"orate" poems
I seized a colorful pigeon on my palm
And I started to engrave the story of our love in its feathers
It flew away to orate our love
And in the night I met him in my dream
He was dead, and said “This is how the society deals with love
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
Wake up vibrations,
stroke us kindly,
we’ll all be one someday,
singularity is just a timepiece.
Gotta sell the diamonds
to calibrate the cogs,
we’re digits livin in
clogged colons.
We cure MONOtony,
with medicinal MONOgamy,
mourning the cut cord of civility.
Oh, how I miss the vibrations
of those tribal jam sessions.
Maybe cause I didn’t record them
with voice memo boxes.
We’re living in boxes.
Driving in boxes.
Working in boxes.
Staring at boxes.
But beauty is roundness.
So help me measure the circumference of your face,
because I can’t tell where it begins and ends.
I will knit you a beenie come winter.
And we’ll skate upon this lake,
willing the ice to break.
Cause we are done being fake.
We are done telling people
where they should skate.
We are holding her hand
and his hand
and our own hand
when we hold hands.
Black Red White Yellow
they are all hands
with the power
to give and to take,
not just orate.
So give the politicians
the middle finger
and then join hands
break down rectangular gates.
Then, meditate.
We will wait for utopia,
but we won’t stand for things being the same.
And come spring when we re-awake,
we'll draw up a new constitution for
a consciousness revolution.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
spelling backwards through time,
stroke by blurry stroke
a maiden's coal-black hair regales
the flattery from her lips... and so the doom
-- and boon of a crimson warrior's arm --
was drawn from speech a flame,
and kindled mind to burn away for lust,
one speaker fed and doubly fraught
by goddess's
invention brought
to give away his name and trust,
for doppelgangers' games
and beauty
to consent~
that trollish abysm our aching selfhood
deems unworthy, war can celebrate:
iconic genius symbol may encourage,
it may remembrance windows of our history~
but only breath, and inner sight so keen
on solid strength of living fact
can triumph in the plain!
some semblance of an older wisdom
strains to orate still, and lust itself afar,
but brawn and tested fibrous body build
must turn the page of time;
and this, to know the truth withstood
that vision
of a perfect youth
forever,
one start and line without an end,
a floating dance of pulling under waves
that never waves as being surely does
like no ancient-honest country-prophet ever saw--
thus, remnants of the wisdom from a fallen mind;
and so he fell to her and had not her for long...
she had a wider window, immortal panes,
this temptress
suppleness of limb to shock
and shake the bones of foolish learning,
that thinks itself imbued with everlasting fame.
it was a mossy light
of eyelash shine
and sheen
to woo
the wisdom out,
electric sense to lure the hapless sap
into a brutish trap: to learn alone the
atheletes pathos, relearn the heart-race
from a chest of seemless vigour,
from lungs of endless winds
and legs of trunkish growth the
channels and the prism of an empty skull
instead of learned ships and foolish mimes of finer times--
he does the bidding of her will.
.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
always woke up with nothing to say to her
not a thing.
we slept in rooms separate,
but she would bust in on me,
occasionally, to have an occasion,
never knocking, just door pounding,
just to annoy, just to see
if I still cared, hoping to revoke
what passed for pseudo-serenity.
some times entireties
would pass
before you had the energies
to swing
your legs over the
side of the day~bed,
conceding, white flag surrendering,
losing the commencing-avoidance of
the start-of-the-day battle of
pseudo-existence.
hoping against hope
you don't meet,
hoping against hope
she doesn't say accidentally,
good morning.
so you don't have to
Lincoln~Douglas debate,
aerate, concentrate, orate,
how to answer without bitterness
intended to maim.
knowing you could not e'er possess
a good morning, day, night,
by definition, by ruling of the
gods in charge of never.
sometimes you made it out
of the apartment that had
no ingress,
only egress,
happy happy no converse.
used to go to a Barnes & Noble,
get a refillable endless Starbucks,
from open to closing.
read all day, sitting with strangers,
till my **** hurt so bad,
didn't think I could walk again.
now and then,
smiled at the ladies,
tho nothing could come of it,
nothing ever did.
she never asked me
where I egressed too.
didn't care, that was better
for sanitizing my pseudo-sanity.
came home cautiously,
door opening silently
in case I was home prematurely,
she still there.
sometimes you wake up with nothing to say
to yourself.
that is even worse,
cause the meaning clear,
breaking point is near.
have a picture of me from those days.
a cellphone photo I took myself,
of course.
serious, bearded, short haired,
red eyed, unfiltered.
Sometimes I think I will banner it,
so you can tap into a part of me
that words just cannot do injustice to,
more than was already done.
here, while composing,
I fell asleep.
tired?
maybe. maybe,
sometimes you just don't want to remember.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
If the wind is parch white
And the universe stops
And listens to the words
Shape and form on the tip of my tongue
*Vultis nosse?
Vis sentiunt?*
Could I chip away the walls that separate our bodies?
Medio claustra potui dirumpere animas?
It would seem foolish, huh?
Funny, how hurt is so heavy.
Funny, how desiderium clarius est quam amor aliquando
Chant these ancient hymns
And press your lips against the sound of eternity:
*et orate
et orate
Amo te*
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 11:22 PM UTC
The Beatnik Café’
Cigarettes, coffee, a ****** beret
Blue smoke and Blue Mountain, blue verse, blue rhyme --
O Come to the side-street beatnik café;
Here present-tense yourself; caffeine the time
Here order your Bacon very well Donne
And jam your java with croissants and Keats
Orate from Spenser; groove with Tennyson
Tap out a line of Seafarer-four beats
Tap out a manifesto; everyone does
Pulp-print Red rags yelp “Revolution Now!”
The typewriter is holy, and Up the Fuzz!
Bongo that Kerouac, and Howl, but how?
Bongo that beat, oh, yeah, it’s crazzzzy, man
Sheaffer that rhythm, cat; Parker that line
Ferlinghetti your truth to a yellow pad
Sharpen your verbs to a rebel design
Sharpen your verbs from a bottle of ink
Light up a Camel; blow intellectual smoke
Teach the ****** bourgeois how they should think
Grey-suited capitalists – what a joke!
L’Envoi – Time Slouches On
Tee-shirted capitalists joke in Mandarin
The latest chained coffee’s inside the mall
English and Apples are original sin
On glowing screens where the pale pixels crawl
And no one crawls through rhythm, rhyme, or verse,
Or bongos out an existential cry
For poetry is dead; the twitters terse
Reduce the ancient loves to I, me, my.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
We spend all our lives at Circus Maximus.
We are preoccupied by the external,
forsaking the locus of our sacred worth
that is our hearts and souls. Rather,
we gaze transfixed by ludi of clowns
who make us laugh, at inspiring athletes,
at plays and recitals, at celebrations
of our victorious battles, at gladiators
who thrill us by killing other gladiators
and lions and Christians, even at
public executions. Politicians sometimes
come to orate. But never do we hear
a word about love and being loved.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Dec 25, 2021
Dec 25, 2021 at 10:42 PM UTC
Más zafio tranco diario
llagánima
masturbio
sino orate
más seca sed de móviles carnívoros
y mago rapto enlabio de alba albatros
más sacra carne carmen de hipermelosas púberes vibrátiles de sexotumba góndola
en las fauces del cauce fuera de fértil madre del diosemen
aunque el postedio tienda sus cangrejales lechos ante el eunuco olvido
más lacios salmos mudos
manos radas lunares
copas de alas
más ciega busca perra tras la verdad volátil plusramera ineterna
más jaguares deseos
nimios saldos terráqueos en colapso y panentrega extrema desde las ramas óseas hasta la córnea pánica
a todo huésped sueño del prenoser menguante
a toda pétrea espera
lato amor gayo nato
deliquio tenso encuentro sobre tibias con espasmos adláteres
ya que hasta el unto enllaga las mamas secas másculas
y el mismo pis vertido es un preverso feto si se cogita en fuga
más santo hartazgo grávido de papa rica rima de tanto lorosimio implume vaterripios
sino hiperhoras truncas dubiengendros acéfalos no piensos e impactos del tan asco
aunque el cotedio azuce sus jaurías sorbentes ventosas de bostezos
786
**I'm an educated man, not academic, but in life
knowing words with more meaning than most
and can write them all down, both by line and by verse
and in context, know how to orate them.
But by smoking too much, my voice now is hoarse
and no more than a whisper can speak
but the voice it still flows, from heart to the pen
so nestle close, and to you, let me read them.
Now poetry is penned, should be spoken not read
but my plight, it suits me just fine
for to hear me speak these words to you
so close must you always remain.
... ... ...**
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 2:43 AM UTC
beber de tu fuente, ahogado
entre tus ojos
tu verdad es la religion
de un orate en ciernes
beberte lentamente, a tu
piel adicto
mas alla de pasiones y desdenes,
la ferocidad y la ternura
el deseo inherente a tus ojos, pegado a mi
anquilosado al alma
una voz y una vision, en mi oasis
de verdades y pesares
perdido y encontrado, entre tus
manos de artemisa
beber de tu fuente, sediento y
muriente de tu escensia
y como una diosa, yo soy
tu ethereo devoto
artemisa, que cazaste el alma de
leon de un caminante
perdido entre becerros, y cazado
por la DIOSA
a los ojos del padre, y entre sus hijos
eres mi artemisa, cazadora de leones
entre sueños y visiones, el padre
permita y bendiga
alejados de mundo, en el reino de los
sueños, yacer en tus brazos, sereno
en paz alejado de su maldad, perdido en
tus ojos grandes, bajo los cielos
y frente a la maldad, solo beber de tu fuente
mi saciedad y serenidad
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 1:48 AM UTC
evening beds the daytime
chronicle
gather in toward yourself
the care and benefits of the day span
Welcome Vessels and Vessels go
It’s made overly complex
But Satellites ;
Are not we all ?
In jeopardy
a froth at sea
we raft together
like a healing tangle
once we are tossed to shore
we dismiss our gratitude
comb out our hair
and rebuild a dignity
we structure a calendar
scribe in the journal
and orate ourselves
a branded new history
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 12:31 PM UTC
I arise alone,
Having less time than yesterday.
Suppressing the urge to idle
I forsake my repose.
I unbolt the drawer
And make a selection.
Preparation in silence for the day
Sustaining my hunger to last the day.
I set out from the door
To burn my legs upon nature;
No hand recognizes my presence,
For the wind stands still.
Stopping but journeying through life
An unrivaled struggle resides ahead.
Then I am challenged here,
And stoically fight through fatigue.
I alternate my room
To practice what I preach
And labor obsessively to breed a seed.
A hand sails past my window at twilight.
Then confidence finds me
And guides me to orate the answers.
For I know these matters,
Presiding at the peak of the caste.
The roots of my seed dig elsewhere.
I glide into the brisk wind
Hearing trillions of hands applaud me
As I amble home again.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC
hold on to the music
to the sound my mouth
is making now
hold on to the wind
it'll blow you south
it'll blow you everywhere
but the one place
I hope it blows you
is here to me
I made a mistake
my bad, I guess
wish I could take
it back with a word
or maybe a few
dozens of hundreds
but no matter how
many novels I orate
you will probably
never be back with me
the winds carry over
the sea and away from me
and though that
brings about tears
it's the way of the world
it's like the sound
of a heart beat
can't change the melody
no matter how many times
you swear to the skies
my heart is breaking
just from sheer will
from the ideas that fall
through my cluttered skull
and I know it's about
to explode onto the sidewalk
but if that's the way it goes
if that's the way the wind blows
I guess I'll be sitting here
a long time
a long wasted time.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 6:50 PM UTC
There, in the looking glass
Don't you see her?
Her eyes, light green
So full of mystery and past pains
Her dress, so pallid
Has been stained by words so very brutal
And her lips, trembling so
Daring to speak but she won't
For her lips have been sewn shut
By the man who told her not to orate one word
The man who should've listened
The man who should've loved her
The man who she dares not to ever utter his name even once
The man who she should've been proud to call Dad
Is now the man who's ruined her
Who's given the hellish gift of anxiety
Its icy hands wrap ‘round her neck like a vise
Reminding her of his merciless words
The bullets that he shot at her
The scars he has given her
And now her white dress is no longer just stained
But it is a whole new color
All thanks to he who shall not be named
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 1:01 AM UTC
i am you
i’ll play a tune
to sing of sunny haze
and cloudy gloom
you are me
you’ll write a sonnet
to speak of fireflies
and underground moments
i am me
i’ll paint a picasso
depicting stained hearts
and abstracted souls
you are you
you’ll orate a speech
declaiming of eloquence
and casual vernacular street
we are we
and we will forever be
immoralised from art to poetry
faded all the way to infinity.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 2:00 PM UTC
I wrote you a letter in Latin,
But I couldn't read it.
I admit, I thought the class
Was an easy credit.
Not the phrases, but my nuance
Needing mending.
Felt a lie, and I'm not so good
At pretending.
You just couldn't see the hand
I was extending,
As into the wallpaper
I kept blending.
Perhaps it's my fault, since
I wore that shirt.
Standing out's the quickest
Way to get hurt.
But speaking from the diaphragm
I can bellow,
And orate like some old dead
Roman fellow.
Standing out and looking
Like a plain fool
Reciting broken Latin
Learned in high school.
My only benediction is
The violence of my voice,
To compensate the losses of
The silence of my choice
Standing naked 'fore the masses
Flawless Latin being read,
Without the slightest clue as to
What any of it said.
Then you looked at me with pain
In your dark brown eyes,
When at last, my folly
You had realized.
You said that, though my effort
Brought you much joy,
"Latinas don't speak Latin,
My dear, dumb boy. "
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 3:13 AM UTC
He got up and said only one thing
a sentence spoke with no love
only hate
while i cried on the ground
unable to orate
he looked at me with hollow eyes,
as i bled on myself
and continued to cry
he uttered those words with a bitter tongue
as i wiped my tears
he said
"you done?"
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
He has that radiant azure eyes
Everyone said they are pools of lies
His lips is an adept
Seems there is no apocryphal when he orate
When he is around
Her angst will fall to the ground
He fills her days with all his alibi
Until she does not need to watch TV
She agigated for his love
That is atrocious and mysterious
He suddenly left without adieu
And let her feels so blue
Now, she is just a book with no happy ending
Because he is the one who writes everything
r.a.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 2:51 AM UTC
Once the night fell
my lover arrived
i felt the velvety smooth
caress on my bare shoulders...
soft lips leaving trails
of fire in its wake
from my neck downwards
glabrous hands wandering...
We move together in a
rhythmical dance in the
cadence of our infatuation...
in our ****** we became
unbroken and for once
in my life i felt
imperf orate...
We became filled with the
essence of each other
and we were at our peak
in the moonlight...
in the embrace of the stars
we fell into a deep slumber
and when the sun came up, it was...
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 3:33 PM UTC
Luego del próximo recodo
tal vez convenga irlo pensando
sé de un viejo compatriota
terrateniente él
que en su colchón de muerte
miró uno por uno
a sus llorosos herederos
dijo
ah farsantes
y a continuación
crepó como un bendito
es claro que para ese gesto
los latifundios son indispensables
yo digo que más vale improvisar
porque si reno programa decir algo pujante
y después solloza como un perro apaleado
o si se propone soltar un llanto digno
y luego canturrea corno un orate
o si planifica extender la mano abierta
y después es un puño y no queda claro
si es por tacaño o por comunista
puede ser tildado
de inconsecuente o frívolo
y ésa no es una huella lápida
que va a ser.
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