"raconteur" poems
I picked up flowers in my garden before first days of autumn, dried to save them from black magic of winter and cold breaths of sky. I put them between warm rays on my windowsills in arms of cozy home to bring spirit of life forever in their bones. I saved compositions of their scent on my lips, so you will feel endless, enigmatic, healing symphony in my kiss. I will leave sweet taste in your mouth little by little until dark mirror of your thoughts and wounds break into innocent fields of flowers full of butterflies and indispensable, clear-eyed raconteur of happiness speaking in every fragile petal silences your fleeting and long-lasting demons endowing your shadow with seductive light, tiredness with aliveness of grass, broken dreams with ubiquity of creation, fears with ineffable tranquility. This is how I love you. I will save you from the worst. I will never let you die inside no matter how cold are your days. I will fill your soul with air of metaphysical love of past eras and magic of innumerable, free-flowing joys not based on any circumstances. I will fill your thoughts with romantic myths and insatiable fantasies and old-fashioned poems. I will cover you to sleep with my dragonfly soul no matter how cold life could be.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 4:13 PM UTC
Magical cauldron apomixes connoisseur
Cephalic phantasmagoria entity obliquitous
Mystical conjurous conjugal entrepreneur
Fantasia fantastication phantasm obsequious
Amorously arduous ardent raconteur
Ephemeral translucent opulence ubiquitous
Vanity sanctimonium temerities saboteur
Intrepid verve’s intriguingly iniquitous
Sorcerous sabbatical apothegms chauffeur
Endemic veracities fortuitous elicitous
Futurity fatidics fornication kithe
Ephemeral metaphor semantics flaunts
Empirical emulation scenarios blithe
Subjunctive subliminal nostalgias haunts
Agile articulation acuities lithe
Analogizing corroborative prolificacy daunts
Alacritous tactile manipulations writhe
Numinous syntactical paradigm *****
Emanate imminent perdition tithe
Orotund jaded seal ordinand jaunts
Overt convection coercions chiaroscuro tempestuous
Apex crux axis ****** matrix torrid
Manifest objectified enamorous interstice lecherous
Spurt binge spree ***** protuberance squalid
endearingly engendering amore
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
Magical cauldron apomixes connoisseur
Cephalic phantasmagoria entity obliquitous
Mystical conjurous conjugal entrepreneur
Fantasia fantastication phantasm obsequious
Amorously arduous ardent raconteur
Ephemeral translucent opulence ubiquitous
Vanity sanctimonium temerities saboteur
Intrepid verve’s intriguingly iniquitous
Sorcerous sabbatness apothegms chauffeur
Endemic veracities fortuitous elicitous
Futurity fatidic's fornication kithe
Ephemeral metaphor semantics flaunts
Empirical emulation scenarios blithe
Subjunctive subliminal nostalgias haunts
Agile articulation acuities lithe
Analogizing corroborative prolificacy daunts
Alacritous tactile manipulations writhe
Numinous syntactical paradigm *****
Emanate imminent perdition tithe
Orotund jaded seal ordinand jaunts
Overt convection coercions chiaroscuro tempestuous
Apex crux axis ****** matrix torrid
Manifest objectified enamorous interstice lecherous
Spurt binge spree ***** protuberance squalid
endearingly engendering amore
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
It's funny how I always think of you,
as my sanctuary, someone I can run back to,
and tell that "I love you,"
But all there is a wonderful raconteur
that filled you with alluring words and beauty
All you are is a piece of art;
an illustration of imagination
I am head over heels for you
despite knowing how troublesome;
it is to me
In the end, all I can say--is that;
"She is my Wonderwall,"
Apr 20, 2021
Apr 20, 2021 at 8:57 PM UTC
It becomes exhausting to come up with some ******** statement to intrigue thee. I'm not the everyday "raconteur" of great stories or jolly experiences. To be honest with each and every individual I meet about the struggles I face would take the courage I don't have. So I avoid the situation all together.
What does it mean to **** at adulting?
The question I despise the most upon meeting relatives or friends of family is...
"So what are your future plans?" i.e. (What are your accomplishments that will delight me? What are your goals? How much money are you making out of this?) I agree in which it's quite a bold matter to address, but the question ***** the life RIGHT out of childhood.
*That's when I know I **** at adulting.*
I repulse the means to grow up and get my **** together. Some would characterize it as extreme laziness, carelessness or even stupidity. But most times I feel as though if you don't understand the challenges I face, you wouldn't understand my dilemma.
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 8:43 PM UTC
Convent detour
Covenant deviance
Context raconteur
Sterilized meat threads
Over deviled straight legs
Sharks breath beast head
Maximize....
Left alone - best unsaid
maybe off better spread
way out
O--- Rrr - way dead
Casually
concave bird chest,
shock waved cheap threats,
threadbare leaflets,
Modern day
Old hex
Big space and cavity baking ovens full of clutter extended hand and logic tempest temporarily teetered toward a soft chair and ice cold vanity savaged manually...
Or,
Womanually,
for that matter
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
You mad genius, Hep cat with the small change jinglin’ in your pocket and razorblade at your throat
Jagged gravel voice crooning love songs about the Apocalypse and the gritty city streets
Crazy angel talking to God and dealing with the devil; raconteur to both
Dig that broken glass cry deep down inside rising out of your ragged mouth
Piano playing jazz, muddy beatbox boomin’, guitar wailin’ in the back alley
Car alarms and the thump thrump thump of the bass, city life and high nights
Crank up the noise and blow that sax, got Ol’ Scratch on your back and death hitchin’ a ride
Ya gotta keep the fire burnin’ ‘til the snake oil salesman slither on home to his whiskey bottle
Lyin’ with your dreams on, just keep playing that late night street corner diner song ‘til I’m gone
‘Til I’m dead, far, and gone
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 7:13 AM UTC
Sara L Russell
Bright colours in a pool of crystal clarity
reflecting all the spectrum of our days
slip down into a quagmire of nonentity
with nothing left to sully or erase.
This cold disease that strips a man of human soul,
is worst of all the ravages of time;
behold those eyes, devoid of everything you stole,
yet blissfully unknowing of your crime.
This bright man, worn away to barest minimum,
this one-time writer and great raconteur,
this poet - will not travel to Byzantium;
his world is fading to a senseless blur.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
Sibylline is my palimpsest,
Immured in prosody,
I am a lascivious raconteur,
Bedizened with fecundity.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 12:33 PM UTC
Forever and ever and ever
my mind my raconteur
holds trust in indecision
and wastes another year
As in youth immortal
oblivious to life's change
I squander all my arrows
on targets out of range
There and there and there
opportunity taunts the soul
while here I stand unmoved
as time takes its toll
And soon out of pocket
a life frayed at the seam
as this man in the shadow
feigns the primal scream.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 2:36 PM UTC
For Beep & Sue Robinson, Foreman, Victoria Park Tunnel
Auntie Elaine Kingii
Died last night in her sleep,
Ninety years of age
Keeping secrets she would keep.
Last night she passed away
In her tiny single bed,
At the Onehunga rest home
Where she finally laid her head.
Auntie Elaine Kingii
Lived her long life on the street
Helping other vagrants
Find a kinder place to sleep,
Helping other street kids
With the hassles of their day,
Sharing a quick cigarette
Or a dryer place to stay.
Auntie Elaine Kingii
In her ninety years of life
Had eighteen babies born to her
From sailors , waifs and like.
Eighteen babies born to her
Beneath the Grafton bridge,
Each with unknown fathers
Or a family heritage.
Auntie Elaine Kingie
As a girl danced out of class
Where the morning sunshine sparkled
On the crystal dew, clad grass,
And her green eyes shone with lustre
In her joy of dancing free,
Whilst the street kids stood in cluster
Quite entranced by what they see.
Auntie Elaine Kingii
With her eyes of emerald green
Lived her days among the lost souls
Of the City Mission scene.
Life amongst free spirits
Was a chosen path for her
Shunning organised prosperity
With a structured raconteur.
Auntie Elaine Kingii
With her eyes of emerald glass
Chose to die the way she lived
Quite serenely with her class.
Happy with the company
Of whom she would befriend
In the park surrounds of Auckland city’s
Busy people blend.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
21 June 2011
Jun 20, 2011
Jun 20, 2011 at 4:44 PM UTC
The storyteller
Raconteur
My young life
You tell me
Is a gift, and when I come of age
I will understand
Yet he tells me not to worry
To run in forests
To kiss women
To drink and be merry
This world is so full of malice
One more child
Lost in fantasy cannot hurt it
As I grew I realized
My friends still run in forests
Kiss women
Drink and be merry
But this world is not all malice
Although sometimes it is unkind
Finally I have found the hidden meaning
The long lost
Men have strived for years to see it
Scientist Heroes Titans
But I found it one day
some old summer day
when the sun rays woke me up
-dancing from the blinds-
on the skin of your naked back they danced
so I wrapped my arms around you
and I fell back to sleep
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 3:16 AM UTC
there is no worse folly
a raconteur can make than
the forgotten pen
or utensil
acrylic or stick in dirt - so be it
the dwarf ignored
the arbitrary sidekick
the austere tool
the maker of magic (also known as,
history, as
recorded by big, bad meatsacks
and sometimes hungry sheep luxuriously garbed as
wolves)
who/what/when/where/why
never/stop/asking/questions
my deity, the earth said
no one is right in this world
we tells it hows we sees it
i reject your reality, you undo mine
with a simple twist of your mouth-muscle
who's to say who has a say
I say, no one not one none of us.
I say, keep writing bards.
the world's a desolate & treacherous stage
the world's a blank & ***** canvas
the world's not so much an open book,
as it is an open cave with mysteries deeper
than ocean depths.
I say, keep writing bards.
swim through the carpal tunnels,
the holy grail lies somewhere down there,
it looks and acts like an ink well.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC
Raconteur we all are
Narrating our anecdotes
Not many willing audience
You keep them close to your heart
Maybe one day someone will listen
Peering at your beautiful heart
A traveler with compassion
Willing to walk with you
Noting down every detail
Weaving a story of togetherness
Bonding over the stories
The raconteur
Will have finally met another
Sharing life’s anecdotes
Embracing every event
And celebrating together
Come what may
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
The butterflies in my tummy, the weakness in my knees
The awe in my eyes and those dreams within me
How I forgot everything else the moment I stepped in
The sight of those packed stands, the noise so deafening.
The 22-yard brown land bathing in bright sunshine
In the midst of a lush green field, the view, so divine
The smell of soil, the mighty Tri-colour conversing with sky
The breeze was a raconteur and history was alive.
I set my foot on the ground and felt the rush of passion
I experienced the beauty I had seen in my imagination.
Those men – my idols, my inspiration to reach there,
Stood on the same land, breathed the same air
The wide eyed fan was taking over, emotions ran amuck
But the professional inside prevailed. It was hard work, not luck.
There was chaos behind that forced straight face
Nervous energy boiling inside which no one could trace
But when first words were exchanged with a childhood hero
The eyes widened, knees shivered, all efforts resulted in zero.
My first interview was full of fumbles but I’ll cherish it all along
That first smile from my idol – It’s worthy of a lovely song.
When the sun went down on that blessed day of dream
The feeling sunk in – I was right there with My Team!
The eyes sparkled with tears that rolled down to the zipped lips
That feeling of being alive, the bliss – nothing can ever eclipse.
Now I sit under the dark night, searching for that guiding star
How I wish it takes me back to where I belong – the world that now seems so far!
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 2:31 AM UTC
A gentle vision, that,
The girl who stabbed me with a stiletto-
Half lucid entangle, enforced, but not pleaded,
Such expense at the offer of a lude game conceded.
Tense hours wandering, unlaundered and restless,
to the ripe desert fruit, found snared and defenseless;
felled by the brute who enforced vanity.
The frigid and harmless might stand to agree.
Now rigid in darkness, at the face of your palm-
two islands are bridged. Awaken embalmed!
Silence, abridged like the unclaimed draw sweat
splattered in the fallout of our budding duet.
A matter, devout; raconteur be concise.
But no pestilent drawrings of a frail soul suffice.
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 3:07 AM UTC
Ahh, shady lady says she’s shy
And insecure
As it were,
I say sure,
Sure, she’s a bit demure,
But that’s only part
Of her
Allure,
I too am shy and raconteur.
Ahh, I always worry
Cuz faces are blurry
I never remember the names;
I hide behind a graffiti covered wall
Standing tall
Feeling small
I guess I’m just part of the games
People play
All day, they
Deep freeze you,
Mess with you, then
Bless You when
You sneeze,
Ahh, get down on your knees
Please, and
Beg for mercy
Beg for pain,
Scarecrow needs a brain,
I’m begging cuz I got nothing to gain
Ahh, let me explain,
Nothing to gain, nothing to lose
Wouldn’t refuse,
A new pair of shoes
Mine are old,
Have a hole in the toe
The laces are broke
And tied in a knot,
What you got,
In your store,
You can give to the poor?
Or for a switch,
You can give to the rich,
Ahh, relax,
They pay the tax,
But, I ain’t no Robin Hood, or
William Tell, whose
Overture to the pits of Hell,
Didn’t sell,
Until he licensed it to the Lone Ranger,
Hi ** Silver, ask a stranger
If it takes a silver bullet,
To **** the wicked witch,
*****
Lies underneath the house,
Curling toes and ruby slippers,
Dreaming of all the zippers
She unzipped, then walked away,
Ahh, it’s a brand new day.
So if the IRS calls
Tell ‘em I’m dead
Or went to bed
I’ll sleep it off till noon,
Now you got the name of this tune
I’m howlin’ at the moon!
I’m crazy as a loon,
See you soon.
See you soon,
See ya,
Soon,
I’m leavin’ in a hot air balloon,
Ahh, there’s no place like home.
Or Rome,
If you get the chance
To dance,
With the Pope,
Or if you want to see the lions
In the Coliseum,
You can see’em,
Having lunch,
Captain Crunch,
The Tin Man needs a heart,
Tear me up,
Tear me apart,
Ahh, you were all there,
You, and You, and You,
For certain,
You were all behind the curtain,
Ahh, MGM,
And the lion roars,
The End
Phil Lindsey 1/13/17
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 8:52 PM UTC
Snowfall gently covered Belleville
in a blanket of softest down –
iridescent in the gaslight coronas.
A carriage pulled up at City Park Hall where
the coachman took white-gloved hands
and eased the ladies gently down the steps.
Some paused to pat the horses
in thanksgiving for the lift.
Top - hatted men offered arms to their wives,
escorting them up the snowy stairs
and into the buzzing lobby.
Trays of wine circled the room -
their cargo reduced at every stop.
Each raconteur spoke of celebration for the
Philharmonic had turned a decade old that week.
Programs in hand, people claimed their seats
while musicians on stage
practiced random admixtures of
excerpts that would come to order soon.
Then by the light of gas chandeliers,
Julius Liese raised his arms and brought
Haydn’s symphonic London to Illinois -
a citizen orchestra led by the local lumber czar.
After the final echoes melted into applause
and coats were lifted over shoulders;
the time had come for the waiting carriages -
snow still swirling in the gaslight glow.
The clopping of hooves on cobblestone
drifted into the passengers’ ears
and co-mingled with the echoes of
strings, drums and wind blown music
still singing in their memories
and irradiating their souls,
January, 2007
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
I asked you to read to me.
(I always ask them to read to me.)
(There's something about the way their fingers flip the pages
and their lips linger on certain letters
and their unique strategies of correcting themselves
when they stutter or mispronounce a word)
(Although your narration was smoother than the cliched flutter of a butterflies delicate wings.)
You agreed to be my raconteur
of the novel I let you borrow
and you painted pictures like no other,
of vivid skies and snowy German cities, all for me.
I couldn't recognize the medium you used at first.
I've seen watercolor landscapes and acrylic abstracts,
but you preferred oil portraits.
You knitted quilts of time passing train rides and hiding in basements.
Your voice was a foreign feel of fabric.
I once laid in satin, and then wool.
You were velvet.
Your head was in my lap while I braided your sheepish curls
and your fingers sheepishly traced patterns on my knee caps
and I could have fallen asleep right there,
easily, perhaps,
had I not been falling for the rise and fall of your breaths
in between cleverly placed asterisks,
chapter titles,
and clumsy kisses.
So tell me, what happens next?
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
Determined to have left by half-eight,
cats fed and plates away,
they were late.
This raconteur of the recce,
part time life model to Rosetti (among others)
had corralled cagoules onto arms,
thrown shoes their way, warmed up the car,
had marched across driveways, crossings, marshlands to playgrounds
and so far had lost none.
This was him without coffee, a fifth of his repertoire,
and they weren’t even his sons.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
a storyteller
pages crisp beneath his hand -
worlds painted in pen
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
I am a liar or
A storyteller,
Which I prefer.
You can’t find me
In my photo albums;
A different girl
Every year.
I paint many masks
And spin many tales
Just so I can
Finally
Hear anything
I can call my own.
Here is my heart
In essence,
Which isn’t necessarily
In truth,
Though I try
To fit the image.
So many
Separate
Profiles;
All less than a
Fraction
Of a whole.
But who’s to judge
Reality,
Or truth?
Call it equation;
Boil it down to
Numbers, but
Everything
Has variables.
So I’m a liar -
So is the sun,
Shining cold and
Distant
In winter;
So are you,
Pretending.
Calculate the image
Lest you leave
A jumble of
Meaningless
Numbers, just so
Many digits and
Too few faces.
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 7:54 AM UTC
*
Reconte Zuliet-Romeo
ZULIET:
Wherever I look
I see only YOU
This is my story
This is my life
This is my living
This is my LOVE
YOU, was always my desire
ROMEO:
Wherever I look
I see only YOU
This is my story
This is my life
This is my living
This is my LOVE
YOU, was always my desire
RACONTEUR:
Who has lashed
Destruction on LOVE?
Why there is LOVE's apocalypse
Even before world's day of judgment?
ROMEO:
Since I LOVE YOU
The whole world has turned
Enemy of our LOVE
Is that enough for
You to LOVE me eternally?
RACONTEUR:
This Zuliet-Romeo in LOVE
Desires only each other
Wherever they look
They see only each other
This is their story
This is their life
This is their living
This is their LOVE
"LOVE", that they always desire
RACONTEUSE:
Which LOVERS' blood is flowing
In the streams & rivers?
Which LOVERS' blood has dried
In the middle of the village-square?
RACONTEUR
Who has killed their love?
Who has murdered these LOVERS?
The earth is bursting volcanic fire
The sky is pouring melancholic tears
On top of that, who has taken trust
Out of LOVE, LOVING, BEING LOVED?
ZULIET-ROMEO:
Wherever we look
We see only each other
This is our story
This is our life
This is our living
This is our LOVE
"LOVE", that's what we always desire
*
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 12:12 AM UTC
They'd tell you to worship
the mannequins which march mechanically
like marionettes making their way
towards the main stage
But you've always been able to tell
Gods from false Idols
you fill these empty halls
with your electric electives
while I watch you
chase away the pigeons
just to see them fly
you said to me once
*you're too boring
who wants to be bored?*
this creature of habit
habitually picking up bad habits
like you.
I lay in bed all morning
writing my poems
I am a raconteur
you live the words
my hopeless anti-heroine
protagonist
antagonizing the ink from this pen
and no matter what happens
I'm happy to have had
my brief moment of observation
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC