"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
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
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.
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 6:04 AM UTC
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.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
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.
2.3k
"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!"
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
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?
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
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
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC
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..
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
I'm weary of this weather and I hanker for the ways
Which people read of in the psalms and preachers paraphrase--
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
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.
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 7:04 PM UTC
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.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
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.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
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?
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
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.)
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 8:29 PM UTC
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
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 2:08 AM UTC
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
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 2:47 AM UTC
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.
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 7:03 AM UTC
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.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
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.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 5:17 AM UTC
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 : )
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
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.
Feb 13, 2022
Feb 13, 2022 at 10:35 AM UTC
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
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 4:57 PM UTC
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
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 12:22 AM UTC
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
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
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.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC