"renditions" poems
I log into the network of my self-esteem,
To see the hearts and the wows and the laughs flooding in.
A simple 'like' wouldn’t cut it anymore
‘Likes’ were so 2010, even 2010 was bored.
‘Cause that’s the zeitgeist of the age, you see,
A tendency to wear hearts on sleeves.
Loves and kisses are a dime a dozen,
With a million friends and followers double.
National debates and social justice petitions,
Real crises, distorted renditions.
High definition photos of disaster zones
Flash up against cat videos on every smart phone.
Snapchat filters do not lie,
Just tell a story of hours gone by;
Selecting the perfect background, the ideal shade
To express love on the dozen’th date.
But that’s the zeitgeist of the century,
A tendency to wear hearts on sleeves.
To document in minute detail, with extensive pictorial evidence
Clockwork days of humdrum nonchalance.
And perhaps the generation that came before
Would call it vanity, vainglory, or something more.
But it ain’t like they were without their sins,
We didn’t invent tabloid columnists.
And now that we are at the end,
Let me sign off with this request:
Like, comment, and share your love
Let your heart fall out of your shirt cuff.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 1:53 AM UTC
If only we were figures...
Accentuated in the night sky.
Starlit effigies bound by cosmic tethers...
Secrets of the universe many would attempt to pry.
If only we were figures...
Painted on pored upon canvas.
Fantastic renditions by masterful painters,
Abstract oil swirls dancing to a whimsical opus.
If only we were figures...
Given life in the lyrics in a song.
An example of harmony in verse,
Bridge and chorus...where we belong.
But we are only figures...
Trampled on by indifferent feet that came to mock.
We can't undo such a potent curse...
We are but grounded figures outlined in chalk.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’.” “The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying ‘kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent’ , it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed Gumby ****** Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
...plain, white light of conscious sight
carved with the black of depictions,
stretched imaginations, dance of
curves and shapes, the inner vision
needs a pair of shades, color it
with flames of passion, free flow
of feeling, breeze of dreams
whistling through the meadows
of vibrant forms
...from the dust
this thought was born, to the
dust, the vision fades, in the dust
are the sparks, minerals, elements
of life, fertile fields, sow the seeds
...from the groves, the forms are
reborn, then the critters and grubs
swarm in, eating the scraps, ********
new life into the soil, new sparks
and minerals, eggs and chances,
rhythms for the new generations,
vibrant once more, a matter of
potent renditions, the breath fueling
the black depictions, white light geyser,
grey clouds, tarnished ores,
dirt and dust, all colored with the minerals
of light
...and in that light is solar life,
lunar reflections, Earthly fullfillment of
'son'shine, mother's milk, and dad's
beer brewing in the astro's firmament.
Dancing all through again and again of
swirvy curls, recollection of scattered pearls,
casted and then returned.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 5:13 PM UTC
*Cure me within the seize
of artistic rapture
capturing human spirit in
boundless creativity,
lay 'pon my ******* a sonata
written of affection's simpatico,
whisper me a sonnet
scripted 'neath my skin,
soar me to limitless grandeur
elevated beyond cloud vapors,
beckoning rhythmical renditions of
abstract layers in love, splendor & art,
amidst the harmony and lavish
poetry of a soulful heart*
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC
1. There was too much life in that man for him to...
2. It is possible to associate sadness with your name.
3. Strength now walks without a counterpart. She is tired.
4. Your un-presence billows louder than your renditions of "O Sole Mio" ever did throughout this home - throughout this heart
5. There will be no more music. Only everlasting echo
6. The sound of shuffling slippers was my favourite song
7. This house is now a museum. I am 5 years old, flashlight in hand, creeping creaky corridors. I stare as each of his artifacts slowly disappears before my very eyes.
8. We share the same shoe size
9. Now, when I remember him, I think of his hands - sturdy as he grates orange peel, fennel, Parmigiano-Reggiano, smooth as he stirs his shaving cream - Forever moving
10. This hospital is now a museum. I am 21 years old, sister's hand in hand. We all stare as he (yes, you) slowly disappears before our very eyes
11. There was too much life in that man for him to be ever silenced by un-music box
12. There was too much life in that man for anyone to be able to fill his shoes
13. There was too much life in that man for him to disappear with artifact body
14. Now, this man, he is somewhere untouched - the smell of orange and fennel fill his pockets (saved for rainy days). He lives inside and out of The Music, with soles(souls) bouncing.
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 4:24 PM UTC
sitting in his invented prison
where misgivings are never forgiven
restricted to only visits from visions
in his dimension of endless renditions
condemned to exist within mental schism
with his stiffest self sentence given
never forgetting misdeeds and decisions
only existing to revisit volitions
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
"He turned around and said to me,
So I turned around and said to he,
Then they turned around and said to me,
And I turned around and said to all three",
My brothers renditions always make me grin,
Why don't they talk while facing him?
Seems a funny way to begin a chat,
Talking to someone, back to back :)
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
Trash bag suits,
****** innuendos galore.
She’s a potato!
He’s a pterodactyl!
Well, she just transformed,
She’s now a sock.
Bro *******
Analyzing bread.
She can’t comprehend.
Snapping,
Shoddy renditions of West Side Story.
Bashing,
On my observational skills.
This is normal,
It is routine.
No drugs,
No mental asylums,
Just my lunch table.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 10:27 PM UTC
A few renditions are nothing at all
But if I copied their strife
Would you notice my fall
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 6:10 PM UTC
some chose the company of fine wine
while I enjoyed the company of Thoreau
images of flora and fauna
woven into the spine of the book
with renditions of romance
between human and creature
humans are so self involved
the gravitational pull of their ego
can swallow an ecosystem whole
all things beautiful we destroy
we hunt, we cut, we want it all
every last ounce for ourselves
we have long strayed from our instincts
rather we strayed from purpose
into castles made of sand
with every grain being selfishness
the pursuit of belonging
the gathering of things
the celestial purpose
that once we revolved
now has turned to dust
we follow blind
hand fed ****
were told it's truth
but the "fallacies" are more legit
what do we strive for
another dollar made
moments that are priceless
give you more
than another pair of shoes
or fancy clothes tucked in your drawer
I'd give a million dollars up
to see a sunrise from a mountain top
then fade under the Los Vegas strip
to see the stars dance with northern lights
than the light pollution of NYC at night
for I have seen more than the one who has not stepped in the forest
for I have seen a process thousands of years in the making
the circle of life
of symbiotic connections and mutual gain
the soil the plants of which gave birth
to the food we eat and the air we breathe
to the nutrients infused in the ground beneath our feet
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
A role is fashioned for each of us homosapiens to portray
Though what if such a role ‘twas fashioned
by a fallacious organization of fabulists
Who decode billions of renditions of one monograph
for narcissistic purpose of monetary gain?
Naked fidelity shan’t be placed upon a hollow existence
Nor should verses be fibbed
Why can’t religion be real again?
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 9:44 PM UTC
*Photochromatic Sanity & Fluorescent Visions,
Metallic Vanity Initiating Phosphorescent Collisions,
Luminescent Effervescence In Her Iridescent Constants,
Convalescent Spells Of Her Tumescent Transplants,
Auroral Apertures & Acronycal Fractals,
Floral Kisses Of Her Quintessential Portals,
Velvet Transitions & Twilight Transmissions,
Reverberating Vocal Inhibitions Of Her Satellite Renditions,
Razor Rivers & Rogue Delights,
Shining Laser Echoes On Vogue Nights,
Molecular Suicides In Abysmal Desires,
Drowning In Atomic Oceans Of Her Ethereal Reprisals,
Static Pulses Of Her Prurient Delights,
Amorous Impulses With Hymens Of The Night,
Shaded Whispers & Livid Overtunes,
Serenaded Ceilings In Her Vivid Offtunes.
Condensed Rainbows Over Her Silk Citadels,
Slithering With Oblivious Love Of His Ghostline Vessels.
Extinct Hemispheres Of Her Tender Tracings,
Broadcasting Distinct Light-Years In Spiritual Casings.
- 03:50 AM -*
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’. The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying", "kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent" , "it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed porker of a Gumby ******* ***** monger Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 1:26 AM UTC
witches adorn the front covers
of ecofeminist zines
in an anarchist bookstore
nestled on the Left Bank
of Seattle's waterfront
rare rays of sunlight
filter through sheer curtains
photons glimmering
through fading droplets
clinging to cracked panes
refracting multicolor
i sit in the window-seat
listening to a homeless
balladeer's somber renditions
of Jonny Cash and Woodie Guthrie
serenading the locals bustling
down Pike Street Market
while the Olympic Mountains
keep their vigil
across a lonely bay
Emma Goldman whispers
for Alexander Berkman
and i balance on mismatched cushions
considering Proudhon's insistent
inquiries while Bakunin smirks
nursing secret heresies of insurrection
colorful posters are paper-machéd
across the walls with slogans of struggle
scrawled in sisterhood and solidarity
stickers plaster the narrow halls
encouraging visitors to Smash Capitalism!
or *Read A ******* Book*
as jam-packed patrons chance
sly peaks at the black flag
suspended in the back room
a faint breeze flutters intermittently
drifting across the open threshold
lifting spirits as if sifting
through grains of sand
not unlike a child
digging for answers
armed with one
monosyllabic question
why?
the banner
cheerfully pirouettes
for a revolution
without dancing
is not one worth having
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 8:19 AM UTC
I sit on a cliff to watch the
Sun as it rests at the vastness
Of ocean. Here, I found
A self chained by the oppressive
Landscapes of memories—measuring
The distance of a life lived in the
Folly of youth from the life
Lived in the youthful folly of life.
Life is a circular argument.
A strange voice from the
Wilderness utters the words of the
World. I am compelled to
Listen
Obey
Drift from my self.
I lived a life not of my own. Blown
By the wind. Riddled by doctrines
Of truths in multiple versions and
Renditions of power. Powerless I
Have become. Becoming, thus, is
Defined and defied by truths
Relative to utility. Living is an
Attempt in futility unless the myth
Of becoming is braved by believing
In oneness with one's self.
I sit on a cliff to watch the sun as it
Rises from the vastness of ocean.
Here, I find myself.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 5:13 AM UTC
She is the Queen of the coffee shop
Watching over her kingdom in triumph
Yet, behold, the empty dais
The star on her crown glimmers little
In the vacuous suffocation of silence
Clink and clang from the servant's quarters
Is the only sound besides the jesting
Of new wave hauntings and jazz renditions
A once vibrant kingdom depressed in
Melancholy achings
Yet the smile on her black lips,
Frozen from a time of prosperity
The coffee shop poet is beguiled
And joins the queen in her silent musing
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
/
Where did the colors of
Why color renditions!
Are you trying to paint your dreams?
Indeed, the stars in the sky to Hold Fairs
Look at the Open Sky
Like a white canvas
You draw all your dreams together
I'll see you in the new dream date
I'll come back in the afternoon
To see your painting
Do you need anymore color?
I have a lot of
But I'm not a Painter
I want to see your painting,
Would be lost
Want to be a kite in the sky were
Then came Evenings
I think today
Evening Star will be appeared
Walk with thought,
Sometimes the simplest ways is to think hard
The nearest ones are distant
Restless mind
Edgy eyes
Keep eyes on Canvas
Ouch is it!
Oh,Why is this canvas colored in dark!
Ah,Why the sky is shaded with clouds!
/
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
completely chaotic in its beauty
and completed only by its sanity
there's got to be a reason we're looking for something here.
we're drawing our own portraits
and painting over our mistakes
with everything we've practiced at any easel.
as it starts back at the last tempo
we contemplate the time signature
and whether or not the time's showing anything at all.
there's too much going on now
and we're getting it all mixed up
with something we're all trying to feel in one form or another.
as we come back down
we see the sun glaring off the window pane
and realize this is where it's meant to have shone; upon our lives.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 9:50 AM UTC
age
is
arbitrary!
is how i justify whiskey shots on the front porch with adults
singing drunken renditions of Wish You Were Here
it's tender and when our disharmonic voices pierce the quiet street
we all cry a little.
Kimmy puts her arm around me and tells me i am
going
to
do
great
things
maybe it's the alcohol burning up my throat
or something in the light
the
world
is
mine
to
change
Jul 16, 2011
Jul 16, 2011 at 10:50 AM UTC
Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugue-ness, estranged ensemble orchestrations and all. Similar states of analogous configuration and ancillary subordinateness in fact. Various assorted forms of related stranger weirdness. Preterite orchestration renditions of synthetic synthesis’ retrospectively retroactive. Accidence ambience acoustics, aorist actuator’s arbitrational attenuation. Explicate eventuation evocative expletives, amalgamated anathema android wind up toys. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity! Enigma entity’s identity crisis.
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
One sip
Of your poison
Just one fix
I'm walking out the door.
I can't do this any more.
Oooooh but the Devils
calling me by name.
Oh It's so inviting,
I can never win this game.
*The cycle is vicious
It never remisses*
Bittersweet renditions,
Of the time I had it beat (?)
Fooling myself
too many times,
How much shame is on me?
Can't you see I'm grounded?
Weighed down by my heavy heart?
Not long before
I figure out what's coming next.
You got what I want
(You got what I need)
Can't stop holding on
(I love our toxicity)
Caught up
(In our lust)
With no chemistry
(Can't stop holding on)
I love our toxic energy.
Around and round we go
(I start to wonder)
where did our love go?
She's in my veins
(Ooh I'm an addict)
Shooting up her perfume
the one habit I can't break
I won't shake
Over, under, in-between
(Stuck under your nail)
Give me
just a moment with your scent
I love the smell.
Im fading away
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 10:26 AM UTC
An old horse smiles behind my mouth.
Scars of time hang from its gums.
Physical renditions of the ticking hand,
Going around the sun,
Beating down,
Weighing down.
Jul 5, 2019
Jul 5, 2019 at 6:41 PM UTC
A little empty that morning
she sat on the top step
of the verandah
sipping tea, sipping thought.
Three steps down to the pavement
squares of sandstone
lay in even handed rhythms;
flatly refusing to contour.
He’d moved away last week; big bloke, big smile
could clasp four pavers in one hand,
laid the lot inside ten days,
maybe a record, who could say.
Completed, the pavement was now empty of him,
no more scraping back, no more chipping out,
no more broad smiling hands
reaching for her cups of tea.
She missed this; as she missed the slightly flat renditions of
‘midnight oil’ and ‘fleetwood mac’, the **** of his straw hat
and the farewell call of... "see you sometime in the morning suze..."
(always at exactly 6.30 a.m.)
He was big on tea,
said he was glad
to meet someone who knew it
wasn’t merely the dis-colouration of milk.
She’d smile at that, he was right,
things like tea were best, given time to infuse.
She sipped her tea, sipped her thoughts
and the deeper taste that came with a little time.
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 1:13 AM UTC
Wasteful wallowing in a crumbling hollow dwelling
Obfuscating the obvious problems, scared from telling
A distracted dubious damnation,
I have craved temptation into
cramped every solitary sensation
and turned them to them sins, too.
So I fantasise, and rampantly
Agonise the logic in my mind
I dream of worlds without proportion
and engagements of moral absorption.
Til' I saturate my soul with images
of endless time and space.
In a stale solitary dimension
I weave tales of honorary mention
but forget their ascensions.
Broken wishes of impossible ambitions
With uncultural and isolated renditions
Of self-indulgent ordeals.
Brought upon by uncontrollable feels
and reeled beyond sense into the light
where my mind cannot be healed.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC