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"paraphrase" poems
Remember, that chaos first was a primordial deity, Chaos; the nothingness from which all else sprang headfirst and heartfelt, half-naked and handsome, hook, line and... halibut. All of this, every measurable moment, every particle, every object set forth in motion sprang from a void so harmoniously as if the absence of everything was kissed sudden by the presence of something. Often depicted with wings, a bow, and a quiver of arrows, Cupid, son of Venus - goddess of love, son of Mercury - god of trade, his story, almost identical in Greek and in Roman mythology, his story, about a couple of gods who seem so inherently human by nature, jolted by jealousy, dumbstruck by beauty, hellbent on immortality, his story has been hallmarked as red hot velvet rose petal fine wine and symmetrical hearts. Wrapped in tin foil red ribbons bitter-sweetly sugarcoated dipped in thin layer of chocolate taste-tested and lover approved. Remember that scene in Hook where Tinkerbell leaves her footprints on Peter's chest, well that's you and that's me-- touch me where my heart beats because I don't ever wanna be a lost boy. I wanna grow up like a good bedtime story with morals and purpose, I wanna have meaning. You might say that Cupid found himself. You might say that Psyche found her soul. You might say that Tinkerbell was just faking it-- with the clapping. Truth is, we can never know the whole story-- the complete truth. Problem is, we think we can and act like we do. So the only time we mean what we say is the first time we say it, every utterance thereafter is just an attempt at recreating a moment. I love you is a paraphrase that deserves three separate ellipses because there's a lot left unsaid. I (distinctively remember shadow-boxing with) love (against a star-dotted sky anchored to a moonlight so vibrant it can only be compared to) you (and your tidal waves). And that's where I fell headfirst and handsome. I (was punched-drunk by a kiss so breathless that it spiked my dopamine to a volume that can only be described as) love (in that every time my neurotransmitters feel) you (they spin themselves dizzy and dance to your science). There was a moment in the absence of everything when I was kissed silent by the presence of something. Hold me to your breastplate. I don't ever wanna go back to the void. 02/09/2010
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Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
Hallmarked & Handsome
Remember, that chaos first was a primordial deity, Chaos; the nothingness from which all else sprang headfirst and heartfelt, half-naked and handsome, hook, line and... halibut. All of this, every measurable moment, every particle, every object set forth in motion sprang from a void so harmoniously as if the absence of everything was kissed sudden by the presence of something. Often depicted with wings, a bow, and a quiver of arrows, Cupid, son of Venus - goddess of love, son of Mercury - god of trade, his story, almost identical in Greek and in Roman mythology, his story, about a couple of gods who seem so inherently human by nature, jolted by jealousy, dumbstruck by beauty, hellbent on immortality, his story has been hallmarked as red hot velvet rose petal fine wine and symmetrical hearts. Wrapped in tin foil red ribbons bitter-sweetly sugarcoated dipped in thin layer of chocolate taste-tested and lover approved. Remember that scene in Hook where Tinkerbell leaves her footprints on Peter's chest, well that's you and that's me-- touch me where my heart beats because I don't ever wanna be a lost boy. I wanna grow up like a good bedtime story with morals and purpose, I wanna have meaning. You might say that Cupid found himself. You might say that Psyche found her soul. You might say that Tinkerbell was just faking it-- with the clapping. Truth is, we can never know the whole story-- the complete truth. Problem is, we think we can and act like we do. So the only time we mean what we say is the first time we say it, every utterance thereafter is just an attempt at recreating a moment. I love you is a paraphrase that deserves three separate ellipses because there's a lot left unsaid. I (distinctively remember shadow-boxing with) love (against a star-dotted sky anchored to a moonlight so vibrant it can only be compared to) you (and your tidal waves). And that's where I fell headfirst and handsome. I (was punched-drunk by a kiss so breathless that it spiked my dopamine to a volume that can only be described as) love (in that every time my neurotransmitters feel) you (they spin themselves dizzy and dance to your science). There was a moment in the absence of everything when I was kissed silent by the presence of something. Hold me to your breastplate. I don't ever wanna go back to the void. 02/09/2010
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72
I found an empty book, it's labelled biology- grade nine, fake lines ran across the book, never any real content, to feel content with what I read was an impossible matter, scattered diagrams of human anatomy too far from realism because realistic diagrams would include labels to hearts with coloured charts stating that 'this may fall apart- not by fat barricades, but to paraphrase a different place, Neruda chases the stars and from afar as the cages of ribs would rip and sometimes, just enough to have felt loved, to feel enough with being held for just a night, a short time, but life is built beyond a biology book. It is so strange that I have learnt so much more about life than ninth grade biology because being biologically correct doesn't ***** the hairs on my back as an assortment of words like an assortment of birds aren't really meant to be described as assortments and a biology book isn't really meant to describe life.
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Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 6:04 AM UTC
Ninth Grade - Biology
Film developer cacophonies, and journalistic hoarding My friends wanted to record our last year – Accurately – not succinctly Abstractly – and yet, directly, bluntly Vividly – in photography, quote notebooks, Dictaphone diatribes That’s hilarious – scribble it down. Can you repeat your brilliance? If you could paraphrase that – well…what would you say? Take another one. She wasn’t smiling. I don’t want to smile. My friend sidles up beside me – beaming grin Sticking her fingers into my mouth Pulling opposite and up And her fingers tasted like The musty pages of books without pictures.
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Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
Yearbook
Prayer the Churches banquet, Angels age, Gods breath in man returning to his birth, The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgramage, The Christian plummet sounding heav’n and earth; Engine against th’Almightie, sinners towre, Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear, The six-daies world-transposing in an houre, A kinde of tune, which all things heare and fear; Softnesse, and peace, and joy, and love, and blisse, Exalted Manna, gladnesse of the best, Heaven in ordinarie, man well drest, The milkie way, the bird of Paradise, Church-bels beyond the starres heard, the souls bloud, The land of spices; something understood.
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2.3k
Prayer
"They combined some things that used to be separate and act like they invented some new *hot **** I mean, those things would have been combined before. They were the same concepts applied separately rather than all as one unit, but that was only because we hadn't yet developed the capacity for that sort of functional unification. And, now, they're not even any better; they're just bigger and more grandiose!"
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Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
I paraphrase my Friend as having said: [Technology]
I will never love again. Today I woke up at 7am remembered the boy who climbed out my bedroom window last night after we watched Pulp Fiction. I smiled like the Cheshire Cat for the boy who promised he'd never love me. Never love me, and I promise to never love you back. Maybe there's a parallel universe that runs a track close and alongside ours, where we are not commitment phobic. Then again, maybe in that parallel universe you marry the girlfriend that you cheated on with me. I am not pretty. But I have your virginity! A big ugly chunk of you that I would happily throw back if I had half a chance. Yet, I still cling to you like a lost girl we sit in silence and I try to show you Pulp Fiction. But you won't stop talking and then there's a moment of highly charged ****** tension and Uma Thurman says to paraphrase "Don't you just hate those comfortable silences" Why do we always yak about ******** I realised I don't know you at all and I kissed you quietly because your eyes were closed Because that's what you do, right?
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Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
Pulp Fiction
I wonder what goes through her head She's like a book I've never read The cover both enchanting and confusing me I comment how her hair looks cute And peel another piece of fruit Turns out orange will rhyme with something With pith under my finger nails You interrupt, rebuff, regale You said you know that I'm waiting for you It seems the radio concurs The DJ spins 'Venus in Furs' As you amuse yourself to cure me While that's less quote, more paraphrase And now it's weeks instead of days But you still get to stay equivocal I'm feeling far too old to care 'Bout books and covers, pith and hair So I'll just take it out on poetry
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Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC
Take it out on poetry
i now,whose the ****** lily,this confrontation is such a bore.. there is no wine as sweet as thirst ( to paraphrase edna st.vincent millay) little mr. thought for the day- a potato is a potato.. ii well that was lunch inspiration is rather dry to some petulant spring such is day three of the fiesta.. iii but here anyway.. iv i would rather dig my own grave with a numbered spoon then go to a bbq.. v sooner play the blues than go on a cruise vi better loose both knees then visit disney.. vii lily leave me stop this carousing the love tree has become winter then our spring lost and gone when blossom hung sweet and glittering in the free summer found us in sundry doldrums pitched again to the  roots of done.. autumn now the golden days lay like a stone where we sought ourselves anew.. toward the equinox of our o and to no where particular but love  and now we me yo..
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Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
now,whose
I'm weary of this weather and I hanker for the ways Which people read of in the psalms and preachers paraphrase--
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Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
I'm weary of this weather and I hanker for the ways
i will end it all soon. i have not a clue how. i know it will happen, though, it's embedded beneath my brow. nothing messy, or prolonged, i am sure, it will be just an instant gift- it will place itself in my hands, and through my hands my sparks will sift. for now i am a captive, all night i hearken to, the death watches in the walls, knowing i will soon be gone, beckoned by the darkness that now calls. and to paraphrase ol' Mr. Eliot, (Thomas Stearns, if you must know)- this is the way my life shall end, this is the way my life shall end, this is the way my life shall end: not with a bang, but with a whimper, i will go.
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Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 7:04 PM UTC
at an opportunity too subtle to resist
You will always be those slippers and the one I talk to you in my mind and when I'm just needing a smile yours will be the face I find you are the truth.. the absolute that time can't paraphrase the beginning and the middle and the end of all my days   when everything is seeming grim when my lifes end is drawing near ill just slip those slippers on and say goodbye my dear.
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Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
my slippers
clinging desperately a lone leaf on an autumn branch, enduring the cold winds that blow-- the breath of winter, the darkened skies, the bare branches of skeleton trees. one more push and it will fall, swoop down in all poetic glory, to paraphrase life's forgotten misfit ideals-- no matter the tenacity of the leaf, how strong its stem holds, falling is fate, and rotting is inevitable.
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Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
Forest Graveyards
My idol walks. Behold her beauty born of Nicaraguan night summoning poetic duty: tremors of volcanic light! Clouds of ash and lava dropping: I come back… I going shopping. Sounding her primeval waters crater lakes, her green lagoons, fabulous—this diverse daughter’s humid palms and storm-tossed moons; ascending up her jungle mount: Transfer dinero to my account! Stone-faced idol, pre-conquista; rice with beans or sacred maize labyrinthine Latin vista, cumbias and sacred lays. Hurricanes and quaking earth: ****** what’s your dollar worth?* She who left her quaint dysfunction reeking of colonial woes for the multi-culti junction, holy in her porno-pose; scowling like exploited nations: How you say… congratulations! Gushing like a flow of lava running down her placid gaze, ripened flesh; the scent of guava, passion-fruit in paraphrase… Monkeys howling, torrents pouring: Poetry to me is boring… Rubén Darío’s wonderland: Flor de Caña the anesthetic. Marx’s tropic reprimand: Sandinismo as emetic. Verses don’t impress this lass: Please—the car need fill with gas. Lost in hurricanes of thought, pounding the roof, God pours, it rains. What was it, really, that I sought In her land where the poetry reigns ? It’s love. At times I long to shoot her: Why you waste time on that computer?
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Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
La Fabulosa
That “Grand Idea” of traveling          going with the Snowbirds                                      as in herds Changing with the Seasons... For what ever reasons... Changed when seven pounds                of squirm and delight          was cradled in my arms-           five years ago that night Instant Love as from Above Never to cease, never to release a 24/7 little boy, Tony Boy,              (and Lucy too)      Filling my life with Joy. I wondered at times       how it would be... Retired...      Just my wife          and me. And when I weighed the cost Thought of the loss Someone else called “Grandpa”. The little voices saying “Grandpa!”, “Poppa!” Rang louder still, louder beyond all measure than all the sites and sounds the world could offer. No other decision was possible to make Than to spend my life raising my “children” Building memories, building lives. Instilling character the only way I know...    Loving and living,        and when necessary -- using words. My “children” will live their life,         living memories,           giving memories,         creating memories, of times when they were young Saying,      “I love you Grandpa.”                     “I love you Poppa.” Hearing,   “I love you too my child.” Knowing, “See you in the morning.”                       Refers to Heaven. “The greatest love you can show is to give your life for your family.”      (It is a paraphrase but      consider the original Author.)
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Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 8:29 PM UTC
Retirement
That “Grand Idea” of traveling          going with the Snowbirds                                      as in herds Changing with the Seasons... For what ever reasons... Changed when seven pounds                of squirm and delight          was cradled in my arms-           five years ago that night Instant Love as from Above Never to cease, never to release a 24/7 little boy, Tony Boy,              (and Lucy too)      Filling my life with Joy. I wondered at times       how it would be... Retired...      Just my wife          and me. And when I weighed the cost Thought of the loss Someone else called “Grandpa”. The little voices saying “Grandpa!”, “Poppa!” Rang louder still, louder beyond all measure than all the sites and sounds the world could offer. No other decision was possible to make Than to spend my life raising my “children” Building memories, building lives. Instilling character the only way I know...    Loving and living,        and when necessary -- using words. My “children” will live their life,         living memories,           giving memories,         creating memories, of times when they were young Saying,      “I love you Grandpa.”                     “I love you Poppa.” Hearing,   “I love you too my child.” Knowing, “See you in the morning.”                       Refers to Heaven. “The greatest love you can show is to give your life for your family.”      (It is a paraphrase but      consider the original Author.)
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45
by saying the familiar such as here I am, Lord we take comfort in the suggestion of return- I so believe and utter here I am, Lord but do not recall the leave taking my good Lord provides but instead remember being very still for a very long time a building went up around me I was very plain for a very long time and weighed on the building like an elevator might if broken and in this manner of being still and plain I was called to paraphrase a certain fey opacity that went I know too far
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Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 2:08 AM UTC
a murmuration
I am not a book you wrote about yourself You can not write me in or edit me out You can not read through these lines Or paraphrase me with quotation marks I’m not a word you struggle to find Or your editor’s phone call about your deadline I’m not a chapter that you cut short Or a embellished lie you write as a last resort And that rewritten paragraph you can’t quite get right Frustrates you and keeps you up at night I’m not a unfinished thought you fail to mention Or a idea for a story that you question I am not a working title you keep changing Or a failed storyline for the ending I’m not word you can’t think of Or adjectives that you make up Not a exaggeration of a night you had Or a scattered memory from your past All these things you wish I was I don’t exist to complete yourself
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Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 2:47 AM UTC
Unwritten
What the hell is X-Mas? What does X-Mas mean? It seems to coincide with Christmas Is it something for the teens? Is X-Mas from the X-Men A Marvel comic sort of thing I've looked it up on google And no bells does X-Mas ring Now, Christmas, that is different I know exactly when that is Well, not exactly to the minute Is X-Mas the same as this? I'm told that X-Mas is a way to write down Christmas fast I mean how lazy can a person be To worry just what time has passed? Christ is represented now By an X and a small dash Just think of all the time you saved and of all the extra cash Saved by companies on Christmas cards It really makes you think Three letters gone from Christmas cards They save a ton of ink An  X, it just does not make sense At least it don't to me If the X stands for his cross Then why not use small T To paraphrase a friend of mine Don't send a card to me If Christmas isn't printed there Then it's a card I will not see X-Mas is not a phrase Even PC people say They don't even understand it's use They all say Holidays So have a Merry Christmas Celebrate, our saviour's birth And bury X-Mas in a snow drift Even that's more than it's worth.
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Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 7:03 AM UTC
What the hell is X-Mas?
I want someone to analyze me. Learn my binary oppositions, my repetitions, my anomalies. Find the strands that connect, Paraphrase me. X3. Dissect every phrase. Learn me. Feel me between your fingers. Fold me. Backwardsandforwards, Insideandout upsidedown. Memorize me. Don't forget me.
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Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
What I Learned In English 101
the whole idea that you'd had in three lines or less is much less than a whole thought. so don't waste my time don't waste my space don't waste my life waste your own in lesser thought and in lesser idealism than what's real poetry. i've never thought i'd read more **** posted about some idea than what i've read on here in there just to pump some ****** deeper into my veins to calm my nerves and calm this pain.
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Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 5:17 AM UTC
let me paraphrase
I tried so very hard you see to accept Christianity To believe that snakes in apple trees can talk to maidens pleasantly And a God that is both one and three makes little sense mathematically But the faithful ones insist that I should never try to verify ‘Accept it all and don’t ask why That’s how a Christian should comply’ But really I don’t think that I can this dogma truly buy But do not look so ill at ease uncertainty is no disease And even though we don't agree it makes no difference to me I simply, simply cannot be a fan of Christianity But now I see I’ve made you cry please let it go and dry your eyes There really is no reason why So let me try and clarify We simply don’t see eye to eye on all the things we both decry And now my rhymes are running low but I’ve only got four lines to go So I think it would be apropos to end this dog and pony show And to paraphrase the great Thoreau: ‘When we forget our learning, we’ll begin to know’ And now my friends, I have to go : )
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Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
E I E I O
Hangovers are a back-tax on fun. To paraphrase T.S. Eliot: "Can last night just belong to last night?” I’m not thinking about sins and penance or making any bound-for-failure resolutions. I’m giving myself a mental health break.
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Feb 13, 2022
Feb 13, 2022 at 10:35 AM UTC
back taxes
Of Baseball, Poetry and the Human Condition ~~ From  “The Art of Fielding.” by Chad Harbach "You loved it,” he writes of the game (baseball), “because you considered it an art: an apparently pointless affair, undertaken by people with a special aptitude, which sidestepped attempts to paraphrase its value yet somehow seemed to communicate something true or even crucial about the Human Condition. The Human Condition being, basically, that we’re alive and have access to beauty, can even erratically create it, but will someday be dead and will not." ~~ and thus, the circling noose grows ever small, binding the obvious and unblinding the oblivious more than the mere, poetry in baseball, for both forms of art, knowledge intuited from watching the catcher's body weave this way and that, a dancer en pointe, arms raised in worship, addressing the heavens with a body's broad brush strokes, all to catch with concentrated skill, a lazy, towering popup, climaxing oft with an exclamation point - a perilous desperation leap into the dugout encampment of the inimical opposition yeah, yeah, sure, sure, you knew that, tho daring to verbalize same, before the age of thirty, presumed maturity, was not an act of the sane of heart, or the sound of mind with body melded what you dared not admit was that the conditional principle, was primal and not tangential, though perhaps, some itinerant fathers foolishly mumbled incoherently of life's linkages and motifs parallel of that desperate beauty, the ferric magnetic irony, that our full access pass to envisioning the finery, imaging the stuff of our own daily creation genesis, whether concocting undisciplined disassembled parts, called words, into a singular line, a stanza that froze your lungs from the boredom of the regularity of heaving and breathing, was in no way different than the curvature of the boy's arm in desperation outstretched, seeking spectacular safety for a well hit ball of cork into a worn leather mitten and thus confirming his humanity to the watching tribal membership and these momentary moments of momentousness, will live forever until we die, judged of equal stature, a soldiers stripes, ribbons of his theaters of service, medals of the honor and the errors of his own truthful, youthful and crucial human condition
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Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 4:57 PM UTC
Of Baseball, Poetry and the Human Condition
Of Baseball, Poetry and the Human Condition ~~ From  “The Art of Fielding.” by Chad Harbach "You loved it,” he writes of the game (baseball), “because you considered it an art: an apparently pointless affair, undertaken by people with a special aptitude, which sidestepped attempts to paraphrase its value yet somehow seemed to communicate something true or even crucial about the Human Condition. The Human Condition being, basically, that we’re alive and have access to beauty, can even erratically create it, but will someday be dead and will not." ~~ and thus, the circling noose grows ever small, binding the obvious and unblinding the oblivious more than the mere, poetry in baseball, for both forms of art, knowledge intuited from watching the catcher's body weave this way and that, a dancer en pointe, arms raised in worship, addressing the heavens with a body's broad brush strokes, all to catch with concentrated skill, a lazy, towering popup, climaxing oft with an exclamation point - a perilous desperation leap into the dugout encampment of the inimical opposition yeah, yeah, sure, sure, you knew that, tho daring to verbalize same, before the age of thirty, presumed maturity, was not an act of the sane of heart, or the sound of mind with body melded what you dared not admit was that the conditional principle, was primal and not tangential, though perhaps, some itinerant fathers foolishly mumbled incoherently of life's linkages and motifs parallel of that desperate beauty, the ferric magnetic irony, that our full access pass to envisioning the finery, imaging the stuff of our own daily creation genesis, whether concocting undisciplined disassembled parts, called words, into a singular line, a stanza that froze your lungs from the boredom of the regularity of heaving and breathing, was in no way different than the curvature of the boy's arm in desperation outstretched, seeking spectacular safety for a well hit ball of cork into a worn leather mitten and thus confirming his humanity to the watching tribal membership and these momentary moments of momentousness, will live forever until we die, judged of equal stature, a soldiers stripes, ribbons of his theaters of service, medals of the honor and the errors of his own truthful, youthful and crucial human condition
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46
I can rhyme & riddle Play violin & fiddle I can write metaphors and paraphrase Sit in a basement or stand on a stage I can narrate comtemplations And describe frustrations I can sit in the shade and describe what I feel I can recreate the impossible and make it seem real I can write stories about feeling distant And tell tall tales of commitment I can write In riddles without clues I can write on all shades of the blues I can capture the experience of motion and make time freeze in emotion I can write to match my mood I can write them eloquent or crude But just because I wrote it doesn't make me a poet Poetry... What is it? Eh, I'll leave it to someone else. This is just me writing on myself
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Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 12:22 AM UTC
Mark1, Mark2, skee-da-lee- da-do
You try to capture my attention By painting by numbers The inescapable feelings Are melting in my mouth The worn off novelties and furtive commodities I never thought I'd get this far, allow me to paraphrase Divide and conquer This is our valor Different molds Different shapes Different models Different makes We have the right away You try your best to preclude Dissonant product placement And learn the differences between emotion, feeling, attitude and mood The art of subsumption Looking for a viable something or other I am a gun for hire aiming at those who cajole I am a gun for hire aiming at the rigmarole I am a gun for hire aiming at the Lords and Commons I am a gun for hire aiming at special interest groups Oh, shock of mercy subpoena me into extinction But not before I get a clear consensus Of who knows that while you get played they get paid Then let the Copperheads lay me down under my shroud On June 15th, a Wednesday at noon
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May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
Lex Legis
Poetry is a mirror of our soul but also a window to the outside world---that which is external and tangible--neither is complete without the other but it's only the inner side of us that understands the deeper meaning of life and all things.  It's strange but true---the intangible is mysterious, profound and has power and resources latent within us--most of which we aren't even aware---until kindled and brought to light by the muse of poetry.  Then a clear light dawns upon us and we begin to see and understand things better.  The 'physical we' is, in my view,  of lesser significance than the 'abstract we' or should I say the 'essential we'?---that which can be seen, handled or articulated is only the periphery of truth and things but not the core--we are larger than what we think  but we don't grasp this as we are lost in the banality and humdrum of daily life--we are walking shadows rather than light and fall short of our real potential. Talking of language and music, Felix Mendelssohn wrote (my paraphrase): words mean less to me than music and it's music that speaks clearer to me.         All said, man is a mystery as life is but they intersect--at every point.
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May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
My Note To A Fellow-Writer in HP*