"laconically" poems - Hello Poetry

We watched the sun fall down and scrape its knee again, across the horizon. Effusing amaranth, carmine, and cochineal across polluted vista. It felt petty to issue guttural laughs, or engage the myofacial crescents beneath its visual lament as the Earth turned its back again. We watched the sun rise, bruised, tender and shy this morning. Its muddled contusion obviated by the gauze of fog. A mottled neophyte - Luminescent crepuscular rays defied dregs of interstellar debris and cloud. Aching to kiss your skin - In stellar cloud nursery, it eschewed the torque of orbit and gravity - eras before verity of your essence. Humbly settling concentrically about oblate sphere, and gaseous tome. Latterly - It altered the atmospheric pressure on the other side of the planet a week antecedently, as you clung to your dream lattice, and Earth innately turned oblate nucleus. Its intent – A veneration of you. It bade the atmosphere convey a breeze echoing about your dermis, as it gilded your frame laconically, betwixt shaded steps beneath cloud and arbor. The sun yelled at me at its pinnacle today, Pallid bone – molten - miasma of rage Its core missive garnered inertia – coronal plasma warping ellipsoid factions in inflections of elusive filigree Pirouetting spicules spattered smelted torrents in the dismal anchorite Atomic schism – silent but felt It stoked humidity under shadowed niche - casual vaporous smears evinced no clemency. Flesh torqued, and seized beneath itself, briny globules shed from puckered pore. Culminations of sensitive fluid sacs scorched into the shallows of my chassis. Insignia knit in cellular shrapnel The sun ignored me today – or perhaps, it was I it. Enigmatic tenacious resolution – an echo of its gravitational collapse Inverse thermonuclear fusion It is not fear in a relationship that keeps you apart, it is neglect of the infinitesimal.

0

Jan 26, 2014

Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC

meagan-moore

Heliophilia

We watched the sun fall down and scrape its knee again, across the horizon. Effusing amaranth, carmine, and cochineal across polluted vista. It felt petty to issue guttural laughs, or engage the myofacial crescents beneath its visual lament as the Earth turned its back again. We watched the sun rise, bruised, tender and shy this morning. Its muddled contusion obviated by the gauze of fog. A mottled neophyte - Luminescent crepuscular rays defied dregs of interstellar debris and cloud. Aching to kiss your skin - In stellar cloud nursery, it eschewed the torque of orbit and gravity - eras before verity of your essence. Humbly settling concentrically about oblate sphere, and gaseous tome. Latterly - It altered the atmospheric pressure on the other side of the planet a week antecedently, as you clung to your dream lattice, and Earth innately turned oblate nucleus. Its intent – A veneration of you. It bade the atmosphere convey a breeze echoing about your dermis, as it gilded your frame laconically, betwixt shaded steps beneath cloud and arbor. The sun yelled at me at its pinnacle today, Pallid bone – molten - miasma of rage Its core missive garnered inertia – coronal plasma warping ellipsoid factions in inflections of elusive filigree Pirouetting spicules spattered smelted torrents in the dismal anchorite Atomic schism – silent but felt It stoked humidity under shadowed niche - casual vaporous smears evinced no clemency. Flesh torqued, and seized beneath itself, briny globules shed from puckered pore. Culminations of sensitive fluid sacs scorched into the shallows of my chassis. Insignia knit in cellular shrapnel The sun ignored me today – or perhaps, it was I it. Enigmatic tenacious resolution – an echo of its gravitational collapse Inverse thermonuclear fusion It is not fear in a relationship that keeps you apart, it is neglect of the infinitesimal.

27

the days subsides, with adoring colour and the racous choral, of retiring lorikeets. we sit upon the deck, cold bevvies in hand and watch the master painter at work, over on the mountain range the clouds gather. ben, laconically states, "storm tonight" and yes that smell, so wonderful, sits heavy in the twilight air. petrichor, heavy on the eucalypt, ****** beer, and warm tar.... the smells of a stormy,summer afternoon.

0

Nov 6, 2014

Nov 6, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC

betterdays

storm brewing

the days subsides, with adoring colour and the racous choral, of retiring lorikeets. we sit upon the deck, cold bevvies in hand and watch the master painter at work, over on the mountain range the clouds gather. ben, laconically states, "storm tonight" and yes that smell, so wonderful, sits heavy in the twilight air. petrichor, heavy on the eucalypt, ****** beer, and warm tar.... the smells of a stormy,summer afternoon.

18

what's with these juicy bits? got talking to a cashier at a supermarket because i wanted cash-back rather than using the automated till, she was part of a book club, her grandchildren, something something, oh yeah, into tudor english, prope'h east ender but more into o romeo o romeo why art thou bits of slicing the butcher's expression, tudor english... 'so what do you do? finish work early? work in a slaughterhouse of mammon and his slot machines?' 'i've only just begun, i'm an adolf ****** of poets according to w.h. auden, i mean, wait wait, i can make a calypso's worth of sound with rhyme, and look ironically intelligent too! i have ~40 adamant readers elsewhere, yes, had to look for a publisher on the continent.' you know, all that jazz & bass talk, when you're buying whiskey laconically day to day, and we both agreed: it's nice to leave an imprint on someone, somewhere else, far far away, rather than just an echoing footprint of a pacified stranger passing en route on a shopping spree; so don't up your game thinking writing is a mind game of ups and ups... it's a task like anyone else's, although it doesn't pay out bundles of Ferraris or ****** there ain't not glamour in it... you only get recognition in terms of the numbers doing it after you're dead... because it looks easy, because it looks like a granny in an armchair... what's that, 30 poems in and finito - carpe diem hasta la vista baby? strap me rigid on that train, i'll pay with all my teeth being punched out to see where this is going; juicy bits my ***

0

Mar 22, 2016

Mar 22, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

talking to a supermarket cashier, she’s 60!

what's with these juicy bits? got talking to a cashier at a supermarket because i wanted cash-back rather than using the automated till, she was part of a book club, her grandchildren, something something, oh yeah, into tudor english, prope'h east ender but more into o romeo o romeo why art thou bits of slicing the butcher's expression, tudor english... 'so what do you do? finish work early? work in a slaughterhouse of mammon and his slot machines?' 'i've only just begun, i'm an adolf ****** of poets according to w.h. auden, i mean, wait wait, i can make a calypso's worth of sound with rhyme, and look ironically intelligent too! i have ~40 adamant readers elsewhere, yes, had to look for a publisher on the continent.' you know, all that jazz & bass talk, when you're buying whiskey laconically day to day, and we both agreed: it's nice to leave an imprint on someone, somewhere else, far far away, rather than just an echoing footprint of a pacified stranger passing en route on a shopping spree; so don't up your game thinking writing is a mind game of ups and ups... it's a task like anyone else's, although it doesn't pay out bundles of Ferraris or ****** there ain't not glamour in it... you only get recognition in terms of the numbers doing it after you're dead... because it looks easy, because it looks like a granny in an armchair... what's that, 30 poems in and finito - carpe diem hasta la vista baby? strap me rigid on that train, i'll pay with all my teeth being punched out to see where this is going; juicy bits my ***

40

Tersely "Ugly" Not "Nari Keri" Just "Ugly" Unfinished LACONICALLY "UGLY"

0

Dec 2, 2015

Dec 2, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC

joditeerosvanity

Laconically "Ugly."

Tersely "Ugly" Not "Nari Keri" Just "Ugly" Unfinished LACONICALLY "UGLY"

5

I left you seven hundred miles ago with a note that read, **I'm done with this **** you should have known when you woke up upon sheets that were soaked with our final weeks, and you realised, that you woke alone, it wasn't just a joke, that one thing should have made you know, seven hundred miles later, your bare *** is alone... you should have known and now I'm down the highway seven hundred miles away from you checking out the sunset wondering if you see it as blue as I do are you seeing the splintering and fracturing of the lightening that splits between clouds of such a perfect grey? Do you even remember that day? I do! you should have known how the ventricles in your heart clip clop at such a slow pace how the neurones that fire within your brain stitch together memories so laconically you should have known that seven hundred miles down the road I was going to be more open More free to be me Less inclined to practice this inhumanly farce Seven hundred miles ago You should have known It was never going to last

0

Oct 25, 2015

Oct 25, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC

helen

you should have known!

I left you seven hundred miles ago with a note that read, **I'm done with this **** you should have known when you woke up upon sheets that were soaked with our final weeks, and you realised, that you woke alone, it wasn't just a joke, that one thing should have made you know, seven hundred miles later, your bare *** is alone... you should have known and now I'm down the highway seven hundred miles away from you checking out the sunset wondering if you see it as blue as I do are you seeing the splintering and fracturing of the lightening that splits between clouds of such a perfect grey? Do you even remember that day? I do! you should have known how the ventricles in your heart clip clop at such a slow pace how the neurones that fire within your brain stitch together memories so laconically you should have known that seven hundred miles down the road I was going to be more open More free to be me Less inclined to practice this inhumanly farce Seven hundred miles ago You should have known It was never going to last

41

I walked among the garden, passing by where long ago you once planted daisies—how those buds once bloomed. I walked a-ways farther until I came to a hearth, torn asunder. Its warmth gone cold and gray. The air about the garden is murky and slick, and I can feel it hang low in the snood of the evening mist. Up ahead I see where the path narrows, and like a siren it lasciviously calls out to me. It lies barren beneath the wet winter wind that blows restive. I know that it knows the way not. The wind sets the tawny leaves to caper and dance this way and that. And laconically they cross atop the worn-out grass. The sun now set save for the trailing penumbras, that set ominous among the darkening clouds like floating tundras. I catch a chill and realize for the first that I am out here alone; among the ancient pillars in the shadowy garden that I have for so long known. Why is it that year after year I must return here, is it to visit you, set things straight, or is it to recover a thing I might have lost to the atavistic gait of chaos and time? I know not—it is not for me to know. But, out here among the spectral shadows I am returned to the primordial. The nonpareil decay of clay and dust.

0

Apr 1, 2018

Apr 1, 2018 at 8:46 PM UTC

scott-baillargeon

REMEMORAUNCE

I walked among the garden, passing by where long ago you once planted daisies—how those buds once bloomed. I walked a-ways farther until I came to a hearth, torn asunder. Its warmth gone cold and gray. The air about the garden is murky and slick, and I can feel it hang low in the snood of the evening mist. Up ahead I see where the path narrows, and like a siren it lasciviously calls out to me. It lies barren beneath the wet winter wind that blows restive. I know that it knows the way not. The wind sets the tawny leaves to caper and dance this way and that. And laconically they cross atop the worn-out grass. The sun now set save for the trailing penumbras, that set ominous among the darkening clouds like floating tundras. I catch a chill and realize for the first that I am out here alone; among the ancient pillars in the shadowy garden that I have for so long known. Why is it that year after year I must return here, is it to visit you, set things straight, or is it to recover a thing I might have lost to the atavistic gait of chaos and time? I know not—it is not for me to know. But, out here among the spectral shadows I am returned to the primordial. The nonpareil decay of clay and dust.

1