"lamented" poems
Standing before the masterpiece
she lamented it's incompleteness,
nothing ever gets completed in universe
thank homeostasis for the illusion
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
ah, enslave without compassion
bound ancestors you must impale
go seek and show no mercy
let those who escape carry the tale
all the sufferers bearing witness
to their ministers spilling their blood
staggered screeches from bleak recesses
regicide plotters bend to the dust
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
slimy enshrinement brings into question
what's divinely lamented for
scatter populations with ruthlessness
let them choose sycophancy or sword
reappoint difficult commanders
for instigation unbroken awaits
kept in frenzy, they whisper confusion
never quite sure of their fate
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
let the cowardly unlock the gates for you
to heroically claim what's inside
crowds you abhor kneeling in wonder
all the world is your ****** bride
punctuate the roads with tollgates
***** monuments to broadcast your name
all your banquet's guests are your enemies
entertain them with one another's shame
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
under your tyranny
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
The hanky he was sobbing into was crusty,
***** unwashed, unclean; yet strangely comforting to a little boy,
as he cried he made his way to a culvert behind the school,
some place the other kids couldn’t see him crying,
it was more comfortable being near rocks
-next to that watershed for some reason?
He looked down at his antagonist,
the scaly-green feet,
they made him cry harder,
he lamented…
“Why have I been tormented so?”
“Who gave me these feet? Who made me this way, lizardly, scaly, an animal no?”
“What class am I, what species? Are those toenails, claws or a disease?”
“The way I’m treated makes me sad. Where is my mommy, where is my dad?
“Did I come from an egg? Didn’t we all? Why do they pick on me, make me feel so small?”
“My feet are reptilian even I can see that!”
“Am I part lizard? Are there horns on my back?”
“I can’t hide in sneakers ‘cause the claws tear them apart.”
“Not great at math, language or art.”
“They always pickin’ on me, today it’s in the schoolyard.”
“That is why I sit here on the rocks crying with my ugly feet and sullen heart,”
“Cannot run fast so no baseball, basketball or soccer…”
“The other kids tried to stuff me in my own locker…”
“One mean little girl even threw a dead mouse at me!”
“But I’m only part lizard as far as I can see?”
“My English teacher says that my words are like a bird song”
“If I talk like a birdie along with monster’s feet, no wonder I don’t belong!”
“Even still, to be so mean to me, I know that it is wrong…”
“ONE DAY I WILL SHOW THEM ALL, THESE FEET THEY HAVE A PURPOSE!”
“MY WORDS OF SONG AND FEET OF MAGIC COMBINE A COSMIC CIRCUS!”
“I am no freak of nature, no forest Pan or Satyr…”
“It is not the way I look, my clothes or feet that matter…”
“It is what is in my heart and mind, the things I do that truly count…”
“For those things that make us different, for they are tantamount…”
“Seven heads, seven stages, seven fables, seven sages”
“Seven stars and seven wonders and seven heavens that we’re under…”
“And all those things they say are great and marvelous about us…”
“Will one day be written in the book by Great Old Uncle Taautus!” *
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 10:29 PM UTC
Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?
Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon--
I, only I.
Yet give not o'er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.
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Because when I was 4, my mom told me that I could not like blue because it was a 'boy' colour.
Because when I was 5, the kids at kindergarten made fun of me for my 'boy' hairstyle.
Because when I was 6, dad refused to buy me a toy car because it is a 'boy' toy. He got me a Barbie doll. 'Good for girls,' he said.
Because when I was 7, my teacher scolded my for my 'boy' handwriting.
Because when I was 8,after a bad fall, my mom lamented that I would never be able to wear a skirt, instead of asking if I was ok.
Because when I was 9 I watched as my relatives mocked my male cousin for cooking. "Leave it to the women" they said.
Because when I was 10, I was told that I ran like a girl. 'But I am a girl', I said. They laughed at my innocence.
Because when I was 11, I was warned my my mother that I would be too fat to be loved. As though his love had to be spread all over my fats.
Because when I was 12, puberty started and the acne set in. It was my mom's worst nightmare.
Because when I was 13, my mom reemphasised that I was too fat to be loved. I felt like ****
Because when I was 14, I starved myself so that I would be beautiful. I did look like a 'proper girl', my parents agreed.
Because when I was 15, the stress of impending national exams got to me and my hair started to fall out. My mom prayed for my soul, and my scalp.
Because when I was 16, in the car 37 minutes ago. My mom scolded me for my acne scars, saying that I was too scarred to ever get a job, or a husband. Most importantly a husband.
Because gender roles affect us all, male or female. Stop labelling people.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 5:25 PM UTC
Once I was a sad clown
I smiled sometimes
but you couldn’t see it
behind the painted frown
I could pluck small
colorful *****
from my pocket
and spin them in the air
Blue, red, yellow, green
*Lies
Mistrust
Envy
Deceit*
They would twirl faster
Faster…
until they merged
into an ugly brownish red stain
Then stop!
To fall, into a
puddle at my feet
Another time I was a ballerina
A little girls delight
Another time, a tin soldier
A little boys dream
But I can only be those things
While I sit, with my eyes closed
and my conscious dozes
and I can no longer hear
the screams
When my eyes are open
I am once again
just a Puppet
all arms and legs
and bobbing head
that dip and sway
and dance
to anothers tune
Even that
I could live with
if my demise
had not come so soon
In one moment of lucidity
borne of dreams
I could not escape
I ignored the Puppeteers growl
as I twisted and twirled
with my own moves
but then I slipped
Alas
my fatal mistake
You see,
I was not strong enough
To move my own arms and legs
with my worthless
puppet brain
To even think I could move
without anothers command
should have shown
how much my dreams
had made me
Insane
I tripped up so badly
there was no hope
of untangling
my Puppet strings
I was bound so tight
unable to move
I lamented what
my actions had cost me
and I knew the pain
it would bring
There was no other choice
but to cut me loose
and my master
did not even shed
a single tear
I’m still a puppet
just an unmoving one
sitting in the corner
no longer with strings
And no use to another
Puppeteer
Nov 30, 2010
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
Gazing past my somber expression
etched upon the windows reflection.
Silently observing the snow's caress
soft, fragile, cold, much like myself.
Kinship is shared,
as I gaze out from my window,
observing them cascade,
caught in a moment of limbo.
I, just an insignificant snowflake,
weak, insubstantial, easy to break.
Diminished by even the softest touch,
transforming, melting, to lamented sludge.
Many will cast eyes upon my silent fall
but with a millions others, I am too small.
Tranquilizing, a melancholy presence,
lethargically dropping in evanescence.
Some may glance and discover elegance
but rarely can they withstand my elements.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 1:34 AM UTC
Dangling sweet ambrosia scents
Repose upon the jasmine bench
Easing sorrowful soughs
Amidst lamented long slipped
Melancholy memories singing
Suserant soliloquies in stillness
--bruised orange
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 12:15 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
Whenever I enter any Indian Wedding,
The clarinet would be lamenting in rejoice,
Playing it would be very frequently happy tunes,
The irony became so profound when I'd move further,
Clarinet already lamented that the groom would lose himself.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 1:37 AM UTC
As she sat there on the bench
She fiddled with the cold metal handle
And believed it was her closest friend
As she sat there on the bench
She refused to think of the laughs
Of the friends and family she had spent countless days with
Of the happiness she had
As she sat there on the bench
She forgot the two boys
Who admired her from a distance
But wouldn't say anything because the boys were best friends
As she sat there on the bench
She lamented about the small time
She had been laughed at instead of with
She had been scorned
As she sat there on the bench
bang
As she died there on the bench
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 11:57 AM UTC
When is it that you give up?
That you let infernos fire devour your strength
That you let delusion's screams chant a lamented melody for you to sleep by
That you let pain kiss your every waking thought goodbye
When is it that you get up to that point?
When you let the palpable tension of fear tighten a noose around your neck
When your mind doesn't register the calls of anguish any more because its numb
When everything around you dulls to a faint buzz, and the colours drain with malady and the light shines with hate
When is it that you shatter?
That the limbs of your body tear to stones,
That the hate which he possesses drowns you into storms
That every tears which falls from your eyes carry an anchor to the deepest pits of ocean
That the simplest motions reduce you to screams and blades
And the only waking thought in your mind is suicide.
When is it that you decide enough is enough?
That you decide you can't do this
You can't try anymore
You can't pretend to be strong
You can't smile anymore
You can't be happy ever again.
That the only thing you want to do now is sleep for eternity...
Should I answer this question?
Should Itell you when specifically you give up?
It's not up to me though.
You don't have to listen to me.
However if you want to know what I think
Then the answer my friends Is
Never
So when is it that you give up? Decide that you can't do this anymore?
Never
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
We sat outside the coffee shop
next to a fire,
watching the sun set behind decrepit buildings.
I lamented over the lack of a roller rink in the area,
reflecting on memories of wobbling around in circles
with dizzying lights and blaring speakers
ejecting Pink, Daft Punk, and Eiffel 65 onto my critical youth.
I felt like a king.
We finished our smoothies and retreated
to an empty hotel parking lot,
where I taught her to skateboard.
One foot over the front bolts,
the back foot over two of the back bolts
but resting over the tail,
kick, push,
it's in the ***** of your feet--
weight distribution.
Tic, tac, scrape, thud--
she falls repeatedly
and gets back up.
I admire her resilience and perpetual smile--
This is what skateboarding is all about.
We roll around the hotel parking lot,
our endpoints being a lone luminescent lamppost
and a telephone pole beleaguered by a plot of shrubbery
that demarcates itself from the pavement.
We circle around the poles for hours,
forming an imaginary oblong track between the two,
our laughs carrying into the cool summer night lullaby
that sang the drowsy small town to sleep.
The fading throb of the wedding reception
at the bottom of the town square by the wharf,
carrying over to us.
The stores closed up hours ago,
silent empty windows reflecting the lonely streetlights
and our ambulance back at us.
We skated on unperturbed into the night hour.
A man walks outside the hotel
to have a cigarette on the sidewalk--
I imagine he is watching us and admiring our glee.
Rolling between this telephone pole and lamppost,
the glare and reflection of the empty silent windows,
the soundtrack singing above our heads,
our laughs, and the tic-tac of skateboards
and groaning of wheels over stubborn pavement
bringing my melancholic reverie to a halt,
recognizing and understanding happiness in the present moment--
This is my roller rink.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
The other day my sister lamented that she did not look like one of those white, blonde, blue-eyed beauties on television.
This struck me for a number of reasons mainly for the fact that we are Indian girls who are neither white, blonde nor blue-eyed and it is physically impossible for us to be like that because it's coded into our genes.
Why then did my sister want to be so much like these beauties that she could never look like.
Why then did my sister want to change herself so much, change they very coding in her genes, change the very fabric of her body?
I was not able to respond to her at the time but this is my response to her.
Society's standards of beauty were created by entrepreneurs looking to make a quick buck.
They market such celebrities as beautiful and, through subliminal messages tell you that if you do not look like them, you are ugly and not worthy.
And it is so easy for them to do this because of the Westernisation of cultures all over the world.
Go to any supermarket and the first things yo will see under the beauty section are bleaching and whitening creams.
It is true that these white, blonde, blue-eyed beauties are stunning, gorgeous.
But why should their beauty mean that you aren't beautiful?
You are the culmination of years of evolution,
the stars have been planning your arrival.
Look at yourself in the mirror,
Stare into the dark brown irises of your eyes and understand that they are like pools of chocolate, understand that they are the colour of the bark of the tress understand that they are beautiful.
Caress your brown hair, run your fingers through it, you are beautiful.
Look at your caramel-coloured skin, don't you just love the colour? It's deep and sweet and beautiful.
Your body, the vessel of your soul in beautiful and every step you take is magical and your voice sounds like a bow playing perfectly on a violin and your laugh ringing out sounds like wind chimes in a light breeze.
Don't you understand?
You are a ******* masterpiece.
Don't treat yourself any less.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
"What must we endure?"
Cried the naive child.
"When must we endure?"
Lamented the cynical adult.
"How must we endure?"
Worried the desperate parent.
"Why must we endure?"
Questioned the lazy innovator.
"Whom must we endure?"
Rallied by those who dodge the questions.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 1:44 AM UTC
In warmth beneath the insulated drywall
I curse my gooey insides
for not being as solid
as the lamented linoleum
moreover, I wish I didn't need
to declare such trivialities but
I do
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
She read me her latest poem
It was about this dude
She had the hots for
In it
She lamented how he had promised to be with her
That night
But had left with his friends
She was broken hearted
I said
WELL
MAYBE HE HAD SOMETHING MORE IMPORTANT TO
DO THAN STROKE YOUR EGO
SOME MORE!
She started screaming at me
TRAITOR!
YOU ARE A TRAITOR
JUST LIKE HIM!
And went racing off!
TRAITOR!
YOU CALL ME A TRAITOR!
I cried out after her
WELL
THE MORE THE MERRIER !
-----
I thought of the dude who left her
Thinking
BOUT TIME HE FIGURED IT OUT!
--
Love!
Every time someone uses the word
It gives me the creeps
Love !
Eatin eachother alive is all!
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 9:06 PM UTC
*She looked at him with philia
As if she stood a chance
In her bedroom, she created a world
A dream of New York, Rome and France
All she wanted was him,
But she poetized her love on papers,
Like a child tells a pet,she wrote
"Darling,I will fight it like a scrapper."
She longed for a peek from him,
For, in him, her world dwelled
And when saw him beamishing,
All over again in love ,she fell
Then one day he went away,
Over the seas, over the bay,
She mourned ,lamented,
And finally gave way,
In her last breath she said,
**"I am strong and I could still fight,
I had regarded him as my life,
But I want to see him one last time."***
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 3:22 AM UTC
In preserving Hugo Chavez,
every method will be tried.
If stuffing Hugo doesn’t work,
They’ll try Formaldehyde.
Madam Tussaud’s was consulted
But their wax was doomed to melt.
It is steamy in Caracas
And Hugo’s not exactly svelte.
A corpse in a glass coffin
Like Snow White on display
The late lamented Hugo
Was a saint some peasants say.
What is it with these communists
Who all faiths do decry?
They long to be like Lenin;
To be worshiped, deified.
In the end they'll use McDonald's
secret sauce to tan his hide.
Their burgers last forever
don't get me started on their fries.
If you go to Venezuela
Be sure and say hello for me
To the carcass of Caracas
preserved for posterity.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
I have spent many hours over the years
Staring sadly at pictures of girls with delicate pale skin
(Much like mine, but without stretchmarks or scars)
Who wore soft, flowing dress
And high cut shorts
And flower crowns
And lamented mentally the fact that I was not small
Or delicate or sprightly enough
To wear flowers crowns and pastel dresses and golden sandals
And I have spent many an hour soaking myself in the sadness
That who I feel like inside and how I feel I have to express myself
Because of my size, the width of my hips, the set of my shoulders
Were not things that matched
But I am trying my best to remember
That the bulge of my stomach
and the thickness of my thighs
And the stretch marks trailing over my skin
Do not make me unworthy
Of dressing delicately and femininely
And I am just as much allowed
To wear gauze and flower crowns
As the next girl
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
i.
caren forgot about her morning. caren forgot it was wednesday. caren had an event and she was not there.
caren is a shadow. caren is an absence of space. caren is a gap that people shy away from, women in black dresses sidestepping past her memory.
caren is a woman with a streetcar. caren is a woman with an office job. caren is a woman with a social network. caren goes to functions. caren is no longer a function, but a product of her own actions.
caren forgot herself.
ii.
shattered windshields. broken glass like triangle teeth. more monsters lurk in mirrors than in the recesses of the closet. behemoths wait by water coolers, demons sit in sweaty three-by-fours. the devil wears a motorcycle helmet and caren hasn't learned from her mistakes.
iii.
run a red light. it's december and she's egging on the new year. frosted features and blinkers hide hot flashes. she's impatient for her age, a businesswoman at her best.
a shift in gear. a change in mood. road rage, road rash. a few words from a dark knight on a whinnying bike.
iv.
lane changes and unintentional nudges. motorcycle launches the devil like a dove to heaven. caren stays earthbound, blood spilled to nourish the ground. fertilizer runs through her veins, and vampire trees in city parks drink it up. bystanders drink it up.
v.
caren is a casualty. caren is the victim of her own habits.
caren is a corpse in a coffin. caren is an elephant in the viewing room.
caren is to blame in eyes and minds. caren is condemned in whispers, but caren is lamented out loud, so caren is proud.
caren got **** done.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
I, round the brae of Howth in chalky light,
Lamented my lot more spent in sport than play.
There, land appeared disinterested and sight
Was a teary well. Cold was the shivering day,
And my frame, a ghost of shadow, was erased,
It receded like the fog. Just then, overhead
I saw brave birds engaged, a raptor traced
A mourning dove’s faltering flight, how it fed
Its own shining sense of purpose, for not
Wanton sport or lordly state do falcons
So hunt, nor did the bird in peril belabour
His reason, rather he tried avoiding those talons.
A question answered itself within my breadth,
Survival resides in a pageantry of death.
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 2:00 PM UTC
A selection of limericks
There was a young lass from the Bronx
Whose ******* make fearful honks
She sounds like a car
When she puts on a bra
And the geese gather round when she bonks
-----------------
Father Alexander McMackett
Ran a ruthless religious racket
When taking collection
He'd offer protection
Salvation could cost you a packet
-----------------
A carrot named Archibald Nation
Had feathers in high numeration
He was labelled as veg
By a grocer called Reg
With a dubious qualification
-----------------
A sculptor named Arnold Duprees
Carved a **** plug from parmesan cheese
He lamented his luck
When it melted and stuck
But he fired it out with a sneeze
-----------------
Knights in the armour of old
Have little to keep out the cold
For they dress as the Scots
In thier tenderest spots
Which encourages rust and then mould
-----------------
Oh ***** you make my knees quiver
You chemical lethargy giver
You tickle my tongue
And pickle my brain
Then you jump up and down on my liver
-----------------
A Fella named Ricky De Gaul
Had seventeen ******* in all
They called him De Chesty
But with only one *****
It should have been Ricky De Ball
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
Am I a stone and not a sheep
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross,
To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?
Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon,--
I, only I.
Yet give not o'er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.
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