"narrating" poems
*There’s serenity here
Words have no meaning
Everyone’s speechless
Surprised with the calmness
Clarity of inner calling
Voices never heard before
All the time there
Yet, oblivious, all this while
Narrating the inner story
From the core
What we are capable of
Living half the life
Now, the other half comes forth*
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 8:35 AM UTC
*
Look at my LOVE
Do not look at my looks
And please tell me
What is going on in YOU?
Are you still thinking?
May I tell you not to think
Are you still evaluating?
Can I ask you not to...
When it comes to LOVE
It is unfair for the clouds of LOVE
Not to rain on YOU
It is unfair for the breeze of LOVE
To not carry the fragrance of LOVE to YOU
It is unfair on the dew
Not to form on your grass
It is unfair for the bees
To not find your flower to **** honey
It is unfair for the birds
Not to find a BLUE sky
To soar wings in flight
It is unfair for the Lioness
To cajole the Lion to LOVE
It is unfair for water to be dammed
And not flow into your ocean of LOVE
It is unfair to my skin woolens
Not to cover you with LOVE warmth
It is unfair for my blood
Not to flow within your veins
It is as much unfair for my breathe
Not to be oxygen for your lungs
Is not the silence of your being
Narrating a tale of LOVE?
The looks in your eyes
That shines rays of LOVE
That brings sunshine to life
Shows your tender heart within
Which is so overflowing with LOVE
It is unfair to imprisoned your LOVE
I took a second to tell YOU
"I LOVE YOU very much"
Now please give me
A million life-times
To be with YOU
To prove to you
How much I LOVE YOU
It is unfair for life not to LOVE
It is unfair for me not to LOVE YOU
*
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 12:00 AM UTC
"Born"
was created from lost hopes
dead dreams
unwritten tales
tough waves
"Born"
has magnitudes of words to be spoken
to be written
to be heard
"Borns"
profile is simple
If I told you my story
You wouldn't be satisfied
You wouldn't understand it
you would seek more of it
and still beg me to stop narrating it
you won't bear the pains
but you will crave for the joys
"Born"
is most about reality, life
not much fiction
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
I climbed the dark heaven to meet myself alone..
To smell all the roses and espy the stone..
Nevertheless, the cloud was frozen and the breeze was calm..
I saw her descending and coinciding with my palm..
Her plain white vesture was contrasting my red..
She was diffusing the divinity that I could not even bled..
Our faces were same but our aces were inverse..
She owned one whole entity while I was a disperse..
The moment was priceless and so were my emotions..
It was indeed the most breathtaking phase to my notions..
My other twin was bounded with a definite time span..
She was entirely a woman with the heart of a man..
*"You don't live inside me, I have never sensed you inside,
Painted with shyness, you rather live like a bride*.."
I peeled up my heart and had the eagerness to know..
If the sun lives in me, then why do I fall like the snow..
She smiled and glared down on me with the rays of her starkness
and told me how sturdily I have been lidded under the darkness..
Holding the flowers, she stands in the island of my soul..
She ponders my echo and waits for the control..
She imparts her colors when my pallet runs out..
but puts on her cloak when my demon comes out..
Surprisingly, I asked "You are my part. Why don't you fight out..!?"
She had an answer. She works eternally from the hideout..
In the midst of the stirring stillness, she reminded that I had to leave..
Ironically, I could not crave for what I had been dying to receive..
The same ladder showed up and slanted me back to my nook..
and the wind narrating slowly what I had given while what I had took..
*I returned to my place which was as murkier as ever..
I sensed the time-It was cursive and clever..
Perhaps I will reap more strength to deflect the chirping into the roar...
to mend every single lapse and bring her back someday on my door*..
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
Expanding, contracting, waxing, waning.
On the edge of your seat, eyes drooping shut.
Enthralled by boredom, hairs standing on end.
Three bites deep in a paradox sandwich,
Garnished with an oh so subtle hint of neurosis.
Seduced by a routine predisposition.
Reason fading away into subtle redundancy.
Redundancy
Redundancy
Redundancy
REEEEEEDDDDDUUUUUNNNNDDDDDAAAANNNNCCCCCYYYYY.
Hey, would it be redundant...
If I said redundancy?
Did I say that already?
Yeah?
Better be sure cause homie don't play that.
(Which leads to the distinct and important point that there was once someone narrating this... hey wait. Well, who's doing it now? Seems sort of strange that these words are still somehow finding their way into your- oh wait, he's back!)
Or am I? How do you know?
Maybe...
I was just an illusion this whole time!!1!!11
...and then all of the sudden, it's 5:00 AM.
Again... seriously?
HOW DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING?!?!?!?!?!
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
The withering tree
Bare branches
Reaching out for a plea
Weathered
Yet, hoping for a miracle
Peeling off
The barks from the trunk
Roots trying to hold firm
Reaching deeper
In search of hope
In the midst of ruins
Narrating a sordid tale
Of wilting beauty
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
In the distance, I see a Hound bus cruising down the country road
The stretched out Greyhound dog in front of the bus with look and behold
Now watch as numerous stories unfold
I hear a Greyhound Driver narrating his tail of his stories surrounding the hound bus
I will narrate a couple for you
Our story starts in Topeka, Kansas enroute to Kansas City, Kansas
The bus left on time during its usual run schedule
However, the weather started getting rough
Driving in the wind and rain made it really tough
A Tornado could be seen in the distance destroying everything in its path along the farmlands
Yet that Greyhound bus steadily kept moving
But the fierce violent winds were blowing
Suddenly, the Greyhound bus got a lift
Up in the funnel of the Tornado the Greyhound bus went far from any drift
However, a miracle took place, and the bus was slowly let down gently to the ground
The Greyhound bus remained in tacked and nothing but praises in God’s thanks was the sound
This is my account of another story
I was travelling from New York City to San Francisco, California
It was a vacation being a 4 days journey and New York City back
We had just crossed the Nevada state line being a rest stop
A Young Woman went into labor on the bus
The Driver was counting the contractions, but we all knew what was going to happen
This was supposed too be an 30 minute rest stop, but turned into a 2 hour rest stop
Luckily, the bus was near a major hospital nearby, and an ambulance was summoned
The EMS carried the Pregnant Woman on a stretcher off the bus and her Boyfriend (Husband) followed
Later, the bus pushed on, and I arrived at my final destination ahead of schedule into San Francisco
Another story tail
This time I was travelling to Los Angeles from New York City
We stopped in a Ghost town
There were tumbleweed flying everywhere and shutters were hitting all the houses along with wind blowing
Yet, there were no citizens in the town
Meanwhile, it was 6:00 AM in Arizona
Suddenly, all the passengers wondered who was coming aboard
But everyone was thinking thriller oh my Lord
A Male Passenger boarded, but spoke Spanish
He was drunk and wanted to sit with anyone, but passengers refused
So he had to go to the back of the bus where the restroom was
He talked from the time he boarded until we arrived in Los Angeles
So Greyhound is more than a ride, it became an adventure
Stories upon stories
Go Greyhound with its own storyline
The venture being the bus, but no need to fuss
Greyhound is the American Frontier and that involves us
What is your Greyhound traveling story?
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
basic arithmetic in terms of punctuation, otherwise? simply the arithmetic of punctuation: what does (,) equal? what does (.) equal? what does (:) equal? what does (-) equal? what does (;) equal? come on, quick! quick! give me a number!
to think, is to not narrate,
much of what is regarded as
"thinking", simply becomes as art
of narration
that is sofa-bound, i.e. so comfortable
that it feels it has no inclination
toward the use of hands as ever
being idle, it simply replaces
hands with a tongue...
hence: idle speech,
hence political speech;
so if the "devil" has work for idle hands,
then "god" has work for the idle zunge
(tongue)...
but most people don't think,
because their thinkling is solely about
narrating,
their day-to-day...
and i appreciate this custom,
in the cognitive realm...
i really do...
how many jokes ushered into
the void of one's silence, neither whisphers,
nor hummings, nor whistling...
wiser still, essentially unchanged...
but heidegger's aphorism no. 285
really bothers me...
the reader looking into the narrator
given the existentialist inverted commas
(iberian inverted questioning
¿ ? that's the first step toward
an iberian existentialism)
said the third person,
with third party sources, the middle man,
the second person, and then the reader
of the writer's original testimony?
if northern existentialism (french / german...
the english were too reactionary, and
too easily bored by the continental drift)
encompasses the tool that's " "
then the iberian tool has to be the inverted
question mark, i.e. ¿ ?,
sitting comfortably? no? how about a wheelchair...
let me just break your legs and your spine.
but aphorism 285: "worldview",
"grounding", "configuring"...
i don't understand this allocation of ambiguity,
and an italic stress on da-sein / da-sein...
aren't all the three descriptive elements /
adjectives the purposive sentiments for
originating the concept of dasein?
i had to counter with an iberian existential tool...
after all i said, 'he said', "we said"...
it's a third party medium
of supposed ambiguity...
if there's a santa claus (satan's clause),
then there's pontius pilate's clause,
found in the existential tool of double-ditto " "
or as the english like to say: inverted commas;
or the ritual: of washing your hands clean
from passing the judgement...
they're citation marks to be honest, come on,
let's be pompous, they donned 19th top-hats
at ascot's horse races! who's fooling who?
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 7:25 AM UTC
There is no floor
Below the water there is sand and dust
My feet disappear below the mist
And below that is a floor of nothing.
Lock and key, relative conductivity
Separation of anxieties
Generally elementary
Universal energy
Scientific inquiry
Empirical discovery
What a bunch of crap.
I bathe in fake white plastic
I swim in silent smiles
Dionysian warfare paintings
Classical textual narrating
Fitness, happiness, soporific movies
Genial tendencies, braced for ingenuity
Waiting for a paroxysm to bring forth neologisms
That test the boundaries of scientific truth
That recapture the errant minds of youth
We could make new buildings or lose a tooth
I hold the latter higher than that
I tilt the ladder there and back
Assiduous and wont, *** for tat
All a game, a joke at that
Your domain, provoked and trapped
Impressionistic spinal taps
On canvases of green and black
All from within cerebral shacks
Wind hammers palm trees on windowpanes
Wind tears down houses, rips apart planes
Wind doesn't move me, yet seems urbane
It's so jejune, it's all the same
I'm tired and lonely, powder remains
Pink like reagents in reactive flames
Quick like catalysts jumping inane
Frontal lobes retired my brain.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 12:02 PM UTC
*I walk down the street
and there is just this radiating *** appeal
in everything I could possibly do—
even in the way the rubber on my shoes
grips the hot cement sidewalks.*
(I realize that may not sound too ****
at all;
But I’m confident that in this moment
someone is drooling over that step.)
*Unmistakable swagger.
A few more moments of this
untouchable cool
& Morgan Freeman will be narrating
my every thought and movement.*
At least
that’s the way you make me feel.
How dare you.
You have the audacity to become
something so earmarked in my
little,
inconsequential,
twentysomething life.
You have the guts
to learn all of those
hidden quirks.
The same ones I relentlessly
and rightfully
keep to myself.
You have the nerve
to become the reason
why I smile for days,
go to bed alone
(but beaming)
& wake up with a larger reason
to grab life by its
*big
metaphorical
*****
until it sees things my way.
& I’m aware that
***** may not be the most
poetic of terms—
but the last time I checked,
poetry didn’t have
**a **** definition**
The last time I checked—
neither do we.
So how dare you
build me up into the only person
I can stand to be,
with only the promise
of an impending expiration date?
Then again,
there is something strangely
haunting
& remarkable
revolving around
the anticipation of that sort of heartache.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
I confessed my adoration declaring my undying affection along with my true intentions
You declined most gracefully (clear and concise)
Narrating you do not share the same sentiments, (it was a forgone conclusion)
Letting me down eventually yet elevating my spirits every time you smile;
If you reciprocated even a decimal point of devotion or a fraction of affinity I hold for you
Metaphorically speaking it would acquire the vast space that now occupy all the stars in the known cosmos
For my affection towards you ran across time through galaxies extending throughout the infinite interstellar, finally resonating to the heavens unsettling angels and almighty god
In space time is redundant; direction hold no relevance and gravity is absent
Similar to the romantic intentions you have for me – literally none existent
You will always occupy that pedestal you once accused me I have erroneously placed you on
I will always hold the candle for you, step off a bridge if you asked me to
I would rather deserve medals and not have them; than to have medals and not deserve them
Very much like you – case and point
Maybe you are like the sunset I only have the privilege of admiring its magnificence from a far
But never to retain it for myself I have to let go once the dusk disappear giving way to the stars
But I like to still envision; let my imagination run rampant; then contemplate in accordance to the “Many Worlds Theory” that somewhere in the unknown multiverse, vibrating in a different frequency, we co-exist ecstatically ; now living & sharing an apartment in New York city; enjoying Chinese takeaway drinking cheap wine while listening to all your favourite songs from the nineties. (Specially the Goo Goo Dolls, The Verve and Matchbox Twenty)
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
The voice of Morgan Freeman can make flowers sprout
Penguins march like an army to the rhythm of his voice
The voice of an opera singer may break glass
But his just melds it back together
I'm pretty sure
Somewhere
He's narrating my every footstep
My every breath
My every twitch
He's somewhere looking down on me
Giving the best play by play ever
His deep bellowing voice
Opens the worn hole
Helps break Tim Robbins out of Shawshank
And helps batman save Gotham
The only thing he can't do
Is get me through high school
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:41 AM UTC
Some day, maybe tomorrow
get ready to travel.
The flute is narrating streams.
The leaves are drawing rainbows lightly,
they are soaring in the rain,
nearly not leaving circles.
Travel, travel …
With your soul only
(it is a mute shadow).
With your love
(it has no shadow).
Keep the life,
like music, like rain,
like the blind one who stopped
The Sun.
Travel …
The original:
Пътувай
Някой ден, може би утре,
приготви се да пътуваш.
Флейтата разказва ручеи.
Листата плавно рисуват дъги,
политат в дъжда,
почти не оставят кръгове.
Пътувай, пътувай…
С душата единствено
(тя няма сянка).
С любовта си
(тя няма сянка).
Запази живота,
като музика, като дъжд,
като слепия, който спря
Слънцето.
Пътувай…
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 9:30 PM UTC
If I lose you after all, after this fall
After the leaves change and death fills the air
I'll just lie to myself and say you were just research for the secret book I'm narrating in my head
Internal observer, on the inside looking out
Taking notes somewhere in my cerebral cortex
Somehow without my consent the neurons fired them into my heart
And it was supposed to help me breathe but it has only become more difficult
A carefully executed experiment but apparently I have
Fallen victim to my own placebo effect
Is it real if I believe it is?
Is it like thinking happy thoughts in order to fly
What would prove as compelling evidence
I have to remain objective until
A positive correlation is made and solidified and
Thrown in my face
Maybe it's the way your Claddagh ring is still turned on its inside
And I don't know if that means you already belong to someone
Or if you think that means you belong to no one
Who understands all this fleeting symbolic **** anyway
Who really understands anything at all
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 1:44 PM UTC
Through my actions
Through my poems
I always wanted to tell you this
Through days and weeks
Through months we spend
I always wanted to express this
Through efforts I did
Through stories I wrote
You will always be treasured
Through seconds
Through minutes
I think of you
I realized that I should say this
Through poetry
Through art
I always express myself
Did you know that all of this
I already knew it from the start
And how I see you is an art
A masterpiece that I kept in my heart
An imperfect artwork that I love deep inside
I love to think that soon you'll be on my side
Narrating this words it means
That 3 letter word is you by all means.
Dec 12, 2020
Dec 12, 2020 at 8:14 AM UTC
At the break of dawn, letters sit by your bedside
narrating moon sonnets,
Remnants of satsuma and rose, colour in childhood streets
and you find ways to bottle nostalgia into a fragrance,
and with it, blooms melancholy.
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 5:16 PM UTC
Prompt: Narrating a famous historical figure stuck in a traffic jam.
Here I am, All Alone in my car.
I’m stuck between a Thunderbird and a red light.
As Time Goes By, I get to thinking about that Autumn in New York,
when we were walking through the rain At Sundown.
I Didn’t Know What Time it Was, but
I begin to think about you, The Girl Next Door,
you know I’d Know You Anywhere.
And then You Kissed Me, I remember thinking,
For Once in My Life, I’ve Got the World on a String!
But Don’t Worry About Me, I Don’t Like Goodbyes,
this is The End of a Love Affair.
But next time you see me, Gimme A Little Kiss
and Try a Little Tenderness,
for you are The Gal That Got Away.
May 15, 2011
May 15, 2011 at 8:11 PM UTC
Raconteur we all are
Narrating our anecdotes
Not many willing audience
You keep them close to your heart
Maybe one day someone will listen
Peering at your beautiful heart
A traveler with compassion
Willing to walk with you
Noting down every detail
Weaving a story of togetherness
Bonding over the stories
The raconteur
Will have finally met another
Sharing life’s anecdotes
Embracing every event
And celebrating together
Come what may
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
Catch me in the act.
Catch me destroying
evidence
on the riverbank.
Evidence of daydreams,
of picnics in the grass.
Grass so green it has
never thirsted
But drank so heavily
when we spilled that 2005 bordeaux.
I promise you:
this is not a poem.
This the red-winged blackbird,
narrating (singing)
as I push you on a swing.
catch me smiling, helplessly,
when you turn around
Catch me because I’ve fallen
not because you pushed me;
I never watch
where I’m going
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
Eyes closed, with the headstate caught somewhere in the space connecting galaxies. Examining fallacies told & sold for your time, outlining the travesty of soul. The bold take hold of the moment & know to let go. Instigate the growth that no *** could control. Add extra oxygen for the plot to unfold. Reach to your nearest Sun & soak your aura in gold.
The all-encompassing story involves us all, but it's up to you how it's told. Thank you for narrating, caring, & being of good character. Eye left a dimension in my music for your verse. Reflect the stimulus and let creativity surge. Respect every letter placed together to form words. I love you, this is your time, let the story be heard~
Mind open, with the dreamscape transcending space connecting eternal energies...
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 12:49 AM UTC
We are poems: each of us narrating different instances of life.
Dancing, singing and humming the tune of our words.
Waiting, to be read by the one's who understand.
We are poems of the divine sort.
Our Poet is the one whence all words came from:
Written in the word of God, we are eternally printed on the paper life.
And we're all worth the paper we are printed on.
For life is unique, like the meanings different poems hold.
You are a living poem.
And knows not the poem, it's own importance.
The one who reads you may or may not understand you well.
But poems are like that:
The ones who do understand, admire your importance.
And in such people, you find a reflection of you.
For they are similar living poems.
-The Silent Poet
#original
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC
From unkown we reached here
To unkown we will go
Living just to watch and hear
Till it's become like a kind of law !
Successful in narrating our history to our children
What history could do if we kept our heads buried in the sand ?!
Registering events " where and when "
" with you we'll thrive " , how to be a climber without hands ?!
" For the future , work today "
But it's like telling a blinder :
" walk alone along the way ! "
Years passed and days come
Yet, we underestimate the significance of time
We weren't born to live as dumps
But to work our minds to reach the prime !
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 7:16 AM UTC
The night introduced us to our deepest desire
A bed only for two could hold us like a nest
A black room and a hint of light from the moon
With only the subtle outlines of our bodies
Then fear came along by tapping on our shoulders
And now narrating a brand new scene:
Uncomfortable, he said to her,
"I am sorry, but we are unfamiliar with each other."
She said, "I have waited so long to meet.
Strangers can become lovers. A seed may become a flower."
Slightly more comfortable, he then thought and said,
"A garden of flowers uncared for will become a manifestation of weeds."
A drop of sweat rolled across his body,
Not long before he became a flooded town,
And she became a rain shower of tears.
Time ran by both of them and left behind a trail
Of disappointment and confusion
Emotionless.
Now indifferent to what used to matter most
Pain was buried beneath them
Hard to even feel, but they knew it was somewhere in the background
Now, so distant are they, yet just an inch apart
So alone they felt, yet both were accompanied by one another
The appointment was over
Sleep arrived and took each separately away to another place
The morning spoke to him when he awoke telling him
"You may have died, but you are born again
The night will always come again
The next time it comes, Love it
Speak to it slowly, Hold it in your arms
Be gentle, and Take care of it."
She last said to him,
"Being sorry keeps you in the same black room. The lock is inside the room.
Just feel to find it, and unlock the door. I will be waiting."
She closed the door.
He was alone in a room
Naked.
Bare of all that he was
Wondering if he would ever see her again
He heard himself inside say,
"Next time you lay next to her alone,
Water the garden."
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 3:54 PM UTC
It was the month of April
Was in grade seventh or eighth
Spending summer holidays
With my mischievous cousins
In my ancestral home
One night making me
Scary and neurotic
Jingling sound of anklets
Woke me from my sleep
That sound climbing upstairs
Nearing to our bed where
Me and my cousin slept
Waking her from her sleep
With a fear on her face
Pale with yellow and red
Moving towards us rapidly
With a aim to harm us
Closing our eyes tight
Holding our hands together
Heart beating faster like a cheetah
Becoming speechless
Trying to call out louder
Someone to help us
But was in vain to do so
Came out my voice
Just to reach my mother
Came running to us with
A fear and looking worried
Hugging her with tears
Running downstairs like a lightning
Narrating the nightmare
In the morning to granny
Heard an ancestral story
About the jingling of anklets
In excitement was she
Annotating about Gods
Walking through the streets
Their legs with anklets
And hands with iron chains
Protecting the people from
The darkness and evils
Lucky are those who can
Hear that Holy sound
With an innocent smile
Felt how lucky we are !
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC
Come with me
and I'll show you a world of possibilities
I'll just take off your glasses
and the let the sun kiss your eyes
refreshing your sight
Come with
and I'll mend your heart
with honey to sweeten each crack
changing your hatred to sweet nostalgia
Come with me
and I'll paint a pure reflection
that'll amplify your imperfections
that'll highlight the flaws
and portray a new vision of beauty
Come with me
and I'll hold your hand
through the world that you already abhor
Come with me
and we will pin the clouds to our
feet and float weightlessly
carelessly
Come with me
and we'll discover a planet
where society has not yet tarnished
all forms of cliche
Come with me
and we'll write novels
on city walls
narrating stories that will bring people together
or tear them apart
Come with me
and we'll show them
how beautiful it is to dance
with no wrongs or rights
just mere human elation
Come with me and
we will hop from one star
to the other, exploring each
bright possibility
Come with me
and I'll show you
what you don't see
come
with
me
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC