"rene" poems
This is a place on the way after the distances
can no longer be kept straight here in this dark corner
of the barn a mound of wheels has convened along
raveling courses to stop in a single moment
and lie down as still as the chariots of the Pharaohs
some in pairs that rolled as one over the same roads
to the end and never touched each other until they
arrived here some that broke by themselves and were left
until they could be repaired some that went only
to occasions before my time and some that have spun
across other countries through uncounted summers
now they go all the way back together the tall
cobweb-hung models of galaxies in their rings
of rust leaning against the stone hail from Rene's
manure cart the year he wanted to store them here
because there was nobody left who could make them like that
in case he should need them and there are the carriage wheels
that Merot said would be worth a lot some day
and the rim of the spare from bald Bleret's green Samson
that rose like Borobudur out of the high grass
behind the old house by the river where he stuffed
mattresses in the morning sunlight and the hens
scavenged around his shoes in the days when the black
top-hat sedan still towered outside Sandeau's cow barn
with velvet upholstery and sconces for flowers and room
for two calves instead of the back seat when their time came
2.7k
A cave crawls into me, turns inside out,
Captures my heart and saves my skin for last.
Slimy shadows spread like faith to doubt.
Is this the Jungian Shadow here to lambaste
While all the photons of the sun depart
As quickly as they come--an original sin--
And stop my thinking like Rene Descartes,
Affronting twistless logic like particle spin?
Now perceiving nothing it must exist,
Like Freud with OCD made Oedipus blind--
Becoming nothing nothing can resist.
Finally into earth my mind confined:
Create in me a ***** heart, o earth.
Perhaps a worm will have a ****** birth.
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 12:51 PM UTC
My mind is consumed.
Drifting through the shadow of fear
As I protect you beneath these tears
With each tiny kick taken by surprise
Your delicate sillhouette I have come to recognize
Taking one step at a time to shape you
My angel, this is what my life has come to
Anguished spirits have withered to an end
With overflowing strength my heart offers to extend
Enhancing life with a lusterous glow
Emry Rene, always follow your heart and never let go
Confide in me, your feeling deep inside
While your path may change, you will never have to hide
Never let the worlds charming facade deceive you
I will stand by your side as we depict the view
I LOVE YOU EMRY RENE LLAMAS! <3 MOMMY
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 4:50 AM UTC
And our hands touched the water
Our heads faced the wind
We took a mental picture
Sand salt and skin
Emotions a mixture
Anxiety we've grown akin
And for a while I forgot
And I wasn't sad, I wasn't scared
If anything I was ill-prepared
As this took me by surprise
But the way the moon hit your eyes
Late Thursday night drive
You made me feel alive
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 2:28 AM UTC
PINEAPPLE LIP GLOSS
By: RENE
Not long ago
I fell in love
With her beautiful lips
I will never forget how sweet
That lingering after taste
Stayed in mouth well after she walked away
And
When
She was almost out of my eye sight
It became real cerebral melancholy of a love affair
I had misplaced
It took from me something objective
Watching her leave of absence
And
From a distance
At that very precise moment
It became a sharp piercing pain in the center of my heart
But I remember
Oh how I remember
I remember
Her
(PINE APPLE LIP GLOSS)
The way we French kissed for long periods
When I held on tightly
Tightly til midnight
The memory of her legs in white embroidery stockings
How my fingers danced with excitement
Triggering investments traveling up down her highway
I was dizzy
While tickling the measurements of her
Inner thighs
I remember this
When I was
Creating
A representation
That was supposed to last forever
The further she walked the smaller she grew in my vision
My eyes became a small rain storm drenching screaming
Pulling me away from dreaming
Away from my world as I had become too know it
I
Didn’t know what to say now
Like words on a black board being erased
I was at a loss for words
So I held on to the memory
Of
Her
(PINE APPLE LIP GLOSS)
The way we French kissed for long periods
No air escaping
Imprisoning our tongs
My own
Perfect example I visualize an imagine
I create in my mind the ability to conceive my own embodiment
A pine apple salad with the juices flowing over
When we touched each other’s lips
Among other things!
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC
A wild fire.
Dripping paint on an open canvas.
Colorful, inspiring, vibrant.
Breathing life into art.
Bold. Strong. Straight forward.
Her words powerful. Her thoughts matter.
She was born a leader.
Her eyes deep pools of water,
far more lies beneath the surface.
Silent laughter, searching eyes,
she is tough as nails,
but her compassion runs deep.
Socks her best friend, and food her true love.
She is beautiful and she knows it.
An unforgettable character,
beloved like an old classic.
Challenge her, support her,
she carries herself without conflict.
A memorable person, and a best friend.
Love,
Sara Ashley
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
* dedicated to Rene Magritte *
An image of my grandmother
her head appearing upside-down upon a cloud
the cloud transfixed on the steeple
of a deserted railway-station
far away
An image of an aqueduct
with a dead crow hanging from the first arch
a modern-style chair from the second
a fir-tree lodged in the third
and the whole scene sprinkled with snow
An image of a piano-tuner
with a basket of prawns on his shoulder
and a firescreen under his arm
his moustache made of clay-clotted twigs
and his cheeks daubed with wine
An image of an aeroplane
the propellor is rashers of bacon
the wings are of reinforced lard
the tail is made of paper-clips
the pilot is a wasp
An image of the painter
with his left hand in a bucket
and his right hand stroking a cat
as he lies in bed
with a stone beneath his head
And all these images
and many others
are arranged like waxworks
in model bird-cages
about six inches high.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 9:19 PM UTC
Her hands are neither soft
nor attractive.
They are a white fish belly from too
little time in the sun.
Her nails are stubby and unadorned.
Her fingers are tentacles projecting
unnaturally from undersized palms,
tips rough and calloused.
I must stare
I cannot help myself
Then it begins.
The movement.
The tentacles scamper here and there.
They reach
They touch
They pound and poke
and stretch and crawl
and in their grotesque fury
teach me to love.
Mozart and Chopin
Prokofiev and Bach
The piano is a time machine
transforming the tiny practice room
into the mighty concert halls
of Vienna and Prague.
From the gallery I am
entranced by rhapsodies
seduced by nocturnes
and consumed by symphonies.
I murmur,
does the music stir your soul?
She glances up
briefly
and returns to work.
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 12:11 AM UTC
I promise you that we will make love
On a bed full of philosophy books
So that the depth of our hunger
Matches the depth of our thinking
Every press of my nail upon your flesh
Will have you question your existence
You'll feel more alive with every thought
Then you will understand Rene Descartes
Our smoldering bodies radiating pleasure
Will have you disregard the material world
This passion will posses the highest reality
Then you'll understand Plato's forms
Amidst my guidance toward your ******
You will hold values and aspirations close
And form your most perfect self with me
Then you'll understand Friedrich Nietzsche
On this bed full of marvelous thoughts
We will lay tangled exhausted overjoyed
For our love our lust and our everything
Will have the immensity of philosophy itself
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
jeg ønsker et liv fyldt med roser
lyserødt papir i skrivemaskiner, samlet i en bog
kærlighed kærlighed kærlighed
magoritter, tusindfryd, susanne med det sorte øje
fuglesang, solen - gennem blafrende blade
en rislen fra åen
kys og varm hud, afslappet og blidt
hængekøjer i solen
karbade
bål og stjerneklare nætter
sejlture og forlystelser
latterkramper og søvnig glæde
hvide, rene flader og saftige grønne planter
sæbeduft, overskud
tidlige morgener, sort the, appelsiner
fotografier og broderi og maleri
ansvar og tillid og fællesskab
viden og nysgerrighed og åbenhed
måneskin og gåture
vinyler og vin
genbrugstøj i alverdens lettere afblegede farver
dristige outfits, personlighed
blommefarvet øjenskygge, kongeblå jakker
friske lagner
støvfrit, skinnende
glæde og tilpashed
uden arbejdsmarkedets brusende angstprovokation
uden ensomheden
uden dem
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
Clean shaven, bowler-hatted, crisp-suited men
are spattered across the canvas,
with stiffened spines,
vertebrae militarily ordered,
Plunging toward the ground,
not falling,
plunging,
leaden,
from a sky the color of a smokers’ lungs,
gray and blue from lack of oxygen,
sputtering them out.
They seem not to notice.
Blank-faced, easy-armed, composed,
they seem not to notice they are doomed
to be piles of splintered bones
webbed with sinew and lumps of skin,
Thinking as they head toward the ground,
praying,
“If I pretend it’s not happening,
maybe I’ll be okay”
from the heartless pavement,
gravity with the whole world behind it,
yanking them like teeth from the air.
Only a few clenched fists betray their terror.
Or,
the
Choking, muted, and embittered city
could be letting them go,
allowing them to evaporate
back to the sky where they belong,
Welcoming them home, that sky,
not with violence,
welcoming,
gently,
to a sky where ennui is beautiful,
star after star after star,
whispering that they are important, splendid, lovely.
One can only hope.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 10:41 PM UTC
'"Cause I'm your lady
And you're my man
Whenever you reach for me
I'll do all that I can"
Just found out—
Celine Dion's man
Her husband, Rene Angelil
Passed away last Thursday
The love between them
Had always been louder
Than a whisper
And they were never far away
But not this time, I feel sad
According to her
He was her many guiding angels
Her only "boyfriend"
Although he was much older
She doted him like a mother
Figure, and he allowed her
In public, many kisses
Tender touches
Theatric renewed vows
All full of Titanic's fondness
Now I've realized
Only in love, a man owns
A woman, and a woman can
Own a man. Love, and love only
A lot of affections involved
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 12:08 AM UTC
på fredag
tømmer vi endnu
en papvin
og lægger vores
rene uskyld
i hænderne
på beskidte drenge
fylder
vores lunger
med røg
vores hjerter
med håb
og glemmer
at drømme
ikke varer evigt
som røgen pustes ud
forbliver håbet
selv efter han
har vasket sine hænder
er du plettet
og præcis
som din samvittighed
kan du ikke vaskes ren
du er ikke hel
du er i stykker
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
This is something I wrote to be read at my Cousin Rene's funeral.
Oh My! I'm zooming down the Spanish coast... dipping my toes in the Med.
But you might find me on a Cornish Campsite drinking Pina Coladas instead.
Or it could be me, arm-in arm with good pals in pre-war summers... painting Withernsea red!
To all of those who saw me through the darker days I am thankful that you helped & guided...
Oh My! ...But I'm better now... I'm free... it's been a trying time, but once again... I can be me!
And there's something else I've just realised. Do you know what? I can see!
The last few years haven't been kind to me. Apparently I hadn't been making much sense.
I knew inside what I wanted to say... being with me must have made people nervous... tense.
But now the pressure's lifted, for loved ones and for me.
I was ready - went on too long. Now I'm on the 'other side'.
From now you’ll hear me on the wind in the trees and my whispers, in the surf and the tide.
I'm pain free, light and frothy again, teetering on heels... I’m a dizzy apricot blonde... No need for me to hide...
I might even drop in on you as I'm told you can... to say a quick thanks for all who helped - or tried...
Oh My!... and yes....people to thank? It's like an Oscar speech...
there's a list....but amongst all one stands out... shines like a star...
My Chef... my Chauffeur... my Ears.... my Eyes... my Angel... my Wingman... My Ken!
By my side through bad times, the good times and all those difficult bits... Not the now - but the then...
My Multi-tasker, My Carer...My Rock... My 'Rock & Roller'...
I remember we used to jive way back when...
And as the old song goes, I'm sure ... We’ll meet again!
Oh My!
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 8:57 AM UTC
Jeg er ******* furious
På renden til døden
En pine i skallen
Vores samfund er af pacifisme
Du bliver smidt ud hvis du krummer hår
Du bliver smidt i spjældet hvis du ******* slår
Jeg lover dig min kære
Du er ikke alene
Vi skal lige have noget på det rene
Mit alu-bat rammer dit klamme fjæs
Og jeg råber til jeg bliver ******* hæs
Du er så ******* imbecil
At jeg får lyst til at skyde dig med en pil
Dine grimme bryn og snottede tryne
Ja fandme om du skal gemme dig under din dyne
For du har gjort mig farlig
Og bare roligt det er ikke arveligt
Men jeg smadrer dit kranie
For det eneste du snakker om
Er dit ******* terrarie
Din stemme piver i mit hoved
Jeg brænder dig sort af sod
Min kære lille mide
Hold kæft jeg får dig til at lide
Bare vent og se
Jeg kommer til at le
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
din historie rodfæster en sandhed i mig
om cigarrøg og fremmede mennesker
deres magt over kønnet og min krop
i forestillingen;
jeg mister arme
jeg ser mit kød hvordan det forsvinder
(det nemme er at falde fra)
indersiden af låret
mavens rundhed brysternes buen ansigtets rene træk
mine læber; deres måde at skille på
nu vender jeg dem altid på vrangen før jeg går ud
i alle disse berøringer
disse berøringer
i én smeltet masse af hud og hår
*
I just want you to know (jeg ser ikke længere hendes ansigt)
i minderne;
kun krop
kun krop
kun krop
*
der vokser et svigt i mig
i mine øjenvipper
når jeg græder tårer som rammer andres hudlag
diffunderer
fra væske til følelse til en berøring to mennesker imellem
vores relation er ikke andet end tag på hud
og afstumpede nik gennem bevoksede ***
*
I metroen;
altid metroen et ikke *** vi kører imod
et transportmiddel der opsluger. du kan se det i øjnene på disse ”mennesker” i ikke-rummet.
og ud på skinnerne, de drømmer, stigende over kanten. En stemme;
attention à la marche en descendant du train
og jeg retter opmærksomhed, for jeg stoler mere og mere på stemmer uden ansigter
på højtalermagt
end på alle de mennesker, jeg kender.
*
I metroen;
jeg er så træt af at være træt af hans opførsel
catcalling som fænomen, der stammer fra metroens ikke-rum
det må det gøre !
den opslugende kraft, han kan lugte den den hænger i luften,
og alle er usikre
må man gerne efterlade sit liv inden man stiger ind?
attention à ton corps et ta voix
du ved aldrig hvilket ansigt han bærer
*
det er en forventning om at være utilpas, der bor i mig.
en forventning om
at blive catcallet
at mærke fremmede mænds hænder på min krop
at iklæde mig tøj jeg tør gå alene hjem i
at sove på gulvet hos venner for at undgå natbussen
*
jeg ved godt
at ikke alt er mit eget valg
*
og jeg brækker mig i metroen i en uber på gaden i min egen opgang
og jeg skammer mig over skammen
den skam forbundet med fremmedes ord og handlinger
*
du ventede engang på boulevard Saint-Denis
og en mand spurgte dig om hvor meget du kostede for at være hans
én hel nat
og det tog mig én hel dag at forstå din tavshed overfor ham
han kan ikke gå og forvente at alle kvinder på gaden potentielt kan være hans til den rette pris
VI EJER IKKE HINANDEN
OG JEG ER TRÆT AF MIG SELV
NÅR JEG LØBER VEJEN FRA MIN METRO TIL MIN HOVEDDØR
og ånder lettet op
bag en låst dør
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 9:08 AM UTC
A name so colors one, is anyone satisfied with
a nomenclature such as Myrtle or Prudence or
a name that shouts out a particular feature:
like Hogg, or ****
Who the hell is as lucky as Rene Descartes
or 'scuse me , my favorite, Blaise
Pascal. Wow. I wanna name me next newborn
Papa, see what becomes
do his pals
make fun.
Or, will he or she
suffer
under letters small
and
significant.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
Videoen af dig og mig florerer stadig rundt i mit hoved, mine tanker, i mit sind, men var de egentlige følelser i videoen ægte
- eller det rene opspind?
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
Her family is crazy and the little girl runs wild
One older sisters and a boy who's 17 years old
She is old enough to see the way it's going
Somewhere the birds are singing
But for now she will not be alone
She needs her lover, but she takes a boy
This boy was not a friend, he shows no friendship
This boy just waited around to play
But he played too serious, he plays too rough
How can you expect her to understand
The sickness of a world whose eyes are blind?
she is just a little girl inside
But the dying little girl inside this woman is questioning her once upon a times
She is running too early in this loveless world
To young but she found what she needed in the arms of an older boy
She's got a couple things to hide from mother
She hopes she'll understand, But she hopes she'll change
How can you expect a child to understand
The sickness of a world whose eyes are blind?
She is just a little girl
A world she cannot hope to conquer,
Insecurities that fester in her mind
She is just a little girl inside
A bad choice, her fault, and no way out, she'll not blame
All guilt, tears, no cure, but she says no crime
She is just a little girl inside
The dying little girl inside this woman is questioning
Her once upon a time
The girl will be a strong woman--but for now she is getting weaker
She carries her shame inside
Her parents stay away and face nothing
They are blindly wishing for a happy ending
How can you expect a child to understand
The sickness of a world whose eyes are blind?
She was once a little girl
A world she cannot hope to conquer,
Insecurities that fester in her mind
She was once a little girl
A choice, a fault, and no way out, will not blame....
The dying little girl inside this young woman is questioning
her once upon a time
But she was once just a little girl
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
"I think therefore I am" Descartes once said
But with no thought left is one then dead?
For now, my head is full of thought
Some is random and some was taught
I fight so hard to keep it full
Against inevitable ageing's pull
I'll write my words, do crosswords too
Anything that will stir my stew
I'll fight it every which way too
By always finding things to do
But if it finally comes to pass
You'll find me in the old long grass.
In the warren that is my mind
I remember that I must be kind
Ere long will I remember that
Growing frail is such a ****
©Joe Wilson - Frailty... 2014
"Cogito ergo sum" "Je pense, donc je suis" Rene Descartes (31 March 1596 – 11 February 1650)
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC
Mød mig på de rene linjer
Dans på de mørke gulve
Skab ro hvor uroen hvisker
Mal mine tanker hvide
For de er så sorte
Dans med tanken om lykke
Til de ulykkelige toner
Kron de ukronede
Og tal til de fremmede lyde
Vogt dig for de forbandede
Og fri dig fra noget andet
Hvisk til mig, fortæl at alt er okay
Tys på mine fordomme og alt der
Høre med
Fortæl mig at livet er farligt
Og at jeg skal tage den med ro
Mød mig hætteklædt
Og klæd mig på
Til livets omstændigheder
Og uheldigheder
Mød mig på linen hvor de danser
Selvom der ik er plads til flere end to
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 4:21 PM UTC
duften havde brændt sig fast
som det brændmærke jeg havde på håndleddet
og jeg så dig stadig
på tågede torsdage
jeg tænkte
om duften nogensinde ville gå væk
for selvom den summende lyd
stadig er der
er jeg i tvivl
om jeg er
summende
.....
og jeg talte regndråberne
i flere dage
*** fortalte mig at det var fint
fint
og jeg vidste, at alt jeg skrev
var rene indtryk fra virkeligheden
som ingen sammenhæng havde
med hvad der i virkeligheden foregik
for selvom den summende lyd
stadig er der
er jeg i tvivl
om jeg er
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 3:50 PM UTC