"invokes" poems
We prosper by our connectivity
it permits us influence and involvement
which invokes within us a feeling of usefulness
a sense of purpose that allows us to believe,
we are worthy of being beloved
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
To hear the priceless sounds,
No medicine competes.
In the rhythms, I am bound
In success or in defeat.
through the tolling of the time-
With those quickening beats,
The sound invokes with clever rhyme
both privilege and a treat:
Light and easy, peaceful and bright,
Or Insidious, sinister, audio plight.
Sorrow, hatred; loss and gain
Drugs and *** and love and pain.
From Intro to Chorus, to Verse-Refrain
melodies tattooed deep in the brain;
Act as the sun, when it does rain
And as both dirt and soap, when life does stain.
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 12:09 AM UTC
From white canvass,
a blank ledger of potent
expectation,
awaiting form and function.
The artist invokes
shade and light.
The seminal swirl of
her brush signals
simple hue,
discrete structures.
Then flesh strokes imbue
sanguine blush of
satin seams
and outstretched limbs;
spring greens and rampant peaks,
reaching high into
gossamer nimbus. Calm swells,
abundant bosoms,
beckoning fields of luxuriant temptation.
From an eternal cool,
the (all too) temporary warmth
of her embrace
lies just beyond:
enticing, luring, teasing
into torrid desire.
From whence,
the dream
unfolds...
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 7:54 PM UTC
Turquoise in the morning light
The treetops are alive
With the myriad of birdsong
As the swirling mists arrive
And the shaft of brilliant sunshine
Penetrates the greenish gloom
To illuminate the craggy ridge
In a honeyed, golden bloom.
The rabbits head for burrows
Retreating from the night,
A flock of teal, in unison,
Explosively take flight,
There’s a freshness in the morning air
A tingle to the skin
And the twinkle in the blue eyes
Lets a secret smile begin.
Autumn in the country glade
The russets and the gold,
The song of early crickets
In the leafy knoll takes hold,
There’s a brilliance in the crispness
In the piles of windblown leaves
And the healthy crunch of underfoot
Invokes a sense of ease.
The peacefulness is calming
The solace in the sound
Of the distant song of blackbird
In the tall oaks that surround
And the velvet feel of morning
Thrills the mind to warmly hum
To the glory of occasion
In the warmth of Autumn sun.
Marshalg
Beneath the reds and golds of Autumn leafage.
14 May 2012
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 2:09 AM UTC
The night sky cloaks me
As the darkness invokes me
Bright stars pierce the emptiness
Filling my every thought with their iridescent presence
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 4:20 PM UTC
Middle aged dancing moon, rising sun coming of age poem
Some times you shave your legs sometimes you wax
You are a river of gold, a poetry goddess
You are the definition of **** **** and cool lady
Your skin a tan wonder, Aphrodite will envy with her immortal soul
Not just another girl
Woman, woman, woman
Your lion like mane blowing over purple mountain tops
Imagine a world without.
Your Litheness invokes the green eyed monster in the gods
Not just another girl
Om shanti shanti
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 2:52 PM UTC
Being invokes Form.
Form invokes Matter.
Matter invokes Mind.
Mind invokes Motion.
Motion evokes Hallucination.
Hallucination evokes Provocation.
Provocation evokes Dis-ease.
Dis-ease evokes Reconciliation.
Conciliation banishes Dis-ease.
Ease banishes Provocation.
Discernment banishes Hallucination.
Rest banishes Motion.
Stillness dispels Thought.
Concentration dispels Matter.
Formlessness dispels Phenomena.
Being alone Is.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
/ innocent until prōven guilty,
contra guilty until
prōven innocent...
ah!
so the minority report?
guilty, while innocent,
based upon a premonition?
hindsight with a zodiac
type of interpretation...
innocent until prōven guilty
has no superiority
in practice over the continental
guilty until prōven innocent...
no... because the principle invokes
presuppositions,
of suppositions...
treating the two as propositions -
or rather... "verbs" inacted...
innocent until prōven guilty -
then no understanding of freedom,
at least guilty until prōven innocent
allows understanding
restraint, however unfair,
with 18 years lost...
and then the tears of relief!
Tomasz Komenda...
an "espionage" case of staging
empathy...
en masse...
an innocent man walks away
from falsely imposed justice measures...
a redemption...
a count de monte cristo
allowance...
but in reverse?
the evil man walks free...
succumbing to old age,
and dementia, a pontius pilate pardon...
there is no redemption aspect
of the saxon course of applying jurisprudence...
the... innocent, until prōven guilty,
contra: guilty until prōven innocent
schizophrenia?
the latter overshadows
the former...
because we're not babies...
at least with the latter:
there's a redemption exegesis -
but with the former?
bitter-sweet tears within
the confines, of an example akin
to jimmy savile...
guilty until prōven innocent
has much more authentic emotional
content, with a redemption narrative...
innocent until prōven guilty
has? not much,
just a grave,
and the stunted emotional expression,
what ought to be flowers
within the heart,
instead: fungus, growing in the dark...
and thus... translating
to other hearts:
let's allow this chemo-phobia
chemo-philia experiment
be left intact in its the momentum...
honestly... the study of law -
is probably the ********* game
in the allowance of games of
adulthood... one tier above gambling.
p.s.
because you know there's proof:
and that the past-participle
thrown into a future, does require
an omega rather than an omicron...
not an oh, but an ooh...
hence? reign from above,
on the omicron, with a macron (ō).
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
Even if love is never returned,
never even received,
it is never in vain
for love never fails
To love someone
though you mean nothing to them
may seem too cruel a burden
for the heart to bear
But the only thing worse
than not being loved
is to not love
And so the greatest tragedy
of love spurned or lost
would be to stop loving
For to cease loving
that which causes us pain
would be to let the pain win
But for as long as we love,
really love with Christ's own heart,
no matter what else happens
we win
Love without pain
remains unproven
and therefore is meaningless
But love through pain invokes
nothing less than the miraculous
and inspires even the incredulous
Only continued love
can redeem the pain of loving
and only a Perfect Love
can heal love's scalding wound
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC
every person on this earth
has got a certain fear
spiders incite panic,
public speaking invokes tears
mine isn't too uncommon,
but only some women can relate
it's a special kind of fear
to a special kind of hate
it wasn't whispered in my ear
it's just something that i know
it's been ingrained since my beginning,
a part of how society flows
you see, i'm afraid of a guy.
or rather, his rejection
afraid i'm not enough
because i'm darker in complexion
did you know his hands are white?
that's why around him, my skin burns
instead of reciting numbers and letters,
what if it's racism that he learned?
i was taught to admire passions, looks, and intellectual minds
if only to darker women,
love could prove to be more kind
im 18 in year '18 but it feels like '63
hiding feelings from a whitey cause ****** is defined as me
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 11:10 PM UTC
I held out my hands.
I placed a drop of soap on each palm
and took hold of my ***** spoon and washed it with my hands,
cupping and spooning it
like my gentle hands were trying to make it croon.
Like it were mated and flipped and slapped
against threadbare slacks.
That spoon is cleaning me,
is washing my hands as I wash its tarnished feet,
it is forgiving me.
For the scalding soups and bitter ice cream,
and not washing it but watching it grow crusted, disgusted.
And while I swoon for my spoon,
and grinning the spinning dizzy grin of Love,
I remember, and give thanks for my feast.
This spoon feeds me like a child on Mother God’s lap,
and kisses me with life, with food.
This soap, and my hands, and this bubbling love between my spoon and I,
it is clean.
My soul is more clean with my spoon.
Cleaner than dog’s saliva licking at old wounds,
but that’s alright,
cause everybody knows ******* love scars, dog.
And women love beautiful spoons,
maybe because of its viscosity, or its gentle curvature,
or the deep loving laugh it invokes,
when it sits on my nose.
My spoon communion left me with pruned hands,
bright eyes,
and a coy smile for what flowers in my mind may bloom.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 2:31 AM UTC
i just lamented a more complex version of this; i just cannot believe we denote the same thing in order to share an understanding of the same by denoting as such, but when acting we feel so differently about it; imagine the noun iran in the mouth of an american, then picture the verbs subsequent... then imagine the noun america in the mouth of an iranian, then picture the verbs subsequent: words hold as much emotion as actions discard, even though the actions are worded, and the words are almost imaginary when concerned with what iraq was when given belshazzar.
i wonder if as many people would **** or die
for the noun apple, as they do for allah -
say the noun apple... apple apple apple long enough...
will you get apple juice? well no, so if you keep on saying
the noun allah allah... will that thing materialise?
the imaginary atheistic sense
of the word allah, is that humanity
turned the noun allah into a verb
of its own chosing due to man's free will,
i.e., say allah casually over coffee,
now say allah in jihad clothing...
the same noun among diverse verbs...
might as well invent a new grammatical
category of nouns and verbs mingling...
nouverbs... what noun invokes what action,
consolidated in what are excesses of adjectives,
given the quality of a life lived -
the man who casually said the noun allah
in a coffee shop in denmark managed to integrate
into danish society and start up a newspaper...
the man in syria who "casually" said the noun allah
in a coffee shop in syria didn't manage the former...
because his orientation of the noun
changed the path of the sequence of nouns / beheaded nuns,
since the cutting of the word verb,
managed to craft non-verbum-ergo-actio.
in defence of avoiding one’s own mortality,
one speaks against one’s own death,
thus one speaks with the enemy of the people
one shares a life with, for a fake chance of the feeling of prolonging.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
She tells me of the loves she's found
She tells of the loves she's lost
And I linger to fix her broken wings
At, I wonder, what cost
So that she might go out with confidence
To find heartbreak again
It matters not, I've not forgot
That I am still her friend
That I am still her leaning post
That I am her safety net
Each night she goes whilst I stay
And each day she pours her regrets
Into my brain, Into my soul
So I might empathize
And I sit there stroking her hair
And what she doesn't realize
Is that I know her favorite color is yellow
That her favorite song is "Almost Lover"
That she went through a pregnancy scare
And a fight with her dad from which she'll never recover
That she giggles without fail whenever someone say "flabberghasted"
And I know that she's had only five boyfriends
None of which that have lasted
I know she sings inside the shower
Even though she may deny it
I know she snores and drools on her pillow
And that she prays someday Krispy Kreme doughnuts will come diet
I know that she cries whenever she thinks too much
That she looks forward to marriage
The feeling of her husband's touch
And someday a baby in a carriage
And I know more than most about this girl
The one with her head on my lap
The one who's silent every time she cries
Yet is snorting every time she laughs
But here I sit with her alone
Barred from going any farther than friend
The girl whose afraid to lose me
Who torments me without end
The one who hinders my love for her
And therefore invokes my selfishness
Running on my brain in steel cletes
While I feign happiness
So pause time
Because my words for her are unheard and few
A chance is all I'd ask of her to show both my love and dedication are true
And yet she stands in fear of not losing me
But of getting in the deep end of the pool
And thus lies the complex irony
And why in life I play the fool
For I am the love of her life that has been there
And in heartbreak or joy, I'm all in
Yet because of fear I stay a friend
Ending where love should begin
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 9:38 AM UTC
Silver Beach: Always the Sole First
familiar white fishing boat, up with early light,
seeking sustenance and pleasure in = measure,
anchored ‘bout quarter mile east of my under-the-coverlet,
(of course! as the crow, raven or scavenging osprey flies),
it’s precise location amazingly exact, but alas, soon daily
familiarity breeds no secrecy, and now joined by a
farther out, smaller version, a compatriot in spotitude,
of the best spots for harvesting the early running
brackish bay water favorites, striped or black sea bass
what persistent fortitude these fisher-peoples display,
early to rise, first to depart, when others crowd its “spot,”
(amazed by its knowing precision the exactitude of “spot”)
this ship, always the sole-first, invokes a first poem of the day,
always a soul-first, an unburdening of deepest gratitude that
one more day granted me to imbibe this vista, awake to its
soothing silent heavenly serenity, absent machine or
electronic interference with my delicate sleepy wakefulness,
when newly minted words come into my mind, my
secret spot
Sat AM June 3
Jun 3, 2023
Jun 3, 2023 at 8:46 AM UTC
Memory clung then ran
down the nerve of my bed
of broken seashells split in
boiling strychnine
Turning my head to keep my eyes
from twisted crackling debris
the darting nicotine fairy invokes the
gallant end of a galaxy
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 1:58 AM UTC
Watching milk pour into little
ziploc bags with bananas and
Cheerios and fights over which
fruit better invokes the feeling
of sunrise, of home and
morning eye crust and blown
curtains in summer breeze.
Strawberries don't stain dresses
as much as blackberries from
a friend's farm in upstate
New York or Eastern Washington
or some ranch in coastal Venezuela
with coffee and sugar smells
stuck on sticky skin and licking
juice from sweet fingertips
right before it starts to rain.
When February sun peeks
through cumulus clouds after
a five-day downpour, you turn
your face to mine and proclaim
that the world may be beautiful and youthful, after all.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 12:58 PM UTC
i’m the man who’s gonna wake up next to you
slipping away, a non-starter, her leg crosses over mine,
a right sided shakedown shackle, adhesion flesh as
tough as old yellowed scotch tape sticking stuck
no escaping, a known 6:00am risk when you sleep with
a pre-advertised holy roller, twist and turner woman,
making you into an unofficial woe-man (too)
left hand grabs the lamenting instrument, the beat up iPad,
to record your enslavement, a distraction from the bladder’s
faint morn winking at you with a Cheshire grin, muffling a
chuckle, at a predicament wonderful familiar, but unresolvable
this situation, a category of life’s small measure of annoyances,
invokes the wordy title, and a write-down list of pluses and minuses,
which I’ll spare which o’witch be the longer list
poems are where you find them, under your nose,
looking out a city bus window, but sometimes like flypaper,
they just come unasked and stick to you, the separating of the skin,
like a too tight bandaid, ain’t worth the pain and freedom gained
later, share this missive and her suggestion, she will prepare an
NDA (a non-disclosure agreement) or adopt other strategies like
pushing me out of the bed without warning when i am typing ,
to witch and to wit, reply,
ah!
another poem commissioned, and
*perhaps, name change too, needed,
making love in the morning*
12/14/19
Dec 14, 2019
Dec 14, 2019 at 1:40 PM UTC
a
goddess
of
love
a
symbol
of
lasting
adoration
a woman throughout the centuries
who has attracted
many a man's devotion
she of charm
and enticing allure
she of a superlative
nature
men have fallen to their knees
in exultant praise
worshipping the embodiment
of her feminine maze
and she invokes
powerful feelings
within a man's
core
Venus the allegory
of
timeless
armour
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 6:24 AM UTC
Threatening demons prowled in hoards
in the mysterious outback of her psyche;
knowing this,she decided not to be perturbed,
tamed them, one by one with poetic mantras.
Now, they recite the chants of forces she invokes
as soon as she feels like going in to a cosmic trance.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
my greatest fear became my greatest virtue.
why did someone leave
that man alone on the sidewalk of a pet store
along the midnight highway?
the question invokes a universal terror
that is relatively the greatest idea i ever imagined
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
I think that all writing comes out of pain. Every remarkable work harnesses compassion or strain that begs you to empathize with the pain that someone-something, has felt. It is pain that has taken another form, it appears differently in plots and characters; pawns in a sense, that grace the game board of life. Nonetheless, pain is present. The Bible. A God's suffrage for grace of an undeserving people. Shakespeare's sonnets that brought us to our knees with the agony of lost love.-a lover's sorrow. In every classic there is a tugging on our heart strings that invokes a reply of our emotions.
In short, Pain is Poetry.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
Last night I cried about you.
The exact moment it happened I do not remember
but I was hit with an overwhelming
tide of emotion.
Maybe it was when my friend
wouldn't stop talking
about your beauty
and I was seeking his bare skin
to put out my cigarette.
Jealousy is ugly but my appearance
could never compare to your
lips, or the way you would
look up through your eyelashes
when you were
scared or in love.
(were they the same thing?)
Last night I cried about you.
The exact moment it happened I do not remember
but I was hit with an overwhelming
tide of emotion.
Perhaps it was when I realised
I no longer searched for him
in the poetry I wrote
and read.
Rather it is your
inexplicable beauty and intelligence
that I try to capture with
stumbled words and drunken
rants to people who don't really
care.
Last night I cried about you.
The exact moment it happened I do not remember
but I was hit with an overwhelming
tide of emotion.
It could have been when I
needed to ground myself to reality
and so I thought of you.
I dreamt of the curls in your
hair as it slightly changed
colour and I thought of
your bed and the comfort
that surrounded me when I was there.
I thought of your mother, and the
anger I feel towards your father.
I thought of your laughter
and the happiness it invokes
when I hear it.
I thought of your tears
and the sheer anguish
that follows.
Last night I cried about you.
The exact moment it happened I do not remember
but I was hit with an overwhelming
tide of emotion.
"Missing you comes in waves and
last night I felt like I was drowning".
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 8:28 AM UTC
Getting on
through a trying work hour in the night-time rush,
groped by strangers with dark eyes
the color of neglect and whiskey.
Men with knives under their sleeves,
calling you back and back again,
refills for their poison and pretzels for the table,
don't be a ***** darling.
I only want to feel those hands trembling
under mine.
All you ever knew were the bruises and the burns.
Gliding closer and closer to
your face, your hands,
inching towards the skin that gleams, exposed
and invokes the shame you feel from
fetid breath on your neck, these
animals with moldering livers.
but another round for the men in the grease and grime.
Green bottles and a smile that said
'I like the taste of your weakness,
You like the abuse.'
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
“How can I get you to go down on me,”
he asked, without preamble.
His voice, nervous,
laced with strength
hums through her form,
summoning
a tatting of ***
She moves her entire form
Across the room
pushing solar plexus
With index finger
The wingback chair collecting
His form – assuaging her intent.
Retreating nine steps
To gather
Her acumen in dripping her clothes off
Adroit pivot
portent gaze
locked
exteroception - engaged
His exhale
executed succinctly in shallow lung
puckered alveoli - clenched
resonates as her own.
Pearls scooped catatonic
atop lingering breast ascension - alone
Remain –
Summoning brine.
She tastes his pulse
Derma puckering sweat globules
Redolent aeriform vapor corpuscles
declaring his need.
Fingers supporting her upper weight
she glides - crawling
pressing half inch spurs into the carpet
Lackadaisical dactyl dance
Seizes
muscle calf to thigh
Invoking listless leg drape
Pausing
Warm breath – rendered
Upon knee cap parallel
Framing shoulders
Engorging - in aching silence
Pulse thick, wrought in shaft
Kneeling
Primed
Proud
She flicks the button
From slit fabric recess
Cupping palms under thigh,
She renders garment to puddle
half-in – half-out
whole
chthonic shaft to palette
Sliding exhale
to mound
lax jaw
focus
Iris entreats -
narrowed corneal withdrawal
Oblong lip array surrounds
Supping the creamy, coppery,
Smoky, saline inoculation.
Latent dribble invokes tongue
Furl about lip cusp
Absorbing globule
Into slaked smile.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC