"orations" poems
A bridge from colloquial to courtly fare
A span where idealism and fantasy pair
A railway to the existential realm; celestial lair
A conduit through which rational discourse can flare
Deep medium to: forage, inculcate, and inform
Broad brush to paint rare beauty; sculpt surrealistic form
Incisive scalpel to surgically alter the societal norm
Delicate utensil to educate on civility and decorum
A literary ***** a prosaic construct
A mechanism our syntax to deconstruct
An analytical tool; an observational viaduct
Introspective milieu to reduct; extrovertive sphere to reconstruct
A semantical edifice that aspiring wit, lofty orations implore
An experimental structure gramatical anomalies to explore
A thematic repository in which concrete ideas, abstract notions to
pour
A vernacular cathedral butressed by an idiomatic core
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC
When shall we learn, what should be clear as day,
We cannot choose what we are free to love?
Although the mouse we banished yesterday
Is an enraged rhinoceros today,
Our value is more threatened than we know:
Shabby objections to our present day
Go snooping round its outskirts; night and day
Faces, orations, battles, bait our will
As questionable forms and noises will;
Whole phyla of resentments every day
Give status to the wild men of the world
Who rule the absent-minded and this world.
We are created from and with the world
To suffer with and from it day by day:
Whether we meet in a majestic world
Of solid measurements or a dream world
Of swans and gold, we are required to love
All homeless objects that require a world.
Our claim to own our bodies and our world
Is our catastrophe. What can we know
But panic and caprice until we know
Our dreadful appetite demands a world
Whose order, origin, and purpose will
Be fluent satisfaction of our will?
Drift, Autumn, drift; fall, colours, where you will:
Bald melancholia minces through the world.
Regret, cold oceans, the lymphatic will
Caught in reflection on the right to will:
While violent dogs excite their dying day
To bacchic fury; snarl, though, as they will,
Their teeth are not a triumph for the will
But utter hesitation. What we love
Ourselves for is our power not to love,
To shrink to nothing or explode at will,
To ruin and remember that we know
What ruins and hyaenas cannot know.
If in this dark now I less often know
That spiral staircase where the haunted will
Hunts for its stolen luggage, who should know
Better than you, beloved, how I know
What gives security to any world.
Or in whose mirror I begin to know
The chaos of the heart as merchants know
Their coins and cities, genius its own day?
For through our lively traffic all the day,
In my own person I am forced to know
How much must be forgotten out of love,
How much must be forgiven, even love.
Dear flesh, dear mind, dear spirit, O dear love,
In the depths of myself blind monsters know
Your presence and are angry, dreading Love
That asks its image for more than love;
The hot rampageous horses of my will,
Catching the scent of Heaven, whinny: Love
Gives no excuse to evil done for love,
Neither in you, nor me, nor armies, nor the world
Of words and wheels, nor any other world.
Dear fellow-creature, praise our God of Love
That we are so admonished, that no day
Of conscious trial be a wasted day.
Or else we make a scarecrow of the day,
Loose ends and jumble of our common world,
And stuff and nonsense of our own free will;
Or else our changing flesh may never know
There must be sorrow if there can be love.
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I have the shape of the institution.
Each email address is a human.
They are known by their words and actions.
The whole wide world is just a fraction
of all I do not know. Expansion
and contraction, breathe in, out, meditation
on existence, non-existence, creation
and duration. I have no explanation
for fusion, fission, taxonomic relations
or artificial classification.
More I do not know: locomotion
by combustion, electron separation
and transportation via superconduction
which supports the idea of the unified nation.
What girls are like behind their eyes. ************
a useful restraint on overpopulation.
The story of a life, my life, any life, cohesion
must be rationed, conjured, a fiction
about a vexed, tenacious town, its rail station
truck stop, high school, night spots, recreations
the temporary citizens enact visions
dream-like orations, ballets, conflagrations
to in the end receive in annals honorable mention
from family, friends, neighbors, colleagues, institutions.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
The time of year has grown indifferent.
Mildew of summer and the deepening snow
Are both alike in the routine I know:
I am too dumbly in my being pent.
The wind attendant on the solstices
Blows on the shutters of the metropoles,
Stirring no poet in his sleep, and tolls
The grand ideas of the villages.
The malady of the quotidian . . .
Perhaps if summer ever came to rest
And lengthened, deepened, comforted, caressed
Through days like oceans in obsidian
Horizons, full of night's midsummer blaze;
Perhaps, if winter once could penetrate
Through all its purples to the final slate,
Persisting bleakly in an icy haze;
One might in turn become less diffident,
Out of such mildew plucking neater mould
And spouting new orations of the cold.
One might. One might. But time will not relent.
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These locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine,
Than all th’ unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense, love orations.
Our love is fix’d, I think we’ve prov’d it;
Nor time, nor place, nor art have mov’d it;
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine;
With silly whims, and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?
Why should you weep, like Lydia Languish,
And fret with self-created anguish?
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights to sigh half frozen;
In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene’s a garden?
For gardens seem, by one consent,
(Since Shakespeare set the precedent;
Since Juliet first declar’d her passion)
To form the place of assignation.
Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat her by a sea-coal fire;
Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain;
He surely, in commiseration,
Had chang’d the place of declaration.
In Italy, I’ve no objection,
Warm nights are proper for reflection;
But here our climate is so rigid,
That love itself, is rather frigid:
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation.
Then let us meet, as oft we’ve done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you:
‘There’, we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than plac’d in all th’ Arcadian groves,
That ever witness’d rural loves;
‘Then’, if my passion fail to please,
Next night I’ll be content to freeze;
No more I’ll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate, for ever after.
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“To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late
And how can man die better
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods”
Soft murmurs along the front line crackle like a broken prairie plough,
The maples and oaks snapping with
Every burst of the cannon.
Crested breaths choked out by
The ferocious blasts of this entrenched
Jungle.
Shrieks punctuate the deathly silence,
And sobers the divisions thirst for war.
I, a dead soul among the living.
The soft wind at night is the nefarious fingers of death,
Soaking the earth and ****** boughs
Of the old oaks with the veins
Of golden purity.
(I am standing on an eagles skull.)
I can hear the Rebel yell beyond the tree line,
BLASTING the barreling notion of liberty,
Stacked within our Union souls.
A Bundren coffin takes form in the mist beyond the wasteland.
My kin lay wait at home,
Shall I return one day and parade through pastures
And creeks until the days grow old
and so shall I.
With kin side by side.
My vacant mind floats off to distant lands along the
timbered forests of the Free North.
Orations from my Grandfather resonate like wind chimes
Rattling among the inner confines of my sanity,
Strewn images flash like the lines of Virginian regulars,
A sparse reminder of my ever so soon fate
In the Wilderness.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 5:32 PM UTC
We all need that social inclusion
The man at the top
The outcast in confusion
Bruised and abused and begging for some form of input.
The social media is shut
For a few.
So we have to go out and walk while we relearn how to talk
And to interact.
Backed into a corner we have no other way
But to get out there
And make somebody's day
Whadaya say?
Are you in for the long haul
Or are you going to bail?
Back to the laptop where friendships don't fail
They're just discontinued.
I allude to myself
When I talk of friends off the shelf
A Twitter,a Facebook commodity
An Oddity.
We need the contagion of spoken word orations to retain some form of relations
Or we might as well just grunt and give life a groan.
Moan if you like which you can in the zoo (Facebook to you)
But we have to converse
Yes,I know it's perverse
But what else can we do?
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 3:49 AM UTC
you're not half bad
at your candlewick blossom snuffing -
got your braggart game up loud
in your repetitive silence
beaming at the doting strange phoenixes
darting in between your
bending fingers,
snatching up my flames
in their return to their
static progress on
life skills that are lingering
far too long
in the forging stage.
baby, baby
please -
tell me those aren't
your voices
slithering up the tall
columns of echoes,
wailing out
overzealous,
too pompous
orations.
nevermind -
my mind's pretending
to sleep somewhere marvellous
in this mind-field
of
the littlest
pink *******
trying to act like
i don't suddenly feel
as if
the tomorrow
up next
will be bringing
a different star.
so i just sit here -
pointing my toes at occurrences
that i really wish had've gone down
a whole lot more
differently,
praying that
by some miracle,
tossing a bit of dust
from my careful bag
(paired with the experimental
levitational practices
i keep doing in my free time)
will somehow
make room
for all these
eggshells you won't stop
throwing onto the floor.
too many have found me
playing patty-cake
under that possessed streetlamp
down Hardy,
the one that always seems to flicker
when i walk by -
snatching back its potency
just long enough
to highlight the
unsolicited red apple ritual
happening in my
cheekbones.
i've got a game to catch.
not trying to be the dawdling girl,
throwing all of her hopes
into the air,
willing the destined one
to be something that will
cradle us both.
you gotta be on this
wick snuffing trip
searching for something a little more than
a butt-tossing buddy.
better get a pack of matches
and try to beat me to it,
'cause i'm putting up my fire-red can
and the light's gonna follow me out.
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 12:21 AM UTC
Mouths are not used for communication.
Rather they add to all frustrations,
Allowing lies, guile, and machinations.
If man had a trunk to trumpet a warning,
‘Twould be better served than a tongue used for spurning.
A narrow proboscis for nutrients to ****
More useful than lips that spew only muck.
The double-speak game is one that must stop,
Before all good words are spun into rot.
Mouths are ridiculous adaptations,
That enable ridiculously false orations,
Telling us all we need is communication.
-M. Hale
6.10.11
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 12:11 AM UTC
Bitten by a bitter asp,
Scorched by a flame,
Conned by a sneaky fox,
And charmed by his game.
So, excuse me, if I’m wary,
Of your silky, smooth orations,
Or bewildered and maybe slightly scared,
Of these somewhat odd sensations.
My soul is bidding that I run,
From your words, so much like his,
But, my heart commands my feet to stay,
Afraid of what I’ll miss.
Afraid, also, that your tender touch,
Is tender in only practice.
Frightened that your wooing game,
Will end shy of the kiss.
Yet,
What if your lips are sweetened with,
Sugar in its purest state.
And, your eyes whisper to me, not lies,
But secrets of our hidden fate.
I want my heart to beat with yours,
And to allay these silly fears.
But, how can I know that you won’t go,
And leave me fighting tears?
I trust you with my kisses,
With my rain of sweet affection.
I give to you my drowsy dreams,
For a feverish night’s connection.
Though my heart wells up with age-old songs,
At the whisper of your name,
And belts them out on every corner,
It’s within my own breast, all the same.
My fingers idle at the thought,
Of unlocking my heart once more,
Leery of the childish stitching,
From heartbreaks done before.
Cross your heart, and say you’ll stay,
To love me through the night,
To narrate my dreams, and welcome the beams,
That pour in from waking light.
To give my heart is to give my love,
To the one I most adore.
And, when it’s true, I swear to you,
My heart and soul is yours.
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 1:03 PM UTC
a word from thy mouth
is the spectral arrow
from nimble bow.
risen are the caryatids,
unsheathed are the swords,
molested are the gladiola
by the night's harsh *****
the proscenium dislimns
as the iron curtain sea drowns
their blasphemous orations!
the thespians alerted
by a wordless hunt
as i rise like the dew
lambasting the autumnal grass
bedecked by glistening wheals
of ripe luminosities;
this damp hour, the mercurial
assault of declarations,
fastens every word underneath
tongues of river-deep stone.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC
My stream of consciousness is in full flow,
Tumbling down the page.
A cascade of words
Bouncing and foaming
Towards unknown seas.
No planning here.
No structure
Or direction.
Just meanderings
And oxbow lakes.
Free verse unfettered
By Draconian Rules
Or dogma.
Odd rhymes thrown in
Perhaps:
Casual confetti.
So what should I type about,
Sitting here in my armchair
In the silence of my lounge?
The sky is full of clouds
A blanket over this
September afternoon.
Perfect conditions
For composing this poem.
Should I put the world to rights?
(How long have you got?)
Or just indulge
In some uplifting visions?
I don’t do emotions very much.
The cork is firmly closed
On those.
Recall my early loves:
All unrequited.
Crushes
That crushed my very soul.
Memories of crying inside,
Unable to eat
Or think of anything except
That longing for love
Which never came.
So no
I don’t do emotions.
And seldom reveal myself
As I just did.
I’d rather let my imagination soar,
My eagle eye -
A soaring cliché –
Taking in the sweep of space
And everything below.
I see trees
And animals,
Mountains, coasts and oceans.
People milling about.
A scream of seagulls soars above the sea.
Waves crash:
A thundering tsunami
Against the brittle cliffs.
I have many voices.
From soft soothing lullabies
To grand orations
Full of pomp and splendour.
Music plays in my head:
A crescendo of orchestras
And songs.
Freddie, Elvis, Bassey
Clapton, Hendrix and Satriani.
Ginger Baker, Phil Collins.
Reciting poetry
Within my brain
Is easy
After Bohemian Rhapsody.
So once more to the beach dear friends
With Brian Wilson
And his crew.
Let Sloop John B be launched
Again
Heading for oceans new.
At last a rhyme
As attention spans begin to
Wane.
Enough for now
My loyal friends.
I’d best bid you
Adieu.
Paul Butters
© PB 4\9\2020. First 3 lines Written 16\8\20 in my big paper diary.
Sep 4, 2020
Sep 4, 2020 at 10:49 AM UTC
The fillings in love's teeth
House frank words
That love's tongue wraps in plain packaging and seals with simple curiosity.
Love does not treat these things
As gifts given by a god.
Rather, love imagines them as everyday praises given to a god,
Recognizing their simple ness and crafting them into strings of orations to be worn around wrists and waistlines in case you feel that you are not beautiful.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 6:45 AM UTC
How fertile your smile
How futile my defenses
It gave birth to peaceful, dead silence
In a universe of animated cacophony and stubbornness
As we track the movement of the stars
Gliding across terra firma, fervently
When flesh of the palms ascend to join
No lie survives
Once both hearts have submerged
Into
In two places
Between desire and the depth of the Caspian.
In between twin flame frames
Where our passionate, intimate orations' tempests
Stir our souls' embers to rising temperatures
Tempting a Titan high to fight the Gods.
I pray to the four corners of this domain
That if I can't hold on to forever
That you'd consider changing your name to "This Moment".
With permission, I'd gladly embrace your present presence.
-
Ifeanyi N. Okoro II © 2018
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 1:42 AM UTC
Regulated heavy-petting, severed metal jukeboxes of the new platoon. Orations in the streets, on their knees; women hanging from street lamps, their shoestrings dismantled, clothing sifted through for every karat of worth, then the shoes stuffed on- bare naked bodies and tangerine blossoms came through the Eastern air. One of them coughed something, not in English. Each of them riddled through with decade-old grins, as if from a childhood game of cops and bandits.
Every part of my trust in her body, a knot made of plastic in a reel of film strung from her shoulders. A gunshot emptied her stomach, its bang echoed cerise colored paint.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
The time of year has grown indifferent.
Mildew of summer and the deepening snow
Are both alike in the routine I know:
I am too dumbly in my being pent.
The wind attendant on the solstices
Blows on the shutters of the metropoles,
Stirring no poet in his sleep, and tolls
The grand ideas of the villages.
The malady of the quotidian . . .
Perhaps if summer ever came to rest
And lengthened, deepened, comforted, caressed
Through days like oceans in obsidian
Horizons, full of night's midsummer blaze;
Perhaps, if winter once could penetrate
Through all its purples to the final slate,
Persisting bleakly in an icy haze;
One might in turn become less diffident,
Out of such mildew plucking neater mould
And spouting new orations of the cold.
One might. One might. But time will not relent.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 6:32 PM UTC
Nocturnes narrating awkward remembrance,
steadfast, stoic in the house of God,
fragile, childhood memories still whisper,
boys, displaying cultured monotone respect,
despite blatant hypocrisy and emotional neglect,
disparity of memory, underlying tension of conflict,
rehearsed eulogies, gripping the old oaken lectern,
orations, borne of duty, incongruent and painted,
with the brushes of Munthe and Gibran.
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
Art is not dead
It's just rearing its head
On sidewalks and forums
As well as a gallery's decorum
Music's not gone
The song still goes on
Online and in strip malls
Just like the concert halls
Legends are still written
Leaving an audience smitten
In novels and orations
And theaters across the nation
Culture's not gone
It's still moving on
And I, for one,
Think its just begun
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 9:57 PM UTC
Indiscernible language orations
A prayer
Almost palpable now
In the air
Is it fear
Of a God
That compels their devotion
The spoken word utterance
Faithful awoken
With all of the vehement
Furor of man
Dispossessed of his land
Grippin’ tight to his chest
A pulled pin full of sin
Intifada Quran
Understanding his place
In the maker’s good graces
Mistaken intentional flawless
Creation
My ritual suicide serpent
Salvation
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 2:29 PM UTC