"sayer" poems
Could I be any lamer?
This is the disclaimer
of an avid pc gamer.
The original doom sayer.
Not your average KrakPott priest
Resurrecting the deceased.
Carrying raids to keep pleased.
And a night elf none the least.
While your out chasing hoes.
I be on my MMOs
Healing tanks of heavy blows.
Mind controlling enemy foes.
Check me on my youtube channel.
In an epic arena battle.
My heals to great to handle.
Got the horde all screaming 'Scandal!'
My reality was so droll
that I decided to re-roll.
Maybe next I'll be a troll
to fill this empty hole.
Could I be any lamer?
This is my disclaimer.
An avid PC gamer.
The original Doom Sayer.
The End Is Near!!! 0o
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
A message heart delivered by a musing troubadour
left footprints upon a well weathered rivers’ rocky shoal
the lazy days of the summer’s simmering
ethereal breezes lazily waft astir
Unknown distance ‘tween yonder skies azure;
thoughts of nebulous distances fearlessly ignored to be sure,
connectedness sown and deference’s soar from high above,
yet beyond vast breadth afar the great divide
His brimful heart in hand fulfills passersby thirst
needing love here, hearts on sleeves sincere,
wellspring sensibilities handed out willingly here
voids filled by word of quill …
right now is the known needed time
Glasses half empty suffused to their half full brims;
do unto others you will reap just what ye sow,
a poet beyond the bounds of his own demure,
bearing immense understanding
The quintessential essence of family love
drips from heart like heavens rain,
testifies the heart's purpose for being
A poet’s voice speaks in soul’s timeless tongues
unknown breaths from another understanding realm
too deep for words;
yet the word sayer struggles to see his forest ‘s poetic beauty
for to see beyond the pendant beauty
within its magnificent grandeur
of his own gifted heart’s nurtured trees.
~
The Twist
This poem was not written by me.
It was written almost four years ago,
lying fallow in some passing cloud.
Writ for me by someone effervescently more talented than I,
and one of the poets whose quality of work, and command of our shared language is something to which all of us should aspire.
I post it now as yet another homage to the true author.
For in reading it, never was a poem was far more clearly,
an unwitting self-portrait.
**It was written on August 21st, 2013
by Harlon Rivers**
by Nat Lipstadt
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
What did you honestly expect?
Teenagers never think about anyone but themselves,
selfie generation ring any bells?
They never give to the community, only take.
Thirty hours of hard work, but you're right.
I did give, but not as much as I took.
I gave my free time, but I took moments to cherish.
I gave my hard work, but I took countless warm smiles and thank yous.
Gave my energy, my devotion, and took an experience that will stay with
me for many years to come.
So, you are correct, nay-sayer of youth,
I am part of the "selfie generation"-
that is true. I do think about myself,
and I do take from my community.
Even though I did give, I agree with you, because
everything I gave to the community,
the community gave back to me,
and for that, I am grateful.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
caveat! —bursting out as the fuse fetters away
wafting t'ward oil spills, tranquilized guns
with pace maker minds
and time to ****
sickle celled, graving shores
plead to crawl underground
through cascading bile and sedatives
that sift through these negatives
like bangled thieves
who crawl on broken knees
and lie idle under haunted bridges.
bouldered bones intertwine
or veins cut along a dotted line
caveat! cries the sayer's sooth,
for he says it scours and devours—
the slinking nightmare sleuth.
the tar is interrupted in carved equinoxes
soak in the crippled toxins
as the air becomes as thick as theophany
and tharm like grease in blood that take me in,
through ash and mud and
all the spider webs caving in
like delicate gorges forges beneath
nightmare sleuth reaching zenith
caveat, silhouettes
stretched out like oil in water
and this silicon tomb can hold me no longer
for i must break out before i am a goner
because it's a mistake that i'll never shake
your face turns opaque
and there was nothing in your eyes
but dripping flesh
wring out all your words for me
your jeers and your juries
but go cling to your crutch
your kings and your qualms
and the church that burns
in its hallow vacancy
for none can resist the urge
that thieves its delinquents from catatonic catacombs
and quagmire junctions
where the swamp will **** you in
and festering sweat sticks like guilt to your skin
and hell is a nightclub where every loss is a life
and heaven's a daydream with your neck to the knife
it needs no rhyme or reason
and every slip of your broken lip
just lose your grip and give in to the treason
would you rather burn at the stake
than suffer your cement heart break
with no reason or rhyme
it's just the weight of the season
backdrop collapse
railroads unfolding
and like a cell storm the train
is coming your way
and slinks away like a nightmare sleuth
it just takes one swipe of the claw
or one bite of the tooth
and it drags you in
feel the sidewalk sleeping
and the blinking lights creeping
above the overpass
and the cold wind reeling--
it'll be your last.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 6:36 PM UTC
Dear poet,
Dear ***** talker of some unrequited nasty,
Dear slow admirer,
Noticing my detail like a detective
Twist this halo into handcuffs
And love me already
Or don’t
I’m not real
And if I were
I’d hate to be her
You perfect pitch psalm sayer
Waxing generic
Quit the verbal dance
And dance with me
I am glad you know I’m not perfect
I am as faulty
As a topographical map of California
This body is chills
Is goosebumps
Is legs that were soft yesterday
Kiss them
Prickle your cheeks
Does your beard know the difference?
Do you?
Do I feel like scented sandpaper love notes
Still stained with a kiss?
I know I might just be squid ink to everyone else
But you dear poet
Dear detective
Black lighting my flaws into glowing beauty
Put your lips to my stains
They still taste like stains
You made them
You made me
You made me Dear Poet
Stop talking
And take me
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 3:09 AM UTC
On the subway seat
feeding her needs
through long slender fingers
pop the rosary beads and
each bead a bullet
to load the gun.
What son of man decrees this?
She's twenty looks fifty and
has the eyes of a sorceress
which is probably so.
Every age throws up a sage
some sayer of truths.
Some say that it's her on
the seat,
she beats time to the beads
feeding her needs,
bullets for the gun
and one for
her son.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 6:02 AM UTC
"Write with your eyes like painters, with your ears like musicians, with your feet like dancers. You are the truth sayer with quill and torch. Write with your tongues of fire. Don't let the pen banish you from yourself."
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
How do you tell if she’s a lady,
When she’s turning eighty five?
She doesn’t wear much jewelry
No furs or fancy styles.
She doesn’t play croquet,
But likes to root instead through dirt.
Her uniform’s a crumpled hat,
Old shoes and a muddy shirt.
You can find her on any sunny day,
Outside in all weather,
Stacking stone and hauling hay.
Collecting white stones & robin feathers.
But don’t dare swear or she’ll object!
Don’t watch **** TV or
She’ll tell you what to do instead:
“Rake some leaves or sweep this floor!”
She might strike you as old Rose Sayer,
Prim, proper and cold.
And to God each night she’ll say a prayer,
“Jesus please, don’t let me get old!”
Dedicated to Mom, Who Believes in Living Forever
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 1:30 PM UTC
Illiterate alliterations
Of Farcical fascinations.
I fancy myself a wordplayer
if not a word-sayer
Though the paper gets far more love than the air
***** what's nearest the toaster oven.
Vile Bile, Jim, by at least 3 miles.
I took the tapeworm from yesterday's sandwich
Gave it to the secretary, who continues to *****
She's a labrador
I'm a matador
You'd be surprised how much bulls ****
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 8:41 PM UTC
Listen to the aye-sayers;
Pay heed to the nay-sayers
For point and counter-point;
As Lear did with his fool,
As we did once in school.
Hear the sycophants and flatterers,
The realists and truists;
But in the end what matters,
Is the voice between your ears,
The sooth-sayer of future years.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
He lumbers, he doesn't sashay.
Aware enough to catch a 'think-fast' pass.
He's an analog man, and not a soothe-sayer.
He was a zen buddhist, and a nudist whose wardrobe was air.
He always wanted kids but could never think of names.
His truth is so spreadable it's incredible
His credit's so meddled with it's debtable.
He moves peanuts under walnut shells,
less talented than critical.
With passion like the hypnotized
limits were his starting lines
He was never very impressed with things,
would say 'ignorance doesn't exonerate’—He broke alot of hearts and earned alot of parking fines—‘Income doesn't make the man' unless its not coming in.
His only wish was for a time machine;
He could be ambassador to the past.
he could relive his endings
without missing anything
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 3:53 AM UTC
the
red
mohawk truth-sayer
speak in tongues
to the fire
speak in tongues
to the wind
lord
our People
seek a better place
seek a better world
through
our
ritual ghost dance
let us
breathe
from the soul of
the spiritual fire
to take us
higher and higher
unto
the
great grandfather blue sky
that
our
Native People desire
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 10:00 PM UTC
Consult kiosk, medium or sayer of sooth
For answers to riddles seek out earthly sleuth
They lie, can't you tell?
The wise know the quelle
the Word, the bearer of truth
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
I am a mosquito on your holy-massive windshield.
You knock the air from my lungs and surround me in enough of it to crush my body.
It's all bigger than me,
all bigger than my eyes can see,
or my hands can hold.
All bigger than John mayor's body gives him credit for.
I explode my **** mixing with the blood of millions from which i drank, and you see it like a rorschach test and the results are in, you're the holy mary son of a ***** what killed by brother, and all my brothers, and our souls are in your brain screaming ****** and pain
All bigger than all I know the universe to be, you are lightyears ahead of my understanding,
but nonetheless I strive to get passed your windshield.
I see what you have inside there and I want it.
I want to be with you there. Crushing the souls of bugs like me.
Wiping them from the glass, and not thinking twice.
But since I can't, I'll make sure to bleed for you,
so much that I leave a good smear that will take your wiper blades at least four swipes to get me off.
I'll make sure you remember me.
is that Vera Hall on your stereo, singing out from beyond the grave, singing Death Have Mercy? Vera Hall from beyond the grave hatin' on John Mayer. Vera Hall the old sooth sayer. Vera Hall with one last prayer,
Oh Death, have mercy.
Vera Hall, in a dream but lucid.
Oh Death, you're out of wiper fluid.
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 6:56 PM UTC
Eve is tempted
Honey voiced sooth sayer
Speaks like seraphim do
Curling itself amongst branches,
Undulating body throughout leaves
And amongst stars slips its tongue
Into her ear as she sleeps
Making her itch for something,
Making her miss what she does not know.
Apples Apples Apples
She dreams of her fingers lacing around
Red shiny skin,
Her teeth picking at its' flesh
Apples
They haunt her, and a snake
Calls her to its branched haven
And her tongue is at a loss
To voice what she does not know.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 7:43 PM UTC
My father who art in heaven
May he be also a masterpiece
Like eleven
May my main man also join the skies
That part the seas like milky lights.
May my man bring with him me
As a tourist of the nightlife.
Wife me up and hold me tight
Like the stars cling onto the duly skies.
May my main man be the mainest of them all
Sure a little mean isn’t bad at all
Nay he never become a Mayfair sayer
Or a naysayer to his wife’s call.
Today I call upon thee
To help me free fall.
Tall and fully
In love with you truly
You are my one and only all.
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 1:11 PM UTC
A tiny spec of time...
for me, an eternity.
As my soul travels from this encasement,
into the dimension of where our dreams collide...
Fluttering feverishly,
these tattered wings of mine,
never lacking the luster of the silver that dusted your heart.
My light,
becomes global,
an atmospheric phenomenon,
intangible,
as I tangle the woven web,
spreading beams to capture what was once,
only mine.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 9:04 PM UTC
It's nights like tonight,
When I can't close my eyes,
That I walk outside,
And admire these skies.
I offer my prayer,
Aloft to the Lord.
Asking Him gently,
If He might afford.
The luxury of knowing,
The path I should take.
So I might be confident,
In not making a mistake.
Rarely do I wonder,
If my prayer is heard.
For it is my belief,
That disbelief is absurd.
Yet I can't help but doubt,
That the answer will be,
In a way I understand,
Or can even be seen.
So I look into oblivion,
This black infinity,
And I wonder and whisper:
What's the point of me?
Am I but a pawn,
In some giant game?
Is there a point to being,
Or was I born insane?
Does anything matter,
Anything at all?
Or is this just natural,
Men rise and men fall?
I feel there must be more,
Something waiting at the end.
Something calling out,
Begging me to transcend.
To see through the lies,
To find the deeper truth.
To answer the unanswerable,
And rise above my youth.
There must be something more,
Anything to give meaning.
I'll accept an honest lie,
If I could sleep this evening.
Is this normal,
To be so filled with doubt?
So conflicted and saddened,
Within and without?
These the questions,
I ask those billion lights,
On these lonely and cold,
Long sleepless nights.
Some nights I find,
My answer in the stars.
When it finally hits me:
That's all they are.
Nothing special at all,
Scientific anomalies.
Not made for wishing,
No source of fantasy.
Simply there and no more,
A billion all spread thin.
The infinite emptiness,
Crawls beneath my skin.
I have my answers,
Though not to my prayer.
But I am no wise man,
No ancient sooth-sayer.
I am but another man,
Mortal and moral.
Singular and without,
Only part of a plural.
I am without purpose,
No belief in the world.
I stand on the precipice,
My flag fallen unfurled.
My weakness is that I live,
For myself, just me.
It was the only way I had,
Of setting myself free.
Yet now, on these nights,
Under heavenly contemplation,
I regret my selfish ways,
And my human resignation.
If I am to be denied,
A higher understanding,
I then need a purpose,
To inspire commanding.
I need a focus,
A plural catalyst,
Anything to give meaning,
To why I exist.
Something to live for,
Some reason to hope.
Something to die for,
To narrow my scope.
And that is what happens,
Under these lonely skies.
On nights like tonight,
When I can't close my eyes.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 2:10 AM UTC
Honey settled in the cracks too deep
Favorite delusion
Soothe sayer
Baby
Tasting bitter sweet
Thicken and sicken
Rose I couldn't keep
Thorns in my gums with every trial
Every word I speak
The kiss ****** back up into my cheek
The little weights at my feet
Threads pulling up my lids
While yet, my mind is black
As ash
I can't look out of my window
Since you
I cant let myself notice
Everything is still moving forward
Too fast and far
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
My partner and I had tickets to the show last night in Chicago. After 7days in the hospital my girlfriend's 89 year old grandma was to come home with hospice care to follow. Instead of a splendid concert experience I knew I had to be there for her fam to ease the tough pill to swallow. Grandma Monica shed the shell, saw it bagged up and hollow. I was able to provide hugs and love, along with the opportunity to speak about the flow of energy. I like to remind myself and others to speak to the "deceased" for in my own scope it's been therapeutic for me. Haven't been this heavy in a long time. The rain and gray are beautiful, relaxed in the lack of sunshine. I've visualized our meeting many times, I look up to you being a fellow sayer of rhymes. I appreciate the way you've spent your mind. It wasn't until a couple days ago I realized one of the impossible inserts may have been signed. Thank you for your shine, highlighting the design of divine. The life you've made manifest helps others feel breaths inside their chests. Two legends yesterday were laid to rest, so now I look at myself and decide to clean my mess.
Gotta reconnect with my descendant sandwich before the organic ingredients are digested and appear to vanish. To those I want to know, you are one of my favorite artists. I laugh but could totally see some sort of apprentice partnership. Doesn't look like I'll make it this tour...and one of my cats just puked, gonna go skip aesop rocks in my ripped up Lugz boots.
Much love,
Ryan
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 4:21 PM UTC
Seer of joy but sayer of sorrow,
From numinous lips, the heart burns down,
The convergence of pulse in ash wireframe
Is love, in keeping but not in heaven igniting.
Excise my heart and let it keep as an island
That only beats when the waves come across,
And all the ancient world speaks in me
With light of burning lips and crushed hearts.
When someone dies, the world becomes this
Unreplicated moment of beauty, an essence
Unconfined and filled with no other self
But selves complete, though all heaven may blaze alone.
May 18, 2020
May 18, 2020 at 9:08 PM UTC
Absolutely astonishing (and amusing) is the aftermath of this
Bonanza, beyond baptism. Blackened, broken and bleeding,
Corpses collapsed copiously, carelessly
Disrespected down to the depths of their deaths, now dreaming,
Enticed, ever in eternity.
Funny is this funeral of fibs fabricated from unfaithfulness.
Ghosts gaining the Grave's grand greeting,
Happy to hoard the
Infested, incommensurable, inacceptable,
Jaded and jinxed,
Kind of kin who kept
Lies lingering, leading on their lover.
My mirror mentions memories,
Narratives knitted with needles
Obtaining obsessive obscurity,
Painted with pillars of impurity,
Querried by the quaint quadruped,
Reassured of rest and relinquishment.
Sorry now is the sayer but
Time ticks tactfully.
Ugly is the untruthful, of the utmost unimportance,
Vexed and vulnerable,
Without a widow in the world,
Xenon exemplifying,
Yellow bellied,
Anti-zenith czar.
Dec 23, 2017
Dec 23, 2017 at 1:46 AM UTC
Why, hello!
Have a seat,
enjoy the show!
Attend the tale
of Mister No.
A life uncouth,
hell is assumed
to be the truth
for our dear friend,
the sayer of sooth.
An awful, loathing egotist
A self-defeating narcissist
Lonely, yes, but not alone
Lost in life, the fault his own
Stuck in his head
He lowers the bar
Smokes himself dead
And accumulates tar
So much to do
Enjoy, and feel
Yet he sits, wallows
Accepts his deal
I hope you're enjoying
this caution'ry tale
of the sad clown's life,
destined to fail.
You may have missed
a sort of twist;
I am that one,
that narcissist;
that losing, hating
pessimist,
that one who lives
life without list.
Laugh, point, cry, mock,
do what you will.
There's not much you can do
that I haven't already done to myself.
Go home, the show's over.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 1:37 PM UTC
Gathering her speed through my dreams,
as eyes close she breeches again and again,
the barriers of my subconscious never there,
she has always roamed freely.
My pacing brings her forth,
she becomes the fight in me.
She, who animates my character through ancient calls from deep,
I, named to reach beyond time,
I conjure my own awakening,
she gives my voice a power of conviction,
my roar is a contagious whisper.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 9:20 PM UTC
A kiss goodbye
Death is creeping, while I am sleeping.
My final year, my final tear, my final verse, there is no more.
Death is here, I am full of fear.
I have no money to pay Death’s toll, for,
I am a mere mortal mind,
Who is lost in space and lost in time.
All I possess is an endless black sigh;
A half-hearted plea for a love-life without the lie.
Fix me once more, or permanently close the door,
For I am not yet ready to venture forth, into that long goodnight;
But forward I will march into the doom,
If I have to meet another version of the truth.
With all my might, I continue.
Let me pay what they say is due.
The work is not yet finished,
So before I am diminished,
And banished from this spherical giant we wander upon;
Let me see one more sun, let me raise a son,
Let me say all my final goodbyes,
Before all is said and done.
To any truth-sayer, please say “Have a nice day.”
I need the sentiment, more than the reality,
So at least before I meet my maker today,
I can say I broke the mold,
With every intention that lived inside of me.
(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 8:31 AM UTC