"roc" poems
They say come shine with us brotha
We'll make you a star
Above the life your living
Into a new beginning
They Really want you to Illuminate...
So They'll scope you out, take your talents
and you'll Illumainate..
Out of the darkness
of nothingness
the normal everyday
Into a new relm of darkness
Blinded, guided all the way,
So You'll do as they say
becasue you want their way
of lifestyle they portray,
But thats not their everyday
But You Illuminate.....
On the black and white
cause colors don't exsit
well not by themselves
just hidden in abyss
But you Illuminate....
Climbing to the top
your light can't be stoped,
As a pawn in their chess game
you just want the fame
Because you Illuminate....
You think we are not the same
And you do as they say
found no better way
to see but out one Eye
an As You Illuminate...
All You see is I
Cuz To you thats who got you there,
But they know it was them
and You so unaware
You Illuminate
For Him,
Marrying the night
with contracts that seem so right
and then Your tied to strings
To Illuminate
All there things,
the corruption of the pure
No longer your own source of power,
But they're your electricity
Causing you to Illuminate
The way they want you to be
Binded To the ROC
Universal Mind control,
But everyone Once a chance
To Illuminate The Soul....
Making this your goal
you dont understand,
They say to be great...
You Need To Illuminate....
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 11:28 AM UTC
12 BARS
Twelve brazen bars, one frozen lock!
Confined, sublime, an ancient Roc
endures inside a barren cage,
her catacomb in sundown sage.
Of former days there is no trace
except displays of fallen grace –
Twelve dreams, abiding in her place,
are free, inhabit yawning space:
12 DREAMS
... of wings unfurled, and seething eyes
that dredge the depths of dawning skies,
devining clouds that cling below,
once ice, dissolved in morning’s glow;
... of clutching winds that carry free
above an anguished leaden sea,
dispersing dust of distant stars
midst chunks of chain in slave bazaars;
... of swooping to a silent shore
to perch beside the ocean’s roar,
at last to feel the sobbing breeze
message the leaves of rooted trees;
... of stalking strays and twilight tramps
within the fog of lighthouse lamps
that blink forlorn through caldron nights
in search of shades of errant Kites;
... of darkling vast deserted lands,
with shadowed stones on windswept sands,
where ghosts of Moorish maidens lost
disgorge faint groans in mourning frost;
... of blotting out the bloated moon
while feathers beat a banshee tune
and glimmers dance and prance aglow
upon a pearly pale plateau;
... of tasting cool torrential rains,
beyond the realm of binding chains,
and sipping freedom they exude
in quite drops of solitude;
... of vanquishing a galley crew
aboard a ship in midnight dew,
beneath the pierce of seagulls' screams
that mock the strands of scarlet streams;
... of sating once an aching craw
with tearing beak, with ripping claw,
and echoed by an eldritch screech
while feasting on abandoned beach;
... of restive thoughts and weary wings
that drift on haze in smoky rings,
obscured within the opal shroud
of her resemblance in the crowd;
... of croaking caws in broken rhyme
in winter woe, in summer clime,
while building nests of sundown sage
beyond outside a barren cage.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 8:28 AM UTC
My body rippled as I swam into the river that ran through the town,deep and muddy brown with water washed down from the hills.
And rippling, I got my wish and turned into a silvered fish with golden fins to help me swim, down, down, down and deep within and under water.
Glad I brought a snorkel tube.
With ruby eyes and skies that faded into black,I watched a rack of pilchards passing,no sooner followed by a schooner of gadding tuna who watched two angel fishes trying to copy flying fish and failing.
A sail appeared,quite weirdly in the deep which keeps its secrets free from damp,
and then a lantern shone on me, a voice boomed out,
'what make are ye,
starfish,garfish,cod or roc?
A shock to me under the sea to be accosted by a skipper with a lip of larceny and what would I answer,could it be that I should not swim in the sea?
A fish
a wish,
one unfulfilled and killing off the thought I'd ever be
a citizen
of planet sea.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
Ma faim, Anne, Anne,
Fuis sur ton âne.
