"montage" poems
Two memes diverged in a dank montage,
And sorry I could not watch both
And be one memer, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it memed in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as dank,
And having perhaps the better meme,
Because it was dank and wanted memes;
Though as for that the meming there
Had danked them really about the same,
And both that montage equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden african american.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back to 9gag.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence: ******* kiddies
Two memes diverged in a montage, and I—
I took the one less memed by,
And that has made all the dankness.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 10:50 PM UTC
I found serenity
as I drown myself
in these salty tears
Ripples
severe the kind of longing
that succumbs
every part of my insides
In your absence
so perniciously
suffocating
my frail heart indulge
in these surge of montage
vivid memories of you
radiant,
warm,
ecstatic
I relinquish
-Longing, Margaret Austin Go
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
poetry is photography:
the photography of your soul
it begins as an observation captured in stuttering syntax:
the lens of your soul pointing towards a subject, a metaphor, a line
within you, within the world, within the two.
if vague and smudgy this image at first,
the lines rearrange themselves, the grammar settles,
and the image comes into focus - sharp and still.
as you would a camera, approach things at angles,
you flood your poetry with perspective, with self, with distance,
stamp yourself onto it, and you know it belongs as yours.
and you know you have captured that pearl in an oyster,
those millions of dying stars exploding within you,
an image of yourself.
yet, sometimes, you're out of film and however you click the shutter,
your words fall off the lines, burst into dissonance, or finds itself unwritten.
like photography, you do not expect a stable yield of inspiration.
then, with the years, you lay your poetry on a wall -
chronologically, alphabetically, thematically, or anything -
and you will step back to see a montage of your life in eloquent snapshots.
if poetry should ever be photography - then -
it would be the photography of one's soul.
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 10:05 PM UTC
I bought a cruiser bike
instead of a mountain bike
I’m a sextagenarian
not a 30-something
so every morning I pedal
to the corner across from the Ritz-Carlton and the Montage
next to the high-rent Pandemonde Café
and count the Ferraris roaring by.
I never had a Ferrari
but I did buy a ’96 Mustang once
and souped it up with a supercharger
which was around the time
my doctor took me off testosterone
because my prostate specific antigen
was way too high
You have an inoperable prostate malignancy, he said
after the biopsy
You can’t take hormone replacement anymore
It will **** you
And as I lean on my bike
depressed about missing the rush
of another boost of synthetic male hormone
I enjoy watching the Europen speedsters streak by
so proud of themselves
in cars that cost more
than my house.
I used to wish I was them
used to feel like them
when I was younger and charging hard
but now I just utter prayers
for each Lamborghini that goes by
and I say
I hope your car is faster than cancer.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC
I can name you
The exact date
On which he was shot:
June 28, 1914.
Who killed him?
Gavrilo Princip,
Member of the Bosnian Nationalist
Movement: The Black
Hand.
Suddenly this montage
Of bullet chambers
And dead wars
Shift -
Hands. You. Me.
Your fingers,
Which I long to hold.
Your voice,
Which I long to hear.
Which I have forgotten -
Sometimes it is hard
To trace the annals
Of history. Our
****** pawprints
Make the trail of
Arms and hatred
Harder to keep straight
Than sin and so
We walk backwards.
****** trail of footsteps
Perhaps stepped
Into
By a meandering
Mao, or ******
Or Tojo. Muddied further
By the presence
Of an Alger
Hiss -
Your voice
Is a whisper,
It sings to me in
Secrets - I do not
Know you but I
Am in love,
You are beautiful and
I don't know why
But there's a
War. In my heart.
A war of attrition. Subtraction
Of causes. And the Archduke,
Well the Archduke
Is glad to see you.
Hear his dates blur
Into yours -
History tests,
And love notes
Crumpled away folded
And stored
In the same junk
Folder.
I imagine his hands
To have folded
Quite slowly,
Searching for something
To latch onto.
Like mine.
Empty palms flickering
Amidst a trail of
Blood and dust -
Oh, and yeah
The history lessons
Of course.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
skilled
beyond the
greatest artist
or scientist
you are
to have
composed
the pieces just so
i see
what you had in mind for me
all along
god
my life
an amalgamation
a mosaic
immaculate montage
©2016janetaylor
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 5:26 PM UTC
.
Like a watermark through crisp white vellum
a face appears through the veil of dreams,
to colour wash away a montage of image
and decorate a mosaic of sleep dust seams.
As halcyon lakes waterfall into prism nebulae
and the courtesan face evades its emotions,
inevitably slipping between the chasms of space
like golden dolphins through plasmic oceans.
© Pagan Paul (01/09/17)
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 5:09 AM UTC
hand cranked
re-imagined 35mm slides
Rough Trade posters
on the wall
Pepsi and premade sandwiches
on the counter
aperture: wide open
he sees her often at the multiplex
there she flirts
from the third row; second seat
sheer blouse
hands in elliptical motion
pointing toward
silk chiffon shells
the invite in a tilt of her mouth
lip; gloss
eyes hidden from the light
a prayer before intermission
celluloid reliquary
reveals God's plans
lest her trifling with him
cause a miss in changeover
enraging his self-regarded audience
the walk back to his car
one long montage of her lacing up
May 24, 2023
May 24, 2023 at 10:02 AM UTC
Staring at the ceiling sky
Past lover's faces
Eyes
Dotting
The midnight moonless skies
Stars twinkling
Their light having been cast
Many light years ago
Each one for their time
Had in their eyes - for me -
The golden glow
Meteor showers of montage sequences
faces
scenes
times
fly by
Trailing ribbons in the ceiling skies
The dots when taken together
Tho eons passed and separated
Pieces and bits form constellations
Eros
Aphrodite
The Mother
Sancho Panza in drag disguise
A female Damocles and her sword
The Companion Star, still glowing here in the Western sky
Looking backwards in time
Their presence was once present
Now, all have vanished
Moved on to other places in space and time
Aware of all I have been given
All I've learned
Remembering I loved each one
And when the moon is right
and the ceiling is dark
and there is no sleep
for me tonight
Their light still shines
On my ceiling night sky.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
i am talking about her, dressed in black silhouette, painted with montage,
i can feel her presence, rubbing across the tips of my tongue, salsa through my hair.
her jet black soul piercing into me, a rembrandt only time is seduced to.
i am talking about her, noir necklace, twelve beads, wild heart, fantasy that teases my seclusion.
i am talking about midnight, her winds her flair, her grotesque, everytime i close my balcony door,
at 1am in the morning hoping the seduction ends and reality sets in on this papercup life.
Oct 16, 2021
Oct 16, 2021 at 4:17 PM UTC
I was a better love poet
When we were dating
The anxiety to be exactly
what you're looking for
stimulated all my hibernating
thoughts
Now a good lover
But a skeptical writer
Anticipation would stir
my imagination
Now blank with a pen
To every word chain
To every verse
To every unfolding stanza
There was magic and rhythm
This translated into intimacy
But I have got a plan
I'm going to take my mind
on excursion
Do bungee jumping
so I seize an out of body moment
I'm taking on a travelling job
To miss you so much
so often
For all that love
For all the nostalgia
To burst into a word montage
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 2:55 PM UTC
The music itself thumps in my chest
My body moves all on its own
My hips sway against yours
we swing our heads in rhythm
For in the moment
when a band takes the stage
we all become the same
united under a song
I believe this would be
a perfect movie moment
with you and I as the stars
Our own little montage
Because in this moment
I can feel your heat
We are one in the same
Our souls entwined in the song
We have to shout into each others ears
to have a conversation
though many words aren't needed
Our bodies do the talking
I guess this is what it means
to feel accepted, in love, perfect
because I can't imagine myself
dancing to this song,
with anyone else
but you
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
Hearing fogged drops of rain
Precipitate violence in the Amazon,
Against the placid Leaves;
Left disheveled the unfiltered forest.
Dampness divorced from its thin vapor blur
Plummeting memoirs retold, the cradled
Past returns its own, splintered light
Edging the threshold of infinitude,
Axiomatic slippage each fell cold.
Fallen moisture recovered,
Once nourished the ancients;
Correspondingly, we align.
Lineal descendants,
Tides of March,
Sibilant waters flow through us.
Hoary myths, now hallowed imminent.
Ponderous, our torn skies cleft, clouds suffused in grey─
The emergent pour, casts a montage of
Freighted silence, implicit tapestries
Sewn seamless; our kindred froth ashore.
Pedigreed continuum bound in common plight,
Unseen flood of halcyon
Dust and flesh coalesce beneath the torrent;
Genetic lines merge ─ intersection of
Time and eternity.
From the same water we drink.
Lineal descendants,
Tides of March,
Sibilant waters flow through us.
©2012 W.S. Warner
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 1:54 AM UTC
22/12/12 @ 21:21 pm
Out on a winter walk one day
you solemnly put an acorn into my hand.
Something in my head whispered
"Keep it safe
and he'll be safe".
I kept it to this day.
Year one.
One candle on my cake,
burned into my mind's eye forever.
You took a photograph
to keep me in the picture.
Year four.
My sister arrived in the world.
You took me to feed the swans.
Back home
she greeted us with screams.
I fled, covering my ears.
Year thirteen.
Mother told me the facts of life.
You kept well out of it.
Year nineteen,
A disco at the end of a long, quiet road.
You always drove me safely there and back.
You were judge and jury
of all boyfriends.
Year twenty three.
You gave me away
to the best boyfriend of all.
A montage of eras
replay in the bright lens of memory
till the year of the walk
and the acorn.
And I kept it safe
so you'd be safe,
only now it looks cracked and old;
not quite like an acorn
and you are not quite like you.
............................................
http://www.parkinsons.org.uk/
http://www.alz.org/
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 4:50 PM UTC
You wander down the hallway
Feeling something shiver inside of you
You wonder what this feeling might be
And suddenly an image of his face
Pierce your corneas
A second later
He is there
And when you pass in the hallway
He looks at you sideways
Widens his eyes.
You furrow your brow
Lift the corners of your lips
Tilt your head
You mention how you always see him in this hallway
He considers you. Then.
He says it is God’s will
You get the wind knocked out of you
You know that it shows on your face
He dismisses you
But not before you say that you agree
That it is God’s will
You take your casual leave
Calling him by his nickname
Stepping into the elevator
You remember he calls himself a liberal
You hug yourself
You wonder if he sees his God in you
You remember he was born on Palm Sunday
You chuckle to yourself
You walk past your roommates
You feel their eyes on your back
You sit down and eat your dinner
You stand at the window
You watch the buildings bleed onto the streets
Manhattan swirls underneath you
There are points of light on little moving objects
The cars and the people
The colors and the lights
The smoke and the sky
The city pulsates, the city snarls
Eager for you to take the streets
You gaze out your window
And so, you decide, it is
It is God’s will and just exactly who
Are you
To deny it?
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 1:34 AM UTC
Restrain me, detain me,
corrupting thy mind has changed thee.
Radical thoughts of dimensional existence,
is turning on lights to a further persistence.
What you see is what I show, walls come down when I finally know.
What we reap is what we sow.
Do you doubt these words that flow?
Read my eyes to hear my mind, Ignorance will lead you blind, so lend an ear and hear my secret.
I create how I perceive it, take my hand and feel this power.
Energy's our vital tower
Cleansing souls like a blissful shower, as we depict what we choose to devour.
I'm starting to realize the struggle is real and that is the reality of how I must feel.
The best montage that sets me free, unlocking answers I hold the key.
You are someone just like me living life vicariously!
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
He turns the page
Of old age
For what was once the rage
Now sits in his cage
It's been a war to wage
This, life's final stage
The pressure gauge
Ticking on so outrage
Ticking by in ménage
For his book's cleavage
Untouched and derange
Year's wasted and disengaged
If only there was no leakage
Or ever such seepage
Life on his barren range
With no panacea to assuage
No wife ever, no cat, no life to engage
Nothing but red read rage
Now in his final chapter, this cage
This cage, death does he part this rampage
A life perched without marriage
For he married to himself backstage
Where his curtain veiled fruitage
In lieu of looking at the skies for dosage
He fell hostage to his hermitage
Yet this, his bottled pilgrimage
Sinking now in raging montage
He does sit beseeched in his passage
And hopes someday to bid bon voyage
With direr hopes of turning a better page
Logan Robertson
9/27/2018
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 5:57 AM UTC
In this moment,
I want 3 things
And here is why
A new job,
One, I love again
Like my last but in London.
More money,
So I can see my parents on day,
With a cheque for their montage.
A relationship,
To fall in love
And not be alone anymore.
I currently stand
In a decent place and position
But being human, I always want more.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
a possum is smoking a cigarette on
top of a small barn in the field.
inside the barn, a mama births
a batch of baby sheepdogs
their eyes still caked shut--
a world awaits.
as the possum finishes his last drag,
i watch the trees in the yard
get up & walk away.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
We popped ourselves up to the ideas of pop culture
and adopted the looks of orphans
spray paint and swear words
too loud overcrowded mischief
the misgivings of being too young
children throwing tantrums over ice cream
calendars fell and the montage ended
we were flung across the globe as dandelion seeds
weeds to be weeded
I was playing tight rope on the fence
and fell on the side with no safety net
skinned knees and black eyes
the stoners the dropouts the thugs and **** ups
***** and *******
******* and ********
these were just words
deactivated model replicas pointed at the head
college student with a chip on the shoulder
and the one they called the jester
and the one they called the king
with return addresses tattooed on arms
the awake became the living dream
no time for nights of nightmares
enough scare to go around
pack another GB and cry some more
my blood is ink dripping from the pen
yours drips from thighs and forearms
you want to be the new thing
you forgot what the original means
and burned all of your dictionaries a while ago
check my *** cheek
the origin is there
UK/USA
now all the lights are off
and the moon hangs fat, sacrificial in the sky
do you want the moon? That’s what I’ll do. I’ll give you the moon.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
Remains of the summer
sunlight drip out,
entomb'd in raindrops
from the prevailing
gray beclouded skies
Memories of joy
bathed in sunlight
unravel like a wind
frayed kite dancing
above a day at the beach
Soaring seagulls ponder
all thousand feet of kite string
tied to a hidden bliss below —
hurtling through
the shapeless heavens
tethered to refreshed
dreams still lingering
within an untamed
child of the wind
Morning falls
from the trees
in whispers
of golden sorrow
The damp chilled air
smells fresh as the traces
of heaven's cleansing rain —
befallen drop by drop,
each plash counted
from an angel weeping,
splattering the broken silence
all through the night.
An inflamed montage
of leaves surrender
all this unholdable lifeline
we ever know;
blanketing the fields
of autumn's tawny grass —
Sowing a mosaic colored
reclamation reposed
atop a nascent green,
soon enrobed by impending
winter’s pallid slumbering hues
The darkening hush
imbues a shadowing
fugitive peacefulness
bathed in wind river eddies
of autumn’s blessing rains
harlon rivers
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
I'm nervously staring at a blank page
I can not concentrate
Why can I not explain how deranged
These thoughts will range before I engage with another
Leaving everything getting to me beneath the surface
While asking after others
Internal whispers hint on my actions
Each infraction gains traction
As I fail to supplement the latter with a fraction of a rebuttle
All the while huddling in a corner and never subtle
Like a mortar ready to explode yet I self-implode each time
Because I refuse to unload
It makes my mind the victim within this fight
The fact that I will not attack but rather act and pretend
Like this suspension will defend me or better yet transcend me
Is another cover until exactly when?
Otherwise pending
How selfishly imposed is my level of deceit
Not a second of relief for I am a liar and a thief
To expose copiously my own hopeless struggle crumbling me
But if I don't take this venom that's coursing through me
If I don't choose lemons over poison
That's it, I'm done C'est la vie, ***** me
I'll write out each and every buffer
For this montage of self-sabotage isn't quite enough
To make me suffer
No.
It seems I need to be hit with lightning nineteen times while struck from behind and intertwined in the jaws of a great white shark before anything productive happens or anything creative sparks. Before I utilize the clandestine confines of this mind to do or say or think of something smart. Just another day to start another chapter in the story of my life. I've come so far and fought so hard to stay away from that knife. Known recognition through prepositions giving meaning to my trifles and tremblings, be they lucid dreams or presently vivid memories...
And never feigning, only straining harder each day
Contemplating carefully
The words that I say
The thoughts that I convey
The everyday reality that's now so far away
What can I do to replace the voices haunting me?
Flaunting their perfect prisms
And what I'll never be
Its never enough
And that's just too much..
Stealing my serene
Leaving me unclean
And never free
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 5:42 PM UTC
I am tired, exhausted really.
I’m not getting enough sleep. Not enough is going my way.
Writing takes a piece of my soul and turns into words while meaningless by themselves becomes something with power.
Life doesn’t feel vibrant and colorful like I know it sometimes can be.
Life has instead been replaced with a gloomy, apathetic relative.
Life has been treating me unfairly, despite my best efforts.
It has left me broken and bruised and bleeding in the middle of the battlefield.
Despite my cries, nobody hears me as I continue to disintegrate into a shriveling pile of nothing.
I feel like I’m losing. No, I know that I’m losing.
Because see it’s not the battles that matter, it’s the war.
Things have changed, I’m slowly coming back to the person I used to be, unhappy with myself and with life.
I’m completely terrified of this thought but far too tired to resist.
I don’t know how to reverse, I don’t know how to find happiness.
I have lost the road map, I’m scrambling for a hand hold or some sort of sign.
I’m too tired to fight.
I’m too tired to be happy.
I’m too tired to focus on school work.
I’m too tired to push myself through 6 hours of homework a night.
I’m too tired to carry around a 40 pound backpack from class to class.
I’m too tired to find balance between healthy habits and what reality holds.
I’m too tired to effectively manage my time, I would rather self-sabotage.
I’m too tired to write, I’ve already said this.
Maybe if I got more sleep, not so much in my life would be wrong.
I like to think that the majority of my life’s problems would be fixed with a little more balance.
Perhaps my life would look a little more like my aspirations.
Perhaps I would be happier and my eyes filled with more ambition.
Perhaps my notebooks would be filled to the brim with intelligent ideas and beautifully crafted writing.
Perhaps my life would look more like the plot to a cheesy indie film with the protagonist figuring everything out during a montage set to sentimental music. I would enjoy that.
Or
Perhaps nothing would change. And everything I imagined is nothing but an impossible world created by fractured idealist’s fuel and fabricated fiction.
I’m exhausted and tired of putting my ideas out only to have them rejected.
But that’s what writing is about. Reality, and pushing through.
Writing isn’t supposed to be infused with sugar-coated metaphors and avoidance of the truth.
Writing isn’t supposed to be lies, although that narrative is proposed often.
Writing isn’t supposed easy.
Writing is supposed to be about emotion.
Writing is about failure.
Writing is about heartbreak.
Writing is supposed to be about the rough times as much as it is about the good times.
Writing is real.
Writing is exposure.
Writing is powerful, simply because of the truth behind it.
So I will continue to write even when I don’t feel like it.
I will continue to face reality, head on with a stare colder than ice.
I will write because it’s not supposed to be easy.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 5:59 AM UTC