"imageries" poems
I say;
The drifting rain dissolves sea salt
Turning tears into dangled monsoon
Under the bleak ballad of dying dawn
Where I long for heat unbroken
You say;
The drifting rain drenches my tiptoe
Witching smiles into deranged equinox
Upon the downpour of ancient daybreak
Where I pray for old snow long sunk
All was as if the days faded
And morphed into younger sunset
It was as if mercy was drained
And no one preach as desired
The downpour stench though remains constant
Of rotting perfume of the rouge graphite
You drowsily drip from dowsing fingers, they lit
Into pages of burning, dancing melodious lads
As will, you may keep those imageries for you
And give up old stories as my slumber lyre
Whether it is about the burnt down marching boy
Or the bloodstained pianist from our ancient joy
For the bleak heart aesthetic
has affected a new kind of love
And the bleak heart aesthetic
would never let you feel so certain
So please keep your drifting rain of strings
During the downpour of the deranged equinox
When the snow goes black and slowly sunk
Into pages of firespit melodious lads
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC
Calculate the amount of time I waited for you in seconds,
Then you will know the amount of miles the earth is from the sun.
Friendship is often the outcome, of remaining in earth’s boundaries.
I’d settle for Pluto or maybe Mars,
All on their axis, Nothing is more powerful than the stars.
For the stars create imageries, or shoot for millions of miles,
And seeing the big dipper, would often give us smiles.
I’d see the land in which I live,
As I bask on nothing else but faint less gravity.
Occupied by colors, I’d forget about it all,
The beauty of the universe, its atmosphere and all.
The beautiful star, the Sun, shines so bright,
My heart already melting from the painter’s canvas in the night.
It’s time to drive the spaceship, forgetting we were already there.
To many buttons to press, nothing says beware.
So we traveled to Jupiter, The Scorpio and I,
Fearfully in love I close my eyes,
As the spaceship rides, and finally friendship says goodbye.
©
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 7:29 AM UTC
On
The counters of poetry
I dock and lock myself
Then
I scope on the bottles of liquors seductively
And spellblind by their syllables
I took the shakers and hybrid
The Similes
The Onomatopeia's
The Nemesis'
The Near-Rhymes
And The Triadic-Lines
Then I gulp fourteen shots of Sonnets
From my paper-glass
And glug a paradox
Or a foil-sigh
Trice,
The knots
Bundling my eloquence
Will exonerated itself
And torpidity will cuff my consciousness
And the droplets remains in my paper- glass
Will impel me
To quest for myriad of them
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stock on a comedy chair
Then
When the
Limbs of time tread
Will I rush to the counter
Like the athletes at Olympia
And hybrid
The Blank-verses
The Alliterations
The Limericks
The Litotes
The Aporia's
And The Dysphemism's
And
Gulp countless
Yet measured shoots
Of Ballad,with my paper-glass
And unravel the oratories
Of sacred secrets,eclectic enchantment and regrettable reflexes
Aside,or injects the world
With my rugged pins of eruditions
Bestowed in me by the liquors of poetry
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stocked on a comedy-chair
Again
I will rush
To the counter,and hybrid
The Exaggerations
The Personifications
The Imageries
And The Caesura's
And
Gulp uncounted shoots
Of Epic's from my paper-glass
And
Eulogise my steam and wit
Yet,I'm drunk
And deeply drunk wholly
By a might that mortify me so much
That I've become a slave
In the awe of my servitude
Now and then
Will I weep and wail terribly
Each morning,each noon,and each night
For the great demise of myself
And for an emancipation
From the perpetual counter-cells poetry
I'm drunk,and deeply drunk by poetry.
Deeply Drunk
©Historian E.Lexano
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
*we are not the
nicholas sparks novel
read wrapped in comfort
of store-bought quilts
on rainy days
or an ed sheeran song
in long-haul flights
flying us
into one another's
longing embrace
once in
a blue moon
how long will
the movie screens
and best-selling novels
continue to
romanticise a
love like
ours
all of its
torturous;
troubling;
tragic glory
even with dreams
of your laugh
and the most short-lived
imageries of your crescent eyes
the sheets on your side
of the bed remain
perfectly
uncreased
i cannot stop
my heavy lids
and tired bones
from gravitating into
both Arcadia
and Erebus:
another
sweet,
wicked
dream
of
you.*
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
In all ado
ten months in misery
It wasn't me
nor was even you
shrills at the back
of my aging doors
I mind my business
As you—
you only mind yours
Red laces tied to leave
forget twas before
Nothing—
nothing was concealed,
we leered in uncertainty
As we're losing—
losing our vast imageries
our bond was never—
just never denote to be
Cease by now
of these tortured schemes
lashing out and say
"wish it was all a dream"
departing to nowhere
as each wing soars
and all of we— all of we
used to be lovers before
and all of we— all of we
used to be lovers before**
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 12:47 AM UTC
As fishes wriggling
The entirety of their slippery bodies
In vast oceans, lost in the glory of waters
Instincts meander
Their way through to the mind
In a pool of imagined
Sensuality with wanton desires
A longing for the temporal
Poignantly stands *****
In the throne-room of man's emotions
Motioning with a seemingly motionless demeanor
Unfulfilled cravings
Cradles persistence
In his goal oriented pursuits
Thoughts are repressed
Mental imageries suppressed
To pave way for **********
Of pleasantly positive feelings
Yet the uncouth lingers
Occasionally engages the enthroned
In scrimmages in their bid to dethrone them
Man holds the prerogative
To serve either of them willingly
Equally, man possess all it takes to be
Heinously hedonistic
And heartily attractive in personality
To please society
None can reach complete perfection
At both extremities
© Seth Boss Kay @ 19/10/2013
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 2:10 AM UTC
i created another Jaja yesterday!
a braver Jaja unlike that timid feeble boy
Chimamanda gave life in Purple hibiscus.
i gave him a gun and a mightier heart.
i carved a pumpkin route for him to follow
i made him to have the mind of his own
then, I sent him to his father just like every
mother sends their sons to their father.
he gunned him down in his assaulted plights
he returned angrily to hunt me for this freedom
my experiments to pull him down failed
and I remembered mother also created boys
she abandoned to find freedom who later
came back to ****** her in their plights
Boys come in this formless shape creating imageries larger than them which returns to
Squeeze more juice out from their dark sides.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 1:47 PM UTC
Forgive my wallowing in words
my lapse is not light, words are fire,
creative use of them with more care
with out raising a curtain of smoke
and uncontrolled flames, if expected
it's only fair, not to scare you, gentle readers
unreasonably with all the heat
it could generate.
A gentle fire, at night, a golden glow
where you would sit around
and partake my fare is what I dream.
Every word has deep roots, and laughing flowers,
cryptic connecting codes, tunnels
that augment the flows channeled to hearts,
music that connects words, unexpected
fire works of meanings that explode,
metaphors that amble and gallop forward
with spectacular beauty, you watch
without batting an eyelid, that's what brings
clarity, and a gentle ecstasy mind licks up,
and goes to sleep purring in delight.
Signs pointing to the unknown, even unsaid
become evident, like in magic, how it unfolds
how can I say, what's the well spring
of an oracle's revelations, amazing!
Imageries arise along the flow of creation,
evoking, love, pain, hope or remorse-
whatever feeling that invades human psyche,
that demands an immediate emotional response,
and from there leads to catharsis, mind's elation.
Taking you to the forest route of words,
- that blankets and blocks the view
of elegant trees, you love to look at
and to forget everything
for some moments, at least -
was my fault, I was carried away,
yes, I should learn to control my excesses.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC
maybe, a few branches were let off the trunk,
nevertheless, it was meant to be burned,
each day someone would die,
but the dying puppets on stage
must let the ink dry,
weave words, scribble stories,
times are tough, sweet and deep,
but I promise you,
there lies hope in between imageries,
there lies strength in between metaphors,
after millions of crumpled dreams,
trust the paper one more time,
let the ink dry.
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 6:34 AM UTC
After Amadioha went into sweet nightmares,
he made us to breath through the chest of the sea. from the celestial bodies of the shrine,
We shone our forefather's smile with a mirage,
a little littered mirage spelling words in ellipsis.
these were the rose crumbs tailored in the sand castle of our glassful laughter, we're the Palmful morning in the eyes of our home in the abyss.
when a child cries, he forgets that the route to
his home is written on his body as a tattoo.
when a girl thinks of gathering firewood in the heart of the forest, she thinks of her thigh &
the bushes surrounding it, nature made it so.
We do not think of our skin as a poetic of agony,
We do not think of our eyes as poetry letters
but we draw lines and currents of imaginations describing how rituals made men insane.
We carried out those prilgrim for the boys,
our forebearers made us cracked our head up,
they carved pumpkins traces for this generation; for this humble journey mixed with fire & water.
Our souls, our dreams were the Shakespearean places you never had the chance to see physical.
they are the rituals of nature, a side Sithoulte,
a wonder land created like a paradise you don't stay often but in your dreams & imageries.
We are birthed here as debris & plump scars,
a tortured lips holding the past & the present.
We are the foundation of everything evil spirits,
We were born in the ritual of a grievous war.
to say a human is a benchmark of his own,
to say a man is a mango dropping without a choice of where and how to touch the sand,
to say a man is everything fretwork of agony;
to say a men are slaughtered memories...
but to this edges of rites & repeated steps,
We'll remain the gospel from every mouth.
Our ancestral hands shall still set a table,
to tell the girlchild how to sit in a public hall
to hand over the shrine to the boychild
to tell man that he owns a woman as head.
to keep birthing good and ugly children.
our hope will always depict heavens glory
and, our darkest fears as the skin of hell.
And it must be passed down to the next
genes to tell the next & sand keep multiplying.
This is the ritual of mankind to remain alive.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustrations.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 8:54 AM UTC
**An artful liar, his words beautifully cheat all,
speaks nonsense any one can believe
with consummate flair, sees the essence without effort,
it fits well in metaphors and imageries galore,
he has wings to fly anywhere with ease, see things up close.
The wind of imagination he blows makes waves,
he is taken to ecstatic heights riding on its crest,
yet he doesn't accept, when they call him a poet,
"Just at those moments I am inspired" he says"call me a poet,
not all the time I am one, being a poet is not a profession
but an attribute others bestow on one, out of appreciation"**
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC
Cheap wine will entwine with
***** dreams
As we fall into an idyllic slumber
Our hearts will thaw
And come dawn
we will feel again
__________________________________
Hold me close
The ceiling is giggling
The furniture is conspiring against me
____________________________________
Pretty girls foaming at the mouth
And other pleasant imageries
___________________________________
Trip over your carefully crafted trickery
Tumble down the bottomless grave
You dug for the betrayed
The exquisite sting of karmic balance
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
one who slides right in
the mind of words in flight
in unbound imageries
overwhelms this night
swinging from lips they drip
this pendulum of words
and shivering syllables
crochet a weave of love
a midnight's lyric strung
with hope of rising dawn
she holds her breath in wait
what seems shall last eons
say whom does my muse love
two hands which never hold
whom stars which never see
a fiction glossy bold
invisible as the wind
so fickle as the snow
dripping with silent sighs
with promise to endure
admirer yet unseen
elusive shiny white
a voice still unheard
a kiss of heavens bright
all of a piece of whom
a man i'll never be
which fills my muse's heart
her fair reality
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 1:58 AM UTC
. . . T h i s . . .
B o u n d l e s s ocean of life
And in roses imageries of you and me
O’ sparks of your beauty I am yearning to see
Face to face, if you raised those beautiful eyes, at me
Heavenly niche of hearts would cause the shadows to flee
My tongue soaked in bouquets of your melody, would set free
Odes would fall from movement of sky, endorsing my plea
Elegance of your smile, a garden of paradise and it’s key
B l o o d of my heart, O’ red w i n e it would be
Baring of your s a c r e d sight with g l e e
M a r v e l of fresh blossoms, is it
. . . You or me ? . . .
✒ ℐamil Hussain
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 10:35 AM UTC
Corners of your room,
Knows me more than you.
Because that’s where I was lost
When you talked about leaving.
Bushes beyond the wall,
Knows the promise more than us.
Because that’s where we first lit passion
When we took a walk the first night.
Mushy park benches after rain,
Knows us more than the campus.
Because that’s where we kissed
When we first felt love beyond lust.
Veiny edges of my wrist,
Knows you more than me.
Because that’s where I tried writing
When your name started fading.
Mar 20, 2019
Mar 20, 2019 at 8:22 AM UTC
Words penned centuries ago
Comes alive each time we read
Taking us back to that moment
Holding hand of those words
And time travelling to the past era
Showing us vivid imageries
Of what the writer has gone through
Inspirations, triumphs, failures, heartbreaks
Solitude, travels and an insight to his world
Connecting with the soul
Through the words penned in indelible ink
Each page, a revelation
Still living in words and within the pages
Faint heartbeat of the distant past
Reverberates in each composition
Immortal through the words
And still holding the rich legacy
Antique words, relevant even today
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
You will say: “You’ve been holding out on me!” -
and that will be the day when this landslide of poetry
Finally comes spilling from my lips, because I can no longer withhold it -
And you will awake in the gardens that I’ve been growing here,
Looking at me with brand new eyes, like you’ve never really known me before,
Or seen me, or felt me, and we will roll together
Among these soft petals of imageries, fingernails like lilies
As you lift the pages, see them turning, these little white leaves,
Changing with the different seasons of visions and daydreams,
Thousands of hours passing in your eyes blinking, reading,
A living river of emotions flowing into those irises, of
All the things I cannot speak or explain or convey
When you are sitting here in silence, gazing deeply into me,
And I am leaning into your warm shoulder, wondering,
How I can turn these precious moments
Into the best kind of poetry.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC
it's a **** arena, isn't it?
the contenders sense it, too
you spectate while I battle
this out
onto bad intellect swings
the blade
tracing scandalous imageries
into corrupt teeth
isn't it a devil's game,
one we cannot win?
-c.j.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 1:46 AM UTC
I hope, you are doing fine,
but maybe you've forgotten me!
I love you, sweetie
Why do you stay away from me?
Won't you come back to me?
Won't you sit next to me again?
