"illustriousness" poems

Proper with sight seen Making the noise of privilege If not the cares of reprimand Long to the land, we know callousness, like a religion No epitome, no illustriousness In the again of since and a charity Of veracity complete, to a sincere guess The reigning hello, of decision of life, in its variety So made, so accused A marriage of such and conclusions much... To due, the courage to acquire the boding, of enthusiasm Still to worldly eyes, is a relationship with vice the only cause? The only cause to develop a change of merit, into the living Taste and testimony, always were... The taken and made, hour of hope come from a running Stead and foresworn need, the role of vision is for... A head above the water, of mutual suicide Silence of heaven, with a realization of couth Could in the shared eyes of composure, to these even wryed Is a levity in cares, that rise above the uncertainty of carnal who'd?

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Aug 30, 2024

Aug 30, 2024 at 1:02 AM UTC

david-hilburn

The Promises Of Coming Of Age, Right Now

Proper with sight seen Making the noise of privilege If not the cares of reprimand Long to the land, we know callousness, like a religion No epitome, no illustriousness In the again of since and a charity Of veracity complete, to a sincere guess The reigning hello, of decision of life, in its variety So made, so accused A marriage of such and conclusions much... To due, the courage to acquire the boding, of enthusiasm Still to worldly eyes, is a relationship with vice the only cause? The only cause to develop a change of merit, into the living Taste and testimony, always were... The taken and made, hour of hope come from a running Stead and foresworn need, the role of vision is for... A head above the water, of mutual suicide Silence of heaven, with a realization of couth Could in the shared eyes of composure, to these even wryed Is a levity in cares, that rise above the uncertainty of carnal who'd?

20

Before I begin, I must tell you in my native tongue that I love you. I adore you with every fiber of my being. I am not telling you this out of promise for future romance; nor out of unyielding compulsion. None of these. No. I can only express these verbal incantations of affection to you due to one sole reason, and this purpose alone. You cannot understand a single word pouring from my silent lips. I watched you from atop of my Spanish villa as you bathed in the rays of Apollo. I tried, oh how desperate were my attempts not to look. Not to bask in the warmth of your beauty for all of eternity, as I wish I could. Doubtful are my beliefs that you will ever know my name. Never will you notice my admiration of you amidst this crowd. I love you only in the privacy of my own heart, although I wish I knew you. Not the 'you' everyone knows through casual conversations and late-night soirees. No. I wish to know the real you. The you of presence. The 'you' you keep concealed in the walls of your sandy skin; shielded by a broken heart no one bothered repairing. I would have reconstructed these shards then, as I would now. You need only ask. Only glance this way. So, my dear, sweet, whomever, if this sonnet, dedicated to your evanescent frame, were to ever become published, only to be translated into different languages and dispersed among the continents, like so many in the past have; I pray this poem, singing praises to your illustriousness, and yours, alone, finds its way into the palm of your hand. Only then will you know, without knowing, what I have known since that day. You are forever immortal. Forever young.

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Aug 19, 2013

Aug 19, 2013 at 5:43 AM UTC

julian-jackson

Mi Amor Espanol

Before I begin, I must tell you in my native tongue that I love you. I adore you with every fiber of my being. I am not telling you this out of promise for future romance; nor out of unyielding compulsion. None of these. No. I can only express these verbal incantations of affection to you due to one sole reason, and this purpose alone. You cannot understand a single word pouring from my silent lips. I watched you from atop of my Spanish villa as you bathed in the rays of Apollo. I tried, oh how desperate were my attempts not to look. Not to bask in the warmth of your beauty for all of eternity, as I wish I could. Doubtful are my beliefs that you will ever know my name. Never will you notice my admiration of you amidst this crowd. I love you only in the privacy of my own heart, although I wish I knew you. Not the 'you' everyone knows through casual conversations and late-night soirees. No. I wish to know the real you. The you of presence. The 'you' you keep concealed in the walls of your sandy skin; shielded by a broken heart no one bothered repairing. I would have reconstructed these shards then, as I would now. You need only ask. Only glance this way. So, my dear, sweet, whomever, if this sonnet, dedicated to your evanescent frame, were to ever become published, only to be translated into different languages and dispersed among the continents, like so many in the past have; I pray this poem, singing praises to your illustriousness, and yours, alone, finds its way into the palm of your hand. Only then will you know, without knowing, what I have known since that day. You are forever immortal. Forever young.

2

shine on, you perplexed ruby red light; shined on for your years of ambiance, and now the shine's seemingly dulled. as the illuminated street signs show you the way out of your own head and into the house where you'd rather sleep all day than clean, read or create; illustriousness never held much of a hold on the mind you've let burn into a pile of carbonated waste. in the silence you've surrounded yourself in, you've found that there's too much going on in your own head for anything to ever be quiet, so you scream. as the death of another loved one fills your heart with sorrow and pain, there seems to be a new reason to figure this one out on your own; there was nothing you'd missed over the years, but you've always seemed to ignore the social ques and questions you knew felt needed left unanswered. in light, there is darkness. and in darkness there is light. it's all a matter of perspective.

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Nov 19, 2012

Nov 19, 2012 at 2:31 PM UTC

sal-gelles

are you glistening?

shine on, you perplexed ruby red light; shined on for your years of ambiance, and now the shine's seemingly dulled. as the illuminated street signs show you the way out of your own head and into the house where you'd rather sleep all day than clean, read or create; illustriousness never held much of a hold on the mind you've let burn into a pile of carbonated waste. in the silence you've surrounded yourself in, you've found that there's too much going on in your own head for anything to ever be quiet, so you scream. as the death of another loved one fills your heart with sorrow and pain, there seems to be a new reason to figure this one out on your own; there was nothing you'd missed over the years, but you've always seemed to ignore the social ques and questions you knew felt needed left unanswered. in light, there is darkness. and in darkness there is light. it's all a matter of perspective.

5

My Way I saw the three tenors sing “I did it my way” mind, the fat one died, and the two others hate each other and never appear in public if they can avoid it. Of the two one looks like an aging matinée idol the other suffers from being mobbed at school and looks scared has nightmares and takes to tears before going on stage. I still like Frank Sinatra's rendition of that song better he sang it so relaxed with a clear diction and made me think of a man with a six pack ambling on his way home he too is dead to “My Way” is about human hubris we think we are masters of our destiny when we are leaves blowing along a wet asphalted road in the autumnal half-light. Thinking back- I can afford to- I never got a thing my way which when young caused me bitterness the highest prize eluded me kismet knew I could not handle illustriousness it would have made me look absurd a swaggering fool hated by colleagues, on the stage of life. Yet, when dancing the tango at a nightclub in Buenos Aires 54 years ago the applause I received still rings sweetly in my ears.

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Jan 19, 2016

Jan 19, 2016 at 7:30 AM UTC

jan-oskar-hansen

my way

My Way I saw the three tenors sing “I did it my way” mind, the fat one died, and the two others hate each other and never appear in public if they can avoid it. Of the two one looks like an aging matinée idol the other suffers from being mobbed at school and looks scared has nightmares and takes to tears before going on stage. I still like Frank Sinatra's rendition of that song better he sang it so relaxed with a clear diction and made me think of a man with a six pack ambling on his way home he too is dead to “My Way” is about human hubris we think we are masters of our destiny when we are leaves blowing along a wet asphalted road in the autumnal half-light. Thinking back- I can afford to- I never got a thing my way which when young caused me bitterness the highest prize eluded me kismet knew I could not handle illustriousness it would have made me look absurd a swaggering fool hated by colleagues, on the stage of life. Yet, when dancing the tango at a nightclub in Buenos Aires 54 years ago the applause I received still rings sweetly in my ears.

18