"ponderers" poems
Literature literally leaps, like a lioness letting lemurs leave her licked lips.
Books beg to be broken open by bored bosses and brothers and all others.
Poems practically pray for people to pick open pages of Poe and other ponderers of personification.
Metaphors make mothers and masters master their manipulative messages.
Similes smile slyly and smother the selfish and selfless alike like a snake or slaughterer.
And on average, only an artistic artificial android with an arsenal of all arithmetic and knowledge knows,
That though they thought that they could think like the theorizing thinkers,
Nearly nobody knows never to neglect knowledge, whether on rope knots or nautical knots, neanderthals or Narnia.
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 8:44 PM UTC
blue bikes and bongos on a teal trap
ponderers pass through so quick
technically tech tonic plates react
as secrets shall swallow all wit
beautiful burdens trickle
between holes in my prance
blushing at my cinnamon pancakes
© 2015 Kate Volk
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
Gloomy grammarians in golden gowns,
Meekly you keep the mortal rendezvous,
Eliciting the still sustaining pomps
Of speech which are like music so profound
They seem an exaltation without sound.
Funest philosophers and ponderers,
Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
So speech of your processionals returns
In the casual evocations of your tread
Across the stale, mysterious seasons. These
Are the music of meet resignation; these
The responsive, still sustaining pomps for you
To magnify, if in that drifting waste
You are to be accompanied by more
Than mute bare splendors of the sun and moon.
1.7k
The carousing carnival can never sleep
It bares and bewilders in the brain
Sunrise and sunset, season of sorcery,
Hell or heaven, havoc never happens.
The carousing Carnival cages ponderers
Under Ornate oaks too old
Dressing, dancing, dwelling in Graceland
Hula Hoops hover on hips
Fire fetched by fingers flared.
Lookers: love and lose the lot.
The crafty carnival's cunning tricks
Never need a nest to rest.
Sep 13, 2011
Sep 13, 2011 at 1:08 AM UTC
I am beset by boorish, bloated, behemoths
who broadside benevolent busboys by the boatload
I do not pause to stop and stare
With indifference and despair
Do I circumnavigate an indifferent globe
I am surrounded by salacious supplementals
who stand silently still in streaming sunlight
I do not return their glare
I run my hands through thinning hair
and wince at ignorance made flesh
I am besieged by bracingly belligerent bumblers,
The kind of verbal tumblers who fail to jump through hoops,
These self-proclaimed acrobats, put to shame by pussycats
All too often follow circuitous routes
these pitiful proletarian ponderers, as little more than wanderers
On a plane that reaches no destination
They do daily buy their ticket, but to me it's just not cricket
For we are here and then we die, go to the ground not to the sky
and now I lay me down to sleep, in a wooden box that wasn't cheap
and all the while the bleating sheep hear no-one but themselves
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
Writers
Writers write (duh)
There is verbal form of any language and a physical form of any language, and writing is the physical form of any given language.
And in some ways, writing is extremely beneficial to society. It expands vocabulary and ability to process things, it makes a better form of passing on things and keeping things as permanent as possible.
But, sometimes, writing is horrible, and even language in and of itself can horrible at times.
When one loves another, words, eventually, don't suffice to describe the overwhelming flood of emotion you have towards the other person.
In this age of technology and talking over it, texting or calling or face-calling, words sometimes do not suffice, those three words said all the time, over and over again.
Sometimes it’s a deep, passionate kiss on the lips. Sometimes a small peck to the tip of one’s nose. Sometimes a slow, gentle kiss to a forehead. Sometimes a small squeeze of the arms when cuddling. Sometimes a nuzzle to a neck or cheek.
To truly be a writer, one must submit to the fact that there can simply be no words. And it’s okay, it’s fine to not have the right words sometimes.
If anything, it can make your writing a little better.
So, go for it. Be wordless. Be in awe and blown away.
Be a ponderer. Because, in the end, that’s what all us writers are.
Ponderers, who attempt to describe their observances.
:;,
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 12:30 PM UTC
Embrace the mass diversity
At microscopic levels
And in doing so you find
We’re not so different, you and I
We’re just some questions posed to ponderers
Who try to measure time
And in conceiving of our godliness
We clip the wings of pride
Instead of welcoming the Icarus
Ascending from inside
We’re just some science and some fiction
And some matter we create
Like all the value we assign
This dollar domination-state
And in believing in our vision
We intuit how we feel
And with these words we form together
We make sense of the unreal
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 1:19 AM UTC