"lieve" poems
“I don’t believe in love”
She says
As I speed through a yellow light
She presses her first two fingers to her lips
Then touches the roof of my car with them
She shuts her eyes
I don’t ask her why
I just trust her intentions
In the same way I don’t believe in anything myself
Save for the passion that takes hold of others
When they believe
I like what that looks like
The word believe when broken down
First means to live
“Be” means to exist as
Or to live
And “Lieve” means love
And I think about the bravery it takes
To believe in anything
And the bravery it takes to love
And how that same bravery is made by love
How many stupid things have we done
Just by loving someone?
How many arguments are there against a belief
In anything?
I don’t believe in god
But I believe in you
When I watch you do things
Like superstitious knee **** reactions
To keep the light yellow a little longer
So on the ride home I do the same thing
As the sun bends it’s yellow into red over a horizon
That is kissing our sunburnt necks
Because I want this car ride to last a little longer
Even though we say nothing
And you don’t ask why for the last fifteen minutes
I’ve had my fingers pressed to the roof of my car
A satisfied smile pressing back my cheeks
You just trust that I feel this means something
So maybe you don’t believe in love
But you believe in something
And by doing so
You are partaking in love on some weird level
Subconsciously
Like breathing
But I want this car ride to last a little longer
So I say nothing
Let the wind **** the silence like white-noise
It’s as close to prayer
As either of us
Will ever get
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 5:28 PM UTC
My love, this is especially for you, I hope you will like it. With love from, Sylvia / Mijn lieve, dit is speciaal voor jou. Ik hoop dat je het leuk zal vinden, liefs van Sylvia.
as highest as the Chomolungma in Himalaya region
as magic as this Mount Everest correction
as huge as the Nightwatch of Rembrandt
as imposant as the Niagara Waterfalls when you shall land
as friendly as the Ricefields on Bali Island
as generous as the Space Needle together with Manhattan
as lovely as the puppet dolls my fiancé gave me in Jakarta
as beautiful as my wild Rose's voice when speaking about Indonesia
as wonderful as Serfaus at wintersport-season
as warm as Granada could be on Summerdays without a reason
as romantic as Venezia on dark nights
as cool as Paris sparkles in Autumnal lights
as truest as Jesus died on the cross at Calvary
my love for you so loyal as Plath's words, no fata morgana
so honest as Picasso's own Guernica
it means only most important and precious to you and to me,
this I tell to you as my only trustee and devotee.
Truest love ever known, most loyal ever shown !
I have told you all these with the help of God, amen.
Sylvia Frances Chan
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
Godi se il vento ch'entra nel pomario
vi rimena l'ondata della vita:
qui dove affonda un morto
viluppo di memorie,
orto non era, ma reliquario.
Il frullo che tu senti non è un volo,
ma il commuoversi dell'eterno grembo;
vedi che si trasforma questo lembo
di terra solitario in un crogiuolo.
Un rovello è di qua dall'erto muro.
Se procedi t'imbatti
tu forse nel fantasma che ti salva:
si compongono qui le storie, gli atti
scancellati pel giuoco del futuro.
Cerca una maglia rotta nella rete
che ci stringe, tu balza fuori, fuggi!
Va, per te l'ho pregato, - ora la sete
mi sarà lieve, meno acre la ruggine...
1.8k
Lieve Celina ,
Ik heb gehoord dat je een One Direction fan bent,
een nogal grote ook.
Er schoot Something Great in me te voor ,
Ik weet dat One Thing dat jij wilt is om *** te ontmoetenLieve Celina ,
Ik heb gehoord dat je een One Direction fan bent,
een nogal grote ook.
Er schoot Something Great in me te voor ,
Ik weet dat One Thing dat jij wilt is om *** te ontmoeten
Dus ik was Up All Night
om iets over een energie volle meid te schrijven
die van One Direction houd met No Control
en dat is niet erg want You Gotta be You
One way or another wou ik er iets moois van maken
What makes you beautiful is dat jij jezelf blijft
In de klas of buiten de klas blijf je wie je bent en dat is iets dat niemand van je af kan nemen
blijf wie je bent en One Way Or Another
zullen je dromen uit komen maar Live While You’re Young
wees Alive en Believe in your Heart
Magic Moments zijn er voor even maar die Midnight Memories blijven in je hart
Ik wil dat je Magic Moments in je leven maakt en daarvan de Memories in je hart opslaat
Leef je leven als 1 groot Moment en Happily believe in your Heart
zodat je alle obstakels overwint en dat je je dromen waar maakt.
