"recitations" poems
"No more questions?
Let's move on to the next topic"
Mula nang mawala ka,
Sa bawat pagkakataong
Banggitin iyan ng aking mga ****
Napapatanga ako at itinatanong sa sarili,
"Ganon lang ba kadali yun?"
Sana kasing dali
Ng paglipat ng pahina ng aking libro
Ang paglipat ng puso ko mula sayo, pabalik sakin
Sana kasing dali
Ng pagbura ng marka ng lapis sa kuwaderno
Ang pagbura ng alaala mo sa aking isipan
Sana kasing dali
Ng paglabas pasok ng mga **** sa silid
Ang paglabas pasok mo sa aking mundo
Sana pero hindi
Dahil tila nasa bawat pahina ka ng aking libro
Dahil tila marka ng bolpen ang pilit kong ibinubura
Dahil tila nakalabas ka na ngunit pilit kitang inaanyayahang bumalik
Kahit ilang pagsasanay, pagsusulit, at oral recitations pa
Sana bumalik ka
Pero hindi.
"No more questions?
Let's move on to the next topic"
Paano nga naman kasi ako makakausad
Kung isipan ko'y punong-puno pa rin ng katanungan
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 3:42 AM UTC
In love with the forgiving trait of God
Falling for the immense light of His boat
The world isn't for me, nor is it's applaud
Soothes the sinning souls, that one Quranic quote
Polluted image indicates not downfall
Unity unshakable if kept intact
Recitations, revive in the great hall
Then will spread the message of the compact
If melodious young voices be raised
Absorbing the love, ignoring the hate
In the court of Allah, shall then be praised
Returning back home is never that late
The pillar of hope, all of us be bound
For the sake, placing my head on the ground
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC
You might be Heathcliff
To my Elizabeth
Because a hero I, need not
If you choose to impress through lies and duress
you’re surely, not the man I thought
I am not a romantic
When you stand in the rain
You can be pedantic
But please don’t refrain
From your recitations of poetry
If I could rewrite this story
I’d try and make you see
For Mr. Wickham
I can see clearly through
Have I told not
All of my truths to you
If you could forgive me
For being quite uncouth
I’d leave my homestead
And walk days to you
I am not a romantic
When you stand in the rain
You can be pedantic
But please don’t refrain
From your recitations of poetry
If I could rewrite this story
I’d try and make you see
You might be angry
And feeling betrayed, but
This is not a war to be fought
If you can forgive me
I’ll try to make you see
That you’re the romantic I want
Your good opinions
Have surely been lost
I made snap judgments
Not knowing the cost
If you can forgive me
Then please tell me so
But if you cannot
Away I will go
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 1:12 PM UTC
My poems, where are they from?
Westerner.
An appellation, of the 'hood of my nation,
Customary identity association,
But not one that springs to mind,
When they inquire, as they do,
Hey man, tell us about your "self."
But there is no deniability,
At least three hundred years,
That my father was aware,
Europe to America,
Westward ** the seeds sown.
From the banks of the Lippe,
Ocean crossing to NYC,
From the Krakow Ghetto
To the shores of the
Manhattan Indian Reservation,
By the banks of the grandest river Hudson,
They journeyed, they sojourned,
Staying for awhile, scattering across the Midwest,
"Coming to America."
Yet out West,
I am an Easterner,
My hometown teams,
In the East Division,
And this schizophrenia
Is non-problematical.
But where are my poems from?
I have studied the time zones,.
The AM's and the PM's.
I know when I deliver this to you,
If the sun is rising or setting,
Whether to greet you with
नमस्कार or magandang umaga,
Greet you with a "Good Sabbath!"
Or an Insh'Allah...
But where are my poems from?
Bog of technical definitions,
Matters not, my poems have no
Passport to be stamped,
The Customs lines they cross are the
Customs of mine and yours.
The are both immigrant and emigre,
Experienced, well travelled, they familiar
With the right satellites to
Grace thy welcoming space.
Tap dance, recitations of evasions,
Answer the question man,
But where are my poems from?
You tell the when, the how but not the
Where.
We can't wait much longer,
The inbox heavy with homework,
Your poems to love, like and take.
Don't you see?
They, born in the West,
For lack of a better answer,
Clock and setting sun racers,
Surfing the Atlantic, Indian,
Circumnavigating the Pacific Isles,
Is just the course they take
When out my window sent.
But is that your answer,
Their path, to the single quest,
From the West, is that the best
Answer you can equivocate,
Where do they come from?
**No.
Obviously,
They come from you...**
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 6:42 AM UTC
My cat likes poetry
She listens attentively to my recitations
I think she might write poetry
I heard her staring outside longingly
Purring mightily, grooving
Transfigured in the morning sun
Her stripes a kaleidoscope of yellows and grays
Keen green eyes on high alert
With flashing intensity through the sliding glass door
Jousting with the mockingbird swooping to peck her head on the patio
Rolling in the catnip bed in triumph
That’s the poem she composes
In the throes of poetic excitement
Inspired by wish and instinct
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC
but about cat ladies,
with cats attached
who most like their
fel~ine femin~ine
mistresses, also
come in many colors,
categories, shapes ‘n
sizes
looking to adopt a
pair of cute kiddies,
with promises of
much stroking and
endless affection to
fill the void in my
currently, sadly, totally
animal~less existence
But!
we want a pair,
cat & cat lady,
for how a woman
treats her cat is
the single best
indicator of how
*she loves to love
poets, who are
most like cats,
needy for exchanging
purrings and many
other endearing
sounds and belly
stroking, inclusive
of the frequent
recitations of
onlylovepoetry*
(a tiny amount of
mutual scratching
is to be happily
expected as well)
Sep 13, 2024
Sep 13, 2024 at 1:53 AM UTC
1
the Emir has it in his head he is a poet
and the Emir invites Nasrudin
to an assembly
and the Emir recites his poem
with much ado,
with much loudness and gestures
everyone applauds the Emir
for his poem
but Nasrudin is quiet
and the Emir turns to Nasrudin and says:
“So, Nasrudin – what do you think
of my poem?”
“Sir,” says Nasrudin
“What you recited is not a poem
and neither does it make you a poet”
“Guards!”
screams the Emir
“Take this man Nasrudin
and put him in jail!
Three months let him be there!”
2
Three months pass
and Nasrudin is released
and is invited again by the Emir
to another of the Emir’s recitations
and again the Emir recites his poem
with much ado,
with much loudness and gestures
and again everyone applauds the Emir
for his poem
but Nasrudin says nothing and stands up
and walks towards the guards
and the Emir shouts at Nasrudin:
“Nasrudin – where do you think
you are going?”
And says Nasrudin:
“Sir – I’m saving you the trouble;
I’ll send myself to jail…”
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 8:07 AM UTC
Ceaseless ****** of the future,
Weaver of possibility,
Engine of chance and
“What would it be like?”
That endured the infinite
Hallucinations
Simulations
and recitations
Of its own creation
Never knowing why -
Just falling endlessly
And into place -
Who said:
I’d like to be on high ground
When the end comes
Not for safety but
to watch a while
whilst it tears apart
And then finally
unravels when my eyes close,
The thing of things
That orchestrated the
Mutiny of the heart
In those senseless
Undergrounds
Stairwells
Attics of sanity,
The cracks in the hologram,
As all of life were truly hollow
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 3:45 AM UTC
Why not let go the foundation-
kept together through awkward apologies
Undeserving recitations
The heart can not carry boulders on it's crest for its entirety
I ask
What solidifies integrity more-
The immorality of a cracking foundation which consternation keeps lifted
Or the worth you place with in yourself?
(C) Tiffanie Noel Doro
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
the sleeper...
riled in slumber
her face fevered
cussed about the terrain
of a floral breeding
bedding patterns and the print
bunched in struggles
in smudges
an amateur trial with sisters makeup
primal cosmetics
make a mock
daubed
ceremony for slumber
dusty and museum are her dollworks
an amphitheatre audience
overlooming her berth
flaunting the gallery shelves
sustained expressionist menace
Roman eyes and Victorian ridicule
stuffed suffering with Ugly Duckling down
****** sawdust and your sullied label
they bray and they brawl
and they sluice their gull gall
a sick drizzle
over the sleepers form
from the exterior
wild wails the weather
its being
drubbing
peers fragile
at the windowpane
a raid on this vulnerable sleeper
impounded in bedroom aloft
raised to meet the jet stream
she is fumbled in dreams...
abraded adolescent swells
judder out figments
a bleed of vandals
siling her muted childhood
parading the playground
berating old
once loved playthings
adopting no sympathy
adapting in favour
of the wild riding will
of the direful pre familiar
into the woods...
a ***** charmed breath
dressed smartly as boy
stoppers her pathway
insisting a gentleman's assistance
frustrates her recitations
of grandmothers doting
stern teachings
like fragile pottery
come to harm
broken into teeth
the quick blood beating
this nocturnal forest
busy in heat
bonding death
to refract the hustling moon
a company of wolves
fill out the clearing
not a spell too soon
their howls reverberate
jeering
mocking their new glut
sifting followers
from the raggle-taggle array of fools
the foolish dreamers
rounded up
amongst them she stands
red dressed and nervous
one hand clasping
and sexing the other
fortified
a great jaw operates here
an excited irresponsible mastication
committed to this fairytale
...agitation in her sleep
Jul 6, 2021
Jul 6, 2021 at 2:11 AM UTC
Heather,
I could fall
into
your
brown eyes.
I really could.
Time's not waiting
on
any
man.
So,
with that little ***
and littler
voice,
trust me
when i'm saying
I could talk to you for days
as your body became
nothing.
I fall in love easily,
let's hope this one
has a stamp
of truth.
heather,
with the long
brown
hair.
heather
with the long,
brown
voice.
heather
with the long,
brown
legs.
let me be redundant,
let me
be
unequivocal
in the recitations
of my heart,
when I say,
I'm feeling you
and my knuckles
could burn
as I grip
the soft limestone
holding me
from
your
eyes.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 10:29 PM UTC
Wanting to be heard, with nothing to say
Old recitations to dialogue in a play
We speak, in echoes, like poetry, it rhymes
And the father of learning is repetition
What only concerns is the comfort in your reflection
Death is a comfort that doesn't exist
When you're dead, nothing really is
Nothing really is, and nothing will be
Dec 29, 2020
Dec 29, 2020 at 5:27 AM UTC
I am but a guest inside this vessel,
staying for as long as the breath of life permits.
Often I n I come to these windows to view just how beautiful this life truly is.
Former extrovert turned introvert, these days I sit in solitude listening to echoes of recitations of poems in my head.
The resounding sound of melodic music notes keeps the calm within the beat of my heart,
pushing me further from attachments and pulling me deeper into the dark.
Reminding me that I am nothing, yet I am everything.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 10:27 PM UTC
A blot of ink I see,
pen pressed hard to the paper.
Thinking hard for a good start,
When only two lines later,
I start to pour my heart on to the paper,
Old stories of old memories,
Some secrets I spill,
Things that backspace can't ****
Making confessions.
Striking off the mistakes.
Later waiting for the
Liquid heart to dry on paper.
Smudging won't fade it away.
I run my fingers over the
letters,words,sentences,
Not forgetting the punctuations.
Making my blind heart read.
I close the cap thinking of this deed.
Making recitations,
Trying hard not to bleed.
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 6:33 AM UTC
You look like the blessed Middle East.
Your smile is like 1000 Fatimas.
Your eyes so full and ready to serve humanity.
Jet black hair that portrays the night.
Cream skin like Pistachio ice cream.
Several hundred eyelashes as rays of a dark lit sun.
A nose of a hundred thousand prostrations to God.
To touch your jacket would give off
a mystical scent.
To straighten your tie would be a service to Mother Mary.
Fingers like petals of lillies.
"Hi Chad" you whisper with an ecstatic Hijaz.
Legs forgotten by a million Quranic recitations.
Pious seal of purity.
"I am not the beauty you seek" the black globe of your eye
betrays.
One hundred 'Ali's have circled round me.
Ten Yusif's have proposed.
"I am a fairy tale like no other" you let out
with a diamond glint in your eye
"You and me, we'll make a love that cannot be forgotten."
"I will make you worship at my shrine."
A thousand Husayns cannot handle me.
I am my daddy's little girl.
You must pray five times with me
every day we are together.
You must testify to Muhammad
as the Seal of the Prophets.
"What of the Qaim?" I plead with her.
She replies, "Of that I don't know."
"Then a thousand mirrors of beauty are still shut
to you joon."
"Though you are moonshine of the Twelve Imams,
I must send you on your travels
and leave this page with a sploch."
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 9:21 PM UTC
This a message for all the ***** people that think they can trade kisses for sentience and not simply live to tell about it
There's nothing so important that it really can't wait until the morning
There is no need to apologize for your shadows if they're old enough to take responsibility for themselves
The sound of love has been uncovered in the basement of all our churches, mosques, synagogues and temples
Whenever the weather is too good to be true it probably is and what appears to be real is frequently just an illusion
But you also shouldn't let that stop you from doing what you've chosen to
And if we are persistent we will eventually unveil all of this confusion
Seeing through densities and targets with all of our discernment and our reason
We are the reason you envision lovers giving kisses like its actually nobody else's business
We live in a fundamental rebellion and everything's already alright regardless of what it says on television
Life is the liminal space between existence and oblivion
We are fundamental particles of naked persuasion who like to dance dynamically on anomalous targets of diabolical estrangement
We are eternally proud of our ability to come into coherence and cohesion
We speak recitations of fantasies inclusive of these fabricated realities and imitations
Sep 9, 2019
Sep 9, 2019 at 11:14 PM UTC
it's one thing that philosophy dismissed
poetry, but it's another that psychiatry did
likewise, interpreting poetry as madness, esp.
western haiku is better than the Freudian
interpretation of dreams; can you believe
the unconscious holes hidden in western
interpretation of *** poetry?
the way you can weave an essay into a few words,
is like fidgeting a theory with
a few images - although the former is less
inclined to a rigidness, and more inclined to
a rubber-band elasticity -
Freud had a few images to work from given
we experience dreams in nanosecond intervals
given the overall mundaneness of a 8 hours repose -
but imagine injecting an essayist's
interpretation of a haiku akin to some psychiatrists
spotting Pythagoras rubbing a tree
for Greenpeace with an *********** of triangles & apples,
like Freud with some rich kid paying for his
opera visits of castratos singing: la dolce vita...
i mean the ******* iceberg...
a few words in haiku are bopping along to
the tides from the Arctic, yet beneath them a
mass of narratives, even the Beijing waiters reminisce
recitations from school to this Mao revolution
syllabus... the unconscious meaning: fill in the gaps...
mathematically? algebra...
after all, very few people experience
'Houston, we have a problem' moments.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
Words... Words... Words...
You pollute the air with facts
Trivia, facts, retellings of stories
Already familiar to us and to them.
Sound... Sound... God Awful sound...
Like every moment needs to be saturated
With clanking or yapping or recitations.
If only I could speak just for the ability to ask you
To Please... Stop.. Talking.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
*My muse , the springtime earth
The smoke of chimney
fires just as the daystar expires ,
with burnt orange goodbyes ,
'tis a diddy begging lyrics , a melody
in the moment , a dash of fleeting sunlight
in the Shangri-La forest ,
Copper , lavender , technicolor salutations
Mourning dove recitations* ...
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 7:11 PM UTC
Alas! Nomenclature deviated.
Now, for exploitations.
Phew! Whenever I recall
The emergence of rosary and tesibiu
That makes the Oracle beads
Lose fist in the days,
I summoned pause to my tears.
Fine chaffs have cover our eyes
That all we sight is good but lies
Jesus is beautiful, Mohammed is strong
Hmmmn! Devil is ugly and weak?
Luther king dream I reveried
Marxism: archived in my cafe
Have and have not classes
Religion: ***** of the masses
Trauma flows in the atheists' blood:
There is no God but fate
Oh! Our priests in robe
Covering their heads with load of scarfs
A self torment to the brain.
Their beards touched their chests
While their trousers fight
3rd world war with the ground
As they open ajar their mouths
To chant alhamdulilah recitations
For saka and yummies beckon.
Is that what Mohammed taught them?
Oh! Our Priests in lucre suits
Yet, their protrude bellies peep through,
Heaving high and low
Like that of the narrow escaper.
Mouthach of Herbert Macaulay
Curved like a bow wield.
Halleluyah starts their incantations
Their lips released the splits,
''Dance to the front
As you drop your offering and donations,
Sow big so that God can bless you like David''.
And we gullible oaf sow in their basket.
How many candles have they told us to buy,
It is to solve your qualms
Or bring stable electricity to Nigeria.
Who are they emulating! Christ?
They are allies to the fiend
Politicians in disguise
We build that school
That we can't afford the price.
Our pennies bought them wings to fly
While we crawl on our knee
Struggling to get d ruins
That fall from their tables.
They rollick on our sweat
Forgetting the horse that ride them thirst
Though, we are the bunch of ignoramus.
But the Holy books they carried
Shall fall them to their grave
If they don't stop enterprising...
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 6:09 PM UTC
Many sing of Shakespeare or of Keats.
I look to a Scottish lad for my treats.
He was of Irish descent,
and but for friends he would have lived in a tent.
From weaver he rose to a poet of renown,
but his contemporaries treated him as a clown.
Employed to give recitations of his masterpieces,
such as the famous 'Tay Bridge Disaster' he was a poet
of an entirely different species.
Spurning fashionable poetic metaphor and scans,
his simple language amused his many fans.
Alas he died in poverty. Yes he was skint,
but unlike many others of his time,
his poetry's still in print.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 1:47 PM UTC
You, darling, have provided the words that send me messages.
I respond constantly, a code exchange.
But, now, you have left your collections of jumbled thoughts
Behind. Drifting.
Why?
I will never understand abandoning your words.
And let them abandon mine.
The soft curves of the letters your fingers writ
Caressed my eyes. Beautiful sound of recitations echoing.
Future silence is ringing in my mind, missing the poetic visions
Before you ceased.
Our words are lovers, dear, as are we.
And I know that you will not leave us as your sweet letters have,
But mine are empty without.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
Sometimes I wonder why you love me.
I used to think it was my own selfishness begging the question forward.
But today I wonder because when I get on a roll
(and I do, often)
I can start seeing the impatience develop in the corners of your eye.
I don't know if it's always been,
or if just now it's become obvious to me,
but I can see it beginning to irritate you.
All my highfalutin recitations of my latest reading.
All of my internal cross-examination.
All of the stones I turn over and over in my hand - at you.
It's getting a bit much.
But you see I'm just too chock-full of existence
and you are the only vessel to pour it into.
I crave novelty and I can see that you,
instead,
crave peace.
You've watched the world worry over itself for long enough and you want to rest.
I never let you rest.
So then comes the questions again,
why is it you love me?
I am so restless and so curious and so mean.
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 3:53 PM UTC
It is rather unremarkable,
Or at least as so as such a pane may be,
Depicting a trinity not mentioned in Scripture,
Though their handiwork would likely merit approval
From any member of the trio cited therein,
As they went forth humbly,
In humble carriages in service
Of an ostensibly prosaic task
But certainly on the side of the angels,
As must have been noted
In each of their respective services
(Closed-casket affairs, one presumes
Given the state of the remains
After they were extracted
From the earthen dam site where they were discarded)
And their particular Caiaphas
Dispensed with sending their cases onward
For further consideration
(He too a man of the cloth, but also a mill operator,
Producing two-by-fours worthy of use on Calvary)
And after he had passed sentence,
Leaving matters to take course,
One assumes he went home, washed up
And made his usual rote recitations
Asking for Him to watch over his and his ownself.
Aug 17, 2021
Aug 17, 2021 at 12:27 PM UTC