"provocations" poems
~~PASSIVE PASSION~~
Endures & Binds,
when
Provocations Looseth the Soul.
How
Submissive & Impulsive,
Yet so Very
Paradoxical a Paranoid !
~~RUSTED TRUST~~
Forges & Sharpens,
when
Life's Brunts Maketh the Soul.
How
Ironic & Caustic,
Yet so Very
Powerful a Predominance !
~~VANQUISHED VANITY~~
Fosters & Transcends,
when
Identity Forageth the Soul.
How
Narcissistic & Intransitive,
Yet so Very
Surreal a Sacrifice !
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 9:59 AM UTC
there is no value in a poem that reads
____________________
____________________
____________________
M M l i f e s u c k s x x x n o p o e m i g o t
just
nerve; crap bs, a denial of craft
seek the intelligent intelligible,
kiss the sensational thrill that
emotion harvests with resonating tenses
that beg our brains to differ, sense
this claims,
there is no value in no words is
a hoax cloaked as art by the weak,
make thy metaphors metastasize,
my every cell, a preposition,
preposterous and precious and
comforting in their
privations and provocations
speak to us in alpha and
line our eyes wide,
with pictures at an exhibition
of a faun immobile and beauteous
let me hang on every word of yours and
let it be the raft that sees me happily
unsafe home
take your bs line poem
shove it down your silent voice
this is not avant garde; this is insulting
p.s. write me a smile and all will be_______________.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
Against the saturated
Horizon of dawn,
Loitering in the dark timbre
Of emerging consciousness -
Dissipating somnolence
And preemptive despair,
Tacitly adumbrate the
Yawning abyss.
Chastened by the cunning and
Lubricious nihilism,
Igniting fermented provocations,
Silent subterfuge; death,
By mirth - the inane;
Lament of the mundane.
Fallow paradigms, accretions of
The last gasp -
Evaporating empty liturgies
Of suspicion;
Charity and equanimity -
Lost in confinement,
Triumphant avarice bearing
Descendants
Of intransigence;
Wielding imperious
Schemes of orthodoxy.
Pollard fragments of
Silken tapestry,
Miasma draped depression
Abridging;
Conversely,
Permuted flurries of anxiety
Dislodge
The vestiges of meaning
That abide
In brazen equivocation.
Tributaries of dogma reach
Their confluence,
Watershed moment,
Numinous effusion
Streams naked epiphany,
The precarious vision -
A gesture of providence,
Certainty and contingency;
Gratuitously derivative, life
Equals choice.
Verdant branches of intention;
And opportunity the vine,
Live forward -
The pen, my voice,
Piquant conduit pouring,
Exuberant wine.
Footprints found in givenness
Underline,
Penumbrae of my soul;
Mirrored silhouettes,
Thoughts and words engender;
And in verse adorn
Fecund soil, Line after line,
The cosmos altered,
Continuum of permanence -
Artist’s art articulating
Essence of my imagination,
I proliferate, I design
Phrases unique,
Participation mystique.
Words creating world,
The apparatus of infinity
Heidegger, ontologically precise,
Language -
The house of Being,
Ineffable, Promethean
Literary devise -
Envisioning possibility,
And abundance to allow,
I occur
Inhabit
Manifest
Future phenomena
Experienced as now.
©2008 & ©2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 2:02 PM UTC
Can we call it freedom if it divides?
Is it correct to ridicule revered name?
Was that in defence of freedom?
Or was that for easy money and fame?
They went on with their provocations;
And justified it with arguments lame.
Numerous hearts were agonised.
But few turned wild, difficult to tame.
Extreme provocations and insults.
In the name of ' Freedom of speech'
Extreme response and harshest reply.
To avenge the insult and to teach.
When one's ' Freedom of Expression ';
Gives one the ' Freedom to insult '.
Hatred and dissension are promoted;
And can lead to horrifying result.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 1:29 PM UTC
Countless series of melancholic oceans
Hitting through waves of adversity
Only to be repulsed by provocations
Disjointed affections falls effortlessly
With no such contemporary feelings
Choked amongst the walls of solitary
Praying silently for a better ending
A hopeless romantic it seems evidently
Voyaging away from the sufferings
Patching holes of memories
Rekindling fire from breathing
Dreams torn away in fantasies
Sober desires creates a lustful reality
Shone away ignoring a truthful beginning
Nothing can hold us against this treachery
Forsaken our love has left me begging
©2014 Maman Screams
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
Eyes switching gazes from right to left pupil. Stories held in thin air for a moment in the space between retinas. Words acting as weapons of mass destruction, hanging in the air becoming stale with every inch as each syllable rises into the atmosphere. Forever echoing in the ears of the listener, penetrating thoughts, clouding the brain, like toxic waste. Encouraging words must be found, they must be said. Dreams, inspiration. Into the minds of the growing, the moving, the future. holding the destiny of this world in small, and innocent hands, and wide eyes. Those eyes are the windows to the next generation and the key to the next miracle the universe begs for. Opening windows, and locking front doors, let’s pretend for a second that time is stoppable, moments aren’t lost, and people live forever.
Results aren’t final unless you ask them to be. Things happen we aren’t sure of, flashbacks your days dream. Having doubts that fill our minds wading through the nerves through the brain stem to the core of the cores of the armor. I can talk to my 13 year old self, and tell him that I understand, and that we’re still the same person, I’m just the shell. I can tell him everything I want. But he’s already lived.
In the mirror, switching gazes from iris to pupil. Lungs collapse as the phrases land on the younger heart of mine. Phrases consisting of the negatives, the outcomes, the results, the roots, the stories, the endings, the beginnings, the alterations, the alternations, the provocations, the imagination. Phrases meant to tear down, not rebuild. The destiny of the world held in small hands, clutched by small fingers, as the quotations waft through rooms. The rooms where they escaped ***** angry, and ignorant mouths. The miracle stares at the reflection, not knowing the necessity of the universe. Closing windows, opening doors, wishing the hands on the clocks of life can stop.
Encouraging words must be found, they must be said.
Let’s write history with the minds of the growing, the moving,
the future.
Nurture.
vi.xxi.xi
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 6:24 AM UTC
“writing is a minefield of life happenings…blessed be the seers
for they keep the faith.”
patty m
<!>
life is a series of provocations and evocations,
I will indulge you and define them
as hundreds of micro aggressions,
or a combinatory,
minefield
which comes first,
the explosions or the writings?
chicken, egg, cart, horse,
surely your surly certain of the answer,
but I will not beg
but differ
the itch, the need, the urge, ignited
by the fuse of arrogance of a devastation of self esteem,
or the aches of breaks
of your severed body parts
are
uniquely yours,
requiring explication, repair by the surgery of your own
words shared.
searing unique pain,
makes you confident enough
steering you into becoming a seer.
May 6, 2023
May 6, 2023 at 3:31 PM UTC
follow the yellow brick road...
The terrible freedom unleashed by typewriters.
Condition of complexity judged without criteria.
Radical provocations. Urinals and prams. Contingent.
Anarchist aesthetic. Not truth nor beauty but freedom.
Materiality of language. Multi-hued wheel barrows.
A cuttlefish. A crate. A cassowary. A cigarette. A ******
Paratactic order. Particular phrasing. Pulsing pastiche.
An infinite conversation without resolution
as with the stupid friend who won’t shut up. Ever.
A transcendent dialectic based solely on proximity.
Ineluctable modality of the near. Only that. Buck it.
An unquiet ghost endlessly self-questioning. No answers.
Moaning in the meaning. A simple stuttering. Sibilant.
Turbulent and unpredictable as waddling wolverines.
Words that only mean whatever is seen. Juxtaposition.
Dissolving into desired dissonance. The magic chord.
Absolute verity in the experience of the fraudulent
for the same reason as the ubiquity of toothpaste.
The poem as its own universe, complete and whole,
fodder for the mind, not balm for the soul.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
*His heart misses beats
the moment
that fragile butterfly
sits on it and her legs
tickle the tender
membranes covering
arteries and veins
causing the blood bubble
like never before.
The heart so passionate,
forgets in its eagerness,
that it belongs to a beast,
answers back in an invented
language, somehow butterflies
seems to understand so well.
Now the wild beast's heartbeat
gets synchronized with
the beat of butterfly's wings
what white magic is this?
He becomes amazingly light
the butterfly's consort now sees light
in crazy iridescent colors
jubilant like a victor, he flies up
every time, she wants to
touch a cloud,
catch a falling star
or race with a bird, for fun
every one loudly wonders how
the beast that only roared and growled
sprung at the world,
at the slightest of provocations
was bridled and contained
by the chit of a beauty riot.
Oh! I can tell
the beast mostly was an apparition
its dead, or if you can believe
beaten to death by two colorful wings
another wonder of love, it is
won't be resurrected again,
if not, the butterfly would disappear
in the thick woods in efflorescence.*
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
*I've cut our connections
and burnt my poor illusions
and tempting provocations
like eternal frustrations
for such hopeless situations
gave me a lot of delusions
and lessened reservations
to hide my expectations
and lamest inhibition
like a huge botheration
to one whose intentions
has faded into oblivion
and nasty desolation.*
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 12:56 AM UTC
I BRIGHTEN YOUR NIGHTS
I PROVIDE CLARITY
YOUR NIGHTS,YOUR PAIN
THE TORTURE AND THE STAIN
I ELIMINATE YOUR PROVOCATIONS
I SEIZE YOUR SHIELD OF TORMENT
YOUR FANTASIES I GIVE A CHANCE
PUSH TO FORE YOUR UNIQUENESS
MY EXISTENCE SIGNALS HOPE
THAT I AM HERE,YOU ALL WILL COPE
MY PATH,MY LIFE MANY WILL FOLLOW
I AM A SIGN OF BETTER TOMMOROW
I AM THE LIGHT SENT FROM ABOVE
TIMES WILL PASS.MANY WILL GO
MY AFTERMATH WILL CARRY ITS GLOW
THAT I WAS HERE,MANY WILL KNOW
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 8:02 PM UTC
it stopped raining after
some long hour had passed
the rain had simply faded like
shawled figure moving through the afterlife
just the signature of presence evaporating into the still air
like the quiet thunder of a doves wings in the evening shadow
a sense of walking the day down through its years
a child at dawn full of promise and wonder
a man full of strife and the heat of passions at noon
an old man gasping by the witching hour
see the day walk its life to the tomb
before the grand spectacle of night has finished
and the very damp ground was littered with leaves
pulled from their high towers and cast down by
the winds strong hand
dirt in clinging clumps decorate the once
vividly clean surface of her lawn chairs
she pecks at the debris with a rapid motion
wipe away the inglorious world with
her chatter is subtle but not unfriendly
as she offers tea
the long hour passes
as we instilled with small conversation watch
the overcast slowly dissipates
like her charm
it is fleeting
she at last asks about your day
with hands folded in her lap like two neat doves
fearfully waiting to fly in panic at such slight provocations
the rain left its signature on my life
both beauty and troubled thoughts gather beneath its wet canopy
all reach life in the waters of the world
all rise from child and fall to tomb
like rain falls back to the earth which birthed it
we all return to the soil
thick and rich loam full of the savaged remains of the fallen
and the seeds of the yet unborn
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
****** *******
Verily, thou art.
If thine own charms woulds't not deliquesce my pow'rs,
mayhaps my quill
woulds't obey my
commands...
Yet ~ evermore ~ am I slave
to thy smirks
and provocations
...both vexations to me.
I turn 'round,
but come back
time again.
(Provoking my ire.)
Thou
knave.
Rogue.
****** *******
Thou've been a naughty swain.
Get thee to my rooms.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
At the drop of a pin
Changing faces discover flashing lights
And Sadness is dressed by a whirlwind.
In the aftermath Sincerity cuts through lies.
Holding their breath waiting for permission to remain
Angels standing at clouds’ edge cry quietly
As fierce tensions rock the world’s foundation.
So it is for the man who looks in a mirror
Only to see himself crawling under stars
Doing a costly disappearing act.
As a bow strikes a violin so I find your heart beating
Near strangers sitting beside the last sacrifice
An immense road separating fear from truth.
Constantly looking back at an everlasting darkness
Scripture unfolds in my mind
As tears flow step by step through a circle of uncertainties.
As provocations capture my senses
As velvet rises from my pillow
As a baby’s cry ascends Mount Everest
I want so much to hold you one last time.
I remember arithmetic transgressions of lust
A blink becoming a wink
And solicitation becoming pain coursing through my veins.
Even now the acquaintance of our shadows
Seeks the moonlight of Venus’ deceptive smile.
Truly our first kiss
Was a picture worth a thousand words
Hearts pounding
Desolations waiting
Lips setting traps for waking naïve souls...
Rony Joseph All Rights Reserved 2010
Edited by Tamerlane 2010
Mar 15, 2010
Mar 15, 2010 at 2:35 AM UTC
~~~
I do not have a poem
at the ready,
at my fingertips,
ready, willing and able,
instant provision,
*yet, in the fingertips, yes,
is red ink, warming,*
waiting for the
sounding,
your tap tap tapping calling
of once-more
I do not have a poem
sited upon my lips,
in sweet patient stasis
awaiting
your requesting kiss,
*yet, deep hid within my throat,
are universes of words,*
ready for assembly,
immediate delivery,
needy for the signaling of
your endearing
provocations
I do not have a poem
stored in the heart's ventricles,
in cavitation, ready to bubble upwards,
ready to travel the veins,
provide art to the arteries,
encamping in the capillaries,
*yet, come stoke my steel furnace,
melt molten its contents for the removal of*
the irregularities of,
enduring love,
leave the glowing rawness of
glory passionate and gift abiding,
songs of felicitous contentment
I do not have a poem
upon my person,
easy to come,
easy released,
signaling its lanterned
mode of arrival,
one if by voice,
two if by hand,
*yet, this poem,
is my legal tender for you,
come purchase your poem
from the cells of my tissue*
spend it wisely,
for everything is beautiful
but delimited,
in its own way
when thy body needs to survive,
this body rises to connive,
this body to provide,
words of relief,
of soul solution,
in words precise,
particular,
designed medicine
designated for thy spirit
all you need supply,
the need,
and perhaps,
a bit of editing
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 1:58 PM UTC
Remark, pageant, how well this worn Cartesian speaks silence instead of wit.
Crucify maybe and often; singsong prattle succumbs him you.
Torturified lamb’s breath, teensy sighs and sweep of tentacled agog garners attention and wildfire – hop and home to not attend, to see.
Brandish magma wake and crystal cleanse re-barb, vicious cycle in heat patterned pro-guiro neural network, neat, loud for senses laden.
Up them and through them.
Scent the seeks you stones in barb, a fence in white a guttered prose, slitherentine.
Stately made his gatekeep - defend you. Harbor outwards with willpower nonchalant.
Pardon his with provocations, decadent don’t they know. (You know you, don’t they?)
And then.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
It is in no way a coincidence that those who walk the path of a wandering soul will soon discover that their world does have its boundaries. They will one day stumble upon a definitive edge, a real place where space and time transcend one another to form a mere glimpse into the chronicles of eternity. For the wanderer, this slightest and most sacred instance is to become the reason for their restless instinct. Until the occurrence of this moment those of us who journeyed into the void of ceaseless unknowing that bears the title earth, have simply their raw gut to motivate a then objective-less pursuit. The frightening intimation of the young wanderer is nothing less than this pivotal fact. A kind of blind faith is required in all facets of existence however; it becomes a more literal and even physical leap for one to uproot themselves just to cast their entire worth into this most often vague idea.
For many months I was this young wanderer. A boy whom by the heal of his crooked step tripped into the life he only could hope awaited him. I cannot account for the reasons I left behind my past life. They, like most things have morphed into meager provocations when held again in the proper light. In the end it was my wide-eyed ambition and shear innocence that drove me from my home. That is reason sound enough when one is confronted by the crushing boldness of the wanderer’s theory. It is as if once the directness of this idea enters the well kempt garden of any youth’s consciousness a simple question becomes apparent. Will you heed this call or shall you forever wonder what this life may have held?
I shutter still when my mind should tarry once more to those long buried thoughts, back to the days of my constant and tepid self-reflections. I was so young and was that even long ago? This wandering life does change a man; it may even create the man.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:24 PM UTC
Hollow are my eyes
on cold October mornings
bare and waiting to collapse
at the slightest of provocations
Hollow grows my heart
in the dead of winters night
withered and longing for life
to be poured into it once again
But no matter how hollow or bare or tattered
whether the sun has risen or the moon has sprung
as long as there's blood left in my veins, I know
he'll always be there to make me feel whole
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 9:10 AM UTC
My eyes switching gazes from right to left pupil. Her words hover in thin air for a moment in the space between retinas. I'm losing my breath. So I write like read and tell. Forever echoing in the ears of the listener, penetrating thoughts, clouding the brain. An idea to entertain, remember and maintain.
The negatives, the outcomes, the results, the roots, the stories, the endings, the beginnings, the alterations, the alternations, the provocations, the imagination, the first, and the final destination.
She is the sound, the music we each hear through our ears, she is when the storm ends: the sky naked, clear.
She takes less than a second to smile in the moment. Unknown to Being my inspiration's main component.
Constantly unaware of the silver on her shadow's lining.
As bright as the midnight sun stays shining.
Perfect timing.
iii.xvii.xii
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 6:45 AM UTC
We are masters, not slaves,
not even to our brains.
All until the empire caved through mental anguish,
and the terror-filled thought first entered humankind mind,
you have been the enslaved, not the master.
Mentally losing control in all believed,
through streamlining a connective world and thought,
it seems we've all been deceived.
No single stream is achieved,
Not every imaginative wish was truly dreamed,
communication is a constant drowning without an esteemed regal theme team.
No matter if too much or too little,
our mind enters new lands from false provocations from foolish and progressive new minds.
Youth and old somehow learning intellectual finds,
understanding emotions is the mojo in the potion.
We're all the same kinds, same minds, race with color blinds.
Often though, no hope to cope,
no sign of mental help in poverty folks anywhere in sight,
we just stare at the moonlight,
praying for a wealthy snakebite.
Distraction from your inner-gleaming.
Don't think, let thoughts flow like a calm stream,
as inevitable chaos ensues with persistence in the mind,
the normal overwhelming of the mind,
you realize that we have made
a flawless design.
Yet, with one door open behind,
a coup to unwind.
Only the owner of their mind has the full power to control, cope, and turn the tide.
Those types of people who understand that there are inevitable downsides,
but view them simply as realities benign.
Viewed as a part of the intellectual process and our life ride.
,
Annihilate your ego, and let emotion become your bride,
spark the fire and light inside a pure soul filled with love and empathy.
Understand the Jekyll and Hyde hiding inside the mind will never disappear or fully hide,
yet fight and become no longer terrified,
only mesmerized.
The truth is clear and here,
no more anxiety, worry, fear, just....here.
You drift and physically drop down in pure peace,
understanding you've just completed a mental masterpiece.
Full with a new sensation of content masterfully mixed with enlightenment,
thus, begins the personal journey,
a subjective mental exploration of a new frontier.
Aug 14, 2020
Aug 14, 2020 at 3:27 AM UTC
~for the co conspirators, they know who they are, them
foreign poets~
write in solitudes,
provocations arriving from within and without,
the hot magma melting internally,
the sting of red scars from arriving cold asteroid hits
all I’ve got to do is faithfully transcribe
the knife fights, the not OK corral fights,
the trailing comets passing-laughing their tales off
at the black hole idiot
who said writing poetry is
easy peasy
of course making it easy,
no issue no problem,
just by picking up those
peasy pieces
of leftover me
11:48pm 4-4-2019
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 12:08 AM UTC
I'd like to talk electricity,
chemicals,
living better through
I take medication
and when I don't
I feel
effortlessly
lost
thoreau would be so proud
I cry at provocations
that I would sneer at
in better days
waiting for better days
I can imagine them coming
warm and sweet
sunny fall days
nippy but still safe
even winter seems like
it could be all right
in better days
but they aren't here yet
I want to burn myself on them
push myself nearer their fire
than I can stand
I cannot bear to run away
the ink runs off my maps
staining my fingers
till everything tastes bitter
trying to redraw in charcoal
the places I know must be there
but all the familiar landmarks
are dragons now
and even when I do
even when I remember
and I even eat
and sleep
like I did when I was
ok
years ago, in a country I can't find
now
that might never have been there in the first place
even then
I'm maybe not drowning
but the air quality
is a little suspect
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
you will always be on my mind
you will always be every one of my thoughts
you will always be what i have been looking for
you will always be someone i never want to let go
i want you to be happy
to find peace within your soul
to realise we can have it all
to come back to me
i am thankful for meeting you two and a half years ago
for every precious moment we had had
for your smile, laughter and provocations
for every virtue and every flaw of yours
i pray for you every night and day
for you to be content with yourself
for you to find what you are looking for
for you to realise you are worth all of this pain i feel for you
you will always be the one who changed me.
i want you to be the one who will change me once again.
i am thankful for you who succeeded to change me.
i pray for you to be the one who will change for me.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 9:49 AM UTC
I'm so sick of not having the words to describe how I feel anymore.
The smallest of provocations makes me cry, sometimes as soon as I lay down the tears start flowing and I can't ever stop them before I text a friend, or my boyfriend.
My boyfriend, who treats me as if my feelings are dumb, though he swears he doesn't mean to.
They reply with "what's wrong" and
I can't give them an answer
My best friend says it's OK,
My boyfriend sends a confused face.
And time and time again I apologize for not knowing what's wrong, for inconveniencing them with my feelings, but saying this makes me feel even more helpless.
I can't even tell the truth to myself anymore.
I'm lying in my bed crying for no reason.
Help me please
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 7:20 PM UTC
Desires'll end someday
Demand'll expire too
Dreams would evaporate
Destiny " achieved
All doors will closed
Except one
That door'll bring us
To our actual destiny
To the feet of the Supreme God
Actually,we all're destined to that place
Just misguided by the materialistic provocations
After all,err is to human-Written on 20.09.2012
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC