"pronunciations" poems - Hello Poetry

1. Lively out of tune, Songstress with liquid courage Croons, frogs in her throat. 2. Sake’s bad English, Raw fish / pronunciations, Glad songs for drowning.

0

Aug 7, 2018

Aug 7, 2018 at 11:57 AM UTC

butch-decatoria

Karaoke Night

1. Lively out of tune, Songstress with liquid courage Croons, frogs in her throat. 2. Sake’s bad English, Raw fish / pronunciations, Glad songs for drowning.

8

thus concludes a text from a dear friend whom I have never met, but this a, concluding statement is both convulsing and uncontained autumn is a her, a self-selected gender unique, that picks its own pronouns, pronunciations, for women greet us with warmth+chill skill combinatory, to make ordinary our daily green reform into a multi~variable aristocracy of colors, a forest of expressions, each a statement leaf, stating look at me, I’m transformed, resurrected, disguised, though essence unchanged, for I am the possibles of ad infinitum and I am: ***not-nearly as potent as the sparks of god within a human being*** 3:58am 10-20-24

0

Oct 20, 2024

Oct 20, 2024 at 4:03 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Autumn opening her arms to us all

thus concludes a text from a dear friend whom I have never met, but this a, concluding statement is both convulsing and uncontained autumn is a her, a self-selected gender unique, that picks its own pronouns, pronunciations, for women greet us with warmth+chill skill combinatory, to make ordinary our daily green reform into a multi~variable aristocracy of colors, a forest of expressions, each a statement leaf, stating look at me, I’m transformed, resurrected, disguised, though essence unchanged, for I am the possibles of ad infinitum and I am: ***not-nearly as potent as the sparks of god within a human being*** 3:58am 10-20-24

28

Would you say my words express possible realities Resulting in different mentalities ? Or Are they just written/verbal fallacies Resulting in abnormalities of letters and words hoping to avoid any literary casualties? How about both Sadly, here you can only read it, So you don't hear it, you just see it, but it's something I'd love for your ears to meet with Nothing really can compete With vocal manipulation of speech or how certain pronunciations can proceed Living through a zub-zero temperature year is what it took for me to be able to reel in my minds cable and see clear Avoiding a fatal crash I quickly grabbed the wheel to steer Away from hitting a metaphorical deer It's not a black cloud that hovers above me It's god and the devil playing rugby Every time I try to watch they just stare back and mean mug me Two opposing forces going head to head? More like a sorcerer and a sorceress sharing a bed How many times can a bee sting if it's already stung? None, it has a single stinger that's the only one After that, the songs been sung and that bees life is done... An answer to a question avoiding any deception just so you can understand the expression and find your own reflection -J.A.M

0

Jul 15, 2013

Jul 15, 2013 at 2:27 PM UTC

jam

Questions To Be Answered -Or- Answers to Questioned

Would you say my words express possible realities Resulting in different mentalities ? Or Are they just written/verbal fallacies Resulting in abnormalities of letters and words hoping to avoid any literary casualties? How about both Sadly, here you can only read it, So you don't hear it, you just see it, but it's something I'd love for your ears to meet with Nothing really can compete With vocal manipulation of speech or how certain pronunciations can proceed Living through a zub-zero temperature year is what it took for me to be able to reel in my minds cable and see clear Avoiding a fatal crash I quickly grabbed the wheel to steer Away from hitting a metaphorical deer It's not a black cloud that hovers above me It's god and the devil playing rugby Every time I try to watch they just stare back and mean mug me Two opposing forces going head to head? More like a sorcerer and a sorceress sharing a bed How many times can a bee sting if it's already stung? None, it has a single stinger that's the only one After that, the songs been sung and that bees life is done... An answer to a question avoiding any deception just so you can understand the expression and find your own reflection -J.A.M

23

i. how can it be that they simply walk by, while I, in contrast, stand stupid in awe. cliffs veiled in fog the lights of Geneva mountains framing mountains framing valleys. when did they forget to look? when did they become accustomed? ii. when I'm lonely I stare at the pictures on my wall. the same faces are repeated often, and I try to memorize them so that next time I'm lonely I won't lock myself in my room. but I can't. I can picture the faces of people I met yesterday, but not the faces I've looked upon for years. iii. my mind struggles to wrap itself around new grammar, words, and pronunciations. I'm supposed to be learning a new language. instead it seems as if I'm forgetting two. iv. head pounding, heart racing, lungs burning, legs aching. **** Le Saleve. v. cycle of loneliness: something you see, or hear, or do, reminds you of something you know, or knew. thinking of something you know or knew, especially if it's not there with you, will make you dream of it a time or two. which makes you think of things that you used to see, or hear, or do. which reminds you of things you know, or knew. in turn reminding you of him, or her, or them. and we all know what that means... chocolate. vi. yesterday, a beautiful golden boy sat by my side at dinner. he smiled at me with his bright blue eyes, and he winked when he said my name. today, I hoped that he'd sit there again. I even left a chair empty. (just in case) but today, he sat by the girl with the hair. I always knew I didn't like her. vii. together we sit at a bus-stop. we missed the 10h25, so we'll have to wait an hour. you gave me your coat because I was shivering. the sleeves are so long they reach the hem of my skirt. you rested your head on my shoulder a few minutes ago, your hair just brushes my cheek. it smells good and manly, just like your coat. but all I can think of is that I have to *** and there is nowhere to go but the woods.

0

Oct 1, 2012

Oct 1, 2012 at 8:35 AM UTC

catherine-elizabeth-1

post-it notes on my window

i. how can it be that they simply walk by, while I, in contrast, stand stupid in awe. cliffs veiled in fog the lights of Geneva mountains framing mountains framing valleys. when did they forget to look? when did they become accustomed? ii. when I'm lonely I stare at the pictures on my wall. the same faces are repeated often, and I try to memorize them so that next time I'm lonely I won't lock myself in my room. but I can't. I can picture the faces of people I met yesterday, but not the faces I've looked upon for years. iii. my mind struggles to wrap itself around new grammar, words, and pronunciations. I'm supposed to be learning a new language. instead it seems as if I'm forgetting two. iv. head pounding, heart racing, lungs burning, legs aching. **** Le Saleve. v. cycle of loneliness: something you see, or hear, or do, reminds you of something you know, or knew. thinking of something you know or knew, especially if it's not there with you, will make you dream of it a time or two. which makes you think of things that you used to see, or hear, or do. which reminds you of things you know, or knew. in turn reminding you of him, or her, or them. and we all know what that means... chocolate. vi. yesterday, a beautiful golden boy sat by my side at dinner. he smiled at me with his bright blue eyes, and he winked when he said my name. today, I hoped that he'd sit there again. I even left a chair empty. (just in case) but today, he sat by the girl with the hair. I always knew I didn't like her. vii. together we sit at a bus-stop. we missed the 10h25, so we'll have to wait an hour. you gave me your coat because I was shivering. the sleeves are so long they reach the hem of my skirt. you rested your head on my shoulder a few minutes ago, your hair just brushes my cheek. it smells good and manly, just like your coat. but all I can think of is that I have to *** and there is nowhere to go but the woods.

59

I leave the door open I make plans for you An imaginary correlation, an absent importance I revel in the moment I catch your eye And lasso it in like a blue rose in the desert We smile Reserved, empty of ambition We silently say, I know your there. And I know your there. I acknowledge that you exist Even from far away, I can tell you smell like fresh air Time beneath the western sun Has contoured your face, and lit up your hair You sit back as if you’re a portrait, A wild horse I would never restrain. The little fact that you exist excites me Please stay somewhere on this Earth We leave space in between us Somewhere for our thoughts to go You send me waves through the dry air Wordless pronunciations I will never touch you I just like to know you’re alive Indifferent, yet completely saturated in your image.

0

Sep 26, 2012

Sep 26, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC

erin-weaver

Reserved

I leave the door open I make plans for you An imaginary correlation, an absent importance I revel in the moment I catch your eye And lasso it in like a blue rose in the desert We smile Reserved, empty of ambition We silently say, I know your there. And I know your there. I acknowledge that you exist Even from far away, I can tell you smell like fresh air Time beneath the western sun Has contoured your face, and lit up your hair You sit back as if you’re a portrait, A wild horse I would never restrain. The little fact that you exist excites me Please stay somewhere on this Earth We leave space in between us Somewhere for our thoughts to go You send me waves through the dry air Wordless pronunciations I will never touch you I just like to know you’re alive Indifferent, yet completely saturated in your image.

26

This ceremonial façade is likened to an ancient folklore which has been dipped in forbidden secretions, even though my arts are sincerely darkened to unfathomable depths of surprised and ambidextrous naiveté. I have constructed the choreography of this metaphysical dance, which lingers on the brink of sociological pronunciations, and where the liberty of gargoyles spew their fluid projections from lofty heights across the four directions of our moralistic city walls, where magnetised needles ***** my soul with the earth-shattering clarification of true north. I love to sit in the dark and to be enlightened, as the eerie silence bellows her validity across trans-national sanctions, where the fallacy of liberation is juxtaposed with a socio-political and fetishistic confinement. I believe that classical infidelity is like a beautiful Gothic cathedral where silent rage has an ebb and flow which is not easily ascertained amongst our sub-cultural and contemporary cohorts, where dynamic equilibrium truly encapsulates the co-existence of opposites, which are said to attract. So, as we gather in the menacing serenity of the dark forests, where geography marks her ancient alignments from sunrise to sunset; can we now pray and give homage to the spirits of history, in this underground finesse of paradoxical equilibrium? I love democracy, as she gyrates her sensual community wantonness on this conveyer belt, where the vital functions of our organism slink into sleepy cessations of universal structures where causality releases her excitatory expressions of organic physiology.

0

Sep 12, 2015

Sep 12, 2015 at 3:05 AM UTC

david-barr

Origins of the Point

This ceremonial façade is likened to an ancient folklore which has been dipped in forbidden secretions, even though my arts are sincerely darkened to unfathomable depths of surprised and ambidextrous naiveté. I have constructed the choreography of this metaphysical dance, which lingers on the brink of sociological pronunciations, and where the liberty of gargoyles spew their fluid projections from lofty heights across the four directions of our moralistic city walls, where magnetised needles ***** my soul with the earth-shattering clarification of true north. I love to sit in the dark and to be enlightened, as the eerie silence bellows her validity across trans-national sanctions, where the fallacy of liberation is juxtaposed with a socio-political and fetishistic confinement. I believe that classical infidelity is like a beautiful Gothic cathedral where silent rage has an ebb and flow which is not easily ascertained amongst our sub-cultural and contemporary cohorts, where dynamic equilibrium truly encapsulates the co-existence of opposites, which are said to attract. So, as we gather in the menacing serenity of the dark forests, where geography marks her ancient alignments from sunrise to sunset; can we now pray and give homage to the spirits of history, in this underground finesse of paradoxical equilibrium? I love democracy, as she gyrates her sensual community wantonness on this conveyer belt, where the vital functions of our organism slink into sleepy cessations of universal structures where causality releases her excitatory expressions of organic physiology.

6

stoop side you sit fallen angels with broken knees, 40 ounce amber galaxies & palms of prayer on an open mirror. The benefactive is Columbian is endless stairs on roofless buildings, is your cracked knuckles of powdered meaning — metallic shifts in the parking lot holy begging thunder to threat everything at once, so then you can forget. You prayed for all the wrong pronunciations & when you sleep demons graffiti epistles on the walls of your exposed chest.

0

Nov 17, 2015

Nov 17, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC

c-m-keehl

epode of your carbon being

stoop side you sit fallen angels with broken knees, 40 ounce amber galaxies & palms of prayer on an open mirror. The benefactive is Columbian is endless stairs on roofless buildings, is your cracked knuckles of powdered meaning — metallic shifts in the parking lot holy begging thunder to threat everything at once, so then you can forget. You prayed for all the wrong pronunciations & when you sleep demons graffiti epistles on the walls of your exposed chest.

14

All my words fail, out here on the edge, In cataracts pronunciations plunge Onto the rocks of shattered sounds, The meanings call and drag, Unable to explain the inexpressible you, The mental scraps congeal, The ten thousand half-attempted lines All erring, marred, All leaving me here alone again In the insurmountable anguish of love.

0

Mar 25, 2016

Mar 25, 2016 at 6:40 AM UTC

bill-higham

All My Words Fail

All my words fail, out here on the edge, In cataracts pronunciations plunge Onto the rocks of shattered sounds, The meanings call and drag, Unable to explain the inexpressible you, The mental scraps congeal, The ten thousand half-attempted lines All erring, marred, All leaving me here alone again In the insurmountable anguish of love.

10

It started when I asked her what she desired She told me she wanted to understand why the world has not loved her back yet So I wrote her a map of everything she is: Her eyes sing like sparrows on a Sunday morning Tongue so soft her words asked to be returned once spoken There is a serenade in her hands each time she touches a pen and A lullaby in her fingertips Plush red lipsticks do not know who she is Beauty has not met anyone like her Long stalks of wild grass are playgrounds for her summertime sandals and Singing songs that hadn’t been loved in 30 something years Summer dresses with last year’s flip flops forming an eloquence around her She speaks with a purpose and it is to make you listen Only bards and poets know what to call her Words do not speak to who she is 200 year old Willow trees bow to her like a queen who has ruled with grace She strolls slowly and steadily to places which indefinitely await her She is a statue already built and a book already written Complete Eyes follow her figure like a fire burns through a forest- Steadfast, sudden and swift unable to comprehend the complete creation of all that she is Many hearts pulsate with a plethora of pronunciations and proclamations of love, Her name runs through your veins like secrets that get buried in cemetaries You will die before you can forget her

0

Feb 27, 2016

Feb 27, 2016 at 9:07 AM UTC

rkirk

She Is Not Forgotten

It started when I asked her what she desired She told me she wanted to understand why the world has not loved her back yet So I wrote her a map of everything she is: Her eyes sing like sparrows on a Sunday morning Tongue so soft her words asked to be returned once spoken There is a serenade in her hands each time she touches a pen and A lullaby in her fingertips Plush red lipsticks do not know who she is Beauty has not met anyone like her Long stalks of wild grass are playgrounds for her summertime sandals and Singing songs that hadn’t been loved in 30 something years Summer dresses with last year’s flip flops forming an eloquence around her She speaks with a purpose and it is to make you listen Only bards and poets know what to call her Words do not speak to who she is 200 year old Willow trees bow to her like a queen who has ruled with grace She strolls slowly and steadily to places which indefinitely await her She is a statue already built and a book already written Complete Eyes follow her figure like a fire burns through a forest- Steadfast, sudden and swift unable to comprehend the complete creation of all that she is Many hearts pulsate with a plethora of pronunciations and proclamations of love, Her name runs through your veins like secrets that get buried in cemetaries You will die before you can forget her

25

Taking a stance, strong as a mountain, would you hear me, carried on echoing shoulders; silent are the drums of indifference, that fall on deaf ears of invisibility Trembling unnoticed, a tightrope vibrating with unseen footsteps; a bird flawlessly glides catching the drift of words on a wire, follows its winged direction to a fuller climate of interesting twitter and leaves me speechless. Impressions of sound drown loudly, parallel pronunciations of an endearing nature cough up smarter sentences, those that are heard on street corners fighting for listeners choosing to pause and grant the unheard an audience to be proud of. I bow to their fame in that one moment, devouring their words, sifting the debris

0

May 13, 2015

May 13, 2015 at 9:10 AM UTC

laura-susan-smith

Invisible

Taking a stance, strong as a mountain, would you hear me, carried on echoing shoulders; silent are the drums of indifference, that fall on deaf ears of invisibility Trembling unnoticed, a tightrope vibrating with unseen footsteps; a bird flawlessly glides catching the drift of words on a wire, follows its winged direction to a fuller climate of interesting twitter and leaves me speechless. Impressions of sound drown loudly, parallel pronunciations of an endearing nature cough up smarter sentences, those that are heard on street corners fighting for listeners choosing to pause and grant the unheard an audience to be proud of. I bow to their fame in that one moment, devouring their words, sifting the debris

16

to y to z to that fetish I have for the alphabet and letters words and pronunciations

0

Aug 9, 2017

Aug 9, 2017 at 12:42 AM UTC

wordvango

to x

to y to z to that fetish I have for the alphabet and letters words and pronunciations

5