Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
"loquacious" poems
What's it take These days To write a poem That makes the world go mad That brings the crowds to their feet That spreads like wildfire Through a dry winter forest Is it those excessively long words? The ostentatiously loquacious Platitudinous ramblings Of an insecure mind aspiring To authentic intellect? Is it perhaps...      the "creativity"                of      varied      spacing   or...    could it be..... the lack                               of capitalization                the loathsome little letters                screaming out                          hey, look at us!          ... or maybe it's                the punctuation marks,      littered, haphazardly           through the text                     (whether used correctly)                or, theyre not?!      despite worrds mispeled           and a grammar might is broken    can these gimmicks increase interest         though miswritten or misspoken? Is the trick alliteration Whose bite brightly bids us To center on the snappy sounds? Although all along      unvoiced underneath Ideas idle in the isles    (or perhaps the aisles) Of the mind To meld and craft and bind Our thorough thoughts And worthy words Into lines Which Heard by herds Raise the                   Praise for which we                   Privately, desperately                   Pray Maybe it's a magical mix Of splendid in-your-head rhythm Marvelous meter that perfectly clicks Flowing smoothly without schism Well-spaced stanzas Well-used time Well-crafted phrases Well-thought-out rhymes Well, maybe not...      those gems are often ignored      cast-aside, unread, even abhorred Why? Because the modern world doesn't need your rules your restrictions your regulations your misguided boundaries your oppression your antiquated ideas    of "the right way"    to write    to speak    to act    to live    to (fill in the blank) No, what the modern world needs is Negation! Contradiction! Resistance! Revolt! And poetry whose words Say the same thing Repeat the same meaning Echo the same lyrics Rephrase the same thoughts But in an ever-so-slightly Different Varied Altered Adjusted Changed up way Line After line Of synonyms           over                and                     over                          and                          over                          again ----- What's it take These days To not give in To narcissism's spiral? But more importantly: What's it take To make my poem go viral?
0
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 12:17 AM UTC
Viral
What's it take These days To write a poem That makes the world go mad That brings the crowds to their feet That spreads like wildfire Through a dry winter forest Is it those excessively long words? The ostentatiously loquacious Platitudinous ramblings Of an insecure mind aspiring To authentic intellect? Is it perhaps...      the "creativity"                of      varied      spacing   or...    could it be..... the lack                               of capitalization                the loathsome little letters                screaming out                          hey, look at us!          ... or maybe it's                the punctuation marks,      littered, haphazardly           through the text                     (whether used correctly)                or, theyre not?!      despite worrds mispeled           and a grammar might is broken    can these gimmicks increase interest         though miswritten or misspoken? Is the trick alliteration Whose bite brightly bids us To center on the snappy sounds? Although all along      unvoiced underneath Ideas idle in the isles    (or perhaps the aisles) Of the mind To meld and craft and bind Our thorough thoughts And worthy words Into lines Which Heard by herds Raise the                   Praise for which we                   Privately, desperately                   Pray Maybe it's a magical mix Of splendid in-your-head rhythm Marvelous meter that perfectly clicks Flowing smoothly without schism Well-spaced stanzas Well-used time Well-crafted phrases Well-thought-out rhymes Well, maybe not...      those gems are often ignored      cast-aside, unread, even abhorred Why? Because the modern world doesn't need your rules your restrictions your regulations your misguided boundaries your oppression your antiquated ideas    of "the right way"    to write    to speak    to act    to live    to (fill in the blank) No, what the modern world needs is Negation! Contradiction! Resistance! Revolt! And poetry whose words Say the same thing Repeat the same meaning Echo the same lyrics Rephrase the same thoughts But in an ever-so-slightly Different Varied Altered Adjusted Changed up way Line After line Of synonyms           over                and                     over                          and                          over                          again ----- What's it take These days To not give in To narcissism's spiral? But more importantly: What's it take To make my poem go viral?
Continue reading...
107
*Maybe I'm too fat Maybe I eat like a man Maybe I've got no poise Maybe I'm too loquacious Maybe I...* Honestly, I know. **I know my tongue slashes throats and My eyes asphyxiates. I know my personality is too strong for a little person That I amaze and scare at the same time. I know I'm a strong lady- too strong for you to handle.** **That's why I have been able to stand up from where you pushed me. That's why I am able to think of myself. That's why I am not blaming love but the person in love.** Honestly, I know That you can't take the blades of my tongue Honestly, I know That you can't say I'm beautiful Honestly, I know That you do not love me like how I love you Honestly, I know That you are selfish Honestly, I know That I am now seeing truth After all these weeks of crying my eyes out, I'm back. because honestly i know
0
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
Honestly, I Know
this poem started off intending to be the shortest poem in the world nay, more aptly in the whole wide, wide open uni-verse but ambition overtook it and it aimed to stretch far and wide an Aristotelian hubris, you know like the ambition of Macbeth going beyond what Mrs Macbeth intended and so this ambitious little poem of ours expanded starting meek as grass growing zealous and went beyond itself and its kind this poem that had such humble beginnings that dared to want to be the shortest poem in the world but turned out loquacious and it could go on, it said, beating all length, breadth and dimension and would have - but it got into convulsions and fits and shock when it had gone beyond its shortness and it couldn’t even spell couldn't even get words right floating in a soup of red lines in Word or in Mac’s Pages and so it took its own life or someone stabbed it like they did to o’erweening Macbeth or to our poor, poor misunderstood Rasputin who being a Saint was thought a Devil but was all humble as the shortest poem in the uni-verse
0
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 10:06 PM UTC
the shortest poem in the uni-verse
The American said: let's drink the words. She was so right. A loquacious gin & tonic An acerbic Darwinian daiquiri on ice A French martini disrupted not stirred A mojito muddled in abstinence A Belfast bomber & brimstone Love on the Rocks with perpetual dissent *** on the Beach with a dash of chilli & lime ***** scorpion splashed in ironic ascension Dark *** stifled by the sting of a disturbance Love scented petals infused with tequila worms Salubrious shots of Sambuca Absinthe toasted in lunacy flakes This is my bar. Choose your poison wisely
0
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
Let's Drink the Words
our typed up words hide emotions unseen where sound can give a taste of truth and even postcards can reveal the tangles of the century and it's related loves of technology's soft whispers of clicking keys and computer buzz in those ones and zeros that hold us close to heart the miles are still real, seemingly we'll part another buzz another ring another taste of you but can these magical machines bring me more than just the best of you I want to hear the stutter when you're nervous and can't speak, the whisper's of the secrets of what we'll do next week, I want to see your hair disheveled when you get up out of bed the slight portliness of figure like the bearded fella wearing a suit of red I want to taste the treats of the dishes that I've seen and of course I want to taste your lips carrying the flavors of cigar and wine See the the glimmer in your eye When some little excitement passes by And hear loquacious diatribes as to gladly chime on in starting from your normal dinner topics to our lives of sin But all those ones and zero... and our miles still remain hopes of this togetherness from which my brain can not refrain
0
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 1:07 PM UTC
untouchable relation
*Tell yourself to breathe as the stratosphere is falling, imagining verses tumbling midst downpours' dissension, sans sentimentality's          loquacious language, and the land is left barren     as verbosity disintegrates and emotions wholly perish     'neath fickle cloudbursts                of poetry's extinction*
0
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 7:12 AM UTC
Fickle Cloudbursts
I wish to peer at Paris, under-dressed and ***** in all of its neoclassical splendor. For that, there are things I would give up. I wish to see a prehistoric forest, verdant, overgrown and jumbled. Before evergreen mysteries I would be ever humbled. For that, there are things I would give up. I wish to see Rhodian gardens and from them, smell the flowering fig and taste succulent honey suckle. I wish to glimpse zaftig temptresses dancing twenty thick amidst courtyards of ancient Persian palaces. For that, there are things I would give up. I wish to be blessed into an inenarrable life on an unalike mysterious planet. I wish for an Atlas resembling and proportionate soul. For that, there are things I would give up. I've demanded an even temperament from my unruly emotions. I've settled for continuous disbelief at the loquacious ignobleness of humanity. For change, there are things I would give up. I've sequestered my innocent dreams and bloomed monetary means. I've avoided death narrowly, my fingers gripping, fear will always transfix, while barreling down 36'. I've inhaled profits and installed transformation. For change, there are things I would give up. I've burned my midnight oil, taken offensive slander, and burned bridges with gratuitous candor. I've witnessed coal falsify a beautiful gloaming sky. I've had gasoline dreams filled and fuming with intensity, all drowning under an ocean of oil. I've envisioned bleached beaches to hide stained soil. These are moments I would give up. There are things I've realized outside my reality, outside my internal soliloquy and physical tactility. I've come to understand my words are nothing more than symbols on a closed door.
0
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 11:54 PM UTC
For That There Are.
I wish to peer at Paris, under-dressed and ***** in all of its neoclassical splendor. For that, there are things I would give up. I wish to see a prehistoric forest, verdant, overgrown and jumbled. Before evergreen mysteries I would be ever humbled. For that, there are things I would give up. I wish to see Rhodian gardens and from them, smell the flowering fig and taste succulent honey suckle. I wish to glimpse zaftig temptresses dancing twenty thick amidst courtyards of ancient Persian palaces. For that, there are things I would give up. I wish to be blessed into an inenarrable life on an unalike mysterious planet. I wish for an Atlas resembling and proportionate soul. For that, there are things I would give up. I've demanded an even temperament from my unruly emotions. I've settled for continuous disbelief at the loquacious ignobleness of humanity. For change, there are things I would give up. I've sequestered my innocent dreams and bloomed monetary means. I've avoided death narrowly, my fingers gripping, fear will always transfix, while barreling down 36'. I've inhaled profits and installed transformation. For change, there are things I would give up. I've burned my midnight oil, taken offensive slander, and burned bridges with gratuitous candor. I've witnessed coal falsify a beautiful gloaming sky. I've had gasoline dreams filled and fuming with intensity, all drowning under an ocean of oil. I've envisioned bleached beaches to hide stained soil. These are moments I would give up. There are things I've realized outside my reality, outside my internal soliloquy and physical tactility. I've come to understand my words are nothing more than symbols on a closed door.
Continue reading...
25
,,,"---"",,"",,---,,,""" palpable piquant pastel scream surrounded by portentous dream seafoam and symmetry loquacious land shuddering snow and sibilant sand caustic, cocaphonous calypso clouds awed by the eloquent elongated shrouds burnt to mere nothingness negated, naught turbulent truculent trickling thought dense and dowdy docile and dubious rousing and rowdy quiet and studious grating, gallumphing gruesome ground supine and succulent *asymmetrical sound* soulsurvivor (C) 6/22/2015
0
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC
asymmetrical sound
tomorrow’s raindrops falling on our shoes our sheds and our attitudes dead like winter feathers turn red in spring grief is a funny thing how the mind hides from itself its faults are shed like yesterday's skin frequent lessons to be earned and then dealt with never make a bargain with the devil rather let yourself listen and then swiftly walk away take your space and face your inner demons reside in the cave of safety within your heart we know that love is an art form with more music and magic bursting forth like fungus the moment after the storm passes i am drenched in your fabric within a glass iris lions dine on sunlight and a kind walrus dunks his head in your oasis drunk on stone fruit we drift into this music forensics are freedom as hungry lovers lick loquacious diamonds mined in eternity dine upon my consciousness and find the rivers edge why do we no longer beg to taste each other's lips anymore as long ago i wandered upon the ocean floor and saw a tiny star eyeing me curiously from beneath the sand but when i bent down to pick it up i was surprised to find it was not attached to anything it was just lying there shining like a diamond within it i could see everything as clear as day and it had a musical way of saying hello and that there was no need to worry because help was on the way
0
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 5:30 PM UTC
tomorrow's raindrops
*        *A tear is shed For those who are blind to the beauty of this world Who can only feast on sarcasm, writhing in irony * *It soon evaporates. Pictures of a future dressed in ribbons and lace, cast off and burned Pictures of the future carrying disdainful dystopia, infamous for invalids Hung to admire in sublime distaste by those that seek knowledge And see the repetitious antiquities of time that come to pass         But others care not for plans and the imminent Those that keep to the light of the gas And carry the past to the present Hoping for trends to try again, reliving what they had never lived Laconic and loquacious in emotions and words Against the gossip, but paradoxically Pushing for the creation of their “ritualistic social Golgotha”. Those who abuse the glory of their munificent, malicious mentality Pathetically unable to procure authentic happiness        A tear is shed. Inside the recesses of the soul where emotions dare not dwell.        It too evaporates. Trapped in fear and the “cliched harlequin speech of suicide” Begging for the masses to cast them out and find each other        A tear is shed. Never seen but felt as it evaporates. Felt by those who envelop themselves inside themselves Those who plagiarize their sick self-conscious souls Those who bring about the very misfortune they strive to devour Those who are effortlessly envied as they exploit their habitual recreations        By those who wouldn’t dream of falsified euphoria Those who bastardise and deface the name of creative individualism As waters of the soul are purged and discarded        They are felt by those And are quickly washed away in doubt and regret Keeping to the light of the gas, dangerous and warm
0
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
Melodramatic hipsters burned in effigy
*        *A tear is shed For those who are blind to the beauty of this world Who can only feast on sarcasm, writhing in irony * *It soon evaporates. Pictures of a future dressed in ribbons and lace, cast off and burned Pictures of the future carrying disdainful dystopia, infamous for invalids Hung to admire in sublime distaste by those that seek knowledge And see the repetitious antiquities of time that come to pass         But others care not for plans and the imminent Those that keep to the light of the gas And carry the past to the present Hoping for trends to try again, reliving what they had never lived Laconic and loquacious in emotions and words Against the gossip, but paradoxically Pushing for the creation of their “ritualistic social Golgotha”. Those who abuse the glory of their munificent, malicious mentality Pathetically unable to procure authentic happiness        A tear is shed. Inside the recesses of the soul where emotions dare not dwell.        It too evaporates. Trapped in fear and the “cliched harlequin speech of suicide” Begging for the masses to cast them out and find each other        A tear is shed. Never seen but felt as it evaporates. Felt by those who envelop themselves inside themselves Those who plagiarize their sick self-conscious souls Those who bring about the very misfortune they strive to devour Those who are effortlessly envied as they exploit their habitual recreations        By those who wouldn’t dream of falsified euphoria Those who bastardise and deface the name of creative individualism As waters of the soul are purged and discarded        They are felt by those And are quickly washed away in doubt and regret Keeping to the light of the gas, dangerous and warm
Continue reading...
34
Love hurts Sometimes healed Love’s careless Sometimes sheltered Love’s sentimental Sometimes cynical Love’s shy Sometimes loquacious, What a soulful thing is love? Love is everything.
0
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 2:31 PM UTC
Love
A true storyteller always finds a way. Like an entertainer who delivers every day. A true storyteller Thinks freshly like a Baptist preacher who yells loudly. A true storyteller can turn a bad day and make it sweeter via a script into a play. He can present tragedy as a comic. And deliver comedy and remain stoic. A true storyteller is meticulous as a new car dealer is loquacious. A true storyteller never cares about his glory or one particular character. only the success of his story. ©️IB-Poetry 2/27/2018
0
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 10:20 AM UTC
A True Storyteller
I love words for their meanings their woven tapestries but also for their taste. Tell me, when was the last time you tasted a word as sweet as strawberry shortcake or bitter as dark hot coffee? try it. remember diction, now. *loquacious refrigerator nefarious malevolent tinkerbell* feel the 'q' like a potato chip (crunch) the 'f' like a wind (swooping through) the 'b' like a kiss (so quiet) Gives new meaning to the age-old rhyme: Some books should be tasted, others devoured, but only a few should be chewed and digested thoroughly.
0
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC
Onomatopoeia
There’s a lagoon in my head separated from the fierce ocean of confidence by a low sandbank. The sand dawdles to diminish its size, with melancholy waves halting its ruckus, Water was never that loquacious, only cooing hastily on the salty air Quaint grains of mushy rutabaga make it hard to finagle, Because the sirens beautiful song entices me to sink So I flounce hysterically, unable to calm my mind. Her fair face freckled with sand gleams with odes of despair, Adding to the mournful steps of the receding tide. Waters once at a healthy level, wisp the fresh sea foam away. Jagged rocks now poke out from the depths, The vibrancy of her seaweed hair messy and curly, shrivels. The timid sand portrays such reserve in its frantic company, The waves crash on cue with such force, Predictability is only her turquoise concealment Ephemeral brine absorbed by desire, Encapsulated by the beige powder, That cannot dissolve.
0
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
There's A Lagoon In My Head
Is there one word that holds the power? The breath created by humble lungs The frequency resonating a once unheard ********* thrum And cunningly shaped by a Loquacious tongue To awaken the minds of the sleepers Or is it emotion soothed by an ancient vibe Of Universal Love But what is Love? Like a tender mother’s hug Found in the eye of your first friend Before gazes averted strangers And embraced the world by steady trust within Separate tables pushed together Greetings warm with heartfelt laughter Everyone singing their own song As a global chorus comes On like a rushing blast of heat from the opened oven of love Forward like the sea foam after the rip tide fades Onward like the feathered wind, invisible Yet its presence manifest in ethereal ways The crescendo of 7 billion voices strong The thumps of our brothers’ hearts beat out a mighty tune Pounding the drum of a once deafened ear The fiddlers from the forest meadow and the rushing of the leaves Reminding us of our nature As Oxygen consumers And carbon dioxide providers Have you heard the killing of trees? No, but its seems to be all the Rage Everywhere I go, seeing tree stumps line the way Yet green grows evermore Our living spirit chooses life Because of darkness The Light must shine If I am You and You are Me and no one gets lost in-between the cracks and the gaps of the sidewalks separated by all too distant train tracks and the windows of the restaurant protecting the paying customer from the reality of the man on the street corner surviving the long night of the soul Urban deserts, Moniless pits Filled with human suffering but human all the same we are One God Different faces Different Eyes Different names Wandering the Earth Waiting to be saved Or for those on top maybe just judgment day
0
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
One Word
Is there one word that holds the power? The breath created by humble lungs The frequency resonating a once unheard ********* thrum And cunningly shaped by a Loquacious tongue To awaken the minds of the sleepers Or is it emotion soothed by an ancient vibe Of Universal Love But what is Love? Like a tender mother’s hug Found in the eye of your first friend Before gazes averted strangers And embraced the world by steady trust within Separate tables pushed together Greetings warm with heartfelt laughter Everyone singing their own song As a global chorus comes On like a rushing blast of heat from the opened oven of love Forward like the sea foam after the rip tide fades Onward like the feathered wind, invisible Yet its presence manifest in ethereal ways The crescendo of 7 billion voices strong The thumps of our brothers’ hearts beat out a mighty tune Pounding the drum of a once deafened ear The fiddlers from the forest meadow and the rushing of the leaves Reminding us of our nature As Oxygen consumers And carbon dioxide providers Have you heard the killing of trees? No, but its seems to be all the Rage Everywhere I go, seeing tree stumps line the way Yet green grows evermore Our living spirit chooses life Because of darkness The Light must shine If I am You and You are Me and no one gets lost in-between the cracks and the gaps of the sidewalks separated by all too distant train tracks and the windows of the restaurant protecting the paying customer from the reality of the man on the street corner surviving the long night of the soul Urban deserts, Moniless pits Filled with human suffering but human all the same we are One God Different faces Different Eyes Different names Wandering the Earth Waiting to be saved Or for those on top maybe just judgment day
Continue reading...
50
I hate myself I've lead a life that a lot of people don't understand feeling the need compartmentalize my life to the point I don't even know who I am stopped wanting *** even now find it crass and crude just another way for people to use me afterwards feel see thru and ugly and gross wilted sunflower to be culled from yr bed even if mutual with ample loquacious lovers I curl up in ball don't let them look at me in ugly failure skin clown mask the **** of all yr jokes 'he's great but he's quiet' talk on everyone just seems so cruel I weak like veal tender for the taking fry me up straight from womb to pan cowards make the best cuts of wet meat to ****
0
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
yr perfect hackjob coward
Your use of words of late, I have noticed, seize the cold light of day snowball the pack ice send a shudder down the spine hail the dawn of an audible ice age lest if only One would listen that loquacious nature left to stew in the freezer the embodiment of toxic wine your preferred after taste; the sediment of choice demands a selective palate we have bulldozed The Garden of Eden now only the Snake remains offering the bitter-sweet apple to those who oblige pave the way for emotions to argue their objections a subjective nature in acerbic tones fierce and unwavering; the adulation of the Other A raised eyebrow denotes a self-centred assuredness that anyone else with a deft hand for art or language is clearly a copy of the blueprint your ingenious creation; such is the intellect you abide by that of your own reckoning Your argument is the passing of an iceberg perhaps fleeting the early evening; the disingenuous melt of your carbon-cloaked temper My riposte will be your undoing defeat by the warmth of the passing Sun; embrace that which you chase see what you dont see agree to disagree is the sympathy for your antipathy
0
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 1:52 PM UTC
Agree to Disagree
Well, what now, hey? I threw the dog overboard yesterday. The day before, the day? Where will you go, hey? I heard the orchestra-man play The same way, Sanctum, requiem, asylum All Latin in his French dog-eared play. Hear the monkey, playing accordion play To the whirling whirly-whirly-ghig Tre dramatique, no? Today I understand you're just as "tramatig." I want to hear your Frenchmen play Play ***** pipes play play In his dog-eared French organ-man Play But I cannot, cannot say Tears of joy, in hydrant spray The Hyades triumphant rainbow stay Cough your little fears away; Hear the Star Spangled Francis Key play Frenchmen play, play, Little piggies counted play Black white keys with little piggle-plumps play Atone-al, A-tonal---atonal tonal sounds as if to say "Getting married here to stay" All alone and all today Settle down if for a day And who will hear the trumpet play When organ-man Frenchman say "Where? Home of the free" and stay Keep your hands away Never want to let you say "Hear me, hear ye, all you weary, weary dreamers But never left your confidence like Russell-rustle leaf-blown willow-white You fill them up with seventy two pay Make a kite, to(k)night, allRight Thank god for the fleas in the right Hairless creatures for to sway I threw the dog overboard yesterday The day before, the day And if you'd wanted it to stay You should've say, you should've say But never let my hand betray The vein, the line, the artery Of arterial shells bombastically Loquacious to a fault, this day They say "You want another day" They say "You never wanted say" They say "You wasted every day" They say "They say, they say, they say" But e'er forget, ne'er forget I'll despise you abandon heaven for earth to get And leave your money, your millions behind For mansions with my Lord to find But in the ceiling never was a god to pray
0
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 10:16 PM UTC
Play the trumpet organ-man play (freewrite)
Well, what now, hey? I threw the dog overboard yesterday. The day before, the day? Where will you go, hey? I heard the orchestra-man play The same way, Sanctum, requiem, asylum All Latin in his French dog-eared play. Hear the monkey, playing accordion play To the whirling whirly-whirly-ghig Tre dramatique, no? Today I understand you're just as "tramatig." I want to hear your Frenchmen play Play ***** pipes play play In his dog-eared French organ-man Play But I cannot, cannot say Tears of joy, in hydrant spray The Hyades triumphant rainbow stay Cough your little fears away; Hear the Star Spangled Francis Key play Frenchmen play, play, Little piggies counted play Black white keys with little piggle-plumps play Atone-al, A-tonal---atonal tonal sounds as if to say "Getting married here to stay" All alone and all today Settle down if for a day And who will hear the trumpet play When organ-man Frenchman say "Where? Home of the free" and stay Keep your hands away Never want to let you say "Hear me, hear ye, all you weary, weary dreamers But never left your confidence like Russell-rustle leaf-blown willow-white You fill them up with seventy two pay Make a kite, to(k)night, allRight Thank god for the fleas in the right Hairless creatures for to sway I threw the dog overboard yesterday The day before, the day And if you'd wanted it to stay You should've say, you should've say But never let my hand betray The vein, the line, the artery Of arterial shells bombastically Loquacious to a fault, this day They say "You want another day" They say "You never wanted say" They say "You wasted every day" They say "They say, they say, they say" But e'er forget, ne'er forget I'll despise you abandon heaven for earth to get And leave your money, your millions behind For mansions with my Lord to find But in the ceiling never was a god to pray
Continue reading...
56
I get lost in my reveries The biscuits are all ruined Burned to a blackened crisp I keep forgetting what I’m doing. I don’t scold myself that much I have gotten used to this state. I’ve been this way ever since I discover *** was so great. Too soon ****** Too late wise. It seems like I can’t Believe my own eyes. Living in a fantasy I avoid using a knife. It can mean catastrophe When up against real life. It shuts up all the voices in me That tell me what a ****** I am. It makes a wonderful movie of What used to be a lifelong scam, Where I once had not been worthy Suddenly I was a loquacious stud. Cannabis took me to the mountain And out of the ordinary mud. Too soon ****** Too late wise. It seems like I can’t Believe my own eyes. Living in a fantasy I avoid using a knife. It can mean catastrophe When up against real life. But somebody should have warned That soon it takes over your life. It makes you forget work and bills The chores and even the wife. A forty something thirteen year-old Is mostly what I have now become. Parts of what I knew as my mind Have become deaf, blind and dumb. Too soon ****** Too late wise. It seems like I can’t Believe my own eyes. Living in a fantasy I avoid using a knife. It can mean catastrophe When up against real life.
0
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 3:29 AM UTC
CANNABIS CANT
The aloofness of the moon in the effervescent night In between the clouds teasing the sight As the lavish words of the owls permeates the air Summoning the wolves to howl in despair Unable to muffle the loquacious toads by the lake While the fluid branches of the trees dance to the nocturnes of the wind How they cradled the woods to sleep Still there is a flurried silence Inexplicable gloom Emitted by the bright moon Spreading like wild fire in the meadows Creating eerie shadows through the glass windows The lake glittered as if the stars have fallen in the waters She dipped her nakedness in the aching cold Emotionless Her face illuminated by the reflection in the silver waters She submerge her breath to fill her lungs She never felt as light, numb and hollow The moon signed as witness To the blooming flowers that midnight Ever hungry for the moonlight Like her convulsing consciousness desperate for salvation And to the corpse of the maiden afloat in the lake The unapologetic moon stood to watch The beautiful soul as it slowly swells Along with melancholia Writhing across the serene lake -Melancholia, Margaret Austin Go
0
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
Melancholia
Blue streaks shew across the sky. Manic days and semper fi. Red dawn smashes out the sea. Honor is all I claim to be. Though I love and feel like saintly. I reek, timorous, spineless and dainty. But I have no respect for you! Till we are in court, tried and true It was the world, the world of defeat. I planted my flag on a daisy and creek. On a light dominion of my summerhouse place. There sit, the lovely Welterman case. Weltermans family gathered in boon. Farewell to a daughter, a motherly loon. I killed her. There. I said it okay? But don't blame me, she was just in my way. On a cold summer day, and a hot summer night. Cicadas bizzled but hardly struck a fright. Daisy lay sleeping, sweet next to me. Leaving behind her unfinished dreams But lo and behold, an undertaker. Ruinous desire, I decided to take her. My confession means nothing, my killing, an iota. So love would not infect Alexander of Macedonia. Down the throat and across the sea. Of loquacious gelatinous sanctimony. I'll cut deep without thinking, I'll slash without aversion. Ophelia and her love is a tainted ********** I bathed in the blood and cried myself silly. She only deserved death, that ***** old filly. No more would Welterman reek of my sin. To lower a king, to a peasantly Tim.
0
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 2:59 AM UTC
Tims confession.
Saintly cassock, Glittering altar Ornamental pulpit.               Driving the congregants             in a paroxysm of fib, Gullibility enshrines adherents             hearts. Do you know the Messiah more             than the apostles ? Thou traders in the temple. Parrotic tongues set out             commands Loquacious sweet-coated mouths             misdirects faithfuls. But the uncreated Creator who             creates creatures watches Dreadful silence astonishingly             permeates the entireness            of the universe. Do you preach love? Do you follow peace with all? Ye robbers in the temple. Command darkness to produce             light. But you turned moonlight into             tale. Can you display Davidic dance             steps on the road? Profanity of sanctuary with             false homiletics. Merchants of dross in tabernacle Speak. Let us hear you. Preach To the congregants. Righteousness afar from the           apron of faith. Charity locked up in the           tunic of hope. Sanctity of holiness sprinkled           into the tributary of sin. Commanding the stars to turn            to sun, Captains of night in light. Ye robbers in the sanctuary. Pastoral advertisers of chattels            in the tabernacle, Merchandising gold dross in             sermonic hymns. Sugar-coated doctrine wept in              the tomb of Lazarus. Prompting Him to weep again? Ye merchants in synagogue. Disentangle faithfuls from the           webs of worriment. Dislodge congregants out of the           shackles of sin. Deliver ignoramus from the            isle of incendiary. Let the sifter of strength            separate out afflictions from            feebleminded faithfuls. Ye robbers in the temple You love prayers more than God But who answers prayers?
0
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 3:45 AM UTC
MERCHANTS IN THE TEMPLE
Saintly cassock, Glittering altar Ornamental pulpit.               Driving the congregants             in a paroxysm of fib, Gullibility enshrines adherents             hearts. Do you know the Messiah more             than the apostles ? Thou traders in the temple. Parrotic tongues set out             commands Loquacious sweet-coated mouths             misdirects faithfuls. But the uncreated Creator who             creates creatures watches Dreadful silence astonishingly             permeates the entireness            of the universe. Do you preach love? Do you follow peace with all? Ye robbers in the temple. Command darkness to produce             light. But you turned moonlight into             tale. Can you display Davidic dance             steps on the road? Profanity of sanctuary with             false homiletics. Merchants of dross in tabernacle Speak. Let us hear you. Preach To the congregants. Righteousness afar from the           apron of faith. Charity locked up in the           tunic of hope. Sanctity of holiness sprinkled           into the tributary of sin. Commanding the stars to turn            to sun, Captains of night in light. Ye robbers in the sanctuary. Pastoral advertisers of chattels            in the tabernacle, Merchandising gold dross in             sermonic hymns. Sugar-coated doctrine wept in              the tomb of Lazarus. Prompting Him to weep again? Ye merchants in synagogue. Disentangle faithfuls from the           webs of worriment. Dislodge congregants out of the           shackles of sin. Deliver ignoramus from the            isle of incendiary. Let the sifter of strength            separate out afflictions from            feebleminded faithfuls. Ye robbers in the temple You love prayers more than God But who answers prayers?
Continue reading...
65
Pool's Prince Charming by Michael R. Burch this is my tribute poem, written on the behalf of his fellow pool sharks, for the legendary Saint Louie Louie Roberts Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool, making all the ladies drool ... Take the “nuts”? I'd be a fool! Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool. Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis, owner of (ahem) a similar pelvis ... Compared to you, the books will shelve us. Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis. Louie, Louie, fearless gambler, ladies' man and constant rambler, but such a sweet, loquacious ambler! Louie, Louie, fearless gambler. Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic, pool's charming hero, but tragic, Byronic, winning the Open drinking gin and tonic? Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic. NOTE: If you like my tribute you are welcome to share it, but please credit me as the author, which you can do by copying the title and subheading. I used poetic license about what Louie Roberts was or wasn't drinking at the 1981 U. S. Open Nine-Ball Championship. Was Louie drinking hard liquor as he came charging back through the losers' bracket to win the whole shebang? Or was he just pretending to drink for gamesmanship or some other reason? I honestly don't know. As for the word “chthonic,” it’s pronounced “thonic” and means “subterranean” or “of the underworld.” And the pool world at its worst can be very dark indeed, as Louie’s tragic demise suggests. But everyone who knew Louie seemed to like him, if not love him dearly, and many sharks have spoken of Louie in glowing terms, as a bringer of light to that underworld. Keywords/Tags: pool, shark, billiards, nine ball, Saint Louie Roberts, gambler, hustler
0
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 4:48 AM UTC
Pool's Prince Charming
Pool's Prince Charming by Michael R. Burch this is my tribute poem, written on the behalf of his fellow pool sharks, for the legendary Saint Louie Louie Roberts Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool, making all the ladies drool ... Take the “nuts”? I'd be a fool! Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool. Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis, owner of (ahem) a similar pelvis ... Compared to you, the books will shelve us. Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis. Louie, Louie, fearless gambler, ladies' man and constant rambler, but such a sweet, loquacious ambler! Louie, Louie, fearless gambler. Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic, pool's charming hero, but tragic, Byronic, winning the Open drinking gin and tonic? Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic. NOTE: If you like my tribute you are welcome to share it, but please credit me as the author, which you can do by copying the title and subheading. I used poetic license about what Louie Roberts was or wasn't drinking at the 1981 U. S. Open Nine-Ball Championship. Was Louie drinking hard liquor as he came charging back through the losers' bracket to win the whole shebang? Or was he just pretending to drink for gamesmanship or some other reason? I honestly don't know. As for the word “chthonic,” it’s pronounced “thonic” and means “subterranean” or “of the underworld.” And the pool world at its worst can be very dark indeed, as Louie’s tragic demise suggests. But everyone who knew Louie seemed to like him, if not love him dearly, and many sharks have spoken of Louie in glowing terms, as a bringer of light to that underworld. Keywords/Tags: pool, shark, billiards, nine ball, Saint Louie Roberts, gambler, hustler
Continue reading...
20