"majeure" poems - Hello Poetry

For Al, who left us With each passing poem, The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher, Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised, Domain, the association of words, ever lesser, Repetition verboten, crime against pride. Al, You ask me when the words come: With each passing year, In the wee hours of Ever diminishing time snatches, The hours between midnight and rising, Shrinkage, once six, now four hours, Meant for body restoration, Transpositional for poetic creation, Only one body notes the new mark, The digital, numerical clock of Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing. Al, you ask me from where do the words come: Each of the five senses compete, Pick me, Pick me, they shout, The eyes see the tall grasses Framing the ferry's to and fro life. Waving bye bye to the End of day harbor activities, Putting your babies to sleep. The ears hear the boat horns Deep voiced, demanding pay attention, I am now docking, I am important, The sound lingers, long after They are no longer important. The tongue tastes the cooling Italian prosecco merging victoriously With its ally, the modestly warming rays Of a September setting sun, finally declaring, without stuttering, Peace on Earth. The odoriferous bay breezes, A new for that second only smell, But yet, very old bartender's recipe, Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted, Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings. These four senses all recombinant, On the cheek, on the tongue, Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning Merging into a single touch That my pointer finger, by force majeure, Declares, here, poem aborning! Contract with this moment, now satisfied! Al, what you did not ask was this: With each passing poem, I am lessened within, expurgated, In a sense part of me, expunged, Part of me, passing too, Every poems birth diminishes me. _________________________________ (this poem more than most, for its birth celebrates my loss, your loss, which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18) _________________________________ written at 4:38 AM September 8th, 2012 Greenport Harbor, Long Island

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May 21, 2013

May 21, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

2013: With Each Passing Poem

For Al, who left us With each passing poem, The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher, Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised, Domain, the association of words, ever lesser, Repetition verboten, crime against pride. Al, You ask me when the words come: With each passing year, In the wee hours of Ever diminishing time snatches, The hours between midnight and rising, Shrinkage, once six, now four hours, Meant for body restoration, Transpositional for poetic creation, Only one body notes the new mark, The digital, numerical clock of Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing. Al, you ask me from where do the words come: Each of the five senses compete, Pick me, Pick me, they shout, The eyes see the tall grasses Framing the ferry's to and fro life. Waving bye bye to the End of day harbor activities, Putting your babies to sleep. The ears hear the boat horns Deep voiced, demanding pay attention, I am now docking, I am important, The sound lingers, long after They are no longer important. The tongue tastes the cooling Italian prosecco merging victoriously With its ally, the modestly warming rays Of a September setting sun, finally declaring, without stuttering, Peace on Earth. The odoriferous bay breezes, A new for that second only smell, But yet, very old bartender's recipe, Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted, Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings. These four senses all recombinant, On the cheek, on the tongue, Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning Merging into a single touch That my pointer finger, by force majeure, Declares, here, poem aborning! Contract with this moment, now satisfied! Al, what you did not ask was this: With each passing poem, I am lessened within, expurgated, In a sense part of me, expunged, Part of me, passing too, Every poems birth diminishes me. _________________________________ (this poem more than most, for its birth celebrates my loss, your loss, which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18) _________________________________ written at 4:38 AM September 8th, 2012 Greenport Harbor, Long Island

67

eye did. As my prejudices expected, the odd assortment of "characters"were all present and not to be unaccounted for...a romantic comedy on a good Friday, attracts the believers, the well wishers, the ones who think if only the world was.. and I was not re or so tired of life, unemployed, lonely, damaged in some manner of being... not too many young, just a few... theater darkness is a masque, with a risqué chance of oh no, I've been witnessed by the non-believers. the infirm with their mobile caretakers and paraphernalia were there. Odd couples, were there. If there was one unifying common characteristic, I selected this one. We all needed haircuts. eye don't know why but it made me think about going to get one's haircut, and the rituals that requires....and it is and is not a bit like being in a almost totally private world inpublic, where you, the individual and some outside force majeure, hairdresser, movie screen engages and temporarily transforms you. That is why, I, went to the movies on a Friday afternoon, to be transformed and not reformed, in public, in private...

0

Apr 4, 2015

Apr 4, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC

bus-poet-stop

Who goes to an early afternoon movie on a Friday?

eye did. As my prejudices expected, the odd assortment of "characters"were all present and not to be unaccounted for...a romantic comedy on a good Friday, attracts the believers, the well wishers, the ones who think if only the world was.. and I was not re or so tired of life, unemployed, lonely, damaged in some manner of being... not too many young, just a few... theater darkness is a masque, with a risqué chance of oh no, I've been witnessed by the non-believers. the infirm with their mobile caretakers and paraphernalia were there. Odd couples, were there. If there was one unifying common characteristic, I selected this one. We all needed haircuts. eye don't know why but it made me think about going to get one's haircut, and the rituals that requires....and it is and is not a bit like being in a almost totally private world inpublic, where you, the individual and some outside force majeure, hairdresser, movie screen engages and temporarily transforms you. That is why, I, went to the movies on a Friday afternoon, to be transformed and not reformed, in public, in private...

3

With each passing poem, The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher, Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised, Domain, the association of words, ever lesser, Repetition verboten, crime against pride. Al, You ask me when the words come: With each passing year, In the wee hours of Ever diminishing time snatches, The hours between midnight and rising, Shrinkage, once six, now four hours, Meant for for restoration, Transpositional for creation, Only one body notes the new mark, The digital, numerical clock of Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing. Al, you ask me from where do the words come: Each of the five senses compete, Pick me, Pick me, they shout, The eyes see the tall grasses Framing the ferry's to and fro life. Waving bye bye to the End of day harbor activities, Putting your babies to sleep. The ears hear the boat horns Deep voiced, demanding pay attention, I am now docking, I am important, The sound lingers, long after They are no longer important. The tongue tastes the cooling Italian prosecco merging victoriously With its ally, the modestly warming rays Of a September setting sun, finally declaring, without stuttering, Peace on Earth. The odoriferous bay breezes, A new for that second only smell, But yet, very old bartender's recipe, Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted, Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings. These four senses all recombinant, On the cheek, on the tongue, Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning Merging into a single touch That my pointer finger, by force majeure, Declares, here, poem aborning, Contract with this moment, now satisfied. Al, what you did not ask was this: With each passing poem, I am lessened within, expurgated, In a sense part of me, expunged, Part of me, passing too, Every poems birth diminishes me. ___________ 4:38 AM September 8th, 2012 Greenport Harbor, N.Y.

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Mar 26, 2014

Mar 26, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

with each passing poem

With each passing poem, The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher, Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised, Domain, the association of words, ever lesser, Repetition verboten, crime against pride. Al, You ask me when the words come: With each passing year, In the wee hours of Ever diminishing time snatches, The hours between midnight and rising, Shrinkage, once six, now four hours, Meant for for restoration, Transpositional for creation, Only one body notes the new mark, The digital, numerical clock of Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing. Al, you ask me from where do the words come: Each of the five senses compete, Pick me, Pick me, they shout, The eyes see the tall grasses Framing the ferry's to and fro life. Waving bye bye to the End of day harbor activities, Putting your babies to sleep. The ears hear the boat horns Deep voiced, demanding pay attention, I am now docking, I am important, The sound lingers, long after They are no longer important. The tongue tastes the cooling Italian prosecco merging victoriously With its ally, the modestly warming rays Of a September setting sun, finally declaring, without stuttering, Peace on Earth. The odoriferous bay breezes, A new for that second only smell, But yet, very old bartender's recipe, Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted, Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings. These four senses all recombinant, On the cheek, on the tongue, Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning Merging into a single touch That my pointer finger, by force majeure, Declares, here, poem aborning, Contract with this moment, now satisfied. Al, what you did not ask was this: With each passing poem, I am lessened within, expurgated, In a sense part of me, expunged, Part of me, passing too, Every poems birth diminishes me. ___________ 4:38 AM September 8th, 2012 Greenport Harbor, N.Y.

59

The street sign bent against an aluminum bat. It rang out through the fall. Woke up in a holding cell off 405. Stumbling barefoot on Velcro laces.

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Apr 12, 2016

Apr 12, 2016 at 4:26 AM UTC

charles-lutwidge-dodgson

Forced Mature, By Force Majeure

The street sign bent against an aluminum bat. It rang out through the fall. Woke up in a holding cell off 405. Stumbling barefoot on Velcro laces.

4

With each passing poem, The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher, Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised, Domain, the association of words, ever lesser, Repetition verboten, crime against pride. Al, You ask me when the words come: With each passing year, In the wee hours of Ever diminishing time snatches, The hours between midnight and rising, Shrinkage, once six, now four hours, Meant for for restoration, Transpositional for creation, Only one body notes the new mark, The digital, numerical clock of Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing. Al, you ask me from where do the words come: Each of the five senses compete, Pick me, Pick me, they shout, The eyes see the tall grasses Framing the ferry's to and fro life. Waving bye bye to the End of day harbor activities, Putting your babies to sleep. The ears hear the boat horns Deep voiced, demanding pay attention, I am now docking, I am important, The sound lingers, long after They are no longer important. The tongue tastes the cooling Italian prosecco merging victoriously With its ally, the modestly warming rays Of a September setting sun, finally declaring, without stuttering, Peace on Earth. The odoriferous bay breezes, A new for that second only smell, But yet, very old bartender's recipe, Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted, Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings. These four senses all recombinant, On the cheek, on the tongue, Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning Merging into a single touch That my pointer finger, by force majeure, Declares, here, poem aborning, Contract with this moment, now satisfied. Al, what you did not ask was this: With each passing poem, I am lessened within, expurgated, In a sense part of me, expunged, Part of me, passing too, Every poems birth diminishes me. _________________________________ 4:38 AM September 8th, 2012 Greenport Harbor, N.Y.

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May 20, 2015

May 20, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

With Each Passing Poem (for those that do not know me)

With each passing poem, The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher, Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised, Domain, the association of words, ever lesser, Repetition verboten, crime against pride. Al, You ask me when the words come: With each passing year, In the wee hours of Ever diminishing time snatches, The hours between midnight and rising, Shrinkage, once six, now four hours, Meant for for restoration, Transpositional for creation, Only one body notes the new mark, The digital, numerical clock of Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing. Al, you ask me from where do the words come: Each of the five senses compete, Pick me, Pick me, they shout, The eyes see the tall grasses Framing the ferry's to and fro life. Waving bye bye to the End of day harbor activities, Putting your babies to sleep. The ears hear the boat horns Deep voiced, demanding pay attention, I am now docking, I am important, The sound lingers, long after They are no longer important. The tongue tastes the cooling Italian prosecco merging victoriously With its ally, the modestly warming rays Of a September setting sun, finally declaring, without stuttering, Peace on Earth. The odoriferous bay breezes, A new for that second only smell, But yet, very old bartender's recipe, Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted, Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings. These four senses all recombinant, On the cheek, on the tongue, Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning Merging into a single touch That my pointer finger, by force majeure, Declares, here, poem aborning, Contract with this moment, now satisfied. Al, what you did not ask was this: With each passing poem, I am lessened within, expurgated, In a sense part of me, expunged, Part of me, passing too, Every poems birth diminishes me. _________________________________ 4:38 AM September 8th, 2012 Greenport Harbor, N.Y.

59

052317 Birds chitter as every green structure Fails their promises of love Written in letters in an invisible sky As they sang the ocean's death of goodbyes. Fueling the savory bite Of ala-Krispy Kreme in their tummies, They drown in their melodies Of drop and failed stories The rugged soil was a false hope, Even if they taste the aquifer's best. They should've not departed from their own kind But they've loved being sprinkled with the fiery mirage. Force majeure was their allied forces As the scissors of vetiver held back the fiber mesh. Both live and dead loads are alive And the ocean cries -- defying gravity. But the level has not been measured enough, The waters worshipped themselves And there's no sign of hue of Heaven's crystal clear. I have loved to see everything enough To sing theories and to paint them in dramatic history. But as I've tried to plant another tree Life has not sprouted coz it's a different summer now.

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May 23, 2017

May 23, 2017 at 7:29 AM UTC

psalmiseta

Summer Love Song

052317 Birds chitter as every green structure Fails their promises of love Written in letters in an invisible sky As they sang the ocean's death of goodbyes. Fueling the savory bite Of ala-Krispy Kreme in their tummies, They drown in their melodies Of drop and failed stories The rugged soil was a false hope, Even if they taste the aquifer's best. They should've not departed from their own kind But they've loved being sprinkled with the fiery mirage. Force majeure was their allied forces As the scissors of vetiver held back the fiber mesh. Both live and dead loads are alive And the ocean cries -- defying gravity. But the level has not been measured enough, The waters worshipped themselves And there's no sign of hue of Heaven's crystal clear. I have loved to see everything enough To sing theories and to paint them in dramatic history. But as I've tried to plant another tree Life has not sprouted coz it's a different summer now.

24

Life came, It’s own purpose a mystery, But I saw green leaves And I felt the magic of soft days; I shouted my song of happiness, And in a sentimental movie, I discovered my meaning. I charged the earthquake, Flattened the riot, plugged the volcano. Life hung back, just out of sight, Not caring whether my effort Was indolent or right. Then life confessed itself, Dragging me through the muddy streets, And just as I found it too much to bear, Just as I came to know life, the predator, And began to grieve my sentence, Life showed me more sentimental theater And I cried for myself, And imagined truth and independence. But life, incognizant, came again to the gate; It mired me in the doorway of my opportunity, It starved my children And ignored my dire straits. I was a prisoner in it. Then I discovered life thriving In burrowing beetles and worms, As happy there as in me. But I had lived out my screenplay; I praised the author, and died earnestly.

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Mar 31, 2011

Mar 31, 2011 at 5:44 AM UTC

sam-g-lusk

Force Majeure

Life came, It’s own purpose a mystery, But I saw green leaves And I felt the magic of soft days; I shouted my song of happiness, And in a sentimental movie, I discovered my meaning. I charged the earthquake, Flattened the riot, plugged the volcano. Life hung back, just out of sight, Not caring whether my effort Was indolent or right. Then life confessed itself, Dragging me through the muddy streets, And just as I found it too much to bear, Just as I came to know life, the predator, And began to grieve my sentence, Life showed me more sentimental theater And I cried for myself, And imagined truth and independence. But life, incognizant, came again to the gate; It mired me in the doorway of my opportunity, It starved my children And ignored my dire straits. I was a prisoner in it. Then I discovered life thriving In burrowing beetles and worms, As happy there as in me. But I had lived out my screenplay; I praised the author, and died earnestly.

30

water falls burning; rivers boiling; oceans churning; it’s never love that is wrong if we remember how we walked next to hand-carved banisters; we picked them out together; the storm won’t care; the angels said it doesn’t matter but it does; rebuilding a house, it’s not home until our memories decide to join us; can our tears carve a new path so they can make their way to us; can they give thanks to the prayer that saved our souls because all we prayed for was to smile again? a sea song echoing inside of conch shells; enough to risk singing it again alone on a still beach; shadowed by the surge of seabirds fleeing; their wings promising their return as does the melody inside the fear that knows what it has done when I saw you wander in without a thought of the future; it is our humanity crossing borders and oceans that transported the divide we felt when the sky was blue and the tide was tame; and now when it is God that tests us I reach for the love from you that we cannot invent

0

Sep 7, 2017

Sep 7, 2017 at 10:38 PM UTC

mark-lecuona

force majeure

water falls burning; rivers boiling; oceans churning; it’s never love that is wrong if we remember how we walked next to hand-carved banisters; we picked them out together; the storm won’t care; the angels said it doesn’t matter but it does; rebuilding a house, it’s not home until our memories decide to join us; can our tears carve a new path so they can make their way to us; can they give thanks to the prayer that saved our souls because all we prayed for was to smile again? a sea song echoing inside of conch shells; enough to risk singing it again alone on a still beach; shadowed by the surge of seabirds fleeing; their wings promising their return as does the melody inside the fear that knows what it has done when I saw you wander in without a thought of the future; it is our humanity crossing borders and oceans that transported the divide we felt when the sky was blue and the tide was tame; and now when it is God that tests us I reach for the love from you that we cannot invent

32

He sees it all Life death devil and God The entire cosmos fills his mind His vision becomes broad No regrets cross his thoughts He has done his mission A glorious death With no submission It was ordain at his birth His greatest gift was given Greater than any other His destiny written Ahead he see the gates Shining in all grandeur Guarded by creations best Then comes a force majeure A face comes to him A complete offender Judging and wounding He is the pretender Unsure of what to do he fights Alone as always he battles But time is different The universe rattles A light shines A voice bellows The pretender cowers The noise echoes The great liar recedes Let not your spirit sway The voice commands I’ve been with you the whole way

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Nov 12, 2010

Nov 12, 2010 at 10:38 AM UTC

dave-bas-1

The soldiers ascent

He sees it all Life death devil and God The entire cosmos fills his mind His vision becomes broad No regrets cross his thoughts He has done his mission A glorious death With no submission It was ordain at his birth His greatest gift was given Greater than any other His destiny written Ahead he see the gates Shining in all grandeur Guarded by creations best Then comes a force majeure A face comes to him A complete offender Judging and wounding He is the pretender Unsure of what to do he fights Alone as always he battles But time is different The universe rattles A light shines A voice bellows The pretender cowers The noise echoes The great liar recedes Let not your spirit sway The voice commands I’ve been with you the whole way

32

I can see the tower I can see the small window I can see the small light Drifting across the sea of silence Dreaming wide awake in this beautiful night ..... The small radiance from the candle Telling me a million words at once It is still far But that is my only guiding star .... I wonder if you can see That whatever wars come our way In the end ... it's just you and me ..... Sea of time is breaking my small boat apart but I will still come to you And I will set you free So you keep watching the stars And Wait for me ...... Are you still awake? Are you still looking at the sea ? Are you still looking at the stars ? I dare not to say But Are you looking at me? ..... Tell me, If I come Under your tower window tonight Will go take my hand And Go away with me? .... I don't care if you are royalty I don't care about time Because that little light Told me all about you I will claim what is mine ..... Yes it is true I have no riches to offer I have nothing worth to give But I can set you free among the stars Hold my hand And believe ... Tell me, Will you cross the limit despite tempest & majeure? Tell me, will you go with me on my small boat? ..... Neither I will make any false promise Nor show you the abyss of love, or blind endearment Tell me, Will you still go away with me? On my small boat? .... The looming darkness and the waning moon My song becomes a blur Come with me princess I won't cast anchor Anywhere anymore .... I am waiting under your window Sea at one side The night sky on the other I just have my small boat Tell me, Will you be on-board? ..... - the Doktor THE END

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Apr 27, 2020

Apr 27, 2020 at 4:17 AM UTC

Thesaddoctor

The Solitary Princess

I can see the tower I can see the small window I can see the small light Drifting across the sea of silence Dreaming wide awake in this beautiful night ..... The small radiance from the candle Telling me a million words at once It is still far But that is my only guiding star .... I wonder if you can see That whatever wars come our way In the end ... it's just you and me ..... Sea of time is breaking my small boat apart but I will still come to you And I will set you free So you keep watching the stars And Wait for me ...... Are you still awake? Are you still looking at the sea ? Are you still looking at the stars ? I dare not to say But Are you looking at me? ..... Tell me, If I come Under your tower window tonight Will go take my hand And Go away with me? .... I don't care if you are royalty I don't care about time Because that little light Told me all about you I will claim what is mine ..... Yes it is true I have no riches to offer I have nothing worth to give But I can set you free among the stars Hold my hand And believe ... Tell me, Will you cross the limit despite tempest & majeure? Tell me, will you go with me on my small boat? ..... Neither I will make any false promise Nor show you the abyss of love, or blind endearment Tell me, Will you still go away with me? On my small boat? .... The looming darkness and the waning moon My song becomes a blur Come with me princess I won't cast anchor Anywhere anymore .... I am waiting under your window Sea at one side The night sky on the other I just have my small boat Tell me, Will you be on-board? ..... - the Doktor THE END

64

Force majeure happenings Bewilderment to shake their fuse Some will give life in materialism Shalt the others to beg and lose Pick and choose, Thy gravestone upon dooms hill Where mantra's will be sung by nomad's Zingaros Zingaras Yes mam will be no man Dilettante's shalt write of madness Whilst dry bones shalt not taste dust A resurrection of few and many Heaven roars to immigrant saints Boom or bust!!!!

0

Jun 10, 2015

Jun 10, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC

brandon-nagley

الطفرة أو تمثال نصفي ( Boom or bust) arabic tongue

Force majeure happenings Bewilderment to shake their fuse Some will give life in materialism Shalt the others to beg and lose Pick and choose, Thy gravestone upon dooms hill Where mantra's will be sung by nomad's Zingaros Zingaras Yes mam will be no man Dilettante's shalt write of madness Whilst dry bones shalt not taste dust A resurrection of few and many Heaven roars to immigrant saints Boom or bust!!!!

15

Insomnia; of hopes and dreams tethered to the brink of eyelids- blink and they're gone. These thoughts they atrophy amidst the badgering chaos, the harshest cacophony, yielding to the force majeure- the zeitgeist. Every dream and every waking phantasm allude to unkept promises made to reflections. Oh how a single beam of light, straight and unwavering, scatters as it passes through the fractured mirror wielding phantoms of a former presence. Alas the evidence is confounding: coffee cup rings and half-written lines, tousled sheets in empty confines, and hollow eyes with empty stares. These pieces of a jigsaw, as disjointed as are confronting memories, are just as they seem: determinants of a bigger, scrambled picture. C'est la vie! These thoughts they atrophy. Plateau. Patter. Gone.

0

May 24, 2015

May 24, 2015 at 1:45 AM UTC

h-zulkefli

Insomnia

Insomnia; of hopes and dreams tethered to the brink of eyelids- blink and they're gone. These thoughts they atrophy amidst the badgering chaos, the harshest cacophony, yielding to the force majeure- the zeitgeist. Every dream and every waking phantasm allude to unkept promises made to reflections. Oh how a single beam of light, straight and unwavering, scatters as it passes through the fractured mirror wielding phantoms of a former presence. Alas the evidence is confounding: coffee cup rings and half-written lines, tousled sheets in empty confines, and hollow eyes with empty stares. These pieces of a jigsaw, as disjointed as are confronting memories, are just as they seem: determinants of a bigger, scrambled picture. C'est la vie! These thoughts they atrophy. Plateau. Patter. Gone.

28

rodomontade homoiousian majeure; force projet necissitously sportiveness chagrin Mahdi zing dighted away and night become day blackness apocalyptic and hell itself went to heaven God back home Alone.

0

Nov 26, 2017

Nov 26, 2017 at 11:04 PM UTC

eleete-j-muir

Armegeddon, the last.

rodomontade homoiousian majeure; force projet necissitously sportiveness chagrin Mahdi zing dighted away and night become day blackness apocalyptic and hell itself went to heaven God back home Alone.

9