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Amir Apr 2010
A feverish scurrying startles the saplings
And upsets the patchwork of dirt stone and sand
Expanding contractions of truths’ interactions
To passing set actions
But none have been planned

Sought self solidarity through solitude
Monasticism through poeticism
© Amir 2009
Jade Jan 2019
There's always been something
so Hollywood about her--
and I don't mean
21st Century *******.

I'm talkin'
Judy Garland,
you're the bee's knees
type of Hollywood.

Now, listen'--
this girl--
I'm talkin'
Bombshell-Cutie
(she'll blow your
******'socks off).

I'm talkin'
Cinematic Beauty Queen;
skin freckled with film grain
the same way the night sky
is freckled with constellation,
mouth parted like velvet curtains,
only to reveal the sweetest prose.

She is Mystique-Fatale,
blazon in colour
among dull, sepia tones--
an Oz among all
the dreary Kansases.

She is allure and poeticism,
hair curled grand,
dressed to the nines
in lace and satin
(they wonder
what lies beyond the
half moons of her *******
and the slit in her gown,
if the butterflies
run rampant
between her knees
like everyone says).

Do not underestimate her--
she is both
Shirley-Temple-Sweetheart
(her kindness
does not falter)
and Pinup-Girl-Honey
(one would not think
to challenge--
to break--
a woman
so prolifically brazen,
but they try anyway).

In a world filled
with actresses--
please, darlings,
save the acting for
the stage,
******* it--
she is so ineffably herself.

She does not reserve
her emotion for
the theatre alone;
she is not afraid
to cry, and--
Jesus--
when she cries
the earth shakes
with the very profusions
of an opera singer's vibrato.

And, God,
you should hear
her poetry,
brimmed with images
picturesque and tragic,
straight outta the movies
it would seem.
Yet, her words
ring with something
so inconceivably real.

And that's what
you've always loved
best about her--
she is the truest person
you've ever met.

It's a shame, then,
that you wouldn't stay
for the grand finale.

But,
with or without you,
this show must go on.

(and it has).
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience)
George Anthony Feb 2022
my happiness looks like this:

three staffordshire bull terriers that keep stealing all the blankets on the bed,
and a fourth back at my mother’s home who cannot contain his excitement when i visit

grey winter morning light leaking in from behind the blinds—
i hate winter and i should be asleep,
but still my happiness includes this:

the hours i lie awake,
still insomnia ridden as i was when i used to write the nights away in sorrow,
but now

i watch videos of people who like the same pretty colours and the same pretty furniture as i do,
decorating their houses and building
useful things

i put a little more spare cash into my savings each week
and squirm impatiently for our first home together

ours. mine and his.

the main picture in my montage of happiness
is the man lying next to me, sound asleep
an arm cuddled around our oldest girl,
both of them snoring and snuffling in their slumber

sounds i loathed from other people
are sounds i cherish from him.
i kiss the tip of his nose,
each cheek,
the curve of his forehead,
the point of his chin
and settle one more on soft, lax lips

my words don’t feel so beautiful
because all life’s beauty, i find in him.
i don’t have poeticism to spare for writing
when all my love letters are spoken to him
and he embodies everything beautiful
from eyes to smile to skin
down to the soul within
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
with me it's all ***** free, she laughed me teasing ***** and not her ****, and then i said: i was bitterer free than a caged slave freed; so tell me... when did rhyme rhyme with untrue and dry prose with truth?*

none of the free women could uncouple ******* from the *****;
none of these free women
could love me like a *****, the "master,"
but they did - common free ****** themselves
while the saints arose to challenge the antichrist
deciding it was better to salvage driftwood than the whole ship,
and give common fee to ******* than salvage
common freedom from common ******* fees with ******* the commons
of sedating parliament of freedom feeing freedom:
but the ****** became saintly snakes
asking for less and the common woman for more!
what mattered more was slapping the cheek,
none of these free women could compete,
none of these free women could salvage the ****** slaves,
instead they asked for opinions through actresses,
and while i broke chime of dirges with sirens
for the chandelier flutes dropped - i heard of demonic
song being poetry, and angelic songs continued without poeticism;
oh lark and sorrow i heard that no free woman ever bore
the freed love from sexing it asked for yoga exercise
to thrill a lost packaged youth,
but the free women sexed up, and the ****** were
skeletally libra minded to tangle the heaviest with the lightest
and the freest with the most leathered up to tangle in whip lost
sparking less gallop and more thought:
as once in town a randomised woman to my writing said:
now that's the devil, said, and i walked on.
none of the free women who spoke of feminism ever
gave third introduction up, with limping the second artillery was
salvo dis-loved, for the third introduction was sold
to *****, and man managed all, but not this;
none of the free women could ever pair man with her involvement
satisfactory: first *****, second ****, third lips and child goodnight:
for the free women were more than ****** could be,
found the woman, entering a brothel and hearing of ******' graces
to do not what free women did: no ****, no harsh movement,
the ****** dictated that freedom felt what it wasn't with me bought,
****** a ***** and kept **** to myself
while i argued the digestion in reverse and liberated them
from a child engaged to be tucked in, and sweetly dreaming of mothers
of tomorrow with hanky and bacon and scrambled eggs for schooling,
marching into marsh and sweet mud, in order that some general
might satiate the feel of ordering a fee of orderly salutes into hades'
6ft gape of a yawn of cracking marble into moulding earthenware to
suit root and worm.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
once you realise what you're realising about religion and that
the only vibe is that of psychiatric attempts to dislodge you from
inquiring the pig trough and the vocal soldiers who's words are
like bullets for the authoritarian rulers even in the free world...
you begin to wonder, indeed they made people literate,
but they also attempted to make people less read than would be
expected, they subsidised the gift of literacy with television,
they created libraries with very conservative books...
in my local library you'd find about one / two books
that is present in my private library... they might as well be
stacking comic books... there's no ambiguity of who "they" are,
i know i could provide an ambiguity, but in the end it's a power struggle,
and the only power that wins is the one that is struggling with what's
being enforced, rather than what's commanded to an expectation
of what could be assured.*

when i begin to realise post anno 21,
i started hearing phrases like:
that man saved my yorkshire terrier
by extending his hand into the mouth
of the bulldog, while using his other hand
to hold firm my dog under the bench:
i keep remembering this scene too often
for pleasure, the york- terrier was left unharmed
with my yoke of hope bursting into the bulldog's
attack curbed...
when i was a man of late youth, aged 21,
i used to go to the gym to pump iron three times
a week, play squash maybe twice...
but then the treadmill got to me...
there's a modern don quixote among the treadmills
somewhere, i'm sure... the routine got to me -
although i did manage to scratch off the stubble
thick enough to acquire a beard i always wanted;
there're days i make brisk footsteps and
enter the psychology of the hands having no exaggerated
movements like putin, bush jr. faking it, quidsmith /
john wayne about to draw... i.e. there's no swinging
from imaginary tree to imaginary tree to imaginary revolver...
psychology is so basically trying to provide explanations
on the basis of imagination that we can sometimes spontaneously
hallucinate the past century where we were all equipped
with six shooters... and what of that default schizoid conditioning
where you think everyone around you works for either
m.i. 5 / 6, k.g.b. / c.i.a.? what if you never wrote / read a spy-fiction
story but think everyone will suddenly grass you up
for some minor offence of free speech?
you qualified?
another thing, about that religious concentration of concern,
ha-shem is a pillar of fire ahead of the hebrews,
and a cloud of smoke behind the hebrews...
the koran states that the devil (iblis) is just that,
it's quoted: god created from smokeless fire...
now i don't know who to believe...
but if i was being righteous in poeticism
i'd said god created the devil from formless shadow...
like he created the world from chaos and formlessness...
so the creature crafted from formless shadow
could be a mirror to provide a prince of the world
as the devil is known... and god become a chiral-dualism...
since no chiral-monism can exist... unless it be
chiral-monism of either existence or non-existence;
no it really is troubling to infuse a poem or an argument
with religion... the hierarchy is too strong...
the pawn priests are too benevolent... the bishops
wear too much purple jew imitation belt and kippah...
the cardinals akin to bishops but too much red...
then the white jew that's the pope... who's queuing
to answer the christian kippah debate against
the black pope who adorns no signifying testament of
being religious: just a *******.
Reece Oct 2014
I. Tune Out The Traffic, Just Listen to the Crickets

Throw your phones into the sea
  walk away into the night
  fall asleep beneath a tree
  burn a candle for your light

Don't pretend to be in love
  only say it, if it's true
  pray to nothing up above
  the only person to trust is you

The manifesto wasn't long
  the words were not obtuse
  it rhymed just like a song
  but in the end it was refused

II. There Is No Metaphor Here, So Please Stop Looking

Big 'ole spider on the wall
To where is it that you crawl?
I'm sure today you've seen it all
A dog without a ball
and humans walking tall
The leaves of pretty whorl
and a lonesome bathroom stall
Oh
Big 'ole spider on the wall
Do you have someone to call
When this stranger has the gall
              to crush you

III. Algae on the Riverbank

They dragged a corpse from the river
it was bloated and decaying
They pulled a body from a burning car
it was charred and still smoking
They took a foetus from its mother's arms
it was slimy and cooling
They shoveled a person from the sidewalk
it was shapeless and splattered

Everybody dies,
but every body mattered

IV. The Untruths of Poeticism

Tear pages from your books of poetry
and throw them to the winds
They become falling leaves in summertime breeze
- fills the sky with pretty rhymes
Butterflies flutter by
look away from the shutter sky
The stutter lies
and so do I
Four poems written by a fishing lake in Missouri a few months back.
Orion Schwalm Mar 2015
I just had something to write. I knew you were asleep and I went to get my pen. And I came back to watch you breathe, very creepy and I know it. And I started to get lost in the rhythm of your labor. And I set down the pen. And I sat at the keyboard. And I sat at the Piano, and I set at the keyboard. And I closed my eyes. And I typed up a poem in only 7 notes. It was a chord I had never heard voiced before. And it was beautiful. And I had no idea what to call it. And I tried to play it again. But I couldn't.
                                                     So I let it go.

Earlier today I saw your face through the window. It was a very sad face. And I wanted to go touch it, and force it into smiling. And I walked to you. And I put my hand on your shoulder. And somewhere along the line from my will to yours, I recognized we both wanted that face to smile. But neither of us could force it.
                                                        So we let it go.

Tomorrow I am going to wake up. Hopefully I will see you. I will make another trip to the hospital. And I will come back home. And I will pack my things. And I will leave on a plane to someplace you can't even imagine. And you will watch me go. And I will wave goodbye...again. And you will ask me why...again. And I will still not have an answer. Some twisted root metaphor about tearing' 'em up, and sewin' the seeds, and pastures and the importance of planters will spill from my lips. And you will listen to every word. And you will hold each syllable in your heart. And you will weigh the meaning of each distorted poeticism. And you will stare into my eyes. And I will feel it. The aching pain from when I was born. The longing for you. And I will turn and run as fast as I can. Away.
And you will see that I just cannot understand your love. And you will feel the same aching. And you will have compassion for my suffering.
                                                      ­So you will let me go.

And you will turn.
Return to your home.
Go back to your bed.
Lie down.
And die.


Unsatisfied.


and I'm sorry...
Traveler Jan 2022
Extremism
is a condition
of an over active
existentialism

I imagine we’re all
an ism of some type
or sort
With that in common
we’re all cohorts!

Poeticism
has a hold on me..
Speaking in rhyme
Set a soul free..

When one takes sides
in an ism
the imitations
becomes a schism
Perhaps my philosophy
is lost in intuitionism!
mae Nov 2022
i am comforted by thoughts of him,
the fire inside my soul when he's on my mind
is far more comforting than i could have thought.
and the way these thoughts present themselves to me,
can be a lot to handle,
and i dip inside myself
and god do i wish it was him instead,
to lay over me
and share in this passion in togetherness,
rather than in two separate places,
alone.
and although poetic now,
the act of touching,
is almost entirely lacking
in poeticism.
Travis Green Apr 2022
What I wouldn’t give to him in my life
To wake up to see his lovely shining face in my sight
To be enfolded in his sweetness and supremeness
In the wings of his dreamy treasured derivatives
Take me away into his mancave where I can behold
His glowing succulent square roots

Enthuse me with his soothingness, move me with his coolness
With all the great ingratiating equations
Reverberating unfailingly in his mind
Drown in his captivatingly heart-stopping bassline
Let his catchy creative rhythm use me
Feel his brilliant poeticism stream through me
Like clear warm water, like southern homemade ice-tea

He got me stupefied, drugged-out, in the twilight zone
Dreaming of his stupendousness, his impeccable
Compelling masculineness, forever flourishing
Like a gorgeous tropical forest, unconquerable
Artistically alluring lyricist, rare crash-hot debonairness
He brings out the gayness inside me

I shine like a delightful sprightly sunflower
Abundant and radiant as tall, towering trees
I delight in his expansive intelligence, his treasured mindset
The unbelievably inventive metaphors, similes, and
Alliteration he utilizes with his wordology
My ardent starlight prodigy, my magical, marvelous phenomenon
A delicious, seamless, and limited edition
That deserves an Oscar for his stellar performance
Travis Green Sep 2021
I belong to his powerful, masculine dynasty
His phenomenally pristine dreams
Broad branching bridge of enchantment
Bountiful, insurmountable chest, the crowned
Contour of his abs a glistening kingdom
Of scented secrets, welcoming me to feel
His tenderness, the fullness flowing
Through his appealing frame, giving me
A burning wildfire sensation as I yearned
To surrender to his passionate establishment

Taste his pleasure-loving lips, his satiny tongue
Kiss him affectionately without restriction
Stroke the wide expanse of ****** muscle
Spreading my sweetness over his luring lineament
Caress his immensely sinew shoulders, my fingers
Inching down his heavy packed biceps, his beefy
Ballooning arms, the deeply measured poeticism
In his scrumptious system, shifting me into frenzied
States, wanting him all on me, rocking me
Into bliss with his soul-stirring splendidness
since being a student in grade, junior and high school
analogous to geometry proof how lack of use proves
quite aware that finger muscles atrophied
veering off on a tangent referencing contra dance moves
starting with hands for four and ones (the
couple closest to the stage) cross over,
whereat the twos when they reach the head
or foot of line become the new ones thus behooves
participants to listen carefully to the caller
who if an adept caller will successfully facilitate
dancers to establish getting into their grooves.

Won't cha be my partner in rhythm and rhyme
symbiotically sharing transient time
lasting number of moments reading of this poem takes?

Don't write no more no more no more ad infinitum,
hence lost manual dexterity since fingers tap away
at qwerty keyboard, and no longer bend with ease
long since forgotten Peterson handwriting method
when sited at awards assembly courtesy stunning
statuesque sixth grade teacher Miss Rita Rinderle
at Henry Kline Boyer elementary school (one class
per grade) long since repurposed as Play & Learn
back in the day mid ninety sixties, when yours truly
handily being painstakingly meticulous, I as iterated
above received certificate posted for all the webbed
wide world rather residents residing within environs
of Evansburg, Pennsylvania, (one little town - time
forgot, and the years could not improve - similar to
Lake Wobegon a fictional town in Minnesota - the
setting for a weekly segment on his radio show A
Prairie Home Companion created by the inimitable
Garrison Keillor, yours truly a diehard avid fan, who
oftentimes references Powdermilk Biscuits are usually
described as "Made from whole wheat raised in the
rich bottomlands of the Lake Wobegon river valley
by Norwegian bachelor farmers), now those made
up (videre licet) imaginary folks frozen someplace
in time, “where all the women are strong, all the men
are good-looking, and all the children above average.”

"Fine motor coordination"- small, precise movements;
essentially, the opposite of large-scale coordination is
small-scale coordination used for tasks like writing, &
buttoning, and picking up small objects, & threading
a camel thru the eye of a needle, & other impossible
miraculous missions such as drawing winning Mega
Million or Powerball ticket(s), or being blessed with
eternal life in an effort to read most every book under
the sun, and duly patronize my mother tongue - that
being the english language amalgamation originated
when Germanic tribes, primarily the Angles, Saxons,
and Jutes (collectively called Anglo-Saxons), perforce
migrated to Britain from what is now northwest Germany
in the fifth century, displacing the Celtic languages
spoken by the native population and establishing
their own language, known as "Old English," a blend
of four main dialects: Kentish, Mercian, Northumbrian,
and West Saxon, which is considered the foundation
of modern English, forever primarily affected by
globalization, technology, social media, migration
patterns, and the influence of other languages,
leading to the adoption of new words, slang, and
variations in grammar, particularly through the rapid
evolution of online communication and widespread
use of English in various cultures and regions.

Diminution of micro movements such as flexing
digits on the hand, whereat the most common
word for how to hold a pencil or pen is called
a "tripod grip," where the pencil held between
the thumb, index finger, and *******,
forming a tripod-like structure, though without
hands, one could arduously train themselves
to clamp the big toe in place of the thumb -
known as the hallux, this is the innermost toe
and is the largest toe, and most important
toe for balance and swing within the domain
of contra dancing, a social and physical foot
stomping, hew hawing, and kick staring most
fun one can experience while being clothed,
which flirtatious (linkedin to vestial courtship)
close encounters of the seductive kind allows,
enables, and provides non verbal tête-à-tête,
which quite public communication showcases
superb intricate fancy footwork equals dancing
under the stars in terms exhibiting athleticism,
exoticism, lyricism, and poeticism and perfectly
displays Newton's First Law of Motion in motion
stating an object in motion will continue in motion
with a constant velocity unless acted upon by
an external force; essentially, an object resists
changes in its state of motion unless a force
acts on it.

— The End —