"intonation" poems
Who Am I?
Well,
I must be
that ******
the one
in the black hoodie
***** sweatpants
and an uncombed eye,
that's always wooly
scratchy,
bloodshot
with searching for
my stash spot,
that ******
in your peripherals
that you keep your eye on
because he's
not
in a polo
looking nice,
talking
"well-spoken"
and
not
a threat
to your beautiful
lily-white daughter.
Because I grew up
fixing myself
ramen noodles
and
lifting the welcome mat
after school,
I must also be
that ******
whose father wasn't
in the same house
until he was age 13,
and when I tell you that,
you weren't expecting it
because "you're not a racist."
but
you weren't surprised.
You see,
I must be
that ******
a stand-in
for all other *******
I must be that ******
who represents
all *******
not because you are racist,
but because I'm the only
******
you've met
who doesn't talk like
dis, y'know whatmsayin,
and i talk like
this, do you know what I'm saying?
I must be that ******
In order for you
to feel okay
being around me
I must be that ******
who goes to college
does the right
thing
the white thing
and gets a job
a nice little house,
a nice black wife
with a nice
new england
clear
dialect,
(what I was
trying to get at
earlier
is that ****** dialects,
by their mere intonation,
denote stupidity,
right?)
and doesn't say a word
when his white friends
make ****** jokes
or talk in a ****** dialect
mocking some Aunt Jemima
they heard at Walmart.
But,
I also must be that ******
who doesn't step out of line
and say
"WHY IS IT
THAT IN EVERY SINGLE
ENGLISH CLASS
WE READ
ONLY
TWO
BLACK AUTHORS
A SEMESTER,
AND THAT'S
ENOUGH,
JUST ENOUGH
TO KEEP THE
****** PARENTS
HAPPY."
And If I happen to be a ******
I,
by all means,
must not be that ******
who had a white girlfriend,
and
this girlfriend
after dating
a ******
tried to date a white guy
she liked,
and when she told him
that she had dated,
loved,
and yes,
******
a ******
he had said back:
"I can't believe
you ****** a ******
Then again,
I must be that ******
with the big swinging ****
able to destroy
a white girl's ******
with its pulverizing
power.
And,
please,
If I am going to be a ******
don't be the one
who writes a poem
about
having to be
that ******
because those
kinds of *******
are being
over-sensitive,
those dashiki-wearing-motherfuckers
who think
"Da white man dis."
and "Da white man dat."
Because
I am not one of those *******
descended from the first people on earth,
your brother,
not in the ****** way,
but the familial,
species way.
Why am I even writing
this, ****** isn't a main operative
word anymore.
Search and find ******
and
replace with
"Black Guy." That way it becomes
a joke.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 7:22 AM UTC
The message has been sent
among the stacked corroborations
remain the only touch
perhaps night will
obscure the notions
honor, trust, courage
a remembrance of things passed
the message has been sent
the water endlessly seeking the sea
an eternity
pebbles roll along the stream floor
underfoot
the water ankle deep
an moment
the message has been sent
within the certification
release the only intonation
duty, mercy, hope
all living things relent
stretched before me forever
new chains have been forged
the message has been sent
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 1:30 PM UTC
in the river of good company
***I dedicate this poem to
Mr. Harlon Rivers,
one of the best poets (here)
and from his good company,
i could drink all day and
never be quenched***
~
Preface
sometime, the heart wants it wants,
denial, temporarily from your vocabulary, excised
sometimes, beauty keelhauls you, gets you
awestruck inspired, then arrogance overcomes
the brilliance of common sense and you go ahead and
mess with perfection despite every sensor flashing
uh oh, duh, oh no, fool on the premises, lockdown needed!
do believe this condition can be found in the medical books
under I, for Inspiration, Incantation, or S for Stupidifacation
my heart wants to write a poem,
cause I was a witness, sitting twenty feet
from the heavenly crime scene,
and every intonation swept my brain into that secret place,
when I heard KD Lang singing "The Valley"^
~~~
in the river of good company
simple sentiment but good god
all I ever wanted and so oft lacked
such was my fate, one I made,
had plenty good words for boon companions,
the occasional touch of a woman rippling waves
cross my face, a love lapping slapping
of concentric pebble rings,
till like most good things
gone good goes bad,
it just happens to evaporate and
you think someday, maybe,
you will walk again in good company
the brain says quit right here
but the heart brooks no damning tantrum of sanity imposition,
for those handful of deepest, not quite six feet under
palpitations of insensible, cutting glimpses of that word I hate so,
memories,
of when
you walked in good company
men women no different - it is that heated aura
tween bodies that confirms that you are once again
a human being, just a being, temporarily
enhanced, elevated, by good company
so go ahead sweet talks ya, that devil id a/k/a desire, says -
one more for the road can't hurt ya,
write that poem -
and perhaps one good man, glory hallelujah, a good woman,
will read it and you can stop weeping you idiot,
do it so you will be back, nuttier but nurtured,
drinking from the river of good company,
mouthing not even dare whispering,
satisfied satiated, loving and loved
~
all reposts greatly and grateful appreciated!
4/2/17 9:24am
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 9:27 AM UTC
I’ve ordered and carried my steaming cup of brown to my table to ignore the falling snow beyond the walls of this box.
My clothes are wrong, my hair as well.
I just cut it, and everyone knows which mistakes I made.
A man sneezes and the song changes.
Better not make eye contact with anyone; I am not in their league, here at the muddy spoon cafe.
Chewing so loudly in the de-creeping silence,
these safe, polite, quiet ones.
I am the creep here. I am different.
My thighs are tense.
Hunching over the paper, arms tense and clutching a gnarled red pen--
It’s probably self-indulgent to even sign my name.
Someone’s shuffling cards.
I almost forgot.
The awkwardness I’m filled with breathes out a short sigh when I realize
--my part’s over.
“Do you know Sanskrit? Do you know what that is?”
A woman asks another.
I want to choke on the pretension
The tenseness, I adjust my leg to relieve pressure on my ankle.
Why can’t I just enjoy the snow? That’s all I really came here for-- well, and the coffee.
I hear a woman cough with an unaffected tenor, which would convey her gender to an interested party but to me carries no intonation.
I wonder if the girl I recognize from class thinks I’m following her.
I came here for coffee, sweetheart!
Is it yet too hot for me to dare a drink?
I can see it, the steam, rising out of the corner of my eye.
I haven’t looked away from my hand in twenty minutes.
“Who am I?” they may be asking myself for me.
I don’t have a clue.
They can think about that problem
for themselves
while they’re lonely
in their forties.
I’m lonely now and I hope not to live
that long.
Here, we pretend not to see each other’s faces
in the gleaming presence of steaming cups.
“I don’t want to wonder about that.”
I realize there’s nothing I even deem worth writing down.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 4:13 AM UTC
A poem should be read aloud
whether to one’s self or to a crowd
It’s meaning lies in being heard
and not the shape of every word
Lest it become calligraphy
hung on the wall for all to see
But poems seen do seldom touch
when compared to one read out as such
For intonation, pace and rhyme
are all heard within the poets mind
As pen commits the words to page
the actors banished from the stage
To reappear when words meet sound
and raise the poem from the ground
To sail on high with majesty
extolling sorrow, mirth or glee
Bring forth emotions penned in ink
and take the reader to the brink
To place you there midst poems tale
for to spectate means poets fail
So stand up son and stand up proud
whilst you read these lines out loud
Feel the smile upon your face
or seen on others your voice did grace
For had you kept this to yourself
might just as well have stayed on the shelf
But bringing voice to wiser words
allows its message to be heard
A message know by self or crowd
that poems should be read aloud
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 2:30 PM UTC
When great aunt Maggie passed away years ago, the one thing I really missed was her angelic voice.
The swaggering, sing-song lilt of the mid-Derry accent was as sweet as the confections she used to pass out to us as kids:
The inflection, the intonation, and the slight lisp she brought to it was so gloriously unique but was never heard again.
I often wish I could go back with a tape recorder to capture it in all its glory and relive how wonderful she was.
Now all I have is a untranslatable memory that can't be brought back to even vaguely approximate what it meant to me.
And now here I am again with the same obstacle.
The same tones, the same inflections albeit through a different light have just been extinguished before me.
This time there was no digital device rushing in to capture our time before it ran out.
No instinct for preservation was forthcoming - we were too busy having fun & 'being here now'.
No, once again I am bereft:
All I I have is here (in my heart) and and here (in my head)
The loved sounds I miss will always resound there albeit without backup
Voices lost but not forgotten.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 8:04 AM UTC
While I sit down to write
My pen begins to talk
What are you ding my friend
You resemble a hawk
You have a long agenda
to fix something up
Never trying to find
only eccentrically burp?
The Suns, Moons you see
Can never be your friend
You are quite alone
over the battle ground
Time have come
to make your skin thick
Strengthen your body
to give hard kick
All these talks
made me to smile
pen seems very smart
walks a more mile
Agendas are to undo
battles are history
for my beloved pen
it is a mystery
World has moved
faster than my pen
Sun.Moon are in my net,
and listed as my fan
I pity my poor pen
Preparing to face a ban
we are in motion
Just no battles
Only a final Annihilation
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 12:29 PM UTC
Ingénue, Ingénue
mellifluous intonation;
within my ear
intangible embrocation!
Emollient to my inure
lithe and lilt affections-
A panacea, a talisman
fetching provocation.
Ingénue, Ingénue
Why must you fall
into such fugacious
dalliances?
Becoming and comely
are you
The cynosure of men
dissembling by demure
Ingénue, Ingénue
how easily I imbue
sempiternal scintilla
into naive little you
Lo, during my brooding-
arrive in halcyon gambol,
Dulcet or Saccharine
Is it me or you?
Ingénue, oh Ingénue
an epiphany, so true
a furtive labyrinthine
past the offing of you
None so opulent
cast more than penumbra.
T'would simply be Pyrrhic
to go on, continue.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
Silent and forever speechless,
I like the intonation of your breath too much,
any cacophony would **** our spirit.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 12:42 PM UTC
Use all the combinations of consonants,
Blends, short and long i's;
Try intonation or diphthongs;
Resort to linguists;
Spell in Welsh.
You can't approximate
The muted sound
Of a breaking heart.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
No one born too far from Niedersachsen, said Oma,
ever quite captures their sing-song intonation.
Characterized by subtleties, like an umlauted vowel,
all non-native imitations sound inevitably as ******
as would a cry of “ello, guv’nah!” in a London coffee shop.
Her Plattdeutsch instincts neutered
by decades abroad, married to a son of Milwaukee,
her permanent, dormant longing for Salzgitter awakes only
to trigger hunger pangs of irreconcilable nostalgia
at the passing whiff of a Germantown bakery.
She taught me the word “sehnsucht” over lukewarm coffee
and a pause in our conversation: a compound word
that no well-intentioned English translation
could render faithfully.
It isn’t the same as just longing, she sighed— longing is curable.
Sehnsucht holds the fragments
of an imperfect world and laments
that they are patternless. How the soul
yearns vaguely for a home
remembered only in the residual ache
of incomplete childhood fancies;
futile as the ruins
of an ancient, annihilated people.
How life’s staccato joys soothe
a heart sore from the world,
yet the existential hunger, gnawing
from the malnourished stomach
of the bruised human psyche, remains—
insatiable, eternal.
Long enough ago, a reasonably-priced bus ride away
from the red-roofed apartment in which she babbled her first words,
a kindly old man in a pharmacy asked her
about her peculiar, exotic accent. Once inevitably prompted
with the question of where she was from, she responded only
that she was a tourist off the beaten track.
And when I pointed out, to my immediate regret,
that she gets the same question back here in Ohio,
I realized then that, not once, has she ever referred to the way
the people of her pined-for hometown spoke
as though she had ever belonged to it.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
cliche, boring, bland and weak
based upon a foundation of chic
pseudo-intellectual
you distract from your lack
with your apathetic crap
entomology and intonation
i call it character ************
you do it too often, many of you
just be who you are so we can shine through
i just have to get this off my chest...
your subject matter concerns love
who would've guessed
it rhymes and chimes and deliverance isn't best
and if one skims just beginning and end
there is no need for the rest
lacking originality
either resolve or contradiction
not cryptic nor a riddle in sight
not an original thought nor display of risk
you can learn here from this one write
what you could never tell east from west
and even though, you'll be better so
it will never be
as clever as thee
so just hide behind your traditional text
its not that i seek to pick on the weak
its quite the contrary-
start over with command
so you understand
it is the fraudulent that i detest
it is lack of interest and tact
and i won't take it back
your technique is as the rest.
you slack in approach
you couldn't hold my attention
from the first line
to the next
no captivation
no eccentricity
no enigma
flooding, you are, a pest
parasitic in your relentlessness
attention seeking for all the wrong reasons
leading poetry to its death
you bore me truly
insincerely yours,
unafraid to best.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 6:28 PM UTC
Nervousness speaks true thought
turning fresh air to gold as it travels
across the pub interior ether from
rough pale lips to your rouged
set, sitting tidy in front of me.
Shaking fingers shake hands with
thoughts and nothing, melding something
of answer to your question you asked
I think twenty-five minutes back,
I know not of Richard Feynman, please explain though.
Come the occasion of a plane crash or
shipwreck, can I sink with your voice
running soft laps around my head?
At least then your intonation's tread
and heel's step of educated well-read
can offset any pain caused by a wing in my thigh
or a timing belt leaving my tongue tied and wrapped.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
Sitting here as the tears haste down my cheeks on to the wooden floor
the frigid floor froze my tear
watching the tear drop reminded me of your hair
when it drops down to your back when you take your ponytail out
your long unending alluring hair.
I wonder what it feels like if my fingers are combing through it
I ponder on what it will look like when i see you
if i ever do.
The tears
still dripping down my face
When will they stop?
when i see your seductive smile
when i see your seducing face in person
just my eyes and yours .
This moment will come
One day, i know it will...
Looking at your pictures i say how beautiful you are to myself
I told Jade i think i love you
but the think went away
I do.
You tell me you love me
I say it back.
I don't tell people i love them if I really don't
Love is a strong word
Just Like Hate.
but hate will never be towards you
your far from hate..
Our text messages.
I look over them ,
only you now why...
The meaning of your name:
a clear, brilliant glass
clear like your mind is on irrelevant things
or the negative words that i'm sure came at you .
Brilliant Glass ?
the brilliant glass of you is your personality.
its effervescent.
Your laugh .
I love the sound of it.
I make you laugh just to hear the intonation of it.
Me still using up all my tears.
Oh wait there endless
so i can continue to cry everyday right?
Its nothing else i can really say but i really love you.
-nlj
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
∞
___Name the word, for the word has a name.___
_Listen to it breathe. Let it lie lightly in the mind and liquid
on the tongue. Bear its essence forth, its personality and its intention
- conceived briefly, discarded readily, pronounced forcefully.
∞
How does it sit with you? The spread of its silhouette suspended
within a silent interval. How does it move you? An attitude framed by
the gesture of a hand. Is its pitch sharp or flat, its texture course or fine?
∞
Allow meaning and resonance, intonation and feeling to merge unencumbered;
the syntax of the imprisoned soul, emancipated by a river of sound, to mould
the shape of your aboutness, around and within, beyond and in spite of..._
___And hear consciousness dance.___
∞
Nov 26, 2020
Nov 26, 2020 at 7:42 PM UTC
Water of remembrance sprinkled
On the mountain crest of recollection.
Indulgent mussy memory catapulted
Stones of retentiveness into the
Courtyard of events like bricole
Of battles.
Pendulum of reminiscences swinging
On oscillating milage of roads like
Trotting horse with drippage of sweat
And itching foots.
Ghost of reminiscences restlessly
Roaming with carriage of yesteryear.
Final year educatees required
Boardinghouse,
But list of items engorged dear
Mother's treasury
"where do l raise money
to buy oyinbo mattress, Ilori?"
Mind pullulated with weariness.
Intonation of worries.
Cantillation of wants.
Deficiency of measured means.
Oyinbo mattress beyond ladder
Of reach.
Gluttonously waiting to devour
Lesser items,
But rays of compulsion unslammed
The gate of respite.
Lordly arrival warmly welcomed by
The dorm room's porter,
Walking majestically to the bed-space
With the acquired cotton wool and raffia leaves mattress.
Gamut of items passed through the eagle's eyes of the housemaster.
Silver painted pail donated by a neighbour passed through the sentry of inspection,
And got its admission.
Mother's used cloak turned bedsheets
Passed through the rigorous scrutiny.
Newly built portmanteau unlocked and neatly dissected, item by item.
Agazed eyes focused on the cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress.
Expectations rattled mumbling astonishment.
Legs stuck in the mud of mystification.
Telepathic dews covered ocean of thought.
Tranquil silence engulfed vicinity,
Deflating the balloon of hope like a litigant awaiting verdict from the jurist's chambers.
Porter's gesticulating gesture connoted nothingness of demeaning disapproval, perambulating on the hilly terrain of approval.
Akimbo stood l.
Now the verdict!
Molten volcanic magisterial command erupted in a gestapo gesture,
Spudding out from the barytone's baritone voice from the selfsame housemaster,
From the bastion of authority,
And the house generalissimo like a wild brant squalled, matter-of-factly,
"we do not accept bed bugs cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress here".
Entreaties collapsed.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 1:30 AM UTC
I've Had This Said...
A Couple of Times...
My Cadence Is TIGHT...
When Reciting Rhymes... !!!
The Movement of Sound...
When I... Vocalise...
Which Is Also Known...
As... INTONATION...
If You're Reading This... ?
That's.... Education.... !!!
Cos' Words Like These...
Have Close Relations... !!!
NO NOT Like THAT... !!!
But That's A... FACT... !!!
Intonation And Cadence...
Make For Good Entertainment... !!!
When Done With STYLE... !!!
But You NEED A Good Voice...
That Is... TOP Choice... !!!
And Keeps The Ladies....
Slightly... " MOIST "...
Pay Attention Now Boys... !!!
Cos' A Voice That's SWEET...
Can Help You Get...
Girls In Your Sheets... !!!
YES For... RELATIONS... !!!!!
So We're Back Again...
To... INTONATION...
If You Use It WELL...
You Make Pulses RISE...
Just Like... INFLATION...
Or Just Like England's Taxation... !!!
But KEEP Your Cadence Moving On...
Keep It Slick And NOT TOO Blatant...
Cos' This Can Make Some ...
LOSE Their...................... Patience... !!!
Then Your Message Is LOST...
Like Beds For Patients... !!!
Intonation Is A Wonderful Gift...
So I'm Using Mine For Poetic Scripts...
Cos' When The Two Get Together...
It's A... PERFECT FIT... !!!!!
Like Guns And Clips... !!!
Or Cues And Tips...
Or A Great Pair of Lips...
Around A STIFF... DRINK... !!!!!
Did You Get The Link... ?
See Words I Write...
Make People THINK... !!!
And Leave Some Resting....
On The... BRINK... !!!
Or On The... VIRGE... !!!
Cos' Some of My Words...
Make People... SINK...
Into Leather Chairs...
Talking To... Shrinks... !!!
But Cadence Linked To Intonation...
Makes My Message Seem Less Blatant...
My Message Is Honed...
To... UNIFY Nations...
Through Usage of Prose...
And... INTONATION... !!!
Are You With Me Folks... ?
Can You See The... " Relation "... ?
Or BETTER Still The Slick Connection... !!!
My Message Is STRONG...
And Has... Direction... !!!
But Does Inflection...
DIVERT............ Attention... ?!?
Well THAT's A Subject...
WORTH... Inspection... !!!
Does My Voice Attract... ?
Or Is It Because I'm BIG and Black... ?!?
And Do NOT Run From PAINFUL Facts...
When Using Words To WOUND Infections... !!!
And EXPOSE THOSE Who Have DEFECTIONS... !!!
Sometimes I Laugh...
When I Read This Stuff... !!!
Cos' CLEARLY Some Get In A HUFF... !!!
And Wish That I Would Just SHUT UP... !!!
That's Cool With Me...
But PAY ATTENTION PLEASE... !!!!!
My Poetry Will NEVER Freeze... !!!
And NOBODY Will Stop My Speech...
From Reaching Those It NEEDS To REACH... !!!
Well Someone CAN...
Guess Who... Yes ME... !!!
But That I'm Afraid Is UNLIKELY... !!!
Cos Yoda Has Instilled In Me...
THESE Three words...
… ”It's Your Destiny !" …
I'm FEELING That...
Are You Feeling ME... ?
Feel Free To Applaud...
If You Like My Style of Poetry... !!!
I'll Continue To Read...
While My Mind Runs FREE...
And Want My Words...
To OUTLAST me... !!!
Through Publishing And OTHER Things...
Like TEACHING The Dumb To STOP KILLING... !!!
But THAT Will Be WITHOUT My Voice...
Soothing Mics' With Baritone Noise...
Well That's The FUTURE...
But While i'm Here...
I'll KEEP ON Speaking And Relating...
By Using STRONG...
... " Cadence and Intonation " ...
Sep 27, 2021
Sep 27, 2021 at 10:37 PM UTC
mechanical wonders are they!
the greatness of ever-changing plains
withered weathering willows which wallow in the wake of winds,
shriveling, sniffling, cynical twins.
solaris, the fantastical bringer of light!
oh how we lift our faces in your fruit-bearing gaze.
our thanks for extinguishing the inky blight, you have given us sight.
we miserable, entangled creatures in locks and chains,
at the mercy of the return of your fiery blaze.
we rely on Pandora’s final curiosity
and during times of ultimate crisis, we wish for you
and pray for catharsis.
but your sister…
luna, you wretched being, wrecker of sanity!
oh how you unravel the psyche, fibrous ends,
intertwining tapestries meticulously woven yet disassembled so quickly.
we are aghast at the horrors with which you plague us.
each stare through the mirror, reversed pools of vanity
freckles of light fall from their places
on weary onlookers’ shadowy faces
as they melt in the hysterics of your obscure domain.
finally a farewell, an intonation of speech:
“good-bye.”
discombobulated words, addressed to each;
for one sister revitalizes that which the other hath slain.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 11:09 PM UTC
I remember fairy tales
The dramatic intonation of the story teller The books with gilded pictures Pages sometimes glossy, Sometimes thin and worn.
Stories of enchanted woods and jungles
Of hope and disaster
The most unlikely circumstance
But almost always a miracle
The good dragon, the fairy godmother
Talking animals and secret doors
Rabbits, toads, princes and queens,
Treasure, flying carpets, evil lurking like dark clouds, a sinister gift clad in unsuspecting beauty to the innocent. There is a path through the wood.
Vines and ancient trees, willow and yew; Roses with thorns and wild berries Songbirds and moss and stones of all colors; In fairy tales there are always twists.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 10:12 AM UTC
Application of misinformation
Falsify a failed nation,
Eradication of all creation
Misinterpretation
Of representation
Deny the station
Granted by occupation
And the inhalation
Of justification
No prerequisite information
Just accumulation
No moderation,
Their determination
Through stimulation
Cultural ************
Communal degradation
Societal desecration,
Dehumanizing revocation,
Worldly humiliation,
Mortal sterilization
Never achieving mobilization
Lack of communication
Excelling in vile persuasion,
Proponents of procreation
Birthing digitization,
Destroy civilization,
Indications of adoration
Isolation in delineation,
Irrational indexation,
Fluctuating indignation,
No innovation,
Divination
Retaliation,
Immolation,
False ovation,
Lacking limitations,
Contextual intonation,
Divine fabrication,
Private publication,
Evolving fornication,
Give me extermination,
Notwithstanding annexation
Of dismaying oxidation,
Of valued perpetuation,
Global mass-castration,
Redundant rhetoric, dictation,
A donation, a dilation, a fixation,
An annotation of fibrillation,
We are personification
Of Contamination
Through globalization
Praising idolization
And finalization
Through **********
No pragmatic exoneration,
In all frustration
We see not utilization
Nor stabilization,
Fearful implications
Of wayward stations,
Surplus mutilations,
Seeking militarization
Of worthless nations,
No conservation,
Just excavation
Of the population
******** on education,
Spitting on graduation,
No validation of aspiration,
Indoctrination of baptization
Mitigating litigation,
murdering habitation,
Quelling all vegetation
We will end in radiation
Through faulty navigation,
Abdication and abnegation,
All worldly agitation
Leads us to expiration,
Self-made annihilation.
There was never an end in sight,
We’re lost, and hope is a lie.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 8:14 PM UTC
I write poems about love.
its the truth
look at my profile
usually its sad
angry
that he wont give me the time of day
that he wants our relationship to always stay
as friends
but the other day
a man confessed
and told me he loved me
and I shied away
unacknowledged
I was upset he put me
in
such an awkward position
but thinking back on the forward
confession
I must admit
my misconception
that I did the same thing
to get
over another
so maybe this boy
is just trying to get over me
but I cant forget it
I see it now
in every intonation
every stare
every touch
and it makes me uncomfortable
to be loved that much
because
I
cant
feel
the
same
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 5:04 PM UTC
I live in a world
full of people with your name
but not the way you articulate the consonants
or the way your eyes dare
listeners to
contradict your intricate intonation.
correction
I live in a world
full of people who think they can have your name
without having your soul.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
doopth..doopth..doopth..
the intonation of a gavel
upon a felted block
order, orrrder,
i now call to order this
washday gathering
of the
metaphysical
analytical
socks
drawer # 1793
all rise and come to toetip
for the grand entry of
the great thrice darned heel
kazoos squeak the intro
to the ode to joy
an old grey golf sock is
ushered in to sit slouched
on the top of the washer/dryer.
he observes the following proceedings.
now to business
the agenda for the day
1. groove and the toe socks
table their report on the
systematic eradication of toejam.
2.the tradditionalists continue
the open discussion on,
wool versus synthetic,
for winterwear.
3.we have a vote scheduled
on the referedum matter:
do we allow sandals and thongs
guest status in this drawer.
4.the metaphysicists update
us on the age old conundrum;
"where do the odd socks go?"
at present they are devling
into the posibilities of
superposition of states,
as presented by
the schrodinger's cat theory.
5. the analytical group are meanwhile, surveying the remaining
evenless socks;
to obtain data on the pairless state of being
6. and finally, we welcome a deposition from the natralists;
with regard to use of bamboo
and hemp to allow for the wicking
of footwater, for a longer lasting
freshness of the base arch construction.
please feel free to attend one or
more of these discussions, contributions and /or questions
will be taken after the presentations.
i am also asked to inform you, that
the metatarsals group has a table of goods for sale, at the leftside of the wash basket.
items include:
new elastics and darning equipment.
books on special this meet are;
the ever popular
"how not to become a sock puppet"
and the tragic
"my life as a duster"
then there is the new offering of
"sox and jox:
the art of underwear
diplomacy."
and one last item of note:
a reminder that membership fees,
(of one clean toe clipping) are due
before next months gathering
go now,
enjoy the gathering.
and may the foot be with you
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 3:39 AM UTC
In semitones it sang its morning song:
With perfect intonation did it sound
Each pitch-pure shaft of tone to richly confound
The staccato, choppy, chirpy, cheepy throng.
After this phrase of notes sung clear and strong,
A cadence-closing burst of trill unwound,
Shaken out taut and cinching, fast and round,
That lasted to the pure tones doubly long.
More beautiful singing I have never heard,
And yet was I inclined to doubt its worth.
I silenced my mind and listened to the earth,
And this was in the singing of the bird:
If all the world will be the way it is,
Be thankful for the bird that sings like this.
^ ^
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
your smiles were contraband, smuggled
from late mornings in the kitchen;
your eyes were the deep dark green of
pine trees; bottled wine.
you were dew and early rays of sunshine
and the lightest thing I've seen.
today, I scrolled past a photo of you
and it didn't break my heart.
this is what moving on must look like:
drinking coffee without thinking
of your dress two christmases ago,
without thinking of your burnt food
and firelight laughter and slow-dancing
in your bedroom to fast music.
I still can't sleep on your side of the bed;
nevertheless
I remember you less clearly; have forgotten
what your hands felt like going through my hair,
no longer know the precise melody of your voice
when you got angry, no longer know the intonation
of 'I love yous' from your lips, and I no longer
wish to know.
and so although I am forever loving you
I am in love & letting go.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 6:17 AM UTC