"lugubrious" poems
Watching the beauty of Mother Earth was I
when it vanished in front of my eyes
No more pure are the river and seas
It is like an eternal autumn for the trees
The Beauty of Mother Earth has long gone
Sky is dark and the winds now groan
Morning soil has lost is moist dew
Everyday has become monotonus,no day is new
Ignored by her sons,Mother Earth is dying
disingenous sons are ignoring their mother's crying
The lugubrious situation is the conlusion of the Greed
Pollination of the plants halted and birds awaiting to be freed
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 12:07 AM UTC
if words are food for the mind,
then here is a glimpse of mine
if words are drugs for the brain,
then here is why i'm so pained.
abandoned, abhorrent
abnormal, absent
abstract, abuse
addicted, anxious
betray, bitterly
blank, blasphemy
bloodless, breakdown
breathless, brutal
captive, casually
catastrophe, cautiously
change, cigarettes
crucial, clueless
damaged, dangerous
deadly, disastrous
disheartened, disconcerting
dramatic, dreading
eager, eccentric
ecstasy, eerie
effete, effortless
embittered, excess
faded, failure
faintly, fallacy
faltering, fatally
fearfully, finally
garbage, gawky
gibberish, gloomy
gone, goodbye
graphic, gratify
hallucinate, harshly
hazy, heartless
hectic, helpless
hesitant, hit-and-miss
idiotic, idly
ignorant, intimacy
illogical, imaginative
infatuated, intoxicated
jealousy, jittery
journey, journal
joylessly, judicial
junk, juvenile
keen, killing
knavish, knocking
knockout, knotty
knowingly, knowledge
laborious, lacking
lame, languishing
lifeless, literature
lovelorn, lugubrious
madness, maintenance
make-believe, malaise
mean, melancholic
mellow, melodramatic
naff, naivety
nameless, naturally
nauseous, nebulous
neglected, nervous
oasis, objectionable
obliged, obliterate
oblivion, obscurity
obsolete, one-and-only
pacifist, pained
pale, panicky
paradise, paralyze
passionately, passively
raging, ranting
rationalize, raving
realistic, reasonable
rebellious, reckless
saboteur, sadness
sake, sameness
sanity, satisfactory
scar, steady
taint, tangled
tasteless, tearful
telling, temperamental
terror, theoretical
unaffected, uncanny
uncommon, unconsciously
undesirable, uneasy
unfortunate, untidy
vaguely, vanish
vanity, vanquish
versatile, vicious
violence, voracious
waiting, waking
walkout, wanting
wasteful, weary
withering, wrecking
if words are food for the mind,
then you've seen a glimpse of mine
if words are drugs for the brain,
then no wonder i'm so pained.
-djs
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC
Desolate and barren,
The canyons call to me
Like the coyote calling the moon.
It feels so familiar,
Feels just like home.
Lugubrious and dwelling,
This weight cannot leave my
Chest until I relieve it;
And I can’t succeed,
Not this time.
Swallowed up into a sea,
I forfeit to a controlled fate.
Yes, I feel the downward spiral.
Yes, I sense the impending disaster.
No, I cannot bring myself to change it.
Here, I fall so short.
I never claimed to be an angel;
In fact, the Devil loves me.
I take his demons and allow
Them shelter within me.
Yes, I know the damage done.
Yes, I will never stop the spiral.
No, I cannot bring myself to change,
And that is where I continue
To
f
a
l
l
short.
Jan 12, 2020
Jan 12, 2020 at 1:37 AM UTC
Between the brown hands of a server-lad
The silver cross was offered to be kissed.
The men came up, lugubrious, but not sad,
And knelt reluctantly, half-prejudiced.
(And kissing, kissed the emblem of a creed.)
Then mourning women knelt; meek mouths they had,
(And kissed the Body of the Christ indeed.)
Young children came, with eager lips and glad.
(These kissed a silver doll, immensely bright.)
Then I, too, knelt before that acolyte.
Above the crucifix I bent my head:
The Christ was thin, and cold, and very dead:
And yet I bowed, yea, kissed - my lips did cling.
(I kissed the warm live hand that held the thing.)
3.5k
One day, you’ll fall deeply and irrevocably in love
with the nape of the neck and the lobe of the ear
you’ll want to nibble just above the edge of the jaw
and run your fingers through the tousled spirally hair,
but the slight quiver of curved lips will halt you in thoughts
as the darting pupils furtively flutter behind closed eyelids
searching for a break of dawn in the shadows of a room
where dust hangs heavily then settles in unsuspecting lungs
making the rise and fall of the chest raspy and laborious,
making nostrils flare up to make room for something less heavy
something more familiar, more light and less lugubrious,
something like a touch on the curve of the neck just below
the edge of the jaw and a whisper of something gentle
that nibbles on the ear as erring fingers run through spirally hair,
sending waves of shivers that make curved lips quiver and
darting pupils flutter enough to one day break open closed eyelids
where you’ll fall deeply and irrevocably in love.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 2:26 PM UTC
Working your way out of ionic ******* can be
seriously interesting however, it can also be
lugubrious.
I was standing in the aisle at Bulk Barn.
low on neutrinos, I was looking to stock up
I like to sprinkle them on my cereal in the morning
I then made my way down the anti-photon aisle
if you like your coffee black and not sweet, as I do
this is almost as good as other alternatives
I did realize that
my electron supply was fine
but thought I'd get some anyway
just for the ion-y
I don't understand the economics of this transaction
but it is apparent the invisible hand does
When the clerk looked in my basket
I was waved through
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 7:56 PM UTC
There’s a door that leads into the hallway
Of the house that lives under the trees
Whose trunks are beleaguered with knobbles
Like a twisted collection of knees
The handle looks faintly organic
Any moment it might come alive
The paint is like vertical shadows
And the number is seventy-five
The foot of the stairs is before you
And the door sidles shut to your rear
The carpet is damp and disfigured
And the walls are uncomfortably near
The windows are coated with algae
So the light is all mottled and rank
The varnish and the paper are peeling
And curtains hang mouldy and lank
There’s a hole in the wall with an angle
And a view of the kitchen within
There’s a nest in the bowl on the table
There are rats living out of the bin
Disjointed lugubrious echoes
Of a whisper without any voice
The spoons haven't stirred in a decade
So the cups haven't had any choice
It’s then you should really be leaving
But you've taken your time and the bait
For a sound of a footstep behind you
And a voice saying simply "too late"
There’s a breath on the bone of your collar
It’s as cold as a final decree
There’s death to be found in that kitchen
And a death that came looking for me
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
as if pulling (on the tab)
prevents the continued closure
of the lunch box
oxen milling brunch
as it unfolds sinewed pasture
green purloining sunlight
oxen munching salami on Thursday morning
mourning the luncheon of Sunday
black black blackberries lugubrious
lubricate brioche freshness
pile of white pile of brown pile of pylons
pile (on the tab)
shots are on me
shots fired no casualties
oxen bagged lunches aren't as fun as pulling punches
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
The moonlight breaks upon the city's domes,
And falls along cemented steel and stone,
Upon the grayness of a million homes,
Lugubrious in unchanging monotone.
Upon the clothes behind the tenement,
That hang like ghosts suspended from the lines,
Linking each flat to each indifferent,
Incongruous and strange the moonlight shines.
There is no magic from your presence here,
** moon, sad moon, tuck up your trailing robe,
Whose silver seems antique and so severe
Against the glow of one electric globe.
Go spill your beauty on the laughing faces
Of happy flowers that bloom a thousand hues,
Waiting on tiptoe in the wilding spaces,
To drink your wine mixed with sweet drafts of dews.
2.2k
loathe — july 17, 2013
reëstablish the current which made being whole
no, not just in another life since fragmented whole is nothing tethered to the waist. that’s what belts are for. if you say so
monitor it like
you would anywhere
the trajectory is clear : light the torch of multi-orbed sensation
where we wait on the cusp
of the whole
perhaps in another life, we dare to suggest it. i don’t dare. if i did, i would consider myself a pigment of this pallet
i don’t breathe limited expectation
scientific claims
they’re just as good as dead to me. perhaps the whole can be related and consume our progress. there is too much to see. too little methods
methodic function isn’t perfunctory yet. a push is required. jumpstarting will only cause sparks.
i know something better
so sit down and move to the right. the light’s blocking my view and i cannot surmise unless i’m granted a complete oversight. nothing backseat, because we all know
that is reductive
paint splatters on my face
i
am
frozen
the colors reimage our complexion and erase the mistakes until we are whole
[ uncertainty is the new guarantee ]
introspection is a form by which we do so. everything we see is incomplete. our eyes need to be adjusted
to the [ uncertain ]
adore — july 29 , 2013
black blue strata pillars spruces flutes
eclectic aftermath debris snaffle pop
chute-in whelked chrome lugubrious
lifeblood : trans yes mutate pro-ohms
in timehalts wyoming woodsmoke
screened scans : rancid gemini rotors
hulks histories back - lying supine arts
( please remind me to act regimentally )
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 5:27 PM UTC
Maybe because I've always been
*******
Or unscrewed, I suppose--
In the mental department
Maybe because I know he's a friend
He's just as scared of the world as me
He's not some evil figure
Lurking about at night
Intentionally trying to terrify
He's a man all the same
I don't care what his appearance is
He just tries to hide
Seeking refuge and comfort
Trying to hide his lugubrious mind
He just wants a friend that understands
So he lays under the bed
Or sits in the closet
He doesn't even say a thing
Except "Boo-hoo"
When he hears your life story spoken aloud
By your conscious lips
Or subconscious dream clouds
But what most people don't hear
Is the important half
"Hoo"
They hear boo
And awake and scream
Trying to climb into bed with parents
But Mr. Boogeyman hasn't visited
In a long while
And I'm starting to miss him
Maybe he'll come back tonight
But I'm not afraid of the Boogeyman
Because I've met much worse
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
I can't write my feelings for him.
The word love was struck from my dictionary long ago
angry grey pencil, so fierce goes through the paper
and leaves a ghost on the entries
"luff" through "lugger"on the facing page;
the next entry unscathed is "lugubrious".
Figures.
Dec 17, 2010
Dec 17, 2010 at 8:20 AM UTC
the years pile up gently
as snow upon snow pile up
on snow laden ground.
you wake up one morning
still with sleepy eyes
to see the view from your window
still the same
yet somewhat changed
from the landscape you saw before you went to bed last night.
you jog your head,
to drive away
the lingering laziness in your bones,
smiling at a half remembered dream
where you were flying through the sky
dodging the telephone and electrical wires
that crisscrossed the path of your flight,
and whispered a silent prayer,
you get up your bed.
reaching out with heavy limbs
to the pair of sandals
lying on the floor
and trudge out of your cozy room.
you look at the mirror
(at a landscape still unfamiliar?)
and frown
(or smile?)
at some added lines
creasing the sides of your eyes:
a view more subtly changed!
a year is gone,
another is on the run.
count your life if you may
in ages
old traditional way
but, mark it off proudly
with words:
painful, prayerful, purposeful,
incisive, iniquitous, imperial,
eclectic, electric, effervescent,
dolorous, delirious, devious,
singular, simple, (sinful?),
frenzied, frivolous, feral,
tepid, tremulous, turbulent,
ludicrous, libidinous, lugubrious,
zany, zennish, zinged,
barbaric, beatific, bucolic,
and so on and so forth.
words that are sensual, soulful, spiritual,
that moved your heart ,
that moved our hearts.
words to remember you by.
be happy.
feel blessed.
it is your birthday!
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
Day 1: Blithe
(bl-I-the); happy or joyous
"I'm sorry but I'm rather blithe right now. It was nice to meet you."
Day 7: Convivial
(kon-viv-ve-ul); friendly, lively, or enjoyable
"The room spikes from dull to absolutely convivial just from your precence, darling."
Day 15: Pulchritudinous
(puhl-kri-tood-n-uhs); extreme physical beauty
"You look absolutely pulchritudinous tonight."
Day 16: Love
(luhv); an intense feeling of deep affection
"I love you."
Day 30: Veridical
(vuh-rid-i-kuhl); truthful; veracious
"This isn't how it used to be, if i'm being completely veridical"
Day 45: Simulacrum
(sim-yuh-ley-crum); a slight, unreal, or superficial likeness
"You were just a simulacrum for real love!"
Day 49: Lugubrious
(luh-goo-bre-us); full of sorrow or sadness
"Will the lugubrious feelings ever stop?"
Day 50: goodbye
(good-bi); used to express good wishes when parting
"Goodbye..."
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
*Sitting in abeyance.
My life on perpetual hold;
the cold air forcing me to hunch up for warmth.
Another cigarette...
I ****** the packet lovingly,
opening and closing the lid,
spinning and revolving the box like a precious stone.
I think about my father.
Memories,
scrambling for admission,
into my hall of fame.
The bad ones,
constantly slashing,
constantly stabbing.
The jagged blade of guilt.
He could be difficult,
but my desperation for acceptance,
made me difficult too.
Tears fighting for freedom,
I shield my face by running my fingers through my hair;
cigarette still in hand.
I return to the ward.
I reflect on my father’s now non cognizant state,
and although disturbing,
I also find it calming and absolute,
for he is safe in the labyrinth of his mind,
and nothing can hurt him.
I hold his hand,
and with a final last gasp of inevitability,
he is gone.
Gone.
As I sit back,
in my plastic chair,
my lugubrious acceptance is numbing.
But there is another feeling;
one that is so refreshing;
so alien;
so…
shiny and clean.
it smashes through my self-induced sedation like a sledge hammer:
Liberation.*
Jun 20, 2010
Jun 20, 2010 at 1:35 AM UTC
We are thousand miles away.
Still I say,'stay away'.
People meet either because they are meant to be isolated or to be in their life forever.
We know we want each other,knowing that it won't happen.
Are you here to lessen my soreness and increase my my sprits. Let me tell you dear,I am in love and relationship with lugubrious. I am the most propitious and wealthiest person because I had had ever you in my lifetime, a cache.
What are we meant for?
For schism or forever?
When we are meant for nix,then let us not give each other unfulfilling expectations.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 1:25 AM UTC
and he does not think it strange,
watching two hours of the hottest hip hop,
in freezing cold surround sound air,
returns home to a medium warm bath,
where the drink served, icy cold vitamin water,
liquefying the mournful, dismal~gloomy,
lugubrious poems of lost love he finds
under his hello poetry pillow,
that gives no one relief,
neither to the writer or the victimizer
and he does not think it strange
reads strange takes n' poem tales from Avenida Paulista,
but his body dances to an Argentine milongia melancholia,
a contrast and a contest,
his heart asks where is Patagonia,
as the Arctic Vortex melts into the bath water
and he does not think it strange
for he know, he knows that this makes little sense,
but perfect sense to the poet-man,
try to see it his way,
there is a fussing and fighting inside,
that cannot be worked out
and he does not think it strange
but this be the funk groove of his extra
ordinary life wherein his body and heart,
and hundreds more,
can be held aloft
on a single wrist with fluid ease,
if allowed
and he does not think it strange
when he says,
aside aside fellow dancer,
and he does not think it strange,
he wants you to understand
for that, you must be
be beside beside, fellow dancer
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
my pasture will be paid for
courtesy of the Veterans Administration
grass above my bones will be under “perpetual care”
cropped square, green and never allowed to be with ****
much the same as it was with me, when I was ten and eight
and taught to hasten others to their own plots
I fear some of them became feast for maggots
or the wild dogs’ jaws, deprived of a bugle’s clarion call
a politely folded banner, or serenely composed, lugubrious pall
their eyes were not closed gently, with a loved one by their side
the night came to them amidst man made thunder,
fire from the perverse steel
in eventide’s charcoal stillness
where I await my inevitable “agricultural” fate
their faces appear on the ceiling, faintly,
waiting for my company, not asking
why I am not yet among them, not knowing
the mutual mad marching of our feet has been replaced
by something called years, or that their humble silence
has left me with yet greater eternal fears
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
Take your pills, go to therapy,
Take your pills. go to therapy
“get better”
Take your pills, go to therapy,
Tell yourself you’re getting better
“You’re getting sick again ariana, we will raise your dose”
Take your pills, go to therapy
“Am i getting any better, am i healthier? do i look sick?”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
“Why are you doing this to yourself Ariana?”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
help
“how do i get the maggot thoughts that crawl into my head and tell me i’m inadequate, trifling?”
“It’s all circumstantial, and that is what we need to mend and patch”
Give me your mental diagnosis-diagnonsense
Go ahead, tell me what you’ve espied when you sat oneself down and perched your virtuoso intellect in my head
“oh yes, you comprehend
you understand
Everything.
You know me deeper than i know my self”
“We are getting somewhere, we are moving forward you are progressing!”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
You must be pleased as punch you’re finally fixing me
dismally i disinform you, i lied
Why you may inquire? Not one can understand ones speculations or thoughts unless they are legitimately situated in my chamber of a lugubrious trench filled with distasteful maggots which leave dolorous contusions-bruises and thoughts that leave me questioning reality, questioning my essence, questioning myself
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
If i were in deed reviving from the sorrow i would no longer have these god awful scars and bruises
You can’t tell me i am not out of ones tree
when
you
scarcely
know
me
At times I’m not sure if i even know me___________________________________________________________________________
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
My stomach flips
When I think of you.
My head spins,
my hands shake and
my legs palpitate at the
thought of losing you.
I enter my own world
of the blues where the
monody is being played.
I see the Dybbuk with it's
venomous blood thirsty beasts
dancing to the lugubrious ditty
It's a place of hatred and detestation
where love doesn't exist.
A place that's perfect for your
Stygian soul
As soon as I look into the Dybbuk's
red boiling eyes the memories sneak
out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks
The pain I feel is unbearable and inadmissible
And all I can think of is a way to escape
from this love prison.
But oh, I realized a little too late
that you're the king of the sinners
and you turned and twisted my heart
and I'm just another victim of your favourite crime...
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 4:32 AM UTC
Listening to “The Chieftains” again,
Their Long Black Veil CD: a gift to
Marijuana smokers. N'est-ce pas?
**** Jagger singing the title track,
A sweet, lugubrious ode to black widows.
Could there be such creatures?
Women you would **** for,
Offing your best friend for?
She had better be as good as it gets.
Could such women exist?
Beautiful & toxic;
Duplicitous, cunning,
Cunnilingus-worthy.
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**** would have licked her **** as
They led him up the scaffold steps,
She was a woman worth dying for, to be sure.
And Sinéad Marie Bernadette O'Connor?
Isn’t it time we forgave her?
So she shaved her head.
So she shredded the Pope’s photo on SNL.
He was, after all, the Polish Pope,
The one that kissed the ground
Whenever he got off an airplane.
How could you not love the guy?
Shot while riding in his Pope Mobile,
He later visited Mehmet Ali Ağca in prison,
Forgiving his would-be assassin face-to-face,
Exonerating the Bulgarian kreplach, for all
Special Victims Unit “especially heinous offenses” &
Proto-Islamic terror.
Surely, he could forgive the little Irish ****
Can’t we? Leading by example?
I don’t know what you’d call it.
In any language: powerful.
Oh, Sinead, my sweet Sinead,
We miss your sweet sad dulcet tones.
Consider yourself exonerated.
Consider yourself free to be loved again.
And let’s not forget Tom Jones,
Come on ladies: you threw your sopping
Wet ******* to the stage for him.
His “Tennessee Waltz” breaking my heart,
Losing my wife to my best friend.
No wonder I shot the Sheriff.
Surprised I did not also shoot the Deputy.
And “The Chieftains” themselves,
Transporting us to the Coast of Malabar.
We are all Irish sailors
Infatuated, hopelessly enchanted by a
Swarthy Dravidian shiksa.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 5:05 PM UTC
These Red And Black Walls,
Have Seen My Tears To Many Times,
This Out Of Tune Piano,
Has Felt My Shaking Fingers,
Grasping Onto Its Keys For Comfort,
For So Many Months,
My Eyes Are Strained,
Bloodshot And Stinging,
For The Millionth Time,
This Ceiling Has Looked Down Upon,
My Sleepless Slumber,
For Hours,
This Air Has Inhabited My Heaving Lungs,
For To Many Meangless Lives,
A Lesson Learned,
But Not Rewarded,
Returning To The Material Plain,
This Night Sky,
Has Wrapped Me In The Darkness,
For So Many Breathless Seconds,
Why Does This Paint Brush Sit In My Palm,
When The Canvas Is Already Onyx,
Lament,
Lugubrious,
Loved,
Lost,
Why Do Thesw Feelings Spin,
In A Continous Loop,
Why Does History,
Repeat,
Over And Over And Over,
Why Does The Pain Repeat,
Over And Over And Over,
Why Must There Be This Orchestrated,
Cycle Of Falling Down,
Getting Back On Your Feet,
Then Falling Down Again,
Why Must These Faces,
See My Paled Face,
The One Sick,
Of The Circulation Of Secrets,
The One Sick Of The Lies,
The One Who Is So Broken,
Because Everything Good That Comes,
Is Ripped Out Of My Hands
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
Tonight the ceiling fan
clicks with every turn.
The bedside clock ticks
and tocks in moonglow.
I close my eyes
and one by one
the light bulbs in
the house explode.
The darkness
becomes me,
I think.
I wear it silky black,
a spider-tailored suit
imponderous as ether.
I focus on the anesthetic sound
of a future breathing inside me.
Memory folds like
an obsolete map—
a distant archipelago
of diminishing stars.
Years ago, I’m sure,
we married in a copse
blue with wild hyacinth.
Tonight the satellites
cut like diamond tips,
lugubrious orbits etching
across a bedroom window.
Dawn always blooms with
the sound of breaking glass.
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 4:37 PM UTC
this is us,
sitting in the dusty corners,
sifting through the genres,
avid and voracious readers of
lugubrious paper-backs which
narrate the plots of self-pity and regret.
this is us,
losing our sense of time in there,
like undergrounds creatures fascinated
with the scent and sight of ground,
ignoring the less conspicuous collection
of sanguine and rhythmic biographies.
we are stubborn readers in the library of memories
reading the wrong genres over and over...
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 12:21 PM UTC
Frustrated because I can't tell if it's real
Mad because I don't know how you feel
Upset because we can't make it right
Sad because I need you day and night
Angry because you won't take my hand
Aggravated because you don't understand
Despondent because there’s no hope for us
Vulnerable because I feel like a complete and utter wuss
Lugubrious because I feel so very alone
Scared because there are no more stepping stones
Afraid because I’ve reached the end of my tether
Disappointed because we can't be together
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC