"sculptural" poems - Hello Poetry

in the surveillance of our story, 850 seconds perhaps, in glorified memory, little jews open their eyes amongst the flaming sculptural spire and the third of her name, Jerusalem, (is it him?) (artistic was her surname) unfortunately, her ID, consumed by torch & flame (.........) another mourning, another brown, & soggy & tasteless ******* day in which to despair at the state of her very purposeful Occidental ways surrounded by fake patriotism & fourteenths & sevens & May contrast the Marseillaise's rightful sudden death [ violet haze ] the saddened by the tragedy have more to lose at stake

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Apr 16, 2019

Apr 16, 2019 at 8:13 AM UTC

mcvicxr

on behalf of us humans

in the surveillance of our story, 850 seconds perhaps, in glorified memory, little jews open their eyes amongst the flaming sculptural spire and the third of her name, Jerusalem, (is it him?) (artistic was her surname) unfortunately, her ID, consumed by torch & flame (.........) another mourning, another brown, & soggy & tasteless ******* day in which to despair at the state of her very purposeful Occidental ways surrounded by fake patriotism & fourteenths & sevens & May contrast the Marseillaise's rightful sudden death [ violet haze ] the saddened by the tragedy have more to lose at stake

12

Love through Her Eyes Emotionally seductive Her lips kept my faith fragile Lighting cross the inner circle Pushing closer a declaration of forgiveness Sadness crawls behind my bedroom door Waiting for insanity to unveil the ugly true Tired of the falseness of the world I began my way back from darkness to find the reflection of my soul On a broken glass If I only knew them, life would be bearable Tensions beneath the earth put me at ease with the breeze A voice within me sits a waits For a chance to redeem my heart Impossible to undo the damage to a fragile violin Misery walks with a seldom coldness Blowing inside a blue bubble The point of no return at the end of string Simply see your life flashing bye Through the eyes of a ballerina Swift steps raising the stakes of solidarity Tender white cloth cleanse my silence With gentleness, I frame each hand with sculptural escape The nuptial nightmare cross the skyline Ordinance of a round table, a predestine notion of rampage Breathe in the blades of surrender The sobriety is incoherent A glass is half empty Put her on pedestal To be the man I was chosen to be Freedom must be given without The remainder of day Blown to pieces Time has passed and I’m still lost… Rony Joseph all rights reserved 2010

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Jun 2, 2010

Jun 2, 2010 at 4:14 AM UTC

rony-joseph

Love Through Her Eyes

Love through Her Eyes Emotionally seductive Her lips kept my faith fragile Lighting cross the inner circle Pushing closer a declaration of forgiveness Sadness crawls behind my bedroom door Waiting for insanity to unveil the ugly true Tired of the falseness of the world I began my way back from darkness to find the reflection of my soul On a broken glass If I only knew them, life would be bearable Tensions beneath the earth put me at ease with the breeze A voice within me sits a waits For a chance to redeem my heart Impossible to undo the damage to a fragile violin Misery walks with a seldom coldness Blowing inside a blue bubble The point of no return at the end of string Simply see your life flashing bye Through the eyes of a ballerina Swift steps raising the stakes of solidarity Tender white cloth cleanse my silence With gentleness, I frame each hand with sculptural escape The nuptial nightmare cross the skyline Ordinance of a round table, a predestine notion of rampage Breathe in the blades of surrender The sobriety is incoherent A glass is half empty Put her on pedestal To be the man I was chosen to be Freedom must be given without The remainder of day Blown to pieces Time has passed and I’m still lost… Rony Joseph all rights reserved 2010

35

I have heard a perfect moment recorded in beautiful discord. I have seen lifetimes astutely distilled in a single sentence. I have heard a summer's day in a soul filled chord. I have described heartbreak as a sculptural variation on a fence. All these moments frozen, waiting to be owned by a collector of crystallized humanity. But to take the beauty of one crystal, held against the sun, is to stumble aimlessly to insanity, as the stitched links in your necklace come undone. Chords, discords and lyrical life sentences, a collection of crystals held up to the sun. Thoughts, deep thoughts, that meditate before it's late, A collection of crystals will see you undone. Without rhythm we can see a perfect moment frozen, But without rhythm we can't see it chosen. You'll never find perfection waiting for an explosion. Timeless perfection comes from perfection of timing, Two bodies beating 'til the beats are combining, continue to beat 'til the blood pressure's rising, And as the beats resonate to a perfect explosion, All of a sudden it isn't surprising.

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Aug 25, 2011

Aug 25, 2011 at 5:22 PM UTC

Empty

Timeless perfection

I have heard a perfect moment recorded in beautiful discord. I have seen lifetimes astutely distilled in a single sentence. I have heard a summer's day in a soul filled chord. I have described heartbreak as a sculptural variation on a fence. All these moments frozen, waiting to be owned by a collector of crystallized humanity. But to take the beauty of one crystal, held against the sun, is to stumble aimlessly to insanity, as the stitched links in your necklace come undone. Chords, discords and lyrical life sentences, a collection of crystals held up to the sun. Thoughts, deep thoughts, that meditate before it's late, A collection of crystals will see you undone. Without rhythm we can see a perfect moment frozen, But without rhythm we can't see it chosen. You'll never find perfection waiting for an explosion. Timeless perfection comes from perfection of timing, Two bodies beating 'til the beats are combining, continue to beat 'til the blood pressure's rising, And as the beats resonate to a perfect explosion, All of a sudden it isn't surprising.

32

As the world rotates around our star, We constantly forget who we all are. we mask our bodies in plants and rocks we blanket our minds in lights and thoughts. to exclude out feelings- from the desperate days we smother our lungs with chemical haze. thoughtful healing. wishful thinking. tears fall from these human eyes, smiles form with the muscles on this face, carved into the blood filled clay. sculptural ideation manifested by the soul that swarms around itself that covers this plane that is the air between us all. craving happiness one experiences sadness. craving fulfillment one experiences emptiness. craving communion one experiences solidarity. and while craving life one experiences death. black and white both equally as beautiful, but duality causes anguish when one fails to view the singularity, one ultimately causes ones own distress “I AM the monarch of all I survey” a great poet once said.

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Sep 29, 2016

Sep 29, 2016 at 6:29 PM UTC

Gypsytroubadour

Mr. Cowper

As the world rotates around our star, We constantly forget who we all are. we mask our bodies in plants and rocks we blanket our minds in lights and thoughts. to exclude out feelings- from the desperate days we smother our lungs with chemical haze. thoughtful healing. wishful thinking. tears fall from these human eyes, smiles form with the muscles on this face, carved into the blood filled clay. sculptural ideation manifested by the soul that swarms around itself that covers this plane that is the air between us all. craving happiness one experiences sadness. craving fulfillment one experiences emptiness. craving communion one experiences solidarity. and while craving life one experiences death. black and white both equally as beautiful, but duality causes anguish when one fails to view the singularity, one ultimately causes ones own distress “I AM the monarch of all I survey” a great poet once said.

32

Frost said Home is the place where When you go there They have to take you in. But what if there’s no place to go home to? What if there’s nowhere that provokes A sense of sight, or sound, or smell Or taste or feeling That evokes a memory? You are cut adrift, A piece of flotsam Going where the current takes you. The tide runs out, The current ebbs and flows Yet never ceases. And you . . . A piece of driftwood, Lacking even the semblance of design That might inspire a sculptural creation, End in a vortex.

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Nov 17, 2014

Nov 17, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC

joseph-sinclair

LAST BREATH OF THE TIRED MAN

Frost said Home is the place where When you go there They have to take you in. But what if there’s no place to go home to? What if there’s nowhere that provokes A sense of sight, or sound, or smell Or taste or feeling That evokes a memory? You are cut adrift, A piece of flotsam Going where the current takes you. The tide runs out, The current ebbs and flows Yet never ceases. And you . . . A piece of driftwood, Lacking even the semblance of design That might inspire a sculptural creation, End in a vortex.

20

[untitled] I vandalize the outside of a church in a city designed by men with bad teeth and there I mistake a drop of blood for a penny and begin to last forever ~ [abuse errata] this mannequin that we now deliver to the oral loneliness of circles died left-handed ~ [the quiet that comes after a two car accident on a country road] could strangle an owl cast perhaps as a mole listening to the belly of a stopped deer ~ [the men of left field] I think / in a past / life / my sense / of touch / was yours - mother / ain’t once / lost / while pregnant / a baseball / in the sun - thunder / is lightning’s / empty stomach ~ [I see in your newer work] the propping up of rootless boys and the past changing only what was. your father the spinner of flea market globes. a bat in the barn with the head of a chicken. your mother returning to god the ghost you painted for death. your son wetting the bed. right of owl, left of crow. ~ [annotations for son] a small creature was shot stumbled and became my handwriting. two of my legs need god. ~ [sculptural] a moth attacking the ear of a white horse [on a family farm littered with oar-beaten scarecrows] - baby talk in a suicide note - sign language, mosh pit, 1991

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Jul 18, 2017

Jul 18, 2017 at 3:25 PM UTC

barton-d-smock

{seven, from July 2017}

[untitled] I vandalize the outside of a church in a city designed by men with bad teeth and there I mistake a drop of blood for a penny and begin to last forever ~ [abuse errata] this mannequin that we now deliver to the oral loneliness of circles died left-handed ~ [the quiet that comes after a two car accident on a country road] could strangle an owl cast perhaps as a mole listening to the belly of a stopped deer ~ [the men of left field] I think / in a past / life / my sense / of touch / was yours - mother / ain’t once / lost / while pregnant / a baseball / in the sun - thunder / is lightning’s / empty stomach ~ [I see in your newer work] the propping up of rootless boys and the past changing only what was. your father the spinner of flea market globes. a bat in the barn with the head of a chicken. your mother returning to god the ghost you painted for death. your son wetting the bed. right of owl, left of crow. ~ [annotations for son] a small creature was shot stumbled and became my handwriting. two of my legs need god. ~ [sculptural] a moth attacking the ear of a white horse [on a family farm littered with oar-beaten scarecrows] - baby talk in a suicide note - sign language, mosh pit, 1991

53

The trees go from bare, barren branches Agonizingly bursting with buds That become leaves in their palest shade Reaching for the sun and darkening in color Time to reach their fullness of life At home in New York Time to breathe the energy That only New York air carries in its wake Time to let the New York rhythms transfuse Transform Reshape itself As a prelude evolves into a symphony At home in New York Where ideas float in the air Like grains of sand in the Sahara Waiting to germinate Waiting to be gathered Cross pollinated And become grand arches of infinite rainbows Glass and steel rising With sculptural ferocity Like Jack’s beanstalk Towering into the sky Reaching for the golden egg Transformed into an apple To be plucked from the tree of life That only New York can succor Electro-magnetic Drawing toward itself Like the moon controls the tides And returning to the atmosphere Like solar flares Volcanic yet enigmatic Waiting to be recaptured Waiting to be nurtured into being Away from New York Produces an emptiness A sink-hole in the soul Longing to be refilled By the variations on the theme Subtle or blatant Transparent or translucent At home in New York

0

Oct 2, 2018

Oct 2, 2018 at 6:34 AM UTC

bruce-levine

At Home in New York

The trees go from bare, barren branches Agonizingly bursting with buds That become leaves in their palest shade Reaching for the sun and darkening in color Time to reach their fullness of life At home in New York Time to breathe the energy That only New York air carries in its wake Time to let the New York rhythms transfuse Transform Reshape itself As a prelude evolves into a symphony At home in New York Where ideas float in the air Like grains of sand in the Sahara Waiting to germinate Waiting to be gathered Cross pollinated And become grand arches of infinite rainbows Glass and steel rising With sculptural ferocity Like Jack’s beanstalk Towering into the sky Reaching for the golden egg Transformed into an apple To be plucked from the tree of life That only New York can succor Electro-magnetic Drawing toward itself Like the moon controls the tides And returning to the atmosphere Like solar flares Volcanic yet enigmatic Waiting to be recaptured Waiting to be nurtured into being Away from New York Produces an emptiness A sink-hole in the soul Longing to be refilled By the variations on the theme Subtle or blatant Transparent or translucent At home in New York

43