"mot" poems
Beat-Up Old Car
Vastly under-appreciated possession
In dull blue, a MK1, no less, with original rust
Inside lingering scents of Exchange and Mart
top-notes of WD-40 and miscellaneous mix tapes
A car like this gets into your life
in lumpy knuckle-barking unsubtle ways,
stays there in subtle ones
That long drive back to Yorkshire
in the quintessential exemplar
Clutch cable snaps.
****** and Crap.
Hardly helpful but can be accommodated
with enough thought
rough though it is
on starter motor
and nerves whenever
anticipatory powers inadequate
and we are forced
to a complete red-light stop
Brakes dodgier, exhaust noisier
than ideal or legal
Gender-ambiguous
elderly tyres flirt outrageously with slick tarmac
Showing their canvas underwear
and male-pattern baldness
Keeping this unstable, unsafe, unreliable
ultimately essential lump of metal
moving and on the road
is a fine art
Engaging, fluid and intense art;
The Clash and The Specials
Costello and The Cure in support
A distraction then
getting hauled over by plod
somewhere near Bury St. Edmunds
Thatcher's boys.
Tax? MoT? Insurance? ID?
No real interest shown
Any passengers in the back?
Clearly no. Pickets?
Pickets? What?
Please open the boot sir... Oh.
On your way lad. Drive carefully
I was, officer, I was
More than you will ever know
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy
~~~
the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none
~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”
“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”
“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life
“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words”
“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
Je suis exatlé de voir dans ce ciel de nuit,
Auquel je dois cette plaisante fortune.
En compagnie d’étoiles clignotantes,
Subjugué par ce spectacle, j’admire ma Lune.
Lave-moi dans ton eau argentée, translucide.
Sois près de moi lors de mes blanches nuits.
Veille sur moi tel un garde sans faille.
Enveloppe-moi de murmures, un calme répit.
Ô comme tu guides les flots ardents de mon âme!
Baisse les yeux, les eaux abordent ma plage…
Érode le fardeau qui étouffe mes écueils brûlants,
Des sables noyés, oppressé, tendres otages.
Peu de nuits à présent… Épris alors que tu t’en vas.
Des brins épais et sombres de cheveux en cascades,
Dissimulent ton visage d’une manière séduisante.
Il n’en reste qu’un croissant, qui s’efface dans le noir.
Les nuits s’écoulent… Maintenant la lune se délite
M’en laissant qu’une moitié; la nuit le veut ainsi.
Reste encore, plus longtemps; ne pars pas si tôt,
Je ne me sens pas prêt à être anéanti.
Je lève la tête sans dire un mot, alors que les nuits passent.
J’ai vu mon amour lunaire se dissoudre dans l’espace.
My coeur, aussi, déchiré bout par bout…
Enfin, elle était partie; partie, sans laisser de trace.
Depuis, chaque nuit abonde de vide et de souffrance.
Je supplie les étoiles d’apaiser le vide en moi…
Mais ils se contenteraient de briller, indifférents…
Même suite à tous mes appels, mes émois.
Desormais je suis incertain sur le nombre de passages.
Les nuits n’amenèrent que l’assaut des étoiles moqueuses.
Cependant je joue des promesses celestes,
Pour le retour de ma folle quête amoureuse.
Je sais que c’est frivole de penser que je suis le seul…
C’est vrai, ils languissent; ma souffrance est la leur.
Mais c’est moi qui désire le plus ton fameux regard,
Car nos coeurs ont chanté dans toutes les couleurs.
Ma détresse à son zénith, emplis, presque brisé,
Lorsque soudain j’entends une belle chanson, lointaine.
Une chanson pareille à celle que l’on prononçât,
Encore garnie d’argent translucide, je soupire avec peine…,
“Te voilà....”
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
don't fall for their tales,
their trapping words
intended to capture all manner of
literary loving girls...
while they, these mopoets^ are perfectly content
to keep on looking
"for the perfect one..."
to write about,
the greatest love affair in all of
his-story
but only after getting first
a close dose of,
a teeming taste of<
her
*"inspiration"
He tells them that
after the first date,
he'll go home thinking:
"I could drink a case of you"
but usually but a glass,
at most,
a bottle, a month,
a satisfactory suffice,
and it's onto the next write
that's why the FBI labelled him,
a dangerous serial poet,
his mot
to be trusted,
not, no, no...no!
Ah men! Ah poets!
somebody should pass a law....
4:03am
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 4:10 AM UTC
[Police were called to a New Jersey school after a student accused another student of racism for calling brownies brownies. In defense of the police no one was arrested]
Brownies are sweet, tasty and brown,
but New Jersey’s schools hear this with a frown.
Color’s off color, don’t you know--
mention it, and the Thought Police
will have you in tow.
Blondies are sweet and a bit greasy--
a tasty snack, not a girl who’s easy.
But better call them cake, or you’ll be dissed
as someone who is completely sex-ist.
Anything you say can and will be held against you--
mot just by the cops, but by those you thought you knew.
It’s the days of Stalin, or “1984” from Orwell;
better watch what you say; they might be listening in the stairwell.
Once we all worshipped the First Amendment.
Now "politically correct" has gone beyond heavy-handed.
Use only approved phrases, or outcast will be your fate--
Political Correctness destroyed a country once great.
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
Phrase Courte d'amour
Si tu veux une fleur il faudra la cueillir mais si tu veux mon cœur il faudra me séduire.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Je suis un arbre, mes fleurs c'est toi. Je suis un ciel, mes étoiles c'est toi. Je suis une rivière, mon bateau c'est toi. Je suis un corps mon cœur c'est toi.
Avec une larme d'émotion merci de tout cœur. Je me sens la plus heureuse sur terre grâce à toi mon cher je t'aime.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Toi qui illumines ma vie et m'inspires la joie. Tu habites mes nuits, tu habites mes jours, non ça ne change pas et tant mieux pour moi. Phrase Courte d'amour
Tu te souviens pourquoi on est tombés amoureux? Tu te souviens pourquoi c'était si fort entre nous? Parce que j'étais capable de voir en toi des choses que les autres ignoraient. Et c'était la même chose pour toi mon amour.
Phrase Courte d'amour
**** de vous je vois flou et j'ai mal partout car je ne pense qu'à vous, je sais que c'est fou, mais j'aime que vous.
La lune est comme un aimant, elle attire les amants regarde la souvent, tu trouvera celui que tu attend la main il te prendra pour la vie il te chérira.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Phrase Courte d'amour Pour vivre cette vie j'ai besoin d'un battement de cœur, avoir un battement de cœur j'ai besoin d'un cœur, avoir un cœur J'ai besoin de bonheur et avoir le bonheur j'ai besoin de toi!
Un baiser peut être une virgule, un point d'interrogation, ou un point d'exclamation. C'est une épellation de base que chaque femme devrait savoir.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Il ne faut jamais dire c'est trop **** puisqu'on peut toujours devenir ce que nous souhaitons être et aussi avoir ce que nous avons toujours désiré.
Le soleil ne s'arrête jamais de briller tout comme mon cœur ne s'arrête jamais de t'aimer.
Phrase Courte d'amour
L'éternité c'est de passer qu'une seule seconde de ma vie sans toi, mais qu'importe cette seconde si à mon retour tu es toujours là.
Aimer est un sentiment d'appartenance à une personne de confiance.
Phrase Courte d'amour
L'amour n'a pas besoin de carte, Phrase Courte d'amour car elle peut trouver son chemin les yeux bandés.
Dans ce monde l'amour n'a pas de couleur,pourtant le tien a profondément détint sur mon corps.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Le cœur est comme une fleur quand elle manque d'eau elle meurt.
L'amour que j'ai envers toi est incompréhensible aux yeux de tous ... Même de toi.
Phrase Courte d'amour
L'amour est un mot que j'écris pour qu'il soit encore plus beau.
Phrase Courte d'amour
L'amour se vit dans la richesse comme dans la détresse, dans la pauvreté ou la beauté.
Phrase Courte d'amour
L'amour commence par donner de l'importance et finit par l'ignorance.
Les plus belles choses dans la vie ne peuvent pas être vu, ni touchés, mais se font sentir que par cœur.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Qu'importe un océan ou un désert, l'amour n'a pas de frontières.
Il Parait que quand on aime, on ne compte pas, mais moi je compte chaque secondes passée sans toi.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Toi mon cœur, mon amour, ma joie, je te dis ces quelques mots en pensent à toi, je t'aime et je ne peux pas vivre sans toi, à chaque moment, à chaque instant, je pense à toi une minute sans toi et tu me manques déjà, alors toi mon cœur, accepte moi, prends moi dans tes bras, embrasse-moi une dernière fois.
