"sedulous" poems
The artichoke
of delicate heart
*****
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.
And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a ***
So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.
16.7k
The lumad in her doesn't go away,
The map's of time; written
Upon her face. O' the
Stories, of her kin dost speak; an empress
Of the Subanon, she is strong, I weak.
Tis she's sedulous, in her way's of hard
Work, knowledge do I gain, she guideth
Me in the rain; she dryeth mine tear's,
With her malong of royal worth.
Tis God's known her from her birth,
He picked her from the Mindanao Sea;
Verily, verily she's a sacred one,
Every breath she breathes is turquoise green.
And when she takes her daily breath,
Psalm's compose inside her chest, inside
Her chest where her heart doth beat;
Beat's of holiness, in whitened sheets.
Wild child of unknown path's, mine
Guide, mine friend, soulmate of the past;
Lover now, as wilt alway's be, do I learn,
So much I've yearned, from God's eastern breeze.
O' tis she's free, she's just like me,
As I am her; O' I am her; she call's
Me pookie, she's mine mi amour,
Mine Reyna, girl, Jehovah's daughter.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane Nagley dedicated ( àgapi mou)
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 10:58 PM UTC
1344
Not any more to be lacked—
Not any more to be known—
Denizen of Significance
For a span so worn—
Even Nature herself
Has forgot it is there—
Sedulous of her Multitudes
Notwithstanding Despair—
Of the Ones that pursued it
Suing it not to go
Some have solaced the longing
To accompany—
Some—rescinded the Wrench—
Others—Shall I say
Plated the residue of Adz
With Monotony.
2.8k
Beholding youth and hope in mockery caught
From life; and mocking pulses that remain
When the soul’s death of ****** death is fain;
Honour unknown, and honour known unsought;
And penury’s sedulous self-torturing thought
On gold, whose master therewith buys his bane;
And longed-for woman longing all in vain
For lonely man with love’s desire distraught;
And wealth, and strength, and power, and pleasantness,
Given unto bodies of whose souls men say,
None poor and weak, slavish and foul, as they:—
Beholding these things, I behold no less
The blushing morn and blushing eve confess
The shame that loads the intolerable day.
As some true chief of men, bowed down with stress
Of life’s disastrous eld, on blossoming youth
May gaze, and murmur with self-pity and ruth,
‘Might I thy fruitless treasure but possess,
Such blessing of mine all coming years should bless;’—
Then sends one sigh forth to the unknown goal,
And bitterly feels breathe against his soul
The hour swift-winged of nearer nothingness:—
Even so the World’s grey Soul to the green World
Perchance one hour must cry: ‘Woe’s me, for whom
Inveteracy of ill portends the doom,—
Whose heart’s old fire in shadow of shame is furl’d:
While thou even as of yore art journeying,
All soulless now, yet merry with the Spring!’
2k
TELL TALE TALK
Shark's tooth
draws blood
( even though long dead )
a startled red
against the sharp whiteness
lost in a bric-a-brac
box of shells & things.
"Gotcha!"
grins the dead
shark's set of
choppers.
Baby shark
but a shark nonetheless.
I drip a trail
of red
across the Charity
shop
snap up
a tattered HUNTING OF THE SNARK
a battered
AT SWIM TWO BIRDS.
Here
a broken ballerina
on a jewellery box
( minus her music )
there
( I stop dead )
a used
soul
bruised
badly used
Godless
without guile
my fingertip traces my initials
on its dust
tarnished
without hope
immortal and unnoticed
amongst shark's teeth & shells.
I get
a SNARK & TWO BIRDS
for a pound
a piece.
The shark's grin
for a pound again.
"What do you want
for this old thing?"
I nonchalantly
ask
setting the soul
with great care
within the cage
of teeth
perched atop
the books.
"Being dying
to get rid
of that
for ages."
"It just sits there
staring at me!"
"Scares the life
outta me
to tell you
the truth
even though I don't know
what the hell it is!"
"Give us 42p for it
& we'll call it quits!"
I buy back
the soul
( my soul )
I had given away
with some old shirts and shoes
things I thought
I wouldn't ever be needing
. . .again.
But seeing it
discarded amongst shark's teeth & shells
I thought
twice about it.
