"repetoire" poems - Hello Poetry

If yesterday was an old man, He would be old by now. His hair and lashes would Be full of shining grey hair And walking with a Kane. He would probably be frail And proudly speaking of the Good old days marred with Conquests and exploits from From his youthful adventures. The intricate details of his flamboyant Years and youthful antics and shenanigans would bring sparkles To his old wrinkled face. There would be tears in his eyes When lamenting on love and sorrows... Squinting his eyes and fumbling to Find faded photographs hidden away In ancient boxes from dusty shelves. If yesterday was an old man, He would speak between bad dentures With shaky voice of an aging legend. He would go on and on with tales Of all the places he has been and Calling the old names of cities and People long gone but alive in his Now on and off and fading memories. He would talk about voyages taken aboard old vessels packed with ancient Cargoes and Slaves and whale oil barrels. He would recount stories of monsters At sea and great beasts that once roamed the earth when it was young And green and void of pollution. About places and people and various Cultures ,would be captivating stories That young people would only imagine and listen in absolute awe, almost to a point of envy for his rich stories of a good life once lived in the past. If yesterday was an old man, he would have a repetoire of ancient skills and knowledge that no one has today.He would talk about locomotives and steamships captained by bearded old sailors with horse drawn couches driven by hardened cowboys and couch men. If yesterday was an old man, he would talk about world war one and two like it was just yesterday. If yesterday was an old man, he would know more of yesterday than today. #IvanBrooksPoetry ©️ 4.16.2019

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Apr 17, 2019

Apr 17, 2019 at 4:24 PM UTC

Vanguard-Poetry23

If Yesterday Was An Old Man

If yesterday was an old man, He would be old by now. His hair and lashes would Be full of shining grey hair And walking with a Kane. He would probably be frail And proudly speaking of the Good old days marred with Conquests and exploits from From his youthful adventures. The intricate details of his flamboyant Years and youthful antics and shenanigans would bring sparkles To his old wrinkled face. There would be tears in his eyes When lamenting on love and sorrows... Squinting his eyes and fumbling to Find faded photographs hidden away In ancient boxes from dusty shelves. If yesterday was an old man, He would speak between bad dentures With shaky voice of an aging legend. He would go on and on with tales Of all the places he has been and Calling the old names of cities and People long gone but alive in his Now on and off and fading memories. He would talk about voyages taken aboard old vessels packed with ancient Cargoes and Slaves and whale oil barrels. He would recount stories of monsters At sea and great beasts that once roamed the earth when it was young And green and void of pollution. About places and people and various Cultures ,would be captivating stories That young people would only imagine and listen in absolute awe, almost to a point of envy for his rich stories of a good life once lived in the past. If yesterday was an old man, he would have a repetoire of ancient skills and knowledge that no one has today.He would talk about locomotives and steamships captained by bearded old sailors with horse drawn couches driven by hardened cowboys and couch men. If yesterday was an old man, he would talk about world war one and two like it was just yesterday. If yesterday was an old man, he would know more of yesterday than today. #IvanBrooksPoetry ©️ 4.16.2019

39

This is a precursor to everything to come in the next year. I believe if I begin to focus on stream of consciousness writing, my content may begin to resemble that of Bukowski or Poe but hopefully not as rapaciously violent or ominously insane. More specifically, I figure in my own storytelling fashion I will account my platonic relationships gone awry based on false pretenses established by reputation of the "societal self". As well as the romantic relationships that I so eagerly sabotage(d) believing in the assigned repetoire cast upon me by others who believed in seductive over deductive reasoning. When someone calls you something for long enough, you begin to believe it. But unlike others, I can't drown my demons because they know how to swim. I seek catharsis and self definition. I seek growth and competency. I seek understanding, and I seek to turn my version of insanity into something that others can relate to or translate.

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Feb 12, 2015

Feb 12, 2015 at 3:29 AM UTC

SleepingPewty

life goes on

This is a precursor to everything to come in the next year. I believe if I begin to focus on stream of consciousness writing, my content may begin to resemble that of Bukowski or Poe but hopefully not as rapaciously violent or ominously insane. More specifically, I figure in my own storytelling fashion I will account my platonic relationships gone awry based on false pretenses established by reputation of the "societal self". As well as the romantic relationships that I so eagerly sabotage(d) believing in the assigned repetoire cast upon me by others who believed in seductive over deductive reasoning. When someone calls you something for long enough, you begin to believe it. But unlike others, I can't drown my demons because they know how to swim. I seek catharsis and self definition. I seek growth and competency. I seek understanding, and I seek to turn my version of insanity into something that others can relate to or translate.

1

Let me bask In the excellence. Let me wonder in the explosion And add the new colors to my pallette. This is mine Such desolation Can belong to none other This is but another ode to my craftiness. Pain is mine. I create the victim I conduct such an orchestra And all these are players on my team. I own it. All destruction That dare to befall me Only adds to my repetoire of tricks. [Please allow me to introduce myself...]

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Apr 18, 2013

Apr 18, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC

liana-veteto

I Need No Sympathy

Let me bask In the excellence. Let me wonder in the explosion And add the new colors to my pallette. This is mine Such desolation Can belong to none other This is but another ode to my craftiness. Pain is mine. I create the victim I conduct such an orchestra And all these are players on my team. I own it. All destruction That dare to befall me Only adds to my repetoire of tricks. [Please allow me to introduce myself...]

17

A green angry bottle of **** Nasty ogre of endless remiss In oozing incountenance Hammers in breathy credence Defy we they Her that say so And he that cowers in every show In so much greater they number The mess of my horrid old lumber Most definitely Me It's all that they See Despite from this efforts Being nice and Laid comforts An exhaustive dumb repetoire Of convulsive nice quagmire It is never enough Just an affliction of being Damaging Careening A car on the ice Another monsterous device In each day fro And so it must end There's no way to stop never to mend.

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Nov 7, 2017

Nov 7, 2017 at 9:58 AM UTC

dsdarlingm

Today's Note

A green angry bottle of **** Nasty ogre of endless remiss In oozing incountenance Hammers in breathy credence Defy we they Her that say so And he that cowers in every show In so much greater they number The mess of my horrid old lumber Most definitely Me It's all that they See Despite from this efforts Being nice and Laid comforts An exhaustive dumb repetoire Of convulsive nice quagmire It is never enough Just an affliction of being Damaging Careening A car on the ice Another monsterous device In each day fro And so it must end There's no way to stop never to mend.

40

the shell of a girl i once was, walks in my place with a smile, small talks from my repetoire, makes me seem worthwhile. i regret the lines i have written, remorse what i have not yet done, with the fake image i hence became smitten, no lies may second to none.

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Jul 31, 2019

Jul 31, 2019 at 7:51 AM UTC

the_fresh_b-tch_of_belair

/

the shell of a girl i once was, walks in my place with a smile, small talks from my repetoire, makes me seem worthwhile. i regret the lines i have written, remorse what i have not yet done, with the fake image i hence became smitten, no lies may second to none.

8