Poeme courte d'amour
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
check it out check it out
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
it's da state of this here disunion
this here bangalore torpedo seeks yer minefields
this here suffering hero
n
crows about strafes
multitudes peripherally
****** blind prophets
exclaim
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
it's nothing but beginning
of beginning & z end of approximation
time's sweet angry subluxation
universal caving in on U & U
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
when was z last time U really loved
i mean really really really loved
ha i could only hold to z imagination
z skeleton z allegory z myth
'cause everything slides & falls
screams careens outta control
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
she brought in rrrrevolution.evolution.now
is z caustic effervescence of her wit
eroding my sandy castle of deceit?
ha and repeat ha
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
forgive-me-notes are written high
on z forehead of my despair
a cursive flowing interdiction
malediction cruxifiction err-u-diction
en-passant
in each pyrotechnic moment when we don't see I-to-I
on anything relevant to what we once hoped was us
but we continue dance dance dance
perseveration aberration indiscretion cha-cha-cha
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
she said *** is z engine of z world
like engine like world like ***
like like like
could say no more
oh it's tiresome to go on
describing that chimeric uniting
flesh-to-flesh-in-flesh eliding
we all are guilty of
do not end a line with a preposition such as
that or a proposition such as this:
given angle a prove that old triangle theorem
two simultaneous loves don't make a right
cherchez les angles les anglais la bon mot
ya know
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
when i die please bury me upside down
prone to z ground making dead love to earth ya kno
while the centuries lie down next to me
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic!
chic!
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 3:14 PM UTC
<>
it’s not even 6am, restless night, or wrestled night, ain’t much difference, see the **** geese on the water’s edge, I dutifully slip out of bed, awakening no one, dutifully slide in to my slip-on sneakers, grab the white umbrella next to the front door, dutifully, steadily, my first chore of the day, walk deliberately (and carefully) to make them get them get heck away, into the sound, and to cease polluting the grass where children may play…
standing at the waters edge, task finished, the sky commands examination, there is within the cumulus textured, multi-pastel, thick curdled pastiche cloud banks, overhanging the world as far as one can see, a substantive hole appearing in the sky revealing a blue heaven….what one believes, prefers should be, but what is, in fact,
not a…given and we are a but, partly cloudy day, a partly clouded observant person…
this reminds me that there are holes in all places, everywhere, in my disturbed sleep, where I spend hours of triangulating in dreams, what I cannot pin down:
who I am, what I am, my purpose on earth, though I know where
I am, though not even, most critically, why I am…
is this a poem?
this thoughtful cursed query sits behind my eyes, frontally lobed, perpetually asking, judging me, these words, repetitiously heard,
one is not fooled,
it is a simple self-evaluation test, only an ask,
what are my justifications, ma raison d'être,
(reason for being) which is an amuse, for I discover
in French, ‘reason for being,’
is a feminine word,
(qui en Français,
c'est un mot féminin…)
and that makes me smile,
for I’m a woman-centric man
(I have no gender confusion,
this is not one of the holes
to which I refer)
perhaps it is, or, perhaps it is a rambunctious rambling of no worth, for no answers are obtained, given, deduced, and holes, skyward and inward are deep, none delimited by neither bottom or a top, just widening gaps and gapes in my existence…and answers are not
forthcoming…
<>
5:50am
Thursday July 18
Year Two Thousand and Twenty Four
Jul 18, 2024
Jul 18, 2024 at 6:51 AM UTC
Solskenet verkar
bara stanna för en dag
Värmen drar sig snabbt tillbaka
och ger plats åt en välbekant kyla
Som har satt sina spår
under alla dessa år
På väg mot nya skyar
Ändå samma blåa färg
Jag bosätter mig här
och ger plats åt samma gamla tankar
Som har satt sina spår
under alla dessa år
Regnmolnen verkar
favorisera mitt hem
Jag skulle aldrig nånsin kommit hit
men det fanns plats åt samma gråa skurar
Som har satt sina spår
under alla dessa år
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
WHITE DOWN
White down
so high
and yet so lowly, soft,
your flecks of light
where brown turf darkens
damp,
so innocently growing
'spite the weather;
torn clouds,
against the blue or grey,
beside you green of moss
stone, heather,
grasses, hay,
Not lauded,
given honours like the rose
but there the mountain knows
your sweet repose.
M. A. Waddicor
10th sept 2011.
Translated into Norwegian...
MYRULL
Kvite dun
så høgt på strå
og likevel så kravlaus, mjuk.
Lysa dine logar
der torva mørknar
fuktig, brun.
Du veks uskuldig, rein
trass uvêr,
rivne skyer
mot det blå og grå.
Ved sida di er grøne mosen,
stein, lyng,
gras og vier.
Ikkje lovprisa
eller gjeve heidersteikn, som rosa bar;
men fjellet kjenner til
din vakre kvilestad.
M. A. Waddicor/ Gjendikting ved Åse Lilleskare Faugstad
COTTON GRASS YOU WAVE
Waving at the sky,
you tufts of downy white,
your presence in the marsh,
or standing on the cracked dry earth,
the bottom of a bog.
So delicate you are,
in such a place,
where winter blizzards blow,
and icy waters, snow,
cover your bed.
Yet there you always are,
a faithful friend to travellers,
a light where grey skies dull,
a flag to show where not to go
in rain.
As pretty as a poem tossed
on hardy stems
not pictured in a painting
yet as dainty, beautiful
and free,
as any bloom can be.
M. Ann Waddicor
10th September 2011.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 7:47 AM UTC
As you may know, I continue to collaborate with other poets here, most frequently with Helen. Below is a poem of hers that I have edited and reworked, her original notes to me are contained in the notes section below. So if you like it, tell Helen. If you "choke" on it, tell the editor. That's why they pay us the big bucks! So, send me your scraps yearning to be free...
I am choking
on words.
chest clogged,
throat seized,
as I await to deplane,
when I will perforce,
speak these words,
but for now, held in a
prison garb of my own design.
organs can be donated,
the broken heart,
the shattered liver,
the kidney failing,
eyes for the blind,
lungs for the breathless.
the human psyche
is not replaceable.
I need a mind of titanium,
will gladly settle for either the
Tin-man's heart, or
Cowardly Lion's courage,
both, too much too hope for...
but they are not sold at the airport shops.
perhaps my unseen editor
will accompany me,
hand firmly on my writing elbow,
guiding, refining, selecting
les mot parfait...
How come?
How come everything
inside a body can be replaced
so artfully, artificially
except words inside a broken mind?
I cannot get these words out,
who can transplant a soul?
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 4:00 PM UTC
remember....damn, what his name...
it'a right there... I know I know this...
He used to play with the Beatles...
Uh...Bass left handed...
no, not John Lennon...the other one...
not George, you know the other one....
no, definitely not Ringo
C'mon Tag you know this...
was married to Linda
and then that other *****
He wrote "Michelle, my belle"
and yesterday, all my troubles seemed
so far away...
sont des mot qui vont tres bien ensemble
It's in there tag, don't blame it on the stroke
or the smokes
how can you not remember this...
tres bien ensemble...
If I can't remember him even for this
brief moment, did he even exist
in my solipsistic world....
now I need a place to hide away...
Oh crap...McCartney...
how do you forget McCartney
Paul...duh...
May 10, 2011
May 10, 2011 at 10:58 AM UTC
Place de la Gare, à Charleville.
Sur la place taillée en mesquines pelouses,
Square où tout est correct, les arbres et les fleurs,
Tous les bourgeois poussifs qu'étranglent les chaleurs
Portent, les jeudis soirs, leurs bêtises jalouses.
- L'orchestre militaire, au milieu du jardin,
Balance ses schakos dans la Valse des fifres :
Autour, aux premiers rangs, parade le gandin ;
Le notaire pend à ses breloques à chiffres.
Des rentiers à lorgnons soulignent tous les couacs :
Les gros bureaux bouffis traînant leurs grosses dames
Auprès desquelles vont, officieux cornacs,
Celles dont les volants ont des airs de réclames ;
Sur les bancs verts, des clubs d'épiciers retraités
Qui tisonnent le sable avec leur canne à pomme,
Fort sérieusement discutent les traités,
Puis prisent en argent, et reprennent : " En somme !..."
Épatant sur son banc les rondeurs de ses reins,
Un bourgeois à boutons clairs, bedaine flamande,
Savoure son onnaing d'où le tabac par brins
Déborde - vous savez, c'est de la contrebande ; -
Le long des gazons verts ricanent les voyous ;
Et, rendus amoureux par le chant des trombones,
Très naïfs, et fumant des roses, les pioupious
Caressent les bébés pour enjôler les bonnes...
- Moi, je suis, débraillé comme un étudiant,
Sous les marronniers verts les alertes fillettes :
Elles le savent bien ; et tournent en riant,
Vers moi, leurs yeux tout pleins de choses indiscrètes.
Je ne dis pas un mot : je regarde toujours
La chair de leurs cous blancs brodés de mèches folles :
Je suis, sous le corsage et les frêles atours,
Le dos divin après la courbe des épaules.
J'ai bientôt déniché la bottine, le bas...
- Je reconstruis les corps, brûlé de belles fièvres.
Elles me trouvent drôle et se parlent tout bas...
- Et je sens les baisers qui me viennent aux lèvres.
1.8k
Peut s’ouvrir un débat
long comme l’éternité
de savoir si vrai ou faux
avait raison Don Gomez
qui harangua son fils
en disant :
« Ce n’est que par le sang
Qu’on lave tel outrage. »
Ô quel mot fer,
quel mot acier,
sans une goute d’étain !
Le mot sans verdure,
le mot rouge sans mélange,
plus rouge que le sang,
visant perdre le souffle
au donneur de soufflet !
qui pourra le baptiser cannibalisme
ou bien légitime défense ?
Quoi qu’on dise, tranchons :
ce fut verser le sang.
Et jugeons :
Ce qu’à l’époque fut d’or
l’acte de le Cid1 Compeador
ne le serait point aujourd’hui.
C’est comme le triomphe d’Achille2
Sur son ennemi Hector.
Les deux grand guerriers, avides de sang
et de gloire malsaine,
vallées et plaines coururent,
lacs et rivières nagèrent,
étangs et marécages pataugèrent,
monts et collines gravirent,
et descendirent en volant,
se voulant l’un l’autre proie,
et l’emporta le plus criminel.
A l’Epoque Contemporaine
Pas toute victoire ne se couvre de lauriers.
La Pucelle d’Orléans ne fut-elle
brûlée vive par l’ennemi,
son tueur ignoré par tant,
et son Nom à jamais porta la couronne
à la façon de la Sainte Vierge
qui jamais ne lutta que contre le péchée,
et son arme au combat ne fut que piété,
contrairement à Charlemagne
qui fut couronné de fer
dont il eut son bon usage.
Le trépas d’un héro ne tue pas l’héroïsme.
Ce fut le cas, ce semble, du Prince
Né **** d’un palais royal.
Ce Prince qu’on le nomme :
Mohammed Bouazizi.
La montée au sommet ne fut pas improviste
ni sujet de surprise ;
c’est le fruit du courage bénit,
lequel conditionnera et la pluie et le soleil
dans tous les coins du monde.
1. Le Cid : Personnage Principal de la Tragi-comédie qui porte son nom de Pierre Corneille dont la première représentation eut lieu le 5 janvier 16372.
2. Achille et Hector sont les personnages les plus célèbres de L’Iliade d’Homère VIIIe siècle av. J.-C.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 11:47 AM UTC
My moirai has cursed me for bumping into you on late,
albeit it is a curse,I texture it as a mot blessing,
as my experiences now shall be blossomed with our confluences,
and my fantasies shall emulate our trysts......
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
So what will take the place of you?
Shall I drink of your lustful stare,
are shall I hold in my hand the key
to your heart in which you gave to me
on bended knee?
Do I have to wait to see your face?
Or take your photo and sleep next to it.
On your pillow your scent is alive.
I sleep on what you left;
YOUR SMILE,
YOUR TOUCH,
YOUR TOTAL SEDUCTION.
I woke up this morning, a song reminded
me of just how much I’m missing you.
On cold days, I turn up the heat, and
cover myself with your spirit alive.
When I finally get to sleep at night, I dream
you up and you come to me.
Everything you offer is stored in a special
bottle that can only be opened when I
dream about you.
I feel complete when you’re in my presence.
When you leave, a brief disappointment clouds
my everlasting state of mind.
In your heart, I see the most beautiful day that
was ever made; the sun is shining, the temperature
is perfect, and most of all, I see you.
The mot beautiful person (in heart) that I’ve ever
seen.
For the rest of my life, my entire being, is required
by nature to keep your spirit alive.
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 10:54 PM UTC
Flint and flight: Flinta och flyta:
Nature curls, open, Naturen lockas, öppnas,
The unwinding. Nystas av.
We walk, not straight lined Vi går, ej rakt fram
But in slow curves, Men i långsamma kurvor,
Towards a met horizon. Mot en mötande horisont.
To breathe, not in flumes, Att andas, inte i rännor,
But breath invisible, Men med osynlig andedräkt,
As warmth freezes winter. Såsom värmen fryser vintern.
All root and branch Alla rötter och grenar
Strive to hold up Strävar att hålla upp
A falling sky. En fallande himmel.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 3:04 AM UTC
(English)
silences are buried voices,
come and listen to them,
just a touch and you will see them,
burst into a thousand butterflies,
disturbed just to speak a word,
mystery in them lies..
silences are a tune,
try making them into songs,
silences are words,
try making them into sentences,
free them and they will fly away like birds..
silences are the skies,
come open your wings and fly,
silences are the touch of lies,
do you feel them, like I?
silences that lay with me,
I'll share 'em with you,
come, hold my hand,
and let me bury you,
you and I
in the sands of chimes
in the sands of time..
(French)
nos silences ..
silences sont
enterrés voix,
venir les écouter,
juste une touche et vous les
verrez,
éclater en mille papillons,
dérangé juste pour dire un mot,
mystère en eux se trouve ..
silences sont une mélodie,
essayez
en faire des chansons,
silences sont des mots,
essayez de les faire
en phrases,
libérer eux et ils vont
se envoler comme des oiseaux ..
silences sont les cieux,
viennent
ouvrir vos ailes et voler,
silences sont la touche de mensonges, ne
vous les sentez,
comme je l'ai?
silences qui se trouvaient avec moi,
Je vais 'em part avec vous,
venir,
me tenir la main,
et laissez-moi
vous enterrer,
vous et moi dans
les sables de carillons dans
les sables du temps ..
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
My mother dearly wanted
to be Dorothy Parker.
She yearned for a taste of the power that comes
from a truly witty response.
She craved to deliver
A statement so powerful
and sardonic that it would terminate
all argument or discussion.
My proximity made me an easy target to practice on
as each of our arguments ended with a bon mot
delivered with the all the acerbic flourish of Bette Davis.
As I listened to her footsteps receding down the hallway
I had only to take one more breath
before the footsteps reversed direction
and - standing at the doorway to my room -
She would deliver another culminating witticism
turn, leave and repeat.
In the fifties and sixties an intelligent woman –
a single mother of three
with no high school diploma,
but a surfeit of imagination –
Savoured what little power she could find
even if it was a fiction, a delusion
or just a punchline sharp enough to draw blood.
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 3:28 PM UTC
for Maria
if you have lived with me for more than a day,
you know I hero worship each individual word
in my birthed American English language
as is my style, I oft honor it with a poem,
but begin indubitably with a definition
Base
is such a word that deserves a recitation
for complex it is, a multiplicity of uses,
a word of many characters,
a word so unusual,
to the French I defer,
un mot plein de mystère
see its complexity,
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/base
a base is:
your bedrock, your cornerstone,
on firm footing your base must exist
t'is a groundwork word,
a keystone cop,
a root underpinning,
your warp,
your woof
Your children
so when taken,
when the spiritual
is crushingly wrong*
sometimes I feel like a motherless child,
*tense all wrong,
all wrong perversed,
the words reversed
You understand the nuance of words
so much better, and you
engage it
for now the word, just
enrages
Base
my new base
is
bad, black, evil, foul, immoral, iniquitous,
wrong and cruel
my new base-full state now,
my new base-less state now
this is my base now,
now that my organs,
cut from my body,
cannot be restored
Base is my life
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 5:51 AM UTC
*To the woman that once carried me
and still carries on doing so.*
There is a stereotype
of superheroes wearing capes
but I reject that.
Mine wears regular clothing,
sometimes glasses,
and smells like home.
Your presence is all I need when
I feel like I'm crumbling.
Your embrace has a power
of bringing pieces I thought I lost
back together.
You have a power
to believe in me
when even I don't.
You are the hand I feel
squeezing strenght into
my thoughts
through my shoulder.
You are the voice in my head
that tells me to keep on going
when the road gets a little tough.
Your smile makes
everything so much better,
everyone so much happier.
You are wonderful
You are beautiful
You are magical
You are exquisite
You are brilliant
You are enchanting
You are marvelous
You are my mom
and
You are exactly
everything I want to be
when I grow up.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 5:55 PM UTC
Dear
Mother('s),
Thank you for being a
Mot(her),
Fat(her),
Sister,
Brot(her),
Grandmot(her), and
Grandfat(her).
Thank you for your
Hard labor,
Long suffering,
Courage,
Strength,
Hope,
Bravery,
Teaching,
Understanding, and
Backbone.
No man understands what a
Mother goes through or the
Obstacles they take on in order to
Keep their sanity holding a
Fam(ily) together.
You are the true definition of a
Goddess and a true definition of a
Queen.
You work hard day and night to
Make sure there's food on the
Table, a roof over our
Heads, and clothes on our
Backs.
From the roots of your hair
To the soul of your feet, YOU ARE
Amazing, YOU ARE
Wonderful, YOU ARE
Everything that you were put on
Earth to be.
Your tears,
Your scars,
Your touch,
Your comfort,
Your love,
Your heart,
Your responsibility,
Your smile,
Your frown,
Symbolizes who YOU ARE.
Every breath,
Every step you take has been
For us.
YOU ARE HER
That makes the world go round,
YOU ARE HER
That stands in the midst of the storm,
YOU ARE HER
That gives breath to all,
YOU ARE HER
That stands strong when you're weak,
YOU ARE HER
That never gives up,
YOU ARE HER
My Mother,
Our Mother,
The Head and The Tail,
The Sun and The Moon,
The Caretaker,
The Conquerer,
YOU ARE HER
The One,
The Only,
Mot(her)('s).
HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!!!
-CLIFF
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 8:20 PM UTC
Je t'aime mon ami
Je ne sais pas pourquoi
Une triste histoire d'amour
C'etait ca le fin mot de l'histoire
Immense chagrin
C'est pourquoi
Etre a bout de forces pousser des cris
Je t'aime
Pour rien au monde
Mourir de chagrin
Ce n'est pas sorcier
Feb 17, 2010
Feb 17, 2010 at 6:03 PM UTC
Sat on a stationary train in Doncaster because the guy said my MOT would be done today. He said it would be done today or if he needed a part, he wouldn't start on the car so that I could use it tonight. But it wasn't ready tonight. And he didn't leave it until tomorrow. So tonight I'm on a train. Tomorrow I'll be driving a car. Today however, it's a train.
Just leaving Doncaster.
On a train. Not in a car. The car isn't ready until tomorrow. That's what the guy in the garage said. By noon at the latest. He's trustworthy right? I'm sure it will be ready. Sure. I won't be on a train tomorrow. No siree. I'll be in a car.
The lady just took my ticket.
I won't have to give anyone my ticket tomorrow. I'll be in a car. Not on a train. You don't need tickets in a car. You just drive it. Unless you like tickets. Then you could make tickets for your car and give yourself a ticket when you got in the car.
The trains horn just went off. It made me jump.
That wouldn't happen if I were in a car. I'd be in full control of the horn in a car.
I think I just found out why the horn sounded. A bunch of feathers just flew in through the window. RIP bird.
That might have happened if I were in a car. You can still **** birds in a car. But in a car I would have more of a sense of guilt. Being on a train isn't all bad I guess. Plus, if I were in a car and not, as is clearly the case, on a train, I wouldn't have been able to type out all my interesting anecdotal meandering as I chugged along.
That said, if you aren't enjoying reading all about this, might I suggest that you don't use Crown Motors?
My car is still there.
Not here.
I'm on a train.
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
some words are winners
some are not
it's a matter of choosing
what words to slot
but with so many words
there to opt for
the mind has a conundrum
at its door
an example I'll now write
with those words that win
and writers aren't fussed
on placing them in the bin
these words win
more often than not
as they 're always included
by the author's mot
LOVE
HOPE
and
INSPIRATION
have winner written on them
so pen-men and women
tend to employ
one or all of them
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 5:56 PM UTC