"novella" poems
In the smoke and haze
I could lie for days
Bound by dreams
Of vivacious scenes
A matriarchal mistress
From Sacher-Madoche novella
Gleaming eyes; a cruel smile
Courtesy could not last for a mile
Spank and strike,
Dearest love and goddess
Do not shirk from such duty
****** and tantalising
Bask in decadent moonlight
By the wisp of cold wind
Cure your sadism
And sate your masochism
Within piquant smell of leather
Find your balance
Between lust and love
Dealt with swift blows so keen and easy
All whilst recounting your ****** burden
Unto lovely Aphrodite
She is taken with vile passion
And laden with fur and velvet
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 3:51 AM UTC
I have hairy legs.
The dishwasher is broken.
I have been reading books.
I have been solving stupid math equations
I have to wash the food crusted dishes.
I’m writing a novella
I’m also researching sodium chloride
My novella is only six pages single-spaced so far.
Comment vous appelez-vous?
Why doesn’t anyone participate
In the
Wash Your Own **** Dishes Program?
I’m studying French.
-b +/- Square root of b2 – 4 (a)(b) over 2(a)
Anyways.
I have been teaching myself
How to play my
Black
Stretchy
Accordion.
[I don’t know why,
But it’s stretchy
Like mozzarella cheese]
I have to help my sister-in-law move
Into my house.
Into the basement.
Heh heh heh.
Daiya non-dairy cheese:
“Melts and stretches!”
Now I have to scrape the
Black tar gunk
Off the plates, because
Mother told me to do so.
Oh, the odium of sodium!
There is
No more time
For me
To shave
My legs.
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 7:15 PM UTC
are you seventeen yet?
have the berries and the shells
stained impossibly
your youthful heart permanent,
have you matured and learned
to end sentences
in question marks?
surely certainty and
alack, its absence,
haunts
all your waking poems,
wonder does your mother know
what you’ve purloined,
stored in you
from her withins?
so young, so much love
oil spilling,
do you wonder about
the depth of the field
you are drilling, extracting -
is the soft supple supply,
so, close to the surface,
endless?
life so far is but a draft.
take copious notes
for the best is yet
and I await patiently
the novella of your
adventures!
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
Toss away sheltering umbrella,
Seek to samba triumphant in the rain.
Edit dramatic doldrums from the novella,
Relate an easy tongue of the urbane.
Call a friend as helpful lifeline,
Castle Queenside for defense,
Debate the speed of light with Einstein,
Let love be your sixth sense.
Swim out through the breakers,
Surf the hurricane back home,
Reject the quackery of fakers,
Let rain cloud be your geodesic dome.
Vilify politics of standstill,
Wink the lowlands of the moon.
Pitch an idea to the gristmill,
Sing impromptu to typhoon.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 5:17 PM UTC
I just left your house and
counted the glowing, dotted lines
that passed by all too eagerly
The fluorescent paint
reflects the lights back to me
like the letter I passed to you
which you so hastily returned
A chipped away memory and
a winter kiss only dreamt of
finalize this draft of our
suspenseful novella
But I hear you have many of
these unfinished stories
pushed aside while you reread
the same old text
hoping that you can add to
the blank pages in the back
And while you study
those worn, yellow pages
you leave behind
a library of fortune
too late to discover
With a flick of the thumb
and a twist of the wrist
these missed adventures become
glowing embers on the asphalt
a fading memory in my rear-view mirror
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 7:26 AM UTC
Come, my songs, let us express our baser passions.
Let us express our envy for the man with a steady job and no worry about the future.
You are very idle, my songs,
I fear you will come to a bad end.
You stand about the streets, You loiter at the corners and bus-stops,
You do next to nothing at all.
You do not even express our inner nobilitys,
You will come to a very bad end.
And I? I have gone half-cracked.
I have talked to you so much that I almost see you about me,
Insolent little beasts! Shameless! Devoid of clothing!
But you, newest song of the lot,
You are not old enough to have done much mischief.
I will get you a green coat out of China
With dragons worked upon it.
I will get you the scarlet silk trousers
From the statue of the infant Christ at Santa Maria Novella;
Lest they say we are lacking in taste,
Or that there is no caste in this family.
1.9k
"Night" by Elie Wiesel is a powerful novella about the Holocaust and one boys journey to survive the concentration camp.
Night
The light begins its descent
Time of darkness is near
Flames in the distance
Signal hopelessness and death
Faint sounds of sadness
Echo in the void of the mind
Stripped of possessions
Dignity torn away
Inhumanity reigns above logic
Illusion and despair set in
Normal life just a dream
Shattered youth, tattered innocence
Words and faith have no meaning
Human no more, only a number
Faceless object in a sea of sorrow
Fighting every day for sanity
Each night longer then the next
Sadness, hopelessness, death surrounds
Where is God? Why is this happening?
Will anyone ever wake from this nightmare
Until last breath and
The heart beats no more
No one can escape that first night
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 11:00 AM UTC
Hi, guys.
Anyone who would like to pick up my second poetry collection, "Gulag 101", can grab it for free until 18th.
US customers: tinyurl.com/usd-g101
UK customers: tinyurl.com/ukd-g101
It's on a special promotion to tie in with the launch of my latest fiction offering, "The Other One", a novella about a young girl growing up in the long, dark shadow of her abducted identical twin.
You can grab this one, too, if you like.
US link: tinyurl.com/usd-oth
UK link: tinyurl.com/ukd-oth
Residents of the rest of the world, both of these titles will be available if you look for them on Amazon.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 2:26 PM UTC
the substance of her eyes
was deeper than the stain of words across her lips
in her eyes you could read the
fairy tales or the romance novella that she was
living moment to moment
the epic taste of beautiful kingdoms fairy princess
in the sparkle of her half spoken smile
the clear lens of passions heat
in her perfumed sweat breaking upon her delicate brow
the high seas and paradise's shores with a strong lover
in the ***** hue of her blushing bride face
the substance of her eye
would tell how far away she is
at any given moment
and today she is
lifetimes and worlds distant in your arms
today she is someone else
with a different life
the substance of her eyes
is one of absence
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
so i took liberty's with my lockpick and freud's diary
and went in search of the reasons for dry thunder
and for pictures of the rain locked away in some peoples eyes
some hearts are waterlogged silent forests
grey clinging to the wet pine needles
some are deserts of the twilight
like dust gathering at the least disturbed path
their hearts are heavy with dry weight
i found her in the cold light of candles
mapping the unknown with her thin hand
her perfections chiseled softly into all of my senses
like a michelangelo paint by number sweet summer dream
her immediate and urgent presence on the night air
makes me breath in deep and feel to the bottom of my feet
that she is tenderness personified
she is light perfected
she is fresh off the pages of some steinbeck novella
she just has a grace that gives
she is in love with its concept and rumor
with lockpick in hand and the image of
old man freud smoking something funny in his pipe
traveled through this place with an eye to the depths
a girl out there provides a sultry version of hopes in a song
from within her place of televisions flickers
as i sit by the window shade as it stirs to life
approaching rain
the lockpick also comes to life
as the complexity's of a strangers smile
fluctuate in the eye
a grain of sand lodged in the crawlspaces of the mind
grinding in the gears of thought
the song drifts to an end
with her smile
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
we went walking in the
birdsong breezes
hand in hand in the
spring grass 'neath the juniper tree
and her heart sung me a lullaby so sweet
her heart laid her empathy's hand to cool my worried brow
as she walked up the beach
in the strange empire just north of miami carrying a conch
barefoot wearing a quilted hippy skirt
and filled the world around her with joys
its the truth of her
it shows in everything she dose
we went walking in evenings tide
as sea and sand swirled neath our bare feet
as the golden taste of setting sun nourished our souls
she gave me loves tender and true
thrice she tapped at souls gate with her giggling charms
thrice she gently laid spring doves to sing me awake
thrice clad in her hippy quilted dress she loved and saved poor mortal me
and so we went walking in the evening tide to cool our bodies
and set fires in our souls
her voice in my minds eye as she read my poetry aloud
in a parking garage at three am
because the echoes added to the magic
but the only magic i see is her
we went walking in the fresh spring morning
in a deep rich forest to marvel at king johns kingdom
and when we found him
as any gentle soul would she fed him
and wiped away his tears
its the truth of her
in everything she dose
theres no cruelty's cage like denvers hippies
theres only love
we went walking
and made our way home
her college girl glasses on my nightstand
with her french romance novella
and a pack of english cigarettes
she sleeps sweetly in my arms
while spring stirs the sunsoaked curtains
filling the air with birdsong and flowers
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
The time has come
I can never again be
your friend...
