"pere" poems
tues.
exhausted piano teeth mozart pere
gnashing slashing sound barrier
stretching zoology beyond the bird
cannibals in the a-z azimuth
weds.
mirage of red awnings all-night resort
cannibals in the azimuth stairwell décor
thurs.
cold as leprosy embraced
yet somehow curled
fri.
frail departure voice to ****
height hair duck drake
cold as geology young rocks flame
(hidden within the blink of eye)
4.9k
Ankhian tu digan hanju, dil di sada ae
Rab kadi kise nu pere din na wikhaye
Ankhian tu digan hanju, dil di sada ae
Rab kadi kise nu v phuka na sulaye
Digan hanju ankhian tu // gham dunia ch sadian tu
darr dil ch basean kyun par // nafrat sab tu wada masla kyun
Zaalim dunia, jaali zamana // nava dor par hakim purana
jetan da laban bahana // haran da na karan samna!
Ankhian tu digan hanju, dil di sada ae
maran tu pehla jeena, zindagi dua ay
Ankhian tu digan hanju, dil di sada ae
Rab kadi kise nu pere din na wikhaye
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 1:19 AM UTC
Father Christmas, Pere Noel
People know him just as well
Santa Claus, St. Nicholas too
I know him by all of these...do you?
No matter where you come from
No matter where you go
No matter what folks call him
He's a figure we all know
Dressed in red, or white or blue
Beard of white, big old sack
We know him by so many things
And if you're good he will come back
Whether filling stockings up
Or filling up your wooden shoes
Santa comes on Christmas Eve
And takes away your Christmas blues
Father Christmas, Pere Noel
People know him just as well
Santa Claus, St. Nicholas too
I know him by all of these...do you?
Noel Baba, or Kris Kringle
He can make those sleigh bells jingle
San Niklaw or Babbo Natale
The rat pack all loved him pally!
Do you know him as a skinny man ?
Or is he round and jolly ?
It doesn't matter much to me
It's all mistletoe and holly
Father Christmas, Pere Noel
People know him just as well
Santa Claus, St. Nicholas too
I know him by all of these...do you?
He helps make Christmas what it is
Although the season isn't his
Don't forget the holy side
Just let your heart act as your guide
Pay it forward, pay it back
Remember Santa and his sack
Do unto others as you'd have done
And pay respects to God's son
Father Christmas, Pere Noel
People know him just as well
Santa Claus, St. Nicholas too
I know him by all of these...do you?
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 2:56 PM UTC
Although I work, and seldom cease,
At Dumas pere and Dumas fils,
Alas, I cannot make me care
For Dumas fils and Dumas pere.
1.4k
Talk to me, talk to me of Old St. Nick
Talk to me of Sinterclaus
Of Mikulas, Pere Noel, or Babbo Natale
Talk to me of candles, christingle and a silent night
Talk to me of crackers, carols and calamities
Talk to me of snow, sleighs, and stars
Talk to me of Christmas cards, wrapping paper
Talk to me of gold, old spice and mice
Talk to me of icing, icicles
igloos, ivy
Holly
Oh sweet Hollie
Tots of Drambuie
Marmalade and toast
Talk to me of Philip Scholfield
Carols From Kings
Mary Poppins
Scrooge
Festive films
Radio Times
And things that are too pretty
Lights, nights
Hark, Dark
barking dogs
tinsel
Tinsel Town
Wolves at the door
Salvation Army playing once more
Talk to me
Talk to me
Cream Crackers, cheese
Frosty mornings, old knees
Talk to me of snow covered alpine forests
Gateaux
Cherries
walnuts and berries
Festive fun,
A seasonal run
Of All Gold telly
With a full belly
Farts, sprouts
Turkey that tastes just like chicken
Oh talk to me of
Terry Wogan
Rosh Jogan
Grogan Josh
Last minute deals
Black Friday
White Friday
And all the Cyber Mondays
Talk to me of
Happy Mondays
Dancing Bez
In a Festive Fez
Talk to me
Talk to me
Of Festive time
Late nights
Early mornings
Beer
Cheer
All in entertainment
Oh talk, TALK to me
Of hangovers,
sleep overs
gloves
mittens
and cute kittens
Oh talk to me of
fake Chanel
Faux Fur and underwear
Celvin Klein
Talk to me , Talk to me of
Jonah Lewie
Bony M
The Pogues
and all those rogues
Fairy tale of New York
Stop the Cavalry
Mary's Boy Child
And the
Spaceman who came riding by
Oh talk, Talk , Talk to me
of places, and spaces We all know
Christmas markets
Tesco, Aldi and John Lewis Adverts showing
Christmas is coming
Christmas is coming
Christmas is coming
Chris
Oh talk to me
Oh talk to me of old St. Nick
Talk to me
Talk to me
Eggnog
Talk to me
Talk to me
Bah humbug
Talk to me
Talk to me
Happy Christmas
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
Si d'un mort qui pourri repose
Nature engendre quelque chose,
Et si la generation
Se fait de la corruption,
Une vigne prendra naissance
De l'estomac et de la pance
Du bon Rabelais, qui boivoit
Tousjours ce pendant qu'il vivoit
La fosse de sa grande gueule
Eust plus beu de vin toute seule
(L'epuisant du nez en deus cous)
Qu'un porc ne hume de lait dous,
Qu'Iris de fleuves, ne qu'encore
De vagues le rivage more.
Jamais le Soleil ne l'a veu
s Tant fût-il matin, qu'il n'eut beu,
Et jamais au soir la nuit noire
Tant fut **** ne l'a veu sans boire.
Car, alteré, sans nul sejour
Le gallant boivoit nuit et jour.
Mais quand l'ardante Canicule
Ramenoit la saison qui brule,
Demi-nus se troussoit les bras,
Et se couchoit tout plat à bas
Sur la jonchée, entre les taces :
Et parmi des escuelles grasses
Sans nulle honte se touillant,
Alloit dans le vin barbouillant
Comme une grenouille en sa fange
Puis ivre chantoit la louange
De son ami le bon Bacus,
Comme sous lui furent vaincus
Les Thebains, et comme sa mere
Trop chaudement receut son pere,
Qui en lieu de faire cela
Las ! toute vive la brula.
Il chantoit la grande massue,
Et la jument de Gargantüe,
Son fils Panurge, et les païs
Des Papimanes ébaïs :
Et chantoit les Iles Hieres
Et frere Jan des autonnieres,
Et d'Episteme les combas :
Mais la mort qui ne boivoit pas
Tira le beuveur de ce monde,
Et ores le fait boire en l'onde
Qui fuit trouble dans le giron
Du large fleuve d'Acheron.
Or toi quiconques sois qui passes
Sur sa fosse repen des taces,
Repen du bril, et des flacons,
Des cervelas et des jambons,
Car si encor dessous la lame
Quelque sentiment a son ame,
Il les aime mieux que les Lis,
Tant soient ils fraichement cueillis.
1.3k
DaLing, DaLing, DaLing, DaLing
As I lay out on the warm wooden dock
Old Saint Joes crows fabricate a path of emotions upwelling
Sun’s rays prance along my shoulders in tune with the killjoy clock
The Fox whispers wisdom through the wooden panels that separate the two bodies
Little did I know, on that September day, there was little to be learned from this outrageously priced text with pages yet to be broken in, when compared to experience and growing up that year.
All my past, present, and future troubles and tears, flaws and fears, aspirations and anxieties
The Clock knew them all. The Fox knew them all, but to me unclear.
Somewhere between orientation and my final final exam of freshman year, through my social-butterfly-syndrome and college boys, the parties and the beer--
I, a lost sheep, was found on that dock in De Pere.
May 5, 2011
May 5, 2011 at 5:14 PM UTC
i would like to die by the lighthouse.
pere marquette in the dead of night
the walk there peaceful,
as they are my last steps
after all.
and i won't have to speak,
or sing, or dance,
or flush my face out of fear or ridicule,
of embarrassment,
but i'll flush my face
with the waters of the waves
sweeping up into the rocks
and down goes my breath,
my last few breaths.
i've a few (many) pills
concealed in my pink jacket pocket.
i've a few (many but not so many)
catfish
swimming by to say hello,
to say farewell.
and with my last blink of my eye,
the moon is in line
with the lighthouse
and my star will forever sparkle,
i hope.
and the beacon passes o'er my body,
the light of an absent watchman,
it's just us, me lifeless and the beacon radiant.
no one to bother,
poke,
**** at me,
at my mind.
searching outside of their own minds
for answers to their own hearts' questions
to which i respond
a blank stare, for the lake is in my eyes.
water filling up, ready to be unleashed
later tonight rejoining with the waters
of the big blue lake and
my emptiness will be in harmony
with the moon's lonliness
and the black sky's vastness
and the bleak, rusty red
of my favorite old lighthouse
all muddled together, a sickly brown...
no, gray. no, i don't know...
colors don't matter at night
when you can't make them out anyways.
same goes for when you're dead.
i hope the stars shine for me,
but when the night is cloudy,
i can trust my beacon,
my lighthouse,
my waves,
to give me peace, rest,
rhythm,
in my most chaotic times.
i suppose they drew me in.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 2:10 AM UTC
krivo ga nasadili
vidik mu izvitoperili
eno ga gde baulja
razravnotežen
krivo ga nasadili
ugljem ga nacrnili
eno ga gde prljav obraz
pere
krivo ga nasadili
kičmu mu ispravili
glava mu u oblacima
noge u govnima
krivo ga nasadili
pa sad meni kukaju
ijao
pomagaj
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 1:31 PM UTC
Death, is a precious beauty.
The hang glider comes from her mountain with the water of the gods to feed the foe, the toad that linches and seethes, sticking gratitude to her heart. Why is he? He should have been, but now he's gone. Shoot the white haired lady, she feels no pain,
I want lightning, a meaning, a triumph that sells pills to me in the back of a dusty van in the night, I want white hair and a balding mind, with nothing but you and your dye.
You are the poet's parts, it covers him. I am no one, and I think you know that. You can never be with me because you are in a slow decent into adulthood and I am becoming a child. I must understand, but there is pain.
White-washed hairdresser with a meaningless smile, Call me your man, listen to the words I say. I am loud and boastful, like a great animal I scream the truth. I have no home like the wounds, come all ye faithful, words are quite clear.
I want you.....
I want you..... so bad.
It's the delta blues I couldn't ignore.
There is meaning in the, there is a saltiness I can't ignore. Where is truth and the squabble? Where is understanding and the sacred? I soak in warmth, I bask in the insipid stories of deadly man and heartache and nothingness,
Gone, like a symbol, new, like the universe. Stocking that rip under my hands, real...
Touch, a gentleness, soft, harsh, and cold, be thee alone. Call no one, say NOTHING. Jealousy manifests, liver, the hardest stone, Give me up, I truly have no use. Women are cum-dumpsters, thus sayeth the LORD. I think God's got timber in his eyes. The Great Triumph! sings like a hamster dying on a pinwheel. I really don't know what I know, but I'm glad for abstractness. There is meaning, there is anti-truth. Speak without wind. Death, pere, night, ear, truth, punk, stop, rire.
I laugh because there is no other way of ridding myself of this filth. The caress of a gentle mind comes in stages, like cancer. The ****** in the 5th key speaks with dialect and analect. Into-go, fantastical, a spectre,
But I guess I don't much believe in ghosts.
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 8:52 AM UTC
Amour, tu es trop fort, trop foible est ma Raison
Pour soustenir le camp d'un si rude adversaire.
Va, badine Raison, tu te laisses desfaire :
Dez le premier assaut on te meine en prison.
Je veux, pour secourir mon chef demy-grison,
Non la Philosophie ou les Loix : au contraire
Je veux ce deux fois nay, ce Thebain, ce Bon-pere,
Lequel me servira d'une contrepoison.
Il ne faut qu'un mortel un immortel assaille.
Mais si je prens un jour cest Indien pour moy,
Amour, tant sois tu fort, tu perdras la bataille,
Ayant ensemble un homme et un Dieu contre toy.
La Raison contre Amour ne peut chose qui vaille :
Il faut contre un grand Prince opposer un grand Roy.
601
Verson ces roses pres ce vin,
De ce vin verson ces roses,
Et boyvon l'un à l'autre, afin
Qu'au coeur noz tristesses encloses
Prennent en boyvant quelque fin.
La belle Rose du Printemps
Aubert, admoneste les hommes
Passer joyeusement le temps,
Et pendant que jeunes nous sommes
Esbatre la fleur de noz ans.
Tout ainsi qu'elle défleurit
Fanie en une matinée,
Ainsi nostre âge se flestrit,
Làs ! et en moins d'une journée
Le printemps d'un homme perit.
Ne veis-tu pas hier Brinon
Parlant, et faisant bonne chere,
Qui làs ! aujourd'huy n'est sinon
Qu'un peu de poudre en une biere,
Qui de luy n'a rien que le nom ?
Nul ne desrobe son trespas,
Caron serre tout en sa nasse,
Rois et pauvres tombent là bas :
Mais ce-pendant le temps se passe
Rose, et je ne te chante pas.
La Rose est l'honneur d'un pourpris,
La Rose est des fleurs la plus belle,
Et dessus toutes a le pris :
C'est pour cela que je l'appelle
La violette de Cypris.
La Rose est le bouquet d'Amour,
La Rose est le jeu des Charites,
La Rose blanchit tout au tour
Au matin de perles petites
Qu'elle emprunte du Poinct du jour.
La Rose est le parfum des Dieux,
La Rose est l'honneur des pucelles,
Qui leur sein beaucoup aiment mieux
Enrichir de Roses nouvelles,
Que d'un or, tant soit precieux.
Est-il rien sans elle de beau ?
La Rose embellit toutes choses,
Venus de Roses a la peau,
Et l'Aurore a les doigts de Roses,
Et le front le Soleil nouveau.
Les Nymphes de Rose ont le sein,
Les coudes, les flancs et les hanches :
Hebé de Roses a la main,
Et les Charites, tant soient blanches,
Ont le front de Roses tout plein.
Que le mien en soit couronné,
Ce m'est un Laurier de victoire :
Sus, appellon le deux-fois-né,
Le bon pere, et le fàison boire
De ces Roses environné.
Bacchus espris de la beauté
Des Roses aux fueilles vermeilles,
Sans elles n'a jamais esté,
Quand en chemise sous les treilles
Beuvoit au plus chaud de l'Esté.
695
Time is a waiver ,
But around you one can always depend ,
Each moment is well spent .
---
An assiduous pere ,
In every aspect and every sphere .
Earnestness so strong and clear,infallibly there to lend a ear.
---
Clearly a Innovative , creative and hardworking mate,
with whom one can relax ,
For we always have each other’s backs .
---
Times of hard work and laughter to remember,
filled with sedulous and happy moment's to the brink,
We may truly need a shrink.
If these memories freeze in time,
All the days shall seem sublime.
---
True to your duty
As you say ;
"Always remember
Nothing is impossible"
Saying that makes anyone
Unstoppable .
You weave a magical aura creating a team,
Everything falling in place like a beautiful dream.
---
An Epitome of Love and Affection ,
A mirror image of Perfection.
No ones stopping you now,
The hardwork you do deserves a bow .
---
You are a colleague apart .
So Here's Wishing you with all our heart ;
" We hope all your dreams come true ,
for dependable personages like you , in this world are few " .
---
© Mrunalini.D.Nimbalkar
Nov 29, 2019
Nov 29, 2019 at 4:07 AM UTC
The acquisition of a son
With an adequate corporeality, albeit with certain caveats,
Certain limitations in terms of progeny and posterity,
Had awaken something in the old man,
Certain forces leading him to the altar
And, subsequently, to the nursery once more
(A second son, brought to bear in the established manner.
With a minimum of drama and fanfare.)
The child was loved, in a rudimentary fashion;
While his flesh-and-blood bona fides were beyond question,
He was a consumer, a thing of constant need
More akin to a hardship than his celebrated half-sibling,
Whose command of the spotlight
Served as a gravitational pull for parental affections.
The old man passed on after a spell,
Hanging on long enough for his second son
To stumble onto the precipice of adulthood
(His mother had hot-footed it out
Almost immediately after the burial,
Choosing to stage-mother her feted stepchild)
Though his fatherly wisdom
Was limited to matters of his craft, his business,
Which was left to the young man, though grudgingly at that,
As a sop, a means of getting shet of two unwanted encumbrances.
He’d proved to have much of the old man’s gift,
Whittling and carving puppets and toys and dolls
(Though with a certain grim fury making it evident to all
That the work was not a labor of love)
Rarely stopping to speak to or even acknowledge his clientele,
Except if one of them happened to repeat the time-worn chestnut
That the toy chooses the child, in which case he laughed harshly,
All but barking *It’s the purse that closes the deal, not the ****
And then he would return to carving some doll or marionette,
Which would always seem to have a certain wan look
Around the corners of the eyes, the edge of the lips,
The look of a child’s toy equipped with the foreknowledge
That it was destined for the back of some closet shelf,
The bottom of some attic-bound chest.
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC
Canada already has:
10 provinces
3 territories
3 coastlines
Baffin Island
Two Official Languages
The Niagra Horseshoe Falls (Way Better than the other one)
The CN Tower, Stanley Park, Old Quebec and not to mention The St. Lawrence Seaway, Whistler, Algonquin, Banff, Columbia Ice Fields, Montreal, Jasper... and on and on and....
More oil and gas than Saudia Arabia.
A belief in WHO and NATO and Green Energy.
A Great reputation,
and
Kindness and Dignity.
Why in the name of all that's decent would We want to make the United States our Fourth Territory.
To be a Province would take decades. Excess Baggage.
What we don't have is a narcissistic, mysogynistic, bigotted conman, who is a convicted womanizer, fraudster and felon, who has little regard for the betterment of our Earth and civilization, as our country's spokesperson.
We do have a soon peacefully and unwittingly departing P.M.
It will be a walk in the snow for him on rue Pere Pierre...Just in time.
Just Sayin"!
Dec 31, 2024
Dec 31, 2024 at 10:20 AM UTC
Hello you, welcome to my home !
It's a sunny day today, yet have you come alone ?
Listen around to the trees and their green leaves,
hear the slow sprouting boil around gently,
it seems as if this place is simmering :
a true piece of paradise
out of time.
You've come to this cemeteray, the Cimetière Pere Lachaise no less,
to see Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, Chopin i suppose ?
Wise man, their tombs are monuments
and they are very sweet ghosts.
But I can see you've stopped your mind just now on a
secondary sepulture, on a winding path few explore
that is my home, this is my voice.
I know it's pretty right ?
It dosen't look half as good in winter, it's so grim,
yet with all these bees, and trees and yellow and sun
and crimson and blue and white, i bet you've never
seen a prettier picnic place.
I died 20 years ago, you weren't born.
It's okay, it didn't hurt much, and when you die
you sort of get to choose what you do,
you can roam around, you can disapear,
you can stay near your grave,
you can even wait for someone dear,
though that's what i think they call hell.
I choose to wake up every summer,
when it gets warm, i get to feel alive again,
i get to wander the park and rush elbows with people
and tourists, i look at the colorful clothes.
When you die you become sort of eternal,
like an idea of yourself
you aren't
you aren't any longer
thirsty or hungry,
nor sad or happy,
you sort of live in the forever
it dosen't feel bad to be honest.
Anyway, you can stay a little longer, i don't get much visits
thanks for looking at my stones,
and don't forget that life is the
sweetest thing
the universe has ever
blossomed
Carpe Diem
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 6:45 AM UTC
Whats in the name game
Axl blew it with a nose job
Tried to blow his brains
With his name
The Rose was firing blanks
Isn't that just as sweet
Vanity is the better part
Of insanity
Morrison looks on in wonderment
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 1:43 PM UTC
Pere-lachaise is just the place
to be a writer for
Morrison and Oscar have taken up
a permanent residence
Hugo is beautifully miserable there
and Balzac just loves the dead
life can be very funny; he says
among the tombs and catacombs
in the necropolis of the city of light
a place to die for.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 1:40 PM UTC
Living dangerously
Perishing beautifully
Isn't that just so
Very very unjust
Art and writing
Is something living
In eternity dying
For a grain of sand
Drowning in an ocean
Of fame and adulation.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 1:42 PM UTC
Who'd be writer in Pere-Lachaise
The world is dying to live there
Eternity must be just such a place
Grains of sand all over your face
Vandals on the handles of your tomb
Grafitti scrawled all over the place
Isn't that just like poetry heaven
And one helluva place for the living.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 1:41 PM UTC