"exhibited" poems
Gatsby was in love;
completely infatuated
with another being
The way he looked at her
with his anxious eyes
exhibited a love that couldn't be greater
And
the words he spoke
emitted such fondness
for her rosy lips against his
as he whispered sweet stories
that he irresistibly imagined
of their future together
he fell so in love--
he fell so tragically and desperately
in l o v e--
he lost himself completely
and became absent
in his own consciousness
trusting false hopes,
refusing to let go of what would
never be his
and if this insanity is what they call
true love--
if this is what one experiences
when such passion takes over--
then I, too
have gone Gatsby for you.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
553
One Crucifixion is recorded—only—
How many be
Is not affirmed of Mathematics—
Or History—
One Calvary—exhibited to Stranger—
As many be
As persons—or Peninsulas—
Gethsemane—
Is but a Province—in the Being’s Centre—
Judea—
For Journey—or Crusade’s Achieving—
Too near—
Our Lord—indeed—made Compound Witness—
And yet—
There’s newer—nearer Crucifixion
Than That—
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Crescent orb radiates its crystalline sight,
languid lips coalesce like a tessellation,
the vexing vines wilder the incandescent-
glimmer but the burning impression remains.
Celestial bodies affixes a soliloquy amongst-
a halcyon tongue that revelate a rhapsodic-
episode.
Quiescent ambience rings a plethora of-
sentiments stinging on the mellifluous
lullaby. The lithe wildflower murmurs-
the euphonious recital of a sonnet that-
is unacquainted to the mind.
Luminous assemblies of fireflies retire-
behind the myriad of evergreen forest
as the insouciance wildflower approach.
Precocious primrose locked from the
scorching sensation of a wildflower
exhibited a lassitude facade like a -
waning lantern fiery on its final residues.
In the distant a wildflower and in
the presence, an idyllic primrose:
so scarce and so strange.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC
Lions of this far country,
of this desolated arid land,
exhibited unusual signs of ferocity-
-you could see it in their eyes, the way they moved and how they behaved.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 5:23 PM UTC
The apartment hasn’t been cleaned for so long and has housed a depressive in it for the same length of time so that there is a glaze of slime-dirt on the floor, made of dried coffee, hot chocolate, maybe some **** or some spillage from a tube of steroid cream to treat an inflammation that never really goes. The rate of ooze changes?. Clean textiles are piled up on the floor, never having been folded, and mix here and there with ***** practical fatpants that make me look like a geologist and white-white cotton blankets that can be washed on HOT with lots of bleach that I purloined from some mentalhealthfacility. The inbox is full of—is bristling with—remonstrances from Programs for the Nondoer—you haven’t filed, haven’t turnstiled, haven’t had your hologram chip assessed by central CENTRAL intelligence, what is wrong with you. Upon stepping outside there is a beat during which I think maybe somewonder might swirl and buoy but no, just wethumid and ***** sidewalks cruddy and Haitians and quasi-Haitians muttering “taxitaxitaxi” in front of their Gypsy conveyances with their dubious certifications. I should go for a ride in one, a dubious passenger for a dubious palanquin. I tried the library but it was too hot and decrepit and too filled with Books For African-Americans, which always ****** me off; are only African-Americans going to read Wright or Douglass or Brooks? Everyone is overrated, anyway, movies and theater and the moribund beat of commerce, and as the dangerous autos pass, sometimes not running you over, you can see morechange in the pockets of the shareholders of BeePee and Iacocca Coach-Wirx. Any friendliness exhibited seems to contain an underovertone of You’re Not Included Whiteboy White ****** Ghost ***** all archaic names I’ve been almost astounded to be called usually while balancing on tiptoe on some lurching, roaring dieselbus, grinding past off-off-off brand groceries that do a dubious business. While making my police report I wink at a sevenyearold boy and I get a lustrous wink back butalas this is not enough to beat back those slurrycolored brainfazes.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 2:09 PM UTC
A child of ten
I thought of sunshine and handholding
They told me I was ugly
A young girl of thirteen
I loved to go to school
They told me I was dumb
A new student at sixteen
I longed for acceptance
They exhibited their disgust for my presence
Then I learned I was worthless at seventeen
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
sometimes you are with me when I bike
right in the middle of my eyes
you look through
as if recreating tides
sometimes you rise
stretch my tailbone
cross my neck all along
and silently whisper love and hate words
until you painfully adjust yourself towards a subtle opening
hidden under a golden crown
you tie us by secret subtle lines
as if a puppet-pendulum
anchored to a bluish-green star
somewhere far away
as far as a single jump-rope swing
which I may call home sometime
is that why you send me signs
while I listen
like that lady bird today …
perfectly matching to the colors of an eloquent orange brown pottery
by which geishas serve
a ceremonial rice bowl the labels tell
exhibited behind glass only
my silhouette
reflected in dim lights
becomes a dance of invisibility
hiding teardrops
along a museum corridor
covered with cherry blossoms
I ignore I say all the stupid signs
continue a play
with the luck bug
alight on my right side
observe its dotted natural beauty
forget all there is around me
oh yes she knows me
I farewell her over a giant photograph of a well respected lady
make it a living part of her brooch and dream away
if - maybe she’d be me
some lifetime ago
and you the lover
of our lingering sad story…
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
Gaia sighed. Not a sigh like lovers sigh looking deeply into each other's eyes. This was a sigh of resignation. In all her long life, there had never been a time she felt as unheeded as now.
Yes, there had been a time once, a time of oneness when all her multitudinous inhabitants had coexisted, when species knew their place in the chain of life and cycled through their existence, not always at peace but with respect for one another: the lion hunted the swift gazelle which in turn fed on the fruits of the trees, parasitic birds and insects grazed upon her and they in turn were the prey of others. ‘Yes,’ Gaia thought, ‘there was a time.’
She sighed again. She remembered when humans first came to prominence in the twilight of her existence. To them, she was the Great Mother, the Creator of life. Was it not she who bore all her inhabitants and was it not to her that they all returned to continue the cycle?
Gaia felt old now, old and forgotten. That respect, that devotion was all gone now. She felt the hurt as the careful balance she had sought to maintain was eroded, not by wind and elements, but by the ravages of humans.
‘They have overstepped their bounds,’ she mused. ‘They must be taught a lesson.’
She pondered on that thought for a moment and for a moment felt a surge of effervescent warmth flow through her form. But grim reality broke through her musings and she shuddered at the horror of the reality. Her memories were dim and misty now. She could remember her birth but only just. How she had taken form from the cosmic flotsam and jetsam all those countless aeons ago. She remembered the youthful exuberance she exhibited then and she smiled in embarrassed recollection. No life could have survived upon her surface then for she was wild and wilful, hot and inhospitable, prone to savage outpourings. But she grew, she gained the experience of time passing, and slowly, slowly, her voluble exterior became calm and gradually her form was blanketed in a kindly cloak of life-sustaining gases. The soup of her oceans spawned and multiplied a myriad of lives and forms and she thought of how many she had seen come and go.
The present again broke through her meditation of what has gone before. Now she was approaching the nighttime of her existence and, like the old elephant, one of her favourite inhabitants, she knew her time was near. She had tried so hard to adapt, to compromise but, like a cancer, the human scourge had spread beyond all control. Oh yes, there had been a few voices raised in concern and some, she knew, spoke with all the sincerity she knew the species was capable of. But, those voices went unheeded, listened to by a few but ignored by the many. Gaia was tired. She hurt. Sol bore down on her savagely, relentlessly and she felt her protective shroud growing weaker and weaker as every moment passed. It was now, the time had come...
© David Simons 2001 (revised 2016)
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
[These statues were exhibited at the Metropolitan Museum after the sculptor's death. The figures alluded to are the famous statue of Abraham Lincoln, and the monument in memory of Mrs. Henry Adams, the original of which is in the Rock Creek Cemetery at Washington. --Max Eastman]
POET, thy dreams are grateful to the air
And the light loves them. Tho' they murmur not,
Their carven stillness is a music rare,
And like the song of one whose tongue hath caught
The clear ethereal essence of his thought.
I hear the talkers come, the changing throngs
That with the fashions of a day surround
Thy visions, and I hear them quell their tongues,
And hush their querulous shoes upon the ground;
Thy dreams are with the crown of silence crowned--
Though they feel not the glowing diadem,
Who sleep for aye in their cool shapes of stone.
Nor ever will the sunlight waken them,
Nor ever will they turn their eyes and moan,
To think that their brief Poet's life is gone.
The tender and the lofty soul is gone,
Who eyed them forth from darkness, and confessed
His spirit's motion in unmoving stone.
His praise upon no mortal tongue doth rest;
By these unwhispering lips it is expressed.
Soon will the ample arms of night withdraw
Her shuffling children from the twilit hall--
From that heroic presence, in dim awe
Of whom the dark withholds a while her pall,
And leaves him luminous above them all.
Then are ye lost in darkness and alone,
Ye ghostly spirits! And the moment rare
Doth quicken that too sad and nameless stone,
To move her robe, and spill her sable hair,
And be in silence mingled with the air;
For she is one with the dim glimmering hour,
And the white spirits beautiful and still,
And the veiled memory of the vanished power
That moulded them, the high and infinite will
That earth begets and earth does not fulfil.
2.2k
i.
At the fore of the gateway
Precious stone's exhibited;
Her beauty and grace.
ii.
A crystal shined gold
Floweth from her soul;
Mine soulmate of heaven's place.
iii.
From her feet
To her waist;
A wine of jasper grape's.
iv.
Inside her ambience rested
Sapphire, chalcedony
Emerald, sardonyx
Sardius, chrysolite
Beryl, topaz,
Chrysoprasus,
Jacinth,
Amethyst.
v.
I was awestruck
God gaveth me unadulterated holiness;
I am verily hooked
To mine queen, mine Jane, mine happiness.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication-Filipino rose
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
702
A first Mute Coming—
In the Stranger’s House—
A first fair Going—
When the Bells rejoice—
A first Exchange—of
What hath mingled—been—
For Lot—exhibited to
Faith—alone—
1.9k
My sister Annick fixed me, locked me in, with cold, blue eyes as she sat down slowly next to me at the table. “I’m a surgeon,” she said, not quite casually, “a board certified surgeon.”
I give her a questioning look.
“I could take your steak knife,” she says, eyeing it, “plunge it into your neck - and oh, sure, there’d be a question or two but in the end - I’d walk away clean.”
“I don’t think,” I start saying…
Tears well to near overflowing in her turquoise eyes. “I came in - officer” she says, sounding stunned and surreal. “She was having a convulsion, she exhibited severe cyanosis, I couldn’t clear her airway, it was a classic tonic-clonic seizure.” she goes on, her voice rising to near panic with the diagnosis.
“You’d never…” I start to interrupt but she gently covers my mouth with her left hand while gathering the handle of the serrated silver steak knife, expertly, into her right hand.
“I attempted to perform a tracheostomy,” she continues in a traumatized but professional voice. “but as I began a transverse incision above the sternal notch,” a tear rolls down her cheek, “Anais suffered a severe generalized-onset seizure and convulsed, forcefully into the knife”
“IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!” I confess suddenly, as if under oath, in court.
There’s a moment of still silence.
“And WHEN,” she asked, wiping away the tear and turning the knife for a downward ****** “Were you going to MENTION IT?!”
“NOW! - before dinner!” I look around the empty room - for help - for a sympathetic jury. “It was an ACCIDENT! - I’m SORRRRYYYY!” I plead.
My sister slowly sets down the knife and says deliberately, purposefully - like a death sentence: “My Valentino sheer floral-lace top is STAINED.”
”I can FIX it!” I insist in a rush.
“Keep OUT of my room - and my stuff.” she grumbles, “And REMEMBER what I said,” she adds as she pats the knife before getting up and leaving the room.
“I WILL’” I promise to her back.
A second later, my mom sweeps in from the opposite direction.
“What’s up” she asks.
“Nothing” I almost whisper, head down.
Aug 4, 2021
Aug 4, 2021 at 10:04 AM UTC
The Divide as it whispers:
"borderline," and calls you
to the throne of denigration,
like a hawk soars towards
a cute quivering corpse.
We all must eat to live.
Loving only to be loved,
your Love is Fear that,
spreads the thighs of Hate,
suspends the golden rule,
and dips the tip of Trust.
Light bends in clear waters.
The border of "neurosis"
and "psychosis" never met
your gentle river eyes, that
twirl like a child's, hugging
the silent shivering creature.
Squeeze tight until it dies.
"Researchers coined the term “borderline” in the first half of this century, when they thought that people who exhibited behaviors we now associate with BPD were on the border between neurosis and psychosis. Although this concept was discarded in the 1970s, the name stuck." - Paul T. Mason, M.S. and Randi Kreger
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
Tonight's my last night of living in the age
Wherein I exhibited a drastic change
Influenced by somebody miles away
Since then, I had not gone astray
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
When I was in the start
of my mental illness problem,
I exhibited physical movements
which bothered me,
because I thought they
were crazy,
but now, some forty years later,
I realized
that what I was doing
was mental illness yoga,
which was the body's way
of trying to cure me,
and the first yogic movement
that I did
was rocking back and forth
as I was sitting,
so now
I have tried it
by synchronizing
my breathing
and my internal music
along with it,
and it becomes
very healing,
so my mentally ill mother
used to tap
her fingers
on her legs
one at a time,
so I have tried that
and synchronized it,
and a friend
used to pull down
on his sideburns
in a kind of stroking manner,
so that's a good one,
and another friend
stroked his legs
back and forth
just above the knees,
and that one is excellent,
so I move my legs
in opposite directions, fast,
back and forth,
and that one works well,
so I roll my head around
in circles,
and that actually is
a yogic practice
called head rolls,
and I move my head
back and forth, sideways,
like Stevie Wonder,
and that works great,
so I would suggest
that if you have
any kind of eccentric movements
like these,
to develop them
and turn them into yoga,
because it just might be
the answer
to many problems.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 9:55 AM UTC
*I am willing to sink into the sound
of night’s changing secrets
where the world sees my breath
wipe away the tears mirroring its pain.
Smiles are caught on fire,
wooed by this poet,
but do not reflect the same.
Instead of playing under trees,
I allow everything to be swept away
by the winds
on the soft petals of a voice.
A voice that empties all its brilliance
into our sleep
comes to see our smiles rejoice.
Life is exhibited in dirt
from the bottom of my shoe
yet never utters a word.
Still, I will never wave goodbye
to thoughts that turn.
Does anyone ever really understand
the smiles a poet burns?
I welcome hands that hush the existence
of whispered memories
lighting candles dwelling in our minds.
If you knew what was on the line,
would you be willing to sink
into night’s sound
in kind?*
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 7:02 PM UTC
One after the other
I am abandoned;
Reminiscing the same movements
My father exhibited when
He wanted to start anew.
The human body is made up
Of skin and bones,
Blood gushing through veins
Repeatedly, a job done nearly sixty times a minute.
And yet we are more than just that.
I am a shell of my former self,
My passion has dwindled,
And so has my own will to live.
I am not the same person who fell in love with this life,
Innocently calling it mine.
My personality flees by the danger I convince myself that I am in.
Hopping on trains and planes,
Cars and even bikes.
They flee and do not intend to return.
I am hollow,
A former shell of who I used to be.
And while emotions are difficult to come by,
I only hope they come back to their motherland,
Knowing that it is safe once again.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 5:53 PM UTC
discard the paradox
of an un-living existence
one exhibited in daily life
by unfeeling masses
the blind and deaf walk the streets
perpetually exist in waking sleep
attack with knowledge
burn them with thought
break out the hand-pens
and long barreled books!
explosive rounds of conversation
they shuffle and groan
wave after wave
grasping and clawing and
consuming the living
turning free thinkers into
the brainwashed undead
moaning be like us
embrace the convince of
this thoughtless dictation of "life"
barricade my mind
a safe house stocked
with radical ideas
brace for the onslaught
read and write!
a fight for my life
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 12:58 PM UTC
I saw a brave bird today,
Unapologetic about her barred face.
She sat, perched on the mossy branch of my favorite tree,
Mysteriously familiar with her piercing gaze.
People found her unfortunate looking,
She didn't care about what people thought,
She had come to live and live she would,
This amazing outlook, by others uncaught,
Maybe it comes from within, it is self-taught,
I ponder on this, an afterthought.
In came a savage, ill-bred,
Willfully ignorant of the lesson she exhibited,
Shooing her away, now content,
The savage doesn't know his wisdom remains limited.
The bird was elegant and unafraid,
She made a graceful ascent,
The brute cursed and cursed and cursed,
For she had left him a parting present.
I giggled to myself,
Secure even after the separation,
For I know I'd see her again tomorrow,
For on the tree, and now in my heart, lays her foundation and accommodation..
I saw a brave bird today,
Unapologetic about her barred profile,
I learnt alot by just looking at her,
Like how to accept yourself with grace and a smile,
And make your life worthwhile..
I saw a brave bird today and
I'd see her tomorrow too,
I wish to be her and learn more,
If she can do it, so can you.
I saw my brave bird today and
I'm going to be someone's brave bird tomorrow...
Sep 9, 2020
Sep 9, 2020 at 6:16 PM UTC
The arctic spell of this winter,
Has finally froze the river.
