"imbroglio" poems
Umbrage ultraism infrangible extemporaneous incognito edition
Penumbral platitude platonic proxy photics rendition
Interface fenestration imbroglio pandemonium inducement sedition
Wretched infelicitous extant trajectory sordid intuition
Scandalous scavenger squalid anomalous punitive condition
Panacea chiaroscuro parallax emanate imminent perdition
Equilibrist revision exertion suborn temerity imbues
Indulgent zealous discrepancy apparentness cogitation accrues
Heuristic noumenal psychokinesis extrapolation incursion construes
Aura auspicious primitive prism processional reviews
Obstinate tenacious preeminent edificatory omnipotence eschews
Equivocal gumption ratification constitutional manumission ensues
Delusory apparition extravagance peccavi verity tempestuous
Obtrusive obtusely overt indemnities sagaciously obliquitous
Ephemeral anxiety antonym existential exigency alacritous
Fortuitous emendation phantasm ontological ontogeny acuitous
Indemnify veracious infernal infidel impunities iniquitous
Meritorious fulham presumptive extrication expiation indigenous
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC
To be imbued with the conviction that empathic listening is a panacea,
by the surreptitious, murmurous harbinger and his mellifluous words,
provoked brooding that my comprehension of his susurrous eloquence was a mondegreen,
when this scintilla of sagacity left a fetching ingenue crestfallen.
By the surreptitious, murmurous harbinger and his mellifluous words!
I adopted a propinquity to this furtive, ephemeral epiphany,
but when this scintilla of sagacity left a fetching ingenue crestfallen,
I discerned this lagniappe beleaguered our dalliance.
I adopted a propinquity to this furtive, ephemeral epiphany.
When she became inured to petrichor I knew my method pyrrhic,
and when I discerned that this lagniappe beleaguered our dalliance,
I vowed to rectify the imbroglio for my quintessential cynosure.
When she became inured to petrichor I knew my method pyrrhic,
and I ruminated that her insouciance was only forbearance.
I vowed to rectify my quintessential cynosure of the imbroglio,
and fabricated a denouement to return her to halcyon incipient.
I ruminated that her insouciance was only forbearance,
until hearing her state our conflation made each a moiety of our own panoply.
She fabricated a denouement to return us to the incipience of halcyon
with ineffable felicity, and I remembered with ebullience my inamorata's words.
Hearing her state our conflation made each a moiety of our own panoply
provoked brooding that my comprehension of her susurrous eloquence was a mondegreen.
With ineffable felicity I found ebullience in my inamorata's words
and was imbued with the conviction that empathic listening is a panacea.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC
Umbrage ultraism infrangible extemporaneous incognito edition
Penumbral platitude platonic proxy photics rendition
Interface fenestration imbroglio pandemonium inducement sedition
Wretched infelicitous extant trajectory sordid intuition
Scandalous scavenger squalid anomalous punitive condition
Panacea chiaroscuro parallax emanate imminent perdition
Equilibrist revision exertion suborn temerity imbues
Indulgent zealous discrepancy apparentness cogitation accrues
Heuristic noumenal psychokinesis extrapolation incursion construes
Aura auspicious primitive prism processional reviews
Obstinate tenacious preeminent edificatory omnipotence eschews
Equivocal gumption ratification constitutional manumission ensues
Delusory apparition extravagance peccavi verity tempestuous
Obtrusive obtusely overt indemnities sagaciously obliquitous
Ephemeral anxiety antonym existential exigency alacritous
Fortuitous emendation phantasm ontological ontogeny acuitous
Indemnify veracious infernal infidel impunities iniquitous
Meritorious fulham presumptive extrication expiation indigenous
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC
Each of you.
My individual singularities, Dad’s One Thing.
Conceived 1955.
Driven home, progeny, made man, unequivocal, indisputable.
Post-war night spirits undaunted ~ stop ******* me.
*** for you, stopped me.
Can’t make it the way you want. Please stop.
Backing off, I respect real you.
Don’t push me Me.
Don’t dream.
Will dream us.
Short sentence for guilt whisked way beyond what crime could be.
We combine beans and seeds and gourds.
That’s science! Culinary!
Botany, true, but I’m enaturated.
Human pod progressed.
If that’s a word, don’t dream it’s not.
Forget every word.
But make each and every word count.
Then add stash, socked away.
I concede.
Mi casa su casa.
Paint it.
Together.
Made mistake then fixed it.
Copasetic dovetails, my lady and me (not I).
We walk talk island jib.
I like the cut of your yar across the moonlit pool.
Go around with me to all haunts, snow globetrotting shaken not stirred
My déjà vu in futurum videre, I can’t believe.
Asunder goddesses should be together,
While Isis and Osiris boogie like Beatrice and Dante encircled,
Their own private imbroglio invaded
By Goth end time alchemists conjuring copyrights for gelt.
You tell me this short story.
I cringe.
My mind clouds men’s, and then conjures Morpheus.
My shadow child joins me in Paradise,
Deliria dancing in concert with Shakespearean intent.
My daughter’s got more guts in one pinky
Than all that fallen pilot on our island bargained for
In the games that decided who’s hungrier.
You could have been that gal.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 12:21 AM UTC
Loneliness is a sketchwork of pen and ink of iron gall,
Brushed over in brown wash of wood soot from oak,
Disguised then under tempera of golden-ratio of yolk,
Flared over with fiery oils to the smoke-blurred brink, sfumato,
Or pigment of the fresco, a shade of off-life, languid as watercolor,
Or from the too-fondly-felt impasto knife.
But bares its bones in the light-dark cleft of Caravaggio,
With diminutions of death and the storm’s dark imbroglio,
And sunlight as flesh made into soul,
The skin stretched whole around the world.
Each sky is just a sketch
Of loneliness, left unsigned,
By every hand.
Jul 4, 2019
Jul 4, 2019 at 10:11 PM UTC
it's not that special
what i do
because all i do
is put down
words
that sound cool:
nacreous
adulation
effervescence
narcissistic
imbroglio
divine
haphazard
there's no rhythm
in what i say
all i'm doing
is breaking
lines
and adding
s p a c e s
sometimes
(yes, sometimes)
i put my words
(in these)
in things we call parentheses
and sometimes
(yes, sometimes)
i repeat myself
and call it
emphasis
(emphasis)
on occasion
I might rhyme
but that takes thought
and that takes time
cat, hat, bat
late, hate, date
fat, gnat, mat
mate, fate, eight
sometimes syllables
can help your flow sound better
much like a haiku
if i talk about angst
death, love, and self-hate
(cliche topics)
it's deep
but my favorite
poem i ever
wrote
was about bacon
and god forbid
i capitalize
because that would mean
it didn't look artsy
THIS IS NOT OKAY
Neither is this.
no punctuation
at all
people say my poetry
is beautiful
that I follow all the rules
but I didn't know there
were rules
to follow
really all I do
is put random words
random phrases
in random patterns
and call it art
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
Descant of light
The raconteurs of spring
winging whispered sonnets
chase the woollen winter malaise
from silent skies
fluttered hush of doves
herald the nirvana of dawn
Shadowed palette of dusky hues
muted blues spun somber grey
give way
the subtle brush fades
to the rush
of insatiable light
the alchemy of day
and night
Dismiss this imbroglio
melancholy thoughts
Bitter vignette of lamentations
words chilled expire on lips
disappearing wisps
My spirit lifts
in the blush of sun
dancing across pristine paper
arias burst in the illumination
scattered saffron pollen
blessing multiplied
my hands industrious
I lift my eyes....
The avatar of hope supplies
this descant of light
04/12/08
TL Boehm
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
In this morning's waiting room
And then the café, breaking bread -
I might have read,
Engaged in reverie
Lost myself in thoughts,
Or meditative memory.
But someone overruled
To agitate the air
With an imbroglio
With the inane, vain,
Smug banter of local radio.
It claimed the arena,
And turned our space
From haven into mayhem,
Compulsively silting up
My poor, empty ears
With an unhealthy sound.
Like painting out the view
Behind Beata Beatrix
With a filthy fairground.
Just what we need!
This constant aural cattle-feed.
So: every tree in my opinion
- (I'm speaking as a lowly minion)
Should be hung with massive speakers
Huge loudspeakers, woofers, tweeters,
To entertain us in every place
With never-ending drum and bass,
Then verbose youths, with wit so clever
Can pump us full of **** forever.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 6:39 AM UTC
To act upon coincidence is benign.
Friday the Thirteenth has come and alone.
Who knew that it would be a din?
Not I, as I was thoroughly blind.
Ambushed on the day by a con
And a priest. One asked for money
And the other spoke as I was his son,
Amongst rejection. It was not fun.
Followed by rudeness and tension,
My house was ablaze.
Siblings and parents considered with great revulsion.
Here it shows again, minute titillation.
Sunday, a shame, a fight with a friend.
Imbroglio and irate, words of our time.
A slip of the dead tongue brought our joke to an end.
Confused, angered, sad, love, it is all that it could send.
Here lies the superstition, a mere dry bone.
I would have laughed, but it brought no amusement.
Conclusion: depressed. Sent me into a craze
And all that was left was this mental, social, indifferent slime
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 4:27 PM UTC
You were nothing but a furtive dalliance.
Our days were conflated with a demure attitude.
I’m an ingenue.
And you are an imbroglio.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
It was my
favourite puzzle
And the best time of
The day
More of pretence
Or actual happiness
Was something
Which couldn't be figured
Lying to self
Caused harm
Truth was even bitter
I was trying to
Stay awake
And arrange those
Pieces
I felt a strong
Disinclination
And wanted to
Battle it out
I looked at the illustrations
And stood flabbergasted
Nothing made sense
I had to be
cognisant of
Those boundaries
And keep my self
Wrapped up
There was a piece
Lying by my side
Which wasn't a part of
The puzzle
It was just
An infatuation.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 9:40 AM UTC
Maybe I saw it wrong.
Maybe it was a mistake.
But our time dies when you said hello, you said.
Basis is complex, it is,
But valid all the same.
For when we fought against narrative,
Which... it never went further.
A simple convention that
Has made me worry so.
You truly understand,
No, you never will.
This is how we are:
Soulless saints.
Awkward for others
Whilst we are oblivious to their chains,
And now it has ended,
Of course, with a hello.
For once we responded as
Expected, all that time ago,
We ended our connection
By smothering it in light.
I tend to think too much,
So rather ignore my statements
And idealise me as you wish,
For it will never be
The same; not that it
Ever truly was.
I hope I had an effect
And maybe every time
You come across a
Misunderstanding
You will remember me.
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 4:28 PM UTC
From my childhood, I have been the child of
the sun. Without a sin, always livelihood. I
loved literature .. I mean I always read the
Amphisbaena
This was my tranquiliser, almost like an
anxiolytic Dulcinea.
I postulated it for depress,
Effusive as needed be I had to express.
Hilarious how at first it were words I used to
juxtapose..
Or I suppose I unintentionally juxtaposed both,
words and my books.. I can't recall exactly
how it all began. But I can tell how it looks. It
is a haphazard hazel-shelf, an acervunile.
This is a saga, but I will expatiate.
To escape from gloom I locked myself in the
room, and read books.
I had hallucinations, but I kept on reading
books. Full of hegemony imaginations, I forgot
how to tidy. Idyllic, I only knew how to study.
Slept with books in my bed, some were pillows
for my head. Acervunile was a name I gave to
my bedroom. I denied my friend into the
room, we loomed all the gossip over the
window pane
Gosh I did not need any imbroglio type of
scene
In the mornings I was always late for school,
some of my books were not seen.
They were not lost no, but hiding under my
acervunile bed.
I had books which are Ushers, they'd welcome
you the instant you entered the door,
Some are domates, you stamp on them before
you get on bed,
Some are stalkers, always peeping through the
window, it had seen that uncle who dated the
widow.
On my first collection I organised them A-Z,
but to my least expectation with lassitude I
sorted them into a mephitic Aevirtenal Zenith
Zoo
Even though these books untidy my bedroom,
it is because of them that I'm Xenodochial,
literacy-wise and intelligent! I love my
acervunile bedroom!!!
Siyanda
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
“A malignant adversary invader of my soul,
Conge deceitful lust the augury of artifice,
Mongrel horrid rancor glutton of enthralled rage,
She was fervent with only one ambition afore,
A grand mistake on my part a gazebo of treachery,
Chattels contrary to my reasoning of my desires,
An indisposed viper camouflaged covered in blossoms,
Progenitor of gasps an assassin tarrying in quietude,
A sea shower of sorrows from whence she was drawn,
As the salty drops adorn my sorrows of woe and despair,
Bellowing a fever of the mind from the vile deceit and rage,
As a fish linked adorned to an alluring virulent,
Fabric as the adumbration of the suns shines remorse,
A rapacious blaze leaving thou shuddering in angst,
I have traveled on a road lead to pitfalls and misery,
Imbroglio with no emotion renders windy clouds afore,
A citadel thwarts wane of melancholy and remorse,
That which reason doubtful allows my malignant adversary”
By Andrew Guzaldo 11/1/2018 ©
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 9:54 PM UTC
He offered her the world
But she said she only desired his heart
He paused for a moment in complete silence
As he did not know where to start...
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 12:15 AM UTC
Dead leaves
Falling like sighs
From the full moon
and the canopy of stars
With the crystals reflecting
Demise of the lark
Uncovered
walking on the aisle
Seamlessly flowing away
the fog is the curtain blindfolding her
Doors of the cathedral are shut
The prism reflects the imbroglio
Outlines of bittersweet memories
Burning in the fireplace
Frosted windows with half broken glasses hindering movement
With a pale face and dry lips
Hands numb
she tries to write
Last few lines of her life
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 5:33 AM UTC
It warped and spun,
An object and another.
It grew yet stood,
As if it might have
Been crying.
She stood as well:
Unfazed. Untouched.
Whilst I fought back
The insurmountable urge
To say that I was dying.
I fell and flew;
An object like any other.
Swirled in my orbit,
Against the current;
I might as well have not been trying.
Pushed off a star
And fluttered back.
Reaching the safety
Of a place like home
Where I once was lying.
Alas, (once again) there she stood.
As if I never left.
Unfazed. Untouched.
Whilst I fought back the urge
To show my face smiling.
May 30, 2011
May 30, 2011 at 2:43 PM UTC
"whitman's for the white men" I laughed
marauding through the green squares
AL and I cursing the wind for
our bad lighters and
she laughed again too.
"don't you mean the whole Ivy League"
"yeah **** **** curse the Caucasian
Patriarchy dude"
she spit drool on the grass by
Dillon
"yeah man I don't know, I'm a bit
nervous you know."
she looked like a pummeled cartoon ghost and I wondered why
then behind me I heard a Hi and
I said to her "uh... Remember the American Spirits" (she ended up getting me newports)
I turned around and oh uh hey
back in his room explained to him what Imbroglio meant somewhat
hurriedly and then I knighted it the
Whitman imbroglio looking at the door map
This poem wasn't titled the way he suggested I should
But I think it's ok
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
In March 2001, Melania granted green card
asper elite EB-1 program
intended for renowned academic researchers,
multinational business executives
(linkedin with Uncle SAM)
or those in other fields, such as
Olympic athletes and Oscar-winning actors,
who demonstrated
“sustained national and international acclaim”
until...now, when (FAKE trophy wife)...
besieged with WHAM!
The Don whips to defense of
(legal residency status),
sans his third wife
imbroglio finds the president flat footed
regarding spouses' granted citizenry permission rife,
where details concerning former
in vogue Slovak model now cushy life
challenging her right to live in The United States,
the most Democratic nation
plus concomitant abrogation
afforded robber Baroness admission
dispensing hot button issue of CHAIN MIGRATION,
where sentiment underscored verbatim
"Some people come in,
and they bring their whole family with them,
who can be truly evil. NOT ACCEPTABLE!”
The above on record as authentic Trumpian tweet,
hence quoted with poetic license,
a prime example how two
(or more faced) president didst react to un seat
fairness, which November twitter
allowing parents with bearhug he did greet
legal residency of her parents,
Viktor and Amalija Knavs, as Elite
who received figurative green light
despite riding piggyback
Nsync with military beat
ting back pesky atop flimsy green card,
the freedom appetite got whet
scrutiny, and now a ironic Gordian Knot set
tilled and solved making mincemeat to pet
files, particularly equality
for those skeined alive in the DACA net
ready to boot innocent offspring
of supposed illegal aliens on the next departing jet!
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 5:55 PM UTC
Inspired
By
A girl
-Are not so many things?-
Who marvels at
Newly discovered words.
This aspect is
The inspiring seed
Which brings me
Incentive to nuzzle
The common terms
Aside in pursuit
Of vocabulary spectacular
The inky gems
Nestled in newspaper
Articles; like fragile
Antique tea cups
Or buried deep
Beneath tomes, dust,
And peerless age.
Each word, carefully
I pen them
Like exotic butterflies
In winding lists
In winding lists
Within my notebook,
Permitting the cadence
Of the river
Of inky descriptions
To travel autonomously
Following the fascinating
History of words
The curious examples
Of a word's
More early usage
And thus, term
After term fills
My little journal
Making a poem
Of curious variety
And "lagniappe"
Sits by "imbroglio"
Terms frivolous and weighty
Resting side by side
And these words
Preserved twixt pages
The ultimate museum
Of English's curiosities
And all this
Inspired
By
A girl
-Are not so many things?
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
Like a rabbit in headlights
I am struck like lightning.
I wasn't always - -
Network me!
Extend the tips of my hair into the soil like one thousand fingers reaching through to our common origin!
Slap my still-life face into a mosaic of shutter photographs
I am climaxing, summiting the sierras of shame
and
it feels like renewal
Hurry - deposit my disgorge -
I was dying already when we met.
I am but shrieking in the Blitzkrieg -
Sobrevivencia, my darling!
**** on your sugared fingers and tell me, is it just as sweet?
Implore your inspiration -
Is it coffee coated cigarette coughs which smooth you down like honey whiskey on a cold day's egg yolk sunrise?
There is immense power in desperation ----
But soft now.
Speak to me
And allow your disdainful demure words to
germinate in my eardrums
and -
your mellifluous murmurings to effloresce in everlasting bloom - so I may lilt through the sumptuous wafture of the
sea of our bloods, rendesvouzing
in the surrepititious silence of
the sempiternal
with roses lissome and lithe encircling my head -
Embrace me under this opulent eclipse, this ethereal moment of evanescence before
The petals in my hair dissolve into diaphanousness
and our bloods are beleaguered
by our collective consciousness
and we reach our denoument
But allow us our fugacious, ineffable imbroglio -
our labyrinthine link of amalgamation.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
Painful misunderstandings
complicated altercations
Confused mashup
of regrets and hope
They cumulate, proliferate
who adjudicates
We all step up
For another ride
Copyright © 2019 by Zane Safrit. All rights reserved.
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 2:02 PM UTC
TLACAELEL [to audience as spectators]
Hear ye! Of these five games, his majesty
The emperor has won the first two rounds,
And Hungry Prince has crowned the third and fourth.
Who takes this final set will clinch the match.
HUNGRY PRINCE [aside to Motecuhzoma]
Motecuhzoma, why not call it quits,
While thus we tilt in equilibrium,
So time may be arrested in his stride,
And nothing will be proven to your loss.
MOTECUHZOMA
Oh yes, well, well you should prevaricate,
Since you recoil, and your horoscope
Is but a bunk, evasive, spurious sham.
HUNGRY PRINCE
We used to sport like willful brothers once.
This pointless schism scathes me to the core.
MOTECUHZOMA
Play on! Your grace, equip him for the serve.
PRIEST OF TLALOC
Behold this little token of a ball-
Through this ordeal, symbolic of the sun
When- swallowed nightly by the earth’s dark mouth-
He spars with demons of the underworld,
To birth anew at dawn. So does this sphere,
Across the blood-bathed flagstones of this court.
Regard it so. The gods assort you both.
To one: bask in divine approval’s nod,
The other: dark ignominy. Engage!
He throws the ball to HUNGRY PRINCE. MOTECUHZOMA and HUNGRY PRINCE leave the stage separately.
TLACAELEL
A solid serve.
PRIEST OF TLALOC A capital return.
TLACAELEL
These salt-and-pepper gents belie their age.
Look how they swoop, like eagles bloody-beaked.
PRIEST OF TLALOC
Our monarch springs, a glistening dynamo.
TLACAELEL
And his contender sheds years as he runs.
Tell me, your eminence,
What are your sentiments on Hungry Prince?
PRIEST OF TLALOC
Though not a brilliant statesman, he remains
The most perceptive prophet of the earth,
With whom the gods must share their captain’s logs,
His auspices so rarely miss their mark.
TLACAELEL
You’d buy his soothsaying?
PRIEST OF TLALOC I'd say I would.
TLACAELEL
That’s to the heart of this imbroglio.
PRIEST OF TLALOC
What is the real dispute, then, of this duel?
TLACAELEL
You’d know their true contention?
PRIEST OF TLALOC Tell me.
TLACAELEL So . . .
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
A white cloak of a shy anecdote
A shy remembrance of a serene quote
Quoted some moments ago-
Of coquette and sensual bliss,
An innocence matted with a fresh breeze.
Those eyes could never lie;
With sand heaving down on her *******
Her heart weeps for a caress
But all she gets is a rebuke:
Blending the imbroglio to deeper depths.
Late though it was; came by-
A hope; an outline of somber reversed,
Pristine of thought and complete with chivalry
A distinct epitah of orchids mellowed,
And a fragrance of an unkempt prose.
The moments of those transient powerlessness;
The time when she felt weak at her knees;
She was somebody’s love then,
Somebody’s queen she was
Such was the power of love.
Her heart at last sang her sangeet,
Shahnias and santoors draped her bond amused,
Trousseau she had was all beautiful,
For the first time; she had not been shy;
Her love was now somebody’s prayer.
-by Sauvik Dey.
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 6:27 AM UTC
My mind is a pandemonium
A chaotic,
crumbling mess
An imbroglio of words
and memories haunting me.
What would it take
to just light a match
and watch everything burn.
I will not tame my demons
But I will keep them caped
Hidden from the world
Their feiry tongues
and hearts of stone
will brand hate in my soul
But I will keep on..
Because if I let them loose
the flames will consume us
BOTH...
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC