannabe
antiauthoritarian, bookish antiquarian bloke,
antitotalitarian, well mannered barbarian
disestablishmentarian, egalitarian, futilitarian,
grammarian, quasi hereditarian, latitudinarian,
libertarian, majoritarian, nonsectarian,
nonvegetarian, proletarian, sexagenarian,
Unitarian.

Yours truly amazingly
chronologically, enigmatically,
gracefully, interminably weathered
despite malevolent mental maelstrom,
linkedin with extinction of **** sapiens
in tandem with many flora and fauna
populating planet Earth
courtesy Manhattan Project
when Ernest Rutherford split the atom.

Fiendish and gruesome
phantasmagoric denizens
dwell deep inside subterranean vault
perform an evil dance
haunt psychic landscape
with imaginary (yet realistic)
gargoyle visitations cast macabre trance
nocturnal unconscious invaders
cavort and gallivant
disturb quiescent sleep with
devilish and sinister prance.

Apparitions crept stealthily
into peaceful slumber receptacle
repository whence illusory
landscape of dreams
take place to rejuvenate exhausted
body, mind and spirit triage
rent asunder blissful sleep
with a startled fright
cold sweat drenched
nighttime garments and bedding
teeth chattered uncontrollably
heart pounded loudly inside chest
nightmarish phantoms wrought
an awful ghoulish sight.

Mushroom cloud anniversary
triggered frenzied gargantuan hallucination
since 6 August 1945, at 08:15
inauguration into atomic age took place
one country after another sought
to acquire demonic and destruction devices
maintain self-preservation in
surreal atomic weapons race
impossible to escape the dark threat
that looms and threatens life on Earth
one launched missile spells extermination
across entire global space.

No escape from humankind military machines
munitions march mean madness
and guaranteed demise to all life
**** Sapiens violent history of
bias, intolerance and/or prejudice
characterizes vicious warfare
and chronic species strife
unaffordable legacy for future,
(and perhaps alien) archeologists
who will sift thru civilization debris
with delicate knife.

Artifacts buried in heap of pulverized
and radioactive ash
civilization monuments
and hedonistic symbols
gone in a blinding brilliant flash
irksome flotsam and jetsam
spewed into outer space
alien nations light years distant
collect miniscule bits and pieces
offer object lesson as extinction
for beings that become excessively brash.
Zywa Dec 2018
Certainly, I can recognize
your belly
with which nobody else is familiar

and if you had no arms
no legs and if possible
also no belly anymore

you would still be exactly you
even without hair and ears
still would have your faces

being enigmatically
and incomprehensibly
yourself, no matter how

I experience you
in admiration
with open senses

and in the curious amazement
of anyone who is taking notice
of you, then wishing to stay
Collection “More”
Satsih Verma May 2022
The words are flying
away, enigmatically. There was a
family of god. Is the end drawing near?

Half- way you are talking
about sequences. Oceans are on fire.
A weak voice cries. I don't want to die

Who will call from the future?
The night will dance for the solar eclipse.
Don't touch me. I will not melt.
Methinks hmm, perhaps
I admittedly self plagiarize and quite aware
aforementioned amalgamated, conglomerated,
fabricated, jerry rigged, and organized
eye gripping titled
poem already aired a year plus ago,
though revisiting said theme
downplayed now as thoughts blare,

though similarly filched content
(pertaining to other literary endeavors)
invariably glommed electronically
(digitally remastered and remixed),
nevertheless gobbledygook enigmatically
jerkily, and quirkily communicated,
sans trademark Pi Seine (seen) fishtail career
as applies to uber secreted questions.

This chap challenges himself,
an immense task I dare
unleash unbounded kickstarting euphoria
within psychic calm and weal
with a healthy dose of logorrhea
scowl unintentionally anonymous reader
mine re: noun verbosity doth ensnare
though oft times obfuscation veils merely

a black hole sun (son) prominence
asthma faux eminence amber gris
long ago didst flare
aware if chance encounter
in a dark alley coal less sing
burning eyes fiercely glare
yet, an explanation
would be proffered to hear.

Most instances when I initially seat
myself priming creative literary juices to flow,
an unspecified number hours elapse
before that eureka i.e. Jackie Oh
NASA hiss (Onassis) revelation transpires
witnessing, this scruffy, prickly, grow
tusk long haired woolly creature
out malm mouth drool dripping
trademark characteristic viz
pencil neck geek
madly scratching itchy hairs

dotting chinny chin chin of
garden variety generic hobo
hook huns hitters hymns elf
tubby frank and ernest poet;
home body (nowhere man);
beetle browed fool on the hill;
common everyday fluky,
nippy, nap noopy common Joe,
just biden his time,
whence upon gestation ova hen chic idea
comes home to stir the roost.

(Hard boiled eggheads merely
scrambled random thought fragments
at that stage) scrunching brow
activates laser focus,
a scattershot burst
of tangential threads populate
formerly barren tabula rasa,
sans, Lenovo external screen
once again defying (tomb me
akin to some eternal mystery),

trucked since time immemorial
inexplicable, that sudden ignition
asper cerebral automatic
catalytic converter kickstarter
(hmm...perhaps cogs and gears
housed within medulla oblongata)
foster fecund fertilization,
an inexplicable phenomena, I dune hot know
explanation, but upon advent
whence, wispy vague undefinable inchoate

coalesce analogous to genesis of animal new life
when there appears just the merest hint
of fledgling wispy notions strive similar
to ***** cells fervently whipsawing vis a vis,
via flagellation motility misfits
and false starts before this crotchety scribe
mollycoddles crux of embryonic idea
congeals, expresses, and forms
grandiose manifest destiny
mentioned above i.e. ***

Lee Judas Priest remaining catharsis
seems like a versatile
self determining Motorhead
(ace of spades) tour de force,
whereat fingers of the left hand
move of their own volition spilling forth poe
whet tree once expanded Leaves (of Grass)
finds me Waltzing Whitman nigh hick cull
tickled pink with a soft after glow.

This penchant spurring confabulation
explaining (feebly) zest
yours truly experiences
expatiating honest to dog ness
figuratively go win west
hoard (word) ** seeking
mine own mother lode acquired,
via verse a tile material undergoing
electric kool aid acid test
incorporating rigorous (mortise
and tenon constructed) adverbial quest
which wondrous, whirled,

and webbed woven semicolon aided nest
reinforced with double entendre
tongue in cheek jest,
whereby multiple interpretations
(ala mode literary splotchy Rorschach test)
tenants in common beau geste
ma bell heavable own home spun faux
Cambridge Analytica
Jimmy Crack corn and I don't care
gimcrackery defaced facebook best
bite, with absolute zero
data snatched aye evasively attest.
Valmir Zimberi May 2020
Oh, how beautiful the night is
The stars, the ceaseless beauty
The moon, enigmatically quiet
The sky, eternal and clear
The silence, almost palpable
The owl, absorbing the environment within her eyes

Forget the night, I’m thinking about my wife.
(this endeavor more self directed to progeny,
whose psyche wounded, strafed, and nicked.)

Incumbent upon me own
     purring impetus, a sincere
desire arose NOT to ask
     thee anything, but mere
lee accept father's shortcomings,
     which time constraint here
which poetic expression hoop
     fully evokes thee dear

daughter (Eden Liat,
     a whip smart,
     mature first born),
     who didst bear
witness to unpleasant
     super charged rage
     undoubtedly breeding aversion,
anger, disgust, hostility, embarrassment,

     estrangement, hatred, ill-will,
     loathing, repugnance, shame
     when we lived at
     1148 greentree Lane,
     and 734 West Railroad Avenue
neither riches such
     as precious metals,
     jewels, gems, et cetera,

     could never buy
thee equivalent of
     an admirable, equitable,
     and inimitable
     "star student" die
ving (figuratively) into
     the thick of life,
     which grueling, sans fierce

     exertion bore fly
ying colors, where Lower
     Merion academic instructors
     (kindergarten to twelfth grade) high
lee touted your
     above average aptitude
viz, dominant intellectual
     bent intrinsically, genetically,

     and enigmatically brewed,
which "smarts,"did
     advantageously inc clued,
perhaps even a sum mattering
     of intelligence quotient
     girl scout points froom this dude
yielded a metaphorically harmonically,
     and compositionally complex

     cerebral edifice etude,
oh...and of course being
     nursed by "mother"
     as moost vital infant food
to foster (long hall)
     robust body, mind
     and spirit that
     did more good

then harm (I hardly
     aver no critique
     posed against breast milk)
case in point attributes
     your physical health,
     when rarely did thee ail
accessing apportioned medicaid
     resources, the pediatric

     service provider would avail
exempt from common
     child hood diseases
     (nearly all eradicated -
     at least in this country)
     with proven inoculations,
     which only minimally caused
     uncomfortable side affects,

     and for the most
     part did derail,
yet...no matter this dada
     strove not to fail
as thee paternal parent,
I recognize resentment,
     that oft times burst forth
     like a furious gale

     (putting dear old Florence -
     yes her of cane to shame)
if this muggle able and willing
     to wave a magic wand,
     and turn back
     the hands of time
he would revisit those
     instances, when hurtfulness

     thee em man hint
     beautiful darling daughter,
    would even resort to mime
to communicate the
     inadvertent hostile environment,
     ye and the Punim unfairly weathered
     asper blistering crime,
asthma person appeared as a ***,

when this "sir" with hate,
     and/or mother
appeared ill suited tubby
     legal birthright guardians
     in part attributed,
one or both of us
     vowing school of hard knocks
     tubby a flunked out “FAKE” alum.

— The End —