"parlance" poems
~
September 2024
HP Poet: Victoria
Age: 59
Country: UK
Question 1: A warm welcome to the HP Spotlight, Victoria. Please tell us about your background?
Victoria: *"My name is Victoria, I'm 59 and from Wirral, North West England. I studied and had a career in social work, predominantly the field of Child Protection. I was married, I'm happily single. I am the eldest of 6 and have 5 children and 5 grandchildren. Home growing up was dysfunctional, I lived through my teens with my nan. I'm passionate about my family, Liverpool fc and my friends. I was addicted ****** My bio says: "Previously life was complex, I helped make it that way, now, I keep it simple and fun." It's true."*
Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?
Victoria: "I joined Hello Poetry in 2011 and that's when I started writing poetry. Mostly, I started with rhyme and then found that prose better fit my parlance."
Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).
Victoria: "I'm inspired by my many experiences, with others and in nature. I'm inspired by poetry here, always. Many a poem has stayed with me, long after reading. Writing poetry was suggested to me and my writing developed, it gave me a voice to express, that which more often I had held silent."
Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?
Victoria: "What poetry means to me happens both in the reading and the writing. Poetry for me, gives and changes perspective, I gain new sensibilities and find through the writing, as in life there is, constant readjustment."
Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?
Victoria: "I have lots of favourite poets here, at Hello Poetry. I've made many friends and been fortunate to meet a few. I also enjoy discovering new poets and I am always amazed at the talent out there."
Question 6: What other interests do you have?
Victoria: "I enjoy fishing: music, photography and feeding my family home grown produce. I've rented an allotment plot for about 12 years, it is where I grow veg, fruit and flowers. My other pastimes are travel, walking, watching the footy and the occasional wild night out with close friends."
Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for giving us this opportunity to get to know the man behind the poet, Victoria! We are honored to include you in this ongoing series!”
Victoria: "Thank you, Carlo."
Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Victoria a little bit better. I most certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez
We will post Spotlight #20 in October!
~
Sep 1, 2024
Sep 1, 2024 at 4:32 PM UTC
In parlance of the street he's a dumpster-diver,
scavenger of non-losing wager or proposition tickets.
You'd see his fragile frame each night
walking the isles of the race and sports books,
a condor's aerial eye trained on the floor,
back visible only to casino surveillance cameras.
Seated atop a barstool at the back,
I watch him bend, examine and discard,
through the prism of my scotch glass.
Every food chain has its bottom-feeders,
he brings efficiency to the gambling ecosystem.
Likely not the life that you or I would chose,
but then he has no monthly credit card to pay.
Just now, I saw him straighten and smile,
a parlay ticket will pay for tonight's meal
with just enough left for a brown-bag.
He does not go uninvited to misfortune,
the streets tonight are lined with chance's down.
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
Face me...fixedly eye to eye, four hands intertwined in infinite reciprocation, articulating...
Osculate my mind with your intellectual parlance, ardently and with hedonistic electricity arousing my neurons, titillating my synapses, sending lustful charge down my nerves.
I crave to feel your utterances surge through me, course throughout every bifurcation, and transude from every last pore of my flesh.
Grasp my heart with your loquacity, embracing so passionately, that our beats become one resonating cadence whilst exchanging harmonious rhythm.
Caress my flesh with cognital poetry woven from emotions existent only to us.
Trace my veins with every word born from pain, contentment, angst and tranquility... pressing their vehemence into my bloodstream, surrendering my pulses to ******
I yearn to listen to you make me moan, as I arch my back, tilt my head and release in silent screaming ecstasy... sating you with visual affirmation of our sapiosexual affair.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 6:58 AM UTC
Let's all be honest... for once... let us all admit this statement...
Each of us has impaled a dozy pill of mistakes... inhaled regrets fragrant
A prescription of the many countless regrets... failures... and stupid moments
They come back like a drug side effect, attacking you as their opponent
Losing your sense of reality as you drunkenly laugh at the blessings
Numb to kindnesses touch as you roll off the couch of security... nervously sweating
Openly abusing the precious, pure body of wisdom... deaf to her rejecting scream...
She stood by your side... Telling you not to take another drink... not to get lost in marijuana's dream...
A foolish smirk sneaks on your face, your mind clouded by the vape and tobacco, blocking your judgment
Carelessly touching in all the wrong places... pleasurable? Your conscious shows no lament
Your lips are a bite... Your touch is a knife... your words are a poison... to not only wisdom... for it will backfire
You are finally evicted from Illusions hallucinations... you fell for such a devilish liar.
Your brain has rung the alarm to your entire body... memories of unwise choices bring head trama
A heavy alcoholic breath escapes your mouth of regretted words... full of gossips drama
You wobble on unstable feet.. and do not achieve your desired balance...
Falling to your knees... you see the blood... the tears... and the saliva of someone who is guilty... no use in using words of parlance
No lies can hide the guilt that clokes your face...
All evidence leads you down to your fate...
"Drugged and Drunk of Regrets" was the charge placed against you... then you were sent away
But be careful... Memories, thoughts, and feelings can lead your mind astray.
"Set them free... You have been given mercy..."
The Judge granted, without one drop of regret and worry
...Mercy... You have been given mercy for your crime...
So why continue to drug your self on regrets? It's not worth a dime!!
DON'T GET DRUNK ON THE PAST!!!!
THE OLD IS GONE!!! THE PAST WON'T LAST!!!
DON'T CONTINUE TO ****** YOUR THOUGHTS OF A HOPEFULLY FUTURE!!
I HAVE DONE THAT!!! DON'T BE HAPPINESSES CONSUMER!!
We all have been Drugged and Drunk of Regrets...
but the best thing to do... it to apologize... and forget...
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 1:13 PM UTC
My heart - delicate,
and malleable
undulates
within two poles,
seamlessly juxtaposed -
beauty and affliction
capricious container-
truth and fiction;
the sheer surfeit
of choice
reverberates with
imperious diversion,
settled invitation-
loud and shiny things.
Hard to breathe,
I'm in exile
slave to my emotions,
obsequious and servile
barren, cold and mute
existence - the brute;
tilted reminiscence,
scars of loss
contrive frames
around moments -
footprints,
interminable -
being and time.
Infinite deity,
triune polyphony
artist of sublimity
smearing shades
of loneliness,
vestiges of faith,
to retrieve
hues of meaning;
oddly convivial
prophets
of reprieve.
Orpheus lost Eurydice
palpable discordancy
suffused in time
could not resolve
without verse
decidedly sonorous,
canvas showered pain,
splashed
Jackson Pollack stain
Love - onerous,
deep beneath
the veneer,
it's mercy severe.
Fiction from the first
Eden‘s fatal gift,
lucidity cursed
altered cosmos murmur,
parlance of
disordered elegance;
effusive language,
phrasing art nouveau
tacit script;
ensconced within
the fabric;
create a Thirst
torment - visceral
and immediate.
Ardor and innocence
once quenched,
render
pathos in proportion
to the pleasure,
conveyance of beatitude
The past absorbed
into the treasure,
Inscrutable Heart -
devotion and turpitude
desire, loathing and paucity
affinity in abundance,
fear and doubt
inhabit certitude.
©2009 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 11:19 AM UTC
It's hard to change any cult
More so the jealous from the occult
Faculty of the melting mold of mind
Zealous of inflicting conflicts of all kind
To the just and graceful among mankind.
Brazenly different from vogue dears
conspires to inspire its rogue peers
To smear even slur on godly seers.
Constantly configures to figure out,
Anything, by any means to spy out
The faintest attribute of the virtuous
Contributes to trigger the rash jealous
To fling out and pierce the gall
to gush out to spread and stall
The arteries, nerves to blood-en
the face and the cheeks to redden
Nose and the chin to harden
Ear lobs to burn and burden.
The jealous is well known
Yet the cause is unknown
Why does it vent its ire
Dent and impair the fair
Engage in freelance
To abuse in parlance
In parliaments of vanity fair
The evil avail many a company
Of gluttons, covetous avaricious
sloth, sensuous pride and many
Engage merely to rage in ferocious
Fire, the fuel of the evil in the savage dark ages
obsessed in rampage and carnage
All celebrations become aberrations
Of the essence of celestial presence
The din dares to dampen the spiritual
Asphyx the specifics in fad rituals
It is difficult to change the cult
of the stinky melting mold
of the evil minds that find
new felony ways to inflict conflicts
To the just and graceful lives
of the peace loving among mankind.
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC
Today,
This tree was the very picture
Of a pair of birds
Who had a fight after mating.
You will never understand
The eagerness of this tree
In making every morning a new one
Or daily showing me a new movie,
However I try to describe it
One day
Leaves, that cry
“don’t go” “don’t leave”
To the wind
That passes by
Another day
Of shooing cats feasting in the shade,
On fish bone, from someone’s leftover meal,
After dribbling pigeon-droppings from a branch,
Another day
The tear-filled eyes
Of its own branch
That cries
And supplicates the sun
To heal its wound
Another day
Of its own sister branches
Or, in human parlance, wooden chairs
That have become prostitutes;
On which strange people sit casually.
One day
The Bihari
Who is scared stiff of his lord,
And who runs every time a wind blows
To sweep away the dried leaves
Which the wind has killed,
Having made violent love to them.
On yet another day,
The fruits that laugh their heads off
Along with the little blossoms that laughed once |
At the silver-blue sky
On still another day
The tap root
That suddenly burst into tears
Gazing at the dusk
That draped golden strands on boughs and twigs
On yet another day,
The aged middle-portion of the tree
That unveiled the hitherto unexposed
Moss-green nursling
And prayed that it be named
Another day before this,
Had made me sad
By asking
“Are you wont to see
the other tree-friends
Throughout the countryside ?”
Had made me heartsore
By asking me
“Would you forget me?”
Once, have asked
Whether I would point out
The mother-bird
Who sowed the seed after she ate the fruit
I have made myself broken-hearted |
wondering
Where or how mother was.
At the moment
When the mind gets shaken up
And becomes even more fragile,
In the memory of
Some trees
That have helped some lives thrive,
Have given shade,
Given oxygen,
Crucified,
O tree,
I am hugging you,
Giving you
A frozen, but still very passionate kiss
With the Alloyed numbness of death and life :
A tree-kiss
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
It's always your words that undress me.
Sobriquets, honeyed and multiple--
neck slowed over by narrator's
pale parlance. It's always my hands
that undress you. Motion diverse,
more adept than I expected. My
fingers feel separate and strange.
Our skin feels so starkly the same.
Dialectic crack in monologue,
made soft by the hot tongue of discourse.
Your open vowels morning-like, balmy.
I want you phonetically, fondly.
Our languages, various as Babel's.
We touch like snakes in love.
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
Dodge the sunlight escaped your fingernails
that claw for chests unlike your own.
Full of pep and beating and turquoise
and leaves in strands of hair
standing upward aft your vessel.
What was it exactly that you mentioned
when we were afloat the houred
current of delirious eye-gazing?
Something of abashed lashes
and nervous cheek twitching.
We had never stared for so long.
We had never conversed with the ferocity
of ten men praying to the floor
on hands and knees with closed eyes
on mat and chest;
a chest so unlike your own.
That sunlight radiates.
No, too common, too Not.
Help me with your interpretation:
It inexplicably adjectives
across the scraps of dregs
and scrapes of rope
tied too tightly to beliefs
that would never sway to connect.
A loss of connection of mind
and body and voice and spirit
and Other,
a parlance in the wind without
ears to receive or understand the call,
call him a headless beggar,
which has that chest,
that chest so unlike your own.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
The mouth of the pit,
For a frog stranded in it,
Is the sky's limit!
Displaying reluctance
To expand mental horizon
That strengthens their stance,
Disputing permeates
Their parlance!
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 1:56 AM UTC
This land void of devotion gone is the church steeples.
Replaced by voices and shadows of drug dealers on each corner.
Now they are the keepers, lost cities, death stalks its peoples.
Nothing is sacred in this polluted and diffused land.
No longer hallowed be thy name, it’s as if he never came.
Forgotten is any standard of moral excellence.
The once high ideals only represent a fool’s parlance.
Man declares I throw off these restraints only to find darker chains.
The book that once guided this great land.
We now betray with each waking day.
Our hearts and mind it did ignite, now it’s word we can’t stand.
Powerless and feeble we stumble, anxious ever moment.
Just to remember is not enough, best confess our pride.
Make sacrifice with our lips, to burn on altars on high.
There is a short season for all to make amends to regain our stride.
March on to glory with it burning on the inside.
You don’t have to be astute in business to see the sound investment.
Bring your poverty of spirit leave with the riches of his last testament.
It offers the greatest rate of exchange.
Light for darkness, life for death, selfless love for selfishness.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
Disgrace
This land void of devotion gone is the church steeples.
Replaced by voices and shadows of drug dealers on each corner.
Now they are the keepers, lost cities, death stalks its peoples.
Nothing is sacred in this polluted and diffused land.
No longer hallowed be thy name, it’s as if he never came.
Forgotten is any standard of moral excellence.
The once high ideals only represent a fool’s parlance.
Man declares I throw off these restraints only to find darker chains.
The book that once guided this great land.
We now betray with each waking day.
Our hearts and mind it did ignite, now it’s word we can’t stand.
Powerless and feeble we stumble, anxious ever moment.
Just to remember is not enough, best confess our pride.
Make sacrifice with our lips, to burn on altars on high.
There is a short season for all to make amends to regain our stride.
March on to glory with it burning on the inside.
You don’t have to be astute in business to see the sound investment.
Bring your poverty of spirit leave with the riches of his last testament.
It offers the greatest rate of exchange.
Light for darkness, life for death, selfless love for selfishness.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 4:22 AM UTC
*Lo!
the city streets
are alive
the cacophony of car horns
clamors in the distance
the velvet
night's
embrace
envelops me
the
flowering light,
of the moon
beckons
in radiant parlance
over the horizon
and my
mind abides
in
tranquil
stillness.*
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 2:09 AM UTC
Sipping I look through the window
In the midst of exuberance
Serenity looks so mellow
Thoughts that trying to draw parlance
Enlightens my inner shadow
Melody of those memories
synchronizing with my heart beat
Again revealing those stories
Giving my spirit a great treat
With an essence of strawberries
Reminiscing with bard in me
Didn’t realize the time ticking
Happiness sprang and set me free
Till it rained I remained Sipping
Morning Coffee till evening tea
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 11:26 PM UTC
Hey hey it's common as parlance
to the pathos of the rain
and hey it's often as sympathy
to the elation in this state
Hey it's disconnection
to the people in their place
and hey it's not often
that permanence relates
each bead is a lens
magnifies the sincere
I'm rainbows for water droplets
give hail to storms my dear
Oh oh it's gone as defiance
to the pathologically ingrained
and oh it's not rotten
to the habitually irate
oh oh It's introspection
to the narcissists plate
and oh it's boughten
with gentic smiles by trait
each born is a bed frame
ridgid and affixed
her bedsheets to boredom
in covered models of make
Hey hey it's common as parlance
to the pathos of the rain
and hey it's often as sympathy
to the elation in this state
Hey it's disconnection
to the people in their place
and hey it's not often
that permanence relates
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 7:32 PM UTC
i.
A degree unlike any to mankind
O lord, thou hath sent me a goddess;
Teeth, pearlied whitened, hair black
Tagalog golden parlance, gem strapped.
ii.
Felicity hath abducted me
Into mine Jane's melting heat;
Her fire is as if the burning bush
Whence back when God didst to Moses speak.
iii.
Mine creator created her
And saweth it was good;
He stitched her from mine rib
As mine heart, molded in her ladyhood.
iv.
Commandment's he hath layed out
To be endowed to mine empress queen;
Ourn endearment contracted on blood moon's
Saturn's color's to write out, the many year's to be the ring's.
v.
As time wilt passeth on
Mine needing for her shalt get bigger;
I canst liveth without mine Filipino rose
She's mine lover, soulmate, angelic figure.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication/Reyna/soulmate
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
Disturbance Twin Pines
The simple fact this revered and honored holding location is almost perfectly triangulated it also holds
Ed and Virgil but on the sixteenth of July faint as flecked gold or the most gentle mood like reading
Someone’s mind or trying to cause loose sand to hold a form without a mold the only possibility if it was
Laying on the ground and moisture had formed a crust but you still couldn’t lift or move it to handle
The tenderest expression has to be left to the angels they are capable of both worlds solid earthly form
And the intangibles just beyond your finger tips the hoary frost on glass it is an ancient mystery visible in
The present the mist moves stands without seeming properties to allow it to do so that’s the richness
The almost unspeakable there are times that you can speak of such hushed things and talk with loves
Intensity with such depths it all lost to most even the most discernible eyes you have crossed boundless
Borders truly the frontier of the unknown has been bridged this is what appears ever so briefly and
Wondrously on marble cut to make the statement in its self this stands for permanent observation the
Parlance of deliberate and lasting meaning so how treasured that these words would appear you read
Them between the lines that say with heartfelt truth forever together so you have all of the above
Working and the truth invades your mind these words written on sacred stone can only be dreams that
Flow without end though the body hesitates and turns to immortal strands together formed by spirit
And Glory but in dreams these facts coalesce like on the deepest sea and from the depths a ship
Resurfaces two walk its deck receive structure get fluid motion unspeakable lucidity dancing in the mind
Leaps from the tongue steps that jumbled together some growing faint now sharp and keen the
Pleasure shared in mental stimulation exhilarating an all consuming flourish of peace holds you like the
Sweetest caress words spilling scrolling down hardest stone it is read and shared by the departed this
Connection is the result of celebration and the marking of another birth year has arrived on the calendar
What better time to stir the deepest emotions that you have shared Happy birthday I. M. I know you
won’t but just the same never fail to believe and know this writing was viewed on beloved stone.
