"gamut" poems
Some are born balanced
On a precipice and remain
Tethered for the rest of their days
Overlooking barely there
Mental images
Fragments of a lucid dream
Of a conjured up past life
Once etched on skin
But no longer there
They speak of
Violent reinvention
And escape
While the hollow speaks
And catapults into spaces
Better left unknown
Psyches wrapped in denial
Running the gamut of habitual sins
Perpetuating legacies of pain
With hands that carry
The burdens of forefathers
Tiptoeing
In the twilight of dreams
Willing for the heavens
To send a spring that blooms
Hearts whose pounding
Reverberates endlessly
inside of ears
Eyes that get darker as they close
Meet with ours
A look
A sigh
Ascertaining a mutual recognition
Of the familiar
Shadows that plague.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
Longing to abscond with time
Run away to breathe and live
Looking for truth beyond the horizon
Restless soul breaking free
This heart wants to settle
For it’s run an emotional gamut
Tattered, worn out like old shoes
Quietly ticking, limping along
Then, like electrical therapy
You ignited a spark deep inside
Blood flows with purpose
Deliberate beating with resilience
It keeps on running
For you
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
It's hard to extol the merits of mankind
and to lavish excessive praise is insane;
recognize the gamut of vain emotion
and treatment of our brothers that's inhumane.
The natural nature of man is hardly good -
Proof is found in our vocabulary;
despite incredible accomplishments of this world,
poor relationships of man to extremes are still carried.
Our literature and news is littered
with ugly views of crime and hate.
For brief review of the damage perpetuated,
let's take time to reiterate.
There's slavery, ****** ****** torture,
greed, **** hatred, genocide, racism,
bigotry, fear, starvation, thievery,
lasciviousness and terrorism.
Uncaring predators have always existed,
unable to overcome the evil within.
Such conditions show our need for a loving God,
to triumph over the presence and affects of sin.
Author Note:
From my book: Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory
The ISBN is: 1-4196-5051-3
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 11:32 AM UTC
****** empowers those who flaunt
the shape imbued by deity
by wide degree that willingness
to express beauty’s form
empowerment becomes the goal
once a choice is expressed
by displaying more or less
skin’s gamut is then blessed
divestment of draped attire
spans the spectrum from slight to all
whether the ankle only shows
or lack of raiment is complete
that span is chosen by the self
society is asked to stand mute
don't suggest what should be
except to honor certitude
the superficial or complete
exhibition is the private trek
played out in public without remorse
rejoice for those who made their choice
skin as sanction to celebrate
costumes bent to serve a will
no longer hiding the natural
****** displaying love of self.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180907.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC
Laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous hypotaxis apomixis strive
Rainbow mare aura roan exude emote derive
Syntactical propinquity habitation harbinger harangue stoic hive
Colloquialism vernaculars prurient adage jargon idiom clichés jive
Mirador bartizan panorama stalwart bastion bulwark tableau live
Canny cleaver crafty cunning furtive sneaky stealthy connive
Poignant cogent piquant ephemeral effulgence temporal refraction arrive
Paradoxical dichotomy greaves gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts survive
Hectic mayhem , proximity parameter perimeter peripherals , annihilate rive
Zingy zesty zany zenithal azimuth entity zeal alive
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
lost in the garden
of beautiful flowers
rising to meet the dawn chorus
the tides of reason
and synchronised breathing
devoid of reason
no need for meaning
senses linger
the emotions are porous
like monsoon raindrops
clad in storm cloud towers
she mirrors in reflections
of her milky white skin
and the amorous eyes
and Loki's broad grin
lead the Viking
to the valley of shadow
the heaving breast
of the raven haired siren
sheathed in wanton desires
the beckoning of lust
and the follies of jest
the arcane pleasures of sin
pressed ****** to ******
upon his battle torn chest
leaves little to the imagination
the ravages of the beast within
graced with the fingertips
of a females caress
lest it not be forgotten
amid the gamut of time
and the crimson red lips
dripping with the juices
of the ***** of her King.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
Water of remembrance sprinkled
On the mountain crest of recollection.
Indulgent mussy memory catapulted
Stones of retentiveness into the
Courtyard of events like bricole
Of battles.
Pendulum of reminiscences swinging
On oscillating milage of roads like
Trotting horse with drippage of sweat
And itching foots.
Ghost of reminiscences restlessly
Roaming with carriage of yesteryear.
Final year educatees required
Boardinghouse,
But list of items engorged dear
Mother's treasury
"where do l raise money
to buy oyinbo mattress, Ilori?"
Mind pullulated with weariness.
Intonation of worries.
Cantillation of wants.
Deficiency of measured means.
Oyinbo mattress beyond ladder
Of reach.
Gluttonously waiting to devour
Lesser items,
But rays of compulsion unslammed
The gate of respite.
Lordly arrival warmly welcomed by
The dorm room's porter,
Walking majestically to the bed-space
With the acquired cotton wool and raffia leaves mattress.
Gamut of items passed through the eagle's eyes of the housemaster.
Silver painted pail donated by a neighbour passed through the sentry of inspection,
And got its admission.
Mother's used cloak turned bedsheets
Passed through the rigorous scrutiny.
Newly built portmanteau unlocked and neatly dissected, item by item.
Agazed eyes focused on the cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress.
Expectations rattled mumbling astonishment.
Legs stuck in the mud of mystification.
Telepathic dews covered ocean of thought.
Tranquil silence engulfed vicinity,
Deflating the balloon of hope like a litigant awaiting verdict from the jurist's chambers.
Porter's gesticulating gesture connoted nothingness of demeaning disapproval, perambulating on the hilly terrain of approval.
Akimbo stood l.
Now the verdict!
Molten volcanic magisterial command erupted in a gestapo gesture,
Spudding out from the barytone's baritone voice from the selfsame housemaster,
From the bastion of authority,
And the house generalissimo like a wild brant squalled, matter-of-factly,
"we do not accept bed bugs cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress here".
Entreaties collapsed.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 1:30 AM UTC
There are many of them --
Life as it happens gets recorded
in my hard disc of a brain
(I'm always in 'save by default' mode) --
some are like
harmless, even pleasant, butterflies
some like
stinging bees
I store them all
in cages
in the posterior of my mind
even as the Present engages me
I often catch snatches of
sounds of buzzing,
or, of the flutter of wings
never allowing myself
to get a full blast of them
(I don't usually dwell in the past, you see, it's the future that causes worry)
except in occasional moments
of mental peace
when I let the cages open
and they swarm into my head -
the bees and butterflies -
diffusing colour
into my monochrome mind
making every bit of it
bloom alive --
it's like listening to old cassettes
you know
dusty, old cassettes that were lying
in some drawer, locked away;
like turning the pages of a novel
read long ago,
getting re-introduced to its characters --
and a gamut of feelings
rushes through you...
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 9:46 AM UTC
thus do learn how to tolerate
the blow of wings
of the most inflammable flesh
after the successful sacrifice of the student-hostel
jumping into the peacock-foams
how dangerously is changing the total travel-route of the nail-polish
in the high tide of the coconut-kernel
that conquers the world
today the water-pigeon gets pain
only by the flute made of palm-leaf
can’t be written the pleasure-trip in boat
of the injured-knee night-queen that is deposited heavily
on the collar of the village-moonlight
even-then the gramophone would be playing on
even-then the courageous pheasant would proceed further
to throw towards the squirrel a dinner-sleep
then all the daughters in disguise of birds certainly
may come out from within the salted mosquito-net
burning open-ground in their eyes
even after
the small boats of the fig leaves
would slip from the chorus song
of the roses
then they are to be pulled forward to the river-bed
of the late afternoon
to make them understand again
that such Xerox-centre which can ignore its metallic-birth
does not grow even now on either side of this muddy road
so look at to see how the epenthesis
of the screwpine-leaf withdraws her beak from the old dome
and pours
all new mathematics
into the compact-disc stitched with the back of the sea-tortoise
if that’s not real
how in the left and right
such evil-company of the oxygen would creep
if the next part of this commentary
resumes from the umbilicus cavity of the x-mass
would the blood-sugar of the water-plankton be rising continuously
look there again
the feather of colour that is in her adolescence
touches the cold magnet of her gamut
to disperse the cherry orchards
now if the doors of this brown triangle be got open
you can see on the screen one by one
the projection of the apex-points of the red-palash
and in the night-texture of the kathakali-kathak
they are supplying continuously
small sun-shines in poly-packs
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 5:34 PM UTC
An occasional gust of wind will lift the translucent white voile curtains and then drop them like a child losing interest. The effect is like flash photography, a burst of sudden sunlight that paints our irises, then quickly fades.
It’s a cool Paris morning. In the low 50s. The windows are open and we forgot to turn on the heat. It’s perfect ‘under the covers’ weather. We’ve succumbed to laziness, refusing to get out of bed. Lazing-in is new enough to us that we’re defining it with a gamut of synonyms.
“Listlessness, torpor,” Peter says, his index finger tracking the slow twirl of the ceiling fan.
“Stupor, slumberous, supineness, ” I updog.
“Ooh! total submissiveness,” Peter said, drawing the last word out like it’s *****
“Every man’s dream,” I confirm.
“Inertia,” he says, triumphant in finding an engineering word.
“Good one,” I compliment. “Lifeless, loafing laggard,” I add.
There’s a knock at the door.
We look at each other guiltily, like we’ve been caught.
“We ordered breakfast last night,” Peter remembers.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, “you get it,” I suggested.
“Why me?” he whined.
“Because you can wear less and because what if it’s an ax murderer?”
“These people work for your grandmother, she employs ax murderers?”
“It could be a revolution - this is France - it happens.”
There’s another knock.
“Get it!,” I bleated, like a helpless goat.
“Am I expendable?” he asked, as a man might plead to a lynch mob.
“Women and children first,” I remind him.
There’s a third knock.
“Ok,” he says resignedly, as he rises, draws on shorts and heads for the door.
“You’re my hero,” I assure him, before I pull the sheet up over my head in case it IS an ax murderer.
Jun 3, 2023
Jun 3, 2023 at 9:06 AM UTC
Prerogative presumptive judicature, cantankerous cantilever capacity. Paradoxical dichotomy greaves, gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts, asymmetrical symmetry. Objectified manifest's dimensional delineation, intrinsic endemic innate opaque opulence. Protractive analyses accidence ambience acoustics. Spatiotemporal telemetry tactician's trajectory extant.
Prophylaxis protocol annex annul. Kinesiology kleptomaniac extraversion embezzlement euthanasia extortion, embark embargo extradition. Aura roan's rainbow mare's nimbus nimiety exorcism. Corporeally preternatural's existential exigence exodus. Cerebral cortex's ****** matrix's carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma, apex axis crux, exponentially extemporaneous manumission. Categorical imperative hubris, hectic duty deontological probity.
Astral projection's clairaudience clairvoyance. Tenets and principles, maxims and axioms, and doctrinal mandates. Exserted protuberance's edifice ******** Exotically ****** ethereally sublime xylem Xanadu sails. Erotica erectile errantry.
Fulham nuance ***** Formidable foundry of a foyer fracas. Harpy harsh hast, atrium attrition seditious. Oak tree ****** nails swarthy ******** swath swizzles and unicorn railway sails. Anchor pin tachometer troll wood harlotry's root clod rudiments, lightning bow hat pick. Transcendent nimbus nimiety exorcist. Transpicuous translucence alluvium aloof impunity.
Feb 21, 2021
Feb 21, 2021 at 10:07 PM UTC
Pretentious smile,
I wish I could drown myself to sleep for a while.
Silver jubilee ringing,
yet afraid of the dark.
When the night haunts and loneliness arrives,
I'd still cowered in terror, hidden under the blanket
Like a broken mirror with shattered glass,
All the gamut of emotion laid scattered with each passing memories and bygone days.
"Don't you dare to speak.
Don't you dare to rebel.
Don't you dare to resist."
Else the shame and label of Traitor would be hung on your image for decades to come.
I Spoke, I Resist, I disobeyed
Not in the eyes of God
But in the eyes of men and women who couldn't find flaws in their own life.
And finally rejoiced to embrace the black dot in the perfect delusional world of normalcy.
Jun 7, 2019
Jun 7, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC
*A gamut of of tears
Surrounds our life
It hovers around us
All the time.*
The tears of joy
Jump out
When we laugh
For a good reason
When our lips
Refused to take time off
And make a grip
On the opposite corner of your face,
Because someone has made you laugh
And has forever traced
The happiness in your heart.
The tears of pain
When you get hurt
And you tried a lot in vain
To be careful not to get bruises
But it hurts you so much
That your world fuses
Like a worn out bulb.
The tears of sadness
Blurring your vision
Taking you to a wrong path
And your mind has envisioned
That your life does not exist anymore
That you are not important
And you abhor
That you're still living.
Tears of death,
A complete mixture
Of sadness and joy
When your thoughts admixture
All your moments you enjoyed
With all the other moments
That a life could have.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 9:33 AM UTC
I see unsolved puzzles
Of broken bricks and bones
Creating shadows, within us
Every step I move towards you
I find myself distant from truth
Then I reach this place
Only to find myself under the sun
But here unlike elsewhere,
The light defines,
Contours of darkness
I confide in this darkness,
What I couldn’t tell you
For I was always condemned
I feel loved in this solitude
I sit by the river and see stones shaping
Just like, my muppet mind
I feel the bliss, I feel life
From my experiences
Running the gamut from mountains to ponds,
I burn those puppets of papers
I say hello to the world
For there is no one to listen
But the trees and the wild...
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
Vicinit vicinit the gamut go round
Progenies excogitate faster
Ode to no eminent thing
We all morph into matter.
The atramentous inky and blackest dense;
sprints and weaves in and out.
Tenuring twains over head, under toe;
Absconding ways in which we've never known
A paramounted heretic defeat.
Darkness that foliole footprints sooted deep;
Seeping stenches of fowl un-scented reminiscent in attire of the welkin;
Vastly sly making a skullduggery indent.
CR2X let us pseudonym by hex.
"No nomen no nomen for I matter dark"
"Matronymic nix hold's my fine lark"
"Nongermane logics are behind you and left"
"I am not your scientific pet"
Not a test, nix preliminaries"
Matter of all is of all existing quarries"
Spoken gallant and wise
Need not ever a compromise
"Matter dark matter dark it is you we embark!"
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 2:18 PM UTC
An aesthetic storm settled in the
wee hours of creation.
What of it strikes favor or disfavor?
Beauty's immediacy comes with
fatalistic sweep--demanding
principle, demanding ground.
Unveiled beyond time constraint
all over our world--in praise, in
revulsion, eyes score the gamut.
As if image begs love, to be so...
or unrequited.
What's plain of light exposes all
flaw or beauty in a single sitting.
The sitters vary the material world,
with eyes creation asks us to paint
what we see.
The eyes paint the sitter if the sitter
be deemed beautiful, instantaneously
sight's canvas may be left cold...
burdened.
Beauty aspires to affirmation of being,
to have it echoed.
Beauty's lain raw, holds what's held it--
as such...desolation is easy.
Eyes bespeak their volumes...beautiful
or ugly?
A sightly, unsightly moment given to the perpetual.
Epidemic pageantry--ordered by creation
make due...irregardless.
If beauty--eyes are for you--if ugly...eyes
are not.
Thus...of being, of affirmation, of visible,
of invisible--you...beauty are.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
imagine
you: fire
and me: arsonist
i mean,
i think you're hot.
i mean,
i know how to get you going,
but i would never claim to be the boss of you,
i mean,
i marvel at your power.
i mean,
i don't mind if you scorch my eyebrows,
i wanna smell you when i take my hair down.
sometimes,
we bring out the worst in each other,
i mean,
always,
we bring out the most in each other.
we run the gamut from
criminals
to revolutionaries
but we are best
when we are both.
imagine
me: ice cream,
and you: spoon,
i mean i wanna fill you up,
i mean you make me melt,
i mean
sometimes the sweet things
are simple.
imagine me museum,
all history and velvet ropes,
imagine you scholar,
head full of context and hands in your pockets,
harmonious reciprocity.
imagine this a love song,
me Billy Joel
and you,
Uptown Girl,
imagine the miles stretched out between us crumpled away like two ends of a paper ball,
imagine you road trip
and me apology
imagine us
in some hot town that knows us,
with hair that smells like smoke and matches in our pockets.
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 9:57 AM UTC
It’s imposable to comprehend,
The Gamut of anything,
But I believe, with art,
We can at least begin.
http://tansyroake.weebly.com/
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 5:26 AM UTC
the stories of women you write sonnets upon , or the ones on caricatures
i consume.
they're all fiction to me.
for the women i know are all looking out the window, wandering into endless abyss.
or waiting on tiptoes - to be tied down
in the bonds of 'holy' matrimony.
when they were young,
living on dictums of
father and brothers was an
unspoken, but frequently
enforced trend.
now no longer lean saplings, (who could be stomped upon with ease)
but sprawling, majestic trees
with branches chartering territories
that remain forbidden for the tree.
their offshoots
are sheared (for they can't be crushed with ease)
in the name of honour.
to ebb out all the figments of
rebellion, the tree
might hold in it's gamut.
still tamed in the garden,
a new gardener comes in place.
a slightly younger one, who
comes with his own tenets.
restraining her with a
strap, in the name of modesty.
he satiates himself by strangling
last shreds of revolt
her father couldn't slay.
the woman is caged in bars of shame,
all in the name of honour.
yet again.
why is it that the women i know only lessen with age?
but the men smirk upon,only inflating their slyness. as the years grow on them.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 6:12 AM UTC
* * *
I just want to fall from the heavens into your heart
rush through you like a torrid river and wash you clean
I want to get lost amongst the dream stars in your eyes
seep into you and become one glorious love
and passionately explode our happiness upon the gamut
of all creation and lustily devour all that is in being.
***
Folder: beauty in the tip of my inked tongue
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 6:37 AM UTC
Burned out Star Child
Born again a black hole
Injected arms race for ignorance
Fighting back bliss
Track marks the X
Centered on infinite loops of addiction
It's time to battle them off
self-ignite illumination
run out the gamut
right into the gauntlet
A new discipline
in dreams of being dominated
Where the moon maps out the sky
Submission to a new archetype.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 9:03 PM UTC
Lay it out for all of us to see.
Make amends, i need you right beside me.
I promise out of fear comes courage.
So come, devoid of any languish moments
Gold is the void
Infinity is a grip,
power is a play,
made for all of us to slip.
Everything fades, nothing will ever sit
so free yourself from any gamut
that'll make your heart quit.
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 10:48 PM UTC
His eyes might as well be vines.
Such a variety, they reach out to ensnare me—
in different shades of jade
that always stem from his soul.
They reach for radiance and reason,
and instead they find me,
struck in the beauty that is him.
You might think me stupid,
but his soul is much more dangerous
than the gamut of light that hides it.
The gold sheds clarity on hidden things,
like dust particles, stricken on a bright day.
They ignite my world when I can’t see,
and moreover, they blind me when I can.
Is it funny to say that I
saw the shades of myself in his gaze?
For a moment I was captured,
and I wanted nothing more than another glance from him,
knowing full well it'd send me to an early grave.
But he was more startled than I,
though I could scarcely tell.
Precision became dazed.
The windows shut, the jungle wilted,
and I was left forgotten,
stuck and eyeless,
in the remnants I dared to call love.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 8:46 PM UTC
I see you there in the corner
Your voice trembling with fear
And I see you there on the pedestal
Your fist raised high in your patriotic fervor
I see you there in the church
Your body tense, in frustration, at the failure of your coin operated god
I see you there in the gutters
Clutching your alcoholic life preserver
I see you there on the battlefield
Leading the forces of Armageddon to victory
And I see you there
In a hospital bed
Old, weak, and impotent
Yes, I see you dying
I see you there, having achieved your ultimate goal
Fulfilling your emptiness
And I see you there
Under the brightly painted jackboots
I see you there lighting righteous fires from your state of perdition
And I see you, unconquerable
In exquisite defiance
As a burning testament to the strength of your revolution
I see you at both ends of the gamut
In strength and weakness
Sickness and health
Oppressed, Oppressor, and free man
And I wonder how I
In my alien skin
Could walk among you
Breathe your air, and bleed your blood
But I know that I cannot
So I watch as I have for ages
Your beautiful drama
And dream of the day you will reach out to me
Jun 9, 2011
Jun 9, 2011 at 6:45 PM UTC
Near death stories
Are not death tales.
The widow's daughter,
In Nairn, to whom
Did she speak?
In Bethany,
Near Galilee,
Where Lazarus
Learned to talk,
Who asked him
On his walk,
With his dog on a
Sunday afternoon?
Jarius' daughter
Would like to offer
A quote and goat
At the altar
Of atonement.
She was never asked,
So she never spoke.
The scribes never scribbled
To answer the riddle;
They never went to press
With the Extra Big Scoop
On life after death
From the three
Who knew best.
Never recorded for all time.
Never a word from their minds.
Would they tell of a
Long lit tunnel
Lined with familiars
Slapping their astral *****
As they ran the gamut
Into eternity.
Nearing the Eternal Throne,
They hear:
It's not your time.
Go back for more.
Keep the secrets,
Believe in Him,
For he won't
Live to be thirty-four.
And so it's not written,
Let it be so.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC