"metered" poems
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Dear New Poet:
Then I'm your man,
your very own
Northern star,
one leg up of a
3 legged stool,
upon which all,
we, enthroned poets,
the world-over,
do rule
the honor you
bequeath me
to be,
a first follower,
your very own
first responder,
it, cannot be
disdained
nor
diminished
this instance,
this birth,
a novice revival,
heart transplant,
makes it
the sweetest blessing
to be the first—
let us be
the quencher
of a desert thirst so long
in the parching,
the throat burning,
by a desert sojourning,
of a now ending
forty times
four hundred years
so come to me!
message me a message,
find me a find,
your poem fine,
so now we vow,
our embrace will
ne’er be broken
give me this
honorific!
let us together
be terrific,
raise our glasses,
with arms entwined
toasting you and
all that mind and
breasted chest of yours,
full bursting from
its future~contains,
of which,
its full release,
brings a fuller life
for us both
I am a father.
I am a grandfather.
I am a First Follower.
and a First Responder,
for all who needs a leg up,
so step upon my heart,
it be but a first step upon a
ladder with no top, no end ensighted
my legs are as old as time, but,
measure me not by the rings and
the metered scales of gray hair aging,
shock of white, a cain mark, wizard-wizened
but
by the muscles
of my deep affection,
the solemnity of this,
my irrevocable promise
this,
the blessing
we both make and earn,
when you write,
and while we wait,
in quiet attendance -
for all of your good works,
your kept promises
Blessed
are You Lord our God,
Ruler of the Universe
who has given us life,
sustained us until now,
***allowing, allying, and
alloying***
the treader of treacherous waters,
reader, writer, swimmer,
to reach, meet, embrace
and greet this day,
this new born poem,
with hallelujahs
whispering and shoutings
together,
as one
in one, of one,
one
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 1:11 PM UTC
A day recedes,
I'll chase down one more night
A lamed and hobbling Spring
tries to outrun the tide
of all the misspent months
and all this wasted time
The northern breeze sings cold,
it sighs through tattered topsails
sea of questions waits.
schools of unanswered voicemails
My footfalls share the sidewalks,
steady,
sure. Still young but glimpsing old and stumbling
Walking outside
soaked lungs need some new air
I'm nervous and shaking
fold the map, don a blank stare
my days wearing on
fill 'em up with a fool's words
I'm saltwashed, stuck and
peeling paint off my memory
for now.
A day's been seized--
a metered length of life
Can't place a price on Fall
and can't outrun the tide
of these layered seasons
as his time unwinds
The eastern wind comes hard
and shreds through mended mainsails
river of answers dried
so ask the waving cattails.
His footfalls know the sidewalks
leaking
down sidestreets' asphalt tributaries
Walking around
A hitch in his slow gait
A ghost of our town
shuffles on with a fixed gaze,
his days playing out,
As he strides down the sidewalks
his life plays a film,
flashing bright on glazed eyeballs
And I'm southbound,
4 p.m. driving Orange Street
completely drowned--
--swore I woke up in Gimli,
Manitoba January
seared into my youthful memories
I'm freezerburnt
Autumn heat, don't leave me
I'll hold your hair if you're feeling sickly,
then drive back home.
Autumn heat, don't leave me now.
...Autumn heat, don't leave me now.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
Social chaos metered out through tiers of population stung
By indiscriminate battle wrought lifeblood, incessantly, is wrung.
Why so the need for Assad’s torch, your Syria so needlessly debauched ?
Nameless causes fuel the fire, Shiite, Sunni intervention. Hezbollah and al Qaeda spew
Vindictiveness to streets of rubble, Toxic, killing vapours stew.
Misery to gasping children, horror in the dying eyes….
Condemnation points it’s staff to you, Assad, where vile blame now lies.
Why so the need for cities torched, Damascus needlessly debauched ?
Inevitably the missiles cometh, raining incandescent death and blast,
International righteousness throws intervention’s unknowns vast.
Why so this need for man debauched, Your Syria, once so beautiful, now scorched ?
Marshalg
Pukehana
7 September 2013
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC
Plot a course through downtown doors
then drift along the concrete shores
of asphalt oceans navigated
under stars
imitating
broken curbside glass--
over crunching gravel miles
measured in half-hours
and meted out in heavy, fogging breaths
and squinting, midnight eyes...
Counted out the blocks, counted steps
and concrete squares by metered
three-four thoughts dancing across
reflected skylines, just behind the eyes.
Each step's a held breath,
each footfall a prayer on crumpled paper,
each set of shoulders, a hanger for...
coats are homes
for hands
rolling up in pockets
fishing for some solid anchor,
sinking into years of walks and silent words like these.
*** * ***
Listing hard, adrift for years
water-logged and pocked--
no anchor--
shredded sails and leaning masts
tell stories
of deck fires:
leaping rats,
and charred strakes
Clear deck,
empty hold,
abandoned helm.
this coat's Atlantic fog.
Frayed rigging like cobwebs stretch
down and across
like lines on faces aged by the frost
on midnight walks.
Strike the colors, mate...
Admit you're lost.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
In a hollow off the main road
sits a village that time forgot
Where things flow, a little slow
and peace of mind need not be bought
The main street beckons all to see
how life ebbed and flowed in the past
Where smiles abound, the happy sound
of a life not metered nor fast
There you'll find the town Silversmith
making jewelry in a forge
The coffeehouse, echos of Strauss
a trodden path out to the gorge
It is home to the Glen Helen
part of a thousand acre woods
Steering the helm, coin of the realm
are the fruits of the craftsman's goods
There by the Antioch College
we spent a good deal of our youth
Climbing the trees, skinning our knees
among beauty we knew as truth
You might just see children playing
Hide and Seek throughout the street
Where "all yee all yee in come free"
sings of a melody so sweet
So should you find that your bones ache
from the pains of life you endure
Take a stroll, over the knoll
to the little town with the cure
Tate
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
Wanted,
Blue haired ladies,
My wife tells that not PC anymore,
Needing an event speaker,
A poet.
I have a groaning chap book
Of metered observations.
Not much in my work to cause a blush.
But I do aim to burp a thought or two.
Nov 7, 2010
Nov 7, 2010 at 7:41 AM UTC
date me. im a poet.
open yourself to my intrusion; i want to write about you.
lace these blue inked lines with pieces of you in metered rhymes and poetic prose; i wish to write about you.
will you... give me something to pen about you today?
i long to squeeze lemons of you onto a page and watch the edges curl around your bitter wetness; containing you w fail..
because you cant be held
in.
i long only to gaze at the glory of you framed in the pages of my journal
and pray this time i dont lose it in transition.
so.. again.. date me.
im a poet.
i beg of you, baby..
let me write about you?
i wont promise a collection of pretty poems
or
blossoming words of flattery.
but
i will adore you in word play;
showcasing your fault lines in all their rapture;
encouraging the world to be just as you are
because
when they read you spread across my pages they will want to write about you, too.
You think, maybe.. we could all write about you?
Youre a vibe of indescribable musing
and if i could just..
place you w all your rough edges on to these smooth lines,
I could encourage someone to read today..
even if its just you who's eyes glide across my words drinking yourself in becoming full off the high that you are.
certainly, then.. youll see how poectic ive colored you.
surely, youll demand that i write about you.
youll beg me to date you.
in response,
i'll pile high journals on journals in front of you
and youll see
all this time,
all along...
ive BEEN writing about you.
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 8:26 PM UTC
She who stands there, he who leads,
Are One to which my praises plead.
I ask of you such great forgiveness,
Your face shines bright, your image livid.
Grey spots upon the Holy Moon,
Form your bust, to it I croon,
I ask again; whisper, pray and plead,
Show me a sign from sacred steed!
I toot my Gudi, crash the Gong,
And cry for Cheon-A-Ma-Chong;
I play my series in metered eights,
in line with movements of the greats.
I plot their paths in sky you see?
Your eight movements,
Eight hooves in cleats!
You breathe out the fire of the Sun,
Head held high at night as one,
The Zodiac your wings as such,
And planets, the hooves, a final touch.
Fires issue from your mouth,
Burn up the sea-water in the south…
Heavenly I hear your roaring,
and the fullness of your glory,
Your starry eyes the flux of sea;
as you swim the depths and round the tree.
Whose skull we hooked once I reminisce,
Terrible creature from the Abyss;
Oh Horse my love, construct of mind,
and she who gallops for all time,
...measures for the heaven’s seat,
Sets placement of all deities,
To you I fall upon my knees,
Hippolytian by decree,
Take me!
-take me to your Cosmic Sea!
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
In the castles black with dawning
broken vessels hold the light
where the vassals stand a'yawning
woken by the dead of night
Songs to aging children, come
aging children
I am one!
Where the flowers whither rhythm
where the rhymes are drops of dust
metered moonbeams lie
within them
in their melodies we trust
Songs to aging children, come
aging children
I am one!
Can we only see the lanterns
lit for us by frosty dew?
Can we yet hear all the patterns
colors bled for me and you?
Songs for aging children, come
aging children
I AM ONE!
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 8:14 AM UTC
The page asked and wanted to know
where are my screeds, my verses of to and fro?
The page is not insistent, it doesn't make demands
The blankness merely beckons you a clever use of hands
The page ask's are you bashful, timid, scared, or irresolute?
Does my vast emptiness request your feelings be bared?
Oh that's it, isn't it, the heavy hand of truth is what I seek
Such a criterion for a page long is not for the meek
You can be honest, its all right with me
Hell I'm not perfect, I'm the remnant of a tree
You can wax sonnets, or you can wrap fish,
A blank page is a delight, the poet's ultimate wish
But when rhyming's a necessity the words take different shape
They conform to the metered scheme of a phonetic gait
Then sound becomes as important as the meaning of a word
And cadence takes a beating and flies off like a bird
by: The reluctant rhyming of a laconic lexicon
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
The interval,
sliced, metered, warped,
occilating space time,
the field where we strut
our stuff
for an impermanent
registrar.
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 6:03 PM UTC
Is a poem not just a song
with rhyming verse
that’s not yet sung?
With repeated chorus
not yet stuck
inside one’s head,
amongst the muck?
Is a poem not just a song?
A daisy chain of verse
not yet strum
around a fire
among some friends
deep in the woods
on away weekends.
Is a poem not just a song
not yet proclaimed
by a choir’s tongue?
But uttered silently
in a bed-lamp’s light
at early hours
of the night.
Is a poem not just a song
that peacefully rests
in black ink upon
a white page
inside a book,
upon a library shelf
until it’s took?
Is a poem not just a song
quietly set to lips
that read along
on a train,
on the way back home
from visiting gran
for tea and a scone?
Is a poem not just a song
unset to keys
and not yet begun?
Not yet major,
and not yet minor.
Just metered in beats
and little other.
Is a poem not just a song?
I suppose it could be
but not this one.
Sep 1, 2023
Sep 1, 2023 at 9:16 AM UTC
Poor reaction:
Stipulated by thumbs and notions to excel
Steadied eyes, that keep aims harboring sense?
Of quiet, that looked hard for us, to wish in hell...
Left, do we remember a tears cause?
With the language of frozen thoughts?
Many and metered loyalty's, laws?
That took the obvious to oblivion, for what mocks?
Pyres or piety
The tale I tell, is for the coming and the done
****** to rights, the toil we adjust, we show anxiety...
Is a legend in its own right, risen from the curse, we own
Liberty, is an expensive friend, come to tell us a fortune
Of dignity and callous vice, to share a kept dream of avarice's fit
And final lip of sincerity, that knows where you have been
Acted upon like a thief in the sight, of another, and in whit:
We are that we are...
The poise of destiny to a frightful mind, that keeps charisma
Like a treasure of deliberate calm, when we know passion afar
And ready to strike, nothing but a conversation that is a proven same, somehow sad...
But hating the very roots of opinion, for an art?
Of redoubt in the temptation of cope, to witness a shyness
Forth a remaining tooth of drama and lowly starts
Of nothing at all, but the richness of causes, we have seen come to bless...
Feb 5, 2023
Feb 5, 2023 at 4:50 PM UTC
Why won't these words release me?
They abstract me in my mind.
I will find internal peace
if an exit I can find.
I'm sad.
I should know why.
But, to put to words, I'm not sure that I...
Well, you see,
the way I handle problems,
the way I come to grips,
I put my thoughts to paper
as if I pull them from my lips.
I read them, finding meaning;
finding rhythm to my rhyme.
But, this sadness that I feel,
it just won't fit in metered time.
When I try to let it flow
I get a log jam in my mind.
All I get is garbled senses
with truth impossible to find.
Yes, all I do is scrawl confusion.
Yet, maybe that will say it best.
For,
how can I divulge the answers
when I never passed the test.
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 2:16 PM UTC
Out from the base the green mist arose
The pain comes and goes.
Like the neon man
A flash in the pan.
Life is like that
For a cool,cool cat
But he can't keep pulling rabbits
From his old top hat.
He needs a bit of time to knit things together
Into a freshly knotted rhyme.
If you don't give him that
Then his world becomes flat and the corners are not rounded
Hounded here and hounded there in a neon mist that doesn't care
Because it's all typed in his head.
But on the baseline we presume to be dead
'til we're woken.
And we are spoken to in lyrics that inspire the inner spirits
To arise.
In the green mist neon dies and comes back in amber light
Fight this if you can
But we're all the neon man and we see the flashing crashing down
Into a sultry Summer brown.
A Yoruba girl came to town,Shivering slightly.
I held her tightly
Kissed her face.
Touched her hand
This woman from another land looked at me
And saw not an ocean but an inland sea so full of salt it made her bolt.
No rabbits in this hat
My life is full of things like that.
Don't leave the key within the lock
I've taken stock
I'm not that man.
Just the pan without the flash
The dot without the dash
No home,no car,no cash.
And after all of this and life like that
I'm just a rabbit in the old top hat.
And going home to have my tea
I see a reflection in the window
That used to be me.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
stepped on a sidewalk crack
seven year's bad luck
If it is chasms
Y'all desire...
sidewalk cracks freeze me
in bad luck repose,
firefly-in-a-jar trapped,
hole'd enough to breathe,
but no prison break escape
come to live
in my little space
these chasmic concrete cracks
my enclosure, my true cell immobile,
it is what they mean when they say,
"have you see his pen?"
boundaries man-built
serving a seven year sentence,
bad luck my only laughing friend,
my midnight to moon
fiend~companion boon
washer dryer closet n' bed
all in a three by three metered space,
my sidewalk castle
now a nyc tourist attraction
rain and shiner, the sidewalk cross
mine alone, even the pigeons
stay away, not so stupid as they look,
fair game for dietary consumption
technical setting details of no matter,
but they come by the thousands
not to see, just
snapping tapping taunting the
immobilizing invisible chasm crackled
sidewalk poet,
writing poems by governmental command,
literarily and literally,
for all to see
seven is not eleven and someday
only time will know, and advise
when cursed lifted, then,
he will never have to
write poems for the public's
insatiable need to
mock and ridicule
ever again
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
She steals serendipitous words from the dead
Ranges them on comely pages,
Sybaritic springs filled to overflowing
Metered precisely, to the raving adulation of crowds.
Only dark closets speak to me,
Crying out their hoary linen secrets
While musty airs clog my lungs.
Why can't I have ghosts, fragrant as wind,
Free as balloons, loosed of their tether,
Instead of pilfered dust *****
And scattering bed bugs?
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 9:50 PM UTC
when i write a love sonnet
i want it to be about love
and not just ancient alcoves metered to a tailored rhyme
stirring depths of who we aren't.
i want so much to see your hate
transform, in flicks of pleasure
rise to meet entwined
our loving of each other's source of love
seeded even in a waste
remake the vital bloom
display what meaning pours
the vision: this is it
another meaning we can live for
sing for
.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
You see me and I see you,
we want to believe our actions are true.
By true, our own, but neither is,
we're all an imitation of what we've seen.
As trivial as a yawn so contagious,
or a popped knuckle that makes your insides itch
with the desire to follow suit daunting,
until the release of air and distress.
And as complicated as genetic code-- offspring following--
so naturally unnoticed like metered swallowing;
but like the mother ducks, who allievate stresses
of waters strong, we learn to cope from elders.
Whether it be innate or not,
had we not aped we'd be naught.
Forever we will remain children
who want another's toy 'til it's dropped.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 12:38 AM UTC
The spout
Of the battle
Shouting
In inconsiderate
Babble about bling
While i'm saddling
My steeds
Manning the machines
And breathing easy
Before i speak
Clearly to your dreams
Interjecting the theme
Of the losing team
Cheering in victory
Snickering in mockery
I remarkably sing
In drowned out tones
And zings
And i'm gonna be
Everything you been
In a week
And its weak
That i win
And you grin
With your arms up
Hooray!!
But you lost today
Too dumb to know it
But showin it
To everybody
Rhyming
Isn't about money
Its about diction
Metered rhymes
And harmony
Arming the
Alarmingly
Disarming memes
Of scattagoried kings
Euphorically
Seized
In the lean
Of delivery
Creativity key
The breezy
Sleezinous
Sheened
In the has beens
Gassed up
Gin drunks
Grunting whats
In response to love
Callin bluffs
On the tuffs
Of your huffs
And shrugs
Whatever punk
I got a foot on you
And your ****
On my side
Talking over you
Until you shut
Out the light
With your mouth
Over your eyes
And your house
Of flies sized up
In tough love
And shoved off the shores
To the unexplored oceans
In the notions
Of severed portions
Aborted with a snorkel
In the cortex
Of Oxygenated
Brains showing you
A thing or two
So ******* vein
Watching you strain
To speak
To breathe
To think
When your ready
Il be brief
A pat on the back
And declaration of king
Before you bend over to be
Blessed by the best
In this contest
Im tested
Only of my patience
In the vagrancy
Of your empty words
Freshly matured
In manure
Skewered
In the lured
Obscurity
Muraling
The masterpieces
Stealing thesis-es
With the soul content
Of cheeseless pizzas
Sauceless in the lossless
Belligerence
And im tempted
To kiss
My fists
And commence
To smash out the comments
To astonished onlookers
Booking for Brooklyn
When im shooting
Blood across the pavement
With fury of a patient
To fairfax and back
To break the bones
Of your home
Set your soul apart
From the heart
That pumps lumps
Of ********
From the start
Of your every sentence
Ill take two seconds
To count on your blemishes
To settle this
In nubbish
*******
Stumbling
From a kid
Im only kidding
In my giving a single ****
Get with it
The mic is yours
And ill freely admit
To being bored
Here you go
....
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 4:44 AM UTC
Old crippled man, charcoal burnt and ashen,
a thousand days debauchery molded you in this fashion.
Haggard and stiff, you can barely walk across the stage--
no one ever thought that you would make it to this age.
Your girth has expanded (although it’s covered well),
but still your piercing voice summons demons up from hell.
Not as strong as it was once, but eerie just the same,
calling those who’ve followed you, who now chant your name,
to assemble in our legions, gathered in this shrine,
where we repeat the catechism, in throbbing metered rhymes.
Are you a madman? Or just a troubadour
who lends melodic shimmer to verses dark and dour.
Whose singing slides and skims along the edge of sanity,
but who never surrendered to the true evil of vanity.
Recovered from drunken, dissolute despair,
to call the faithful masses back, never mind the wear and tear--
to plod the journey of your craft, to sing before the crowd
whose loyalty, to your band, forever is avowed.
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 4:21 PM UTC
In the castles black with dawning
broken vessels hold the light
where the vassels stand a'yawning
woken by the dead of night
Songs to aging children, come
aging children
I am one!
Where the flowers wither rhythm
where the rhymes are drops of dust
metered moonbeams
lie within them
in their melodies we trust
Songs to aging children, come
aging children
I am one!
Can we only see the lanterns
lit for us by frosty dew?
Can we yet hear all the patterns
colors bled for me and you?
Songs to aging children, come
aging children
I AM ONE!
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) September 25, 2014
- REPOST -
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC
...tick, tick, ticking, aloud, whilst silently brutal,
in it's cadence, rhythmically severe, and futile.
Pounding out these infinitely deviating days,
seeping through this blurry persistent haze.
With rhythm matched to the human heart,
in it's seconds, the years all come apart.
Ravaging alike, flesh and fragile bone,
endless, ethereal, always ticking drone,
leads men to dust, metered without power,
...tick, tick, ticking out these minutes and hours.
A continuous knock at our existence's door,
til' it will cease to knock, forever more.
We all leave in a darkling, of seconds quick,
silently redundant, it marches on, tick, tick, tick...
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 3:17 PM UTC
Notice me,
Turn your head and
Look at me.
I want your eyes to
Absorb my figure,
To engulf
My entire being;
I want my presence
On every iota of
Sentient thought
You may possess.
Notice me,
Say the words to
Mesmerize me.
I watch you while
You play your violin
Everyday,
Black-chaired,
Snide,
It ends at 10:55,
Sharp.
I can feel
My heart strings squeak
As resin can't even
Make it sing,
Telling you
Everything neatly,
Metered,
In time.
Notice me,
Open your ears and
Hear me.
I think of you
When nobody
Else is around,
When safety comes
To blanket me in
A shroud made from
My own shame.
I dream of you
When I'm not even here,
Lost in the darkest
Reaches of dreamy
Sleep,
Restless by your image.
I yearn for you
Even when I am spent,
Dried up
And exhausted,
Yet I still bow down
To the throne
Of your thought
And humbly worship
My feelings on fire,
Burnt as an offering
To your gods
Of affection.
All I ask in return
Is for you to
Turn your eyes
And tolerate me.
May 15, 2010
May 15, 2010 at 6:39 PM UTC