"originals" poems
It cannot put pen to paper
But all a flower has to do
Is open up its delicate petals
Unfolding like a noble lady's fan
Broadening to blossom into a lovely jewel
Poetry without any word
A spider weaves its web
Like an author spins tales
It's intentions upon its survival, but
Its intricate home of threads and strings
Like a gossamer harp
Is enchanting to perceive
A make and design of fragile strength
The oceans and seas
Mighty and commanding
They roar and display their majesty
With crashing waves and splashy bravado
They spare few prisoners
And graveyards of sunken ships
Whisper of stories untold
Birds chirp and warble
With songs that humans long to know
For they travel through the air
In simplistic freedom
Their chorus of communication
Is a poetic symphony just as entertaining
As any band of musicians or artists
The winds blow and whistle
Though they have no mouths
If you listen close enough
You can hear their secrets
Their breath of life in the
Ever flowing
Breezes that enfold us
You'd swear the mountains
Were painted that way
Brawny and broad, peaked high above
Against the grand canvas we call the sky
Yes, paintings are poems, too
For a picture speaks a thousand words
But no mere man can make a mountain
You see
We are merely students
Taught by God's natural, creative genius
We are merely imitators
Of what nature displays
We are not originals
For we are not the first poets
Nor the first storytellers
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
there's no point writing out what poetry is... if you don't actually write it.
a whiskey prior noon,
too soon, too soon,
too soon?
i'll be cooking a turkey curry later,
a whiskey prior noon,
too soon, too soon,
too soon?!
rhyme or rhythmic, perhaps the latter
in Dante's trinity of rhymes -
poetry of the near-illiterate,
who never read as much as could
have been -
thinking it out as origin and originals -
a man without influence is
not worth reciting -
he'll still have to borrow
the life of a Henry VIII somehow,
whether he has or hasn't read a book
concerning the man -
while the Vatican emerges as the gossip
library of all the European royal families,
and indeed Henry VIII dubbed
Anne Boleyn's cow dangler *******
duckies - i think it's due to the fact
he quacked while he suckled the *******
like a pre-mature **** not producing ***** -
seriously, no milk;
and as honesty goes, ********** literature
does it for me, patron saint kenneth rexroth -
self-education moulds the self into a
pristine sequence of surprises -
there the pop of a balloon,
there the weeping clown...
there the giraffe on stilts!
indeed even at university entry point
where i deposited my self
i came back with debts!
idiotic treachery of teaching the politicised
version of language,
as language per se simply called grammatically
sound, in politics simply versed "correct";
two satans from Syria while Solomon
had his harem,
a third from Poland,
they say the holocaust,
6 million if not more citizens of the world
with polish passports - mind you
they took the Diogenes quote
into left and right parallel readied for a march -
Apollo listened then laughed at
the failures counting to 13 - laughing
while the words 'too the moon!' were eased
out from his helium filled lungs.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 6:11 AM UTC
For The Strange One,
Who can see the clouds in perfect formation,
Who move in waves of vibration...
They are the mystics at moonlight,
The tear-stained darkest night,
The waxing moon Vs. first sun-light.
we are the ones
They are the ones who's secrets you’ll die to keep,
deep inside, while others sleep.
They are the originals: darkened-minds, but genuine in love; true & kind.
They can strike you with a smirk and glance.
Or, fool you with a silly dance.
They will lure you with the birdsong's that they sing.
Or creep into your sleep,
To plant infinite kisses to seed through-out your dream.
Wide Awake You/Realize Her Mysteries Will Take You/
To A Whole New View
We swim for you, Oiseau
through the sound waves you drew
Sails Beckoning…
A Whole New Sea
Awakening.
In Me.
Yearning For You, My Oiseau
And The Sound Waves Needed To Lead Me Safely To:
A Light-House Of Love,
Discovered Beyond The Mist & Trees.
A Place For We;
Upon Land & Sea.
Shinning On, Ever-Lasting, Eternally
…My love, I've come to finally fly away with thee.
Love Always,
Your Siren Lost @ Sea
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Written By:
Danyle McGuire
Inspired By:
Strange affinities/dreams
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 4:28 PM UTC
Your generation is defined by definitions.
'This generation', this new-fangled bunch of hooligans
Cut out and put in the oven,
Lives pre-formed, based on premonitions,
Put into the system and cranked out
Made up of numbers and tests that really define who you are.
'This generation' that you have given a set of rules
A set of molds to fit into
To pour their lives out and 'better the world'
Shaped with your all-knowing tools
Scissors that cut funding to the parts that maybe,
Perhaps, might make them an individual.
Because here, no, here we don't have room for individuality
But we sure have room for this assembly
Your freedom of religion, speech, and freedom to assemble
No room for that, for fear of immorality
We don't have time for originals, we don't have time for strays
I'm sorry that you've got ideas, Generation Y
But this is the generation of time constraints.
We've got technology to innovate, an ozone to fit
Communities to build and lives put at risk
But that's not as important as what's in the now
No, not as important as these tucks and nips
We've got to put you under the needle
Even after we swore, 'first do no harm',
But this isn't going to hurt, I swear
Well, maybe not on the outside.
Look here, Y, you'd be better off compliant
To fix our computers and drive our trucks
To turn off your TVs and just trust us
To read the chapter and finish the assignment
Because to us, you all learn the same,
To us you are still just a number
Even if you think you're out when you graduate.
So what, you graduated the system,
And it's done it's work on you
Have your daddy pick the college and your mama pick the sheets
Pack your bags, you're ready for the big world
And that's exactly what we made you think.
Generation Y, you are fitting into the molds we gave you
We tried to crank you out in groups of 300
And we did
You were never allowed to be original
And you weren't.
Generation Y, this cookie-cutter, uniform
'Glued to technology', uninterested
Group of 'stupid' teenagers
You were forced to unify
And forced into corrals, thereby,
Forced into lives we've blessed you with.
I swear, by my very intelligence
That we're good by you, good by the world
In evaluating what we need
Where we need people
Hopefully creating a society less-gnarled
Generation Y, you may hate the population
But you are the population
And you are what we told you to be.
Your lives were pre-formed from day one,
So, please,
Sit down, shut up, finish your definitions,
And stop asking why.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
i was watching batman (1989) and batman returns (1992)
today, and i couldn't stop layering over birdman (2015)
over both films, it was such a comedy, you knew
that it wasn't a serious engagement
in the role, i just kept picturing
the internal monologue -
the action scenes were already
a gimmick when in the birdman
the explosions start with the critique
of what people actually like to see -
and that critique that the joker
is no more a weird'o than batman
dressed in black leather / spandex -
i just wish heath ledger took a break
from acting, and they did the same
sort of film about the actor behind
the joker, but how would they internalise
the essence of the role: the laughter...
internalising a husky voice can be easily
done when the actor in a different role
can talk easily and speedily without that
haunting husky role of the original part...
but the laughter? it would never work,
which is why jack warned heath
about playing the role... 'son, beware
the laughter.' still, what an enjoyable re-watch,
putting over the birdman nostalgia
over the seriousness of the acting in the
originals, you can actually imagine him
going for a coffee break and taking a ****
when the original screening took place,
the whole: back to reality - it really amplified
the films in a quirky way;
and i still think the joker is the only
doppelgänger that can't be tamed: i'm guessing
because of coulrophobia -
and i could still see remnants of this mythical
doppelgänger on heath in the imaginarium
of dr. parnassus... the clowns are onto you,
you can't steal one of them from
the jammed mini or volkswagen beetle with 20 of them in it,
plus the crying clown, everyone's heard of that
one, they mime laughter, this vocalised doppelgänger
of a clown is cursed -
because unlike actual mimes they don't surd
bewilderment being stuck in a box, or touching
a brick wall obstacle... they surd laughter,
and they share it among themselves in a circus,
vocalising that surd is a curse,
since vocalising an actual mime leaves you
without the actual abstractions,
and from what i heard, brick walls are silent
like graves, unless of course you punch one
or smash a car into one.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 4:41 PM UTC
The cover band plays a tirade
of songs we all heard before.
They switch to originals;
which all sound the same.
Originality is as rare as a dollar in my pocket
and just as likely to be spent in tastelessness.
She wore her dinner loose - more of a greasy pub lunch.
******* harder than diamonds in the open winter heat.
Not hungry anymore.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 9:11 PM UTC
so i'm standing outside the coffee shop
staring through the large plate glass windows.
it's one of those intimate,
quirky little places.
pressed tin ceiling,
art (originals) on the walls,
pieces of furniture that look more like they belong in a bedroom
than any public place.
maybe that's my problem.
maybe it isn't impersonal enough.
because i can't seem to get
my feet
to move
over
the
threshold.
i'm just standing here on the street,
staring through to
the other side.
on the other side
sit the group of poets
i am supposed to be joining.
they talk easily with each other,
they share their works.
i'm wondering at this point,
what sort of poets they are,
they are smiling,
laughing
talking easily with each other.
these are definitely not
my type
of poets.
i'm wondering
what kind of poetry
these easy talkers
have inside themselves.
what could they possibly
have to say?
probably poems about
flowers
and butterflies
and trees
and stuff.
this is not the group for me.
i turn and walk on down the street.
a ***** crumpled sheet of newspaper bounces along the sidewalk in front me.
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 3:27 PM UTC
It should be easy,
the originals already
been ripped out
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
If they made Holy Scriptures out of our deeds
How many would we put on display for everyone to read?
When Bani Israel was frozen in time
within divine words,
they did not know
they would become timeless lessons
for generations to come.
Not the liar when he told his last lie,
nor the careless while laughing at the cow,
not even the pious while he raised his staff.
Yet today, we read their stories
With heedless hearts ,
forgetting that we too will be written
in pages heavier than stones
on scales worth more than mountains of gold.
So, why do we pretend that our time is infinite?
As though tic tocs were nothing but melodious beats
synchronized to our pulse.
wal Asr
And by time
Innal Insana la fikhusr
Verily mankind is at loss
How can we not think of yesterday as an effigy,
And tomorrow’s uncertainty as a form of art?
We are artists.
And when our hair strands start to reflect the silver moonlight
When our eyes start telling century old stories
When our joints start pleading with time
Will we then finally ask ourselves:
What will there be left of us?
Originals,
or mere copies?
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
These days the human race
is red-faced
in a battle of wits and wallets
over a Walmart shopping cart
Insanity.
A Christmas wish in a shopping list
the ultimate gift
unattainable
slaving over a hot stove for the perfect dish.
Christmas tradition
is more a religion
Crosby's voice
silky smooth over the radio airwaves
next to a roaring fire
surrounded by loved ones
while another outside loses their ear
to the cold.
From rags to riches
we're less familiar with the former
than the latter
we have to close our eyes
to silence the clatter
of sleigh bells a crackling fire
soothing Crosby and wishing wells
75 percent off and Hallmark originals
blinding Christmas lights up before our neighbor
lasting 'til the 4th of July
the only part of Christmas that makes it
beyond the winter season.
Lights still ever brighter in the hungry eyes
gazing upon shiny paper masking
a rectangular treasure trove of financial woes
shoved under the carpet 'til the tax returns
are our saving grace.
But what of the shining light
that pointed to a springing plight
foreshadowed in a squalid den
where a savior's life would begin?
He soon received gifts of men who lay at his feet
in worship of a hope in the flesh
they'd thought they would never meet
if the child only knew then that He would later be gifted with
a crown of thorns, the spit and curses of his friends, the kiss of a traitor, nails in his hands and feet to a splintered wooden cross.
What if we traded our presents for his presence
Sought our brothers and sisters in love because of his gift
one we could never have given but can graciously receive
one we will never deserve or earn but by his love we are set free.
If we set our eyes to the unseen how much more we will see clearly
that we can shed this wrapping paper like wiggling free of a spider's webbing
that we can no longer fret over the perfect gift because its already been given.
This Christmas season, lets get back to the reason
we love and we live, we laugh and we give
not in the vicious cycle of materialism and consumption
but in the holy light of grace and redemption.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
To your owned basement of the air
From hearing my earth giants,
You make benign the aery introspection
For chiral black and white caves,
Blue floor boards, blue electric pans
Hear this last business, is outside
Blank walls, stagnating a corporeal
Chamber of dazzling originals,
Densely deserted.
But airrenters
Buy other peoples bean sprouts, a singularity of stripes,
Foreign war.
Such nothingness destroys
Your earfull of shadows a living being
Earfulls, which, the content, wouldn't conceal
Life for caressing boughs of every waterway;
Death, someone else's solid stays at home.
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 8:47 AM UTC
I already scripted the future when I had no idea,
Already sculpted proximity in between,
I wasn't that wrong though,
I got it right & slow,
Inhaling poison in pace purely hushed that it's "I am" not "we are",
Bragging just bragging through the narrow deceptively dusky spaces followed in streaks,
And everything is for real ,
Every word couldn't match unfortunately but got preserved & I got healed .
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
I'm an octopus at the bottom of the sea
And somebody cut off all my arms
I used to have eight big fleshy arms with an indeterminate multitude of suckers
And I would coil them around rocks and fish and *****
And bring them in close to me
But some ******* diver cut off all my arms
And now I'm just the floating head of an octopus
Bouncing across the bottom of the sea
Arms grow back very slowly
And it's strange because it took a lifetime to grow the originals
And it's scary because you get so used to just bouncing around after a while
That you're not sure you really want new arms
And your'e not sure if you can trust them
And when you finally stop bouncing around
All your arms will be good for is to be a nice pillow
For you to rest on top of in a hole in the sand
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC
There is a freedom in delusion,
It is artificially flavoured and cheap-
for anyone desperate enough to buy it.
Like this, there are many more copies of the originals.
It is the promise of Love,
The dissapointment of failure,
and the bitter taste of regret.
Yes, there is a blind happiness in the act of faith;
believing in the shadows reflected on the walls of the cave.
A hard truth to accept- the lies you tell to yourself
as you go to bed and succumb to wishful dreams.
Another day wasted-another mind twisted.
The vitality of grass and the prattle of the birds ceases
love fades away, as does the vigor of the summer.
Words once fluent, now cease to forced murmurs of dispassion.
There goes the first leaf of autumn-
in the cold harshness of the creeping wind.
There is honesty and pain in recognition,
Deceit and grief at the eyes of imitation.
Yes, there is a temporal taste of forged happiness;
A comfort in the fabric of deception.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
I am an early bird
My creativity wakes me up from my sleep
I dream about poetry
My nights are wonderlands
I am a poet
I am an original
Jul 25, 2019
Jul 25, 2019 at 9:41 PM UTC
In the California mines
There are 300,000
Native Americans hustling.
What type of verse
Could you possibly
Craft from that?
300,000 natives
Hustling in the
California mines.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 12:01 AM UTC
Tears formed from the fears of two hemispheres of wasted space
Find themselves in a fast pace race down the terrain of a familiar face
Heart and mind encased in a haze as I attempt to argue a flimsy case
That states;
This horde of unworldly insecurity life creates,
The alien thoughts unloaded in the wrong place
Then forced to take place,
Where never my own in the first place
The originals replaced then gone without a trace
No tracks to retrace
So no,
This isn't me making a break for it to save face
Because the worst off it circles back around at a dizzying pace
This is pointing out a particular fall from grace
The life of a waste
©2024
May 21, 2024
May 21, 2024 at 12:13 AM UTC
I had written you a love poem
maybe two or twelve
before I ever met you
but it's hard to tell
I wrote you ten or seventeen
while we were in our throes
I wrote about a handful more
before I met my close
Then wedding bells
Then honeymoons
I wrote a few for her
I passed them off
originals
her own down to the word
I might have been successful
she never cast a doubt
but I never believed
I ever left you out
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
You were more than a clone.
You more then anyone kept the Temps' rolling along.
Without your sound of sounding like Kendricks.
The group would have faced many questions.
You was the masterpiece needed to keep the puzzle together.
And even now, when we look around.
We can't find anyone better,
Came into the group as Damon.
When you was an Otis too.
You still hold the honor of being the youngest.
You made "Papa" get notice besides Dennis.
And when we take a look around concerning you as a member.
All fans can say you done plenty.
No, you wasn't apart of the Classic Five unit.
But you was apart of the Classic Five seventies unit.
Who could dance just as good as the originals?
From the Young Tempts to being part of the Temptations.
You became apart of the legacy.
Even upon your solo song Funday.
You decribe love in a variety of ways.
Yes, you had an impact on the fans to this day.
And you will have one in heaven.
Otis Harris Jr. a.k.a Damon, you done well.
We fans bid you farewell.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 8:34 AM UTC
submerge the surface of your soul around my ankles
gingerly then violently raging against the shore
sable night coastline
soaking into the vast stretch of finely crumbled sun stars
leaving your residue of pearled-breath on
the unspoken words of a hundred poets
mixing the briny depths into metaphors
the lock-lipped horizon
keeping secrets only He knows the answers to
obsoletes of one place
originals of the other
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 9:13 AM UTC
With gleeful smiles he did love his work, thoughts of
others fashioned into orbs. Those of most precious
moments never to be forgotten enshrined in this
master craft of incantation his palms drifted over
Those who wished it copied for keep sakes worth.
He spoke unto the winds as he formed a bubble
shimmering blank needing's of thought. Slight
images wisped from mind to orb, pictures formed
of what was a reflection duplicated in this spherical
wonder that floated above, he blew gently its form.
He had many of his own, but thoughts do wonder
"No his wondered, out of windows, doors,
soot fused spheres that cleaned his chimney top.
Losing his thoughts were a clear expression with
him but still the originals were safely stored inside.
His smile was infectious his heart white as his beard
with warmth. He never asked of anything for his
thoughts were of those in times to come to see who
they were in a memory. Never lost to generations, wise
words or comical moments all would last bonded in word.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
There ain’t nothing like livin’ on love
Smoking Newports in the sunshine
Waiting for the time to pass
Under crystalline blue skies
People in the circle
The faces come and go
But we’re still all here together
We are originals fo’ sho’
He just ran out of squallies
But there’s no need to go and cry
‘Cause we’re the kind of friends
That help each other to get by
Ain’t nothing like livin’ on love
So I thank the stars above
Because I’m happy with lifestyle
And that hasn’t always been the case
There’s no one else in this whole world
Who can cure the lonely days
No one else could show me
All these new and peaceful ways
Of loving what’s around me
Accepting bad and great
Ain’t nothing like livin’ on love
When you were coming back
From your first date with Lucy
We saw those diamonds in the sky
So relieved you let her try
To change your views and cope with stress
‘Cause she was only wishing you the best
Ain’t nothing like livin’ on love
Good vibes come from all around
Never ceasing to astound
The fellow with the thickest walls
Even gets knocked down
But we all come and gravitate
Showin how easy one can change
My pride comes from teaching
Others these irie ways
Ain’t nothing like livin on love
The fall will come, and people leave
Our sweet humble abode
With unspoken words, we know
It’s time to walk our separate roads
But these bonds have tied us deep at heart
We’re always here in spirit
When college comes
And you’re scared to start
Remember how I’m here cheerin’
Ain’t nothing like livin’ on love
Jun 2, 2010
Jun 2, 2010 at 6:15 AM UTC
They drove off in the car
and you gave me a smile
and a wink. I had free reign
over the sweetie drawer.
We were infinitely happy
eating Werther’s Originals
and watching Countdown
on your pink velour sofa.
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC