"ingeniously" poems
As you search twice
For meanings
Cleverly stood
Hid in abstract
Paradoxical format
Ingeniously pushed
Between lines
Of landscape analogies
Fictitiously portrayed
In anonymous
contagious ideologies
I'm sorry
For your losses
Of time and duress
Yet my incomplete thoughts
Can riddle even the best
Into a landscape
Of wild weeds and laughter
I waste away
In time torn pasture
Where timeless turns
To dusty grey
I push save poem
And slip away...
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
One thousand lives lay before me.
Smooth edges jaggedly intermixed
each one has its place.
Some are the corners of a frame,
others fill the void.
The voices unsolved each screech-- annoyed.
When they find their place silence reigns.
Engaged in a kiss only seen on a silver screen.
Lips locked so perfectly, so ingeniously engineered
Their places found through trials and plight
as tired eyes glaze over the chaotic table.
How can this game depict life's fable?
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 11:33 PM UTC
She labors to smile,
irony draws lines
on her embittered face,
thick dark iron bars,
temporarily cage pain;
yet the risk
the two run is toxic.
soon they 'd have to face it,
unmistakable indications reveal,
her velvet voice over the phone,
conjured up an image,
drastically different,
a sadness now faintly asks
his permission to spread quickly,
confused he postpones, buying time.
guilt, a shaggy, smelly, hound
suspicion, its dominant trait,
lurks sniffing around,
the table they mutely sit,
like prisoners of unburied past
convoluting the plot,
by playing ***** tricks.
the air thickens
chocking both,
the haunt leers, licks its paws in glee
what is its intention?
"You look more or less
like him, my former lover-
I try to erase from memory
by every which way possible,
sorry about that, but i can't help it,
he traded in pain of many kinds
ingeniously, nothing else he did"
she shoots from the hip.
memory of an evil genius
was quickly resurrected by him
from the assortment of stereotypes,
vision of caravans transporting
gun powder kegs of bad memories, flashed
he had a match stick handy.
soon, everything exploded to culminate;
darkness devoured all, breaking limits.
caravans slog towards horizon, one after other still.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
Through the centuries, ecclesiastical types have called poets deviants and inferred we would burn in Hell for our heresy. I've often wondered what the rhymes of a condemned poet might look like...
#1
The serpent got
a ***** wrap
as well as did
the Jews
And if you read
between the lines
you won't believe
The news
#2
As I'm not
a Christian
I think it
quite odd
That I should
be punished
by a biblical
God
#3
God the father
and his boy
appear to find
the greatest joy
deciding who
will sing or fry
in pits of Hell
or Heaven’s sky
Me thinks I’d
rather burn in Hell
for truth be told
I don't sing well
Besides in Heaven’s
realm I hear they’ve
put a ban on wine
and beer
#4
Scribbled notes
on wrinkled pages
offer up my
rants and rages
To the gods
both big
and small
who really
don't exist
at all
#5
Going to Hell
is not my intention
For Hell I believe
is your little
invention
Ingeniously
Crafted for
scaring the
masses
By threatening
Flame if they
don't kiss your
*****
#6
Such a simple
happenstance
No books to
study true
No condemning
sermons from
the everlasting
Jew
And since
His love
is only for
the chosen
and the few
I think I'll pass
on Sunday Mass
I've better things
to do
#7
Galileo’s castrated
brilliance shackled
to an empty cross
as demonic paramours
burn in the city square
#8
Rest assured
the herd will
follow the absurd
proclamations’
and the institution's
philosophical solution
to the daily grind
that binds us all
to this stalled
morality we
have mistaken
for God
#9
'Peace on earth
and love thy neighbor'
Cried the man with
cross and saber
Even as he slaughtered
millions for the crime
of pagan birth
#10
Cups and saucers
filled with gold
but not a cent
may we behold
for we are not
among the few
selected by the
ancient Jew
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
*As your brush
Gently, softly strokes
The white canvas on easel
The paint swirls delicately
Ingeniously you mix the rainbow
Of colors on your magical palette
Blending them all together to create your scene
You could create a whole new world of wonder
Just for me and you
And I often wonder what I would paint
If I were such an artist as you
And held all the magical illusions
Right at my fingertips
But since I am not an artist
I can still soak—drink in
The beauty only you can give birth to
The worlds of imagination
Only you can see
And paint upon canvas
For a poetess to see!
~Marian~*
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
This
*innocuous, looking,ancient brown
papyrus scroll contains, on every inch of it
wisdom invaluable, rare to find
(we guess)*
But
*we are relieved of a misery as none has
been ever successful in reading the script
not a bit , even once, hence staling won't help anyone.*
So
*there is no security risk in keeping it open
in full view of all, in case someone ingeniously cracks it
we too can rejoice for this miracle, otherwise let us
sit like this, hoping for this winter gloom to somehow end.*
All
*we look for is for some cheer, even someone
with ulterior intentions is fine , let any one show up
for once, breaking it open letting know what is in there
so precious, is it all we need to rejoice, theory of everything*
any one?
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 6:21 AM UTC
She
Stands for me!
Dressed up
All Pink and white
Glowing from tip to
Outspread reach
Hummingbird
Wings
Decorated
Both in sun in
Moon
A buzz
The chorus of nature
Majestic ingeniously
Being the freshest
Breath of
Spring
Of hope and
Beauty
Fair
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 6:36 PM UTC
All you touch and all you see
Is all your world will ever be.
But who knows if this is all a dream?
A figment of some higher dreamer’s dream.
But if we are all just a dream,
Do we not all still exist?
In this world that we are in
We can feel and think and touch,
And so even if none of us exists
Could this still be enough.
We think the choices that we make
Are things that we have picked.
But in the end it doesn’t matter,
Because we think, what we think.
But if my thoughts,
If they are not mine,
But from someone else’s dreaming mind.
Honestly, I do not care.
Because if I do not exist,
What I think is real isn’t even there.
If no choice is my own,
And nothing here is real.
Nothing matters in the end,
If nothing in this life is real.
But all they touch and all they see,
Is all their world will ever be.
And what if this is my dream?
If you and you and you.
Are some strange combination
Of some people that I knew
In a life that is outside this dream,
A never ending dreamer’s dream.
Because when you are within a dream,
Everything makes sense,
To the dreamingly so conscience mind
Nothing is false pretense.
All I touch and all I see,
Is all my world will ever be.
What if this is your dream?
What if you are really lying in bed,
And everything that is and has happened is all inside your head?
What if the past as you know it,
Is all just fabricated,
And ingeniously and subconsciously innovated
To fit what I just stated.
But if its so,
And this is all just an act,
Put on by your sleeping mind,
How am I to act?
That is not up to me, you see,
If this dream is yours.
You are the one who determines my words,
And decided who next will open up that door.
If this dream is yours,
I only one request.
Please, please,
Make the teacher cancel our next test.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
powerless little girl,
you will choke on your truths
mark my words as you drown in yours
a complete collapse of the ego,
does this sound familiar? it sounds painful
yet all you can do is watch the monuments you’ve built
crumble to the ground
by hands that were never yours
and winter winds will tickle the brittle leaves beneath you
laughing at the destruction you’ve put yourself in
how does it feel to be nothing more than an accessory to the beautiful ruins you wish you’d created?
cat got your tongue?
did it slice your throat in half while it was at it?
you say nothing is worth it
do you really know what worth is to begin with?
little girl did a little twirl and now she thinks she has nothing but tricks up her sleeve.
the only deception you are skilled in is the kind you keep to yourself
i bet your body is screaming and begging for something to consume.
i bet you are starving.
but i bet all you will do is give everything away until you finally die from the hunger.
how pathetic!
how hysterically desolate,
how ingeniously far-fetched,
what a blasé take on deprivation,
is this what you call art?
you are quite the charmer.
what a feeling it is when you are finally as small as you feel.
miserable little girl, you will beg for a voice your entire life and it will lock itself in your eyes.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC
I think I'm in love.
How can I really know if I'm in love though?
Is love knowing how many kisses fit between her eyes?
What about looking at her and being blown away every time?
I'm pretty certain I'm in love.
I spend the sleepless nights thinking about how her hair falls when I play with it.
I think about caressing her fair skin as I kiss the back of her neck.
I think about her lips brushing against me and shiver, every single time.
I know I'm in love.
When she lays on me I feel her breathing, our heartbeats aligning.
She face flushes and her hair floats down to cover her beautiful face.
Her absolute perfection shines over me, and I can't help but stare.
I'm totally in love.
The sound of her name is more pleasing than anything the greatest composers could ever write.
Her body is easily comparable to the Greek's idea of perfection.
Her mind works so ingeniously I have to take a step back, in order to even understand the brilliance behind every comment.
I'm in love with her.
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
They have it in for you and me,
Ingeniously
they have found a way
to have their cake and
eat it every day.
But it's not about them.
You and I get by and together
we can fly away.
In the summertime and the washing's off the line, we can build a kite together and perfect weather for floating a dream downstream.
I watch as the clouds realign and see a sign and a warning as more clouds and storm clouds are forming off the starboard bow.
How do they manage to eat all of the cake?
It's the frequency that frequents me and brings the news of home, news from friends and family, tears of joy and tragedy on the frequency that frequents me.
I turn off and tune in and soon all is forgotten
except for them and cake and I have a stomach ache.
You and me and two into one go on because it's not about them,
It's about us.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 12:18 PM UTC
being skeptical of love
love is a myth
told by someone that doesnt know for sure either
ingeniously camouflaged myth
spoils you with so much fun
so you will never, or you wont ever know what happiness is
then you get numb with the fun
that is when you realized
you chose to exacerbate your mournful, miserable, useless heart, by falling into that myth.
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 3:03 PM UTC