"laurence" poems
My Country Tis of Thee,
Sweet land of liberty-
Or so we sing.
Land where my fathers died-
But my forefathers died in a battle
Trying to keep their slaves;
My fathers killed your fathers
For trying to run away;
My fathers **** your fathers
Cause it's late at night, and
He's reaching for his gun-no, wait,
His ID?
Land of the pilgrim's pride-
But so often we leave out of history
How if it weren't for a Native American,
The pilgrims would've died.
From every mountainside-
Like Stone Mountain in Georgia,
Where Rebel Generals are memorialized,
Where the **** was revived-
God, help me, I can't hear freedom's ring;
I can only hear white-washed history.
From every mountainside-
But these days, the mountain is in my chest,
And liberty's ring sounds a lot different,
And a lot of folks don't like it.
Let freedom ring-
And I want to fight for freedom for all-
#BlackLivesMatter-
I want to help-
HANDS UP, DON'T SHOOT!
But-
I
Can't
Breathe.
Let freedom ring!-
But peaceful protests turn into
Bloodbaths as those who have sworn
To serve and protect are sniped down.
Let freedom ring!-
I try to educate myself
On the side of history not taught-
I've always felt that Nat Turner was the bad guy,
But these days I'm questioning it.
I read "The Meaning of Fourth of July for the *****
by Frederick Douglass
And I read "Bury Me in a Free Land"
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
and I read "Sympathy"
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
and I read "Letters from Birmingham Jail",
"The Mountaintop Speech", and
"I Have a Dream"
by Dr. King.
When I was younger,
I'd research Dr. King & his colleagues
For fun.
I'd wonder, "If I lived in the Civil Rights era,
What would I have done?"
But when I turned seventeen,
I realized, "I live in a Civil Rights era;
What am I going to do?
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 5:28 PM UTC
Diaspora
From the Greek
When I heard the word I felt it
And I looked it up
In my old red dictionary
I could have used the Internet,
I suppose
But I like to run my forefinger down pages
Of words
I read the definition
And I felt it
Oh
Oh
We are diaspora.
Am I using it correctly?
We are a diaspora.
Diaspora
From the Greek
From the green valley of Ottawa
From Scotland
From Ireland on wooden boats
From the French village thirteen children
From the mines in the North
From Poland and from Germany
From the churches and
From the Blueberry patches
From the Island Manitoulin
From the dark lake Kagawong
From Kinburn and Arnprior
From Markstay and from Sudbury
From Waterloo
From Kitchener, Michener
From the Suburbs
Oh
From the Suburbs
From the red bricks, red currants
And geraniums
From green island cabins
From the desert
Oh
From the desert
From the potholes and pipes
From the salty wind
Cracked Caspian Sea
From the middle of the east of nowhere.
From the mountains
Oh
From the mountains
From the crystal water fountains
From the tram bells
On the cobblestone streets
From the torrents of the Rhein
From the white cross
Oh
From the white cross
On the green hill
From the river Laurence
From the French and from the English
Plains of Abraham
We are diaspora
We are a diaspora
Diaspora
From the Greek
How did it end up here on my tongue?
It is diaspora.
It is a diaspora
Diaspora is a diaspora
And I wonder if it misses its other pieces
The way that I miss mine
Ours
There is no
Roping us back together now
There is no
Home to go back to
There is no
Point of meeting
Of reunion
No
White steeple in our old town
No
Yellow slide in our backyard
No
Old folks on an old farm
No
Walled house on a hill
No
Luzernerring 93
No
Familiar riverwater
There is no
Ancient Greek anymore
Diaspora
Only fragments of fragments
Of roots of stems of words
In different dialects
There is no
Place for you to belong,
Diaspora
You’ve been sliced to pieces
And scattered
Into the wind
But
When people ask you
Where you are from
You say simply
From the Greek
Oh
From the Greek
And
When people ask me
Where I am from
I say simply
From the diaspora.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
When Hamlet was young,
All was good,
Elsinore was proud,
Hamlet was young,
Ophelia too.
Now he is older,
Not everything is good,
Some things still are,
His uncle is his father in law,
This is not so good.
Now he is dead,
Ophelia is dead,
Laertes is dead,
Gertrude is dead,
Cladius is dead,
Yorick... is dead,
but he was at the start,
so he doesn't count.
Rosen... Guilden... dead
Old hamlet is dead,
Plonius is dead.
Horatio is alive;
can't imagine he's very happy,
because everyone else is dead.
Laurence Olivier is handsome,
he's dead too.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
1. If it doesn't take place at 4 in the morning, immediately change the setting.
2. You should center all your work. Centering makes the piece unique and improves readability.
3. You should invoke the idea of The Mask. Paul Laurence Dunbar didn't do it well enough.
4. One word lines improve readability and do a great job of making emphasis. Use them a lot.
5. On the other hand, really long lines explain points wonderfully. Feel free to be essentially prosaic.
6. The subject should be obvious and everyday, that way everyone can easily understand what you're trying to say. Subtext is dated.
7. Confessions and heartbreak are unique to you.
8. Not editing makes the work extremely human and relatable.
9. Emoticons and the ilk are the cutting edge of the English language. Feel free to use them without reservation.
10. Rhyme scheme doesn't need meter.
11. Making a word into waterfall letters tells the reader you're falling apart (See #3).
12. Journals, diaries, blogs and Tumblr are old news when it comes to venting. Write an angry poem about your day instead.
13. You're probably going mad according to the DSM-5. Definitely write about that.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
Thrift Shop Confessional
Old carts squeak down re-sale aisles
"One of," "two of,"
Sometimes "three of" items
Tempting treasure-sifting shoppers,
Bargain-needing families,
Women seeking up-brand names at low-brand prices...
Our wives, followed by their husbands,
Acquiescent, but quiescently seeking
Seeking a thrift shop oasis.
A cast-off dining set beckons,
Sturdy enough, if a little battered,
To make us solemnly content to wait
Carted clothing trundling
Off to fitting rooms.
He shuffled up with a foolish grin.
"I think I'll join this convocation of
Waiting gentlemen.
My wife is a shopper...
She'll close the place down."
I moved a chair and gave some space;
Strangers become brothers in this place.
Five minutes on,
I knew he was a vet:
Army, Vietnam Nam...
"I don't like to think about it,"
Cleared his throat,
"Never can forget."
I turned to look at him.
"A little girl came running,
With her hand behind her back.
She only stood this high," he said,
And showed me with his palm her height,
"They carried grenades that way...
All of 'em...couldn't tell which ones...
Sergeant told us, 'Don't ever check...just shoot.'"
The voice trailed off....
I sat sweating in a thrift store,
Captive of my own politeness,
Half a century,
Half a planet,
Transported in his words
into a soldier's Hell.
"So I shot...
Nothing else to do."
Silence then.
A total stranger staggering
under the weight of having
Murdered his Albatross....
Of having carried this thing,
This memory,
Inside him all these years,
Of finding me,
The unsuspecting thrift shop guest
Who'd listen to his lonely tale,
Perhaps so he could earn some rest....
I, his unwitting Confessor,
Uncertain what to say,
Certain something must be said...
Certain nothing could be said...
Sat dumb, but understanding
The wisdom of confessional dividers,
The private comfort of two booths
Where prayerful exchanges
Intersperse uncertain silences,
Present in the overhanging need:
Demanding sorrowful returns,
Impending memories of sorrows...
And lonely trudgings home....
(Connections with Fr. Laurence's "Riddling confession finds but short shrift," in Romeo & Juliet, and Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner")
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
Home boy thought he was a killer
Kept a necklace round his neck
In a villa near manila
A strange accurance
Small body found dead
Little ***** died underneath the currents
Homeboy was sure of his assurance
A good swimmer
His name was probably Laurence
He was just a few feet from shore,
When this Alligator about six feet or four,
His eyes went wide, bug eyed and crazy
This is when it all got a little hazy
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 11:26 AM UTC
person feels a wave of heat through their neck and face when struck with a thought of their ex boyfriend. a ninth grader gives them a ***** look. person leans against a cold cinderblock wall and relaxes their face. focus on the empty space between the eyeballs and the brain. feel the limp arms and identify the beat of a pulse running through them. repeat after me: self care is boring.
paul laurence dunbar knows why the caged bird sings. he never wanted to be an elevator operator. it's a point of privilege. person asks a ninth grader if a bird could see the wind, the river, the sun. "oh... no..."
one thing person notices time and again is that when these students drop something they do not pick it up. they let someone else do it. where person is from it is not like that. students would not help person like that, they think.
person remembers one time, when they themselves were in the ninth grade, dropping their lunchbox in a crowded hallway and picking it up swiftly in the next step without slowing down. a tall boy behind them said "smooth". person felt proud at the time. person feels good remembering this.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 7:44 PM UTC
Violent delights
Have violent ends so as
They kiss they consume
The sweetest loathsome honey
Confounding the appetite.
Apr 26, 2010
Apr 26, 2010 at 12:12 PM UTC
La nuit, quand par hasard je m'éveille, et je pense
Que dehors et dedans tout est calme et silence,
Et qu'oubliant Laurence, auprès de moi dormant,
Mon cœur mal éveillé se croit seul un moment ;
Si j'entends tout à coup son souffle qui s'exhale,
Régulier, de son sein sortir à brise égale,
Ce souffle harmonieux d'un enfant endormi !
Sur un coude appuyé je me lève à demi,
Comme au chevet d'un fils, une mère qui veille ;
Cette haleine de paix rassure mon oreille ;
Je bénis Dieu tout bas de m'avoir accordé
Cet ange que je garde et dont je suis gardé ;
Je sens, aux voluptés dont ces heures sont pleines,
Que mon âme respire et vit dans deux haleines ;
Quelle musique aurait pour moi de tels accords ?
Je l'écoute longtemps dormir, et me rendors !
De la Grotte, 16 décembre 1793.
1.5k
My favorite poets and literary artists are
Marcus Garvey
James Weldon Johnson
Phillis Wheatley
Langston Hughes
Maya Angelou
Countee Cullen
Paul Laurence Dunbar
These are mine who are yours.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 12:22 AM UTC
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes-
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay,let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile,but, O great Christ,our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and along the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
Solemn sweet pipes of de o'gan
Heav'nly music I've hyead play,
But I'll tell you somefin' truly
Certain ez is Judgment Day:
Angels present at de service
Ev'ry Sunday spread dey wings,
Lif' dey hands, an' witness glory
When Malindy sings.
Mar 27, 2024
Mar 27, 2024 at 1:43 PM UTC
Am restored,follow my heart
I was patient cause someone was patient with me
I play the piano in my limo
Good or bad life is good
My empire like a VLC player
I play hard like Laurence HARDER
You don't giveup
when you are ****** cause life itself is ******
I will teach you how to play,but don't wna take the lead
It a lawless world, don't break rules
We rule despite in the midst of the darkness
You drive your limo,I roll my tricycle
Ain't we equal?
You don't have to giveup it not the end of the world. . .
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC
Un baiser sur mon front ! un baiser, même en rêve !
Mais de mon front pensif le frais baiser s'enfuit ;
Mais de mes jours taris l'été n'a plus de sève ;
Mais l'Aurore jamais n'embrassera la Nuit.
Elle rêvait sans doute aussi que son haleine
Me rendait les climats de mes jeunes saisons,
Que la neige fondait sur une tête humaine,
Et que la fleur de l'âme avait deux floraisons.
Elle rêvait sans doute aussi que sur ma joue
Mes cheveux par le vent écartés de mes yeux,
Pareils aux jais flottants que sa tête secoue,
Noyaient ses doigts distraits dans leurs flocons soyeux.
Elle rêvait sans doute aussi que l'innocence
Gardait contre un désir ses roses et ses lis ;
Que j'étais Jocelyn et qu'elle était Laurence,
Que la vallée en fleurs nous cachait dans ses plis.
Elle rêvait sans doute aussi que mon délire
En vers mélodieux pleurait comme autrefois ;
Que mon cœur sous sa main devenait une lyre
Qui dans un seul soupir accentuait deux voix.
Fatale vision ! Tout mon être frissonne ;
On dirait que mon sang veut remonter son cours.
Enfant, ne dites plus vos rêves à personne,
Et ne rêvez jamais, ou bien rêvez toujours !
771
I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals--
I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting--
I know why he beats his wing!
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his ***** sore,--
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings--
I know why the caged bird sings!
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
Laurence Stephen feeling lowly
Lonely as the sea
Sits watching the matchstick crowds go by
He isn't going to the match
Or the mill
He's in his back room
With imagined ladies and Bellini
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 5:59 AM UTC
“I’ve only seen her, Charles. Like a shooting star, I’ve only seen her. But I’d be a king amongst kings to subject myself to that arduous task— of knowing her, and letting her know me. So that we could, some day, and only if she too desires me, arrive at the gates of love.”
“And what about doing that would make you a king, Laurence?”
“Oh don’t you know, Charles? The wait to reach her is as golden as any king’s riches,”
And here, he turns to look at him and smiling, baring teeth and pride, tells his dear friend,
“and would make me twice richer.”
.
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 9:02 AM UTC
"this is what is
going to send us
*all
over
the
edge!"*
somebody's worried
about falling into
the saint laurence seaway
and i'm worried about
falling into a waterfall just
past the edge of the blade
*(all the money in the
world could probably
buy me my peace of mind
but it couldn't buy me
happiness and it
would leave everyone
else in the world
without any money)*
and this life
my friends
is what is going
to send us all
over
the edge.
s m o t h e r
me in fresh snow
m u f f l e d
through notes to self
s c r i b b l e d
on scraps of paper to
a p p o i n t m e n t s
i never met
and call the
weekend a stanza
just one stanza in a
poem of months and time
*(to be one person and
lost is not much to
the world but it is one
person's entire world to be lost)*
break my back
split my heels
**** winter
except don't because
i like winter i just
want something
anything
to curse at
blame my
mood on
scuff my
cash on
knit my
apron on
***** my lid
on so tight
that someday
i'll explode
this is what is
going to send us
all over
the edge
*(i don't live
in a vacuum
but neither
do you)*
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
#
"Oh Charles, Oh dear friend... what shall I do? She is somewhere far and I can't reach her hand. I can't tell her with my mouth the things I need to say. Only though letters- through ink and paper can I say anything at all. And I'm no good with words, Charles! Why, I- I'm only an animal, a dog who will lick you and look at you with those full moon eyes to tell you that it loves you, and, and I can't take it anymore, Charles. I miss her. Oh I shall go mad if this continues!"
"I thought the wait would make you king, Laurence? What's changed?"
"..."
"Why don't you tell her?"
"Tell her. Tell her what?"
"Tell her the way you feel."
"My dear Charles. It... it isn't yet time. I've barely spoken a word to her. She’d think me truly mad then!— if I were to tell her about my childish yearning.
She's been ill, you know. Away, being taken care of by those blessed enough to know her. And me, I'm nothing to her yet; I am ****** too young and dry still, without the waters of her baptism. Oh if only she were near..."
"You'd fumble about and tip the tub with all its water, you would!"
"Oh hush..! At least then she'd see me. In all my fumbling and stuttering, Charles. She would see me."
"That she would, dear friend. That she would."
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 11:00 PM UTC
.I should say it loudly my dear
Or i will scream it on all the roofs
I adore you beautiful Muse ,
All the words i write it's you
Who inspire them to me ,
Muse! Even if i am not Roméo
But you really deserve
To be that dreamed Juliet .
you are that dreamed Muse
On a balcony , and i am singing
My lovelly song that summer after-noon
That wonderful day called tuesday
And if I should die at the end
I would do as did once
That lover named Roméo
I die every day a little beat
in that homeland .but for your love
I should live till the end of the light
love is that why i was born for
love should be our first religion
I am singing loudly as a tenor voice
or so i feel my self as Laurence Olivier
on a stage performing the play itself
the one written by that famous William
without love i can not sing my song
nor write those words to tell you
again and again pretty Muse!
I love you and moreover i adore you !
Aug 20, 2019
Aug 20, 2019 at 8:40 PM UTC
.finally! i've been skewing, stalling, to write this one sentence for almost a week, not out of difficulty, but out of a nuanced castacade of observation that "got in the way"... how else to begin rather than with a fireside adlous huxley 1950s english... that grand extract from the history of a language, that sardonic look upon a saxon past.... well... the evil of hollywood when it comes to movies with scenes of actors brushing their teeth... evil, evil, evil, loki-esque diabolical... chauvinism via elbow shuffling: via elbow pushing past the english sacrosanct idea of the supermarket queue... cordiality mon frère... cordiality mon frè(re) - grave accent? you write in the -re: but you cut off given the grave accent on the e-grave... mon fré! it's evil what they do in hollywood h'america... all those movies... actors brushing their teeth, spitting... they brush, they spit... but they don't rinse! and what's wrong with the pea-sized amount of paste once a day? why two times a day? once a day will do... and... once you've brushed your teeth?! you rinse them! you don't do what hollywood actors do, you don't brush your teeth, spit out dry and "forget" to rinse your teeth afterwards... pea-sized amount of paste, brush, spit, rinse... you have to rinse your teeth after the brushing... you don't climb into bed thinking the non-rinsed teeth are your extra: chewing gum! when you brush your teeth: you rinse... i'm a tobacco smoker, all the adverts suggest i should be having stains on my teeth... i'm not getting the scaremongering stains expected... i don't follow hollywood's dentistry's rules... i rinse my gob once i've scrubbed my ivories... hollywood is evil that way... it's all marathon man herr szell (laurence olivier) when it depicts actors brushing their teeth, spitting the paste out, but not rinsing! pea sized dollop, once a day, but rinse rinse rinse! tongue come ice-ring on the touchy-feely side of things after... tongue skidding on enamel!
i once loved...
what an unfathomable
presence of an unbelievable
statement...
i once loved...
it almost feeds into
my luxury of vampire fiction...
i once loved...
i did...
but then...
whatever love there was,
to begin with...
had to become morphed
into the ugly circumstance
of experiencing
the basic foundation,
of reality.
i no longer love,
i do what other people tempt
"to love",
the basic realism of
the exploited, unaware...
i once loved from
the pages of fiction,
of poetry...
now?
this, lost idealism...
well...
the love it kept intact...
but the interactions
kept limited...
whatever counter
theory
comes my way...
an open wheat field...
and a scuttling ramble's
worth of a brain
to match it;
nothing worth being desired
to match a father figure,
or compose itself into
a figurehead
for the worth of establishing
family.
Apr 7, 2019
Apr 7, 2019 at 10:29 PM UTC