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Jesha Apr 2018
All these lies and smiles I eat
Rest in my head like the tombs of the dead
And make a tally in mind, I keep
For the time comes soon, I shall shed
The decay that stains dry lips black
And Pollocks the mountains of my cheeks
Like webs of a spider, left unchecked
A scorn of thorns I will mete
For each scar of a promise unkept
Has nested a home in my dried-up heart
And unlike you, for whom I've wept
Their bitter voices keep me warm

Betrayal grips me like a forgotten lover
I dance in your demise, and rise - untethered.
Once upon a time I was forced into following rules & writing a sonnet for homework...
Ryan O'Leary Feb 2020
It is the silence
between sounds
that makes a
metro, nome.

It is the margin
between lines
that make words
legible.

It is the space
between bread
that makes a
Sandwich

It was the dark
between light
that made
Edison.

It is the blanks
between blobs
that make
Pollocks.

Ps.

All art and poetry
is nothing, same as
what's inside and
outside the circular
      wall of zero.

              O
Yitkbel Nov 2019
Chorus:

In Spring, from my poems, flowers spring
In Summer, a sum of everything green
In Autumn, foliage melancholically falls
In Winter,  my wintry mind gradually thaws

I. Spring:

Always one with nature
The Truth, my mind follows
A wave of pastel colors, returning swallows
Peck the hedges with petals of my soul
Blue and shattered, into the poetry it goes
What is without, escapes, imprints on the folds
Of time and space, as the stream of consciousness flows
Till, without me purposefully noticing
It captures within my thoughts an eternal Spring
And remains
Subtly felt but
Unseen

!

In Spring, from my poems, flowers spring
In Summer, a sum of everything green
In Autumn, foliage melancholically falls
In Winter,  my wintry mind gradually thaws

The Poet's Dream Follows the Season's Calls:

When the world exterior is abundant with
Life and the breathing, palpitating all
I capture in my mind, thoughts and words
With wonders and troubles
Of the nature
Without

When the world exterior crumbles and falls
Hidden and blanketed, asleep by the winter's call
The opening beyond Plato's cave gradually thaws
I am suddenly privy and drawn
To the nature
Within

II. Summer:

Always one with nature
The Truth, my mind follows
Between the boulders of lichens
Upon the emerald streams
Floats the vessel of my soul
Gathering seagrass and pollocks, it goes
What is within, the nature time briefly holds
Is now words of mine, to be told
Before the grass fields are eclipsed by the gold
It captures my thoughts evergreen
And remains
Brilliant with eternal warmth
Read and felt yet
Unseen

!

In Spring, from my poems, flowers spring
In Summer, a sum of everything green
In Autumn, foliage melancholically falls
In Winter,  my wintry mind gradually thaws

III. Autumn:

Always one with nature
The Truth, my mind follows
A twilight dance of leaves and boughs
First it blushes, ruddy, timid but bold
Then, it undresses, melancholy, bare in its fallen maple soul
A chilling gale gloats, pallid night wallows
In the anticipation of the impending revelation
What is without, dreaming its withering dreams,
Is now traversing through the wilting wintry plain
Soon to reach the delusive emptiness above
The hidden valley of invisible plenty
And be captured by my thoughts, reason and faith in harmony
With its dazzling orange and red, cerulean velvet behind emerald fringes
Forever vivid
In my poetry, to remain
Deeply felt, though
Unseen

!

In Spring, from my poems, flowers spring
In Summer, a sum of everything green
In Autumn, foliage melancholically falls
In Winter,  my wintry mind gradually thaws

IV. Winter:

Always one with nature
The Truth, my mind follows
The snow covered barren streets
A tattered overcoat suddenly greets
In a moment, by it I was brought to a place
BLOOMING with intrigue, I navigated this maze
And found the GREEN hedge of will and fate
Rich with HARVEST fruits of reason and faith
Like the SNOWFALL, that steals all
I became a glutton of light, in spite of the shadow wall
What is within, bursts from my mind's seams
And overflows
Not into the nature beyond, without
But nature of my mind and dreams within
And is captured by my words
Mirrored from my thoughts
In my poetry, it remains
Enlightened by and enlightening
All who seek and think, every being
With truth evidently felt
However
Unseen

Conclusion:

The poet of autumn, summer, and spring
To the exterior objective nature sings
The poet of winter, withered and plain
From the interior subjective nature, essence springs

The seasoned poet blossoms regardless
Whenever, wherever, timeless
Among
Fleeting fields of earthly gold
Or eternal pastures of souls
The Seasoned Poet Reaps Truth with His Soul
By: Yitkbel Yue Xing ****
Date of completion: Friday, November 15, 2019 1:38 AM
Started sometime after/around 10:00 PM Thursday, November 14, 2019
Paulo Mielmiczuk Dec 2015
tears run on my hands
and lay on the soft paper
weak... as I am

while my napkins get filled
with the pain of always being immersed
in saturated words
in a big list of abandonment
in an opened mind for
every kind of misery.

tear drops lay down on my verse
and the blood pollocks in the tormented parts
of a body shattered by depression.

they believe they run to light, to a memorable
and happy ending
but they get stuck on the paper
just like memories - to a mind...
lost in the sorrow of a non existent existence
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
it seems so much noble to be called a jihadi, than to be called a "mentally ill" westerner; call these men by their cultish extremity names, call them crusaders, the barons of the cross, but don't mix secularism into the mix! psychiatric designation will only get you so far along the tribal wave of reaction, you can't keep it contained in a parliament of witches and poncy warlocks who can't summon a black to their bidding, then getting two english girls safely home, after one approaches you emerging from the deathly hollows of a darkened public park, rolling her a cigarette, looking at her cleavage, and then searching for her friend, lying face down on the pavement, offering her your hoodie.

and i do read **** literature,
heidegger,
you know, i once had an irish friend,
but then he despised that i was
of pedigree breed,
although not of cognitive pedigree...
and he hated it,
being quarter indian, half irish,
and i don't know what the other quarter
came from...
   he just said: you best be among
your people - to which i replied:
but i am!
    22+ years in england,
the **** have i in common with
the pollocks?
         a ******* attempt at painting?
didn't work, kept his marker,
what ****** me off was that his
shamrock stupendous chose
   a cypriot for a friend...
and while an old boxing fan joined
us for drinks once time,
while i nipped off to the gents
i came back, and the ol' ****** was
gesticulating:
you wanna say what you said
about him outloud?
  sticking his index into his nose
imitating a boxed case of a punch...
the supposed "fwend"?
  sat there, knee jerking, playing
air drums...
               and then he comes up with:
better stick with your kind?
kind of what? mongrel?!
  you're a ******* mongrel,
how about you kiss a melting candle,
******* *******.
       we sparred once, i guess he was
gearing up to a big fight with me,
lest he forget i too practice boxing:
on my own face...
    if i get to punch myself out:
i'm a winner...
i waited for a day, 2 day came and i
could finally, finally! feel the punches
on my jaw...
  20+ years in england and i'm supposed
to make fwends with the 2004 tide
of immigrants? you have to be kidding me,
i don't have any friends back "home"...
what am i, scurvy shamrock?
         if this is what integration of
whites among whites ends up being:
    thank you, i'll take the curry recipe
and *******, leave you two gents deciding
who's to blame...
     times of conquest and the prize-woven
artefact of women has just sailed
on the titanic...
     i just read heidegger...
like any philosophy book, esp. ones prone
to aphorisms, you read the same book
x3, in one sitting...
           aphorism 64 ponderings VI...

history has become the annihilation of time
(24h news reels) -
   and by aphorism LXV -
it has become a concern to annihilate space -
which is a paradoxical statement
with cf. *dasein
...
  if we are to break away from the relativism
of a space-time compound, and break from
this suggested continuum,
we must break away from relativism altogether,
and enter the realm of absolutism,
whereby time & space are once more
parallel, or so divergent, that the next
convergence (X) of the two can happen a long
time into the future...
  it would seem that relativism has outlasted
its best-before date of "fascination",
once more, the return to absolutism,
   given the anti-philosophical convergence
of medicinal dichotomy into a dualism:
the unison mind = body = mind...

     and as in LXIV, VI,
we do live in an age without questioning -
we seem to be living in an age of only acquiring
answers, facts, there is an absolutely lack
of acquiring questions!
     questions are a medium of expressing inquiry
lost to what could be best riddle in a novel,
whereby pronoun "neutrality" is best given
the following extract:

? walked into the bathroom, and peered into
the mirror.
    whether in shock, or in awe, ? replied
as a mime might: ?!
                         to which the reflection replied
of its own mechanisations: !


and you might inquire: the **** is this?
a quote from casablanca, with bogart doing his:
here's looking at you kid?

the out-shouted anxiety in the face of
the question-worthiness of being
(heidegger)...

who the hell wants to live in a world that's
only governed by the safeguarding
of a cascade of mere answers?
  this is a **** party member, in the 1930s...
writing this sort of prophetic usherance
of the times we live in, now!
    i, for one, know that i don't live in
a world of worthy questions,
   or questions at all...
  i live in a world where knowledge is trivia!
i live in a world where there is no
gain from knowing something,
but merely guessing at it, or making fun
of it: i.e. gambling!
      
this world is not worth the speedy congratulatory
*******-up to sycophancy by comparing
it to the previous days,
let us forget taking to history in relative terms,
let us take to absolute terms,
          no time according to this one was
any worse, or any better,
that's as much relativism as we're going to
ingest...
   but i can't expect to find myself in questioning
times, i find myself in pompous
constantly answering times,
            there's about as much awe in these
times, as there's surprise in a soft boiled egg
with a runny yoke...
     no!
          it has become harder and harder to
find the right question to craft a momentum,
than what already is the right answer,
that simply stalls all wishes for momentum;
time to look for the question,
rather than regurgitate all the "necessary" answers.
Ryan O'Leary Jul 2018
If I was a poet and
not a painter, the
first stroke of my
plume would need
to be a commitment.

Chameleonic art has
the ability to be diluted,
abstracted, even inverted
and in my opinion, most
of it is a load of old Pollocks.
Ryan O'Leary Nov 2019
¡™£¢∞§¶•ªº–≠åß∂ƒ©˙∆˚¬…'Ω≈ç√∫˜µ≤≥÷

Jackson, the black cat at Iskeroon.com
just walked right across the keyboard
producing a Hieroglyphic Haiku of
which I am unable to decipher, hence
posting it for all at Hello Poetry to see.


Ps
A Four Paw Faux Pas.
Or
A load of old Pollocks.

— The End —