"prosaic" poems
Extravagantly exorbitant mentality panacea
Pretentious eidetic’s ubiquity mnemonics
Extraversion embezzlement extortion mens rea
Endergonic laconic cacophony phonics
Preterite rendition enclitic equilibrist motion
Mystic symbiosis dharma spiritual sky
Brusque macabre abjections the gist of the potion
Straight up forever ontology on high
Obdurately abstruse vituperatively vociferous
Juxtaposition apparition myriad avarice
Orotund sonorous diction obliquitous
Multifariously versatile nefarious nemesis
Mirador bartizan phantasmagoria aesthetics
Guidon gyration excursion integration
Sorcerous alchemizing interstitial endemics
Chaos charisma objectified tribulation
Conjurous apothegms clitoral apomixis
Exude emote surrogate extrapolation
Astral projection littoral hypotaxis
Kinetic supremacy homogeneity gravitation
Coercible coalescent cohesion dexterities
Adjunct conjunction conjecture acuity
Platonic pragmatic prosaic austerities
Extemporaneous impromptu innuendo fortuity
Propinquity habitation harbinger spectra
Perplexing paradox tenacity rostra
Intensely cogitational abstract mantra
Penumbral exigency , umbrage per contra
Theoretical incursion grandiloquent ne plus ultra
Exogamy of homoplasy sic itur ad astra
Quiescent serendipity surreal anestra
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 6:16 AM UTC
No. It's an impudent falsehood. Men did not
Invariably think the newer way Prosaic
mad, inelegant, or what not.
Was the first pointed arch esteemed a blot
Upon the church? Did anybody say How
modern and how ugly? They did not.
Plate-armour, or windows glazed, or verse fire-hot
With rhymes from France, or spices from Cathay,
Were these at first a horror? They were not.
If, then, our present arts, laws, houses, food
All set us hankering after yesterday,
Need this be only an archaising mood?
Why, any man whose purse has been let blood
By sharpers, when he finds all drained away
Must compare how he stands with how he stood.
If a quack doctor's breezy ineptitude
Has cost me a leg, must I forget straightway
All that I can't do now, all that I could?
So, when our guides unanimously decry
The backward glance, I think we can guess why.
5.6k
A bridge from colloquial to courtly fare
A span where idealism and fantasy pair
A railway to the existential realm; celestial lair
A conduit through which rational discourse can flare
Deep medium to: forage, inculcate, and inform
Broad brush to paint rare beauty; sculpt surrealistic form
Incisive scalpel to surgically alter the societal norm
Delicate utensil to educate on civility and decorum
A literary ***** a prosaic construct
A mechanism our syntax to deconstruct
An analytical tool; an observational viaduct
Introspective milieu to reduct; extrovertive sphere to reconstruct
A semantical edifice that aspiring wit, lofty orations implore
An experimental structure gramatical anomalies to explore
A thematic repository in which concrete ideas, abstract notions to
pour
A vernacular cathedral butressed by an idiomatic core
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC
Prescient, her essence
Casts a demure persuasion,
Endowed with verve and vision;
Concept to consummation,
The serenely possessed,
Creator, originator,
Allusion to the eternal azure,
Logos of abstraction,
Word and image collision.
Tonal palette of faith infused reason
Beauty and sublimity,
Serve to season
Verse, canvas and film,
Mediating aesthetic, seminal senses blossom,
Lyrical each permutation,
Seeds of vibrant chroma diffusing the mystical.
Visage and hair, her figure haunted
With perfection - a work of Art
Nurtured and lived invocation,
The canon of taste;
Crystal for the *****
Devotional fragrance ,
Holistic ethos, melodic invention,
Animated, pure -
The embodiment of redemption.
Transcending form, parenthetically
(Merely) the decorative,
Allure, artistry and symmetry
Superlative complexity,
Her erudition satiates, supplanting
Winds of constructive banality.
Purveyor of an uncommon savor,
She collaborates in the peculiar
Pursuit and reward,
Encounter with depth, explored,
Human and divine, prosaic meets sublime
Igniting within an Eros
Passion for truth, being and Telos.
Visionary of grace and peace
Transforming our earthbound dissonance;
Our caprice,
Hope and abundance, the myth of scarcity,
She narrates the Good.
Pen, lens, color and stage
Vulnerable, unrepressed, effusive
Romantic articulation,
The reservoir deep,
Innately primed conduit of Love.
Beyond plebeian, cosmetic, the trite
Woman of substance, pulchritude
And delight.
Effervescent - her smile exquisite,
Eclipsing suffering,
Wordless expression, understood language.
I am transported, my imagination replete,
Sonya Rose -
Art personified; unabridged, complete.
©2008 & 2013 W.S . Warner
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
The pierced ego sees
through an opaque lens;
a vestige of hope,
humor and
intellectual solidarity.
Effigies of forgotten ethos,
the culmination of a
fated dream;
unrequited ardor, abandons
identity to an irreducible
fervor,
subtext of tension,
enduring ****** privation;
etude of a paramour
ending torture,
tasting mystical polarity.
The wounded heart
once intruded,
bleeds effusive;
the ornament of humility.
Flattened collateral
damage,
primal search,
proves illusive;
portals of hurt, slivers
of pride,
assembled fragments of
thereness
absorb the loss
of my English muse.
Poetry and devotion
punctuated murmurs
of piety,
depth perception
virtue unfound;
expectation - access
to suffering;
disinterested love
present,
desultory carnage
of rescission,
absurdity personified;
euphemism
of adieu,
the sound of no sound.
The discarded image
finds no favor,
the salt lost it's savor
unquenched thirst;
desire of
diminished purview,
the saporus stream
deferred;
vision eclipsed;
saturated self
hidden in the text.
Poverty asks the
question,
absence summons
ethereal substance
merged into
the immanent frame;
integrating,
in solitude signifying,
mediating - logos
contested
the humiliation of
the word.
Lyrical enigma,
where did I go?
provisional
personality
scorned,
renouncing nostrums
of the prosaic,
surrenders to the
the realm interior
sovereignty
assumed in
provenience,
native
horizon of the next.
©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 3, 2011
Sep 3, 2011 at 6:11 PM UTC
I asked my inner writer,
Is your prose poetic?
Or your poetry prosaic?
And my inner writer asked me,
Are you traditional with modern values?
Or are you modern with traditional values?
Are you an introvert who loves to express?
Or an extravert who loves silences?
Are you an optimist who sees the clouds?
Or a pessimist who sees rainbows?
Are you thoughtful with some light-hearted ways?
Or humourous with some sober ways?
And on and on and on and on
And on and on it went.
I'll never ask my inner writer
About writing
Again.
-Vijayalakshmi Harish
24.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
Spinning on the north pole.
Truth be told, it's being pulled
in all directions thus the spinning inflection.
A prosaic misdirection.
4 cardinal directions but when they conflate
you get eight. If you prorate
in-between you get sixteen
directions you can take.
The only mistake you can choose is standing in place.
At the pace your face is rotating on your flesh case,
your bones will displace. your mind will efface
from it's designated space.
Don't be a waste. Move along.
Pick one of the 16 directions you can take
Whichever one you pick is the road you belong.
Just get to where your going before your swan song.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 4:33 AM UTC
1. If it doesn't take place at 4 in the morning, immediately change the setting.
2. You should center all your work. Centering makes the piece unique and improves readability.
3. You should invoke the idea of The Mask. Paul Laurence Dunbar didn't do it well enough.
4. One word lines improve readability and do a great job of making emphasis. Use them a lot.
5. On the other hand, really long lines explain points wonderfully. Feel free to be essentially prosaic.
6. The subject should be obvious and everyday, that way everyone can easily understand what you're trying to say. Subtext is dated.
7. Confessions and heartbreak are unique to you.
8. Not editing makes the work extremely human and relatable.
9. Emoticons and the ilk are the cutting edge of the English language. Feel free to use them without reservation.
10. Rhyme scheme doesn't need meter.
11. Making a word into waterfall letters tells the reader you're falling apart (See #3).
12. Journals, diaries, blogs and Tumblr are old news when it comes to venting. Write an angry poem about your day instead.
13. You're probably going mad according to the DSM-5. Definitely write about that.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
She Let A Moth Drown In the Lake
She let a moth drown in the lake,
Waves taking stackars* little thing
Further than her oar could reach.
Standing on beach, cupped eye,
Squinting, trying…
Moth was gone.
Death had won.
Just so you know I do no lie,
That ‘she’ was I.
I am the wimp who hesitated.
Fear of depth, of cold, of wet.
Excuses inexcusable.
Death of moth, still flapping moth
Is just as undeserving as our own demise.
Pedestrian, prosaic, commonplace,
Disgusting,
Yet compulsively discussable.
All living things delight in life-ness.
While they move and throb the slightest,
They delight.
Who takes a life by standing by
Will also die.
It is essential, is it not, to cry,
Identify with kin?
Kin hereby meaning ‘life within’.
Left with remorse and shame
She self-condemns,
She takes the blame.
She hopes some force
That knows the individuality of moth
Shows sympathy in rebirth
In some future form that has a breath.
So be it, Om, Amen to Earth!
She Let A Moth Drown In the Lake 6.14.2020 Birth,Death & In Between II;Nature Of & In Reality; Circling Round Nature II;Pure Nakedness;Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover, Corwin
*stackars; Swedish; ‘poor thing’
Jun 14, 2020
Jun 14, 2020 at 6:17 AM UTC
The Buddhists Teach
There is a door
Between the conscious and the unconscious
On the threshold of awareness
Where, from this sleepy place
Mind-door takes in space
A snap-shot of what’s around
The shapes and the sounds
Be it red, blue or brown
Sensory fed and felt and judged
A conceptual conclusion
Based on memory and illusion
Served up ofttimes with a bit of confusion
The sixth sense of inclusion
Transcending time and allusion.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
The unaware
From where?
Memory Lane
What a pain
Insane and mundane
Tainted and sainted
Familiar and unfamiliar
It’s the object and the flavor
It only makes sense
To bring in the other scents
Can you feel it
Through my poetry?
Because I have no other way
I’m sending you the sweetest berry
In bloom
And tea scented perfume
For some lazy afternoon.
Starting out so poetic
Descended into the prosaic
I’d like to stay in those high-minded places
Between the sheets of my faces
I’m at peace and war with myself
No one else.
I know I shouldn’t get attached
Shrug it off with panache
When I think about impermanence
Makes me cringe and
create another circumstance
A twirling happenstance
A devil’s dance
A devilish lance
It’s getting better
Like frankincense
Then it fades
Like the past tense
How does one let go
When clinging’s become a way of life?
A hunting knife couldn’t pry
My pathetic fingers lose
Holding on to
A hangman’s noose
I’d scream and rail
Holding on
To the nail
That pierced my travail
As life stomped and pounded
grounded me down
But, I wouldn’t let go.
Oh no, not me
Fool that I am
Was it a question of pride?
A fear of the night
The ego chasing its’ tale
Personal blackmail?
A forgotten memory
A mishmash
Lack of mindfulness
A Pandora's box?
Nonetheless,
I confess
A little bit of everything.
I tell myself
Baby steps
Baby steps
Baby’s need to let go
And fall and get up
Or they won’t learn to walk
Or talk or grow up
It’s baby talk
And baby steps
Knock, knock
Who’s there
No one
Then come on in
Naked and all alone
Rest on the threshold of time
Rest on the threshold of awareness
But, In all fairness
Don’t expect it to last
Such is the nature of impermanence
Only the bliss shall remain.
You can find it once again.
When you learn to let go.
But,
Don’t listen to my advice
As you can see
I’m still holding on for dear life.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 12:30 AM UTC
Here we are again, in my darkest night,
_I’ve never escaped_
I thought the last stretches of a pitch-black pool did not reach me.
Should I be happy on the crescent carving my brokenness?
you said _how beautiful the glimpse of the moonlight is,_
they have been a prosaic, silvery dust in dismal,
but now, _they are a rare light in the sky._
I adore things that aren’t mine
and so you are,
I held an illusion in my desperation, and it wasn’t the universe's fault for sculpting an embodiment of galaxies and stars, such ethereal like you were living in a myth.
You can be there and begone or just begone
(your mercurial imperative) but this time, I wanted to be left on the traces where you were at.
Mar 10, 2022
Mar 10, 2022 at 10:41 AM UTC
you have the formula
A Love Poem Recipe:
Fij = G(Mi x Mj)/Dij.
This formula, simplified, means that trade between two markets will equal the size of the two markets multiplied together and then divided by their distance.
(The model gets its name from its mathematical similarity to the equation in physics that describes gravitational pull.)
~~~
long ago, swore off
the love poem business.
lying that this
the last poem ever published
moan not,
statistically, for sure be
a heart-infected sick teenager
bemoaning/high fiving
their fated status
but I don't need to add to
that smoldering pile
the excellence, the richness,
the virtuosity
of the formula
a metaphor,
for the bounty and the risk,
in any love affair, thus love needy
for a diagrammed explication
two markets, soft upon each other,
multiply their trade in love and kisses
can you kiss her (him) but once?
nonsense!
saying I love you
but once a day,
like it was a vitamin,
preposterous!
no, love expands like a gas
(a distant cousin to our formula),
filling in the empty spaces,
escaping through crevices,
spilling, oft filling up
the nearby bystanders
in love,
there is no thing as
one touch clicking
but one touch
reveals the genetic marker,
the initial intimacy injection
Let the addiction begin!
ten thousand grasps,
some soft, some hard,
upon each other,
till fingers go lifelong contented numb
desire and affection spread like a
positive infection,
the curative powers
elegiac,
but never prosaic and though
formulaic
think more
voltaic and paradisiac
electric heaven
go forth and scribe
you got the secret
recipe
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 9:15 AM UTC
'Sola! J, why are your poems so depressing?'
Oh for the love of Tartarus, prosaic. Will you please shut up?
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
Loneliness is pages splayed across the bed
It is clutching the empty space beside me
Writhing in agony, knowing very well
You're not there
Loneliness is having my blood run cold,
My feet solidly planted to the ground
Every time I hear the unfamiliar ring
Of my (prosaic) name
Loneliness is basking in the sweet but transient
Moments of companionship, when your supple
Lips brush mine (and sparks flit down my back)
Knowing they will soon be relics
Loneliness is donning heavy, splotched clothes
Sodden from last night's tears and broken memories
It is having your mind plagued with yesterday
Loneliness decays your today
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 1:51 AM UTC
Can we speak of these certain vacant spaces
in my abandoned bedroom where the moon dwells
and shuttered creatures search their teeth
for a bloom of flavor and sun.
I'm surrounded by prosaic twilights--tenantless places--
where plaster perfumed by dormant fire
gapes with cavities and empty mouths
that seek him with their tongues.
Where darkness crawls on poppy seeds
on moths and reeds and shoes
to reach me in my consternation
now that his name has fled my lungs.
Today I sewed his note to my breast pocket
but it grew crescent roots like fingernails
and murmured that we were too young.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC
She dreamed of the Mountains
beyond the historic oceanic driveway,
between the scorching morning sun and back again,
her illusions were rash and reckless in themselves.
Long Beach from the sea
suspected strangers
as tortured scions,
they will un-bridle your Yin-Yang
your mind is all that is left intact,
hands prosaic with lanolin washing
ablute your American dreams
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 6:30 PM UTC
131
Besides the Autumn poets sing
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the Haze—
A few incisive Mornings—
A few Ascetic Eves—
Gone—Mr. Bryant’s “Golden Rod”—
And Mr. Thomson’s “sheaves.”
Still, is the bustle in the Brook—
Sealed are the spicy valves—
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The Eyes of many Elves—
Perhaps a squirrel may remain—
My sentiments to share—
Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind—
Thy windy will to bear!
1.9k
the comma
a most prosaic-looking fellow
never gets into a coma
though he’s useful enough
to give you a pause or break;
the comma separates and lists
and where the word-traffic may be in danger of crashing
into one another, bumper to bumper
the comma comes in like road markers
and ensures smooth flow:
don’t kiss bumpers; kiss your commas
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 11:31 AM UTC
Defunct delightful fruits noir
The sacrosanct pheromone of death
Garnishing Hells credence table
Quailled hem and haw sate
Ilk a slew of paper tigers
With a keen prosaic veneer
Consuming vittle of Gaia
Ravishing ichor like dancing water
Spurning a chimerical somatic
Catharsis as creaking doors hang
The longest watching satorial
Flowers wilt nascent by
Tactiturn vespers.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 4:22 AM UTC
The poet tries
with her words
to create something new
something hitherto unconsidered,
unthought, unspoken
She rakes the dirt for language
that is inimitable and rare
Fighting her way out of
prosaic platitudes
Searching deliriously for
a sharp-edged jolt of ingenuity
that will
awaken and inflame
In this great pursuit of something
clever
to say,
she overcompensates,
birthing a few stanzas
of exaggerated hogwash that inspires
more dismay than satisfaction
Out the window
her poem goes
A little crumpled ball of melodrama
and stale cliché
Then the poet sits in silence
smoldering with displeasure
wanting nothing more than
to finally write something that
works
It is when, radiant with disappointment,
she relinquishes her fantasy of excellence
that the true
poem begins
With rosy wings and
eyes like screaming bullets
it sails forth to proclaim
to declare
to profess without apology
or contrition
the wildest truths of her
soul
It is out of this realm of
deflation and defeat that
true originality is bred
Just a murmur at first, just a glint,
but listen, listen as
it swells into an exquisite roar
and watch,
watch as it rises from
the decay of the past
to flare
in a new light
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 8:36 AM UTC
There is a brisk discountenance
in an angry Mother's Moon
for their bespoke Sons onwards,
they snap their beaks,
pea size humanity,
resurface buried adrenaline
from hockey days,
inwardly angry at their profligate fertility.
Its enough to de merit the spirit,
then store
a prosaic promise
that when older
their *** is marked for attention,
a discourteous tail chasing.
A mark of a indoctrinated Son.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 9:00 AM UTC
'Poetry is for emos!'
screamed a prosaic once
Don't worry,
he's dead now
I shot him with my gun
which is made from words
'Poetry is for the beautiful minds'
Someone once said
'No, silly! Poetry is for the scarred soul'
replied a maiden
'Poetry is for people like me!'
screamed Mr.R
'No happiness but chests filled with money!'
'Poetry is my hobby.'
said a future entrepreneur
'Poetry is for the one dealing with loss'
said the scientist
'I don't care about poetry, How often do you floss?'
said my dentist.
'Poetry is dumb.'
said the misanthrope
'Poetry makes me think about him'
said the victim of infatuation
I cleared my throat and spoke to clear the confusion
'*You're wrong to say poetry ain't fun
poetry is for everyone*'
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
Providence summons
Natures purchase,
Beyond prosaic
Utility, toward
Communion.
Austere terrain,
Ice crystal, Dust –
covered
Haunt.
Divine disclosure,
Epiphany;
Ourselves -
Carnal cisterns of spirit
Enfleshed
Skin; merging
Luminous,
Savouring,
Design
Ordered by love.
©2012 W.S. Warner
Aug 5, 2012
Aug 5, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
Toothaches in the early morning,
a bitter kiss that woke me up.
Toothaches trees in the garden,
I rely on Rose's but she refuses.
so many blackberries and apples on the street
I'm waiting for the next mangoes.
Prosaic, sometimes i wonder the need for
education if i will still follow the ethics of
my grandfather, without remodeling it to
suit my time.
But, when I look pass it i see Lavender
The death tolls have risen
three to four lost to bombing each day
I still see Lavender.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC