"ironical" poems
Eve of Holi
A spring eve that’s all different from others
Zephyrs blowing away the leaves
Orange sky adding the flavours
Blooming flowers nodding in a rhythm
So Ironical is nature of this evening
That all these beauties act as ornaments of Kali
On a normal evening man would work
They would work appraising weather
They know it will not last long, they enjoy
Today they as if ignore it, of morning celebrations
Morning is gayest morning of the year
Every reason to see every man
Mankind being unanimous
Evening on contrary balancing it to a usual day
An unexplainable soundlessness, vacuum of thoughts
A day depicting environment without men on work
Streets still hold colours on their chest
But this colour no more is a sign of happiness
People meet each other, everyone has a smile
But that doesn’t match with nature suit
There smiles have scope within its sight
Body of people walking on street enjoy zephyr
Their mind stay startled of unusual quietness
Standing on my entrance, I observe
A swinging litchi tree, missing sound of saw mill
Smiling flowers, orange cloudy sky
Empty streets, parked wagons, and utterly silence
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
a draper is someone who creates garments or patterns by draping fabric directly onto a dress form (Wikipedia)
~~~~
I am a draper,
by trade, by nature, by instinct;
a fling of one arm across her body,
while she dreams and sleeps, rambles, mumbles,
and even convulses,
to hold her tight with two, with both,
soon grows discomforting as the blood ceases to flow,
the heat breeds unsweetened sweat,
and the snuggling impact,
is too fast subsumed by the pins and needles
numbing, deadening,
and ironical attenuation
this is my pattern,
how I address her,
how I dress her,
draping my contiguous,
drawing five fingers
upon her form,
reshaping her in her sleep,
the arm flung, there, and then
there,
to be hung,
at varied places across her body,
higher lower, above below,
but her face,
free and clear,
so not to interfere
with her sensory preceptors
and as I draw my pattern upon her skin,
her body whole,
listening her to indeterminate utterances,
to determine
which
pitter patter pattern
to which.
she feels best suited,
then,
I prepare my
invoice
for her,
for services rendered,
to present upon awakening,
demanding
in voice,
by her voice,
payment in words,
of her own chosen
amuse-bouche,
mmmm, will it be?
good morning my love?
hello you!
or just an indiscriminate
but yet,
a discriminating
sound of
having been pleasured
by unknown forces
in her deeper sleep, using her lips
to say, to hum, to sing,
a genteel unspecific
but, and yet, a
terrific,
deep from within
guttural remittance,
the sound of a delicious,
mmmmmming
greeting
a new equinoxal gale
of a refreshing fresh
birthing, fulsome
already satisfying
draping of the
day
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 5:01 PM UTC
Words and letters are written on walls
Some as vandalization others as messages
Words and letters are written on walls
Words and sentences are written on billboards
Some serve as advertising others to arouse awareness
Words and sentences are written on billboards
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Some serve as inspiration others to support guidance
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Words are the weapons I use in a society that controls my image
Words are the only thing that can divide me from being ghetto or educated
My words are the only thing that I can vouch for like my *****
My words are the root of the intelligence that propels this sentence
Letters in my words stand close to each other eager to make a statement
If I do not show my words, my letters of cheerfulness begin to fade away
Sentences are the compound of the mind that begs to be understood
Sentences are made up of a tyranny chained down by a trendsetters mood
My sentences contain verbs, nouns, adjectives and subjects that explain a lost purpose
My sentences define the meaning of an ironical imagery that leads me to dream
Sentences paint a picture that any blind character can see
If I do not paint my sentences how will I ever show my brains art gallery
Picasso used the paint brush to express his moods and feelings on a canvas
Shakespeare and Allan Poe used ink to utter their thoughts on a sheet of paper
Somewhere in my mind the collision of words and paint occurred
Where I fused the essence of writing with the masterfulness of painting
My words and sentences have met a significant other called paint
Paint and words are my new best friend
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Some are called vandalization while they represent artistic skills
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Paint and words are written on subways
So the eyes of the young and old can see the traveling message
Paint and words are written on subways
Paint and words smack up at my face
So that the world sees who conveys this message
Paint and words smack up at my face
Paint gives visual to what words cannot picture
My Paint serves as a method of expressing the mind’s tears and smiles
My Paint becomes a tour guide through the loops of divine wonders
Paint is just a stepping stone to the magnificent path of beauty
A brush is just a brush depending on who holds it
A brush is like the keyboard I constantly battle with to unleash my mind
A brush can combine negativity and positivity and make peace
A brush unites celibate beliefs with those whom are perverse
Words and sentences along with paint and brushes help explain my motive
Jonathan Pizarro
Lost Cause © 2011
April 17th, 2011
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:42 AM UTC
i want you to beat me up
real bad
please please let me bleed completely
before infancy clots at the back of my mind
don't wait for me to be tired
break me all at once
grind my feelings into a powdery mess
so that when someone enters our bedroom they slip on the floor and see a stretch mark-ed ceiling
to not know pain but just how ironical numbness is
and then hug me
like you would a voodoo soft toy
with the scratched leather wings
of a bewitched witch who has seen it all sober
but still can't tell a sheep's wool from snakeskin
caress my dilapidated knees
without once telling me to stand up on my own or for myself
all i want from you is
to **** me at dawn
i'll know that i was loved
enough or.... at least.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
Sing a song of Tajmahal
a fine nazm or a ghazal
Of this landmark for lovers
Ah, a lover's edifice
Complete with medieval bowers
It's a Mecca for tourists!
Tis sensational, tis exceptional
tis truly a touristy place.
Watch the shimmer of its magnificent marbled dome
Moonlight or sunlight, it glimmers of imperial chrome
It's ironical then
that though Indian-Arabian I am
I haven't yet been to this touristy place
It is truly as they must say, a lover's shrine
a place where hearts duly incline
They find it steamy
I find it dreamy
Oh, I've got to see for myself this touristy place.
Each of the marbled minarets
conceal such romantic secrets
for lovers to silently explore
to admire and to adore
A place human lovebirds couldn't ignore.
Ah you've got to visit this touristy place!
Two famed lovers lie in the legendary vault below
and the stream too it has a romantic flow
It's a lovers haven and paradise on earth
Even dead passions there undergo a rebirth
Ah, rekindle my love for you in this touristy place!
Extol I may this awesome imposing edifice
A greed for pure love is perhaps better than avarice
Löng live the legend of Shah jahan and Mumtaz mahal
Long live love and love like a Moghul
so forever we have this monumental grace!
Yeah take me my luv to this touristy place!
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 2:11 AM UTC
Can we believe -- by an effort
comfort our hearts:
it is not waste all this,
not placed here in disgust,
street after street,
each patterned alike,
no grace to lighten
a single house of the hundred
crowded into one garden-space.
Crowded -- can we believe,
not in utter disgust,
in ironical play --
but the maker of cities grew faint
with the beauty of temple
and space before temple,
arch upon perfect arch,
of pillars and corridors that led out
to strange court-yards and porches
where sun-light stamped
hyacinth-shadows
black on the pavement.
That the maker of cities grew faint
with the splendour of palaces,
paused while the incense-flowers
from the incense-trees
dropped on the marble-walk,
thought anew, fashioned this --
street after street alike.
For alas,
he had crowded the city so full
that men could not grasp beauty,
beauty was over them,
through them, about them,
no crevice unpacked with the honey,
rare, measureless.
So he built a new city,
ah can we believe, not ironically
but for new splendour
constructed new people
to lift through slow growth
to a beauty unrivalled yet --
and created new cells,
hideous first, hideous now --
spread larve across them,
not honey but seething life.
And in these dark cells,
packed street after street,
souls live, hideous yet --
O disfigured, defaced,
with no trace of the beauty
men once held so light.
Can we think a few old cells
were left -- we are left --
grains of honey,
old dust of stray pollen
dull on our torn wings,
we are left to recall the old streets?
Is our task the less sweet
that the larve still sleep in their cells?
Or crawl out to attack our frail strength:
You are useless. We live.
We await great events.
We are spread through this earth.
We protect our strong race.
You are useless.
Your cell takes the place
of our young future strength.
Though they sleep or wake to torment
and wish to displace our old cells --
thin rare gold --
that their larve grow fat --
is our task the less sweet?
Though we wander about,
find no honey of flowers in this waste,
is our task the less sweet --
who recall the old splendour,
await the new beauty of cities?
The city is peopled
with spirits, not ghosts, O my love:
Though they crowded between
and usurped the kiss of my mouth
their breath was your gift,
their beauty, your life.
2.9k
a quote from the movie "The Big Short"
~
*a screen provocation,
you laugh out loud,
mime hating yourself
that you are joiining in
tacitly acknowledges the truth
of abbreviated wisdom
you,
disguised minority of
modest disagreers,
c'mon, admission submission,
more truth in it
than deserving of argumentation
a one liner throwaway,
neatly designed,
leaves you disturbingly
probed,
thoughtfully tormented and
aroused
poetry just a vehicle,
your vice for revelation,
the critical door to open is this:
do people hate the truth?
inescapable reality
ironical probability,
truth well disguised,
in plastic shell of lying
from the Hollywood's would be poets,
an escapade from the escapists
let us not pretend
that you and I
uncaring, for by virtue of
your reading this, you are
poetry aficionado,
required to deny the lie,
and yet,
accept
the
granular view
that we are rising writing thru the wronged end of
a telescoping microscope
so I scare scar a tissue sample from my tongue
and the cells spell
this rejoinder:
all your lies are poems,
incomplete truths,
and that's why people hate poetry*
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 11:10 AM UTC
Days go with you and bid goodbye
Hours slide down and die
And drape down
The innocence of the Noun!
With the experience of Adverbs
Of place, time and frequency, the Verbs
Replace the endearing use of Nouns
(Slowly moving from lisping sounds )
To the stable use of personal Pronouns!
Individuality stands alone keeping the Subject alone
Sometimes with a defiant adolescent tone
Distractions, doubts in the use of Determiners
A shaky ground for the beginners!
Disagreement with the Subject-Verb agreement begins
Early during this period and lurks within, and at times springs
With the Nouns like mathematics, rhetorics and news
Without any tension to meddle in don’ts and dos!
What I wish to say in a few sentences
Is not enough about life’s infinite time and tenses!
To deconstruct the grammar of growing up is not enough
As adolescence is a diamond in the rough;
It is a living discourse; both simple and tough
Ironical, unpredictable, surprising, puzzling stuff
Needs patience, pardon, perseverance and fun
To handle its substance for every daughter and son!
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 1:19 AM UTC
I adore my country.
Sometimes enough to sacrifice its own(?)
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 7:55 AM UTC
Maybe i am not so perfect
But i know how to reflect
Maybe i represent a faded picture
But my life is such a great mixture
Maybe i lie and die everyday
But my smile never departs for a day
Maybe i have alot of tough dares
But with them i have people to care
Maybe i am not in a perfect mood
But i have a situation to tackle and crude
Maybe life is full of lost games
But it also sometimes provide us fame
Maybe life is sometimes abhorrent.
But its wonderful if we are adherent...!
--A.A.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
Empowering the synergy of this day
70 years ago
That called for the times
When unity had all the faith
And transfer of power marked the Independence Day
Since then the nation has evolved
Talking about Samvidhan
Which taught the art of Self Pradhan
Creativity talked about Democracy
That we walk shoulder to shoulder
That all Humans are equal
Be it cast,religion or ***
Everything creates a nexus
Time elapsed and things changed
Here we move in 21st century
With the heart full of victory
Where in a developing country
We fight society
To win over society
Instead of ironical criticism
And in the ambit of feminism
I look forward to wonderful creatures
That so blissfully
Compliment each other
To move along from place to place
Work in their own pace
Explore according to their grace
And Live out of their mind's cage.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 9:39 AM UTC
Walking a lonely road, stepping over the dry leaves;
Waiting for the sunset, to leave me alone with my thoughts;
Observing the reality is not simple, but feeling it is even harder;
This always follow a change, when u feel theory in real;
For every stand u took, for every right u did;
For every step you took back, for every voice that was suppressed;
A laughing comment may be the reason, or a smile or a ignorance;
Good’s became good joke, deeds became dramas;
Prophets preach love everyone, reality ends in loving ourselves;
No sorry no thanks, rude a person becomes without acknowledgements;
Follow your heart, stop taking free advices, ironical part we do;
Edison said 'value in disaster, start all over again', how hard it is to do;
Ideal is a word that has no practical example;
Even Mahatma Gandhi was only close to ideal;
Resistor to transistor, ideal behaviour has bookish domains;
And what a irony, even great of greatest are running towards this misconception;
Fooling someone is an upcoming talent;
Your last laugh, was it on a ***** act or someone loss??;
Listening advice is a harder job than firing suggestions;
Selfish is a attribute necessary to adopt;
Opening book on a regular day sometimes become crime;
Everyone pretends to be last day hero;
Hardly one dares to take a stand, for someone unknown, for public benefit;
Forgetting, one could be in same place;
Here conscience becomes a vital part;
Doing what it allows, or changing it accordingly;
Does varying conscience have a value? Choice enters in play;
Choice to be what you should be or what you are accepted to be;
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 9:46 PM UTC
I mixed liquid nitrogen
With my *** juices
Now I'm cool as ****
Interested in interesting intellectuals
Bringing bacon back, bread-bringing *******
Alliterating alliterative allocutions allowing abusive acronyms
For goodness and badness
And for some ugliness
Here’s the facts and I’ll lay them down right:
I’m a ************* sorcerer
And I don’t finish lists
Irony in the ironical first-person
I left someone behind when they told me to
And now I’m better off,
Know this poem’s for you.
Every time I see your face, I really hope you’re doing well
But deep in my mind I know that nothing’s changed
And you’re still the same, as I’m trying to change
To be a better person than I was when we met
But it’s something that you never noticed, yet
Something inside of me says we’re polar
Opposites and what really happened
Was for the best, for both of us
So I still keep in touch with
Friends around you
And I hope secretly
That you fall in
Unending mercy
And that I’m wrong.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
I walked my walk, learnt people aren't permanent.
Remember this my tree, you'll just die in peace.
Must have been cold to get uprooted for nothing, while they say it's for their own thing.
Would be ironical if they make a diary out of your leaves.
And sure will they in joy, whilst leaving you to torment.
Rot you my trrrrrree.....
Sep 25, 2019
Sep 25, 2019 at 10:35 AM UTC
The abstraction of that day was ironical.
The sun shone and yet I felt no warmth.
The underlying freeze forever coating my flesh made it so.
The perpetual aura of filth that accompanied death,
that integrated throughout my protective membrane,
made me trash,
an anomaly cast into the world’s garden.
I had once heard the term of life described as a savage garden.
Indeed the sardonic cynicism of the very phrase
made me to feel like a worm weaving between each green shoot.
I am the necessary horror,
and my only purpose
is to find the dying flower wrinkling about the edges,
smudging the atmosphere of closeted peace,
or wrapping myself around a ****
that threatens the delicate balance
between
what humans choose to see
and what is tangible.
In this I strive for perfection.
I am the worm,
the earthen worm
sliding amongst the filth
and nutrient of soil.
And yet still I am the gardener
wielding my *** to rake out
plants that give the impression of being beautiful.
Yet appearances can never hide the truth,
and like I,
the stench of filth
and stagnated death (me!)
always hovers over those who think themselves
above the rest.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 7:46 AM UTC
VERY IMPORTANT
I'm quitting poetry
(Part one)
I don't belong here
Nor do i belong there
Am not an author
Nor am i a writer
Am not a poet
I can't even write a sonnet
I don't write out of will
B'coz am not in a mission to heal
My pieces are not pure
So don't for cure
My poetry doesn't have a theme
Nor does it rhyme
I have done wrongs i can't undo
I need to apologize to my pen too
The paper need to take a revenge
'Cos i got no leverage
I have confused folks with my metaphor
But i can promise you this is now over
I tried to find solace behind my pen
It was futile it has just made my sorrow to deepen
I have lived a life of lie
Telling the truth i didn't even try
I have pretended i can write
Whereas i can't differentiate wrong from right
Someone called me tomorrow's wole soyinka
But now i realized it was an ironical moniker
I have been a shame to poetry
I should have tried the art of pottery
This are my confession
As i quit this proffesion
#kenyaismybeat
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 1:18 PM UTC
*when I turned eighteen
sadness filled my cups,
for carefree was now gone,
laying side by side
with all my companion figurines,
off to rest in a boy's toy chest
in a backyard cemetery hid,
certainty assured
all that I was, so far,
all that I will be,
uncalming coming forevermore,
unwilling borne upon
the newly time redesigned,
heavy load shoulders of adult responsibility
when I turned thirty,
sadder now by the means and meaning of accumulation,
having thrice now measured the length of a stick of life,
denominated as a decade,
wiser now that the children underfoot,
certainty assured,
would have to pay
bills of lading for cargoes,
not of their own choosing,
indeed, selected unwisely,
by men like me, and men before,
all too old or too gone,
to be prosecuted now for the
short sightedness of reckless timidity
when I turned fifty,
the shoulders slightly stooped and gently curved,
my gait and pace slowed by weight,
pockets laden with undesired memories,
unfinished arguments,
dreams that morphed and morted into
failed schemes that with the
certainty assured,
the tallied ache of known losses
will always weigh greater
than the
unknown of opportune
now with seventy,
so near, onrushing to the sounds
of old men and their noisy excuses
of babbling, ironical,
eerie similar to the parental smiling hushing
of a newborn's squeaking,
a youthful brook,
happily to an open sea arushing,
hurrying in the fullness of innocence to
it's demise
the line of sight to the horizon,
far shorter now than ere before,
with greater certainty assured,
that near my god than thee,
my sadness daren't hope to dissipate, nor lift
as once it did,
an early morn mist rising off the river,
freshly sun burnished, then miracle banished,
sacrificing itself as a hopeful oracle of a new born day
recurring haunted words
like rest, best and tried,
the only legacy remaining to gift,
but one thing yet measures a comforts,
a red cross blanket round the shoulders thrown that with
certainty assured,
the marvy joy of life all in,
be our given right to err and learn wisdom at our own pace
so here I freely confess
with wry, sly smile that we
proved ourselves to be
victims of our unintended tendencies,
successful in being*
all too human
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 7:35 PM UTC
My youth indecisiveness scares me
It’s a safe journey to the grave
One with a sole focus of making all the right decisions
But it’s not a matter of not knowing
It’s a habit of not choosing
Ironical
Because the answer, not the answers, is right in my face
Within my reach
I
Have
Full
Control
I’m learning
To yield from pondering upon rightful choices
And rather act sharp about one confident choice
Opportunities will continue with time
But before I know it
My wave will close out
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 3:21 PM UTC
We are creatures of habit, believe this is true.
For we are the sum of the things that we do.
So if I adopt the thousand yard stare,
Who will I be but the mask that I wear?
What would I be but the role that I act?
A remorseless killer, devoid of tact,
For fear that through kindness his weakness will show,
So the spaces between him and others would grow,
As if to match the point of his focus.
His thoughts all bearing an inward locus.
His life desolate, its body cold,
Loving no one, and growing old.
Just as well I could try on a charming smile,
The kind that says, “Sit down, stay a while.”
And as with a fire, others would find it meet,
To huddle around me and draw on my heat.
Assuming that there was some magic within,
Causing my cheeks defy gravity with a grin,
As if to propagate life’s paradox,
Who with ironical grin entropy mocks,
As a river flowing against an eddy,
Removing its basis when conditions are ready.
This in mind, clever Judases would know,
That through my kindness, my weakness would show.
So which should I wear, Thalia, Melpomene,
Exists there a mean between your extremes?
Whichever the case, this much we should trust:
That what we do without urging, speaks most of us.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
Now……..all over me, fly these treacherous bullets and bombs, I have got no other option, but to tussle in this Satan’s home. His hazy silhouette, his jagged bayonet........ somehow, withholding that emotional torrent; covertly, cowardly, I did what I was supposed to do, eased his misery, I freed his soul. Deep down I can’t accept that my hands are now defiled, but Mother shed no tear for me……….please, don’t you cry.
Father, I still remember that toy gun, which you had bought for my birthday. Its ironical that even after several years, I play with my gun, night after night, day after day. But when I realise that it can never be that toy I had, the clatter it produced, which is now the theme song of my life, dismay is all I got, it kills me from inside, but father shed no tear for me....... please, don’t you cry.
Brother, do you remember that day , when I had pushed you from behind, you bruised your knee on the ground, in dust lay your broken bike. Forgive me , for the sake of those good old times, Hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, when we walked in the wild, hiding from mother, and running away from the frets of our lives. I am sorry that I will never be able to see u rise and shine, but brother shed no tear for me....... please, don’t u cry.
Sitting here , in my garrison , I think about all those things that I have done. It is my choler that I can no longer contain, because this may be the last time, when I lift my pen. I have to accept this reality with great composure composure but I have made u proud, haven’t I? So Mother please smile, as my last breath will be for you, in your arms I shall die.
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 1:12 AM UTC
The days grow longer
And there is sleeping somber
Happiness in hearing your voice
Has no chain reaction and has lost its poise.
Even with my own troubles, then hearing yours
Drought became springs of offerings.
Unknowingly you mended my soul to follow detours,
In spite of ironical sufferings.
But despite that claim, and the ground untold
Paths have laid stones away from the bend.
Unheard, unsure the view of the fenced abode
This remains forever unanswered at this end
I tried to get to you; I left all I can mark
Assurance, regret but admire; my last true remark
I once felt, like I was trapped within a cell
But I seem to no longer hear your name,
Feb 21, 2010
Feb 21, 2010 at 7:27 AM UTC
When poetry describes the historical,
One refrains from becoming hysterical.
However by use of the judicial rhetorical
A Poet makes full use of the allegorical!
So when writing poetry I remain stoical,
That though some may think me radical,
Employing words they considered lyrical,
I try never to appear, irrational or critical.
To write about the mystical and cryptical,
Using strict rhythm? Can be diabolical!
As for themes regarded purely mythical,
I shy from words too pictorial or technical.
My approach to topics humourously comical,
Is to compose lines thoughtfully satirical.
In turn this allows me to remain sceptical,
Whilst appearing not too fanatical or cynical!
So, if with words I am reckoned economical?
I hope my rational thoughts are not illogical,
But in using descriptive words, is it ethical
To ensure Poems not be too whimsical?
Now, without appearing to be pontifical,
Though I'm always careful to be veridical,
I'm allowed at times, to wax philosophical,
As I attempt to depict matters paradoxical.
Doubtless some will find my words inimical:
Fanatically methodical and chronological?
But in attempting the facetious or ironical,
I'll avoid the pitfalls of being too graphical.
Should poetry be left to the technological?
One might find it becomes too puritanical.
And suggest the Poet was unduly practical!
Such is the way of the biased hypocritical!
If my poetic lines appear to be egotistical?
Then readers must understand, that's logical.
But please I beg of you, never be heretical,
When lines concern the canonical or political.
Will a Poet's thoughts be considered farcical,
If a reader is left bemused and quizzical?
Or should he stick to the unequivocally canonical?
Personally, I'm happy if my poems are grammatical!
So I'll conclude thinking poetry may be symbolical,
And my many rhymes, in quantities numerical,
May not satisfy the purist nor the global ecumenical,
But they deal with topics that are never hypothetical!
Rhymer. July 10th, 2018.
(Your turn Jim!)
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
why is it that at 38,000 feet above the sea, the words come steady easy?
~~~
heart and head soundlessly conversing,
as the body southernly traversing,
along the Atlantic Seaboard latitude,
quiescent, his manners and attitude,
sure where he is physical destined,
unsure where he is living bound
this time,
his designated place,
a blue leatherette stoop,
identifiable as Seat 23C
three seats, rowed across,
four letters, aisle down,
the crossword question;
what rhymes with "don't y'all know it" -
must be that word,
poet
why is it
that at 38,000 feet
above the sea,
the words come steady easy?
almost as if, they grow excited
by their return to the angelic upper atmospheres,
from whence they fell,
to a planet where mundanity revels
nothing to say,
plenty to feel,
like I said,
the head and the heart confer,
a baby born poem emerges
bawling and crawling,
lolling and drawling,
southern style
poem does not state a particular,
direction unknown,
disposed to the philosophical,
it forms, then reforms,
stymied but satisfied ironical,
posing while reposing,
the newborn's query repitiously millennial,
why?
the answer too,
an airborne pollen perennial,
just because
march 8, 2016
somewhere between
nyc & Fla.
11:20 pm
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
how ironical
is it to fall in
love with
someone who
only wants to
break your heart?
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 8:42 AM UTC
I wish,
I could cry it all out
let the tears roll
Ironical as it seems
I felt everything ,
The sadness in the eyes.
The happiness in the smile.
The affection of the arms.
Everything.
Yet I have nothing
The sadness in my eyes
nor fear.
The happiness in my smile
nor disgust.
The affection of the arms
nor anger.
Nothing.
Like sponge,
Easy to slice and slash
and simply burn to ash
And I know
it is I
barely alive
Numb.
May 22, 2019
May 22, 2019 at 10:43 AM UTC