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"luc" poems
Honest, that meaningless word left dangling before children, a damoclean sword held fast in a gordian knot tied with scarlet thread, finer than the spider's that once tied men's souls to an angry American God, birthed in Transylvania, over the woods, and through the dale, no lie There is a tale of lies told in Nobel houses, never reachin' ground, Down here, we situations manifested to, vain, again, stem the tide, We flounder, fish out of water, why are we sent if wait he hears, he listens, haps he knows, and how such as we came to be here, Welcome and see, dare ye ask me in? Might I ply you with lies and you, believe 'em? I could make a mindless robot out of your parts, but that would take forever and that's not how Wisdom's child would tend to be, for first, You must believe a lie and I, amusing as can be, can't tell lies. Discernment, fine points, per-spicacity per se, the only way. Good luck (Luc, said luck in many tongues, is said Lose- as in Luc-ifer. It means light, as in light, regular old granted light.) Lightifier, good, take some, good light, for the travail, in the night. You see, not so long ago, for me, five years before I'as born, my momma moved to town. What was that like, I axed my old uncle, while back, movin' t'town, in 1943? Well, he says, We had electricity. USA, 1943, some folks still was poor, and all the good men was gone to war. Cities, it was different, if the movies got it right, Bowry Boys, n'em. In the desert we did, okeh, in town, though, we had electricity. He was ten back then. He'd been huntin' rabbit's, to buy Christmas presents from Sears and Roebucks, since he was five. C'mon, I say. No lie, he say, BLM or some gover'ment whatsajigger, was payin' 2 cents a pair fer jack rabbit ears. 'Said he bought Christmas presents for his mom and dad, and my mom, with his first rabbit money, at five. Shootin' with a single-shot 22, 12 cents a box, Jack Rabbits, 2 cents a head. Three Christmas presents, plus postage, $2.56. Do the math, I think, and go - Five years old, at ten, he moves to town, 1943, we had electricity. That's all.
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Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 10:59 PM UTC
There is no someday.
Honest, that meaningless word left dangling before children, a damoclean sword held fast in a gordian knot tied with scarlet thread, finer than the spider's that once tied men's souls to an angry American God, birthed in Transylvania, over the woods, and through the dale, no lie There is a tale of lies told in Nobel houses, never reachin' ground, Down here, we situations manifested to, vain, again, stem the tide, We flounder, fish out of water, why are we sent if wait he hears, he listens, haps he knows, and how such as we came to be here, Welcome and see, dare ye ask me in? Might I ply you with lies and you, believe 'em? I could make a mindless robot out of your parts, but that would take forever and that's not how Wisdom's child would tend to be, for first, You must believe a lie and I, amusing as can be, can't tell lies. Discernment, fine points, per-spicacity per se, the only way. Good luck (Luc, said luck in many tongues, is said Lose- as in Luc-ifer. It means light, as in light, regular old granted light.) Lightifier, good, take some, good light, for the travail, in the night. You see, not so long ago, for me, five years before I'as born, my momma moved to town. What was that like, I axed my old uncle, while back, movin' t'town, in 1943? Well, he says, We had electricity. USA, 1943, some folks still was poor, and all the good men was gone to war. Cities, it was different, if the movies got it right, Bowry Boys, n'em. In the desert we did, okeh, in town, though, we had electricity. He was ten back then. He'd been huntin' rabbit's, to buy Christmas presents from Sears and Roebucks, since he was five. C'mon, I say. No lie, he say, BLM or some gover'ment whatsajigger, was payin' 2 cents a pair fer jack rabbit ears. 'Said he bought Christmas presents for his mom and dad, and my mom, with his first rabbit money, at five. Shootin' with a single-shot 22, 12 cents a box, Jack Rabbits, 2 cents a head. Three Christmas presents, plus postage, $2.56. Do the math, I think, and go - Five years old, at ten, he moves to town, 1943, we had electricity. That's all.
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51
Well let’s peek into the kitchen of Lucy and Ethel to see the baking of this 7 Layer Cake On cue in take Ricky is having a party in his home regarding his 10th Anniversary in managing the Night Club called “A little bit of Cuba” He wanted something fancy Did he say fancy? There’s no telling what Lucy has baked into that cake Lucy and Ethel are busy baking away But somehow that cake is going to cause people to make a quick getaway Now remember, this is not the Pillsbury bake off, but should say “Revenge with back off” At this point, you are allowed to cough The cake is in the pan and ready for the oven As the cake is baking, Lucy and Ethel are entertaining the guest This is not at any one’s request While Lucy talks about Hollywood and show business, do you smell something burning? Luc y shouts, “My cake!” But was it too late? Lucy and Ethel rushed to the oven The cake was half burned and didn’t rise Why am I not surprised? Meanwhile, what is Lucy and Ethel going too serve for dessert? Lucy says, “I have a plan” Let’s open a can of fruit cocktail and add it inside the burned cake But Ethel stats with, “How will the guest respond?” Lucy proclaims, “Who cares, they can’t know the cake was burned Well the dessert will be served Think on eat at your own risk being observed As Lucy and Ethel serve the cake, suddenly one of the guest get sick from eating the cake Lucy of course starts to cry Yet the baking that cake was a good try Eat at your own risk said I.
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Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 6:32 PM UTC
EAT AT YOUR OWN RISK
Well let’s peek into the kitchen of Lucy and Ethel to see the baking of this 7 Layer Cake On cue in take Ricky is having a party in his home regarding his 10th Anniversary in managing the Night Club called “A little bit of Cuba” He wanted something fancy Did he say fancy? There’s no telling what Lucy has baked into that cake Lucy and Ethel are busy baking away But somehow that cake is going to cause people to make a quick getaway Now remember, this is not the Pillsbury bake off, but should say “Revenge with back off” At this point, you are allowed to cough The cake is in the pan and ready for the oven As the cake is baking, Lucy and Ethel are entertaining the guest This is not at any one’s request While Lucy talks about Hollywood and show business, do you smell something burning? Luc y shouts, “My cake!” But was it too late? Lucy and Ethel rushed to the oven The cake was half burned and didn’t rise Why am I not surprised? Meanwhile, what is Lucy and Ethel going too serve for dessert? Lucy says, “I have a plan” Let’s open a can of fruit cocktail and add it inside the burned cake But Ethel stats with, “How will the guest respond?” Lucy proclaims, “Who cares, they can’t know the cake was burned Well the dessert will be served Think on eat at your own risk being observed As Lucy and Ethel serve the cake, suddenly one of the guest get sick from eating the cake Lucy of course starts to cry Yet the baking that cake was a good try Eat at your own risk said I.
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30
To watch or not to watch. That is the question;whether it is nobler in my mind to suffer the feels and emotions of addicting shows and yet be so in love with them. To watch, to cry. One more episode and only sleep will help me to end. The heartache and the thousand cinematic shocks the writers are obsessed with. ‘tis a consuming world with everything I wish. To watch, to cry. To cry-- perhaps too much. Ay, but it's worth it. For, when watching these shows and knowing what feels may come, when we have shuffled off this depressing factor, we must not forget the humor that makes happiness last oh so long. To watch characters travel the depths of space and time. The detectives prove wrong the proud men and even the relationships and love ‘tween the main protagonists. The insolence of the hiatus that even patient fangirls cannot take. When we go on great adventures with a hobbit and a ring. Who could bear the long wait? To punt a sweat is a weary life. To discover world's unknown from books or shows. We travellers never want to return. Our fangirl hearts burn and even still We would rather bear the tears we have Than live in a world where there are none.  Thus Fangirls are not cowards, not at all Thus we are heroes so very proud So we proudly say take flight on the enterprise with Captain Jean Luc We bare our lights sabers alight And lose ourselves in the action Go we now happy as could be-- off to fangirl forever  To be normal? Ha! Never.
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Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 8:29 AM UTC
A Fangirls Soliloquy by Emily Austin
I am from toaster From toaster strudel and bagels I am from the small space with too many bodies Cold, old, musty I am from the acorn The maple tree Whose long limbs I remember As if they were my own. I’m from movie nights and slender fingers From Hélène and Luc I’m from thinking of the worst outcomes and crackling knees And from moving forward I am from finish your plate and don’t draw on the car And twinkle, twinkle little star I am from Canada I am from Quebec I am from being locked out of the house And desperation
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Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC
I am from
Roses are red... My name is Luc... This poem makes no sense... PUKE
0
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 6:42 AM UTC
The Ultimate Crap..!!
Moved to allpoetry.com
0
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
Luc¡d ThOught Bubbl€s
It's a little known fact, but true. Jean-Luc Picard grew up believing in Yoda. Ever since he saw the little fella in Star Wars, he's kept a picture of him in his Star Trek wallet. And if people knew that, the ratings would have been higher for Star Trek, 'cause everybody loves Yoda. Interestingly, when the Apollo program kicked off in the 60's, Yoda hadn't even hit the movie screens yet. Too bad, those early astronauts would have loved to have had a mascot! Everybody knows, space travelers have to believe in someone. It's just great universal karma!
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Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
Space Travelers Have To Believe In Someone
Please Pogo music, wake me up. The night, now reduced to warm laptop light, is inching toward dawn. I pray to the patron saints of writers - is it Neri or Ávila? Whichever is on call I suppose. “I’ve indulged in reprobation,” I confess, openly to the fuzzy, waxing, crescent moon. “I need that alchemy that turns coffee and a rough outline into an actual paper.” I yank off my hoodie, fling my window open wide and hang myself out like wet laundry. Have you ever tasted ***** Vile stuff really. The forty degree breeze feels like heaven and my eyes begin to focus. I peel off my leggings to let my entire skin tingle with cold. My Keurig beeps confidently. I found a couple of peanut energy bars in my bookbag and rip them open like a ****** who’s discovered a forgotten stash. I devour them so quickly it’s like a magic trick - then I brush my teeth. I take several slow deep breaths. I can DO this, I assure myself, but my outline looks adequate at best. I need this done so I can relax with a super bowl party pizza Sunday. The song “Data & Picard,” sets me to dancing, “It’s better to have loved and lost..” Patrick Stewart as Jean-Luc Picard pronounces, perfectly auto-tuned to the music. I love this song. I love the night. I love the challenge. I set myself to the task and finish, three hours later, as the sun breaks into morning.
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Feb 12, 2022
Feb 12, 2022 at 7:28 AM UTC
***** plus essays
Naguiere chanter je voulois Comme Francus au bord Gaulois Avecq' sa troupe vint descendre, Mais mon luc pinçé de mon doi, Ne vouloit en dépit de moi Que chanter Amour, et Cassandre. Je pensoi pource que toujours J'avoi dit sur lui mes amours, Que ses cordes par long usage Chantoient d'amour, et qu'il faloit En mettre d'autres, s'on vouloit Luy aprendre un autre langage. Et pour ce faire, il n'y eut fust, Archet, ne corde, qui ne fust Echangée en d'autres nouvelles : Mais apres qu'il fut remonté, Plus haut que davant a chanté Comme il souloit, les damoyselles. Or adieu doncq' pauvre Francus, Ta gloire, sous tes murs veinqus, Se cachera toujours pressée, Si, à ton neveu, nostre Roi, Tu ne dis qu'en l'honneur de toi, Il face ma Lyre crossée.
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993
À sa lyre
I need these headphones snug in my ears to stop the air slipping its way in and teasing. You're going to look a fool. Need the cooling beats that aren't really beats because they're so discreet. They make everything look like the film, reeling off a separate version of my life. Everything seen is witnessed through a tainted lens. Yellow and serene. A Luc-Godard scene. You're sitting there and I get kind of scared. Not as scared as I thought, but that is because I didn't think. This glass is how we work each other out. We are both translucent in tiny fragments In the process of piecing us together. We are not all green bottle and crystal shard. We merge together, creating a gold collage.
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Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
Shards
May the next summer coming be laden with the succulent scent of ice cream and honey suckle. The scent of the newborn baby due to come in April's next whispering breath. Lay fresh amidst the daffodils of springtime the second grandchild of spring. Three grandsons born in summertime and one at Christmas time. Santa Claus brought Luc for Ben. Another wee laddie, yet again. Totally overrun with little men. I have to wait so patiently to see what the baby is to be. Tonight, I spent the evening holding tight to the heart of my baby grandson. Oh to be trapped. Held tight in my chair, for if I move he will stir. It felt so right. The topic of many many poems before, now he's doing so much more. He's nearly crawling. Bawling less. Forging forward every day. Waiting for his first Christmas to come. (C) LIVVI
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Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
COME IN NUMBER FIVE
Summer's lake now solid and cold June's leaves now old and dry As gray streams pass through frigid sky Birds should fly for tropics here in wind hold tight to their sticks but birdy's trick can pay with sun on wing that first spring day
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Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 6:41 PM UTC
Winter Bird (Luc Bat)
In 1852, an artist named Luc Maspero threw himself from the fourth floor of a Parisian hotel Leaving a suicide note that read: "for years I have grappled desperately with her smile, I prefer to die." Then in 1910, one enamored fan came before her solely to shoot himself As he looked upon her Napolean crushed hard on her. She has broken a lot of heart Men have died loving her. Last week Mona Lisa walked out of her frame And out of the Louvre Museum Straight to the terrace of the tallest builiding of Paris and cried. The world is smudged with oil now Paris streets smell of smoke and warm colours. My mother knows nothing about mona lisa And neither does my father. But he steals some of the colour from mona lisa's cheeks And put them across my mother's everytime he pronounces her name Like it is the only word his tongue has ever known, Like it is the only colour his eyes have ever seen. Somedays, he steals stars from Gogh's starry night. "A good lover is a good thief" he says. I wonder probably the Italian man who stole Mona Lisa wanted to put some colour across his wife's cheeks Or he just wanted to steal that smile. Maybe his wife had left him Or yellowed Or died Maybe his wife was a bad lover And he, a good thief. Maybe his wife was a good lover And he, a bad thief Who went gaga over Lisa. What I want to say is, This poem is standing on the fourth floor, Of the same Parisian hotel, With a suicide note in one hand Smuged with oil and warm colours, And pistol in other. This poem is the terrace of the tallest building of Paris. This poem is Mona Lisa crying at 3am uncolouring herself while trying to forget French And a thief trying to rob the colours and stars, And a half asleep world smudged with oil and smoke Which is to say, This poem is a poor attempt to be everything, But anything about you Wondering what would be the first sentence of Mona Lisa if she ever walks out Would it be, "Where is Vinci?" Or, "I wish To run away?"
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Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 4:48 AM UTC
Arts That Never Lied
In 1852, an artist named Luc Maspero threw himself from the fourth floor of a Parisian hotel Leaving a suicide note that read: "for years I have grappled desperately with her smile, I prefer to die." Then in 1910, one enamored fan came before her solely to shoot himself As he looked upon her Napolean crushed hard on her. She has broken a lot of heart Men have died loving her. Last week Mona Lisa walked out of her frame And out of the Louvre Museum Straight to the terrace of the tallest builiding of Paris and cried. The world is smudged with oil now Paris streets smell of smoke and warm colours. My mother knows nothing about mona lisa And neither does my father. But he steals some of the colour from mona lisa's cheeks And put them across my mother's everytime he pronounces her name Like it is the only word his tongue has ever known, Like it is the only colour his eyes have ever seen. Somedays, he steals stars from Gogh's starry night. "A good lover is a good thief" he says. I wonder probably the Italian man who stole Mona Lisa wanted to put some colour across his wife's cheeks Or he just wanted to steal that smile. Maybe his wife had left him Or yellowed Or died Maybe his wife was a bad lover And he, a good thief. Maybe his wife was a good lover And he, a bad thief Who went gaga over Lisa. What I want to say is, This poem is standing on the fourth floor, Of the same Parisian hotel, With a suicide note in one hand Smuged with oil and warm colours, And pistol in other. This poem is the terrace of the tallest building of Paris. This poem is Mona Lisa crying at 3am uncolouring herself while trying to forget French And a thief trying to rob the colours and stars, And a half asleep world smudged with oil and smoke Which is to say, This poem is a poor attempt to be everything, But anything about you Wondering what would be the first sentence of Mona Lisa if she ever walks out Would it be, "Where is Vinci?" Or, "I wish To run away?"
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48
See me, this one says, see me, look you in the eye, eh, thinking, spring, the season, the greening of the playa's ancient shore, east of me, east of my evergreen valley, barely any bare gray wintery bushes and trees, flash of magnificence once manifested, on the shoulders of the priest-kings, infectious proud flesh pomp and circumstance, watch the war god-man made glorious in storied, seen once, not invisioned, imaged from tiny feathers, adhering to a topological fabricated RED FLAG FLASH humming bird head feathered serpent cape, on a bright day signaled by the hummer - see, I have returned, - this is like heaven to me. the one from now, same code, same init see me, look, see, once this was the most vibrant, slow mode, inspiring light imaged, portrayed, cloaking the priest-king god-rep more lustrous than any high summer cathedral rood crossing patterns, in undeniable beauty and artistical luc-if-ity windborn grammarless, musical, meanings, mid point, saddle points between waves that reflect from hummingbird feathers, indicating fair weather weathered the storms, fretted not a second on the journey, yep when I get to Pep's porch, there'll be sugar in the feeder, two minutes later. After I remind a mind is a many splendored thing, but none more splendored in prophesy than making sacred hopes formed from the fi NAND gated mythos, whither men and hummingbirds mind meld, tune in, to imagine the effort required, to tilt your head, just right, to flash my muse. Let time pass.
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Feb 18, 2024
Feb 18, 2024 at 3:39 PM UTC
A Hummingbird Prophecy
See me, this one says, see me, look you in the eye, eh, thinking, spring, the season, the greening of the playa's ancient shore, east of me, east of my evergreen valley, barely any bare gray wintery bushes and trees, flash of magnificence once manifested, on the shoulders of the priest-kings, infectious proud flesh pomp and circumstance, watch the war god-man made glorious in storied, seen once, not invisioned, imaged from tiny feathers, adhering to a topological fabricated RED FLAG FLASH humming bird head feathered serpent cape, on a bright day signaled by the hummer - see, I have returned, - this is like heaven to me. the one from now, same code, same init see me, look, see, once this was the most vibrant, slow mode, inspiring light imaged, portrayed, cloaking the priest-king god-rep more lustrous than any high summer cathedral rood crossing patterns, in undeniable beauty and artistical luc-if-ity windborn grammarless, musical, meanings, mid point, saddle points between waves that reflect from hummingbird feathers, indicating fair weather weathered the storms, fretted not a second on the journey, yep when I get to Pep's porch, there'll be sugar in the feeder, two minutes later. After I remind a mind is a many splendored thing, but none more splendored in prophesy than making sacred hopes formed from the fi NAND gated mythos, whither men and hummingbirds mind meld, tune in, to imagine the effort required, to tilt your head, just right, to flash my muse. Let time pass.
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41
Lawrence Hall [email protected] https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/ poeticdrivel.blogspot.com The 7th of June, 1944 and 1970 My father beached at Normandy on the second day (He was okay with having missed the first) From there through France to Belgium in the mud For a ****** Christmas in the icy Bulge Munich, Buchenwald, Dachau, Zwickau For me DaNang, Saigon, Ben Luc, Moc Hoa I met a child in a Japanese army cap But he wouldn’t sell it. We all have history I wish I had that Japanese army cap And that we knew what any of this means
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Jun 6, 2021
Jun 6, 2021 at 10:25 PM UTC
The 7th of June, 1944 and 1970