"extoll" poems
Never a word I’ve feared more.
Never needed a label for adore.
Never a word I’ve desired for.
Never needed a word to make my heart sore.
This four letter word that strikes fear.
A four letter word that I desire to hear.
This four letter word that can burn and sear.
A four letter word that’s always held dear.
What a four letter word can do to the soul.
What it can do to a heart of solid coal.
What a four letter that people extoll.
What is this L-O-V-E that we try to control?
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 9:26 AM UTC
As if ornithology was the Esperanto of poets
wishing to construct a phoneme or pheromone
to extoll the details rather than build the case.
Spinning from my orbit as you, wondering
in sparse moments cleared by rain
do birds perch along the Grand Elysee in Zaatari?
And humans, uprooted, children too knowing blood:
what mode of classification, what terms to agree on
face-to-face down those dusty avenues?
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
There was a House Speaker named Boehner
Who went forth without any honor
He did his best to hurt Obamacare
To damage the folks with no hospital care
He killed every bill that came to the House
He's sorry you'd say like the sorriest louse
Then Obama's army got ready to roll
Barach showed us methods we all could extoll
That got the people insurance at last
Poor Boehner he cried like he's done in the past
Then he fought every tax to help people on high
To get all their votes when November comes by
But there is a Father in Heaven above
Who whispered no man can win without love
Then Boehner tried suing and shamefaced us all
Voters said Boehner was losing his *****
Then he failed to effect immigration
And stifle the strongest of nations
He flunked with each program he wanted to win
Soon Boehner will be on the streets once again
So all will be well in the dear U.S.A.
There'll be no Boehner to get in the way
he...he...he
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
Whilst your Limb empowered by Time to Heal
That which your Friend noted her Plans devote:
From Annam the Gaul's Ancient War reveal
To Isles by Men for Common Tongue connote
As Best her Experience with Flights relate,
Soothe her Pleasures as yours induced on Ice
Shall your Joints move; Then take to Sky's Rebate
To free Screaming Cages from your Respite
Now this - another Phase for Life's extoll
Which thus should Widen your Circumference
To infuse Cultures your Open Arms install
Then increase your Learning and Difference.
Pray tell, your Inner Friends their Best Tales share
Spread such Values for your Tolerance care.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
For all my tales of braggery
I am the eloquent loser.
Out of thousands of choices
I will pick the ******
The liar, the layabout or thief.
Then starts my florid tales
Designed to mask my grief.
I list the virtues of the guy,
The Prince Charming I caught
And talk about his attributes
None of which he has got.
I treat him like aristocracy
Even though he never works.
My friends wonder how I can
Align myself with such a ****
So, that means more stories
To extoll his many talents
Even though he has so few
To brag about on balance.
I keep thinking my eloquence
Will overcome his character,
His many alluring facets
Or lack of which whatsoever.
It’s sad the lengths I have gone
Trying not to be so alone.
I have been accused of being
Like a dog with a favorite bone
In my attempts to justify
The awful choices I have taken.
But I don’t listen, I only talk
Any advice is all forsaken.
That’s how it goes with me
If I can explain things away,
Like Scarlett, I'll think about it
Maybe on some other day.
Maybe then I'll finally understand
Why I do what I always do.
But we eloquent losers don’t care
So very much what is true.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 6:42 PM UTC
With swishing, swaying somnolence, in eve
So slow and sound, a thought begins to stir.
A battle brews beneath the throat, but breathe
Past beating baubles, under flesh and fur
Concealed by waves and waves of reticence
The sun a blot on the horizon grey
In splendor faces glow with innocence
Though silently they scream in their dismay
Away, away, away they fall to dark
And disarray while children dream alone
They dream for shattered selves of gold, and hark!
The hammer falls upon them as t’would stone
Yet broken souls shan’t glimmer bright as whole
However well the storied tales extoll.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 8:56 AM UTC
Your beauteous archetype will never let you suffer the pain that most of us regular people face. Despite your rudeness, we will always make excuses to partake In your cuteness. You don't know how it feel to be forgotten about. Your heart never fell, in result of seeing someone who bailed holding hands with a more sightliness female. You have everyone's attention. How does pretty feel when pain is inflicted? Does pretty really hurt all along, or is that just a song? I'm venting through this poem because I can only imagine you being in my arms. The reality of you laying in my chest happily is slim to none. My confidence in myself is strong, but that only go as far as grabbing you by the arm, signaling you to come on. Utterances of "he's not where you belong". My aplomb is only dawn in comparison to his bodacious mannerism. You can't see anything wrong. But I can see it within you. Whenever I spy deeply, past your aesthetic definitive. As I forage through your lushness I stumble upon the truth. The naked truth. Fastuousness at it's best. Desolateness at it's worst. Blessed but hurt. A nest without a bird, a freeway without a curve, an intoxication without a slur, a feline with no reason to purr, a sea otter without it's fur; basically a sentence without a word. Bleak; you worship the worthless, bargain yourself to be purchased so in result you are the first resort to a man with no purpose. How does it feel to be a self-merchant? Wholesale and your clientele being boys who are uncertain. If you were interested in men he will treat you like one with the womb in the front (womb-men), no matter how feral you were you'll b like his little ****** See you are the resultant of a posture that is too potent. When you're in motion, no guy can continue with focus. You were always told how bold that you looked without any clothes, but never reminded that your mind was the only thing you have left when everything else unfold. Hopeless; desirable but the story on how to be hereafter admirable was untold. "No matter how fine the statue is, overtime it will have to erode, it's the significance in the chronicle that we will always extoll"
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 4:53 PM UTC
A spark
unspoken,
heart reserved
burns for at token
it has not yet earned.
The dove
dirtied
by the dust
starts at the sound
of us,
and goes
shooting up.
Freedom
is the fiercest passion
unfettered by reason,
it is to live
in reactions.
I touch her skin.
My fingers gently move
across her curving collarbone.
With impassioned wit
I extoll
the virtues of
unrestrained lust.
Our thoughts burn bright
pushing us on
towards a scorching light
of devious delights.
It incites chaos
bringing destruction in its wake.
Though happiness reigns
for years and days
others feel a deep pain,
feel betrayed
or grieve the loss
of those they loved
who ran off.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 10:06 AM UTC
The pulpit stone was gray and warm,
beneath the priest of fire.
Each flaming word a dread alarm -
portentious and dire.
"Your ways must change!" he did extoll
with booming voice and spittle.
"Or hell will claim your timeless soul
to dance to Satan's Fiddle!"
Some people who, enfeared, did try
to mend their sinful ways.
With hope that cleaner souls would buy
more peace at End-of-Days.
But others left the place unmoved -
they stayed the way they were.
And though their ways did not improve,
to sin was still to err.
Then years did pass; the reverend died.
So too did all his people.
That pulpit where he stood with pride
lay crumbling 'neath the steeple.
Whatever thoughts of wrong or right
lie quiet like these motes in light.
No matter what the old man said,
your life's your life, and dead is dead.
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 10:46 AM UTC
Many vaunt in the Sun,
but few dance with the Moon.
Some say, Look how I run,
Others, with the stars do I swoon.
Consoled and condemned by the affirms of their peers,
many burn and burn and burn out,
for years.
In the like, the rare, due in part
to the antiquity of their soul,
during the nightly watches of the earth,
will their hearts extoll.
And of what caliber do you yourself find?
...when you exact a look, you find your merit of what kind?
Is it of them who amass bricks, ash and dust;
or to the skies do your hands ******
Are your objects the vacuum of temporal things?
Or an allowance for thought and speech to sprout wings?
May I offer one word of request
to those who find their eyes to the ground, closest;
Look up, Look up! And see what you might behold,
by gazing past the highest heavens untold.
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 1:35 AM UTC
beyond tired,
beyond sleep,
far down the winding track
of insombulance
at the forked tongue place,
known as...
the insomniac's state.....
there is a gilded room
where poets do keep
their muses,
fair and unruly...
and those,
who think deep,
philosophical notions
and they wait,
with lethivian patience,
but little grace...
in the shadows,
...until invited,
by sleepless souls,
to share,
wine and cheese
and a word or two....
then, they muses all,
are delighted
to discuss, at length,
all manner of things....
and suggest
topics that,
need be,
revealed,
re-examined,
rewritten.
....and to talk about,
how,
to make readers,
smitten with the words,
you have enscribed,
the ideas you extault
and extoll,
the emotion you extract
from your very soul.
but when the dawn breaks
they, the muses all,
take their words
wrapped up
in scrap paper
and off to bed they crawl..
leaving you, the scribe
dark shadowed of eye
to cope with the agnst
of it all....
fickle hearted beings...
one and all....
but oh, how i crave
their company...
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC