"expressively" poems
Sometimes, when you listen to their enounciation.
You realize, just how beautiful they speak in their British accent.
Every word expressively spoken.
That you're mermorized by each vocal.
Maggie Smith, the lady of class.
Cary Grant, the man of taste.
Oh, that British voice.
That you might chose , if had you that choice.
Or seek ways to adapt them to yours.
Michael Redgrave/Michael Rennie/Vanessa Regraves
All of them had that lovable voice.
Then you notice the beautiful Julie Andrew.
Words spoke so you see the greatness of the phase.
Which we notice too in Richard Attenborough.
Who reminds many of Richard Burton?
Yes, the British accent.
You just got to love it
Similar to loving Honor Blackman when she speaks.
A great difference from Jacqueline Bissett.
Except written about them with great respect.
Who can't admire the British Accent?
Yes, there's the French.
And I'm not kicking it.
Then , there's Spanish.
Which has more trying to learn it.
But this is about the English and the various style of vocals.
Colin Barker and Prince Williams the Royals speaks so wonderful.
Just like, the man called Michael Caine.
I just have to mention Deborah Kerr.
That also goes for Joan Collin.
It's something about their style of speaking.
Maybe because you understand every spoken word.
Which is level toward the great Timothy Dalton.
And Samantha Eggar and **** Jagger.
Plus, the late David Niven.
And honorable mention to Julie Christie.
Jane Asher, Hugh Grant and several more.
Have you wishing to make their voices be yours.
Yes, the British Accent just so lovable.
And the greatest things about it.
You don't have to be famous to be adored.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
I feel pretty and soft,
Like a jasmine flower
Blooming with fragrant power,
Feminine and unique,
No two alike in pale white and pink,
Harnessing, absorbing
Sweet summer light,
The rich scent of jasmine
Carried aright,
Weightless and pungent,
Expressively existing.
I feel pretty and soft,
My presence caressing and kissing.
Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 3:02 PM UTC
Bartender
Pour me some more
Let me stumble through the back door
Let the police
Smell the poignant aroma of rhythm and blues
Collide with my Genius creative expression
Handcuff me for resisting being silent
Check my breath for the bubbles of a drunken poet
Spitting up words and rhymes
Expressively with profanity of poetry
Charge me with intoxication
Verbal sensation
Before the judge
I plea guilty
Poetic confinement recommended
On the walls I write art
Painting out the graffiti of the prisoner’s thoughts
And colouring with poetic expressions
Bartender
Pour me some more
Until my cup overflows
I just can’t get enough
Let this liquor become embedded in my arteries and lungs
Let it be in my very DNA
Let it flow through my blood and veins
Through my heart and mind
Let it be hypnosis for my dreams
I drank poetry and it tasted delicious.
CHRISTENA ANTONIA VALAIRE WILLIAMS ©2012
JAMAICA
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
Two Maronite schoolchildren practice their English…
“Cedars! Cedars! Cedars!”
“See theirs, seethers, Caesars,
See her cedars Caesar?”
“See here, a sea-fare and see there?
And oh, I see Sir?”
“Do you see her? Yes I see Sir, -Caesar!”
“Cedars! Cedars! Cedars!”
And they are descendants of Solomon’s thirty-thousand, the great-grandchildren of Hiram’s workers.
“Sol Indiges!”
“Sol Invictus!”
“Sol-Ammon!”
“Now children, how do the three monkeys act?”
“Sol, the root of solar and it means the Sun, it means also to see or sight as it infers the light of seeing.”
“Am means fire but it is also the meditative word, Aum, therefore it cannot render evil through sound!”
“On is Egyptian and it connotes speech so it represents hearing.”
The instruction in language is not terse. Requiring broad-based understandings of how the West characterizes ideas. These two are particularly adept being taught from birth in both Maronitic and Latin and now English, in preparation for their exodus, as home has become a battleground where they must leave soon. Only in the West can they find peace and practice their faith so expressively. Only in the West can these two girls attend school if their lands are befallen…
“Now children, what does this mean?”
“See no evil!”
“Speak no Evil!”
“Hear no Evil!”
“And that children, is the Wisdom of Solomon!”
Breaking news! CNN reports that a car bomb has exploded in the ancient Lebanese town of Mejdeloon. Shocking footage now of a series of homes that have been reduced to rubble near a Maronite Church where rescuers are just now pulling out the bodies of two young school girls. Christopher Talias reports live from the Lebanon.
“Sol Indiges is the voice of god,"
Sol Invictus, in light, his mind;"
Sol-Ammon is the understanding and wisdom for all time!”
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
two lovers entwined
neath the moonlight
they closely entwined
until first light
in each others arms
they melded so beautifully
as the koels in the meadow
serenaded most expressively
they were sailing
on a cloud of fondness
embracing together
neath the moon's agreeableness
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 3:11 AM UTC
i know she wants me
wants is used expressively
the gradual movements closer
the batterings of over 'made-up' eyelashes
the pursed lips
asking politely to be introduced to my frowning ones
i know she likes me
the unanswered calls
and ignored texts
i flip my phone over
and turn away
from something that could be
something that has been
i dont want to hurt her
sounds so falsely noble
but its the truth
am i aiming higher
is it arrogance
or insecurity
either way i cant apologize enough
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 3:37 PM UTC
I’ve been told many times
Poetry is dead
Why want to be a poet?
As honored and humbled as I am
I’m here to express
I’m not a poet
I’m not a writer
I’m not a blogger
I’m not a columnist
Nor into journalism
I’m just simply
Undeniably
Expressively
Unapologetically
For better or worst
The
Messenger
Of
Love
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 5:29 AM UTC
Those days when I want to scream
all the things I’ve ever thought of you
how I love the things that you think
and how I hate those things you do
I include myself in the second
because I can’t comprehend
why I make a half decent lover
Much less,an excellent friend
your kisses, your breath, your bed.
Like the movies Mom didn’t allow
not expressively pornographic
just far too romantically avow
I lay awake in this bed of mine
I only sleep with you by my side
we’ll pull the covers over our heads
and from the world we’ll both hide
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 12:55 AM UTC
At one time the Bill of Rights excluded many.
And one was women.
In our Bill of Love it makes men mistakes up to them.
Least, mine do concerning the love of you.
Sure they wasn't explicit in their wording.
But in the Bill of Rights you were dealing with men.
Who wanted to be seen?
And of course not heard.
I think in modern time.
We still have a few of them seeking women to bow down to him.
Our Bill of Love equally states our strength to be one.
All our love is invested in one another.
Our life will be the enjoyment of freedom to enjoy it.
With the power to pursue it.
Remember, this our Bill of Love.
We can't speak for another.
What human mistakes we make?
We must clarify that error.
What pain we cause?
We must heal that situation.
What path we travel?
We must enjoy that direction.
What love we accepts?
We must hold on to forever.
It's all written in our Bill of Love.
Written expressively for us.
We have no power over one another.
Except , in truth.
When it's love.
Many women do.
So I purposely give that to you.
Happiness comes from things you create.
And we have accomplish that creation against hate.
Which will never dictate our life.
For, we love one another too much.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 8:44 AM UTC
this interactive abbreviation,
into the Most Mysterious complexities.
the Me, Myself of yourself, warrants,
demands slow inroads,
careful wording,
the clarity of unreasonable seasonal change,
as end of summer here hints unsubtly of
Major changes yet to come,
too soon, too early but soon
enough is the inevitability,
for you poetry hides nothing,
there is passion tempest that
releases lava flows, tossing,
skyward hot ashes of possibility,
your expertise is passionate devotion,
into the greatest of human mysteries,
of which, it is written, the lines of
its formation have etched curiosity
upon your figurative face, and this
scrip, writ, expressively and expressly,
even expertly, shall be our privy to
no one else, but we explorers...
need not say more, but your high
sense of intriguing, begs me to
offer me the opportunity to offer you,
the inviting risk, of ask me anything,
and you shall be received...welcomed
6:27am here, the sun is gentle climbing,
and the first poem of this day completed,
and instantly, released, and given solely,
to moi, to Me, by Me, for you...
Aug 31, 2025
Aug 31, 2025 at 5:40 PM UTC
On their faces are three hands
altogether telling the hours,
minutes and seconds that pass by
amidst this all
are your smiling eyes
expressively inviting..
from where you are and
where i am.....,
it's just a stone's throw away
i look but not look
yet i see and i desire...
you belong to someone else
but no one can stop me
from dreaming....
and in the dark solitude
of my room
i say your name with a
thousand fluttering sighs
i imagine how tightly
your gentle but sturdy arms
would hold me
i visualize your wondrous kiss
that will linger on my lips
for days and days to come....
this fascination leaves me breathless....
but i take control,
and keep it contained...
- for i know i am alone
in my feelings-
and i have no way to tell you
unless you read my
passionate words...
that your being is already
tattooed technicolorly
in my mind
and all i want is to thank you
for making this tired, old heart
beat again.......
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 1:25 AM UTC
fingers splay as if for breath
poke the other palm to
knock forth meaning
clench on fine voltage of a line
or spread wide on vexing question
then close expressively on the answer
as if locking in some cryptic metaphor
to weigh the FEEL of things
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 3:01 PM UTC
behind our mask
are priceless celebrations
and faces we carry
from the past
they mean the world to us
besides who or what
has occurred they mold us
into who we are
shimmering images
with mouths and hair and eyes
that gaze back - pondering
we grasp and resuscitate
them over and over
in open tracks
where they float by
in slow moving trains
expressively staring
with their hands and the side
of their face pressed against
the glass
uttering something
we pause to lift our head
to catch that special
glimpse again
of their beautiful
subdued expression
that fades away
into the distance
only to return cold still
at another time
and all we can do then
is look down at our hands
and notice the lines
that have become
more intense
each time
the train
goes by.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
I think that today,
we should all scream
until our lungs ache
from the distance we’ve tread
and the things that we’ve said –
anecdotes that fill our hearts with joy,
tearful stories of all of that wrongness which we’ve faced,
the lyrics caught between our ears
and have been for days and months and years,
all of those words that we’ve written
in bright fuchsia gel pen in the margins of diaries
from our awkward third grade years
that we hoped no one would ever lay eyes upon.
Scream until the last syllables
crawl up your throat in an effort to be heard.
Scream until your tongue ties itself into knots
from the exhaustion of spilling all of your secrets.
Scream until you grow weary,
but that kind of weary where
you fall asleep with a smile on your face
and a soreness in your every muscle
that means you have accomplished something.
Act like a little kid again
and chase after ice cream trucks,
shouting along to
the sticky-sweet cadence
that drips into your ears.
Or crumple into a heap,
***** laundry piled as high as
Mount Everest
on your puke-colored carpet
and
scream.
Just scream
and scream
and scream.
And when you lose your voice,
come to me
and I will make sign language jokes
into your sweaty palms,
fingers curling expressively
as your shoulders lay just a bit higher,
the scaffolding that had been holding you up
torn down joint by joint,
rod by rod;
but it didn’t hurt did it?
It felt exquisite,
like waking up on Christmas morning
to the smell of just-burnt Pillsbury cinnamon rolls
and dented, wrapping-papered packages.
Let these memories whisper through you,
not scream,
and let them carry you to sleep.
You screamed today.
Now,
you can whisper
or send back witty one-liners into my palm
without the fear of explosion.
Now you can chase ice cream trucks with jingling pockets
faster than ever
because you are so
*******
light.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 9:23 PM UTC
“Play it like music”, James said.
Slamming himself into an armchair
The boy took another ride with despair,
“He criticises everything”.
I cuddled him with my words
“It was very expressively played
I like it that way”.
All the years he had tried to please
Fitting in with people’s demands
Braving himself.
He admired his stepdad
Accepted and understood
Affection was not easily shown
By those damaged themselves.
His mother found a lover to hold her
The boy laughed thinking life a joke
Respect faded.
At least James he thought clever
A strategists, of sorts.
Peter was so loving to be flimsy
Like the soft cloth on the door.
Love Grandma xxxxx
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 10:41 AM UTC
Dark paradise, deceptively
Disguised mischievous ecstasy.
Embracing the everlasting
Smell of resin and burnt plastic.
Leisure enjoyed so splendidly.
Vapor infused serenity
Enhanced by our obscenity.
Mesmerized by our enchanting
Dark paradise.
Intoxicating felony
Of primeval amenity.
Your paranoia exhausting
My false naïve understanding.
Remember our expressively
Dark paradise.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 1:48 AM UTC