"estimate" poems - Hello Poetry

"estimate" poems

They still exist; Both literally and metaphorically. Little girls *** trafficked, Boys slave in sweat shops, Buissnessman works a 60 hour week. Everyone's got their own chains. Some we put on freely, Some are ****** upon us, like maturity on an orphaned child --Some are cut into our wrists. With every lie, With every curse, With every slander, Pain built up creates inside these fine little links; Alone they are weak, but together UNBREAKABLE 27 million slaves in the world But that's just an estimate. When we look inwards We see so. many. more.

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Dec 18, 2014

Dec 18, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC

They still exist; Both literally and metaphorically. Little girls *** trafficked, Boys slave in sweat shops, Buissnessman works a 60 hour week. Everyone's got their own chains. Some we put on freely, Some are ****** upon us, like maturity on an orphaned child --Some are cut into our wrists. With every lie, With every curse, With every slander, Pain built up creates inside these fine little links; Alone they are weak, but together UNBREAKABLE 27 million slaves in the world But that's just an estimate. When we look inwards We see so. many. more.

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1632 So give me back to Death— The Death I never feared Except that it deprived of thee— And now, by Life deprived, In my own Grave I breathe And estimate its size— Its size is all that Hell can guess— And all that Heaven was—

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16.8k

Emily Dickinson

So give me back to Death—

1632 So give me back to Death— The Death I never feared Except that it deprived of thee— And now, by Life deprived, In my own Grave I breathe And estimate its size— Its size is all that Hell can guess— And all that Heaven was—

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What a city I murmur to myself looking at its map. We approached the city known as Dis, with its vast army and its burdened citizens. At last we reached the moats dug deep around the dismal city. What destroys the poetry of a city? Automobiles destroy it, and they destroy more than the poetry. Dante and Virgil chased by 7 or 8 dangerous devils Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Sleepy, ***** . . . Our heroes reduced from metaphysical philosophers interested in god and what man has done to man to improvising primitive tools for survival. Hope abandoned, we rate our chances of expiring in the nuclear fire – excellent – during the decline of western civilization. On the other hand, I hope our current problems are only temporary and it’s just a matter of time before the public ignores the 24-hour news cycle. Bad news sells but the good life’s all around us. One feels love and devotion even for the 60 million who voted for our opponent. Vaclav Havel said with a wisdom well beyond brilliance: “Either we have hope within us or we don’t. It is a dimension of the soul, and it’s not dependent on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation. It is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart that transcends the world as it’s immediately experienced. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense no matter how it turns out.” It resembles grief. But it's not quite grief. I'll give you grief. Certain days planned to be eventful I look forward to for weeks. Let the peaceful transfer of power proceed. The sorrow and the pity. Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth. When the laws are kept, how proudly the city stands! When the laws are broken, what of the city then? We are moving through some allegory between a City of Hope, where history has been abolished, and a City of History, where hope can be slipped in only as contraband. Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching outer space for an entity to unite us as humanity. That person, or city, is consciousness. Two ancient female poets are a revelation, the clarity of their complaints: lost lover, lost city. Our enemy eventually becomes our brother, his misery lifted by coming to her city.

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Apr 1, 2018

Apr 1, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC

What a city I murmur to myself looking at its map. We approached the city known as Dis, with its vast army and its burdened citizens. At last we reached the moats dug deep around the dismal city. What destroys the poetry of a city? Automobiles destroy it, and they destroy more than the poetry. Dante and Virgil chased by 7 or 8 dangerous devils Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Sleepy, ***** . . . Our heroes reduced from metaphysical philosophers interested in god and what man has done to man to improvising primitive tools for survival. Hope abandoned, we rate our chances of expiring in the nuclear fire – excellent – during the decline of western civilization. On the other hand, I hope our current problems are only temporary and it’s just a matter of time before the public ignores the 24-hour news cycle. Bad news sells but the good life’s all around us. One feels love and devotion even for the 60 million who voted for our opponent. Vaclav Havel said with a wisdom well beyond brilliance: “Either we have hope within us or we don’t. It is a dimension of the soul, and it’s not dependent on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation. It is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart that transcends the world as it’s immediately experienced. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense no matter how it turns out.” It resembles grief. But it's not quite grief. I'll give you grief. Certain days planned to be eventful I look forward to for weeks. Let the peaceful transfer of power proceed. The sorrow and the pity. Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth. When the laws are kept, how proudly the city stands! When the laws are broken, what of the city then? We are moving through some allegory between a City of Hope, where history has been abolished, and a City of History, where hope can be slipped in only as contraband. Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching outer space for an entity to unite us as humanity. That person, or city, is consciousness. Two ancient female poets are a revelation, the clarity of their complaints: lost lover, lost city. Our enemy eventually becomes our brother, his misery lifted by coming to her city.

Continue reading...

Estimate tells us the avg. height of a female in the U.S. is 64 inches. This is quantitative. Unfeeling of prospect, the numbers fascinate and baffle. Recent estimation supposes 1500 active volcanoes on the earth of which 500 have erupted since history, the invention of writing. Such a short time ago. Measuring in quantities, the earth is 4.5-4.6 billion years old. Creatures of like sentience who never wrote about volcanoes, the age of their earth. Quantities hum of something borrowed. So tight-wound, so deeply close, and yet still. Something not ours. Blind, free of invention.

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Jan 20, 2015

Jan 20, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC

christopher-hendrix

Estimate tells us the avg. height of a female in the U.S. is 64 inches. This is quantitative. Unfeeling of prospect, the numbers fascinate and baffle. Recent estimation supposes 1500 active volcanoes on the earth of which 500 have erupted since history, the invention of writing. Such a short time ago. Measuring in quantities, the earth is 4.5-4.6 billion years old. Creatures of like sentience who never wrote about volcanoes, the age of their earth. Quantities hum of something borrowed. So tight-wound, so deeply close, and yet still. Something not ours. Blind, free of invention.

Continue reading...

299 Your Riches—taught me—Poverty. Myself—a Millionaire In little Wealths, as Girls could boast Till broad as Buenos Ayre— You drifted your Dominions— A Different Peru— And I esteemed All Poverty For Life’s Estate with you— Of Mines, I little know—myself— But just the names, of Gems— The Colors of the Commonest— And scarce of Diadems— So much, that did I meet the Queen— Her Glory I should know— But this, must be a different Wealth— To miss it—beggars so— I’m sure ’tis India—all Day— To those who look on You— Without a stint—without a blame, Might I—but be the Jew— I’m sure it is Golconda— Beyond my power to deem— To have a smile for Mine—each Day, How better, than a Gem! At least, it solaces to know That there exists—a Gold— Altho’ I prove it, just in time Its distance—to behold— Its far—far Treasure to surmise— And estimate the Pearl— That slipped my simple fingers through— While just a Girl at School.

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5.2k

Emily Dickinson

Your Riches—taught me—Poverty

299 Your Riches—taught me—Poverty. Myself—a Millionaire In little Wealths, as Girls could boast Till broad as Buenos Ayre— You drifted your Dominions— A Different Peru— And I esteemed All Poverty For Life’s Estate with you— Of Mines, I little know—myself— But just the names, of Gems— The Colors of the Commonest— And scarce of Diadems— So much, that did I meet the Queen— Her Glory I should know— But this, must be a different Wealth— To miss it—beggars so— I’m sure ’tis India—all Day— To those who look on You— Without a stint—without a blame, Might I—but be the Jew— I’m sure it is Golconda— Beyond my power to deem— To have a smile for Mine—each Day, How better, than a Gem! At least, it solaces to know That there exists—a Gold— Altho’ I prove it, just in time Its distance—to behold— Its far—far Treasure to surmise— And estimate the Pearl— That slipped my simple fingers through— While just a Girl at School.

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943 A Coffin—is a small Domain, Yet able to contain A Citizen of Paradise In it diminished Plane. A Grave—is a restricted Breadth— Yet ampler than the Sun— And all the Seas He populates And Lands He looks upon To Him who on its small Repose Bestows a single Friend— Circumference without Relief— Or Estimate—or End—

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5k

Emily Dickinson

A Coffin—is a small Domain

943 A Coffin—is a small Domain, Yet able to contain A Citizen of Paradise In it diminished Plane. A Grave—is a restricted Breadth— Yet ampler than the Sun— And all the Seas He populates And Lands He looks upon To Him who on its small Repose Bestows a single Friend— Circumference without Relief— Or Estimate—or End—

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Turn da bottles upside down The bingo linggo is right up here No need to estimate Ain't show 'em what you got Coz the feminine swag is right in front of you Hit da spot,break 'em low Erbody's on the floor,hot & cold The center of attraction is here we go Sweat like it's the end of the court Make some noise,the battle is not yet done Here is the piece of my paper Sonnet to Haiku,get 'em yours While i make my lyrics out of it I bet you to sing this song Coz It's you that I crack the most Fly high coz im so high This super legacy of mine Is not yet over,bring me to the court And I'll make you cry while you can run Too fast to drift out of your collateral words ***** bootsy,shakin' ya ***** The tingga ling, bling bling mingle naw to da floor Ain't gonna lose coz this **** got me pumpin' Now I can drop ya to the floor Coz it's fresh like a g6 Now I can flip ma hair to ya gorges face So wassup now! And you can tumblin' down to my feet Look what i've got, Its a brand new style Now spin it while you can And Open ya eyes coz dis ain't a dream Mine is a simple yet i can make you blown out of it From A to Z,the lines are getting ahead Loads of fans while I can make ma audience jump to their seats Scream to the screen,while I can star struck you to my voice Back Off now,while It's not too late

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Jan 24, 2013

Jan 24, 2013 at 1:25 AM UTC

Turn It Up (Gangsta Poet)

Turn da bottles upside down The bingo linggo is right up here No need to estimate Ain't show 'em what you got Coz the feminine swag is right in front of you Hit da spot,break 'em low Erbody's on the floor,hot & cold The center of attraction is here we go Sweat like it's the end of the court Make some noise,the battle is not yet done Here is the piece of my paper Sonnet to Haiku,get 'em yours While i make my lyrics out of it I bet you to sing this song Coz It's you that I crack the most Fly high coz im so high This super legacy of mine Is not yet over,bring me to the court And I'll make you cry while you can run Too fast to drift out of your collateral words ***** bootsy,shakin' ya ***** The tingga ling, bling bling mingle naw to da floor Ain't gonna lose coz this **** got me pumpin' Now I can drop ya to the floor Coz it's fresh like a g6 Now I can flip ma hair to ya gorges face So wassup now! And you can tumblin' down to my feet Look what i've got, Its a brand new style Now spin it while you can And Open ya eyes coz dis ain't a dream Mine is a simple yet i can make you blown out of it From A to Z,the lines are getting ahead Loads of fans while I can make ma audience jump to their seats Scream to the screen,while I can star struck you to my voice Back Off now,while It's not too late

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1475 Fame is the one that does not stay— Its occupant must die Or out of sight of estimate Ascend incessantly— Or be that most insolvent thing A Lightning in the Germ— Electrical the embryo But we demand the Flame

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3.8k

Emily Dickinson

Fame is the one that does not stay—

1475 Fame is the one that does not stay— Its occupant must die Or out of sight of estimate Ascend incessantly— Or be that most insolvent thing A Lightning in the Germ— Electrical the embryo But we demand the Flame

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Humanity has no support to duty Both contrary in dealing and punctuality: Non-the-less deny each claims still their validity Former needs emotional skip where later regularity! Humanity is a thing roundly soul concern Fancies of many idles, despotic and obligated. Estimate not to beautify active approach return; Deserve aid remarkable quiet pleasing black arts. Duty declares the deed must accomplish statutable, Gratitude, greed and gratification are sub-judice here-of: A crazy caution compel to foil inapplicable Yonker's pride, old hand cultivated doctrinal of. Certain condition humanity plays role of pre-eminence Duty looks wanting help out of heels, Depending on probation passion of sincerity convince, Rejecting deep binder satisfactorily set aside exceeds. If stands duty and humanity both together, Glorifies the spirit immortal as His name And also deal showing clean impersonality further, None appeal to mercy could not dare blame.

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Jun 5, 2013

Jun 5, 2013 at 4:14 AM UTC

Duty And Humanity

Humanity has no support to duty Both contrary in dealing and punctuality: Non-the-less deny each claims still their validity Former needs emotional skip where later regularity! Humanity is a thing roundly soul concern Fancies of many idles, despotic and obligated. Estimate not to beautify active approach return; Deserve aid remarkable quiet pleasing black arts. Duty declares the deed must accomplish statutable, Gratitude, greed and gratification are sub-judice here-of: A crazy caution compel to foil inapplicable Yonker's pride, old hand cultivated doctrinal of. Certain condition humanity plays role of pre-eminence Duty looks wanting help out of heels, Depending on probation passion of sincerity convince, Rejecting deep binder satisfactorily set aside exceeds. If stands duty and humanity both together, Glorifies the spirit immortal as His name And also deal showing clean impersonality further, None appeal to mercy could not dare blame.

Continue reading...

grow a beard... buy a jazz double-bass... start stroking it... attempt to look pensive... and then write some Cockney comedy... and? **** Oxford. **** 'em good; can't be, ******* arsed... where's a ******* jazz double bass the kind i need to stand up to play?! where?! gone, "nowhere"... Achilles would sooner find a tortoise, you ******* half-whit bull bullock base catcher... yummy yummy... no ******* double whammy if there ain't a greasy dough nnnnnnnn in my mouth oozing a squid's mating call... from the Jules Verne estimate of how... big the ******* could become... oh please... **** is a conjunction word... akin to and... spew effect, regurgitation, founded upon... so... so... farting in a public place is less offensive than uttering a word of oath?! **** me... more **** less ***** images... i guess that's how you habitually attack Christian h'america... **** **** **** and impose a curb of a ***** show me the puppies kitchen ***** Kentucky style **** ******* wankers... dreaming up some **** in long lost Cockney rhyming slang for some: willkommen zu verirrt amstetten... .................... ................................... .............. ................ SCHMILE... boorish ******* gnomes dancing the leprechaun gamblers' dance... skivvy ************* sure... censor the words... but god forbid you censor showing all the ******* because... if you do? guess what... i might forget my farming impulse... of imagining a a cleavage to also imply a pork buttocks... funny... how a show of cleavage is synonymous with a show of pork buttocks... and then i begin thinking of milking... which throws a ***** **** out with the baby and the bathwater and... i'm shinging... what's that name of the place?! New Orleans! yeah... like some minstrel in that part of the world that part of the world that's a ******** what?! you spew on me... i spew on you... we can at least exchange... what we "love" about each other... but i implore! i implore! visit Warsaw! alone... no, not with other people... ah-loan - a-l-o-n-e.... i'll be your companion, when you peer at your shadow, and attempt, to pretend, to disappear.

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Sep 11, 2018

Sep 11, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

grow a beard... buy a jazz double-bass... start stroking it... attempt to look pensive... and then write some Cockney comedy... and? **** Oxford. **** 'em good; can't be, ******* arsed... where's a ******* jazz double bass the kind i need to stand up to play?! where?! gone, "nowhere"... Achilles would sooner find a tortoise, you ******* half-whit bull bullock base catcher... yummy yummy... no ******* double whammy if there ain't a greasy dough nnnnnnnn in my mouth oozing a squid's mating call... from the Jules Verne estimate of how... big the ******* could become... oh please... **** is a conjunction word... akin to and... spew effect, regurgitation, founded upon... so... so... farting in a public place is less offensive than uttering a word of oath?! **** me... more **** less ***** images... i guess that's how you habitually attack Christian h'america... **** **** **** and impose a curb of a ***** show me the puppies kitchen ***** Kentucky style **** ******* wankers... dreaming up some **** in long lost Cockney rhyming slang for some: willkommen zu verirrt amstetten... .................... ................................... .............. ................ SCHMILE... boorish ******* gnomes dancing the leprechaun gamblers' dance... skivvy ************* sure... censor the words... but god forbid you censor showing all the ******* because... if you do? guess what... i might forget my farming impulse... of imagining a a cleavage to also imply a pork buttocks... funny... how a show of cleavage is synonymous with a show of pork buttocks... and then i begin thinking of milking... which throws a ***** **** out with the baby and the bathwater and... i'm shinging... what's that name of the place?! New Orleans! yeah... like some minstrel in that part of the world that part of the world that's a ******** what?! you spew on me... i spew on you... we can at least exchange... what we "love" about each other... but i implore! i implore! visit Warsaw! alone... no, not with other people... ah-loan - a-l-o-n-e.... i'll be your companion, when you peer at your shadow, and attempt, to pretend, to disappear.

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Where in this life can one find A golden heart, a heart that's pure? A conscience that, with Peace aligned, Can make our faith in Love assured? Can it be found in modern man? His search for meaning in Degrees? In knowledge he relies upon To cure the sickness... soul's disease? Is it found within the mind? The place where one's sad past resides? Whatever will the doctors find? Suss out the place where conscience lies? Is it found in shifting stars? In charts where moons and planets turn? Can one map out this heart of ours? Is our fate there? Assured and firm? Is religion e'r the answer here? Or, once more, a source of pain? A source of strength or source of fear? Should we search on once again? For 'tis not the things we think, Our pondering philosophy Nor is it in our darkest link With a past of misery. It is not in ancient scrolls Writings of the stars aligned Nor is it works in laws of old, A path of "goodness" wending. Blind. It is within the heart itself Where the Spirit has its place. Where the Word of God Himself Has given us amazing grace. His heart, more pure than gold unearthed, He walked with man, yet was alone, Who has an estimate of worth Of our High Priest and Cornerstone? Abiding in a heart of grace That's where purity doth live! You are looking in His face, Behold, in persons who FORGIVE. SoulSurvivor Catherine Jarvis (C) September 20, 2014

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Sep 20, 2014

Sep 20, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC

Where in this life can one find A golden heart, a heart that's pure? A conscience that, with Peace aligned, Can make our faith in Love assured? Can it be found in modern man? His search for meaning in Degrees? In knowledge he relies upon To cure the sickness... soul's disease? Is it found within the mind? The place where one's sad past resides? Whatever will the doctors find? Suss out the place where conscience lies? Is it found in shifting stars? In charts where moons and planets turn? Can one map out this heart of ours? Is our fate there? Assured and firm? Is religion e'r the answer here? Or, once more, a source of pain? A source of strength or source of fear? Should we search on once again? For 'tis not the things we think, Our pondering philosophy Nor is it in our darkest link With a past of misery. It is not in ancient scrolls Writings of the stars aligned Nor is it works in laws of old, A path of "goodness" wending. Blind. It is within the heart itself Where the Spirit has its place. Where the Word of God Himself Has given us amazing grace. His heart, more pure than gold unearthed, He walked with man, yet was alone, Who has an estimate of worth Of our High Priest and Cornerstone? Abiding in a heart of grace That's where purity doth live! You are looking in His face, Behold, in persons who FORGIVE. SoulSurvivor Catherine Jarvis (C) September 20, 2014

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‘Flew back some of Crows to me I helped them fly once far away, For not to stay and eat me up! Again and over again … ‘I tried so hard and fast I could To stay away from Crows so black, But no way there for me to escape Walls and walls so high … ‘Wind of return from true to lie Can’t deny the strongest touch, Pleasure of surfing into the blue Still fly there crud black Crows … ‘Black Crows chase me all the way From dawn till dusk being breathless Sometimes I win and lose in chain, Sea-waves rest me at shore at night … ‘Liars taught me to catch the crows To start a series of sins afterwards I liked first then I came to know Crows do deal with Lucifer’s choice … ‘Knew I was going through darkness Just keeping faith to get a light, At last I found there not a ray Al least to find a way back home … ‘Home for me and home for you Found but lost by misfortune, So far as I try to regain, Black Crows bar me from doing so … ‘Always tasty are forbidden fruits Like grass is greener on other side, Sense of reasons makes no change You keep loving being captive … ‘So never ever catch Black Crows must it leave you in tunnel so dark, Even after you could find way out You may lose your grace back there … ‘You yourself are a real touch-stone To culture yourself among people, Sounded bitter, should have been sweet Wrong estimate just let you down … ‘I had two eyes but never saw The pain emerged in parents hearts, Watching me in black Crow’s ****** I was blind but I’ve realized now … ‘Wasted time’s now wasting me Surely need to **** the crows, And not to help them fly again I wish myself to walk alive … ‘A lesson here goes to all fellows To cure the wounds, not to endure, The Crows will die forever too Eyeful of ever blue sky, up there … ~ Anwar Parvez Shishir ~ 05/DECEMBER/2013/THURSDAY Jessore/Dhaka/Bangladesh

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Jun 16, 2014

Jun 16, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC

anwar-parvez-shishir

~ THE BLACK CROWS ~

‘Flew back some of Crows to me I helped them fly once far away, For not to stay and eat me up! Again and over again … ‘I tried so hard and fast I could To stay away from Crows so black, But no way there for me to escape Walls and walls so high … ‘Wind of return from true to lie Can’t deny the strongest touch, Pleasure of surfing into the blue Still fly there crud black Crows … ‘Black Crows chase me all the way From dawn till dusk being breathless Sometimes I win and lose in chain, Sea-waves rest me at shore at night … ‘Liars taught me to catch the crows To start a series of sins afterwards I liked first then I came to know Crows do deal with Lucifer’s choice … ‘Knew I was going through darkness Just keeping faith to get a light, At last I found there not a ray Al least to find a way back home … ‘Home for me and home for you Found but lost by misfortune, So far as I try to regain, Black Crows bar me from doing so … ‘Always tasty are forbidden fruits Like grass is greener on other side, Sense of reasons makes no change You keep loving being captive … ‘So never ever catch Black Crows must it leave you in tunnel so dark, Even after you could find way out You may lose your grace back there … ‘You yourself are a real touch-stone To culture yourself among people, Sounded bitter, should have been sweet Wrong estimate just let you down … ‘I had two eyes but never saw The pain emerged in parents hearts, Watching me in black Crow’s ****** I was blind but I’ve realized now … ‘Wasted time’s now wasting me Surely need to **** the crows, And not to help them fly again I wish myself to walk alive … ‘A lesson here goes to all fellows To cure the wounds, not to endure, The Crows will die forever too Eyeful of ever blue sky, up there … ~ Anwar Parvez Shishir ~ 05/DECEMBER/2013/THURSDAY Jessore/Dhaka/Bangladesh

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798 She staked her Feathers—Gained an Arc— Debated—Rose again— This time—beyond the estimate Of Envy, or of Men— And now, among Circumference— Her steady Boat be seen— At home—among the Billows—As The Bough where she was born—

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2.6k

Emily Dickinson

She staked her Feathers—Gained an Arc

798 She staked her Feathers—Gained an Arc— Debated—Rose again— This time—beyond the estimate Of Envy, or of Men— And now, among Circumference— Her steady Boat be seen— At home—among the Billows—As The Bough where she was born—

Continue reading...

I'm not sure how much of you I know yet. I know that 75% of you is a river while the remaining 25% of you remains unknown. I am making you sound like a science text book. The other day, I called you music, and flowers, and everything else I could think of that would grab your lips and make them curve upward to smile. I'm not good at writing poems for people who have made my veins into a swimming pool to backstroke through. I'm not used to being warm like this. I know that we can sometimes be identical and sometimes, it's hard to convince you that you're breathing but let me put it this way, you are hurricane Katrina, the shredded buildings, the ceramic plate my mother made for me through the aftermath. When I was 15, it was hanging on the wall and fell from a thunderclap. Yellow, with my name on it. I have called you baby on an estimate of four times a day and we are trying to fix it. We will slow dance in the living room and we will not notice the windows whistling but what you do not know it sounds like a storm but love, I hear you name through the cracks in the doors when the rain sets in. I haven't said much already. Hurricanes are awful and you think you're more like the sound the sky makes when it's upset. But everyone likes the name Katrina anyway. Metaphors don't get me anywhere but listen, hold me like I am the only building you do not want to destroy.

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Feb 19, 2014

Feb 19, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC

It's not even hurricane season/ I'm lucky I met you

I'm not sure how much of you I know yet. I know that 75% of you is a river while the remaining 25% of you remains unknown. I am making you sound like a science text book. The other day, I called you music, and flowers, and everything else I could think of that would grab your lips and make them curve upward to smile. I'm not good at writing poems for people who have made my veins into a swimming pool to backstroke through. I'm not used to being warm like this. I know that we can sometimes be identical and sometimes, it's hard to convince you that you're breathing but let me put it this way, you are hurricane Katrina, the shredded buildings, the ceramic plate my mother made for me through the aftermath. When I was 15, it was hanging on the wall and fell from a thunderclap. Yellow, with my name on it. I have called you baby on an estimate of four times a day and we are trying to fix it. We will slow dance in the living room and we will not notice the windows whistling but what you do not know it sounds like a storm but love, I hear you name through the cracks in the doors when the rain sets in. I haven't said much already. Hurricanes are awful and you think you're more like the sound the sky makes when it's upset. But everyone likes the name Katrina anyway. Metaphors don't get me anywhere but listen, hold me like I am the only building you do not want to destroy.

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1684 The Blunder is in estimate. Eternity is there We say, as of a Station— Meanwhile he is so near He joins me in my Ramble— Divides abode with me— No Friend have I that so persists As this Eternity.

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2.5k

Emily Dickinson

The Blunder is in estimate

1684 The Blunder is in estimate. Eternity is there We say, as of a Station— Meanwhile he is so near He joins me in my Ramble— Divides abode with me— No Friend have I that so persists As this Eternity.

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1374 A Saucer holds a Cup In sordid human Life But in a Squirrel’s estimate A Saucer hold a Loaf. A Table of a Tree Demands the little King And every Breeze that run along His Dining Room do swing. His Cutlery—he keeps Within his Russer Lips— To see it flashing when he dines Do Birmingham eclipse— Convicted—could we be Of our Minutiae The smallest Citizen that flies Is heartier than we—

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2.4k

Emily Dickinson

A Saucer holds a Cup

1374 A Saucer holds a Cup In sordid human Life But in a Squirrel’s estimate A Saucer hold a Loaf. A Table of a Tree Demands the little King And every Breeze that run along His Dining Room do swing. His Cutlery—he keeps Within his Russer Lips— To see it flashing when he dines Do Birmingham eclipse— Convicted—could we be Of our Minutiae The smallest Citizen that flies Is heartier than we—

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Blue is spirit and bright The color and light Of a wisp Seeking through the night Green is life and Joy The color Of summer time trees The smile when you play with a toy Yellow is the light of the night Caring and pure Helps anyone without a fight They will be be your light Black is dark but strong More fragile then portrayed but do not think them wrong They still know love But with the help of another To light their way Red is the sweetness of cherries They will stay by your side Their heart as pretty as daises They love more pure then any other color Just the sight of theirs or another pain can make their eyes rain Orange has the spirit of fire Much like black and yellow They will light you through the darkness Until their fire burns out Then they need a friend To help them be free And be the light they used to be White i think the most confusing Their hard to see But When you see them Their as special as anyone can be Their quiet but always outspoken Purple the color of a cats eyes So watchful and careful Ever so wise Dont under estimate this beautiful soul For it can go out of control Emotions so strong but held by a string They might need a friend To help them find their wings

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Nov 9, 2018

Nov 9, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC

*Colors of the Soul*

Blue is spirit and bright The color and light Of a wisp Seeking through the night Green is life and Joy The color Of summer time trees The smile when you play with a toy Yellow is the light of the night Caring and pure Helps anyone without a fight They will be be your light Black is dark but strong More fragile then portrayed but do not think them wrong They still know love But with the help of another To light their way Red is the sweetness of cherries They will stay by your side Their heart as pretty as daises They love more pure then any other color Just the sight of theirs or another pain can make their eyes rain Orange has the spirit of fire Much like black and yellow They will light you through the darkness Until their fire burns out Then they need a friend To help them be free And be the light they used to be White i think the most confusing Their hard to see But When you see them Their as special as anyone can be Their quiet but always outspoken Purple the color of a cats eyes So watchful and careful Ever so wise Dont under estimate this beautiful soul For it can go out of control Emotions so strong but held by a string They might need a friend To help them find their wings

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906 The Admirations—and Contempts—of time— Show justest—through an Open Tomb— The Dying—as it were a Height Reorganizes Estimate And what We saw not We distinguish clear— And mostly—see not What We saw before— ’Tis Compound Vision— Light—enabling Light— The Finite—furnished With the Infinite— Convex—and Concave Witness— Back—toward Time— And forward— Toward the God of Him—

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2.3k

Emily Dickinson

The Admirations—and Contempts—of time

906 The Admirations—and Contempts—of time— Show justest—through an Open Tomb— The Dying—as it were a Height Reorganizes Estimate And what We saw not We distinguish clear— And mostly—see not What We saw before— ’Tis Compound Vision— Light—enabling Light— The Finite—furnished With the Infinite— Convex—and Concave Witness— Back—toward Time— And forward— Toward the God of Him—

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1:12:25 9:20am nyc Exactly, how far is it to you? this is more than mere question, or a rhetorical poem title discard, consider it an interrogatory of the first order, a debate raging with every word successfully affixed from brain to fingertips, from my breathing to your heart, how far is it exactly, pray tell me, how these cords of words find you, are your lips bending up in a smile, need me a weather report, air quality, wind gusts vitals vital to yo! estimate how fast & conditions they’ll require survive/arrive in your eyesight well and be friended feed me the data, Heart Rate, Blood Pressure, SpO2, so I’ll know what condition your condition is in, adjust my words accordingly, send to this distance back to me awaiting, the necessary facts & figures to provide the finger stroke directional, do you need whispers or emboldened bold face to arouse the a spirit flagging, a shoulder shaking, a dozen red lipped chords of kisses and sweet everthings, that do not dissolve, dissipate or disappear instantly, but can be stored in a Ziploc bag, refrigerated, ready for gorging and disgorging, repeatedly, as needed, synchronized slow or hard, fast or soft, wet or dry. sweet or salty, savory or a blended mixture, an adjustable concoction depending on distance, time of day, tell me, the stuff that you accept with open willingness, or just begrudgingly all adjustable all shaped to your individuality elastic flexible but the schedule filling up fast so we can mutual squeeze into each others empire of empty so, ***Exactly, how far is it to you, to where you are being***?

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Jan 12, 2025

Jan 12, 2025 at 2:48 PM UTC

Exactly, how far is it to you?

1:12:25 9:20am nyc Exactly, how far is it to you? this is more than mere question, or a rhetorical poem title discard, consider it an interrogatory of the first order, a debate raging with every word successfully affixed from brain to fingertips, from my breathing to your heart, how far is it exactly, pray tell me, how these cords of words find you, are your lips bending up in a smile, need me a weather report, air quality, wind gusts vitals vital to yo! estimate how fast & conditions they’ll require survive/arrive in your eyesight well and be friended feed me the data, Heart Rate, Blood Pressure, SpO2, so I’ll know what condition your condition is in, adjust my words accordingly, send to this distance back to me awaiting, the necessary facts & figures to provide the finger stroke directional, do you need whispers or emboldened bold face to arouse the a spirit flagging, a shoulder shaking, a dozen red lipped chords of kisses and sweet everthings, that do not dissolve, dissipate or disappear instantly, but can be stored in a Ziploc bag, refrigerated, ready for gorging and disgorging, repeatedly, as needed, synchronized slow or hard, fast or soft, wet or dry. sweet or salty, savory or a blended mixture, an adjustable concoction depending on distance, time of day, tell me, the stuff that you accept with open willingness, or just begrudgingly all adjustable all shaped to your individuality elastic flexible but the schedule filling up fast so we can mutual squeeze into each others empire of empty so, ***Exactly, how far is it to you, to where you are being***?

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The word I don’t like is "independent" In this vast universe everything is " interdependent" There is no scope for vanity Even for the richest man in the Vatican city For our shirt we need a button And a sick man may need mutton To get our shoes mended, we need a cobbler If we go to hotel, we want a server The church needs a preacher A mosque needs a prayer The temple needs a priest And the depressed soul Jesus Christ For our travel we need a bus And for our livelihood a money purse A scientist needs laboratory A politician wants idolatry The list is endless Nothing is useless The tiniest thing like a pin has its utility None should over estimate their priority

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Dec 28, 2010

Dec 28, 2010 at 4:53 AM UTC

jvl-narasimha-rao

INDEPENDENT OR INTER-DEPENDENT?

The word I don’t like is "independent" In this vast universe everything is " interdependent" There is no scope for vanity Even for the richest man in the Vatican city For our shirt we need a button And a sick man may need mutton To get our shoes mended, we need a cobbler If we go to hotel, we want a server The church needs a preacher A mosque needs a prayer The temple needs a priest And the depressed soul Jesus Christ For our travel we need a bus And for our livelihood a money purse A scientist needs laboratory A politician wants idolatry The list is endless Nothing is useless The tiniest thing like a pin has its utility None should over estimate their priority

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509 If anybody’s friend be dead It’s sharpest of the theme The thinking how they walked alive— At such and such a time— Their costume, of a Sunday, Some manner of the Hair— A prank nobody knew but them Lost, in the Sepulchre— How warm, they were, on such a day, You almost feel the date— So short way off it seems— And now—they’re Centuries from that— How pleased they were, at what you said— You try to touch the smile And dip your fingers in the frost— When was it—Can you tell— You asked the Company to tea— Acquaintance—just a few— And chatted close with this Grand Thing That don’t remember you— Past Bows, and Invitations— Past Interview, and Vow— Past what Ourself can estimate— That—makes the Quick of Woe!

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2k

Emily Dickinson

If anybody’s friend be dead

509 If anybody’s friend be dead It’s sharpest of the theme The thinking how they walked alive— At such and such a time— Their costume, of a Sunday, Some manner of the Hair— A prank nobody knew but them Lost, in the Sepulchre— How warm, they were, on such a day, You almost feel the date— So short way off it seems— And now—they’re Centuries from that— How pleased they were, at what you said— You try to touch the smile And dip your fingers in the frost— When was it—Can you tell— You asked the Company to tea— Acquaintance—just a few— And chatted close with this Grand Thing That don’t remember you— Past Bows, and Invitations— Past Interview, and Vow— Past what Ourself can estimate— That—makes the Quick of Woe!

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Have I ever been profoundly lost? Yes. Railroad tracks and a river wide as the Amazon, yet lost. Living in the intense sunshine of northern New York summer, but lost in the shade of a gazebo. And here? Here I am enclosed in a tomb of porcelain machinery. With another winter passing its calling card in at the window. The warm steam no longer cutting the rough edge. Wearing wool sweater nights. The freedom of summer gone and only one **** What a nightmare, what a strange dream, life on planet, winter all around. A system, they call it a system. I call it an evolved anarchy. Repetition, never. What do I know. Repetition, every two thousand years. Coming of a frost, coming of a fire. When nature proves furious beyond remembrance. Polar bear mugs wino. -------------------------------------- *********** Tall, attractive, talented WM, 31, trumpet player, takes pleasure in performing *********** with clean attractive women. Age, race, marital status no object. All replies answered. Marlowe went to bed. He had a headache. Used an empty bottle for a teddy bear/sap. In the middle of the night, three secret men approached the rock he slept under. They did not see him there, the fire had long ago gone out. But they'd seen it across the valley, and tried to estimate. They were close. What do I care. They did this, he did that, they did this and this and that. He used his feet, took off his shoes. It mauled him to death in two minutes of the first round. Would have been better for him if it happened faster. Never got his knife out of his pocket. But he lived, with one eye after that. -------------------------------------- What do you do with a drunken sailor early in the morning? You pull that sailor out of bed by his hairy moorings. Why should anybody believe this, this tiresome outpouring of old moans and groans, grumbles about loneliness of life and dominance of telephone. This gamble on print, above the spoken, sung word. The meditative call to inhabitants of planet to kneel woefully and pray. No, to chant as if the planet were mending. Mending rhymes with ending, why not. And television, radio appreciated. Drugs and ***** jagged bent faces, black wet rock. The mantle of moss ripped away. Period. Amen to men. Absolute magical ripcord.

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Aug 9, 2015

Aug 9, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC

Polar Bear Mugs Wino

Have I ever been profoundly lost? Yes. Railroad tracks and a river wide as the Amazon, yet lost. Living in the intense sunshine of northern New York summer, but lost in the shade of a gazebo. And here? Here I am enclosed in a tomb of porcelain machinery. With another winter passing its calling card in at the window. The warm steam no longer cutting the rough edge. Wearing wool sweater nights. The freedom of summer gone and only one **** What a nightmare, what a strange dream, life on planet, winter all around. A system, they call it a system. I call it an evolved anarchy. Repetition, never. What do I know. Repetition, every two thousand years. Coming of a frost, coming of a fire. When nature proves furious beyond remembrance. Polar bear mugs wino. -------------------------------------- *********** Tall, attractive, talented WM, 31, trumpet player, takes pleasure in performing *********** with clean attractive women. Age, race, marital status no object. All replies answered. Marlowe went to bed. He had a headache. Used an empty bottle for a teddy bear/sap. In the middle of the night, three secret men approached the rock he slept under. They did not see him there, the fire had long ago gone out. But they'd seen it across the valley, and tried to estimate. They were close. What do I care. They did this, he did that, they did this and this and that. He used his feet, took off his shoes. It mauled him to death in two minutes of the first round. Would have been better for him if it happened faster. Never got his knife out of his pocket. But he lived, with one eye after that. -------------------------------------- What do you do with a drunken sailor early in the morning? You pull that sailor out of bed by his hairy moorings. Why should anybody believe this, this tiresome outpouring of old moans and groans, grumbles about loneliness of life and dominance of telephone. This gamble on print, above the spoken, sung word. The meditative call to inhabitants of planet to kneel woefully and pray. No, to chant as if the planet were mending. Mending rhymes with ending, why not. And television, radio appreciated. Drugs and ***** jagged bent faces, black wet rock. The mantle of moss ripped away. Period. Amen to men. Absolute magical ripcord.

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