With the parade currents lying still,
Grasping the last air to be free again.
For the river has now lost its audience,
As they paddled into the deep sea.
While the polar glass exhibited the frozen lie,
The anecdote of time taking a pause,
In a bewitching black of a silver sky.
Alas the sublime river starts to hope again,
As the sun embraced warmer rays,
With every melt of the icy skin,
The river heart starts to beat again.
At the dawn of this winter lapse.
The currents ran once more,
With the arrival of the inhabitants,
The river was once alive again.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC
A every stumble, thoughts of you catch me every time
But at each trip, they poison my daydreams with long gone memories.
Hauntingly, they mimick my train of thought
I apologize every time
Those thoughts are not my own, my love
I am vulnerable against their every attack
Punishment for my choice not to join,
And not to fight
The ability to love, they lack
And their bitterness enhances in the presence of my love for you
So, my love, do not believe their jealous manipulation
Which takes more form each time I call to you
I swore to you my love
I gave myself to you
Look within me, the me, that I gave to you
Don't watch the movements of my mind, as it was never truly mine
Turn away from their evil illustrations
Exhibited to invoke doubt and suspicion
Look into your heart, my love,
Feel the miracle we created together
They did the same to me my love
Attacking all senses with visions of you and disguised mistresses
In the end it was all in vain
As my heart stayed true, and steered me back
So, my beloved, look into the truth you feel inside your heart
Within is our true love, shining still
And never look to the glowing darkness before your eyes
Projected on all you see, and surrounding you in your slumber
Remember the electricity we made the first time you took my hand in yours
That hand, that sensation, is me
Don't be fooled as they warm your hand in a firm grip
And say that grasp is mine
You know my touch, you know my love
Don't look for demonstrations of me
But feel for what you know
Remember, my true love
Love is blind.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
In school, there was always one girl that every boy wished for.
In school, there was always one boy that every girl hope for.
But out of fear many never approached her.
Was she miss popular?
Was she very well knowned.
That her reputation out raced her.
Was he the star of the team?
Who dated the homecoming queen?
And thought he was everything.
As adults, their light beginned to dim.
As over time folks beginned to see through them.
It became an honor for them to be seen with you.
The selfishness that they exhibited finally caught up.
That they wouldn't know how to love anyone but themselves.
And these were the one that people chased.
Now, they realize their true wants.
What we want?
Might not be, what we need?
Love is a mystery.
In school, everything is a dream.
Even when you find the love of your life.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 8:35 AM UTC
Enclosed in a room when I saw her for the first time,
With the beige attire that made her glow in the light,
Her face so pretty, and her hair so sleek,
But her smile was the thing that made my day complete…
The aura that surrounded her was so peculiar,
The glee in her eyes conveyed that no sadness can come near,
Her petite stature seemed like a sculpture made with utmost care,
Even the sculptor, I guess, couldn’t help but marvel at the wonder he made…
As she manifested in front of me our eyes met at first,
I couldn’t help but notice her lips with that supple curve,
Never was I so conscious about the way my heart beats,
Never did I know my mind had the ability to stop thinking in the moment of need…
Her dainty hands moved swiftly across the foosball table,
The warmth of her presence perfectly complemented the weather,
The cheerfulness of hers felt like a bliss to be a part of,
Her leap of excitement exhibited the sweetness she was made of…
As the game progressed the score-line moved up and down,
And though I was losing the game, for the first time I didn’t frown,
Maybe her body across the table was the reason behind my calmness,
The game ended up with me winning but somewhy my heart muttered, **** it.”
She hung her bag over her shoulders and began walking away,
For some reason I wished the time would freeze and make her stay,
But she turned that moment upside down, like she heard my heart’s cry,
As she turned her beautiful eyes on me and muttered a soft, “bye.”
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 2:40 AM UTC
let your waterworks flow
your wall have held longer than expected
the cracks are visible while the pressure grow
your disguise was maintained and almost perfected
Now the imperfections are exhibited
subsequently and perfectly
attention to your cracks was prohibited
as the weeds in them grew abundantly
on demand when lovers need wall to lean on
but you had pain that demanded to be felt
crumbling walls is something you dream of
but you kept hope for others like church bells
its time to let your walls weep and plummet
its your turn to release pain and fears
remember this and keep these tears in a bucket
its turn to shed your tears
-t.m & mcdonald tsiie
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 11:25 AM UTC