Si j'ai du goût, ce n'est guères
Que pour la terre et les pierres.
Dinn ! dinn ! dinn ! dinn ! Mangeons l'air,
Le roc, les charbons, le fer.
Mes faims, tournez. Paissez, faims,
Le pré des sons !
Attirez le *** venin
Des liserons ;
Mangez
Les cailloux qu'un pauvre brise,
Les vieilles pierres d'église,
Les galets, fils des déluges,
Pains couchés aux vallées grises !
Mes faims, c'est les bouts d'air noir ;
L'azur sonneur ;
- C'est l'estomac qui me tire.
C'est le malheur.
Sur terre ont paru les feuilles !
Je vais aux chairs de fruit blettes.
Au sein du sillon je cueille
La doucette et la violette.
Ma faim, Anne, Anne !
Fuis sur ton âne.
1.5k
I feel very hopeless,
Completely worthless.
I feel the strength oozing out of me,
Pooling up on my bathroom floor- staring up mockingly.
I feel the vibrations of your voice, loud and clear,
They always know where to hit me, just like a spear.
I feel as if I do not belong anywhere I go,
I'm a laughing stock and guess who's the main attraction at this wicked show?
I feel my "loved ones" quickly drifting apart,
I was your rock but reality has crushed me down with a mighty start.
I feel the non believing eyes boring down,
None of you care as deeply as you claim, you'd rather I swallow my misery and hurriedly drown.
I feel you changing your mind about me,
I'm not the person you cleverly made me want to be.
I feel the stomps of your feet though I am thousands of miles far,
You make yourself believe you provided the necessary with a house and a car.
I feel the love I have for you slowly disintegrating,
It's funny how it's your world that is now changing.
I feel myself going crazy, completely insane,
and you're the only one who can carry that blame.
I feel the way this is going to end,
So let me get the blade, my old friend.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
"God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve."
But what if God did? What if I showed you
the lost book in that cramped hand some call Moses',
right to left (you read Hebrew, right?), the Book of Steve?
Stefan, if you're Orthodox. Esteban
if you also worship the ****** of Guadalupe,
but never mind those dark madonnas. The Book of Steve:
it's much like the rest of the Pentateuch, you'll recognize
the style, except that it was before Genesis 1
when Steve became a living soul. A lively, friendly soul:
when those animals came questing, Steve was thrilled.
He scratched their ears as he named them, puled
their ticks, asked them what they thought they should be called.
So he was scratching and chatting, naming away,
when up came Adam (Yahweh had been practicing men).
*"Hey, dude." "Hey, Adam. You think this looks
like a crocodile?" "I dunno. More like a fox?"*
They had a few beers (Yahweh's work of the day),
named five kinds of ants: Steve got carpenter,
leaf-cutter, sugar; Adam took fire and soldier.
Probably they made love, probably a lot (the world
Was young then), but the Book of Steve is demure;
Moses, or someone, drew the curtain of discretion.
When the curtain comes up, the snake
Still has brief feet, but Adam is changing the names
To better ones, and Steve’s not there. It seems
There were complaints. Stave talked to much, always on
About feelings, food, the slant of the light; sometimes
he wanted to be on top; he took the remkote, and didn’t
give it back when Adam glare. And his chest wasn’t nearly
enough like a pillow. It ws all too much.
The end of the book is torn out; there are marks of fire.
No one knows who defiled the Book of Ssteve,
But in some stories it is said that Eden has other quadrants
And that Steve is in one of them.
Stevek and the snakes with feet, and other people
Who missed the next book: the roc preening its iridescent plumes,
The unicorn lipping apples, the manticore haveint a dustabth.
They say that somewhere among the leaves of western Eden
was found a helpmeet for Steve, who was not fruitful,
who did not multiply, who had no dominion over the earth.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
We are to watch the Throne...
Not stand by as pagans throw rocks at the Throne..
Talking bout there's no church for the wild
But last time I check it was for the sick and spiritually shut down..
Those with no self control..
Those that don't know their role..
Those that have gained the world but at the sake of losing their souls
Followers aligned with the Rock of Ages...
How dare I pledge allegiance to a country yet along a Roc nation..
My Christ all white everything..
No spot no wrinkle all white wedding scene..
Every time a soul says Yes the heavens sing
Do we really understand this heaven thing..
I am talking no sin..
Peace no need for protection
No violence..no need for a weapon..
One body no racial selection..
Christ is the way to acceptance.
Hell is the place for those that reject him..
Do we really understand this hell thing.
Flesh burns fumes of sulfur dioxide
Thirsty no existence of hydroxide
Feel pain like death but cannot die..
Like swallowing a grenade destruction of your insides..
Heaven and Hell two completely different places..
Different thrones ..
Different homes.
Bliss versus eternal pain
Taking hollow tips to the dome .
Over and over again
An eternal spin cycle of torment..
We all are created with a purpose but it lays dormant..
Its sleep imagine purpose snoring..
Christ the alarm clock imagine purpose soaring . .
To some this poem is boring..
Its not about me or you, its about Gods glory...
Now I speak truth no stories.
God loves me he gives out the authority
So if I die today ..
With my footprints erased..
God creates everything I can surely be replaced..
I cling to Heaven.. Reject Hell ..
Live on earth
Walking with God..
You know there's two births..
With him two life's
Through Christ the only true right.
Watch the throne day and night..
I trust Faith and question my sight
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
Can you feel it?
Shaking the ground you pound
Rumbling bass, going super sound
Come on, and roc-da-house
As one nation in-da-house
Can you feel it?
Dancing the body you tone
With the rhythm, house nation owns
Come on, and joc-da-house
As one nation in-da-house
Can you feel it?
Rattle the space you face
With a force, sonic to your taste
Come on, and roc-da-house
As one nation in-da-house
Can you feel it?
Control the mind you own
Hypnotic, as under tones
Come on, and joc-da-house
As one nation in-da-house
Come on, let’s feel-da-noise
As one nation with a single poise
Come on, let’s feel-da-power
As one nation under heaven’s tower
Come on, let’s feel-da-groove
As house music makes you move.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 10:16 PM UTC
what's inside?
a fish? a duck? a bird of paradise? candy? lizards?
or something more exotic -
a dragon?
a platypus?
a firebird?
pterodactyl? sea serpent? roc?
maybe a village, or a girl, or a death, or all three?
eggs are wild cards. fate puts a baby [___] inside, and it claws its way out when gets impatient of sitting pretty. we are all basically eggs waiting to assume a shape and shake off a shell of past dreams and childhood nicknames.
yes they're delicate. so they can break apart when needed. so they can enclose themselves gently around a realm of potential, but it is a maze, not a prison. escape is the ultimate end. birth is the ultimate end.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
.
rocks
rocks rocks rocks
rocks rocks rocks ro
rocks rocks rocks roc
rocks rocks rocks roc
rocks rocks rocks
rocks rocks rocks
rocks rocks rocks
rocks rocks rocks
rocks rocks rocks
rocks rocks rocks
rocks rocks rocks
rocks rocks rocks
rocks rocks rocks
rocks rocks rocks
rocks rocks rocks
rocks rocks rocks
rocks rocks rocks rocks
rocks rocks rocks rocks rocks rocks
rocks rocks rocks ro cks rocks rocks rock
rocks rocks rocks rocks rocks rocks
rocks rocks rocks rocks
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
legends
of the dragon
the gorgon and the roc
the griffin \/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/
and the wily sphinx
sitting on
her rock
tales of the
ogre the banshee
and the troll, of these
I don't get weary, they do
not grow old • the harpy and the
pegasus, the fairy and the elf, I would
sit for hours pulling books down from
the shelf • I'd imagine places no one'd
ever seen, for they were within my
head, especially my dream •
I still love these images &
sometimes I go to where the
evil Smaug lies waiting in his gold
and glitt'ring lair • won't you please
come with me? together we can go
to where the river wanders \/\/\/\/\/\/
where the pace is slow
or fight for maiden's
virtue, or defeat
the lothesome
foe • or be a
faire princess
or like a dwarf
who's bold • in
the mountain of
the moon, mining
precious gold, where
you are never hungry &
you never grow old
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Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
Les mansardes de Luchon
C'était un peu comme la proue du vaisseau amiral,
et ses petits fanaux clignant de l'œil, la nuit,
luisant sur la maison comme des lumignons
Et son toit bleu d’ardoises en était embelli
et mieux, nous étions hauts, aussi hauts que la vie.
Ces «Mansardes» nous y dormions durant les saisons des curistes,
y montant doucement, respectant les consignes,
de traiter dignement les précieux locataires.
Pour Régis et pour moi, c'étaient douces manies
que nous nous gardions, de contrarier en vain.
Dans la chambrette blanche austère ou je dormais
les livres me tombaient des yeux bien après la lumière
et j'écoutais aussi, les pas sur les trottoirs
des passants noctambules qui passaient en riant
et je scrutais aussi les fenêtres d'en face.
Grand-Mère ronflait parfois dans la chambre à côté
Avec son poudrier et son eau de Cologne
exhalant des senteurs de rose et de vanille.
Dans la chambre à côte était Régis, mon frère
Qui me passait parfois la B.D, «Blé le roc».
Oh, comme je les aimais, ces modestes mansardes,
Nous étions jeunes alors, et tout était diamant :
Filles des locataires aux cheveux dénoués
ou bien nos jeux guerriers et nos arcs et nos lances
et ces folles lectures menées jusqu'au petit matin.
Paul Arrighi
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
Pulling the bow
musical notes catapulted
from the deck of the aircraft carrier
fly far into the distance
a roc flapping its wings
on the crest of a wave
a group of horses
galloping on the grassland
the strings are rigid
the bow is flexible
in between
there's smoke rising
there's the vastness of field
when the sound is just right
the sky calms down
to listen
to the jade
ancient tide.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 11:05 PM UTC
K RAJ K
Rock the Casbah!!
WOMEN I R
Rock the Casbah!!
With Men DO Thee Play
K ROC K K ROC K
Dharma
In the Sky
With Diamonds
Oh Holy Day
Crown to Stay
Crown to Stay
Tides Blood Moon
Oh Holy Say re
Thine Works Mine I's
Oh Chalice Thaame
O K Raj K O K Raj K
Our Ships are Cried
Were Hurt Afar
Return Thee Home
With Fork and Knife
Ok Rajah OK
To White this Table
Oh Holy Ghost
Ok RajG Ok
You Leave this Land
We All leave too
WithNothing left
What's ours to Do?
Return, Repent
, ReClaim, Revor@KarlLagerfeld
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 6:51 AM UTC
I wish to tame a yeti,
who will fetch me power and pride.
A mermaid in my aquarium
to showpiece beauty and love,
Sindbad's Roc bird on my command
will carry my fancies far and wide.
Then my I- a gas filled balloon
will take me beyond my dreams.
22nd.Oct.2016
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 2:37 AM UTC
Raglan Roc was a Warlock, and
He lived up on Mandrake Hill,
Up where the witches gathered
Once a month, for a coven spell,
He tended his herbal garden, growing
Mugwort, sage and ash,
Supplying the monthly coven, though
He never would deal in cash.
They paid him in philtres, magic charms,
And the odd love potion or two,
For some of the witches were younger ones,
He’d say, ‘Let’s try it on you.’
And they would giggle and ride their brooms
Right into the witching Dell,
To check out the Warlock’s magic wand
As he put them under his spell.
He didn’t believe in favourites
But welcomed more than a few,
Till half the coven had buns in the oven
And didn’t know what to do.
They got too heavy to ride their brooms
Back down to the village street,
But waddled along the cobblestones,
Tripping over their feet.
And husband’s, down in the village square
Would mutter and moan, nonplussed,
‘Here comes another, a magic mother,
It should have been one of us.
The place will be full of ankle biters
If this don’t come to a stop,
All with a set of tiny horns
And looking like Raglan Roc.’
They followed the witches up the hill
On a coven day in June,
And each one carried a baseball bat
On that sunny afternoon,
They played a tinkling game that day
On his ribs and his Warlock form,
And by the time that they went away
They’d chopped off his favourite horn.
The witches no longer go up the hill
They say it isn’t much fun,
Not since the Warlock lost his pants
And his flirting days are done.
They get their herbs from the corner shop
And they weave their spells ad hoc,
While ankle biters still roam the streets
To remind them of Raglan Roc.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 11:53 PM UTC
It’s just amazing that
A simple hat
Can transform me so
I put that pork-pie on
And the spark’s begun
So let’s start the show
-
Looking for subtle phrases
And all my graces
They seem to shine
Just wearing heart-on-sleeve
And I still believe
That the words aren’t mine
Oh
Where’d they
Come from?
Not me!
I’m dumb.
-
I play here every night
If I’m feeling right
So please come on by
My smooth responsive band
Makes it all seem planned
When they’re primed and high
-
But if you listen close
You can hear the prose
Is a bit too loose
Mark plays his tight guitar
An unheard-of star
In his wing tipped shoes
-
Oh
Who needs
An audience?
They’d be
Applauding us.
-
And I’m just fine to be here in this place
Where the rain can’t touch our chilly faces
And we can bless or we can sort of derange
We can play Roc-city for pocket change
It’s just so weird and funny that
I can be transformed by this magical hat
And I wouldn’t change a single note
As it’s ushered forth from my scratchy throat
Oct 6, 2017
Oct 6, 2017 at 7:42 PM UTC
Je voudrais être Ixion et Tantale,
Dessus la roue et dans les eaux là-bas,
Et nu à nu presser entre mes bras
Cette beauté qui les anges égale.
S'ainsi était, toute peine fatale
Me serait douce et ne me chaudrait pas,
Non, d'un vautour fussé-je le repas,
Non, qui le roc remonte et redévale.
Lui tâtonner seulement le tétin.
Echangerait l'obscur de mon destin
Au sort meilleur des princes de l'Asie :
Un demi-dieu me ferait son baiser,
Et flanc à flanc entre ses bras m'aiser,
Un de ces Dieux qui mangent l'Ambrosie.
605
Give us next summer.
Bring it on early.
Serve it to us on a silver platter.
Edged with rosebuds.
All dressed up in ****** pastel pink.
May it please be garnished with the glow of sunshine's kiss.
Bring a change unseasonal.
Such ample bounds of bliss renewed.
Totally abnormal.
Instead of tumultuous wind and rain.
Introduce the sun again.
Let us shake hands with the foxes.
They who left their gloves behind in the park.
Digitalis you know, ho,ho **
Christmas just gone.
Time for some fun.
And tickle the kittens.
Who discarded their mittens.
On butterfly bushes outside in front gardens.
Cherish the thought.
They'll be no more floods.
And food won't run short .
All the bad folk be caught.
Tied up with silly string.
Carried away by a roc on the wing.
To a land where the bees made loads of honey.
There was no need for money and people never got sick.
But then again, without pleasure or pain. I'd realise.
I'd shot myself straight through the foot.
If people weren't ill,
I wouldn't get paid.
I'd have to find another trade.
Don't know what.
My pen's all gone to ***
Time to relax.
Potentially sleep.
Night night.
(c)LIVVI
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 4:52 PM UTC
I was the I waS the
Child of thE
Most weLl known
ActrEss of all
Nobody would predict
ThAt a child
Would die so
Young.
Girl with a
RocKstar boyfriend.
I hAd the look.
aTtitude.
Really I had
It all. Until one
daY I lost every-
thiNg.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC
Pour être en vain tes beaux soleils aimant,
Non pour ravir leur divine étincelle,
Contre le roc de ta rigueur cruelle
Amour m'attache à mille clous d'aimant.
En lieu d'un aigle, un soin cruellement,
Souillant sa griffe en ma plaie éternelle,
Ronge mon cœur, et si ce Dieu n'appelle
Ma dame, afin d'adoucir mon tourment.
Mais de cent maux et de cent que j'endure
Fiché, cloué dessus ta rigueur dure,
Le plus cruel me serait le plus doux,
Si j'espérais, après un long espace,
Venir à moi l'Hercule de ta grâce,
Pour délacer le moindre de mes nouds.
473
Les pitons des sierras, les dunes du désert,
Où ne pousse jamais un seul brin d'herbe vert ;
Les monts aux flancs zébrés de tuf, d'ocre et de marne,
Et que l'éboulement de jour en jour décharne,
Le grès plein de micas papillotant aux yeux,
Le sable sans profit buvant les pleurs des cieux,
Le rocher renfrogné dans sa barbe de ronce ;
L'ardente solfatare avec la pierre-ponce,
Sont moins secs et moins morts aux végétations
Que le roc de mon coeur ne l'est aux passions.
Le soleil de midi, sur le sommet aride,
Répand à flots plombés sa lumière livide,
Et rien n'est plus lugubre et désolant à voir
Que ce grand jour frappant sur ce grand désespoir.
Le lézard pâmé bâille, et parmi l'herbe cuite
On entend résonner les vipères en fuite.
Là, point de marguerite au coeur étoilé d'or,
Point de muguet prodigue égrenant son trésor ;
Là point de violette ignorée et charmante,
Dans l'ombre se cachant comme une pâle amante ;
Mais la broussaille rousse et le tronc d'arbre mort,
Que le genou du vent comme un arc plie et tord :
Là, pas d'oiseau chanteur, ni d'abeille en voyage,
Pas de ramier plaintif déplorant son veuvage ;
Mais bien quelque vautour, quelque aigle montagnard,
Sur le disque enflammé fixant son oeil hagard,
Et qui, du haut du pic où son pied prend racine,
Dans l'or fauve du soir durement se dessine.
Tel était le rocher que Moïse, au désert,
Toucha de sa baguette, et dont le flanc ouvert,
Tressaillant tout à coup, fit jaillir en arcade
Sur les lèvres du peuple une fraîche cascade.
Ah ! s'il venait à moi, dans mon aridité,
Quelque reine des coeurs, quelque divinité,
Une magicienne, un Moïse femelle,
Traînant dam le désert les peuples après elle,
Qui frappât le rocher de mon coeur endurci,
Comme de l'autre roche, on en verrait aussi
Sortir en jets d'argent des eaux étincelantes,
Où viendraient s'abreuver les racines des plantes ;
Où les pâtres errants conduiraient leurs troupeaux,
Pour se coucher à l'ombre et prendre le repos,
Où, comme en un vivier les cigognes fidèles
Plongeraient leurs grands becs et laveraient leurs ailes.
595
Sonnet.
" D'où vous vient, disiez-vous, cette tristesse étrange,
Montant comme la mer sur le roc noir et nu ? "
- Quand notre coeur a fait une fois sa vendange,
Vivre est un mal. C'est un secret de tous connu,
Une douleur très simple et non mystérieuse,
Et, comme votre joie, éclatante pour tous.
Cessez donc de chercher, ô belle curieuse !
Et, bien que votre voix soit douce, taisez-vous !
Taisez-vous, ignorante ! âme toujours ravie !
Bouche au rire enfantin ! Plus encor que la Vie,
La Mort nous tient souvent par des liens subtils.
Laissez, laissez mon coeur s'enivrer d'un mensonge,
Plonger dans vos beaux yeux comme dans un beau songe,
Et sommeiller longtemps à l'ombre de vos cils !
318