"opine" poems
the seagull diddled
when he perched on my dock,
though no invitation extended,
no offense was taken,
when in observation,
of the foolish humanish varietal,
did it opine
*"dude,
u need to move more
and exercise those legs,
eat right,
many small meals,
like me,
write your-poetry
while in airborne motion."*
all this was spoke
while he speared and swallowed
a little river perch,
in my face,
flying off contentedly,
just to drive his point home -
directly into my gut
so should the next
pedestrian creation,
be typo'd plenty,
though,
I can walk and talk,
even chew gum simultaneously,
advice from seagulls,
who defecate on my dock,
should be taken as well,
in small sized portion control
poetry is best served,
proudly prone-ly
though I did thank him kindly,
and went back to bed...
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
Never behaved in the school porcine;
Had wise words for everyone to opine;
Full of wise thoughts and memories refine;
Rachana Sharma is ready without any supine.
An eyesore progress she achieved school in
Even the trustees could no longer decline;
Her help for others whenever did she design
Was a feast – a great help and fun to dine.
For 8 years was she my dear mentor fine
From whom I learnt how to continuously grin
In adverse situations and start from begin
So that new fight and efforts lead you to win.
Earlier she was looking like a pumpkin
But now she managed her past confine:
Looking beautiful, smart, nifty and divine
Is ready ever any problem to define.
She is my inspiration, she is my Kline,
She is the best lady as a helpful friend in.
With her I developed Monorhyme fine;
And defeated many enemies malign.
A good mentor and nice for nation mine
Is none than Rachana - a brave feline.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 6:51 AM UTC
Once I seen a human ruin
In a elevator-well.
And his members was bestrewin'
All the place where he had fell.
And I says, apostrophisin'
That uncommon woful wreck:
"Your position's so surprisin'
That I tremble for your neck!"
Then that ruin, smilin' sadly
And impressive, up and spoke:
"Well, I wouldn't tremble badly,
For it's been a fortnight broke."
Then, for further comprehension
Of his attitude, he begs
I will focus my attention
On his various arms and legs--
How they all are contumacious;
Where they each, respective, lie;
How one trotter proves ungracious,
T' other one an alibi.
These particulars is mentioned
For to show his dismal state,
Which I wasn't first intentioned
To specifical relate.
None is worser to be dreaded
That I ever have heard tell
Than the gent's who there was spreaded
In that elevator-well.
Now this tale is allegoric--
It is figurative all,
For the well is metaphoric
And the feller didn't fall.
I opine it isn't moral
For a writer-man to cheat,
And despise to wear a laurel
As was gotten by deceit.
For 'tis Politics intended
By the elevator, mind,
It will boost a person splendid
If his talent is the kind.
Col. Bryan had the talent
(For the busted man is him)
And it shot him up right gallant
Till his head began to swim.
Then the rope it broke above him
And he painful came to earth
Where there's nobody to love him
For his detrimented worth.
Though he's living' none would know him,
Or at leastwise not as such.
Moral of this woful poem:
Frequent oil your safety-clutch.Porfer Poog.
2.6k
I'm extremely disorganized
I don't know what belongs where
Take my eyes for example
I can't find a place to rest them
I tried setting them on you
But everyone agreed that **** wasn't working
They explained that an organized man
Adheres to categories
And you and I
Are not of a kind
I attempted to argue that you organized me
My heart
My mind
You folded me neatly
When you beat me
You always made sure to set me aside when you were done with me
You'd place me in a bin
Or release me to the wind
Yet there was a burdensome fault in my littered logic
They explained that an organized man
Is clean
I must use eyes that are sanitized
To see how we're not categorized
And avoid your matador eyes
Because things will get messy
When the bull in your fists
Sees the roses in my heart
My humanity starts to part
And my wishes I begin to opine
For the nature of a bovine
So I wouldn't misplace my eyes
And be what I'm classified
But that nature eludes me
As do most things
On account of me being disorganized and all
But I'm a quick learner order burner page turner
I may not know what belongs where
But I know I belong neither here nor there
Making my eyes not belong anywhere
This is what develops my entropy stare
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 11:20 PM UTC
I would much rather think of my style of writing as "Philosomancy" than as "Poetry",
I would much rather think of my Music as "Phonomancy" than as "Music".
I think of myself as a Philosomancer rather than a Writer; perhaps a Writist.
Language is simply a mutual Medium for concepts; a means.
I think of myself as a Phonomancer rather than a Musician; perhaps a Musist.
Music is the name we call ordered sound; a means.
There is deeper Mythic significance to these things
than the mere words "Write" and "Music" lead on;
The Suffix of "-mancy" indicates a style of Divination;
a sort-of improvised Oracle.
Take, for instance,
Geomancy: Divination of Earth
Pyromancy: Divination of/by Fire
Astromancy: Divination by the Stars
Aquamancy: Divination of/by Water
By this pattern, it logically follows that:
Philosomancy: Divination of/through Ideas
Phonomancy: Divination of/by Sounds
-
Mythic Overtones are ubiquitous and implicit,
yet perception of them is more rare
due to cultural dissonance
'twixt Mythic and Logic.
Plus, Philosomancy and Phonomancy
sound so much more badass
than mere Writing and Music,
if I am to openly opine!
(It really helps to have a sense of Humour, as well!)
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
Sometimes we like to do something for the story
we’ll tell afterwards. Buy a ’58 Pontiac, climb
a mountain in the dark. Lamar tells ***** jokes
with class, knows how to wait awhile, bend
a syllable and savor the laughter.
Absurd work, building a fence miles long
waste of steel and strong straight lodgepole pine
but even I don’t opine against it anymore. We’re
the government's children, fence is play and
livelihood also, but something cheerful as sunshine
for all the death it costs. There is so much life
a little death doesn’t matter. We stretch our muscles
the men feel like men, the women feel good too.
We stand around, watch a young rabbit one morning.
Aug 17, 2022
Aug 17, 2022 at 6:49 AM UTC
The Captain and I are shipmates tonight.
We ride out the storm together till morning light.
A glass full of his wisdom by my side in repose,
where his torrent of words will take me, who knows?
But a sentence reaches me by the bedside lamp's glow.
The truth of it kills
and I wish it unsaid.
*** He whispers "won't fill
an empty bed,"
"Yes..." I sadly opine.
"But it dulls the pain...
fills my senses just fine."
The Captain nods, satisfied, and the ship rumbles
as it is tossed about by wind and rain.
He motions in the cabin boy, who tumbles
inside, and pours me another glass of pain.
Red like her lips.
Dark like her eyes.
Heady like her scent.
Fluid like her hips...
The Captain grabs my shoulder.
"Forget her." His eyes smoulder
louder than hers...
I reach for the wine.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
I'm too old for the part,
too old to even read.
This cuts me to the quick-
(something my ego didn't need.)
I had thought that gray was ****
the director thinks its not.
It might have been, sans double chin,
and without this large bald spot.
Instead he has me trying out
for a humorous,character, role.
Swallow your pride, Othello,
it beats being back on the dole.
I remember waiting tables ,biding time
back when times were lean and so was I,
Then nothing lay between a maiden's legs,
and I played Hamlet beneath the summer sky.
Our film proves a modest success
I receive some kind words for my art.
The critics are harsh towards the lead
they opine he's too young for the part!
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 11:39 PM UTC
I wrote something that I did not mean
When I write that, I feel it’s unseen
In real, I make someone else’s thought mine
Publicize it and leave others to opine
These actually are one liner’s lifted from popular text
I dissemble and exude that I take my life at best
I am the ideal of all humans in my words
For similar situation in real, I am truly reverse
My online life is most beautiful on earth
Whereas offline, I am rehashing in vain to cover up dearth
My posts are full of inspiration and energy
If you meet me in real I am full of lethargy
Why dupe to be a connoisseur and be a commonplace
At least quote the source, give true author some space
Be eclectic and original in expression
Write such that it’s never been done
Bharti
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 6:03 AM UTC
I'm too old for the part,
too old to even read.
This cuts me to the quick-
(something my ego didn't need.)
I had thought that gray was ****
the director thinks its not.
It might have been, sans double chin,
and without this large bald spot.
Instead he has me trying out
for a humorous,character, role.
Swallow your pride, Othello,
it beats being back on the dole.
I remember waiting tables ,biding time
back when times were lean and so was I,
Then nothing lay between a maiden's legs,
and I played Hamlet beneath the summer sky.
Our film proves a modest success
I receive some kind words for my art.
The critics are harsh towards the lead
they opine he's too young for the part!
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 11:39 PM UTC
Sunday 5:47 p.m.
Opine - usually ends up more
Laborious than
Arborous.
Sunday 11:14 p.m.
I know your peripheral view
Is better than
Not saying hello,
Until I'm far enough away
To hear only the timber and not the tongue.
Thursday 1:12 a.m.
Who is Echo
And who is Narcissus
When their names are the same?
Tomorrow,
I'll cough up blood.
Disavow something. Anything.
Just for kicks.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
Naked, destitute, confused;
My soul bares itself-
Empty to life's troubling ruse.
Mongrels snarl and scream
As I am chased away from-
Tattered dreams.
Misfortunes cast out
Like fishing line to a sea;
Empty woes hollow and prim
Opine shallow heresies.
Poverty and paradise bellow-
Deep through the glistening
Shaft of temporal demise.
Time is a tempest of sorcery
Fueled and filed by wild mages
Scrawling these white pages
Like a shaman on tenement walls:
"Forgive my kiss and forget my lips,
Death's call has me after all."
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC
ripples darted parallel
wading the stream, as she did
and like a revelation
you dawned on me
you said
"my eyes are open, i know. i just can't see."
*** ran from your sockets
"as far as i can opine, you see just fine"
and she coughed maroon tar
crumbling back to the riverbed
May 23, 2021
May 23, 2021 at 1:45 AM UTC
Push and Punt
I wander where you are heading,
punching above your weight?
Sometimes resolvent
with a leathered face
where's the forgiveness?
like a two way mirror
it stretches both ways,
culpability I hear you opine,
when you kick the germane tin can,
if you had known the source
of your ails,
you'd have less of the turbulence
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 6:26 PM UTC
My playlist on Youtube writes itself into a poem
It elicits Love, Lust, Loss anger along with a few other emotions
Ratatat takes me on a tour of Rome
PHOX shows me how to dance in Slow Motion
John Denver joins me on the tour of Country Roads
Highlight Tribe encourages me to Free Tibet
Bioshock Infinite do I dream of with Schyman Elizabeth
Kavinsky with his beats, urging me to Outrun
Lose Sight now and again with Andrew Bayer and Ane Burn
Abandoned Pools take me down the memory lane in Clone High
Foo Fighters whisper in my ear that I too can Learn To Fly
COCAINEJESUS, Akira, beats and samples; I have PINEAPPLEKISSES
Cloud Nothing reminds me that I should Stay Useless
Discover A Little Opus as I take a ride on Little Comets
Sky Rabbit opine and observe the present In Our Times
Joey Badass shares with me his funky ideals of *World **********
Coheed and Cambria describe brotherhood in Key Entity Extraction
Geroge Ezra sings an ode to fathers in Listen to the Man
Perfect shows me the other side of the coin with Simple Plan
The Peppers tell a story of starting over covered in Snow
Shakey Graves says takes a chance and Roll the Bones
John Wayne Gacy Jr. the serial killer is immortalised by Sufjan Stevens
Imagine Dragons, the subconscious and fears come alive in Demons
Owl City tells a fantastic fable about insomnia in Fireflies
Ellie Goulding finds sweet slumber even in dark times in Lights
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
time it is
she beckoned
time and I ate of it
the dread
the matter of her
no kiss of her
from her
honestly
no doubt, I knew...
it was dinner time
"eat me"
she labored
as dog in heat
spread her legs
as on stirrups
I be, the muzzle be her divorce from me
yank my collar, chain wrapped
about her hand
beckon me
"eat"
chain be her love I desire
collar be my patience given
but appetite?
mine be love
her beest pleasure
I have no appetite for
merely
pleasure
neither hers nor mine
sans love?
no appetite at all have I
eyes so weary of wanting
that I melt
as Salvador Dali prophesied
mine eyes droop
her thighs
wet my fantasies
as ice cream, on the hottest Sunday,
I am weak
weary of denying myself her
she, a mere rainforest of beauty
abundant in plural, though singular
her flower
droop me 'tween mine legs
raise me, as the dawn rises zenithly,
she pies me,
my piper, my charmed being
I'm pied
she has me
dancing, midriffly, with ****** fervor
mine eyes cast down
as shadow in sunset
lone tree in the wilderness
redfern shadow
a mile long
mine eyes cast down between her legs
seeing all my heart's desires
"eat"
and all my hopes dieth there
"eat"
despair, I mourn
I pine
"love me"
I opine, my lover love me
be not pleasure the measure of our stay, in bed, this Sunday
love me, as the Father hath given us this day
be not Eve of the forbidden love
be Dawn of the day we won eternal life from the devil's death
that my fruit be of your nectar drunk, that I be your pleasure,
and you be mine
that I succor thine fruit
hour by hour that you writhe
not as snake but as mountain shook
as mountain moved
faithfully, you love me,
let that fantasy be mine drink
and thine offering due my thirst
that love sate me,
nay?!
"eat!"
and all the world looketh empty of light
"eat! **** you"
and all the world be afright with wonder that I be man, yet, eat not my ****** that
she be heathen of love, still, my ****** she be,
simply,
that mine eyes drink her in
beauty beyond compare
but that mine ears deceive me not
for deceive me, her flesh does
but her forked tongue
as lightning streak
she shat the bed
that streak be her ****** blessing
dashed across her whorish ways
be that time
I linger in wait
wanting, but that I eat
she trappeth me
that all I be good for
is her pleasure
but be not fit
for her love
"eat! what are you good for?!"
nay, irony be that
time told
clock struck truth
"eat!"
nay
"what my flesh be, here, then?"
a trap,
and I say nay
for I be a lover
of such supple,
gorgeous,
womanly flesh, not, merely,
a ******
"eat"
I be not hungry,
for a *****
my flesh be purchased
but nay that my heart he purchased
neither my soul,
by merely, lust
I, too dearly, pine for you
dream of you
romance you deeper than form
and fit
time
and merciless pleasure
to be,
of you,
lustfully...
so, I say,
nay...
but,
that ye should, learn love me
perhaps,
that day
perhaps
then, yay
Mar 13, 2025
Mar 13, 2025 at 1:45 PM UTC
Isn't it nice to rhyme
When words strike as divine
Made to fit the part
Unlike free verse aristofarts
Who would **** your mother
Like beatnik Stepbrother
And sleep through their clocks
For nocturnal jabberwocks
If ever was a Good man.
Benny swung with the times, man.
But Jazz rolled from the hits
Of white British misfits.
When South Bronx fell through crack
The sky and hood went black
Poets sold missing car parts
For Busta Rhymes to bust a start.
Poetry had to lose an art.
Rhyming tossed like the ****
Who ****** Lord Tennyson's ****
Which tugged at Victoria's smock.
It's easy to criticize
An age demystified
But now personifies
Poetry commercialized
And the old aging misfit
Tries to gather the spit
With a mouth so dry.
But not a poet in the sky
Will sanction the crime
To help his verse opine
Against the words-of-a-kind
That English bespoke to rhyme.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
A living skin, a skein of green briars
where a half-hinged door is wagged by the wind
Good-natured god, decay’s stigmata-stained spires
nettles paint the stairs splotch patterned, olive skinned
Glass window shards grab a slip of silk curtain
pick-pocket beetles engrave brute luck broadside
Chimney thrushes cabined in ash are certain
cynicism’s growing sums are rectified
Blue jays opine time’s cuckoo clock mocking
worms ply enormous copses, scrawl casts of clay
Autumn gusts and rains whirl detritus stocking
flung colors Pollocked, clutter’s chaos array
Hours dissolve the acorns and soft seeds scatter
as grasses grown tall have turned light yellow
architecture’s flourishes are picked off
crumbled valuables filched and turned to dirt
tumult’s passages dug the driveway’s trough
carrion feeders pull black quills from their shirt
slugs smear a rainbow trail and mice scurry
collapsed walls fall to the slush of leaf slurry
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 1:15 AM UTC
Missing girls possessions
Parents obsessions
Doll, clothes, shoes
the parents mull over
they’ll never recover
She’s being missing two months now
still her parents row
“I want her back, NOW”
Recrimination
protestation
Desperation
DESPAIR
Her mum has a frame
with a snip of her hair
she takes it out
and feels it with care
Its her treasure
nothing else can measure
Remembering
Her dad has her favourite book
he keeps it in a secret nook
often compelled to have a look
Remembering
Every morning they run to the door
to meet the postman
first name terms now “Dan”
“Sorry folks, nothing today”
they go inside and pray
She’s no longer headline news
everybody has their views
about which they opine
often over a glass of wine
The parents separate
Can no longer operate
Both consumed by guilty memories
suspicious of each others queries
they no longer gel
trapped in private hell
They need to mourn
but as long as shes still missing
there’s hope
that’s how they cope
I can’t imagine their sadness
hanging on verge of madness
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 6:46 AM UTC
Ive been to the dentist
She gave ma a happy pill ME a happy pill, not Ma a happy pill
Tree frogs are my favotire amphibians there so cute ya wanna buy them an ice cream but there aint no bug ice scream
Yes I’m fine than k you
Gosh this is still fun
And they gave me a new toothbrush although I use the super-golly-gee-whiz-quadro-toothbrush-thing-that-lights-up-and-stuff
Yes the pill is wearing off sure
wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Why do they all put their hands in my mouth at the same time
Lets see thats four hands
And then they yell at me to relax
But yeah I got a pill qnd I am sooooooooooooooooooo relaxed
My teeth are fine
My teeth are green no wait my teeth or clean because if they were green they wouldn’t be clean
Dr. Joyce is the best
There’s still something to be said for tree frogs
Yes I can walk to the car whoops
Yes I can opine the passenger door
Yes I can belt my seat fashion
Or somethingthis has been fun
Thank you yes six monyhsts…
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 4:06 PM UTC
Unsolicited advice
against its storm I brace
Showing no fear or shame
as they get up in my face
In other words ...
They tell me to zig
when I'm zagging
"Hurry up man!"
when I'm lagging
"That's not the way
I'd do it!" they opine
"Better listen to me,
get to it!" every time
Hmm, if that's true
then I'll know
just what to do
when I am you!
More precisely ...
When I do what you say
in my own peculiar way
You stand
beaming with pride
taking credit
If I dare to complain
you declare me insane
then expose me to
ridicule on Reddit
(You don't regret it—
there, I've said it!)
Now I had my say
what will you do?
Hopefully MYOB
not misconstrue
"We just told you
the best way to go
You must listen to us
don’t you know?”
Thanks! If that's true
then I'll know
just what to do
when I am you!
As odd as that sounds
it must be true
I'll be doing sooo much better
when I am you!
8/20/2022
Poetry form: Lyric
A sauté of unsolicited advice with a dash of fun. All we're trying to do is get rid of the bitterness and make the rest of the flavors pop. Yummy!
Mark Toney © 2022
Aug 20, 2022
Aug 20, 2022 at 2:37 PM UTC
I’m going to each of my suitemates' rooms. One at a time, methodically. I pause, for dramatic purpose, until I have their full attention. Once I have it, I rushingly, excitedly, breathlessly say, “I’M getting pizza later, for the GAME!” Like a seven year old child.
Now, my roommates KNOW we're ordering pizzas later. They’re all “on board,” everyone’s submitted their order and venmo’d their money to Sunny who will actually place the order for delivery at 5:30 pm. But I’m excited. I LOVE pizza (and American, NFL football) and I love being childish.
My roommates, like my brother, sister and parents before them, know this and love my manic, overactive way of excising tedium. Besides, I won’t do this more than once or twice - ok, maybe three times today before the pizza comes.
Since you’ve read this far - allow me to opine, for a moment, about “self restraint.”
Have you read about how they’re using familial DNA to solve old cold-case murders? I think they should use familial DNA to track down whomever it was that invented self restraint.
It was probably some old Protestant. I mean, Catholics only have sin - it’s yes or no - binary. So without researching it (at all), I think we’re dealing with someone born after the protestant reformation of 1555 - but I’m flexible.
Anyway, they should track that person down, dig them up, beat them with a stick, and then rebury them, in unhallowed ground.
I hate self restraint. It’s so.. restraining.
#restraintsux
Jan 23, 2022
Jan 23, 2022 at 9:06 AM UTC
Gulls, gannets brooding
vying for plankton
Acrobatic flights, flappings
Swarm the blue
Chirping, tweeting another
To lave the silvery sea.
Impishly unclad moppets
Running and frolicking,
Some helping their
Fishermen father untwine nets
The evening venture their chaste aim.
Over the horizon
Is the Yellow Face
Lustring like a
Gigantique Bohemian Chandelier
Lapping on the repose waters.
Someday when am ripe and mellow
With means to own a crew
I will sail up that mulky horizon
And touch that glowing cosmic disc.
But mater says
"The horizon doesn't end"
"It goes in league miles"
"Even when a yore mile is sailed"
"It's unattainable, puerile and trifling" She'd opine.
Only these chiding words of hers
I never take for a dime,
I will engage in my venture
I will stand to be corrected.
This is my only demure dream
I will endeavour and suckle her
I wouldn't want an elegiac ending
In this beach I've known for eon.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 1:30 PM UTC
some poets take copious hours
to perfect a poetic line
their pens ever ruminating
on what they'll opine
a piece polished with lustrous gleam
having the silken flow of a dale's stream
an insight into nature's beauty so rare
portrayed by the pensive mind of care
word craft the knowing
where to place that descriptive
figure of speech
a nuance articulating the sound
in the car brakes
sudden locking screech
every part of the verse
well thought out
to present a verbiage
of artistic sprout
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 6:56 PM UTC