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 5:33 PM UTC
Bummy, Dodie and Leo Temple Step nose
in the Charlotte Street parlance, that's how it goes
there's Gibby and Tad and Scotchamarra too
a stout crowd, mixed and matched like the zoo
Here in these streets of cobble-stoned walking
It's fearless mouths that do all the talking
Upstarts and startups were birthed from this place
Ever so measured, all joined the race
Find them anywhere you travel or happen to be
There is a Bronx brother or sister easy to see
With that particular accent, pinched and plain
Welcome sounds that seem so germane
My mind wanders back to those black and white days
When all we could see was this intricate maze
Speaking from all parts and places
Faces in colors, religions, and races
A happier time perhaps we lived through
Hard to tell considering now, what seems due
For all of you, from wherever you start
Remember, the whole is more than the sum of its parts
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
the current theme is: as long as everyone's laughing
we'll be fine from having a thought -
who needs thinking when everyone's
laughing uninhibited or inhibited (by manners)? conformity is
the parlance and the norm is piracy -
so if the only thing worse than fascism is panic
why is panic spreading?
panic attacks fascism, it doesn't attack communism,
if we're experiencing an exercise in panic
we're also experiencing fascism -
isn't Islam making us assured in our former basking
in the Ibiza suntan of conquering something
but at the same time awaking a beast of some sort?
communism kept strong long enough
gave us the Chinese one-child policy -
can the western idiots please process their self-fellatio
and shut up for a decade until president Reagan
shows up a second time along the resurrection lines
of fascination with the book of revelation?!
the English girls can't cook!
ready meals and Burger King - a wedding
in the fabled Bermuda Delta.
honestly, my **** is more edible than their cooking -
somehow fascism failed in the English insomniac sphere...
it was all about family... well... it still is...
as long as there's two men and a surrogate *****
and i'm pretty sure that didn't come from
St. John Paul II's brothels.
fascists also come along with the words: you're being too
reactionary... and the reply is... ever work
in a construction site you 9 to 5 goldfish?
oh right... you're the ******* leech ******* up
for inheritance brokering a non-existent inheritance tax:
******* gonna ssssscream oil me up when you
cremate your pa.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 11:00 PM UTC
Estranging those dusts of the morn
Truth be restored; peace be reborn;
Eyes can reflect each grief and gloom,
Scrutinize me 'fore world's doom.
Ne'er build fences for your heart!
Mark my footsteps o'er my past,
Hold me nothing than your parlance
Thus, adore me — except my tongue.
For eterne time may show my lies;
Howe'er, don't mourn upon each night
Open those eyes for who I am:
Then behoove me — except my tongue.
For future may seize you to change
But my persev'rance lasts no ends;
Bestow love with mere words to drown
And cherish me — except my tongue.
You're my breath, my ears and my voice
Tho 'tis diff'cult to be your choice,
I'll exult to all things I've done
If I'll be loved — except my tongue.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 6:02 AM UTC
She could scallop her fruit inside
her delicate ring tonight
though her pantry gleamingly sound
that a surge sped with her gait
but thwarted round her waist
that a basket full of poetry read
as crystalline in her heart
even rose her bed
with flowers festooned till midnight
as elegamce flatly trimmed parlance.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 11:15 AM UTC
a third party
oft brings and end
to a budding
romance
tearing the other woman
down
with her not so nice
parlance
one suspected
she was scheming
against me
she'd been telling
my man
to be well shod of me
he took notice
of her every utterance
she put her devious knife
into my back
to derail any love we'd share
down the track
that most vile woman
will regret
what she's been saying
as I'll be letting her husband
know of the games
she's been playing
one man isn't
quite enough
for her voracious appetite
she's got to take
another woman's man
to satisfy her spite
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
My technoscribbles haven't all cachet;
A mother hen on Friday farts an egg.
Even a swill of parlance has a say
When maple roadmaps varicose a leg.
A skinnydipping nakedest remote
Viewer that loons a dreaming skims a pond
Fractals a nascent green and gleimous note
Hanging athwart with someone's else's blonde.
Take heart. The fish have lungs and breathe the air
Of a new day when everyfish can ***
With or without a whiff of underwear,
Though salty tears are sweetest 'neath the sea.
Milfs are a pack of pickleballing hots
Playing to win a plate of tater tots.
*
Aug 3, 2024
Aug 3, 2024 at 7:18 PM UTC