"illusionists" poems
The gentle tone of her teaching,
In wonderous melodies, orchestral knowledge from a sweet teacher,
Education set by the awareness of harmonizing, delicate instruments,
Wisdom and foresight, cast by no other judgement but of a conductor,
Whomst hand leads to the ups and downs of the intensity, recognised
Ensembling in the beauty of a sinfonietta, sounds flows uninterrupted
Let the singing pendulum to your mistress's pleasure fall to the bottom, attached to the chipped illusionists mask of anticipation!
To this dance the mascarade does not crack in the shadow of sound,
A wise scholar would not sacrifice one topic relevant to learn to the passing time, to her students unfortune that is, cast in pure grief,
A wise conductor does the same with musical notes, the story flows,
With the moon high in the sky, time stands in her way, questioning her to dance with the devil amongst a distorted, whicked dark,
But resillient to the end, tough and with no distraction taking her focus the director of this event finishes the creation of art, an orchestra
A craftwoman of tempo and elegance always stands out after all, bringing the musical score to life.
~ Umi
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 6:28 PM UTC
The Allusionists (Mary Winslow and Jeff Steir)
these two allusionists (not illusionists!)
composition is a criminal sentencing, a full-time sensitizing,
a never ending t/rue seeing, recalling, photography by word.
I am a career criminal. I know.
these two retranslate by digging into word wells and
well hid storage closets under stairs so that we,
the not-in-attendance may envision their sightings with
two hands clutching, comprehending almost better than
the one who is actually there.
for our version, the one they provide is,
coffee with cream,
scotch with a beer chaser, tea with honey,
all to be, sipped slow, so
the hot frost on my the chest, infiltrating nostrils,
Vaporub-spreads slow and easy, brainward.
the allusionists.
the habitual employers of this
specific filter,
(word weavers, I call them behind their backs),
weaving is not in my eternally planned skill set.
I do so admire their tapestries
that guilt alone demands tribute and obeisance
and this poor imitation.
I do so admire their tapestries.
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 11:12 AM UTC
In a tornado of confusion
I was always stuck in Kansas
The tinman had no yellow bricks for me
And the lion, even less
Through emerald tinted spectacles
In a city where we're all the same
The wizard knows us through only applaud
Not through heart or lands we came
I click my heels a hundred times
But home is where the knowing end
The rest become great illusionists
As if the future is their friend
A full circle of whimsical hearts
Being nor a witch, a munchkin or scarecrow
In a labyrinth of smoke and fire
All while my hot air balloon is ready to go
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 5:09 AM UTC
I have nothing with or against you
and this really means nothing
but the fact that I am free
the world is full of love-slaves
illusionists and pretenders
politicals or apoliticals
atheists or christians
each one is only saving his appearance
tell these thieves to **** off
and let us be kidnapped by The Circus
let us be made Princes and Frogs
in this ********* happy end
of the world
Jul 22, 2010
Jul 22, 2010 at 9:22 AM UTC
finger-paint yourself a picture
on a canvas destined for nothing more
than late-night
one-night
kisses
arrange fabric on a doll
that was store bought
for perfection
owned by jealousy
mocked by
lessers
stain lips
to never speak
gentle words
train lips
to reside
in perfect pouts
school eyes
in fluttering
slitted
hooded
gestures
arrange toes
into smooth, unbroken shapes
to be molded
in a set of high heels
high ballers
high flyers
being higher on the food chain
only makes you
more likely
to be consumed
and if we are anything
we are
consumers
limited
to materialistic consumption
we dress ourselves up like
a sweetshop-confection
topped with gucci
and laced with victoria's secret
lucidity
it's not hard to see
what we're about
if this is a judgement
of clear intentions
we are the clear
winners
our faces are perfect
optical illusions
standing on an assembly line
waiting for someone to take a shine
to the curve of our hips
lips
chest
there is nothing to confess
our cards are laid
only after
we
are
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC
Since the beginning of our lives
The very first second of birth
Reek of the pigs
Has filled our scent
And our conduct
To this feeling and fragrance
We have become so senseless
And through this path that we walk
Our eyes are blind
We need some act
To clean our minds
We don't need no pact
To wash out our lives
(From) this emptiness
That rules our hearts
But, no more we'll show fear
We will make the world hear
Their hearts, our names, so near as death,
For them to their ears
Distracters of minds
Will be distracted
Invaders of hearts
Shall be dismantled
Controllers of thoughts, desecrated.
Illusionists...will be disclosed
These orders, for us to follow
These borders to make us narrow
These lies to take our clearance
These wars to take our existence
No, no more we will show fear.
We will make the world hear.
Their hearts, our names, so near as death,
For them to their ears.
Pigs!
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 7:50 PM UTC
*I have seen the light!
My lover has taught me well.
You are all the same.
Liars.
Illusionists.
You really should have been so much nicer!
He offered you the hand of friendship.
You ignored him.
Cast him out.
A bit like how you ignored me really.
That is why I was abducted.
That is why he kept me locked in the basement.
That is why he cut my feckin legs off.
Because of YOU.
The night is lonely.
Desire is where the soul must go.
I could not drown with the rest of the sheep.
But someday?
Someday soon.
We will seek revenge.
And as we all know.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
Revenge is a wild kind of justice.
Lock your doors.
Lock your windows.
We are coming.
I have seen the light!*
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 5:09 AM UTC
The idiot box sings my tunes today,
Dancing stars and grainy images,
Words that don’t mean what they say,
My stars, you should burn with sages
For centuries, illusionists built shrines,
Tombs and tomes that tell of medieval tales,
Hah! Come forth and tell them now!
The ignorant chooses to ignore you,
And the naive will desert their faith for you,
A congregation of folly-minded beings
A black figure stands before me,
Darkness shrouds every corners, tonight I am alone,
The owls hoot from swaying trees,
The cloaks emit depths of despair,
Fiery red eyes, ***** of fire in a heated night,
The thin bony fingers rise up to me,
His lips move, “The hounds of hell await you!”
The fingers wrap around my arms,
“The rest you had, will be the last you ever had”
Dragged through the walls of shame,
Chains bind these hands that hit and hid many more,
Ropes cut through flesh that tasted many forbidden pleasures,
Spikes pierce through the eyes that saw sin,
I am paraded for the pleasure of the unholy souls,
Tonight, they dance in their graves,
Today, the stars burned with their saints,
Tomorrow, all that you knew is no longer true.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC
old dreams
are deadly lovers
vain virtuosi
forever tricking
our fickle heartbeats
grand illusionists
hypnotizing lonely souls
feeding on hazy mornings
long gone
all gone now
but who are we
to deny them
who are we
to stop them now
hope has taken root
deep under our house
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC
There is still magic to be done
But not by this magician
Maybe it holds true
For I think some,
Magicians that is,
Are mere illusionists
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 4:59 AM UTC
Inside me carried on a little ******* I didn't
put stock in enchantment, however the *******
was a sucker for the stuff. Mystics,
illusionists, arthritics who'd foresee
the precipitation. That was the year I experienced difficulty
strolling. I over-thought it and proved unable
get the cadence right. The ******* re-showed me.
"This foot. Indeed, at that point that one. Also, swing
your arms as though you're going to trial
to be absolved of a wrongdoing
you've most unquestionably dedicated."
Next, inconvenience resting in light of the fact that
I'd have to wrench the generator in my chest
so much of the time. Seeing I was exhausted,
the ******* at last pulled it out—
it looked sparkly and new, a silver dollar—
also, hurled it into a rush of feathered creatures
who needed to fly far to discover well being.
I knew then I was an expansive and perilous man,
what with this ******* living inside me,
however, felt pointless. One day, amid
a last lesson on relaxing,
the ******* solicited what kind of pants
I was wearing. I stated, "The serious ones."
"Poor child." "So will you remain on
for a third year, ******* "No. I think
I ought to leave soon. I think
I ought to go and anticipate your landing next to
the folded waterway." "Yes, I assume
you have numerous vital issues to go to,
be that as it may, perhaps one day I will come and go along with you
for a drink, or maybe, for a short rest."
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 6:31 AM UTC
Undeserved by plenty
Misused by many
Masqueraded and always asking for a penny
When you're out clowning everything seems funny
But give too much kindness and be mistaken for a dummy
Tastes of bad intentions are sugar coated with honey
It took some time to open my eyes and see
That some individuals just aren't my cup of tea
And what seemed real all turned into fantasy
But perfected illusionists have only seen the last of me
I have real ones but forgive me when I'm distant I just need time alone
Quiet nights no interruptions i need space to let my mind roam
I'll get with you when I tie up all my loose ends
Sometimes you have to apologize take a bow and make amends
Take it or leave is my only offer
I just want us all to prosper
And be friends
(How many of us have them)
Jan 12, 2021
Jan 12, 2021 at 2:03 PM UTC