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Robert C Ellis Nov 2018
Hot air takes feathers and a dare
That you’ll fly above Time
And Gravity that dissolves muscular
Cells into the infinity vacuuming
Our minds hollow with declarations of religion, sanity,
Vanity clipped by the whirring bones wearing into the
Thin veneer of an altar doused with acetylene
Sunlight through molested glass
How indestructible are we cast?
We porcelain spirits, will we outlast
The trees that eat our ashes
In the cemetery?
As we scream through the stars
In terminal velocity?
Does it survive our
detonating chemistry sets intact?
The Salt Water heart,
Benzene Minds oxygen struck
With carbon sticks to power Time
In repetitive chest flexes
That beat our will to death?
I ask... and God reminds
Bohemian Feb 10
'When nights shall be drunk
And souls be tumbling in revelry
When the comic of roles end
And cold shall be burning
I await to call the utmost illegitimate side of us
As my penchanted pleasure
For you be semisane
Caught half into adulthood and rest you know...
Neither you nor me or they
Be sceptical or carrying the peels of scruples
Cné Jul 2017
I sit and read the HP site
and observe a teardrop's course
Engaged in deepest revelry
and when it dies, remorse.

I listen to the rustle of the rhymes
in swaying Poetrees...
And revel in the sweet caress
of every whispered breeze

The sweetness of a sentence
every stanza, works of art
The rhymes that touch my soul
and lo, the rhythm that beats from heart.

The lullabies so sweet and soft
that gentle me to sleep
The love tributes, as I nod off
while counting them as sheep.
I love reading all your words of art. Thank you, HP poets and poetess'
Pagan Paul Dec 2018
Kalypso sports within the waves
luring sailors to watery graves
but if they make it to her isle
there they may tarry for a while.

Food and wine are given a'plenty,
they are rocked into **** so gently,
Nymph, Maidens, Bacchanalian revelry
lead the sailors into darkest devilry.

*** and sin are openly displayed,
a salacious procession, ***** parade,
And all men their vices expressed
seek the comfort of Kalypso's breast,
her hospitality soothes, allays their fears
as she slowly steals away their years.

© Pagan Paul (05/12/18)
ryn Oct 2014
It's a dance
It really is
Skip and prance
Lifelong practice

Loop of songs
Never ending
Of various genres
Life is playing

There's the spotlight
World is awaiting
Pressure of eyes
Silently watching

Take your place
Assume your position
Execute with finesse
And flawless precision

Spin your pirouettes
Don't get dizzy
Maintain your poise
In this revelry

Along comes a partner
Present as a duo
The game now altered
From when you were solo

Two bodies now
Move in unison
Reciprocate and reply
Through steps made in heaven

Flighty feet
Intertwined bodies limbre
Sweet little performance
Elapsing into forever

With grace of ballet
Each other you'd catch
Intimate display
Think you've found your match

There'll come such time
Both will not be in sync
Episodes of missteps
Push you to the brink

Alone again
Or switch of partners
Find solace in groups
Still dancing for answers

Dancing with others
Much you can learn
From hip hop to the waltz
Together or in turn

Try to adapt
To different styles
Soak up all you can
May take a while

I've danced all my life
Can't say that I've mastered
Fair share of jeers
And accolades I've garnered

Always clumsy
Exceedingly awkward
Tripping and falling
Barely proceeding forward

It's just this dance
One with syncopated beats
It's just this prance
That my gait can't meet
It's just this stance
I often use as retreat
I realised in a glance
That I have...but

**two left feet
Temporal Fugue Dec 2018
She doesn't understand
my heart upon sleeve
I'll never ever leave her
something she won't believe
my cuts ever part of me
as blood within my veins
every single part of me
her love her kiss, sustains
I'll never be the revelry
or the heaven she desires
but every single part of me
the fuel upon
her fires
Mustapha Olokun Nov 2018
the chevy hard knock.
varied origins of afro youth,
in the tint of dark,
in the Havana rock.

rich rock in the palm,
pummels in the trunk,
and the narrow cracks
of La Habana funk.

rugged daughters,
draw the physical art,
sons form the
majestic canvas.

trumpet songs,
echo her soul tonight,
and she wails at hints
of the mornings right.

driven on the uneven black,
is hope of excitement.
curiosity risen from the street,
of opportunities coveted.

what more, in Cuba,
to live and die,
to love and feel,
to suffer and sweat.

It is all beautiful,
and it is all classic.

eyes beholding
futbol on corners,
tough children, play much
on rough dust.

a Cubana, with skin
as buttered chocolates,
crossing from shade to sun,
****, and gracious.

tonight is loading,
buffering the cigar smokes,
the groovy 76 being shoved
with memory and revelry.

Here, in Havana.
sound is telling
a living story,
an active pleasure.

.. and it is all classic.
All classic.
In Havana.
For imagery of an upcoming musical piece.
Glass Jul 2018
the quotations are phases
from "maldaption and urgency" to carnal a glass of
pinot noir
that nothing is correspondent or vociferous; but I had reality
explaining this is not the way to live with 'detailed confusion'
I held onto a predilection
reddening dawn and a distinct revelry along side techniques and melancholics
mishearing about the london life,
meanwhile it's a different situtation at home, and I need
a dictionary to emphazie the
term psychological trauma, because
the mourning is yet
to arrive

- G
Always Never - Dangerous
Robert C Ellis Aug 2018
Tin minutes; shimmering
Hanging from a Christmas tree
No weight as you breathe
Them and
Time shrugs its shoulders
At the revelry
Time exists inside the wind
Taking everything
BJ Donovan Oct 2018
Christ. Party of 13. Your Table's Ready

  The Olive Garden. He reserved the banquet room.
  This was a grand night. The eve of events unleashed
  upon an unsuspecting world. His trusted friends
  gathered for a rousing farewell they knew nothing
  about. Most thought it was a celebration of their
  growing popularity. Rebel rock stars bucking the
  system. A night of revelry, debauchery and ******.
  He knew better. Bitter wine. Stale bread. Betrayal.
  Eat, drink, be well, for tomorrow we may die.
He said he had a big day. Judas kissed goodbye.
Is it too much blasphemy? I'm a God fearing man with a heart of gold. I like the message that Jesus preached. I don't have much respect for the catholic church in which I was raised. Do what you will with this.
Lately I feel weighed down
as chocolate coated brown.
I taste sweet, a cherry lollipop,
fizzy as orange soda-pop.
But inside I’m dissonant ebony,
masked in shrouds of revelry.
I bask all day in purple haze.
Run amok in a cornfield maze,
behind yellow walls of acid rain,
indelible as a port-wine stain.
Smell the smokiness of me.
I’m a jar of potpourri.
Kail Nov 2018
This senseless self-preoccupation
sends me straight to ****
and I can’t tell if it’s your fault or mine
it’s fine either way, I’m not sure I care at this point
I’m just tired of every piece of my life feeling so painfully out of joint
my heart conjoined with assumed opinions and criticism that even Satan would call excessive

And I push you away like you put this on me
that you expect me to be just like everybody else
or maybe that perspective veils the reality that I know I was made for more than this
******* away my time and energy worrying about if I measure up to what you expect of me

I mean, you want me to look like your firstborn son
how can I even begin to measure up to that after everything I’ve done?
or at least this is the tape I run repeatedly in my head
And in a way it’s like I dread hearing anything besides it
because if I hear a different sound
I’m bound to bigger responsibility and I’m pushed to the brink

And I find myself sinking beneath the terrible thought that you’re disappointed in me
That you find me disgusting and can’t wait to be rid of me
But while I’m making self-pity my revelry I so often fail to see the devilry of my thoughts
not catching that I’m thinking way more highly of my brokenness than I ought
and we’ve fought over this more times than I can count,

I know.

God, how many more times do you have to show me that the way I think just doesn’t work?
How many more times will you remind me I’m not loved because it’s earned?
That Jesus took on the curse that I deserved
I’ve read and heard the story a thousand times
even though I forget it at the drop of a dime
so remind me again, I don’t have to try so hard
to be the son you want and that...

you’re not nearly as far away from me as I think you are
I often feel like a bad son. But what I feel and what is true often don’t mesh together.
Johnson Jul 2018
Though I shouldn’t engage
I cannot help but to feel
The best parts of me
Encased in your seal

Like a bear snared in a trap
Wrenching in pain alone
I cannot remove myself from her
As her back slowly turns

What I wish will never be
For the times we shared
And eloquent words spoke
Forever embedded in my mind
As alone I begin to choke

As I watch you depart
I slowly burn inside
With the memories that remain
Nothing left to fear
But a hollow disdain

So haunted am I
In some mysterious haze
As I hear her glorious song
Though the taste is different
It never seems to linger for long

As stagnant as I am
I cannot look away
As you slip off to revelry
And violently swept into another’s gaze

So alone I am to sink
Violently into the night
Holding on to the dead carcass
As I seek what was never mine

For what I want to do I don’t
And what I don’t I do
A part of me is carried of in the distance
Left with the stunning memories of you
Please call back later,
I'm busy celebrating,
Don't have time for you.

That is why I'm here,
It's time to pay the piper,
For your revelry.

I'll go if I must,
You can take my life but not,
The dances I've danced.
My dad in reminiscing about his younger years used to say "Qien me quita lo bailado" a phrase he learned after emigrating to Argentina from Spain. Roughly translated it means, "Who can take away from me the dances I've danced?" All we have can be taken from us, including our lives, but not the good times shared with good friends which is precisely what he meant. That is the basis of my linked haikus here. May you and mom long dance in heaven, dad.
Simon Soane Dec 2018
In 1410 the village of Little Darling was a pretty nice place to live,
it’s houses were stout and wonderful and the people had lots to give,
the lord who owned the area was benevolent, he never ruled with an iron claw,
he spoke with softness and kindness, not knowing a cajoling roar,
he left the people to get on with their lives, unless they needed a helping hand
and then he’d be there to provide a peg up somewhere in his land.
Because of this the folk who made home here had it better then most peasants from this time,
who were condemned to a life of grinding servitude as if their living was a crime,
they were happier and joyful and free from the toil of subjugate,
each second was a pleasure and every minute spent first rate,
however there was one thing they shared with those who spent every day under the cosh;
everyone was filthy, no one liked to wash.
Only about once every 10 days would they pull bathing water from the well,
If they were especially filthy and their stink they wished to quell,
the rest of the time they didn’t care that they resembled a muddy shrub,
or their faces were still covered in last weekend’s off grub,
nor did they think it mattered if their hair was a matted mucky mess
or that compost heap didn’t smell more than their locks, it actually smelt less,
to them water was mainly a drink when their mouths were feeling parched and shoddy,
not a soothing liquid  with which to  cleanse their body.
Everyone in Little Darling didn’t mind being ***** and looking a unhygienic fright,
actually not everyone, everyone’s not quite right.
Alice always wondered why folk didn’t wash
and that’s not because she wanted everyone to be pretty, pristine and posh,
she just pondered as she daily made herself all gleam,
“why does nobody else round here care about being clean?
They all wallow around in their own filth like a burrowed germ,
more buried in soil than a busy earth worm,
I don’t get when there is plentiful water from wells not that far away
why don’t they dose themselves in the aqua good at any point in the day?
She thought, “Of course it’s their own life and if you never harm anyone else you can never do anything wrong,
but how how how can they fester in their own awful pong?”
So every day Alice would get up before she heard the going to work bell
and go and fetch some water to cleanse herself of smell,
she’d make herself all fresh and totally sans of grit and straw
and revel in the gleam she had coming out of every pore.
Everyone else in Little Darling all thought Alice was great,
a truly smashing lass who had tons of friends and mates,
yeah sometimes they’d remark to her “I don’t get your penchant for keeping yourself immaculate if I had to say
but who cares, I love you, have a fantastic day!”
And yes due to the mud in the village sometimes Alice would get herself all shiny and within a couple of hours look like she’d just crawled out of a cave,
but she didn’t mind as starting the day with a sparkle was what she did crave!
One fine day the folk of Little Darling decided to throw a big party as they adored a drink, a chat and a jive,
just have a massive night of  dancing, where they could give appreciation for being alive,
as Little Darling was a ace place they invited another village to join in the hedonism,
as they wanted folk to bask in hours through a wonderful prism!
When Alice heard news of the shindig she let out a chirping coo,
as revelling in the realm of fun was what she was really made to do!
As the week whiled to an end the day of the party came,
Alice could hardly contain herself as carousing ran through her brain,
she picked out her favourite garments feeling all of a super gathering quiver,
and then full of beans moseyed on down to the river,
she washed away with gusto and dressed all primed to go out,
“I’m on my way to get down and groove!” was her gleeful shout.
She started making her path to the good times, feeling all content,
she couldn’t wait to be immersed in the hub of blazing merriment,
as she was walking to the barn where the party was she encountered others making their journey to fun,
lit they all were by the going down sun,
someone said “hey Alice, I reckon you’ve spent an eternity scrubbing yourself for this bash”,
another said “yeah, I bet you’ve wasted hours by the river to get yourself prepared for this night on the lash!”
Alice replied and remarked, “yes I may have used my time getting myself ready and not been able to enjoy the chills and sits
but at least I don’t have hay in my hair like you ******* smelly *****!”
Everyone burst out laughing and happy all skipped to the revelry,
the slow dusk sky reflecting calm as far as the eye could see.
They jaunted into the barn with the music already in full swing,
the harp, drum, lute and trumpet players all doing their tuneful thing,
Alice grabbed a jar of foaming ale and started moving her body to the beats,
each noise in the air a consummate amazing treat!
Then from out of the corner of her eye she spotted a guy with dancing around in the air,
who'd cleaned his garb,
and washed his hair!
Alice thought "Wow! That guy doesn't look like his stench would make my opticals weepy,
in actual fact he makes my heart all leapy!"
They saw each other and felt swirls and sparks,
a knowing of what could and will be lover’s larks,
a chance they both knew could never be missed
and finalised their first look synchronicity with a longing kiss.
Everybody else stopped,
turned to look,
and knew a little bit more about
loves' rushing roars,
and couldn't help but breaking out
into a round of applause.
Alice felt a dawn,
reciprocated the smile of her fresh guy
and hand in hand they left the barn,
on their lips a glimpse of forever,
and went to find a empty stable,
where they could become all
***** together.
alacrity has always eluded
me; always the dumbstruck
drunk stumbling through
the realization that his revelry
is past it's shelf life
and immediately forgetting
what it felt like.

displaced perpetual.

still, i write love songs to
the hum of an empty fridge
for no-one in particular;
call it a romance or
call it pathetic.

i couldn't care if i wanted to.

even the sun becomes a myth
to the anyone who stares
at it long enough.

so i'm ok with it.
all of it.

at least, that is what i tell myself
over and over until even
the love songs stop
Once the sun rose in the south
like the fowl by the same name
regular enough to set a watch
this ascension of desire’s push
promising much as consequence
if the eye can be believed
even as the owner sleeps
still embraced by wanton dreams

then to wake against the day
asking rutting in payment
to witness god’s greatest gift
bequeathed to eager supplicants
to sate the fire that burns within
the showers pelt in response
by sparse cloud’s drizzling
or the tempest’s drowning fist

this revelry in dawn’s face
expected at daybreak’s light
is now left behind in the years
with only pain to end the night
the sun has set forever more
no longer rising like days of yore
and while the fowl may share the name
no crow is heard at first of day.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190203.
The poem “The Sun Rose” is a very metaphorical piece about the changes of time.
Arianna Mar 9
String the harp, O Bard!
The red threads of Fate, having fallen to thy hands,
Raise the dead in song.

Unnamed names become immortal at thy touch,
Fragmented voices fill the graveyards with veiled polyphonies
Etched between the ridges of fingers deft,
Faultless, bounding down the scales
Before flying again to their heights.

Oracle of the great halls,
The words of Muses, gods, and poets alike
Fall on ears deafened with wine and revelry,
Heedless, though one day they too
Shall wail beneath thy fingers.
"Black Horse: Mongolian Traditional Music" album:


Peire Vidal - "S'ieu fos en cort"

Claude Marti - "L'Agonie du Languedoc" album

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