"gasing" poems - Hello Poetry

Waktu aku kecil Dunia adalah kubus empat belas inci Yang menayangkan gambar warna-warni Penuh imajinasi Waktu aku kecil Dunia adalah permen loli warna pelangi Merah jingga kuning hijau biru nila ungu menari Rasanya manis seperti senyum mentari Waktu aku kecil Dunia adalah bulir-bulir air hujan Yang jatuh mengaliri selokan Disambut riang tawa kawan-kawan Waktu aku kecil Dunia adalah daun-daun kering Tertiup angin ketika fajar menyingsing Lalu berputar seperti gasing Waktu aku kecil Apalah arti politik dan ekonomi Tak mengerti sengketa dan perang sana-sini Yang aku mau boneka Barbie! Sekarang.. Waktu dan Aku sudah tidak kecil lagi Waktu tambah berisi Aku bertambah tinggi Harus lalui gejolak emosi Tak bisa bicara seenak hati Harus menyadari Banyak tanggung jawab masih menanti Waktu.. maukah berputar bersamaku? Biarkan angin bertiup Kembali ke masa itu

0

Jul 17, 2013

Jul 17, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC

rayungrismay

Waktu Aku Kecil

Waktu aku kecil Dunia adalah kubus empat belas inci Yang menayangkan gambar warna-warni Penuh imajinasi Waktu aku kecil Dunia adalah permen loli warna pelangi Merah jingga kuning hijau biru nila ungu menari Rasanya manis seperti senyum mentari Waktu aku kecil Dunia adalah bulir-bulir air hujan Yang jatuh mengaliri selokan Disambut riang tawa kawan-kawan Waktu aku kecil Dunia adalah daun-daun kering Tertiup angin ketika fajar menyingsing Lalu berputar seperti gasing Waktu aku kecil Apalah arti politik dan ekonomi Tak mengerti sengketa dan perang sana-sini Yang aku mau boneka Barbie! Sekarang.. Waktu dan Aku sudah tidak kecil lagi Waktu tambah berisi Aku bertambah tinggi Harus lalui gejolak emosi Tak bisa bicara seenak hati Harus menyadari Banyak tanggung jawab masih menanti Waktu.. maukah berputar bersamaku? Biarkan angin bertiup Kembali ke masa itu

32

Tilted on this harmonic spindle Gazing up through a cellar window God and song, money for rockstar car pinto Sick kind of hint though Glimmer shrieking bravados Do tell more oh Ye heavenly staccato Brovo, to tenor gasing hopes old motto Promise always soprano in tomorrow Lack lumine mustered frustration Baritone mute sung upon this; Digital paper, fishing for vapor Continue ones lust, this to trust, and a must.

0

Apr 29, 2013

Apr 29, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC

scipio-africanus

Music as it roar

Tilted on this harmonic spindle Gazing up through a cellar window God and song, money for rockstar car pinto Sick kind of hint though Glimmer shrieking bravados Do tell more oh Ye heavenly staccato Brovo, to tenor gasing hopes old motto Promise always soprano in tomorrow Lack lumine mustered frustration Baritone mute sung upon this; Digital paper, fishing for vapor Continue ones lust, this to trust, and a must.

12

Your subjectless Objects of capital, the agency bereft GDP drones, O! America, They are spilled on the pavement, an upturned ice cream cone of discontent puddled and lackadaisical, they fester beside the hydrant. Your news agencies and malls, the damp dishrags of industry, snagged on the nail of defenselessness and exploitation, only infect the wound. Each mess of a person, walks through the sugary malaise of your suffering dragging it on to the next in communal forbearing; its contagion, its disease is so many cysts on the mind of those syrupy vacuoles for capital; the private, malignant caverns of dewy-eyed trust in humanity, insipidly drawing the rancor to a boil, without understanding a thing. You pride yourself on much, without eyes for the condition of your people, O! America. People, shackled in your jails, are so many ideas bubbling as to the cruelty of your nature punctured by the ignorance outside. Draped in your obnoxious flag, the cites are as malicious as the countryside, toward life, toward knowledge. You prop-up the price of their crops, the know-not-whys, who plunder the earth to prolong population growth and consciousness-decline. America, you eradicate discontent with cattle cars, filled with questioning life forms, gasing our minds and burning our bodies with your arrogance. Like a popcorn bag steaming in the microwave; you have been left alone too long, and have developed a flame-- an inextinguishable flame of reason. You have been disavowed too LITTLE. You must not be allowed to expand any further, lest the impoverished bag of flesh which is mankind will burst. But still you stagnate, until your violence curdles with drones and bombs patrolling our synapses. Our brains digest your violence against us and **** it out with an abused dialect of greed and hate. Then you ask us only that we eat from your refuse heap of burnt kernels from the “truth” of market economy. You taste like cancer. You rot the mouth of competent men, and satiate the anxieties of those who would turn against you-- with a refreshing ice cream cone of absentmindedness dropped on the ground and melting. But the stains you made will always taint the sidewalk of man.

0

Jun 20, 2011

Jun 20, 2011 at 12:26 AM UTC

sansara-justinovich

The Coming Summer

Your subjectless Objects of capital, the agency bereft GDP drones, O! America, They are spilled on the pavement, an upturned ice cream cone of discontent puddled and lackadaisical, they fester beside the hydrant. Your news agencies and malls, the damp dishrags of industry, snagged on the nail of defenselessness and exploitation, only infect the wound. Each mess of a person, walks through the sugary malaise of your suffering dragging it on to the next in communal forbearing; its contagion, its disease is so many cysts on the mind of those syrupy vacuoles for capital; the private, malignant caverns of dewy-eyed trust in humanity, insipidly drawing the rancor to a boil, without understanding a thing. You pride yourself on much, without eyes for the condition of your people, O! America. People, shackled in your jails, are so many ideas bubbling as to the cruelty of your nature punctured by the ignorance outside. Draped in your obnoxious flag, the cites are as malicious as the countryside, toward life, toward knowledge. You prop-up the price of their crops, the know-not-whys, who plunder the earth to prolong population growth and consciousness-decline. America, you eradicate discontent with cattle cars, filled with questioning life forms, gasing our minds and burning our bodies with your arrogance. Like a popcorn bag steaming in the microwave; you have been left alone too long, and have developed a flame-- an inextinguishable flame of reason. You have been disavowed too LITTLE. You must not be allowed to expand any further, lest the impoverished bag of flesh which is mankind will burst. But still you stagnate, until your violence curdles with drones and bombs patrolling our synapses. Our brains digest your violence against us and **** it out with an abused dialect of greed and hate. Then you ask us only that we eat from your refuse heap of burnt kernels from the “truth” of market economy. You taste like cancer. You rot the mouth of competent men, and satiate the anxieties of those who would turn against you-- with a refreshing ice cream cone of absentmindedness dropped on the ground and melting. But the stains you made will always taint the sidewalk of man.

26

he was just that a fetal pig but not the kind you dissected in high school biology he was lazy of course and how he loved his corn in his darker moments his snout....it would smolder the professors postulated that he must be off-gasing but the more cynical ones they would only mutter “i bet he’s just doing that on purpose” now the men in suits they were just plain jealous they’d posture and scheme all the better to be the one who’d get to "hunker down" with him (maybe mess with his ***** so now they’re all reading dictionaries and memorizing quadratic equations never mind the smell but the pig....he’s happy just making puddings and trying not to think about how little time is left

0

Sep 27, 2016

Sep 27, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC

daniel-schoen

the pig who joined Mensa

he was just that a fetal pig but not the kind you dissected in high school biology he was lazy of course and how he loved his corn in his darker moments his snout....it would smolder the professors postulated that he must be off-gasing but the more cynical ones they would only mutter “i bet he’s just doing that on purpose” now the men in suits they were just plain jealous they’d posture and scheme all the better to be the one who’d get to "hunker down" with him (maybe mess with his ***** so now they’re all reading dictionaries and memorizing quadratic equations never mind the smell but the pig....he’s happy just making puddings and trying not to think about how little time is left

27