"granduer" poems
in the un-mechanical nature of
nature's fist crashing into
mankind's attempt to stand firm against
everything we can't control
there are vigils, and there are tears,
tears in the veil that is the idea
that we are rulers of this world,
that thin, ethereal fabric of existence
that we put over our eyes to give us comfort
makes us blind to the hurricaine.
pride tells us we can let
our faces weather the acid rain,
leaving us scarred in lieu of granduer
that is no delusion.
our mother smites for insolence.
we are students never meant to be teachers.
our baby steps
and teenage mind
are going to
get us
killed.
and father time will forget us
after we are washed into the sea
that we tried to claim as our own.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
In nights of rest,
rest assured I will see you in all sunny tomorrows
So much solar power
feeds the earth,
feeds the soul,
incumbent in its given place,
We sail-pirouette around it
on a spherical hoop-dance
So volatile, a combustion hydrogen-cosmic-lantern
and a coalescing helium brew
Lash out your heated tongues
push flare waves to lick our living sphere,
concentrates on heated brows and scatters atoms and molecules
The upper push for earth-life and this mater Sun
is but a conservador wearing its blinding cosmic-girth
Made homage to, anthropomorphized in past primordial granduer, spot your ancient rays on earth's gyrating seasons,
from dawn to dusk so much the sun...
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
even in the midst of sadness
the universe gives
you cause to laugh
sitting in the park
watching a tiny Chihuahua running round frantically
marking the whole world
as his....
got to admit he has big dog
dreams......
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
there it was,
sitting in the
tiny rainbow room
of my brain,
you know,
my joy's broom closet,
just behind the third eye.
was an inkling,
it was just a little one,
of an effervescent poem,
written with the love of silly.
it was born from,
the smackerel of hunny
held so stickily in the bear's paw(maw).
the one that lives
on the corner,
and is always looking
for more
it became then,
a twinkling.
it was growing you see,
expanding in girth,
learning of mirth,
the art of the funny.
it was begining to be,
the notion of an idea,
all perpertual motion
and fuzzy with glee.
it bursts forth from,
the closet and into the
brain,
in a wizzing, fizzing, ball,
too hard to contain.
around and about,
it ricochetted.
trying to find
a small pocket,
of spared thought
in which to fit
and sit for a while,
to cogitate it's
self into an amusing,
musing,
of rude and unseemly
health.
but alas and alack,
it could find no berth
in the banality,
no perch for it's caprice.
wrinkling now,
with the loss
of it's earlier gleam,
it suffers from
a bout of hysteria
and screams in futility.
please, let me be,
a thought, complete
and in context.
let me, not suffer,
the fate of being,
just a half arsed dream.
it can see, no worse fate
for an inkling,
with some gumption.
to wither and die,
as a mere
whimsical fantasy.
with, proud and lofty thoughts, passing on by,
with not nary, a glance
in the direction,
and little to no,
compassion,
for the fate of
the poor inkling.
that once ,
had delusions of granduer.
far above, it's humble station.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 1:14 AM UTC
the day i will stop loving him
is fanciful and fictitious
he makes me melt by his complexion
his granduer beauty and alluring charm
his voice makes me euphoric--
blossoming with jubilant
fire ignites within my lungs as i catch gaze of him
fire seeths within my alabaster skin,
boring holes into the precious epidermis
the affectionate, passionate feeling i feel when i see him--
its unexplainable and inexpressible
his jade eyes are the epidemy of color
a widespread concentration of lust
his voice is the sound of angels crooning
mellifluous, harmonious, dulcet
but once that pure, divine resonate had vanished
i hear of melancholy and despair; sorrow and despondancy
him
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 9:42 PM UTC
When I write, I ********* words
same with when I paint
or sing
or speak
spurting them out, splashing your overcoat and making you pause to think
ever so briefly, in the space of the breath of a moth
and then flutter by.
Spouting feeling, as I do, is good enough for many
true! it is good enough for me to make a living
and I sell these paintings
as a ********** her body
but insisting I will be a star some day.
I can achieve that, though, only if I stop spouting
and start pushing
I want my feeling
to be a pressure washer
cutting off that suit
and wounding,
and shocking,
and caressing,
and kissing.
I want you to leave different
and to remember.
So for practice, I will spout until I sleep.
Pass a tissue, please.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
while the servants rounded up the tea
and crumpets, I studied in my library, ancient
texts by some of the lesser known poets. Of
course I read Shakespeare and Wordsworth,
Blake has crossed my way,
Keats is a mainstay.
I sat in my Tudor Mansion staring out one day
the stain glassed window
tried to find a certain book.
And it crossed my mind,
it had not been written yet.
So I took my quill out,
and scribbled this,
I just remembered it.
I wrote it back when
I was regal and renowned
throughout the valleys and hills
when I was called
LordVango!
Another life
another day
a world envisioned
a fantasy.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:54 PM UTC
5 Newest Poems By Mario Vitale :
The Chosen
in a little while
then I shall be no more
with each tender mire
leaves across the floor,
leaves out on the parlor
coffee in the frig
a box filled with chocolates
a note telling you how to live
the willingness to forgive
Patience Until Summer
we wait for the winter chill to end
falling on the arms of a faithful friend
the willingness to be no end
shadows block the memory
each step that I take
can't be retraced
a loving satin laced
perfume amidst decadance
the shallow pools resolve
The Fragrance Of The Timberwolf
occupy til I come
a blade of grass is formed
through tyrants rant of yesterday's advance
to help you get along
strong is the tongue that sets on fire a world made torn
curse the day you were actually born
the parting sky to a faint lulabye
a reprise to be learned
another page is turned
Sweet Anabele Lee
fancy and free
the way is she
my sweet Anabele Lee
her face was slim
in place of her offering
you mad a friend
in sweet Anabele Lee
she cherished a rose
that was plucked a time before
with quaint laughter to appease
start spreading its disease
through a doorway portal fill with cobblestone
she walk alone hopeful
through Lavender hue upon her brow
a sweet delicate shawl
she dances in a ring of fire
yet throws of each challenge with a shrug
Quaint Tapestry
sweet ambiance torn red
thoughts within my head
look at the story now read
your as good as dead
filter through a song of granduer
shadows block the vortex
wallow in the midnight mire
seek a gun for hire
the twist of the hand makes you understand
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
God, for me,
is a selfish thing.
I only want him there to blame,
Or to ask him for that
Which I cannot seem
To produce for myself by other means.
And yet, for me,
To disbelieve is equally
A selfish thing.
To pretend that I have come this far
Without some kind
Of Divine intervention...
How could this be,
considering
The sheer stupidity of my decisions
The risks I took
with my own wellbeing;
the utter disregard
So it is and must be
that god, for me,
Is looking out regardless.
There must be some plan
regarding me
or else I'd have been disposed of.
Does this mean
I am a chosen one?
Not just dust-
but a favorite son?
I think it must...
There's no other logical conclusion.
Dec 20, 2019
Dec 20, 2019 at 9:43 AM UTC