"introductory" poems
looking at my re-introductory poem
to the world of hello poetry,
I realized that I had never posted
a poem about rage (but I sure did do a number on confusion)
so here is one for you, love.
I HATE MY LIFE
I HATE MY JOB
I HATE MY FRIENDS
I HATE MY CAT
I HATE CATS
I HATE ANYTHING FLUFFY
INCLUDING CATS
SO JUST
SHUT UP
SHUT UP
SHUT UP
SHUT UP
SHUT UP
SHUT UP
SHUT UP
SHUT UP
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 2:23 AM UTC
A Sonnet is a moment’s monument,—
Memorial from the Soul’s eternity
To one dead deathless hour. Look that it be,
Whether for lustral rite or dire portent,
Of its own arduous fulness reverent:
Carve it in ivory or in ebony,
As Day or Night may rule; and let Time see
Its flowering crest impearled and orient.
A Sonnet is a coin: its face reveals
The soul,—its converse, to what Power ’tis due:—
Whether for tribute to the august appeals
Of Life, or dower in Love’s high retinue,
It serve; or, ’mid the dark wharf’s cavernous breath,
In Charon’s palm it pay the toll to Death.
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I am a humming bird with a broken wing forming a geometric fall.
I am a conjoined twin with a foot in heaven and one in hell.
I am a geyser spewing out echoes from a stonewall well.
I am an open road stretched for miles paved with a murderous smile.
I am a man with a firm handshake who stands still on top of an earthquake.
I am a visionary man who slipped on fate and fell in love.
I am a preliminary hearing fallen on deaf ears.
I am the contribution to your retribution.
I am a person of depersonalization.
I am a one man army minus one man.
I am the desired taste of orange juice and toothpaste.
I am concentrated concentration.
I am the formation of your imagination.
I am the comma for your introductory clause.
I am the cause for your sudden pause.
I am the spatula that stirs up your anxiety.
I am the reaper who never leaves a clue.
I am the lace that always chokes the shoe.
I am the light that finds its way thru helping the little shrew.
I am the suburban white boy who sings the blues.
I am consistent inconsistency.
I am your assigned tour guide for your expiration exploration.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
Evenings of black rubber
and silky piano with
four-part choir harmony
Evenings of
flickering candles
chicken parmigiana
an introductory salad
Evenings of
cello sighs
champagne lies
sunsets
fade slowly to morning
every time
Aug 23, 2011
Aug 23, 2011 at 9:49 PM UTC
I am not who you see,
I am me
The Clumsy, dorky, sometimes ******
The one who will try to make you feel
When you cannot feel anymore,
The one that will stand up for you,
When you are limp, on the floor.
The person that will make sure,
Your information is correct.
Sometimes to be a pain in the ****
The one who will cook, but only if its
For her and another, or more.
But never for herself.
The one that tries to give the best advice,
But never asks for them to listen.
Sometimes she thinks she is male,
For always wanting to be right.
But at the same time, she is female.
Whiny, crabby, always up in your face.
She is indecisive, she doesn’t know half of the time.
Her name is Chelsea.
She is pretty cool.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 12:20 AM UTC
I walked among the seven woods of Coole:
Shan-walla, where a willow-hordered pond
Gathers the wild duck from the winter dawn;
Shady Kyle-dortha; sunnier Kyle-na-no,
Where many hundred squirrels are as happy
As though they had been hidden hy green houghs
Where old age cannot find them; Paire-na-lee,
Where hazel and ash and privet hlind the paths:
Dim Pairc-na-carraig, where the wild bees fling
Their sudden fragrances on the green air;
Dim Pairc-na-tarav, where enchanted eyes
Have seen immortal, mild, proud shadows walk;
Dim Inchy wood, that hides badger and fox
And marten-cat, and borders that old wood
Wise Buddy Early called the wicked wood:
Seven odours, seven murmurs, seven woods.
I had not eyes like those enchanted eyes,
Yet dreamed that beings happier than men
Moved round me in the shadows, and at night
My dreams were clown hy voices and by fires;
And the images I have woven in this story
Of Forgael and Dectora and the empty waters
Moved round me in the voices and the fires,
And more I may not write of, for they that cleave
The waters of sleep can make a chattering tongue
Heavy like stone, their wisdom being half silence.
How shall I name you, immortal, mild, proud shadows?
I only know that all we know comes from you,
And that you come from Eden on flying feet.
Is Eden far away, or do you hide
From human thought, as hares and mice and coneys
That run before the reaping-hook and lie
In the last ridge of the barley? Do our woods
And winds and ponds cover more quiet woods,
More shining winds, more star-glimmering ponds?
Is Eden out of time and out of space?
And do you gather about us when pale light
Shining on water and fallen among leaves,
And winds blowing from flowers, and whirr of feathers
And the green quiet, have uplifted the heart?
I have made this poem for you, that men may read it
Before they read of Forgael and Dectora,
As men in the old times, before the harps began,
Poured out wine for the high invisible ones.
2.2k
My hand doesn’t seem to want to hold a pencil;
My brain is having trouble focusing.
What is this?
Multiple choice?
Worksheets?
Essays and Assignments?
Woah, wait a second
I can’t handle this algebra equation
And forget about a ‘great thesis’!
Give me a second to comprehend!
Can we please skip all the introductory class rules?
I wont spit gum in your class
Or write on all the desks.
I already know where to turn my paper in, and yes,
I will sharpen my pencil whenever I feel like it.
I’m bored already, I want to get moving
I’m ready to learn.
Golly gee, it sure is hot in here!
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 1:32 PM UTC
It was just a wall
they were just kids
writing “freedom”
but those words delivered an invitation
to test what that meant
It was a tipping point
in the struggle to understand
the breathing pattern
of liberation
and freedom
they soon understood that first comes an exhalation
jubilee
the ecstasy of that introductory spark
Maybe soon there will be fireworks--
inhale.
one
long
inhale
swallowing the spark whole
I wonder if they understood when
they pulled off their fingernails
when they tore flesh
when they burned cigarettes
on their skin
when they drove them into the cold and blackness
This inhale has not been released
creating a vacuum
of fear
explosions writing
2 years of war
more than 70,000 dead
1,000 children
80,000 displaced
if you looked up
just once
you would see
Sleeping Beauty
the little girl, so restful she seemed
if you don’t ask how she died
if you looked at her hands, her hair, her face
and refused to look away
If you lengthened your drifting attention span
you would see her
and us
children,
in the cold and blackness
Learning to breathe again after watching our best friend being shot
or cousin tortured
this repetition doesn’t make anything easier
this infinity of sorrow
doesn’t shrink the farther you venture on
and as you watch this supposed infinity
through a screen
do not cease to be in content
with its vastness
I know what infinity feels like
and it is heavy
the bruises on my back
are noble
and I do believe my own children will one day tell of them
with pride on their tongues
but I cannot balance this weight
on backbone alone
they have burned my flesh
they have charred my heart
but I know the difference between
machine guns
and open palms clawing at the stars
they can come at me a million times
but someone will take my place
and hundreds will take theirs
because their smoke can only clear
but our flame has been born within us
We are candles in the sky
no matter how hard you blow
you cannot win
our flame will
not
die.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
i
am
human
just like you
grew up confused
fused into a small hole
quite the ***** up
but focused
we are all like lines
i build escape plans through words
every time I find myself stuck
i find escape within me
i find escape in books
i took from my imagination
and drew inspiration
we are all like lines
lines guided my curvy path
life was a little like math class
nothing but memorization
strangers act like they don't remember that we were once friends
last year, last month, last night
or
in the past life
we are all like lines
some of us
meet with someone else
and we intersect once
we make contact
and touch
but funny enough
we never really touch
on an atomic level
our atoms repel
we are like lines
perpendicular
and
never cross paths again
but some of us
meet with someone else
never make contact
or
touch
we are like lines
parallel
we go on forever
but
never intersect
we are all like lines
i saw lines in the way i manipulated
the pen
the pencil
the brush
the spray can
i spray my pseudonym on your wall
well
because I can
the paint
dripping from the walls like
blood streaming down my eyes
the pain
a distraction that
kept me alive
kept me awake at night
kept me away from the safety of my home
but also
kept me away from the dangers of my home
a contradiction
i was living in the streets
the days i never came home
i was living in the streets
the days i never came home
i saw lines in capturing moments
the symmetry in architecture
in nature
i saw myself as a temple
a monument
we are all like lines
i saw lines in guitars
and
how i can change the sound each string makes in endless ways
but in reality
the guitar changed me
it changed the way i tune myself
i finally felt in tune with the world
the fire was inside me
when i took the first breath of air
the water was inside of me
science and religion
i was never thirsty
the earth is really old is all i know
growing up i never learned
never learned how to say no
always afraid of getting old
i forgot the lines i forever rehearsed
the day my mom found out i smoke ****
my eyes were low
and
so was
i
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
I was never superstitious
but if incarnation would be true
let me live a thousand more lives
condensed and liquified
as an ink to your mind's pen,
as words to your drunken poetry.
Let each stroke embody
every curve of my body
that your hands have ever held
so long.
Cross your t's
telling the story of our love
how one point was met
with another with a line,
replacing what once
was empty space.
And dot your i's
with the periods of our story;
from our book's first sentence
in the introductory
to the last sentence
of our cliffhanger.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 9:51 AM UTC
[introductory note: This is not a conversation. Alternate segments are A/ statements made by a Spanish teacher in a lesson, and B/ the reaction of a young man listening but interpreting in a different way as he is entranced by a girl in the class]
*As far as actions in the past are concerned,
if you give the matter your attention,
you will recall various tenses:
the Past Continuous, the Past Definite,
the Imperfect, the Perfect, and the Pluperfect,
which we might call the more-than-Perfect;
we need not concern ourselves at the moment
with the Past Anterior.*
I, at the moment, am not concerned with the past at all,
for you are very much Present, and your action
of brushing the hair from your cheek
requires all my attention.
*Take, for example, this sentence –
“I was looking for a word, and found it
in a dictionary which I had.” You will notice
the action of looking for the word
extends over a period of time, and is Continuous.*
What I notice is the luminosity of your skin
where the sunlight strikes your shoulder, for in my case
the action of looking at you is Continuous.
*The action of finding the word is complete
and fixed in time,
and requires the Past Definite...*
And I observe how beautifully complete you are,
and I am fixed in this moment
which is now and forever.
*...while the action of possessing a dictionary,
in this sense, has no beginning and no end,
leading us to the Past Imperfect.*
Your eyes, at which I continue to gaze,
are more than Perfect, having depths in them
which seem to lead towards an Indefinite Future.
And the Past Anterior and the rest of them
do not concern me at all,
for you see me looking at you,
and the corners of your eyes crinkle
as you smile at me, and in my case
the action of being in love with you
has no beginning and no end.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
The breath in my chest
Scraped against my esophagus
As the preacher read his
Introductory scripture and a
Mourning loved one doubled over
In grief and despair as she
Struggled to bid adieu;
The hairs on the back of my neck
Stood horizontally and
Perpendicular to my concrete floor
As I heard the sweetest soul I know
Choke on her sobs on the
Other end of the receiver,
As she struggled to understand
The onset of pain and finality
She was forced to swallow;
My stomach hollowed and
Acidic anger bubbled and carved out my insides
When I read my best friend's texts,
A series of words
That seemed too cruel to be true,
A riffraff of interrogatories and
Unsettled punctuation,
Summarizing the momentary suspension
Of her resiliency
As she processed the
Breaking of her heart;
And now I lay motionless
On my mattress,
Hot tears masquerading behind my
Tightened eyelids as I writhe in
Empathy,
Alone in my incapability
To end the pains and the woes of
Those around me,
As my body thus must then grieve
For me.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
oh how foolish
the heart can be
to allow a slithering creature
into its atrium so freely
of profound feelings
the snake knew naught
he wrought damage
upon my heart's inner core
his introductory
to my company
was of a charming filigree
all that he voiced
did so beguile
yet none of it
was worthwhile
coldly the reptile
slipped
through the porous membrane
of my heart
and with his cobra venom
sundered
its hearth
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
" bedside lamp "
solEmn oaSis : please don't turn it off ryn
i've got somethin' to tell,,,
i need that light!
ryn : Haha it's just a conclusion for the series! There'll be more soon I hope. Thanks
solEmn oaSis : my gratitude ryn,,
and i hope this one will be our introductory-edition
for a simple collaboration
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
the section in question is as mentioned in rachmaninoff’s
vocalise (op. 34 no. 14), first some symbology of numbers
in relation to kant’s thesis:
in a sequence
(end) (beginning)
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10
upon reaching 1 and
subsequently 0,
i find this to be unsatisfactory in terms of the kantian
equation 0 = negation,
unless there be an affirmation of non-negation, the use
of zero would have to take the form of coordinates,
thus the sequence would be as above but it would end
thus: (0, 0, 0) - given that the above sequence can be
seen a linear, given that it might reflect the essence time,
ending the sequence with 0 would only provide
“the end of time,” hence the need to change the whole
sequence ending with the other essence, space - and thus
the loss of negation, given from the beginning (0, 0, 0)
the following sequences are provide:
(1, 1, 1), (2, 2, 2), (3, 3, 3) (x, y, z), etc., which is the affirmation
i was looking for - movement in a three dimensional space,
the only other affirmative possibility is by ending the
sequence with ∞, which is transcendental positivism
aligned with ending the sequence with (0, 0, 0),
and not transcendental negativism of merely using 0;
nonetheless, this is my introductory fascination
as on offshoot of what is about to be translated
(i can't read philosophy in english, hence this translation
comes from a translation of german translated
into polish and now translated into english) -
antonyms of pure reason
the third conflict between transcendental ideas
thesis antithesis
causality in agreement with the freedom does not exist, yet
laws of nature isn't the only everything in the world happens
causality, from which all only according to the laws of
phenomena can be explained nature.
in the world. for explaining them
it is also necessary to accept the
(self-accomplishing) causality
through freedom.
proof proof
let us accept, that there is no other accept, that freedom exists in a
causality other than the one in transcendental understanding of
agreement with the laws of nature; the word as a particular type of
thus everything, that is happening causality, according to which
appropriates a preceding state, after events in the world could take
which its next successive state is place, namely the ability to begin
not sheltered from a certain rule. in a way that's absolute of a
certain state, and also in the
same way, its series of successive
implications.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
What was the point saying hi in the hallways
to all those girls (and it was only the girls)
You passed those same kids six times a day
Think of the energy wasted with Hi Mary! Hi Cindi!
when you could be thinking baseball or astronomy
the stuff of seventh grade.
Eighth grade brought the mystery
of introductory geometry
the jostling double parabolas of Julie’s body
shaped like an S, she was outgoing in so many ways
I just had to say Hi Julie!
whereas Kathleen one could discern was similarly shaped
but tightly encased, a quiet one, shyly a hello.
My curiosity was for Hi Julie!
my dreams for hello Kathleen
though that was the limit: hello, Hi!
and then after graduation, not even that.
Not even goodbye.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 2:35 PM UTC
I ****** the stage with silence so the audience anticipates the articulation of words that soon spill out of my mouth.
The show lights blind my eyes so all I can see are headless ghosts sitting in rows, neatly compact in a spiritual communion.
My mind stutters, body shudders, yet the line is plain to see as it was painted on my lips - ready to perform, ready to be spoken.
Narration courses through my lungs to produce cornered speech, creating an introductory-zone for the others to encroach behind me
And there we were, separated into our own character beams while I stood with shallow confidence at the forefront.
Though I'm not a main lead,
or a side character,
or a set piece,
I am the narrator.
I carry the weight of the story,
And I carry the ears of those who listen.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 12:34 AM UTC
Is there, perhaps, some class
I could enroll in that might
increase my chances of understanding
the exact circumstances
I am in because I'd like to think
that time itself does tell
the roundabouts of where
I ought to be ten years
from now, but if that were so
then why am I
still sitting here a year
from graduation in an introductory
course on evolution.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
how to build a better poet...
take away the utensils,
the pen and paper, the computer tablet,
the recording devices that inhibit the
free flowing alliteration of formation...
dispatch the poet to within from without,
kiss cheeks with the surety of uncertainty,
whisper whiskers of doubt will be his fearful, occupational, life long companion,
hazard, best friend...boon of indecision
let the composition begin instantaneous,
with every glance, every chance,
an overheard snippet, an introductory shot,
the writing birthing in the mind's canals,
stored for seconds, or as long as desired
give him secreted love, take it roughly away,
let him rage, then quietly sage on
vicissitudes know as incurable,
yet poet soldiers on, role playing
a solutions seeker, a healer treating us with
decisive words about everyday indecision
beg from the poet,
to release us from our self-sequestration,
employing visionary words,
untested formulations, new combinations
as per request,
poets's eyes unclouded should; could?
raise the dead, forecast blue moons,
make us walk on hazel word horizon waters,
infect our reddish defects with reflections that effect our flesh's affections,
the breathe need continuum burn/soothe,
faster harder slower softer, always irregular...
force the poet to unceasingly seer and see,
give no rest, allow no desist, poet resist, vaingloriously disingenuous talking tongues,
distracting with ancient lore resurrected,
newly spun silken verbs...
make memorized color palettes his food,
give drink of animals, plants, star names,
visions of fields resplendent with poppies,
visions of eternities in sidewalk cracks,
dividing high wire lines connecting
his words will rise skywards,
in alpha bet pieces, returning molecules
from where they were given,
and from they will in rain-droplets,
come back again
you have not lost poet's accomplishments,
you have built a better poet
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
i've been told that i come off as cold, or intimidating.
it's a defense mechanism, like an alligator. or a porcupine.
i know how bad this world is, and i'm not about to fall in it's trap by being nice to everyone.
that's why i come off cold.
i will not surrender.
but i am the nicest person you'll ever meet.
i am smart, i know my way around the world.
but i am only 19. i am only human. these things that make me who i am are just as important as i portray myself.
i am just a girl, with big blue eyes and long hair.
i am a girl with long nails and i will not hesitate to rip anyone who hurts me apart.
because i am not going to stand on the edge and let myself be pushed over it anymore.
i am a girl with a loud mind, and a voice. and i won't hesitate to use it.
i am a girl with big dreams, and an amazing imagination.
i am a girl with good intentions and a golden heart.
i am a girl with fire in my veins, and a hurricane in my stomach.
i am who i am, i am not going to tear myself apart after so much building.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 11:44 PM UTC
Whether virtual or actual paths cross,
aye great thee ahoy
no fear Mademoiselle or Monsieur,
thy harried style haint cloy
rather, when embarking
on introductory acquaintance
ship, aye employ
swiftly tailored indistinguishable,
asper this wordsmith mebbe goy
or Jew, yet genealogically
thine Semitic lineage,
unknown descendants begat,
one generation after
stitched another thread,
whence warp and woof, sans dat
(moth eaten tattered wool worth
coat of arms), twas slim and/or fat
chance biologic dice throw
adumbrated me Matt,
a skinny, quirky,
and nerdy kid, who sat
alone during lunchtime
at school pained, plagued,
and pronounced with extreme,
where introversion didst agitate
chronic state of misery being alive
immobilized, hogtied, and forfeited
natural predilection
to discover and create
heterosexual relationships,
viz interpersonal experiences
re: raison to date
initial intimate rapport
(anxiety fraught) fate
full situation with a gal
giving her good grief great
(yes, twas Maryann Sage),
who understandably became irate
predicated on lack
of mine demonstrative affection
quickly becoming an unsuitable mate
though now in retrospect
(hindsight always 20/20)
a sudden resurgent spate
finds remembrance of things passed
(with her) engendering
cerebral tete a tete
rankling memories,
hence for death aye cannot wait!
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 12:54 AM UTC
Francie Lynch gets it! (The Thin Red Line)
https://hellopoetry.com/francie-lynch/
“A poem is like a tickle,
it gives both joy and pain:
with blissful tears and tearful
giggles, you'll read that poem again.
A poem is exactly like
a damaged heart in
need of surgery:
a cut that heals,
a line that
leaves a
scar along your heart.”
F. L.
<~>
I,
now in possess
of said thin red line,
where they cut me
just so, opened
stem to stern
for a rethreading repair, a repaving
of the highways & byways of
my little blue engine that
almost but couldn’t quite could but thought…
b e l i e v i n g
it could eke by for a little longer
new observable routine,
first item of my daily rising
now includes a pre-diurnal poetic
extraction~erection~ejection,
an intro~introspection
of an
introductory, petite reflexive
contemplative
reflection
of life’s mysteries,
like enjoying that
first bang of eye~opening conscious breath and a
disruptive need to spill
a few verbal beans before the
daily dead~lines of to do’s
strangle me into oblivion
a morning dispatched
by the poet paperboy
on his cardio bicycle
with
tearful eyes,
and many mirthful
gaggles of
giggles
yep,
a tickle
too,
no
extra
charge✅
Feb 23, 2024
Feb 23, 2024 at 2:39 PM UTC
one shall attempt to write a poem for two
two writers dishing up something in one
one starting with the introductory part
part two following until they conclude
do you get the drift to this type of verse
verse one then verse two taking a turn
turn of hands working in an interchange
interchange is how it will be achieved
on reading this you'll have some ken
ken which shall show a collaboration's link
link the two pens together as one piece
piece by piece the stanzas fall into place
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 9:06 PM UTC
In a room filled with bubbles
Take notice of the little ones
The little ones travel the distance because they survive commotion
We are in a new year and decade, pay attention to the little things
Stay away from commotional chaos
Have a terrific introductory day to fresh beginnings
Brian Hill - 2020 # 1
Jan 1, 2020
Jan 1, 2020 at 11:40 AM UTC