neither will a curse
ever pass my lips...
I will
never
be your
enemy.
I know
from time to time
a prayer
for you
will
spontaneously
rise to my lips.
Nor will I ever
attempt
to withhold
or deny it.
It is destined
and will be
delivered
to God
the giver of life.
In another life
our paths crossed...
you were once
my brother
my dearest friend
my husband
my lover...
YOU WERE THE VERY
LOVE
OF MY LIFE.
you are gone
no more to be found
you walked away
a page has turned
and it is blank
my back has turned
I walk away
God takes my hand
sometimes
He dries my tears
like now
sometimes
He carries me
other times
we walk together
I climb the stairs
I see the light
I leave the world
of
the living dead
I will
never
be the same
I am
New
Reborn.
cj 2016
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 10:17 PM UTC
Your life is a story.
The spine is cracked,
pages are missing,
but no space is left
vacant.
Each chapter holds every
tear, every ****** knee,
every night spent alone.
They quote the thoughts and
conversations you wish you
had forgotten,
the screams and the
hand gestures,
every bad name you've called
yourself since you were ten,
all of it branded to the
pages in black ink.
You wish you could burn
it all like you
used to burn your thighs.
You don't remember the
pages you crumpled up
and threw away,
the eskimo and
butterfly kisses,
the summers you spent
by his side.
You lost your best friend's
laugh and the smell of
chocolate chip cookies.
You closed your eyes to the
beauty you always had,
the smile that was always yours,
the feeling of a pen writing out
your story.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
spanish rose lingers in the corner
with some french sailor who is
just a breathing caricature
illustrated in ink and animated by alcohol
his four letter word vocabulary with deluxe cardboard delivery
but its his eyes that capture you
swimming in hundred proof they are
wise with miles of years
and wicked in a smoky dark room way
but she is too busy to notice
flirting with the stranger across the room
a traveling salesman with boxes
of rusty trinkets for crafty sale
meanwhile old jack is swinging on the gibbet
talking away the hours with his old flame and friends
he is a threadbare imitation of me
and that suits you fine
long as its three meals and a slice of pie
the essentials of easy living wrapped up in a lace hanky
its a little ***** and on the down low
but the whole digging in some
rich kids ***** laundry for loose change
never appealed to you all that much
so attached to old jack come to make your stand
both barrels smoking hot and ready to let loose
should any fool step to the line
we all watched with amusements
as the magician open his show with a shock and awe
that sputtered and fell
but we all loved his punch lines so much that we
cheered him on all night
the chorus girls got us all up and dancing little past three
and the suave singer had us cheek to cheek by dawn
it was another night to remember to be sure
memorable as stumpy swimming with the gators
we all shuffle barefoot in the sand
to our dusty beds
and dream sweetly of fiveash romance novella endings
and the beauties of dawn
we will be up to no good once more
all loud and proud
young and full'a *****
as a spring moon crests over seaside town
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
Ours wasn't the romantic saga
We had imagined it would be
But no less than a fairytale it was
In its length, short and sweet.
Few pages, yet composed with the
Most melodious words, moistened with
The most crystal tears,
A whirlwind- intense, abrupt, yet unbelievably soft
Our very own novella
That we wrote with our fingers intertwined
And illustrated some pages
With the color of our kisses
Remember you asked me why I left that last page blank?
I did it for this moment my dear,
Meeting you after all these years
You say you're planning to leave your hair un-dyed
From now, it'll be glistening white
I wouldn't do the same, I'm still coping
With these crow feet near my eyes!
You have a different world
As I have mine,
I didn't leap into your arms and shower you with love
Like, almost, was the norm in our time,
No playful nudges, no giggling, no madness
Just a strange, settled, calm kind of tenderness.
The tenderness, that, untouched by time,
Dutifully stayed
As a silent, poignant reminder that
The love never did,
And never will fade.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
Pixels weigh upon my opaque mind set
The normal third tier of distance
is not asserting its wicked face
Never before has this scent wrung it self
From a fugitives discarded clothing
Dared to cross these topographic horrors
Deep in the hands of some bewildered mongrel
The evidence engulfs the ghastly thin walls
To lose the branding Hannibal
and his nomadic pursuit
Would mean retreat to an empty cavern
But With not even some flimsy novella?
The currents and the basket weaving
widows would not appease
The Ernest clock of monstrous honesty
Calls for us to depart
This holding cell is still filled
Deep with ticking heart valves
How many times has this repeated?
Were losing our grasp
It’s been hours
And without any thought devoid of mossy textures
Chalk smears and ambitious plastic
Dual neglected lives in this purgatory
The ones that have been haunted
They are boxed into some neurotic tri-valve machine
It spits back the violent and the tardy
Pleasing the populace is just not accessible today
It is without any grass
But this overly sensitive blanket that I touch
I must venture to this foreign world of pleasantries
Where cry shed over a dingy t-shirt
And the slow desertion of the wilder beast will not be tolerated
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:20 AM UTC
I do not have a picture of you
except the gray one drifting in my head
I will feebly tell the world about you
and your three walls
the grated window does allow the morning light
to shine upon the graffiti prophets’ words
a scratched and scrolled novella
on the ancient cold bricks
the indelible tales they tell
hang above the pocked porcelain pools
where the unclean
were scrubbed by the unholy
who thought them unworthy
of their sacred soil
some would scream during the rituals
not at the pain of the brush
or the eye sting of the careless lye,
their rabid cries
came from the vacant eyes
of their captors
who did not see them
in their naked splendor,
speak their forgotten names
in the dead morning air, or
even hear them,
when they cried to their gods for mercy,
to be released from their pestilent past
and to be made blind
to the servant’s silent suffering
only they could see
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 1:47 PM UTC
Hiding under the colorful umbrellas,
We are all gloomy cindrellas.
Staring at the pools of water,
One splash, and we are ready to slaughter!
***** laces,
Scornful faces,
Such a wonderful rain,
But, we are all dashing for the train.
"What's the matter?
Let's take a stop for some chatter."
"Come on! I don't wanna get late!
You should rush too, my mate!
Look what the rain has done,
Ruined my beautiful jacket, my one and the only one!"
"Ah! Such a delightful weather,
And all you care about is your leather?!
Here take my umbrella,
I want to drench like a mad fellah!"
Then, I let my head out,
Popped out like a new sprout,
Rain sprayed, some sugar and salt,
Rush hour came to a halt.
One tiny drop flowed down my brow,
And heard me take a whispered vow,
"Never will I take another umbrella,
Every time it rains it will be a new novella!!"
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
her opulent presence
is beautifully crafted on the night of the mind
her tattooed form elegantly painted sensitively
but oh so erotically
lip rings and candy necklace feast for the lusts
but she knows your eyes are on the plunging neckline
she is a deeply written romance novella
she is a poem of darker daylight
longing within her good girl image
to be as bad as bad girl can be
beautifully written in that smile
written in the sunshine of the opulent soul
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
D'in su la vetta della torre antica,
Passero solitario, alla campagna
Cantando vai finché non more il giorno;
Ed erra l'armonia per questa valle.
Primavera dintorno
Brilla nell'aria, e per li campi esulta,
Sì ch'a mirarla intenerisce il core.
Odi greggi belar, muggire armenti;
Gli altri augelli contenti, a gara insieme
Per lo libero ciel fan mille giri,
Pur festeggiando il lor tempo migliore:
Tu pensoso in disparte il tutto miri;
Non compagni, non voli,
Non ti cal d'allegria, schivi gli spassi;
Canti, e così trapassi
Dell'anno e di tua vita il più bel fiore.
Oimè, quanto somiglia
Al tuo costume il mio! Sollazzo e riso,
Della novella età dolce famiglia,
E te german di giovinezza, amore,
Sospiro acerbo dè provetti giorni,
Non curo, io non so come; anzi da loro
Quasi fuggo lontano;
Quasi romito, e strano
Al mio loco natio,
Passo del viver mio la primavera.
Questo giorno ch'omai cede alla sera,
Festeggiar si costuma al nostro borgo.
Odi per lo sereno un suon di squilla,
Odi spesso un tonar di ferree canne,
Che rimbomba lontan di villa in villa.
Tutta vestita a festa
La gioventù del loco
Lascia le case, e per le vie si spande;
E mira ed è mirata, e in cor s'allegra.
Io solitario in questa
Rimota parte alla campagna uscendo,
Ogni diletto e gioco
Indugio in altro tempo: e intanto il guardo
Steso nell'aria aprica
Mi fere il Sol che tra lontani monti,
Dopo il giorno sereno,
Cadendo si dilegua, e par che dica
Che la beata gioventù vien meno.
Tu, solingo augellin, venuto a sera
Del viver che daranno a te le stelle,
Certo del tuo costume
Non ti dorrai; che di natura è frutto
Ogni vostra vaghezza.
A me, se di vecchiezza
La detestata soglia
Evitar non impetro,
Quando muti questi occhi all'altrui core,
E lor fia vòto il mondo, e il dì futuro
Del dì presente più noioso e tetro,
Che parrà di tal voglia?
Che di quest'anni miei? Che di me stesso?
Ahi pentirommi, e spesso,
Ma sconsolato, volgerommi indietro.
1.1k
Of the silence in this mind
Life once taken isn’t sacred
Staring at a mirror with one’s self, half-naked
After learning to accept the pain, there’s was nothing to escape it
One could make it better than fate ever did
Can’t understand what one was doing; just escaping
Jailing one’s self with their own personal hate and
Hiding away from the mental wardens that one stayed with
Discarding one’s self to remember that one had a very hand in
The destruction to the very world one was contained within
One believed it’s right, so the argument is always **** off-*
*go fix your life before you act like you’re a **** God.”*
It’s a long way from accepting all the blade does
But it never fails and the lines eventually fade off
Could be a saint and come to one’s defense
Or shut the **** up and watch from the ******* fence
Worn this mask so long, one tends to forget to fake it
Disillusioned to one’s self and all the things that make it
More lines to breathe across the skin appear soon
A novella of pain with no words to read through
Handling a smile like accessory to hide instability
Always showing through, but truly just a shell of ‘me’
Despite the calm you see
Through laughs and jeers
One still feels lost and uncontrolled
Everything warm when one’s heart turned cold
No chance to correct it, just craving an exit
Took the knife last night, now the demons are rested
Took the chance last night, now dried and decrepit
Relapsed again tonight, and one’s mind is repressive
Wrote about a horrid time, and now it’s all depressive
Happy stars and pussycats, unicorns and other ****
©2015 Neal Emanuelson
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
Passata è la tempesta:
Odo augelli far festa, e la gallina,
Tornata in su la via,
Che ripete il suo verso. Ecco il sereno
Rompe là da ponente, alla montagna;
Sgombrasi la campagna,
E chiaro nella valle il fiume appare.
Ogni cor si rallegra, in ogni lato
Risorge il romorio
Torna il lavoro usato.
L'artigiano a mirar l'umido cielo,
Con l'opra in man, cantando,
Fassi in su l'uscio; a prova
Vien fuor la femminetta a còr dell'acqua
Della novella piova;
E l'erbaiuol rinnova
Di sentiero in sentiero
Il grido giornaliero.
Ecco il Sol che ritorna, ecco sorride
Per li poggi e le ville. Apre i balconi,
Apre terrazzi e logge la famiglia:
E, dalla via corrente, odi lontano
Tintinnio di sonagli; il carro stride
Del passeggier che il suo cammin ripiglia.
Si rallegra ogni core.
Sì dolce, sì gradita
Quand'è, com'or, la vita?
Quando con tanto amore
L'uomo à suoi studi intende?
O torna all'opre? O cosa nova imprende?
Quando dè mali suoi men si ricorda?
Piacer figlio d'affanno;
Gioia vana, ch'è frutto
Del passato timore, onde si scosse
E paventò la morte
Chi la vita abborria;
Onde in lungo tormento,
Fredde, tacite, smorte,
Sudàr le genti e palpitàr, vedendo
Mossi alle nostre offese
Folgori, nembi e vento.
O natura cortese,
Son questi i doni tuoi,
Questi i diletti sono
Che tu porgi ai mortali. Uscir di pena
È diletto fra noi.
Pene tu spargi a larga mano; il duolo
Spontaneo sorge e di piacer, quel tanto
Che per mostro e miracolo talvolta
Nasce d'affanno, è gran guadagno. Umana
Prole cara agli eterni! Assai felice
Se respirar ti lice
D'alcun dolor: beata
Se te d'ogni dolor morte risana.
1k
poem that comes pretty much out of blue skies
full versed song of a heavier soul roll in out of the darkened plains
novella written in the sweaty moments
before dawn after a night of **********
in the the thick of it
where the words are physical
where the vision is blinding
who would you be if you were face to face with impossible me
bent and broken or loud and proud
would you be the poem
sweet and true
would you be some unfamiliar rhyme
distant and cold in your features as the sun set on your face
you are like that
you drop in on me out of the clear cold blue sky
whole and unhurt
unhinged but unchanged
a poem written at birth
you are still being written
so dazzle shine
be mine
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 1:49 PM UTC
a spanish rose, she lingers in the corner
with some french sailor who is
just a breathing caricature
illustrated in ink and animated by alcohol
his four letter word vocabulary with deluxe cardboard delivery
but its his eyes that capture you
swimming in hundred proof they are
wise with miles of years
and wicked in a smoky dark room way
but she is too busy to notice
flirting with the stranger across the room
a traveling salesman with boxes
of rusty trinkets for crafty sale
meanwhile old jack is swinging on the gibbet
talking away the hours with his old flame and friends
he is a threadbare imitation of me
and that suits you fine
long as its three meals and a slice of pie
the essentials of easy living wrapped up in a lace hanky
its a little ***** and on the down low
but the whole digging in some
rich kids ***** laundry for loose change
never appealed to you all that much
so attached to old jack come to make your stand
both barrels smoking hot and ready to let loose
should any fool step to the line
we all watched with amusements
as the magician open his show with a shock and awe
that sputtered and fell
but we all loved his punch lines so much that we
cheered him on all night
the chorus girls got us all up and dancing little past three
and the suave singer had us cheek to cheek by dawn
it was another night to remember to be sure
memorable as stumpy swimming with the gators
we all shuffle barefoot in the sand
to our dusty beds
and dream sweetly of fiveash romance novella endings
and the beauties of dawn
we will be up to no good once more
all loud and proud
young and full'a *****
as a spring moon crests over seaside town
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 8:24 AM UTC
If a picture tells a wordless poem
Then a brief glimpse, starting with a glance and
ending with a knowing wink,
would be a short story.
And too, a playful exchange,
culminating in an unexpected tryst,
needs be a novella.
And thus, an afternoon chase leading to:
a heartfelt talk, a fevered clash of naked flesh,
and a midnight mocha by a lively winter’s fire,
must be the the opening chapter of mankind’s greatest epic.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC