"guaranteeing" poems
Can I write you a love song
I’ll sing it softy in your ear all night long
Blow gently without words on my saxophone
Diamond and Pearls behind the throne
A beautiful ensemble meant for only you
As I give credence too
Take my hand
Cross this journey with me as I sing about faraway lands
Past Egypt pyramids shifting Morocco sands
Lay back my love, allow your mind to silently drift
Feel the enchantment of my piano keys as it spiritual uplifts
I’ll sing love songs of old
A cappella chorus echoed from deep within my enlighten soul
I’ll sing to you about the blues, society’s injustice, and elements of darken storms
Keep your heart warm, while playing my French Horn
Enrapture foretold from this dedicated symphonic poem
A music sheet of percussion, woodwind, brass, keyboard, and strings
Harmony carrying the mind away as the joy of coming spring
I’ll hum your favorite beats, can you feel the crescendo now
Fiddle from the heart by the sweat of one’s brow
Submerge your cerebral cortex, lose yourself in the sultry tunes
Harp sounds bathe of light kissed from the illuminating moon
Destiny overcasts in the lyrics
Fate floating stratospheric
Karma of others handled in the eyes of satiric
Opera, I give you so grand in its grace
French Creole dialect murmured among silk and lace
Sounds of my flute resonant to face
Allowing my Cello sounds to thoroughly embrace
Can I write you a love song
Body and soul serenading soprano to keep you standing strong
My guitar stringing your philosophies along
An equal equation, one plus one equals two
Emotions, feelings, sentiments, its tenor expressed only for you
No compass to my heart, my seasonal love found in hidden melodies
Trombone guiding back and forth breathless as it please
Orchestra sounds
Ascending minds, bodies, souls, pass the opening clouds, divine and profound
The last note sung by me as we gradually come down
Beautiful music embraced, needs never to make a sound
Shh, close your eyes
Meditate on the music for a little while
Hush sweet baby don’t say a word
My heart softly tweets to a mockingbird
If that mockingbird don’t sing
Can I write you a love song created only for your being
As minds are sightseeing
Hearts fleeing
Timpani drums guaranteeing
Entwined of our divine wellbeing
Emotions freeing
Crooning of bodies heard as the day is long
Can I write you a love song
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
I dared to love my brother’s wife
And I am not in love alone.
I took her while he was at war
as I will take his throne.
True, Hamlet smote the sledded ******
And gained Denmark a prize,
But I have a poison that will freeze his blood-
guaranteeing his demise.
Gertrude, love, he left your bed
so many years ago.
Now the King lusts for younger flesh;
Look- he eyes Ophelia so.
Polonius sees and will declare
And place me on the throne
We’ll join our hands and fortunes
Before your son gets home.
My brother’s art is violence
With which he overawes the world.
I do my deeds in silence,
Deadly schemes I thus unfurl.
So, Gertrude, love, give me a kiss.
Provide me with the key.
That I, with poison, enter in
and set both of us free.
I dared to love my brother’s wife
And I am not in love alone.
I took her while he was at war
as I will take his throne
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 6:30 PM UTC
I was gonna write about how I was writing standing up like Hemingway at some bar in Key West, but instead I ended up nearly lying down, like some Roman eating grapes, and I’m not scrawling with a pen. I’m typing.
Why the standing up, Ernest? Was it to gauge how difficult it was to keep good posture? Was it to better measure how drunk you were getting?
He would have boxed me for those asking those questions, or maybe he’d just slam a few shots.
All of us Northeasterners enjoy getting drunk somewhere tropical. I never have a choice in the matter. Whether it’s Florida, South Carolina, or the South Caribbean (I've never left the Western Hemisphere), all I really like down there is beaches and seawater. Everything else gives deep cringes. Those other tourists, so annoying just to look at. Flip flops, whole families, and the god awful shops they keep open. You go to a place good for a beach, green hills, seawater, and fruit, and you want to buy diamonds? C’mon. I wish you’d want these islands to be like national parks; nature over here and cities over there. But the tourists enjoy fake grass huts that try really hard to sell them junk.
So who’s to blame for the sellers perpetuating petty sales and mediocre values? Is it the islanders that make a profit, or the buyers that want the wares? Or is there a third party guaranteeing that the buyers and sellers alike are propagandized to expect the less than fine things in life? Are the salespeople actually working the shops, the ones really getting rich from the sale?
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
*Grey billow of clouds
So hopeful these are
Filled with watery pearls
Guaranteeing remedial shower
Flashes of light
Sounds of accosting thunder
Declares to the dead world
Charging to live the real wonder
Season's first kiss
Between rain and earth
Leaves indelible petrichor
Uplifting spirits for all its worth*
Bharti
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
Bah!
Getting older *****
with all the aches and pains
and worries about growths
and tumours,
cancers and heart failure
my prostrate is fine,
thank you very much,
but can you check this mole?
this pain, this ache?
this over impending sense
of mortality knocking at the door?
the late night harrowing
discoveries guaranteeing
no sleep
until a call to the doctor,
the cutting back on everything
while increasing vitamin intake
exercise, stress free times
for self reflection
and discovery of ailments
and illnesses, inducing stress
increasing heart rate,
needing a drink to calm down
but not too much, as the liver
has already suffered enough
the days advance into night
and the night advances to day
and before you know it
it the sun sets one last time
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 12:45 AM UTC
Crackling. Rocking. Crackling. Creaking and oscillating, a century old Mahogany Wood seceded to the paSsage of time.
Particles of sand, confounded by the Peninsula’s chaotic, blasting breeze now revealed a shade of burnt tar.
Outside of the second floor Maissonette, sways the rocking chair once warmed by Grandpa.
A Tactless, impatient, rhythmic Requiem Bashes near the wiNdow pane as the sunset falls Under the frame.
Empty Folklore presides like the Residue of a once lambent effigy… SwOosh. Hush!
Cocktails were a Preamble to lunch like diabetes to Nephropathy.
Corrosive Rhetoric seeped in to expose the ego of a Sommelier.
A smile would Parachute down when you needed it like Nicotine to remind that no Precedent had been set, just an Anomaly.
Cutthroat beginnings, this was no Analog man.
In grade school his Cosmos found Zion and “The world to come”.
This baby’s Cradle, abandoned High atop a mountain was blown by a Chinook towards the Atlantic.
“I was found swallowed in a stained Table cloth by Balkan children on a treasure hunt, with no Guarantee and no resignatIon. "
The boTtle narrates these chronicles and a smile parachutes down when you need it like nicotine.
Dionysus Crafted his accounts while most Garnered his spiels with Snide. As they witnessed dream remembrance; he thought his memory was Presumably accurate, and although his tales were triFling to the gathering audience, they became his Heliocentric history.
Calling me a young Galleon and handing me a map, Grandpa scanned his hand across the vast land
guaranteeing trEasure would be found if I had no resignation.
This Asinine assertion to my teenage sister Symbolized the Barring of her unheeding imagination by time and then a smile parachuted down just when she needed it like nicotine.
_TRF
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
The devil resides in my
right arm
&
God,
my left
sometimes I wonder
what would be
left
if I decided to not take action from fear of choosing the wrong step
hell coexists in
my mind
&
Heaven,
my heart
yet I think
that’s indeed my
art
the ability to manifest the myriad of universes within me as opposing they are
nightmares dwell within
my sleep
&
Hope,
my breath
where in that
reality fosters fantastical
depth
that every intake harbours the fate my world could change for the best
My reality is torn into two by
my existence
&
Yet,
life ensures
my contradictory nature
leads to positivity
assured
a metamorphosis turning my
temptations to strength guaranteeing
ethereal horizons to be made
broad
Jun 26, 2019
Jun 26, 2019 at 10:24 AM UTC
With soggy sight and leaden heart
Path is hard to navigate
Stumbling on snakes slithering underfoot
Faltering under hefty weight
I want to feel light again
For an hour or maybe two
Since you vanished from this earth
Found floating impossible to do
Nothing hits senses like before
Shackled by all I have lost
Athough summer has graced us with warmth
Surroundings are coated with a layer of frost
Everything touched crumbles to ashes
I am terrified to move at all
If I step and the ground gives way beneath me
Will be ****** to an eternal freefall
I'm too puny to pull myself up from the dirt
Only manage to splash in the mud
Skin stretching until wounds reopen
Apologies painted in blood
An ocean of shame pours out my eyes
Salty like the sea
Taste is sour in my mouth
Wish thoughts would just let me be
I strive to stifle sorrows to no avail
With any substance fingers can find
No matter how high my body gets
Unable to detach from my mind
The pain in soul won't let me grow numb
If going to work it would have by now
Try distracting myself from the terrible truth
Second of relief more than life will allow
I cannot help but dwell on past moments
Making my head stagger and spin
Turning mistakes over and over in hands
I am consumed by agony within
I am hunted by savage animal
Known by name of regret
Haunted by ghosts all sharing your name
Guaranteeing I won't ever forget
Jun 20, 2023
Jun 20, 2023 at 2:48 PM UTC
If CNN reports there is a meteorite heading towards earth
Hurling through space
Then this is how I choose to spend the last of my days
My last moments on earth burying my face
Between your long legs - In that special sensual place
Or find comfort lost in your warm cleavage;
Perfectly formed from your voluptuous breast
That makes up cotton candy mountains upon your chest;
If this is the end
I would tilt back my head lock my eyes with yours
As I rescue my face
To come up for some much needed air
Then resume immediately after a couple of breaths
So I could comfortably vanish back into your chest;
If this is the end- then
This is how I choose to face this impending carnage
This last and most unfortunate fate
Buried between your lovely legs or taking refuge submerged in your cleavage
Considering myself to be the luckiest of hostage;
Who s struck with a mild case of the Stockholm syndrome(you see)
Even in the face, of such a great threat, guaranteeing certain death
But yet - feeling completely safe, enjoying the way you taste
Listening to your heartbeat- I am both lost and found in your gaze
Then forgetting this fate - I marvel at your god given grace
Looking forward to the end
I rest my hopes my dreams my secrets upon your cleavage
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 11:47 AM UTC
The siren.
Inviting,
Promising.
Ensuring happiness.
Guaranteeing joy.
Not until she traps you do you wish escape.
Not from what she promised, but from the pain she brought you.
But you've made a home for yourself here.
You've gotten comfortable in the habits she's given you.
But every time she comes to visit, something in your gut screams at you to escape.
No, literally. Your gut. Your stomach. Your intestines.
Your entire body becomes exhausted from chasing her promises.
Now, you've forgotten who you were before she trapped you.
You try and try for what feels like years to escape.
And finally you succeed.
You've successfully escaped the place you call home.
After time and time of being lured back to home, I've come to learn this sirens name.
She is what she does to people. To me.
Forces me to control what I eat.
Makes me second guess myself.
Track everything I eat and drink.
Make me guilty for eating something she doesn't like.
I won't bore you with more boringly grim details, just know,
She has sisters.
Please, don't make the mistake of trusting their promises.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 12:13 AM UTC
runnerman from responsibility
over the seas swim undone,
walk on water pretend saint,
don't deny culpability,
no using can't, weighted, ain't,
*but never say
words failed me*
liar on fire, name names,
name yourself
before the board of inquiry
first among sinners,
ain't you weakly proud, yet,
don't deny responsibility,
*but never say
words failed me*
pathway thru the kingdom of men
to reach the ways of heaven,
looking for excuses, indifferent,
look for reasons, insufficient,
looking for travel guides
guaranteeing a good time had
bye, bye all
*but never say
words failed me*
your body may fly away,
or just deteriorate,
so many choices to
drown yourself in sin,
paper, rock, scissors,
or just a handy mirror
*but never say
words failed me*
words alone,
true words,
words only,
of others,
your own,
can save you
when you are about to
fail yourself
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
Eli tended toward mothering his louche
friends, not that he was any better. He
had a bank account that never tapped out
& his pals were so low rent no one ever
saw any money; worthless rubles & rupees
or priceless dollars & Euros. He had a
name that was as good as a meme. Eli
Simple. The leading blue-chip painter of
his 'generation', a somewhat elastic
designation.
Eli had no 'generation'. Ivan & Igor
had busted out of the confines of mere
State censorship by publishing nothing
or producing the cheapest squalor. They'd
made a fortune. [ZOZO] One way or
another either Ivan or Igor are related
to Eli, whose fortune was made on the
auction house circuit; priced as invaluable,
Eli Simple's work stood beside such esoteric
notaries as David Hockney, Francis Bacon,
& Jean Michel Basquiet; He could get any
price he asked for anything whatsoever, his
imprimatur guaranteeing a fortune. Gold-
diggers were not Eli's type. He liked women
who had nothing & could care less. That was
their charm. A female body was enough
of a chore. He'd been raised Mennonite &
always hungered for more. He'd made it to
the top on Wall Street, Fifth Avenue & Holly
wood
w/out breaking stride & w/ only minor setbacks
that seemed enormous at the time. Accused of
murdering an A-lister's father dampened his
popularity but not his budget. He was huge in
Europe & Asia; a bankable Blockbuster. In
America no one cared about Art w/ the Royal
Capital 'A'. He had never had an American
retrospective, never even been offered one.
That got Eli's goat just than & furious, he
attacked the girl. Then he called his dealer.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 6:29 PM UTC
They came again, last night – those women in black suit contrasting the sheet on my back.
One of them was holding a tray; the other was pushing a cart. All in all there were three women, one with a tray and one with a cart. The sight of the clattered metal made me shudder; the coldness crawled from my neck down to my spine. It was rusty and ****** and somber in that dimness of the endless corridor outside.
I, however, cannot tell those things inside the cart. I wouldn’t want to. No one will believe me. If I do so, they will hurl me in that room then wrap a cold, unfeeling machine round my head and fire indiscriminate gunshots. No. I will not. I cannot. They wouldn’t believe me. They will chain me, call me mad and electrify me while guaranteeing nonsense.
But it happened, really. It happened. They pushed my blanket down and my robe up, its edge touching the base of my chin. And it was very cold, and very rough, and very sharp, that metal the woman dragged on my chest, on my skin.
*It was very rough.
And very cold.
And very sharp.*
And she was too strong, the other woman in black. Her left hand covering my mouth I could barely breathe, her right keeping my arms at bay while she dragged the metal on my chest, creating this curve and that slice.
And my skin burned that kind of thin burning consuming not just a tree but the entire forest with all its silent secrets.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 9:51 AM UTC
I have so much to give and so much ahead of me but I don’t know how to use it.
How do I know what’s right with failure calling my name out to quit.
So much greed and conniving dolts of beings.
When will they awaken from their chimera?
When you can’t keep their guaranteeing
But the only lucidity is their hysteria
How can we forget all hatred when it’s so salient?
They know nothing of adoration and eminence
Amusing how minds think so adolescent
I’ll take the ravine ones find umbrage
And sprout through the cracks as a flower
Out through earths rusted cage
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 4:10 AM UTC
One day your name will be etched across my chest
Each letter imprinting itself on my beating heart
A murmur will float from one vein to the next
Urging my crimson blood to paint it like a piece of art.
It will spread through my body like a wildfire
And every cell will whisper of its sweet beauty
I will discover it's complexities and fulfill my desires
To know it in its purest form will be my only duty.
As it gradually makes its way into my soul I am compelled to smile
For I feel love blooming like a rose from the essence of my being.
And I've kept it in my thoughts for more than just a while,
Because having you in my life is the only thing worth guaranteeing
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 11:21 PM UTC
A Way To Cope
A hidden world, like a heart's inner word
it cannot be seen, nor can it be heard
everyday of your life, it exists
you try to resist, but it persists
Just as thoughts control one's mind
so too, the will power where one can find
a way to cope, or at least to unwind
from troubles and fears that do so bind
Fear restricts freedom, your mind to explore
it is forcing your happiness into a detour
left is desire to find this calm, and be content
better than suffering, with fear to vent
There is no escape, you feel like you're bait
only time now stands, between you and your fate
no respite, whatever you might endeavor to do
knowing those worries, nevertheless, will continue
It plagues your mind, and plagues your soul
hearing inner voices saying, "I told you so"
so once again, withdrawing from that chase
retreating yourself, to your secret hiding place
That place of comfort, and place of security
a location guaranteeing you, your obscurity
time has taught you, you have fine tuned
this is your way, to heal your own wound
Overcoming fear is the only way
it requires patience to wait that day
thinking you can rely, to yourself do you obey
but with time, once again you do go astray
To regain control, of your inner world of fears
you need a friend, with whom to share those tears
someone who has been tested, someone to confide
allowing you to open up, and to no longer hide
A friend who listens, allowing you to mend
on a special someone, whom you've come to depend
that beautiful soul, she alone with her tears
knows that secret, to remove those fears
Your friend for the duration, till the very end
she is not into gossip, nor does she pretend
a ***** soul mate, destroying your world of fears
giving you a listening ear, and her heart that cares
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 7:15 AM UTC
Unprovide my mind, please.
Lest I care about matters of the flesh.
Listen to my expostulation,
as I am prostrate bowed.
I do not want exoneration,
for lust stains will remain
but I can no longer stand
the tenacity of it.
For it no longer can command
in guaranteeing its veracity.
So I long for someone to fetch
this excellent wretch from me.
The inner dome of Heaven has fallen
and with it, this wicked thing's ethereal appearence.
Revealing the venereal act planned from the begining.
I run far and hide from Daystar.
No longer enamored with its lustful glamour.
I wish for its allure to be nullified
and so it may unprovide my mind.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
My best-ever fortune cookie contained a variant
of Feynman’s maxim:
“The work will teach you how to do it.”
<|>
*not yet noon on New Year’s Day,
the new words search begins croakingly,
then stumble upon a philosophical notional,
celebrating messy processes, equating to outcome,
robbing me of my lazy-all-in-NY Day-no-work-ethics
many a-poem writ, more half-baked, on shelf resting,
but the pointillist theoretical, paint by point, insists:
a clean year is a clean canvas deserving, so wade
in the water of frozen creeks silencing gurgles,
catch and release, a natural new work now!
an admonishment most personal, for the
production of poems has dimmed, excuses,
plentiful but it seemed my harshest critic, MM&I,^
never provide an editor’s sign off, these pieces of me,
pass their date of expiration, & will then, my own passing*
***the work teaches how
but never guaranteeing good enough***
1/1/22 4:46PM
^Me, Myself, & I
Jan 4, 2022
Jan 4, 2022 at 12:57 PM UTC
This poet decided against
becoming a measly minced meaty morsel
undetected inauspicious augury
assigning adept
aqueous ace AOL amphibian,
who surreptitiously crept
to the secret crypt (guarded by
foo fighters and amazing dragons)
said gendarmes did except
special fluid scrip as egress into
heavily fortified
(with USDA recommended allowance),
thus when the configurative motley crue
including thyself (a bono fied doo
bee brother - long given up for lost,
which "FAKE" oracle
misinterpreted by a goo goo
doll, and cross dresser named Hugh
played being took a vow el,
and hence consonantly knew
all along, i dwelt peacefully
in a soundcloud loo
immensely spacious with ooh
dills of survival trappings
purchased from Peru
laborers treated by free pact
guaranteeing a socially
conscious shopper to rue
painstaking indigenous stoop labor,
now stamped imprimatur could allow,
enable and provide means to shoe
each formerly eczema dappled,
cracked bare foot
ah, a glimmer of hopefulness
(upon this crowded house of a planet) view
which youtube snapchat ting
reddit as joyous outlook
sans linkedin shutterfly,
twitter ring tender flickr ring shoots
communicated an instagram message
of hopefulness kickstarting optimism
versus the initial thread of this poem,
which to set this got off track
(hinting at goal to be
a paperback book writer wannabe)
rather than ending up as a byte size snack
for a limbering beast, into whose tumblr
of one jagged razor sharp teeth
like daggers lined up along a rack
of reinforced steel maw,
which bang for the bite did pack
leaves no room for bing a survivor
as fierce jaws clamp down
worse than getting steam rolled by a mack
truck, but subjected to thee yield,
whence thousands of pounds
per square inch of pressure
on par lambasted from Donald Trump flack.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
Despite being atheist,
with serpent teen eyes,
I would nonetheless bet
Eve fen number guys
named Adam, or gals noel lies
(christened) dollars to donuts
(Dunkin and/or otherwise)
Jesus would be mighty pleased
to know, his sir name
linkedin with commercial ties,
no matter, he might not garner rise
zen percentage of profits, no matter spies
infiltrate competition especially if he
unwittingly gets trampled and cries
amidst chaos (think euthanize)
untimely death by madding wise
flash mob crowd source realize
last seconds rushing to snap up
latest jamb door prize
as venders resort to all
manner of (subliminally
manipulative) marketing techniques
to lure patrons, (especially
photo opportunities with
one of the many
"FAKE" donned Santa
Claus), the latter,
who would lionize
their son(s) and/or apprise
daughter(s), subsequently
guaranteeing, nailing crosswise,
and clinching safeguards exercise
immunization against the Grinch
sure fire way to manure er... fertilize
guarantee future generations rise
zing will become avid consumers,
who reverently, obsequiously,
and devoutly idolize
supporting the apostles who revolutionize
creative commercialization to capitalize
nearly every Cyber Monday
occasion to finalize
(all sales) pennies on the dollar,
where merchants feign
going for broke, and capitalize
eulogize, and idealize
the mighty buck staging "FAKE"
news worthy shoppers to burst into tears
crying on command,
and all manner of pathos
pulling ploys nsync king
"shameful guilt" that squares
with being ostracized,
hash-tagged, and demonized Scrooge.
Dec 14, 2019
Dec 14, 2019 at 1:14 AM UTC
Lost on the rutted road to nowhere-
Bumper to bumper in traffic
That creeps along at a pace
Guaranteeing poor mileage
And overheated engines.
What difference does it make-
I don’t know where I’m going
Or care if I ever arrive.
There’s nothing for me at the turnoff
But another unmarked highway.
I had a road map once,
All marked with good directions
But I left it in a restroom
When I washed my hands
And saw a stranger in the glass
And listened to his tales of shortcuts
Promising to bring me home
To hearth fires burning
Warm with dinner in the oven
And two arms stretching out to me.
Silly, foolish, stupid me-
Hungering for meals not offered-
Rushing places I’m not wanted-
Giving things nobody takes
And getting empty boxes in return .
ljm
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 11:06 AM UTC
Oh love,why is this so sad?
Every time you turn your back,
Feels like I’m in the dark.
Oh love, why it breaks so bad?
I’m waiting along the isle,
Where there’s no light in the sky.
Oh love, why we fell so hard?
I wonder how this is like,
When you go with another one.
Oh love, why can’t you open up the card?
I wrote my whole heart,
When you just tore it apart.
Oh love, why do you have to say goodbye?
I gave you my life,
And you left without guaranteeing you’d be returning back.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 12:32 AM UTC
This insidious slithering being
rises inside of me guaranteeing
to extinguish the light that was once inside
and leave a hole where my soul no longer resides.
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 1:39 PM UTC