Maybe you wouldn't walk with me,
on the dewy grass anymore!
I still dream of you
before the sunrise
Even I still make my day
with your love.
I have enjoyed so many rays
by sitting with you
All those imageries are dancing
in the morning flowers
and the sky blue.
Often you had been coming to the lake
in the afternoon with barefoot anklets
and I had been keeping you company
there till the dusk.
Those memories of your love
come to my mind always.
My heart cries and hurts,
though your eyes are smiling!
The afternoon and the evening river miss you;
The sun departs by the touch of the dusky sky
but you are not enjoying it with me!
I also miss you, maybe I'll find you
in the moon and the stars.
I want the moonshine comes
to my window every night!
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 6:23 PM UTC
Mind speeding
heart racing
time remaining.
I am blind to a sight that hasn't moved.
The moment is still.
The quiet sound is everlasting
In the mist of emotions evaporating.
The emotions are combusting in the air and its contagious.
I am blind by imageries that unwinds our souls.
Mind speeding
heart racing
time escaping.
The only question that remains, will we meet again?
Dec 17, 2019
Dec 17, 2019 at 2:37 PM UTC
See yourself in John 3:16
I hope you will not get lost in John 11:3,
mysteries are the soup of poetry.
Imageries taught us how to hold our hands like gun then fire without a target or something.
Mytic found favour in your eyes,
Divinity crossed path with spiritualism &
Oblivion was birthed in an illusion of freewill.
Do you know Devil is not a thief or a liar?
Do you know he was a prince of light?
Ask Michael who fought him at dusk
I think he has a tale in his mouth.
Long have I carved this figurine waiting
for the mouth of the grave to open.
Now you search your heart for truth,
Isn't it?
Tell me:
Who made you?
Open to the book of Revelation
What did you form in your soul there?
I found you a broken tattered mysterious
mystery that you hold dearly;
Your dead mother's photograph,
She awaits you on the judgement day.
Your father's most cherished bangle,
He said he would be coming for it on the
last day.
A flower for your sister, drop it on her grave.
Remember, forever is your last breath.
I know Allah's promises even If I have not opened the Holy Koran.
When my spirit went into lost in the darkness,
18 virgins came between my thighs.
They held my ***** girth to submission,
Joseph's mythology grabbed me in favour.
I don't know why you have a Splinded spiritual problem...
Look straight into your eyes to see it.
I think you should allow the wind breathes through the trees &allow the mirror to fog up.
A boy told me candle flame is always in his
eyes when it is blown off.
This is the spiritual collation in connection.
Let's recite the apostles creed when morning comes to you in hundred fold of dreams.
©John Chizoba Vincent
The_Boy_Hero.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 6:39 PM UTC
Coke blessers measured with the demons investors,
I sit like Uncle Fester, light my thoughts from the tongue, sprung,
See how many people hung, onto the words that strung,
Out the darkest pain, but still remains in the subconscious brain,
I'm not a preacher, or a teacher I'm just a divine leecher,
Tryna bring ya, back to the days of primate, wait it's never to late,
To push over realitys plate, so many full but still acting like, they never ate,
Degenerates, flexing independence, but riding government assistance,
I see ya in the distance, next to me I know ya hate me, take a gander at the sea,
Close my eyes, meditate the heavenly Van Gogh, imageries,
Motionless once im coastin, the cosmos waves heart of a brave,
Mighty leo though a virgo, splurge from my mental, break any detrimental,
Head bands worn like Naruto, swift as a bellow, the funky fellow,
Say hello, cherish the sky embryos, born to the damballa word infinite scholars,
Wear wisdom with no collars, next to jachin and boaz, I see these critics spaz, smooth tunes wrap, with a touch of jazz,
I crashed on earth, long ago from Pluto, parliament mothership child,
Mama knew was better, and papa left me with Coogi sweaters, no jello to go with my pudding,
Mismatched like bad batch of crack, ******* and all that, true black,
See where my hands at, magic wand is what ya staring at,
Ten gallon hat, oj black gloves, saw blood on the two turtle doves,
Wars lashing out, I cant cop out, no need to remain in doubt,
Cuz once the sunshine sunshine, all the darkness falls behind,
Jun 25, 2021
Jun 25, 2021 at 5:38 AM UTC
When your day
is a series of clocks ticking.
Every millisecond, minute, hour—
binary counts—disorganised clicking.
Every heart and head pound
after sips of coffee and energy drinks
high on codes and calories,
pixels, powernaps,
and flickering
imageries.
A mere reflection
of this deadline-driven age,
where waking up like this everyday
is no longer a phase.
Ad hoc palpitations,
stacked one after another
like corrupted lies and files,
until one is renamed:
"dead".
return NotFound();
// Self Not Found
📅
Jul 12, 2025
Jul 12, 2025 at 6:16 AM UTC