"ovations" poems
In the Webster dictionary beauty is defined as:
"The quality of being physically attractive"
And it never specifies what attractive is...who gets to decide it
but...
The screens, the magazines, they all scream
In high definition their definition of "beauty"
Beauty is itty bitty waists and walking twigs
negative spaces between legs that subtract another's value
if the gap is not there
It is lipstick and pale pink blush on rearranged faces
like children playing dress up
or a giant game of make-believe we are made to believe
that something is wrong with the way we look
And we have been directed well
the cruel criticism oozing out of over-injected lips
typed out with freshly manicured tips
"she has weird ***** "you have a weird nose" "lay off the cookies"
we read off the scripts, taking turns playing the villain and the victim
and there are no heroes here
There are no standing ovations, no thunderous claps await
Is anyone really watching?
Does anyone really see?
With pain hardened eyes we glare
we compare compare compare
ourselves to the models, the barbie dolls, the flawless magazines
our friends, our sisters, strangers on the street
and in our rooms before the mirror
our reflection the bearer of bad news
"you are not the fairest of them all"
will we ever be?
So much trial for so much error
we are worn thin and even so
even so we are told to lose a few
And we run, endlessly
in the hopes that we may be worth something
If only we would realize that beauty is a noun, a word created by man
between beaten and become
If we win this race we will have beaten the monster society has become
and see
that we are all worth more than words
we are flying off the page
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
Black out, fade in,
spot light on the boy with his guitar.
Dim light, dim blue flush,
she sits in the corner,wishing on her imaginary star.
Same stage, same adrenaline,
same passion but time never intended for them to meet.
She plays on her role,
and he strums away at his gig.
Sound of guitar coming from his window,
no audience and no standing ovations.
On rented wings, she takes flight,
no rehearsals, no scripts,just tucked away passion.
In his camouflaged green,
he wakes up to his responsibility.
In her traditional prints,
she's all set for the working society.
The clock strikes twelve,
it's the end of two thousand ten.
He's at the eating place
and she comes by with her friends.
He's sitting at the corner
and she's at the other end.
Their eyes met for the very first time,
when they reach out to shake hands.
No lights, no stage,
no audience and that adrenaline.
Just the boy with his guitar, strumming
and in his room she sits, watching.
She talks about the plays, the roles
and in his room he strums, listening.
No lights, no stage,
no audience, just he and her,and their spoken adrenaline.
Twenty-six February,
two thousand eleven.
He and her,
like a match made in heaven.
You know what they said about heaven and earth?
A new chapter begins
for the guitarist and the wannabe actress.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 1:04 PM UTC
*Fall In Love Or Fall In Lust.
Make Plans, Or Make Cookies.
There Is Living To Do Here.
There Are Books To Read, And Movies To Watch.
There Are Art Museums Meant To Wonder Through, And Ocean Waters To Taste.
There Are Plays That Deserve Standing Ovations, And Musicals With Words That Need To Be Sung, There Are Girls That Need To Be Kissed, There Are Boys That Need To Know What It Feels Like To Have Their Hands Held.
There Are Poems That Need To Be Screamed At The Tops Of Someone's Lungs. There Are History Books With Frayed Edges, And Broken Tea Pots That Died Before Their First Breath.
There Are Heart Throbs Waiting To Make Teenage Girls Swoon.
There Are Jeans, With Knees That Are Begging To Be Ripped Open.
There Are Sunflowers That Have Never Been Told “You Are My Sunshine”.
There Are Grandfathers With Empty Laps, And Mothers With Empty Wallets.
There Are Law Students, With Hearts Ready For Humanity, There Are Babies With Broken Families.
There Are Fortune Cookies With Untold Wisdom, And Grandmothers With The Best Rhubarb Crisp Recipe You Have Ever Tasted.
There Are Undiscovered Passions, And Ancient Ruins.
There Are Empty Canvases And Blank White Walls.
There Are Silences, Recorded And Played Back For The Ears Of The Empty. There Are Places On This Earth Where The Sky Is The Color Of Bleeding Tissue Paper. There Are Places On This Earth, Where Dry Lightening Storms, Are As If God Himself Is Snapping Photos.
There Are Lost Valentines, And Flickering Lampposts. There Are Forgotten Dates And Remember Birthdays.
There Are Lost Puppies And One Man Bands.
There Are Butterflies With Missing Wings, And Eagles That Mate For Life.
There Are Places We Put Our Insane, And Others We Place Our Sick.
We Have Tattooed Our Mistakes On Skin, And Branded Cattle To The Same Tune.
There Are Times We Fall Together, And Others In Witch We Fall Apart.
There Are Moments When We Gage Our Existence In The Breaths We Take, And Moments When We Gage It In The Moments That Take Our Breath Away.
There Are Times We Take Chances And Times We Take Pills.
There Are Moments When We Bruise Our Knees While Praying, And Others Where We Break Kneecaps For Dollar Bills.
There Is Living To Be Done Here.
There Are Words To Be Spoken, And Even More To Be Written.*
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 8:26 PM UTC
~
Shadows move on sheet rock barriers
framed in time of late
Spaces filled with unknown visions
dance about with feet of clay
Gowns of nightmare carpetbaggers
thunder on the floor
Drippings in a mist of nervous breath
blanket my safe haven
and the sounds scream
in voices of past mishaps
Lost in lonely corridors,
wailing on aching skylights
permitting barely a moon glow psalm
to echo of their meaning
in songs from a distance,
of pleading skeletal desire
“I fear for I have no choice”
Doorways yawn in weary ovations
Slanted photos dot the landscape
Windows prove little relief from the cold
as heat pierces my cavities
Gaping wounds of frail memories
clutch at my last ounce,
measuring the words I am reading
Taking a breath, sweet, stagnant
Clawing for an exit only to find
it has stood before me all along
Baby steps, I have been told
Find that trust, slowly…make sure,
reach out for the hand
offered on a dreamscape message
“I fear for I have no choice?”
Eyes, so tired, weeping pools
out of focus since that day, open
(As if sunflowers float on silken wings
and glorious becomes an understood word)
slowly and tentatively,
blinking sorrow’s pathway free
to lead me to you
The imprint of that butterfly
marks my palm in red lines of love,
mapping my skin with a long awaited
smile, dry lips curve as I take your hand
trusting, for the very first time
realizing the feeling
which hath finally…set me free
“I no longer fear, for I have a choice”
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 12:27 PM UTC
He presents what you see
with impeccable finesse.
He hides everything else behind the curtains.
Heavily veiled by his smiles...
Cleverly masked behind his script.
He stands elevated, taking his stage.
From his vantage he sees all.
He allows his facade to bask in the light...
Whilst keeping his back in the shadow.
He's renowned.
By the light that kills the dark.
He's addicted to the nightly ovations,
cascading cheers and gleaming reviews.
But every show has an end.
Come every dawn, he wakes to the reality
that tolls at his door.
He's owned and he knows it...
Too well,
by the stage he built
and the drama he wrote and casted.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 8:02 AM UTC
And I built shrines in my eyes to you
to mourn what I never had but still held onto.
Dove into an ocean of profound blue
only to come out still nothing anew.
I look out at fig trees
ponder like the Greek’s great Socrates
question my disease,
the words I can’t release.
My life spinning all around him
orbitals of light grown dim.
Through space you cannot swim
from the sins you have been condemned.
If I am mad as they say
how do I still walk the driveway?
Worship on the Lord’s day;
get down on my knees and pray?
Faithful I am, still, to the life I have lived
however disguised.
Loving, as I will when all has died.
Everything you’ve seen is advertised,
a movie set in frames
the tape up in flames.
How tired she is of playing your games,
mouths running to blame.
Me? I am just fine.
Owing it all to bottles on bottles of sparkling wine,
to you and your redesigned
view of the dividing line.
If you wake a girl from her dreams
the gentle chug of a mind’s machine
will it break down, by all means?
It’s better to let her softly scream.
Than distract from the will of inspiration,
of art and death's flirtation.
Continue the persisting narration
speak her mind, give it standing ovations!
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 3:01 PM UTC
defeat is only an objective.
as I lead I gain prospective
haters hate through being deceptive
the envy spreads like sheets infective
while they creep
playing detective
wolve in sheep
until their accepted
their reasoning is subjective
I just wait until they reach
then disconnected their connective
I'm a beast, I can't be infected
work off pure instinct
raw fear instantly detected
human nature,
to be expected
my only actions
moving forward is corrective
i exceed all expectations
with standing ovations,
use to bring power to foreign nations
outworking occupations
make so much sense
i get paid vacations
my buildings, block foundations
I empowered nations for generations
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
reality is all that exists.
context is the curtain edge of
the proscenium.
the play is
you and I
performing every day.
ovations and uproar
are all just noise in the end.
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 9:08 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
You've never known the devil dancing in the moon light,
Until vanity hits you in the face with a sack of fruit,
You've watched me my whole life,
Now it's my turn to watch you,
Situations and different places,
I have no idea how I got there,
Ah ! Man here comes the coppers , that's my cue,
You've watched me my whole life,
Now it's my turn to watch you,
Standing ovations to a life of purposeless conflicts,
Wouldn't wanna be in my shoes,
I'd rather you be you,
You've watched me my whole life,
Now it's time I believe in you.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
~
Choices
Shadows move on sheet rock barriers
framed in time of late
Spaces filled with unknown visions
dance about with feet of clay
Gowns of nightmare carpetbaggers
thunder on the floor
Drippings in a mist of nervous breath
blanket my safe haven
and the sounds scream
in voices of past mishaps
Lost in lonely corridors,
wailing on aching skylights
permitting barely a moon glow psalm
to echo of their meaning
in songs from a distance,
of pleading skeletal desire
“I fear for I have no choice”
Doorways yawn in weary ovations
Slanted photos dot the landscape
Windows prove little relief from the cold
as heat pierces my cavities
Gaping wounds of frail memories
clutch at my last ounce,
measuring the words I am reading
Taking a breath, sweet, stagnant
Clawing for an exit only to find
it has stood before me all along
Baby steps, I have been told
Find that trust, slowly…make sure,
reach out for the hand
offered on a dreamscape message
“I fear for I have no choice?”
Eyes, so tired, weeping pools
out of focus since that day, open
(As if sunflowers float on silken wings
and glorious becomes an understood word)
slowly and tentatively,
blinking sorrow’s pathway free
to lead me to you
The imprint of that butterfly
marks my palm in red lines of love,
mapping my skin with a long awaited
smile, dry lips curve as I take your hand
trusting, for the very first time
realizing the feeling
which hath finally…set me free
“I no longer fear, for I have a choice”
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 8:41 AM UTC
With pompous fanfare I delight those few,
To smiles and loud ovations from afar,
Who sit upon my daydream's blessed pew,
And light night's darkened pathways as the stars,
With half-truths, bland omissions, outright lies,
I paint the murals colored by success,
To cover over failures, my disguise,
And hide their idol God has yet to bless,
For had I told the truth and never lied,
Those precious few would see and nod their heads,
Acknowledge my ejection justified,
Accept their children's love for me as dead,
For any food that fails to carry taste,
Is cast aside as utter worthless waste.
(C)2014, Christos Rigakos
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
The taxi is silent the driver's stopped trying
A crossing appears with no pedestrians crossing
Houses line the street with a warm yellow lighting
The night drizzle lightens, the pavements start frosting.
Shouldn't winter nights be spent comfortably
Rapped in familiarity?
Turn into the car park, the barrier is rising
Wretched is the destination, cold and disheartening
One day you'll return and your mindset will brighten
For now we will visit under the cold grey lighting.
Should I dare to peak inside?
The driver shrugs. I daren't decide.
The automatic doors squeak ominously open
No round of applause, no standing ovations
A pin could be heard, the canteen is broken
Seldom celebrated, there are few worse locations.
Should I lower my temperament
Become stoic and sensible?
The escalator moans while taking us further
The corridors smell stale, they echo a murmur
A slip-away comment in a labyrinth of tension
Hospital blue reflects in the eyes of the visitors.
Could I muster the strength to go inside?
I'm here, I've done it, all sadness must hide.
The nurse hands over the apron, i feel inhuman,
You lie propped on a cushion, restlessly muttering.
'It's a bad dream, it's okay' I'm nervously stuttering.
My stomach churns at the pain you're experiencing.
Should i dare to show my tears?
I needn't alarm onlookers and familiars.
Your bed-light flickers, the room dissapears
In the darkness we're calm, inhibitions are cleared
Such split-second clarity has calmed me for years.
I smile fearlessly pulling your hand gently nearer.
Should I dare to leave your side?
I'd blame myself, it would shatter my pride.
So here we sit for hours on end, semiconscious
Semi-talking, the volta on which all cruxces depend
Your dream-like graciousness cleanses and encompasses;
Myself and others, regale tales of your accomplishments.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 9:06 AM UTC
I'm tired of who I am and how people see me
I'm never good enough and there's always a flaw and no matter how hard I try I cannot get past the thought that I am just simply not worth the time.
That even the influential adults in my life have something bad to say and that's all they say.
I'm not worth the positive reviews and the standing ovations because even when I think I'm at my best, someone tears me down.
criticize me on who I am because I make mistakes
like every other human being on this planet
but because I'm young and have more room to learn
I am more susceptible to harsh words and "constructive criticism"
but what happened to building each other up
and as a Christian
loving thy neighbor as thyself
and how God can only judge us
but how come
these words
hurt worse
coming from a friends mouth
about what their mother says about me behind my back.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
.
*Here on the night before yesterday’s dream
Twilight composers retreat
Laughing at whispers a’ flow on the stream
Happily taking a seat
Practicing meadowlark lyrics to sing
Strumming a toadstool in tune
Awaiting the light that the fireflies bring
Blinking a wink at the moon
Tulips with tambourines gather around
Spider web chandeliers glow
Shade tree sonatas, a wonderful sound
Echoing up from below
Pine cone recitals and blueberry sighs
Star dust ovations in rhyme
Choruses sung beneath velveteen skies
Harmonic three quarter time
Orchestral canopies glisten above
Melodic rainbows the view
Performing songs written solely of love
Played on this evening for you*
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 6:54 PM UTC
My father never told me
To "just be myself"
To "search first for my wealth"
To "seek ye first the Kingdom
Or quench the fires in hell"
Just one thing instilled in these,
My randomly pulsating crevasses
The sacks now in my chest,
The ever-beating evidence,
With everything I feel
And everything I believe in
Regardless the time or season,
Or the countless cries and pleas for remorse:
That I would know the course
Stay ahead
But now I see within me
I'm breeding with pride and envy
And the sickness is a symptom
Of what makes me feel empty
I'm tired of situations
Calling for analyzation
And heartfelt anticipation
Of other standing ovations
For the things I see are breaking
In here
I'm caged by the guilt I have laid
At the feet of the people I've played
And those I've used as supports
(They caught their heart in the door)
Unaware of what's in store for them
They couldn't see into my eyes,
The disguise through which I try
To hide all my ghosts and why's
And all the things kept inside in order to
Stay ahead
The needy, greedy child with eyes for the spotlight
With emotions bigger, even, than his head
And the same mud blood, barely red
Just like his father's
Who's always "just fine" and says "don't even bother"
Because "today, everything is going my way."
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 12:59 AM UTC
here lies a name etched into marble stone,
a date of birth, a date of death as well,
a history that now has left its bone,
with nothing more to do, nothing to tell,
inductive reasoning may well infer
the tiny puzzle pieces into one
mere picture, full or partial, one interred
human, or not, you may as well be done,
i've lived an uneventful hidden life,
no accolades, nor sitting mute ovations,
but struggled unsuccessfuly in strife,
a lifetime night, with rare lightning occasions,
so now get up and walk along your way,
make room for other puzzled minds to fray
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
What do we all do on this joyous occasion,
Demonic laughs and blood spilling from standing ovations,
The usher sneaks drugs to give to his clients,
The dream i arose from, I swear im not lying,
And every person would be scared to face their demons in silence,
Throwing water in your face like you've been hit by Poseidon,
So slowly I'm deciding to not fall asleep,
Collection of happy thoughts are the dreams I wanna keep,
At the ceremony.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
behold the art
of Loghain
a poet possessed
with fine refrain
one is in awe
of his exemplary creations
they're deserving
of deafening ovations
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
He entered this world but to be deprived
Through conscious mind as a twinless twin;
A child then teen driven with mother's pride
To defeat daily taunting and chagrin.
His character mold based on poverty
Provided persuasion by song and verse;
He revealed true meaning of liberty
While elite declared he a wicked curse.
Modern lifestyle assured he'd not bypass
Drug induced pain and sinful temptations;
But with early death, he seemed to amass
Rightful honour and esteemed ovations.
His words should be played on neon marquee,
“I'm just the singer who wanted to be.”
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
she is my inspiration.
motivation,
concentration,
my rejuvenation,
i will make a declaration
for this infiltration
of exhilarating exaggeration,
of our joining corporations.
while your vibrations
trigger my salvation of
sensational temptation.
like a starvation that you feel on
a beautiful vacation.
this flirtation of adaptation
that we take into notation
without any negotiation
of our confirmation that we
apply in applications
in calibration
with our wildest aspirations.
our conversations make me
feel dehydration
like my education is an exclamation
its not an estimation of our escalation.
this desperation
our correlation is stronger than any confederation.
you're the most beautiful creation,
and you deserve one hundred standing ovations.
i love you
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
Love's garment woven with endearments
Ovations shared in heart harmony
Vows- the genesis of love's endeavor
Enduring love cultivated with kindness
~when love precipitates, selfishness evaporates~
Nov 2, 2019
Nov 2, 2019 at 12:25 PM UTC
Truth carved by the bold
Wish you were the muse loved by the World
Art belittled to products, hurts like brand-new shoes
My heart brittles for such, coz’ of these brand-new fools
Cheers, accolades with standing ovations feeding our desires
I hear echoes late, is it withstanding storms with patience or cheating the fire? Get to the point where angry is Love,
And touch the soil so you can hang me for being a dove
Unnatured species promiscuous with the bloodline of Iscariot, the nerve…Read this uncensored thesis, like how you believe in Prometheus, syfys and these patriots you serve...
I’d Love to tell you that the yolk of my heart resonates a planet unknown…That the Soul of my Art will exonerate you from this magnet ten fold. That Existence is preliminary to existing, not the other way round. That this is the military of my existence, to figure the way out…
But…when last have you seen a human being?
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 8:47 AM UTC
There were no grand pronouncements
No standing ovations or help desk waiting
No nurse on standby for a stand-up guy
No friend at Jack’s bar to pat him on the back
And send him home in a taxi cab
There was no Monday mail that wished him well
No national pride that made him swell
Just this hell a sorry state for sale
And no one he wanted to tell
So, with nothing to show
He let the bullet go and watched the blood flow
No fire alarms sounded, no ambulance rounded the corner
No other mourners other than the quiet night coroner
Nothing left but an empty room and a short obit
That gave his name cause of death and that was it
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC
Heard powerful words move men to
action
“Hail ******
Millions of innocent souls lost deaths
so hideous
ironically
there are no words to describe
“I have a Dream”
50,000 Americans march onto their
capital to claim the God given right
to be equal.
The same words
Moving through time
staying strong
to where 30 years later
a small white girl
3rd grade
in rural Kansas
echos those same words
in a report on how the world ought
to be
I have seen great words
lost and alone
Concealed beneath pages
Stacked on lined walls
Masters who have manipulated
even the most minute syllable
to affect how you feel, learn, believe.
Vaporized to the literary abyss of the
library Knowledge untapped
Mute wisemen.
Last words
spoken
Desperate to sum up a life in one
B—R—E—A—T—H
what to say......?
what to say......?
One last, “Tell my, fill in the blank, I
love them.”
Or cheaters who manufacture
manuscripts
to be read at their own funerals
pre-written, pre-thought-out ovations
of pathetic lives in an attempt to give
them worth. Sadly, still trying to fool
others by sounding spontaneous
extemporaneous
Even after their heart STOPS
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 12:31 PM UTC