"locates" poems
It's been said, that a man who finds a good woman?
Finds a good wife.
Same for women, who locates a good man?
They exist.
Even if many claims there are not many of them.
They completely wrong.
Cause I'm one of them.
Oh, I'm not bragging.
Or even boasting.
Just speaking truth.
I've got a lady love as my proof.
Yes, a good man don't mind being called King.
Cause if you look closer to his life.
You'll find him treating his lady like a Queen.
She might not sit upon a throne.
But you will find him lifting her upon a pedestal.
We good men do.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
Writing a poem.
There are lots of things that contribute to the outcome, the poem.
-Certain words hold a hard to describe sensation to them, they're made to evoke some feelings and also give a sense of unique kind of rhythm. Had the writer used a synonym, it wouldn't have the same impact on the reader. He's like mysterious chemist adding proper ingredients to his mixture to make it work perfectly.
-The way a writer constructs the poem leads to rhythm as well, how he decides to start a new verse that divides a sentence, the way he locates words - or even blank spaces - on the surface of sheet - the field of his performance - it all contributes to the creation of imagery. Therefore, we can see that creating a poem isn't just writing words. It's how you put them together, too. A poem that's being created, sometimes slightly wanders away from the realm of plain writing - and goes beyond.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
Oh, i'm in love.
Like in a Disney's fairytale.
You know the ones, where ending always ends so well?
Like Snow White prince locates her.
Or like Cinderella finds hers.
I just know, i'm in love.
One that's justify and honorable and adequate and reasonable.
Like in a Disney's fairytale.
It's the substance of things unseen that leaves it's mark.
And the moment I saw her I found my interest.
Just like in a Disney's fairytale
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
the trollometer
is a reliable
apparatus
how well it gauges
the trolling
status
of great accuracy
the needle it
employs
which locates
any untoward
ploys
trolls can pop up
wearing a plethora of
faces
theirs is the playing
of copious
aces
the trollometer
never gets its readings
wrong
the inventor's guarantee
is of a precise
prong
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 8:02 PM UTC
My back froze in friction
My sight locates your presence
My ear grasp the loud echo of your boom set
My cardio pounded in awe
I attempted a gaze but your eyes looked away
I put a smile for you, but your face remained asleep
When will I be rewarded by my effort not unforcedly sounded?
For I eyed to you a twin of my past who plastered my mind of his memory foremost
I came across a song, a song you find appealing
(A song that he feasted too...)
You are my torture like the way he eventually be
Time after time you tresspass my unity
Thereafter sorrow visits me
Then my mind's suddenly puzzled
If you don't coincide my past,
Will I offer similar fascination?
I'm not sure.
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 2:59 PM UTC
That the wiggle of a tongue
can so excite
liberate the texture of the flesh
Raise another to the height
where delight
fills and locates deep within
the silent scream.
That, that bud that brims its full
can so intoxicate, fill the pool
where passion lays in its ultimate wait
for the passage through the sensual gate
that arises within her moaning form
That deep eternal wanting groan.
Where deep the long soft flickering curl
liberates the mind, to toss and whirl
in the sensual heat and passions fire
that flows deep from this buds throbbing desire
and pours out upon the sweet, sweet flesh
the small goose bumps that within arise
Where passion holds no compromise.
That I take you upon such a delighted stream
fill that want, awaken within the dream
These lips, this tongue that awaits its charge
teases, torments your world at large
to every whimper, every plead
Drinks deep your *** of honey mead
and falls upon your cries and pleasure
With all the jewels of This Oral treasure.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 20, 2011
Mar 20, 2011 at 6:04 AM UTC
this time different,
the crafting, the words knitted,
care taken, no quips or easy rhymes,
metaphors few, but the stitching is yet
rhythmic, disciplined,
beholden to its construct
~~~
yesterday,
spoke of the more and the ever less,
and the alpha seas restorative,
today,
*the ****** quick and the ever still*
the beating of jumpsuit orange fabric, wind-whipped,
musical homage to the terrifying
silence of a battlefield,
your utility belt,
body parts and soul silences,
a composition of what was
and what will now never be
you were there
you are there
witness-combatant,
no denying the voyeured carnage
of a human self destructing,
or being destructed in a way
**********turned you on,
worse, temptingly familiar
the horror meets you, it recognizes, locates
its place within that is stored close by,
where you keep it just close enough to surface
for quick retrieval
you postulate, pose, clap hands to heads,
make groanings awful, rethinking fearful pictures
I don't believe in free will
I don't believe in free
I don't believe in will
there is good and there is no good
there is the quick and the still
the still comes fast and stays longer,
the quick lasts longer, the obvious now
always seconds of too long,
all implausibly undenied and factually reversed
I hang myself crudely,
my throat slit quick,
and the still images that follows
everlasting and unerasable,
no matter how quickly,
how often temples hard squeezed
I see the images,
the quick and the still
they won't let go of me
text me that you know,
exactly what I mean,
know what I know
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
i shut my eyes and:
if you came
back, sorry
between your lips;
leftover fingerprints
of pride's embrace
all around you.
but you left pride
a while ago,
nonetheless.
and maybe
that would be enough
for me, for us.
because i have been
waiting for you
to come home.
and it's the whispers
of my heart
to the shooting stars;
and for the residue
of what we gripped
inside our palms
to never turn into
'what should have been's,
and instead into
'what will be,'
'what waits,'
smiles of the near and distant
future.
and i closed my eyes:
maybe this one time
i wouldn't make it right
because we would make it past.
i thought.
i thought.
that would be enough;
but reality was
late to the meeting.
and when i handed
my heart to you
eons ago,
you didn't place
your faith into
my arms.
reality was
late to the meeting.
because when i waited
for you to come home,
you did not.
for you liked the past
more than the present;
and that's where home
locates to you.
for the shooting stars
was deaf to my cries.
and the residue of what we had
had already turned into
'should have been's and
'will never be's.
there will still be smiles
in the near and distant
future;
but it will not be my smile
next to yours,
nor my smile carved by you.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 7:21 AM UTC
IV - The Lost Trumpet. (April 2011).
A girl loses her trumpet
and she’s ever so sad.
She can’t find it
but a young boy does.
He searched high and low,
to and fro,
before spotting it
and giving it back.
The girl is delighted,
falls in love straight away.
They marry.
The boy stops a tormenter
from hurting his girl.
Ears bleed.
Then the girl says she is moving on.
The boy doesn’t like this
so tries to win her back;
he locates her and they sleep under stars.
They wake up together.
To be continued?
V - The Moment. (May 2011).
Bus.
Way back to school.
Can’t remember the day.
Talking as usual about the upcoming end.
P says how about doing a simple thing, not too big.
Something like chocolates or flowers, why go over the top?
Flowers, doesn’t everyone do that?
But it’s May, only a month to go.
Flowers it will have to be.
Red and pink.
Great.
VI - The Discussions. (21st/22nd June 2011).
So, are you ready? Here’s how it will go…
I’ll sit the exam, you turn up towards the end.
We’ll meet up in the common room and walk back to my town,
down to the florists, then somehow go back to school
without anybody seeing them all before quarter past one.
No, wait...
Later…
Change of plan, I’ll sit the exam still,
two and a half hours, I know, but anyway, you meet me
in the common room once it’s over, then we’ll go into town
because there’s actually a florists there, didn’t know that earlier,
buy them, make sure no one sees us,
head back to school, all before quarter past one right?
Wait for her to arrive, then you dash off with them,
I relax with a nice brew in class, and right at the end
when she’s getting on the bus I come up to you,
take them, run to her,
give them to her before she goes, mutter what needs to be said
and then it’s over. Maybe a hug, who knows?
This has to work. If it all goes wrong
there’s the envelope from the other month to hand over in its place.
Got that? Good.
She’s bound to ruin it though ain’t she?
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 9:48 AM UTC
When this condensation locates your skin and runs like the Orinoco from its Andean peak, wandering over you at a composed, but covetous pace, exploring several variances of possibility at once, seeking your chemical reaction to whet lest it evaporate, I ponder over such showering of inanimate affection, all in the hope you will summon me from a docked eidolon and into your water, in partnership with the effusive sail -- learned of geography, triggered by chemistry.
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 9:56 AM UTC
a lifelong pursuit
to be free
enough
for expanded
awareness
in the place
we now stand..
this seems our
foremost quest..
attachment grows
surreptitiously
as a virus ensnares
covers and compresses
until we cry out..
if stillness is gained
a tall stranger
centered nearby
unnoticed until now
watches our torment..
watching
is found quite
enough
to loosen the bonds..
new awareness locates
that fullness
we are intended
to find...
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 8:24 PM UTC
There is a wind
a wind that displaces me
from the limitations of the present
it locates me in a century
i shall never live to see
a coloured wind
that overtakes me
lifts me out of this present
transports me into
the fragments of a fiction
it is a wind with violet eyes
it disperses me
into celebrated elements
a wind that cradles me
listens to me
a wind that stops me
in mid-sentence
makes me fumble
over the cohesion of my words
it is a wind that
drapes the mirrors
causes voluminous
approbation of thought
across purple, blue and red lit canals
a wind that is
the potency of a swallowed aphrodisiac
blowing through my veins
a wind of implacable silence
that causes me to hear
the tireless serration of
my mind expiring
on the last moonlit beach
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
a lame barn swallow in the heart of its master’s black typewriter.
blocking a dog’s door
a television lost to lightning.
a modified radar bought by the ****** it locates.
footsteps
approaching a tightrope.
that first kick
in the oblivious
******
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
Men say a lot of things.
And many are simply not true.
We notice this in life.
And it's mirrored in the news.
The wants the lady with good qualities.
But seems attracted to those willing to fulfill their needs.
Games , they feel the spouse won't play.
Getting down to business.
And teaching skills to him.
Oh, yes men say one thing.
And do another.
And each decade it doesn't seems to end.
And the range is with depth.
From the sports players to the businessmen.
A man seems to seek women.
When they have a spouse at home.
Oh, she's not my tight.
But she seems to be.
If he can creep and don't get caught.
It's only when they get exposed.
When they wants to address their problems at all.
And some are based in mysteries of lies.
Some instantly created as alibis.
Men are good with excuses.
Without being intrusive.
Or close to being truthful.
That sometimes the spouse creates a friction of conflict.
When they fails to keep a man secure with love.
That they must go out and seeks another.
Sure it's a temporary joy.
Until his spouse locates her.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 9:21 AM UTC
[May 31, 2016]
He is an animal, hunting to sate his craving hunger
He searches for his prey beneath the roaring thunder
Instinct drives him, it saves him from falling under
He finds his prey, sleeping in a peaceful slumber
His instinct drives him, it changes his senses
He stalks closer, wary and defensive
As he approaches, he grows more apprehensive
He feels the vibes, the tightening tension
Crouching down he searches for the threat
He finds himself on a thin line, an invisible thread
He locates the enemy, the battle has been set
Feeling fear, his actions he soon regrets
His instinct let him down, it pulled him under
It put him in an impossible position, broke his cover
His enemy had no instinct, something new, a wonder
His opponent could think, it followed it’s hunger
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 9:52 PM UTC
With hands holding a Willow wand,
I seek to detect water's source,
flowing deep within the ground!
Exerting its will upon my hand,
energy exuded by water;s force
discloses where it can be found.
This gift, with which I was born,
brings blessed relief to those in need
of water, for it brings great satisfaction
when seen flowing from source to bourne,
as a consequence of my diviners reed,
which I regard as reward enough for my action.
For some, dowsing exudes a mystery,
possessed of an obscure magical property!
When water sought, is thereby detected,
The Rhythm of Life proclaims a victory?
Records show that way back in history,
Black Magic was seriously suspected!
So why am I possessed of this ability?
A gift, some think an arcane anomaly
that locates water, through my hands!
Dowsing that baffles watching spectators,
defies the efforts of charlatan imitators,
who’d benefit, from a force, no one understands!
Should you too, possess this cryptic force,
you’ll know dowsing, for hours perforce,
is most rewarding when success is reached,
and it proves an exciting moment for me
when The Rhythm of Life - water - runs free,
and its source is discovered and breached!
Rhymer. March 21st, 2018.
It was pure happenstance I learned I was a Dowser or Water Diviner back in 1960. Have used it many times since. Our present water source, comes from wells I discovered and wells dug in 1998. Always an awesome experience. Ciao Rhymer.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 6:56 AM UTC
***You have seen these images:
an arrow locates your presence
near the far edge of our galaxy..
Each time we see this depiction
we are swept by insignificance..
Recovery is remembering
this grand scale perception
reinforces a strong belief
in a separate self..
So we ask:
What is it that perceives
this portrait of
seeming lowly location..?
It must be the same What
that is now reading these words..
And astonishingly:
a new Reality introduces itself
a definite undefinable experience
a new Self inside of which
a galaxy and arrow and
those three words appear... ***
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 11:18 PM UTC