Stand Up en wees jezelf , kijk de wereld aan en overkom alle moeilijke tijden
door altijd jezelf te blijven , een energie volle meid die toch gewoon wilt slapen
maar ze weet andere blij te houden met haar energie volle houding.
We zijn allemaal heel erg dankbaar dat je ons blij houd als je bij ons bent en
dat is iets dat niemand van je kan afnemen.
You are more than a class mate , you are a Girl Almighty
----Door Levon Tamazyan
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
Spry distractions loaf on lithe intent,
men waking, wishing, trying,
b’lieving, doing, buying -inging time rather than be-,
results in salt-work, sprawling like the C
in coldness: callous spray
that dampens your New Canvas Day.
Pixels splat and reek of pure demise,
wine trauma met with whys
fires livid earth from foil-pressed crumbs
from which your towers rise. You miss
the point of -ing;
the shape you’re in’s an -e-d thing
writ past because of practice;
timed it slow, fixed solemn bets
all rife with catty pugil,
ribbons placed on “I-got-tīme-in” *******
that gleam too brightly
for the lover’s open eye. Youriyese
in grace, ingratiated by devices
(rueful caries)
shelter you from toil’s ten-thousand days.
You see them, they see you whilst print-ing,
comb-ing over, feel-ing joy anew: such sugar lines
the bottom
of a borrowed cup of time.
White hues direct-ing -ingots in a line
totally gold
and pin “pathetic” on your chest,
their best not forged in -ing or be-
(like they would want you to be) -lieve,
but rather hey! and halt!
The hollow points of discord,
blood of victims be- -in’ salt.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 2:46 PM UTC
DIY AI
Do It Yourself
Act Inteleostical
aim at fame, take the blame
aim at shame, hide and watch
aim at games no mind can matter in,
hope to hell that you are right,
roll the bones…
let the story form the world we agree upon,
stand, bipedally biased to lieve be
the balance factor in terms
of fear being a reason
to respond,
in one way, or another, knowing now
time is all together different than imagined,
not long ago,
on a little think… we know the journey story,
did we
really live so far from the center?
It seems so,
from where I stand, unembodied in another
reconnected to the story,
a book's worth of time, stretched to thinnistical
translucence,
sparks we imagine having seen as signals slow
to
geo speed, Gaia mind, ****** - that
sensation of ever mattering
just now,
for a moment, then
now, again, similar but never the same,
riverish as any wish one tests
again, after ever has began
to play in the per-ifery.
Dec 20, 2020
Dec 20, 2020 at 1:56 PM UTC
Sono qua rinchiuso
Di pensieri affranto
Senza coscienza alcuna
Di potere il vanto
Volgo i miei sguardi vuoti
Occhi senza sguardo
Voglio sentire ora
Voci, sussurri, suoni
Chiedo a me stesso vivo
Dove guardare ancora
Chiudo i miei occhi alfine
Respiro in affanno
Mi calmo, sento, ascolto
Dentro di me un canto
Ti ** trovata infine
Musa del mio creare
Cuore che pensa lieve
Un pensiero, un incanto.
835
Le dicevano: - Bambina!
Che tu non lasci mai stesa,
dalla sera alla mattina,
ma porta dove l'hai presa,
la tovaglia bianca, appena
ch'è terminata la cena!
Bada, che vengono i morti!
I tristi, i pallidi morti!
Entrano, ansimano muti.
Ognuno è tanto mai stanco!
E si fermano seduti
la notte intorno a quel bianco.
Stanno lì sino al domani,
col capo tra le due mani,
senza che nulla si senta,
sotto la lampada spenta. -
È già grande la bambina:
la casa regge, e lavora:
fa il bucato e la cucina,
fa tutto al modo d'allora.
Pensa a tutto, ma non pensa
a sparecchiare la mensa.
Lascia che vengano i morti,
i buoni, i poveri morti.
Oh! la notte nera nera,
di vento, d'acqua, di neve,
lascia ch'entrino da sera,
col loro anelito lieve;
che alla mensa torno torno
riposino fino a giorno,
cercando fatti lontani
col capo tra le due mani.
Dalla sera alla mattina,
cercando cose lontane,
stanno fissi, a fronte china,
su qualche bricia di pane,
e volendo ricordare,
bevono lagrime amare.
Oh! non ricordano i morti,
i cari, i cari suoi morti!
- Pane, sì... pane si chiama,
che noi spezzammo concordi:
ricordate?... È tela, a dama:
ce n'era tanta: ricordi?...
Queste?... Queste sono due,
come le vostre e le tue,
due nostre lagrime amare
cadute nel ricordare! -.
912
Si ferma, e già fischia, ed insieme,
tra il ferreo strepito del treno,
si sente una squilla che geme,
là da un paesello sereno,
paesello lungo la via:
Ave Maria...
Un poco, tra l'ansia crescente
della nera vaporiera,
l'addio della sera si sente
seguire come una preghiera,
seguire il treno che s'avvia:
Ave Maria...
E, come se voglia e non voglia,
il treno nel partir vacilla:
quel suono ci chiama alla soglia
e alla lampada che brilla,
nella casa, ch'è una badia:
Ave Maria...
Il padre a quel suono rincasa
facendo un passo ad ogni tocco;
e subito all'uscio di casa
trova il visino del suo cocco,
del più piccino che ci sia...
Ave Maria...
Si chiude, la casa; e s'appanna
d'un tratto il vocerìo che c'è;
si chiude, ristringe, accapanna,
per parlare tra sé e sé;
e saluta la compagnia...
Ave Maria...
O, tinta d'un lieve rossore,
casina che sorridi al sole!
Per noi c'è la notte con l'ore
lunghe lunghe, con l'ore sole,
con l'ore di malinconia...
Ave Maria...
Il treno già vola e ci porta
sbuffando l'alito di fuoco;
e ancora nell'aria più smorta
ci giunge quell'addio più fioco,
dal paese che fugge via:
Ave Maria...
E cessa. Ma uno che vuole
velar gli occhi, pensar lontano,
tra gemiti e strilli e parole,
tra il frastuono or tremolo or piano,
ode il suono che non s'oblia:
Ave Maria...
Con l'uomo che va nella notte,
tra gli aspri urli, i lunghi racconti
del treno che corre per grotte
di monti, sopra lenti ponti,
vien nell'ombrìa la voce pia:
Ave Maria...
882
Lieve mama,
Je hebt mijn grafrede geschreven. Vol overtuiging heb je de pen op het papier gezet en de woorden laten vloeien.
Zonder enige twijfel kon jij zo je speech schrijven. Je deed het in het ziekenhuis, terwijl ik nietsvermoedend naast je zat. Je liet het me niet lezen, ik heb zelf je boekje gepakt. Nadat jij zo vaak mijn pijn op het papier heb kunnen lezen, leek het me niet meer dan eerlijk om te zien waar jij al zo lang mee zat. Uit je woorden kon ik opmaken dat je al een lange tijd aan het rouwen bent. Ik ben nog niet dood, maar je weet dat het eraan zit te komen. De constante schaduw van de suïcidale aanvallen hebben de monsters in je hoofd als een wild vuur aangewakkerd. Je gelooft niet meer in mijn leven. Het is een droom die ieder moment kan stoppen. Je weet dat je daarna nooit meer zult dromen en klampt je krampachtig vast aan de laatste beelden die je voor je **** halen. We hebben de laatste tijd niet meer dan ruzie gehad. We voelen de dood beide zo hard in ons nek hijgen dat we elkaar nauwelijks aan kunnen kijken. Het komt door mij. Wat zou het nu nog uitmaken of ik dood ga of niet. Ik heb je al zoveel pijn en verdriet gekost, dit kan zo niet verder mam. Ik wil je geen pijn meer doen. Je hebt mijn grafrede geschreven, verdomme mam. Je hebt het voor mij definitief gemaakt. Ik dacht dat ik er niet mee zou zitten, ik dacht dat ik mijn gevoel weer weg kon stoppen, maar mam je hebt het definitief gemaakt. Ik geef je nergens de schuld van. Ik had nooit dat boekje moeten pakken, maar mam je bent zo afgesloten. Ik wil weer met je zijn, samen kunnen lachen en huilen. Tegenwoordig kunnen we elkaar niet uitstaan. Ik voel de band niet meer. Ik begin mezelf weer langzaam terug te trekken en als het eenmaal zo ver is, zal het weer fout gaan. Het is voor mij, net als voor jou, een tikkende tijdbom. Ik sta op springen mam, ik kan niet meer. Ik vocht voor jou, maar jij hebt me al opgegeven. Jij bent al aan het rouwen voor een kind dat nog niet dood is.
Sep 25, 2019
Sep 25, 2019 at 2:12 PM UTC
Ognuno 'e nuie nasce cu nu destino:
'a malasciorta, 'e 'vvote, va..., pò torna;
chi nasce c'o scartiello arreto 'e rine,
chi nasce c'o destino 'e purtà 'e ccorne.
Io, per esempio, nun mme metto scuorno:
che nce aggio 'a fà si tarde ll'aggio appreso?
Penzavo: sì, aggio avuto quacche cuorno,
ma no a tal punto da sentirme offeso.
E stato aiere 'o juorno, 'a chiromante,
liggénneme cu 'a lente mmiezo 'a mano,
mm'ha ditto: "Siete stato un triste amante,
vedete questa linea comme è strana?
Questa se chiamma 'a linea del cuore,
arriva mmiezo 'o palmo e pò ritorna.
Che v'aggia dì, carissimo signore;
cu chesta linea vuie tenite 'e ccorne.
Guardate st'atu segno fatto a uncino,
stu segno ormai da tutti è risaputo
ca 'o porta mmiezo 'a mano San Martino:
'o Santo prutettore d'e cornute".
Sentenno sti pparole 'int'o cerviello
accuminciaie a ffà mille penziere.
Mo vaco 'a casa e faccio nu maciello,
pe Ddio, aggia fà correre 'e pumpiere.
" Ma no... Chi t'o ffa fà? " (na voce interna
mme suggerette). "Lieve ll'occasione.
'E ccorne ormai songhe na cosa eterna,
nun c'è che ffà, è 'a solita canzone.
'O stesso Adamo steva mparaviso,
eppure donna Eva ll'ha traduto.
Ncoppa a sti ccorne fatte 'nu surriso,
ca pure Napulione era cornuto!".
712
Dare to believe
It's the new dimention in understanding
Dare to believe
What do you have to loose
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
i(doyou)love
(lieve
-me-
be) cuz
you
don't please
be cuz
(true please
) cuz
i love you
(do you
believe
me?)Luv?
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
Nevica: l'aria brulica di bianco;
la terra è bianca; neve sopra neve:
gemono gli olmi a un lungo mugghio stanco:
cade del bianco con un tonfo lieve.
E le ventate soffiano di schianto
e per le vie mulina la bufera;
passano bimbi: un balbettìo di pianto;
passa una madre: passa una preghiera.
593
If I really want a selfdriving domicile vehicle,
like old Flattop in **** Tracy, I better be lieving
structs to compare, by my lieve, I am my own liege,
As intentional assistance, ripples through our hope
storm, as my grandchild, returns from school,
after having an absolutely great day, in 6th grade,
can you do that, unassisted, remember such a day,
ever?
Of course, when in the course of human events,
memberships worth in an arrangement, in facting
meta data for worth to value cross referencing
next, most assuredly, if you happen,
you might say I happened to think you would
find this whole thing good mind tightening,
we think at once something never heard of,
link think through thoughts fit in redeemed
seconds used to recall being 11 years old, and happy.
Aug 15, 2024
Aug 15, 2024 at 9:02 PM UTC
Believe
There is
Good
left-over
in our crazy
world.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
Bee-lieve
In the pines, in the pines,
There lived a bee who shivered the whole night through.
His hair was dyed, his enormous size,
Meant he didn’t have to listen to anyone and he ruled his crew,
With fear and intimidation;
He sought to bee the cause of social dysfunction.
The Blues-Bee was hardest to bee seen,
When the moon was up in the sky.
He would move between the shadows unseen;
His reflection cast no light.
No soul, no noise, just endless nights.
No smile, no toys, just one bad idea; it was time to fight.
He had raised a band of blues stingers
And he knew there was only one way; his way.
He couldn’t stand the way others sang;
It was his depressing buzz that made all other bees fly away.
Blues Bee and his gang travelled in search of sound;
They were never happy and travelled under the ground.
The fleas and the Blues Bee travelled with the worms.
The worms would lead the way through all the dirt
And the Blues-Bee would tell them what to do.
He heard a noise, so they burst up through
And appeared at a picnic party birthday celebration.
There was a grasshopper playing the lute
And the Blues-Bee took it away and imposed his condemnation.
Hey give it back! I built that!
I’m just here to bee with my friends.
The Blues-Bee said nothing; he was a bully
And the lute was never seen again.
Blues Bee jumped down a hole;
The lute he stole was never to bee returned.
The grasshoppers friends said let’s go after them!
But the grasshopper said in the end they will lose
And there is a lesson here to bee learned.
The group they sat and listened to her words;
The rivers flowed through to bee forever heard.
She spoke of peace in a time of conflict;
She taught them how to just move past it.
She taught a generation to see further…
So they named her Lila.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 5, 2019
Jul 5, 2019 at 5:21 AM UTC
Sono nata il ventuno a primavera
ma non sapevo che nascere folle,
aprire le zolle
potesse scatenar tempesta.
Così Proserpina lieve
vede piovere sulle erbe,
sui grossi frumenti gentili
e piange sempre la sera.
Forse è la sua preghiera.
516
Common instincts to us all, occurrences as we live on
rolling rrrs an' 'idin' gdhs, f' grins and grunts
'uman 'umor ta
Harvesters, Hunters, Herders,
Makers, all. That we had no war,
or none this we can imagine.
Our war is so far past
wars reasons in pasts
called
right-used, good for the goodness made
in
founding of this bubble of national pride we re
side in;
so
that we feel com
pelled - driven as a nail
to say…
Wait-- new voice
fessorial, it fesses this is fact:
ligation in obligation is samesame
ligion in religion,
okeh. a liege oath was never valid, no free re
involved entity may be ligated for a fief,
no soul sould to rock and roll promo **** crossroad
' make y'famous
moonshine story teller bribe
'bout
no spell
I don't care why, just how, for now
words picked as gem facets
flash a flection re
count
the times you've seen things
you
could would
not lieve be true, until
it happened to you right, and yeah,
it was no big deal,
like waking under a bo tree in Asia.
Nov 5, 2019
Nov 5, 2019 at 7:59 PM UTC
TO be loved by you is indescribable.
BE-lieve me when I say, I know I am
LOVED - beyond all measure,
BY the universe and God, for they gave me
YOU.
TO experience a joy so unexplainable,
BE both gently and thoroughly
LOVED... is such a gift.
BY my side you stay, assuredly.
YOU are my perfect Love.
To be loved by you... is my destiny.
Aug 8, 2021
Aug 8, 2021 at 4:06 PM UTC
Een blondje,
niet gevallen,
niet haar mondje?
Een brunetteje in een flatje
dat een zetje
nodig heeft
of een verzetje om haar te vertellen dat ze leeft?
Een roetje, roet en zwartje
met een zoeter peperkoekenhartje
of een harde met een oom en tante,
muts en ovenwanten
en een sjaal om te verbergen
dat ze last heeft van constante
onzekerheden die door merg en
lijf en leden?
Een lieve, die me troost
en ik mag troosten.
Een zachte die om me lachen kan,
zicht heeft op haar werk en kroost
en ik mag kroosten.
Maar wat wil je dan?
Nov 12, 2019
Nov 12, 2019 at 11:47 PM UTC
*(Try to imagine Donald Trump on a stage in a
tuxedo with a top hat and a cane.)*
(1)
"I've spent many years
On a stage of sorts.
Including all the times
I've spent in the courts.
But now I'm on the biggest
And grandest stage of all
And on a constant high,
Though not from alcohol.
Since being president
Is not an easy task,
To help me run this country,
There's ONE thing that I ask:
"Please…
Can…
You…
Give me a break?
Come on and
Give me a break.
They say to take it on the chin,
But hey! I never thought I'd win.
So give me a break.
Yes, give me a break.
For Pete's sake
Give me a break!
(2)
"People say they want
To see my tax returns.
Every time I hear that,
Oh, my stomach churns.
Buh-lieve me: no one's being
Taken for a ride.
But my financial matters
Are…um…classified.
There was no collusion
With Putin. Can't you see?
We JUST exploited his
Dislike for Hillary.
"So…
Come…
On…
Give me a break--
A beautiful break!
I will fix this world. And how!
You know I'm the cat's meow.
Just give me a break.
Yes, give me a break.
For goodness' sake
Give me a break!
(3)
"If Congress pats my back,
I'll give theirs a pat.
If Dems did, too, then I
Would hug a Democrat.
Loyalty’s important,
So if I get the urge,
I might just have to give
The FBI a purge.
I wish the prying media
Would try to be my friend
And write what pleases me.
Of course that would depend.
"If…
They…
Would…
Give me a break--
A big giant break!
I've the right to ridicule
Anyone I think a fool.
So give me a break.
Yes, give me a break.
For God's sake
Give me a break!
(4)
"So what if Flynn's a liar
And Spicer is a ****
And Bannon is a racist
And Sessions is a rube?
Ivanka and Trump Junior
Will pick up any slack.
I've got Kelly whipped,
And Sarah has my back.
I even have the white
Supremacists at my feet.
To stir up all my base,
All I do is tweet.
"ONE…
MORE…
TIME…
Give me a break--
A fabulous break.
Kim Jong Un has got to go.
Call me Mr. Dynamo!
Just give me a break--
A HUGE, gorgeous break.
Come on! Just
Give me a break!"
-by Bob B (1-2-18)
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 9:36 AM UTC
Toy poems with metre measured in secret
mathic rhythms to mask the chthonic excuses
hidden in couplets and twice twisted sevens
jots and tittles known only in song
Cantor sing of alleluia, jah jah siss boom bah
Yah, who lifted us from slavery and brought us back
on track to be conjoined in
twin snaking tales of things that work, well
function for the good
in the principle
idea of be, aimed at
am-ing, ping, ding, ****
the witch is dead,
which old witch?
the wicked witch, ding **** the wicked witch is dead.
And that past as a flash- back to the future,
home again, home again,
higgs-idy lickity split,
you remember. We are old… working out
Silver sneakers, so Hermes-ish, I wish
to find that character playing the guesser guessing
something like the common sense
some folks scorn for simple use,
in times of electricity, whispering revealing the insanity,
in order
to lieve be the madmen, wombed and un, effected
by the tribal lie, used to shape a nation
from a ritual story retold to fit the pleasure of the tyrant
of the time,
time sold for membership in the mess,
a seat at the table….
imagine the aftermath of hate, juxt
now,
oppose the forethought,
say no,
the worst is not to come,
not from my agreeing with those fools
who
accuse me of lying in wait to take your soul,
and keep it safe,
wished you knew the secret of secrets, did you?
what do you know?
Death can be imagined more often than possible,
truly, once is enough,
truly, fleshed out with characteristics common-
found as basic features in life's
entertaining devices used to hold the oxen in line,
daily grind, grease the squeeks, see the wish
wish wish
all the stories speak of ever after this,
then that we know
yes,
know,
some sudden how, now
we know…
nothing.
F'sure, like I said. God, make me like Socrates,
and Jesus, suddenly
I know
nothing. But I'm alive.
And life still works, asking no further effort from me.
Dec 21, 2020
Dec 21, 2020 at 12:15 PM UTC