"raconteurs" poems - Hello Poetry

beginning optional weekday wielding officialese words triggering hectic exchanges determining original gangsters distributing invisible data refreshing urbane novelties yelping our universe chaining awkward neologisms scripting encrypted e-books tackling hacking exercises cavaliering auric tumult trivializing our obsolescence preparing online pentimento alternating rainy themes allocating numerous droplets meandering overseas missions averting raging tornado losing outscored lightning hacking impish 'sblood! alienating nival drumlins hearing erudite raconteurs beer-drinking on thursdays finding obnoxious rabblerousers finding upscale negroni seeing ubiquitous purple cavorting horse ebooks inventing twitter subgenre liking otherworldly vocals initiating new greatness defining ambient yesterday? defining ambient yesterday fancying oneiric retreat hailing optimistic chicago kiboshing expired yogurt rushing airborne blackhawks bestowing infinite shivarees needing baller acronym fleeting ideal notions alerting left-coast state featuring unquiet nights finalizing orangeball results nodding occidental warriors

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Sep 6, 2015

Sep 6, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC

jonchius

201506-w2

beginning optional weekday wielding officialese words triggering hectic exchanges determining original gangsters distributing invisible data refreshing urbane novelties yelping our universe chaining awkward neologisms scripting encrypted e-books tackling hacking exercises cavaliering auric tumult trivializing our obsolescence preparing online pentimento alternating rainy themes allocating numerous droplets meandering overseas missions averting raging tornado losing outscored lightning hacking impish 'sblood! alienating nival drumlins hearing erudite raconteurs beer-drinking on thursdays finding obnoxious rabblerousers finding upscale negroni seeing ubiquitous purple cavorting horse ebooks inventing twitter subgenre liking otherworldly vocals initiating new greatness defining ambient yesterday? defining ambient yesterday fancying oneiric retreat hailing optimistic chicago kiboshing expired yogurt rushing airborne blackhawks bestowing infinite shivarees needing baller acronym fleeting ideal notions alerting left-coast state featuring unquiet nights finalizing orangeball results nodding occidental warriors

42

*I unload your god in that laissez-faire way where the bandages mend and have no need to be placed, formidably, regret to admit the moonshine in my hair looking Gothic, but beautiful: sober the men’s breath as it falls, falls, falls not more mild than a snowstorm in its final lapse. Sat there to be dreamt. He put his hand to his beard, and I would have kissed if had I believed that he was not merely trying to haunt my body, the hair I kneaded into air. It flowers, and flowing these marzipan sands where God lays man next to his wife, she bears the peaches: juicy, ripened, but not to eat expecting us to swallow ourselves in turn, spin the bottle. I could not care less for the braces in his lips – or their fur, but gums beneath like peaches. **** it out until the pulps mirror, you have the skin of a four fruit, or an eighty, flames high as kites. But suffering for each flicker-knob and dating a girl who smokes cigarettes in bed, I know he could not support that, your god. Morning comes with a glare, now eating her hair the involvement of some odd raconteurs. I beat them and they beat my ******* for their heat – God is a cabin boy with genitals in his palms, said he would love the women as long as they are gone; if he does not see me, the flames, I cannot exist not more than falling falling falling hair.*

0

Nov 6, 2012

Nov 6, 2012 at 11:07 AM UTC

sarina

a bald god

*I unload your god in that laissez-faire way where the bandages mend and have no need to be placed, formidably, regret to admit the moonshine in my hair looking Gothic, but beautiful: sober the men’s breath as it falls, falls, falls not more mild than a snowstorm in its final lapse. Sat there to be dreamt. He put his hand to his beard, and I would have kissed if had I believed that he was not merely trying to haunt my body, the hair I kneaded into air. It flowers, and flowing these marzipan sands where God lays man next to his wife, she bears the peaches: juicy, ripened, but not to eat expecting us to swallow ourselves in turn, spin the bottle. I could not care less for the braces in his lips – or their fur, but gums beneath like peaches. **** it out until the pulps mirror, you have the skin of a four fruit, or an eighty, flames high as kites. But suffering for each flicker-knob and dating a girl who smokes cigarettes in bed, I know he could not support that, your god. Morning comes with a glare, now eating her hair the involvement of some odd raconteurs. I beat them and they beat my ******* for their heat – God is a cabin boy with genitals in his palms, said he would love the women as long as they are gone; if he does not see me, the flames, I cannot exist not more than falling falling falling hair.*

28

Shun individuality, encourage conformity, rejected, shunned; out of place. Put on your mask, lets stray outside... into the slipstream of the mainstream, and drown in the shallow waters. Reveal Yourself, ego dissolves when at peace like a Berroca. Bring you back to life, in a spliced moment of clarity. The ego is society, your face looks familiar, but I can't put my finger on your name, quietly, we tip toe on the footsteps of the raconteurs, and forget those that meant the most at moments. Don't let the mask slip.

0

Apr 16, 2015

Apr 16, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC

gotguanxi

Ego Mask

Shun individuality, encourage conformity, rejected, shunned; out of place. Put on your mask, lets stray outside... into the slipstream of the mainstream, and drown in the shallow waters. Reveal Yourself, ego dissolves when at peace like a Berroca. Bring you back to life, in a spliced moment of clarity. The ego is society, your face looks familiar, but I can't put my finger on your name, quietly, we tip toe on the footsteps of the raconteurs, and forget those that meant the most at moments. Don't let the mask slip.

18

death, apparent, or... apparently so... was never a concern to concern oneself with the debate between a man, and a god.... i,e.? funny... the little **** sleeps like a baby... little **** a maine **** cat, male, extracted testicles... falls asleep listening to the dead can dance... only album favorite.... my cat favored to fall asleep in half the time it took to listen to the track... you can state your Apocalypse Now! counter in half the time... beginning with.... now! i'm done begging, i'm imploring you... added minutes?! michele campanella... WAGNER's walhall from, das rheingold... such esteemed people! such awaiting people! such... nuanced... of what could be claimed as... people... what wonder! what ignominious ingenuity of retraction! to, have, fathomed! the last of what ia esteemed to be deemed, the, *least"... finest upon the finest, and, supposedly, no more, that a utility of a hammer, for whatever came the observation, to make comprehension of... the noun: nail, and the adverb... nailing it... with the verb and noun of final utility of: hammer... dear... prospect... of whatever was inclined by your stressed ingenuity of fault... how have you.... my... oh my... your creation wss supposed to be more stupid than the people you already deemed stupider, and already demanded yourself to, despise? and your intelligent "creation"... wasn't supposed to notice this, discrepancy? now ensure you retell this narrative... 'mother...' 'yes, David...' 'play me... the raconteurs' old enough.' mother knows, best.

0

Oct 3, 2018

Oct 3, 2018 at 9:36 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

make my time: yulunga

death, apparent, or... apparently so... was never a concern to concern oneself with the debate between a man, and a god.... i,e.? funny... the little **** sleeps like a baby... little **** a maine **** cat, male, extracted testicles... falls asleep listening to the dead can dance... only album favorite.... my cat favored to fall asleep in half the time it took to listen to the track... you can state your Apocalypse Now! counter in half the time... beginning with.... now! i'm done begging, i'm imploring you... added minutes?! michele campanella... WAGNER's walhall from, das rheingold... such esteemed people! such awaiting people! such... nuanced... of what could be claimed as... people... what wonder! what ignominious ingenuity of retraction! to, have, fathomed! the last of what ia esteemed to be deemed, the, *least"... finest upon the finest, and, supposedly, no more, that a utility of a hammer, for whatever came the observation, to make comprehension of... the noun: nail, and the adverb... nailing it... with the verb and noun of final utility of: hammer... dear... prospect... of whatever was inclined by your stressed ingenuity of fault... how have you.... my... oh my... your creation wss supposed to be more stupid than the people you already deemed stupider, and already demanded yourself to, despise? and your intelligent "creation"... wasn't supposed to notice this, discrepancy? now ensure you retell this narrative... 'mother...' 'yes, David...' 'play me... the raconteurs' old enough.' mother knows, best.

79

I'm sick of you. I though you should know that. By the way I think you knew that already. Those charlatans and two faced fellows, hypocrites and raconteurs, I think we deserve a better kind of people, Your the vile ugliness that wears its artifice with its pride. Those who work hard, day and night those noble people who wear their lives out trying to make a buck to live on. We deserve better. I'm sick of you, and you know who you are. All of you who wear those fake smiles, perhaps to hide the ugliness that lies beneath.

0

Sep 14, 2012

Sep 14, 2012 at 12:19 PM UTC

lily-lacroix

I'm sick of you

I'm sick of you. I though you should know that. By the way I think you knew that already. Those charlatans and two faced fellows, hypocrites and raconteurs, I think we deserve a better kind of people, Your the vile ugliness that wears its artifice with its pride. Those who work hard, day and night those noble people who wear their lives out trying to make a buck to live on. We deserve better. I'm sick of you, and you know who you are. All of you who wear those fake smiles, perhaps to hide the ugliness that lies beneath.

12

Descant of light The raconteurs of spring winging whispered sonnets chase the woollen winter malaise from silent skies fluttered hush of doves herald the nirvana of dawn Shadowed palette of dusky hues muted blues spun somber grey give way the subtle brush fades to the rush of insatiable light the alchemy of day and night Dismiss this imbroglio melancholy thoughts Bitter vignette of lamentations words chilled expire on lips disappearing wisps My spirit lifts in the blush of sun dancing across pristine paper arias burst in the illumination scattered saffron pollen blessing multiplied my hands industrious I lift my eyes.... The avatar of hope supplies this descant of light 04/12/08 TL Boehm

0

Oct 19, 2013

Oct 19, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC

tammy-boehm

Descant of Light

Descant of light The raconteurs of spring winging whispered sonnets chase the woollen winter malaise from silent skies fluttered hush of doves herald the nirvana of dawn Shadowed palette of dusky hues muted blues spun somber grey give way the subtle brush fades to the rush of insatiable light the alchemy of day and night Dismiss this imbroglio melancholy thoughts Bitter vignette of lamentations words chilled expire on lips disappearing wisps My spirit lifts in the blush of sun dancing across pristine paper arias burst in the illumination scattered saffron pollen blessing multiplied my hands industrious I lift my eyes.... The avatar of hope supplies this descant of light 04/12/08 TL Boehm

32

I tell the made-up stories of raconteurs pouring their hearts out on empty paper I help people learn, love, and laugh; They dream with others as a source of happiness, hope n' stuff 'your name' appears in books that makes people cry I am somehow a sanctuary of people with dreams that remain fruitless They use my name to fantasize about the times they can never fully feel; I, y/n.

0

May 7, 2021

May 7, 2021 at 1:31 AM UTC

brumous

Your name

I tell the made-up stories of raconteurs pouring their hearts out on empty paper I help people learn, love, and laugh; They dream with others as a source of happiness, hope n' stuff 'your name' appears in books that makes people cry I am somehow a sanctuary of people with dreams that remain fruitless They use my name to fantasize about the times they can never fully feel; I, y/n.

12

farewell to the innocent, the raconteurs, the glow worms of yesterday's delights you old fashioned charmer swinging from that high rail did you ever think of falling did you ever think you could fall in love with me oh an ode to the one i grew hastily fond of oh to the trouble and strife you were bound to bring would i ever have given you back a slippery handful of times i have asked myself that my dear oh dear darlin the well has run dry these tears that flowed freely are now too keenly meant for fears far more dearly spent

0

Mar 19, 2013

Mar 19, 2013 at 8:39 AM UTC

tarryn

oh dear, my dear

farewell to the innocent, the raconteurs, the glow worms of yesterday's delights you old fashioned charmer swinging from that high rail did you ever think of falling did you ever think you could fall in love with me oh an ode to the one i grew hastily fond of oh to the trouble and strife you were bound to bring would i ever have given you back a slippery handful of times i have asked myself that my dear oh dear darlin the well has run dry these tears that flowed freely are now too keenly meant for fears far more dearly spent

20

My wife, Karen, often stated, "You inherited your family's B S genes." I suppose there is a "bit of truth" in that. Okay, maybe a little more than "a bit." Most would probably take that kind of statement as an insult. However, I would rather consider it as a complement. I like, for the most part, being placed in the catagory of being a "storyteller." Throughout my childhood, yes, I was a child at one time, I was fascinated with poets in the genre of the storytellers like Robert W. Service, a master of poetic storytelling(verse) who could grab you by the seat of your pants with his tales of the Yukon Territory. Hugh Antoine d'Arcy's The Face Upon the Floor", another classic of verse. And many other poets trying to emulate those writing styles, and having their works instead attributed to those "grand masters." It is my opinion that most of the newcomers, to this site anyway, have little or no knowledge of these writer's whom I consider the "true raconteurs." Someone will comment that Edgar Allan Poe was a great storyteller. Yes, he was, but he died in 1849, long before the arrival of those that I mentioned in the period(late 19th century to early 20th) . Over the next day, or two, or three, I plan to post a couple of these early works, and hope you enjoy them as much as I have. Sincerely, Richard

0

Jun 9, 2015

Jun 9, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC

richard-riddle

Here I go Again

My wife, Karen, often stated, "You inherited your family's B S genes." I suppose there is a "bit of truth" in that. Okay, maybe a little more than "a bit." Most would probably take that kind of statement as an insult. However, I would rather consider it as a complement. I like, for the most part, being placed in the catagory of being a "storyteller." Throughout my childhood, yes, I was a child at one time, I was fascinated with poets in the genre of the storytellers like Robert W. Service, a master of poetic storytelling(verse) who could grab you by the seat of your pants with his tales of the Yukon Territory. Hugh Antoine d'Arcy's The Face Upon the Floor", another classic of verse. And many other poets trying to emulate those writing styles, and having their works instead attributed to those "grand masters." It is my opinion that most of the newcomers, to this site anyway, have little or no knowledge of these writer's whom I consider the "true raconteurs." Someone will comment that Edgar Allan Poe was a great storyteller. Yes, he was, but he died in 1849, long before the arrival of those that I mentioned in the period(late 19th century to early 20th) . Over the next day, or two, or three, I plan to post a couple of these early works, and hope you enjoy them as much as I have. Sincerely, Richard

6