Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sara L Russell Jan 2015
Sara L Russell 20/1/15 11:32*

Windows of opportunity
ways of touching base
teamwork with alacrity
cutting to the chase
jingoist linguistics
speaking business tongues
ladders of loquaciousness
rushing up the rungs

See all the little workmates
running for the bus
trying not to be late
not to cause a fuss
every day frenetic
 a speeding metronome
a life too energetic
so glad I work from home.
Chuck Mar 2013
Poetry invents jocular joy
Limpid loquaciousness rejoice
Heuristic verbiage to deploy
Poetry invents jocular joy
Dancing with Shakespeare and Tolstoy
Mellifluous melodic voice
Poetry invents jocular joy
Limpid loquaciousness rejoice
My first Triolet. Thanks Rebecca Askew for showing this form to me and for doing it so well.
Cody Veal May 2013
lunar luminance lights his lucent lordly lair.
leaden legs languish lazily as he lay, laconic--
lexical loquaciousness long lost.
his latent lupine lust lignifies and lengthens,
longing lonesomely for his lovely limber lioness.
with lips of luxurious labial liquer,
and licks lapping like lashing lingual lightning,
liquifying his lavish lover, luscious lyrical lubrication.
Chuck Aug 2013
Brilliance in mode and tone
Elegance without loquaciousness
For language is her gift to all

Poetess your evanescence
Shines eternally in your verbiage
And the imagery that lingers

Sincerity, essential themes,
A labyrinth of life altering morals spun with
An unadulterated touch oh humor

Poetess, you are admired
Humbly honored in this plebeian's
Pedestrian attempt at articulation
This is a respectful tribute to you, poetess. You know who you are. Fun with language!
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2019
I. nope.



II.
long-windedness verbosity
diffuseness prolixity
wordiness rambli­ng
circuity discursiveness
redundancy tautology
tediousness verbi­age
verboseness length
longevity permanence
garrulity windiness
v­olubility circumlocution
expansiveness babbling
periphrasis gushi­ng
blathering protractedness
waffling lengthiness
iteration repet­ition
prating prattling
jabbering digressiveness
dreariness tediu­m
deadliness wandering
repetitiousness repetitiveness
pleonasm co­nvolution
logorrhoea boringness
maundering superfluity
duplicatio­n tiresomeness
monotony reiteration
gabbiness informality
mouthin­ess diffusion
logorrhea wordage
blah-blah dryness
dullness boredo­m
sameness loquaciousness
talkativeness loquacity
freeness orotun­dity
roundaboutness breadth
gobbledegook gassiness
wittering mult­iloquence
perissology big mouth
gift of the gab garrulousness
staleness tallness
ask and answered
Klaus Baumgarten Jun 2014
splendid anticipation twisting sapling towards skyroots again
porous attrocities  absorb all happenstance toward equilibrium
prance in trance, dance enhance
the words are subtle still and vague
privy to thoughts portrayed by strays, mainstays frayed by microwaves
this cancer causing communication, new information trending towards midlifestations
I still see the spark, still taste the quark. yet improvisations on the fly are hindered
loquaciousness is all a hoax, jokes and folks hold this shaky oak
some still breathe for the trees
most still wish only to seize
but the smiles ring through all these trials all the whiles no reconciles
flies are gathering on this **** and still my feeling wont equit
where is the man from the sky? the one who wont shell our eyes?
was it a woman within the weaves, the stars unfolding
remolding us as lumps of clay and changing the meaning of the word geigh
sleighride with me onto the seas, now frozen by your cold wilting weeze
rhymes and verses traverse like hearses picking up where my thoughts stop short
clicking and twisting, familiar sorts sing songs of us between retorts
it all points to that familiar end, when i cower away and wont defend
the points of light in pupils stares
between this line nothing impairs
tear away the peeling, reeling and the chewey center within
its not a sin to mend the seams and come forthright
steal from my mind just one last kiss, an idle embrace you've never held, grasping
at least that's what the clouds are hissing, evaporating what ive been missing
mix it all in one big ***, stewing all the things that i am not
you label me a fool in vain, for i have danced between the rain
impossible sorts of things i've felt, callussed noses refused to've smelt
whisper all the words in pairs, double the potency of stares
climb up the rungs one by one and suddenly the songs i've sung
will bellow in through the wind and you'll wonder if there's time
to find the reason within this rhyme
Helen Apr 2015
don't you ever try to peg me
into your narrow little view
I'll change shapes, so as not to fit
and lay back, just to watch you
scream and shout,
foam at the mouth,
let expletives fly

just to leave me lie
discarded,
unworthy of a place
an unwanted puzzle piece
manufactured to take up space

don't you ever try to label me
I'm not a 99 cent basement bargain
my million dollar price tag got lost
inside your uninteresting jargon

don't you try to pin me
as a monument to your prowess
this butterfly has learnt how to lie
becoming a dragonfly under duress

don't you ever try to change me
I'm resistant to heat and *******
I'm resistant to your loquaciousness
a never ending river of it

don't you ever pigeonhole
the gregarious of my effervescence
nor tunnel upon my vision
because when you understand it
we'll both just be stuck
*inside the same prison
#shapes #prison #unwanted #lonely
tainted black May 2020
i had once told you
that to the stars i talk,
filled with boisterous
l   a   u   g   h   t   e    r



something too peculiar
for your ears to hear
yet a daring smile is
what you gave me after





all loquaciousness
in my body
to the astral entities
i permit them see



it was always loud,
an enjoying ruckus
a moment of nothing
but pure glee


but when we met
in an unexpected collision
something in me stirred
and changed me be



i've learnt to talk in a
h    u    s     h
with your name like
a forbidden word to rush



feeling like i don't want
for the comets to hear
and to admire you like
how i admire you, dear
it is hard to secretly admire someone.
Universe Poems Oct 2021
"Librocubularist late at night
loquaciousness of the poetry thoughts"

© 2021 Carol Natasha Diviney
Tony Grannell Apr 16
“A *** of Earl Grey, Twinings, of course;
loose tea, not those contemptible teabags.
And I have decided on, the three-tiered
melody of afternoon dainties,
the array with the slivered salmon,
with a side serving of lemon,
halved and thinly sliced, mind you.
One is never awarded with
an adequate amount of lemon
with one’s salmon,
and do remove the rinds
and those irritating pips.
Furthermore, do inform chef,
no foreign muck, Scottish salmon
and to make sure it is unsmoked,
smoked salmon and lemon, uncivilized!
Unheard of, I tell you.
And God forbid if served on anything other than silver,
l shall scream.
Do you hear me?”
“I do, madam.” Replied the waiter.
“Good, off with you then,
tout suite, tout suite.” She snapped,
whilst lighting a slender, slim-tipped Davidoff,
seized between her burgundy coated lips.
Her effort successful and when realized,
exhaled, pouted and extinguished the lambent stem
with a deft puff; aware, cautious and determined
in keeping ash-free her legendary silk dress,
often the focus of many an afternoon tea gathering.
Such gatherings, once the highlight of one’s day.
A quotidian ritual, herself, a most ardent sipper,
and considered by many, the grandeur
of such social occasions.
Who, when called upon, no matter what,
always delivered with zest milled exuberance
and the accorded pleasantries,
to solve, enhance or decorate
any situation, as needs must and wants demand
and as always, handled with class,
decorum and quaint properness.
Leaving all and sundry
who sought her assistance
for pleasure or otherwise
midst the silverware, bone china,
pastries and scones,
in jolly good spirits.
A most admirable quality
as was her loquaciousness,
never, not even for a moment, dull,
in keeping with her outlandish dress sense,
prowess in the bedchamber
and her legendary rumour-mongering.
As for her resolve, not unlike
her blue-tinted perm,
ever steadfast, no matter the prevailing winds.

Sadly, unforeseen circumstances intruded
and that most splendid of traditions
was abandoned some months past.
Until today, that is, it being such a beautiful day,
she decided to resume
that, which she, so very much enjoyed
prior to the, aforementioned interference.
A spur of the moment decision,
as was her way,
leaving her with no time
to offer invitations to her flock.
She would have to wing it alone.

As etiquette dictates and she,
its most obedient servant,
was observed, turned out,
in compliance with the
dress code for an afternoon’s excursion
into the elegant pleasures
of tea-sipping and dainty-nibbling,
though a tad over ostentatiously so.
A collage of pearls, pendants,
plumes and a pretty-in-pink parasol
accessorising her meagre physical enticements
into stately pomposity,
topped off with a generous plastering of maquillage,
befitting Madame de Pompadour herself,
and all this, in a rich silk dress,
embroidered with a flourish of
Chinese peonies, precariously flaunted
on a finely glossed pair of
puce red three-inch high stilettoes
with a three-figure price tag.
She was to be splendidly complemented upon
if one were to stray into her
perfumed drenched purlieu,
where she was displayed,
sitting blushingly plump
at an ero marquina marble
topped table, dressed for two.
A hoary, blue-tinted socialite
amongst a ghastly scattering
of low browed, ill-mannered diners
and to her abhorrent dismay,
a seating of dusky-hued foreigners.
“How utterly awful!”
She, griping to the empty chair.
Seventy-four years of airs and graces,
waited upon, pampered and now, afternoon tea
on the veranda of her favourite hotel.
Were it not for the hoi polloi,
bliss would have been opulently seamless.

“To return after a few months’ hiatus
and now this, this lot,
what is the world coming to?
Whoever allowed the common herd entry, is beyond me.
Must ruffle the flock and make known
to management, one’s profound displeasure.”
She, vexing to herself.
Until then, defended her table,
armed only with intentional disregard
to all outside her haughty dominion.
Stood her ground in highbrowed conspicuity,
Davidoff plumes
and mutterings of disgust,
focusing mainly on the dusky interlopers.
Who obviously necessitated no appreciation
or had any comprehension
whatsoever as to the formalities or graces
associated with the stately
modus operandi of afternoon tea.
“Tut-tut-tut.”
She tut-tutted to herself.
Continuing, in silence, her detest
whilst awaiting one’s treats.

“I’ll play mother.” She demanded,
when the waiter arrived,
slapping his hand away from the teapot,
an unsavoury trespass,
somewhat dusky, himself.
She, alone, would pour the tea
and did so with composure
albeit lacking grace,
a consequence of age.
Four lumps of sugar
plink-plonked from a pair
of silver-plated tweezers
and with a raised pinky
poured from a silver-plated jug
a trickle of milk,
liking her tea, hot,
very hot
and stirred clockwise
with her right hand
whilst holding a pair of
handheld spectacles in her left,
through which, scrutinized
the three-tiered display
of afternoon niceties,
as usual, in frowned silence
until satisfied that everything was,
as instructed and to her pleasure.
Contented, “Capital!“ She exclaimed,
followed with a snarling dismissal of the waiter,
“Off with you then!”
“Of course, madam.” He replied,
as would a lamb obey a wolf.

Her first choice of deliciousness
was a delicately layered pastry,
politely picked from the lowest tier.
As was her custom, always dined
from the bottom, up.
The top tier usually the sweetest,
dessert, as it were.
Herself, having a sweet tooth
as evident in her triple chin,
puffed jowls
and strained corset.
Biting off a morsel, during which,
holding a napkin beneath her three chins,
to keep crumb-free her legendary silk dress.
Her burgundy-bloated lips never parting
as she patiently chewed, allowing the flavours
to release their delectable secrets.
The chef’s skills overwhelming her taste buds
with a palette of scrumptious mysteries.
She paused, oohed and
declared with shrilled enthusiasm,
“Oh, this is absolutely delic…”
when realising, her husband,
that unforeseen circumstance
now four months into rot,
downed in a hunting accident
when the boar fought back,
and there, facing her, she found herself
talking to an empty chair
on the veranda of their favourite hotel
whilst the acursed boar remained at large.

Her Ceaser, his Throne, their Empire.
“Absit omen!” Beseeched her pathetic hopes,
inwardly knowing, fantasy would not oblige.
An ineffable feeling of loneliness befell her.
As if plucked from one’s pleasure by
the memory of another, now dead and buried.
Chewing for solace but to no avail,
the delicate pastry losing its flavours
as the peculiarities of loss
welled over the tiered array of make-believe.
Striving, as inconspicuously as possible,
to stave off the embarrassment of grieving in public.
However, such was the intensity of her distress,
her efforts were futile,
eventually succumbing
to the uncontrollable tears of grief.
Unbecoming her demeanour,
she faltered, the imperial dye
laundered away in the wash of sorrow,
etiquette violated.
Alone, a lady of no companion,
crying like a lost child desperate for affection.
A weeping remnant
of a once glittering society.
Its Ceaser: her beloved,
who now,
but a gored corpse.

Her inappropriately timed outpourings,
gloat-fodder for the present peasantry,
whose gawking intrusions made it
so unbearably degrading,
especially here, on the veranda of her favourite hotel,
where afternoon tea was a truly delicious occasion.
Such an appropriate ritual
complementing a most gracious way of life,
and now, for commoners, dusky foreigners and servants
to bear witness to the, often hailed,
much loved, doyenne of decadence,
usurped by grief,
destroyed in humiliation
and not a friend when one needed most.
Her pompous maquillage smudged to insignificance
by the salty residues of a weeping heart.
At a table dressed for two
sat a miserable creature, forsaken,
banished to the cold-hearted states of loneliness,
displayed in naked vulnerability
and a stained silk dress.
And to think, the rumours will be unbearable.

“There, there; it’s okay.” Whispered the waiter,
rushing to her aid, placing his arm gently around her shoulders
and she, leaning into his chest,
inconsolable; crying, pleading,
“Don’t leave me, please, don’t leave me.”
“There, there; it’s okay.” He whispered,
as he tried to calm the arrogant racist *****
pining relentlessly for her arrogant racist cur,
as would a lamb lick the wounds of a fallen wolf.

— The End —