Maybe
( perhaps )
I can use
it
for a paperweight.
Or a doorstop.
Sedulous
PRONUNCIATION:
(SEJ-uh-luhs)
MEANING:
adjective: Involving great care, effort, and persistence.
ETYMOLOGY:
From Latin se (without) + dolus (trickery, guile). Ultimately from the Indo-European root del- (to count or recount) that is also the source of tell, tale, talk, Aug 9, 2010
A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:
Poetry is the art of saying what you mean but disguising it. -Diane Wakoski, poet (b. 1937) and Dutch taal (speech, language).
USAGE:
"Elizabeth Bishop was sedulous, pernickety, quietly determined; she would work on poems for years."Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell; The Economist (London, UK); Nov 20, 2008.
A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:
<strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><p>A beautiful thing is never perfect. -Egyptian proverb</p></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong>
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 4:25 PM UTC
Woman
I touched your skin long ago
In a small home
you made for yourself
somewhere between
brick and gates
and a
lost
key
I felt the curve of your hips
A tight grip
A wet kiss
You were shy
Your big brown eyes gleaming
In a faint light
That peeked through your
bedroom window
This
twisted lust
it sneaks in
It dizzies the mind
unravels desire
entangles mystery
lady
my heart has never met my spine.
You are tangled in your own way now
Sedulous
Passed from sight
You met a good man
At least I've heard
And I still think of you
From time to time
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
I crave to be an owner,
Sedulous and true,
Striving to become a gainer,
Knowing exactly what to do.
The formula is to take a pledge,
To preach authenticity and be determined,
Steadfast with my thoughts that fledge,
No matter, to what we may be destined.
Ensuring a good state for the wage-earners,
By protecting them with economic shields,
Harnessing all my morals and manners,
Adopting legitimacy and making fair yields.
Civil service, civil trust,
Lawful endeavor is a must.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 12:50 AM UTC
I was obsequious towards you.... opening up to you, I was an impressively sedulous suitor,
Didn't I constantly show my love; like a doting concubine,
yet never was I supposed to.
Did things I'd never wish to again do, You were always lethargic returning any affections.
You're constantly an exorbitantly cruel lover, on too many occasions you've left me; feeling, clinging, wishing & praying that your bitter tortures - would end.
Morbidly I'd crave you like a killer craves the death of his victim's.
Oh there's no end, no relapse or realse, my tormentor, my seemingly drug of choice--is you!
I sincerely felt a cordial love & dislike for how you've had me susceptible to this elegiac experience.
Unmerciful you cast away my heart and dealt my soul a mighty blow.
NEVER again would I be your willing victim, you're antipathies & archaic behavior leaves me wishing for a way out, since you've made me seem more like the enemy.
This love's a beautiful beast & so oblivious to my demise...
I'm still obligated....
I've vowed to stay, fight comes what may...
yet & still You make it clear I'm disqualified before a race could ever be won.....
Why?
My questions unanswered
as if I've never vocalized a retort!
IVE COME TO REALIZE THERE'S NO HOPE FOR ME
☆♡
Always Me Ayeshah ™ ®
K.A.C.L.N ©
All right reserved ®
Copyright 1977 - Present
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
I no longer know what to write
How to express my distress
Because it does not exist
persist
Happiness has clouded the literary aperture
And my words flounder
Flailing to find meaning
Despair's volubility
imparted a certain variegated flourish to my poetry
Pleasure leaves me maundering stoically
I fear I fear the doubt in sedulous reflection
Blissful ignorance pervades conflagrant dissection
Love life happiness
Temporary distractions
The aperture will soon be clear
Life's down's have silver linings
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
Bedlam is our repletion, bellicose our rest,
For ever state which we call peace is war of constant test.
This war must share no allies - each warrior a martyr,
And it would stand that every soldier someone calls their daughter.
The instigator Terra, the perpetrator Yahweh,
Instant and perpetual - a bellum night and day.
The resource universal, from sea to ****** sea.
This war is fought o'er any man who might a bachelor be.
Civility and stupor the only neutral face they wear,
But underneath the plaster smile iniquity lies bare.
How cruelly do they cozen, how capricious they connive,
A thousand times more vicious than any man that seeks to wive.
And how they suffer sedulous, their bodies they contort
Into the most pernicious forms, a weapon of a sort:
They don the war paint, pluck the hair, admonish slightest error,
And take to wield those eyes of steel, and bless the world with terror.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
Of course we’re born sad little creatures!
To be born, we had to have the picture
broken & bursted—for, being born, we’re
fragments of it. (But not just us born—all
of it that’s born…all of it’s fragments.)
Us, though, we found out about the pieces
(and that we’re them) so shock-hearted and
weary-eyed we joggle ourselves around,
and waggle and babble (because we can move
and talk to the other pieces, like you) in the
sedulous task of trying to see what picture we all
formed before we were born and to see
if we can’t form it again while born and living.
And, also, inexorably, to see like fateless
naked goggling chicken-children what part
we have—is it a sun’s ray, a cloud’s feather, a
grass blade, or is it just the indistinguishable
shade of unctuous bole that’s laid there
almost smeared in between? I’m not quite sure,
our tabs seem flexible enough, and to add
we’re whimsy little interlockers, so no wonder
we’ve been going on billions of years now.
At this point it’s probably give-up or never-end,
and both options, frankly, seem quite abominable.
I wonder if that’s what it says on the box,
right above “meant for children” and “small
parts dangerous choking hazard.” But the
question is what to do when you’ve realized a
piece has been missing, always been missing,
and probably more. (Oh, and for after, you can
ask if it was never put there in the first place,
and why)—do you just imagine, then? I mean,
just that—just imagine the whole thing, after all
the fuss been going on to hold hands and make it out?
I’m telling you, I bet the sucker is something else
entirely, like something I don’t even know what,
but different—crazy different, I bet. And it’s
probably why they didn’t want to include it,
those ponzies—we wouldn’t choke on that one.
Not that piece. Still, though, I hope it says on the box.
I hope it at least tells you something on the box.
Wait, where’s the box? What box?
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
8. A four line poem for my 8th grade teacher
an A for my efforts and a weekly pamphlet feature
'Blue' by Sam a tale of: spilled ink
of an endless ocean; the whole blue kitchen sink
19. 4 stanzas for a professor of mine
a little splotch of blood or maybe red wine
an A for the reference to Bukowski at the end
but I guess he didn't know the bluebird too, was my friend
Blue was it's name, it was almost the same
as the one hanging in my lounge in a frame
this time it talked of the ocean of endlessness
and was penned like the spill it referenced
A mark for my friendless existence
with lark he congratulated my sedulous recklessness
an Aeschylus with a reflective tragic fecklessness
driven to or destined for the precipice
so I hoped when
I hung beside my poem
the professor did know then
not all doors should be opened
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 5:27 AM UTC
You sometimes make me feel like a megalomaniac. Is that bad?
Are these feelings that I'm feeling what's expected to be had?
You infringe my mind in such circuitous ferment.
It's a proclivity, these thoughts
Yet such propensity is irrevocable.
An inscrutable contraband reverberating in a sedulous manner grasping tender hands.
Perhaps it's not transient, but equitable.
Not scathing, but salutary.
Well there's only one way to ascertain.
That is simply to acculturate.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
Your features are flawless,
Sculpted from perfection into
Something more remarkable.
Your skin is like that of a goddess,
Outlining a sedulous smile
That says your up to no good.
The wit you displayed on a turn of a dime
Certainly helped us pass our time together.
You spoke with sophistication.
Your goals lofty, but achievable.
I wonder if I could withstand
Never having the upper hand?
Reaching has never been my style,
Though, surely it would be worthwhile
If it ushered in the beginning
To an end, worth spending
Time to attend to.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 3:59 PM UTC
So the world spins
Inner discourse thinning
In the wake of daylight
Muted blues shift crimson
And the halcyon light floods my vision
I remain saturnine
The inner tenebrae of my dusky soul
My personal shadowland
sedulous manifestos etched
across my heart
the tattooed movement
cadence of oblivion
stained by the purpura
Of bleeding dreams
Apollo rides grandiose
Careening orb obliterates the dusk
Yet my eyes rain
myriad tears chase themselves
forever obedient to that same gravity
leaving me face down
with nothing but wet earth
and seeds dormant
full of promise that never blooms
My heart in the darkness
Of a shuttered room
TLB 092308
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
The air matches the forest deep.
Its Auburn glow weaves congestion into thick dimensions.
The grass, and leaves, and trees coexist in this moment of surreality.
A sepia trim around a coordinated portrait -
The eye cannot adjust to a moment irreplaceable.
A melting slathered teardrop falls slowly.
The tree's push this far into the sky -
Not pushing, but holding, rather.
As a weeping mother catches her child and slowly descends them.
She cannot hold forever,
and the red of scars, disaster, and reflection advents.
She let’s the child wander;
Developing.
Enveloping.
And black does become the night.
Delicate, and sluggish, this darkness falls.
Her arms can bear no more,
as the sunset-soul consumes an arcane definite.
Droning below the lake,
of which no hills sit near.
Charcoal weighing down the once prepossessing light -
of nature’s *****
A soft whisper,
And death.
Dreams…
And guilt.
"Free us of his torment!”
Cried the leaves: post-wilted.
"He’ll devour us by his own light!”
Shrieked the trees: un-guilted.
"Why entwine such sedulous melancholia?”
Squealed the breeze: pre-juilted.
Oh! Do despair in blessedness!
Oh! Does the flora mourn for her exaltation!
But…
Oh,
Does his darkness revile the ***** soul -
In impassioned ecstasy.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 9:26 PM UTC
The neighborhood sleeps robustly…charmingly.
✽
I sit quietly
utterly breathlessly.
Listening sadly to the inveterate, rasping wheeze
and pensively perceiving the impelling, piercing eagerness
of my dismal, labored breath.
Constrained to stay put, there is little I can do
but to repeatedly browse through
a raft of 'get-well' messages
which have consistently traversed
across your sedulous time-tables
surmounting the bustling maze
of the capricious world-wide-web.
I think of you and your caressing ways -
Your determined thriving to bolster me
through my trance-like medicated days;
planting a flimsy little flicker
to my dead-pan face.
✽
This bantam lightweight note intends to modestly denote:
♔ my incalculable gratefulness for your unqualified wishes
and
♔ sportive acquiescence to my maiden experience
of loving your love
quixotic and so cogently beyond
the most adept shot of the Cupid's arrow.
Dec 14, 2019
Dec 14, 2019 at 11:30 PM UTC
I AM!
by Michael R. Burch
I am not one of ten billion—I—
sunblackened Icarus, chary fly,
staring at God with a quizzical eye.
I am not one of ten billion, I.
I am not one life has left unsquashed—
scarred as Ulysses, goddess-debauched,
pale glowworm agleam with a tale of panache.
I am not one life has left unsquashed.
I am not one without spots of disease,
laugh lines and tan lines and thick-callused knees
from begging and praying and girls sighing "Please!"
I am not one without spots of disease.
I am not one of ten billion—I—
scion of Daedalus, blackwinged fly
staring at God with a sedulous eye.
I am not one of ten billion, I
AM!
Keywords/Tags: I, AM, ego, individual, individuality, character, Icarus, Daedalus, Ulysses, fly, gadfly, chary, wary, quizzical, questioning, panache, sedulous, heretical
jesus hates me, this i know
by michael r. burch
jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
“little ones to him belong”
but if they use their dongs, so long!
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!
jesus fleeces us, i know,
for Religion scams us so:
little ones are brainwashed to
believe god saves the Chosen Few!
yes, jesus fleeces!
yes, he deceases
the bunny and the rhesus
because he’s mad at you!
jesus hates me—christ who died
so i might be crucified:
for if i use my **** or brain,
that will drive the “lord” insane!
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!
jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
first fools tell me “look above,”
that christ’s the lamb and god’s the dove,
but then they sentence me to Hell
for using my big brain too well!
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!
Mar 4, 2020
Mar 4, 2020 at 10:13 PM UTC
(alter knit lee titled: vita in oculis nudato)
goo goo gaga I wanna yell
cuz, synonymous
with other wordsmiths,
or...well
whatever will eire'n burr,
a sought after creative
passionate pursuit aye tell
ye a boot me own aha...eureka insightful
revelation explaining
ma quotidian writing spell,
and phalanges skitter
across qwerty keyboard
at light in an attempt to quell
onslaught tidal wave crashing
upon me conscious state pell mell
which tsunami flood spongy
heady gray matter with hell
over high tide heals assailing,
bruiting, clobbering this fell
low inducing (me) to play
Handel's Semantic Water Music
on the smallish piccolo cello
which Sirens of Tighten,
(who just appeared out of thin aire -
cuz scriveners can resort
to prestidigitation to make appear
any necessary entity
without rhyme or reason),
anyway, this sylph sea Oceanids nymph
i.e. mermaids didst dee clear
particularly via
barely audible verbal communication
sotto voce en dear
ring gently beckoning
affinity this modest heir
to secret himself within secluded lair
whence, an automatic
erectile flickr, kickstarted,
levitated, and manifested
an instantaneous jubilant kik
lobbed me near
this seductive, sedulous, and sedum
scented sir experienced hypnotic stare
charming froto into trance scandent state
as if by magic the tubular
testicular proboscis didst inflate
aptly serving as modus operandi flagellate
thus proving a "happy ending" against being celibate.
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 8:04 PM UTC
Time is a waiver ,
But around you one can always depend ,
Each moment is well spent .
---
An assiduous pere ,
In every aspect and every sphere .
Earnestness so strong and clear,infallibly there to lend a ear.
---
Clearly a Innovative , creative and hardworking mate,
with whom one can relax ,
For we always have each other’s backs .
---
Times of hard work and laughter to remember,
filled with sedulous and happy moment's to the brink,
We may truly need a shrink.
If these memories freeze in time,
All the days shall seem sublime.
---
True to your duty
As you say ;
"Always remember
Nothing is impossible"
Saying that makes anyone
Unstoppable .
You weave a magical aura creating a team,
Everything falling in place like a beautiful dream.
---
An Epitome of Love and Affection ,
A mirror image of Perfection.
No ones stopping you now,
The hardwork you do deserves a bow .
---
You are a colleague apart .
So Here's Wishing you with all our heart ;
" We hope all your dreams come true ,
for dependable personages like you , in this world are few " .
---
© Mrunalini.D.Nimbalkar
Nov 29, 2019
Nov 29, 2019 at 4:07 AM UTC
while soaring the heavenly heights
many hours ago
every major metropolis appeared
about a million miles below
the rarefied atmosphere
ideal composition beckoned angels,
who bustled, hustled, and jostled elbow
(which bedlam, flimflam, and mayhem
intimated Hells Bells)
wing trying (heavens to Betsy) to flag attention,
and snag coveted soundcloud Netherland Award
cap ping bulging port folio,
which hubbub charged crackled, popped,
snapped amidst light emitting diodes
with a snazzy aura, charisma
harp pulling, piping, and chiefly
paying praise (CI years post haste)
to William Henry Perkin
whose credit able karma
(and unwitting) claim to fame didst glow
purple, which jumpstarted incandescent halo
couture culture club, via constant comet inflow
of Plasmodia vaguely resembling microscopic red Jello
illuminating swath of dusky
shutter flying sky sustaining
self contained feedback instagram loop know
wing lee broadcasting mauveine staccato low
to the groundswell of chemists dyeing, Googling,
and gratefully huzzahing insinuating
killing, kindling kissing
malaria goodbye, an outlook
(nee a once in a lifetime moe
mint - je nais sais quoi) win out loud
respectably sedulous honoree, a no
bill sine qua non bit player aniline
(to conclude this short poem) about his oh
penning accidental discovery kickstarting pro
noun est contribution to the fashion industry.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC
You're the beat
of my heart
You're the lens
of my eyes
You're the rule
of my life
Darling, I love your art.
You're so simple
and straight
You're so joyful
and sedulous
You're so happy
and gorgeous
Oh, babe, I love your art.
You're so cool,
cute and soft
You are so shy
and caring
You're so tricky
and knowing
Sweetie, I love your art.
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC
Hefty wooden bricks
piling for the sake of fierce
tone that should be molded
into the best of minds.
Brick after brick
she washed her hands
with tender sheer tears
that dribbled into the wall
as a flawed synonym of cement
the hammer palpitating brashly
against the makeshift wall
threatened to abolish and become
a genocide of it's own.
Even when the bricks
shift into the dirt below our feet
a mop will erase the evidence
of her sedulous perseverance
that will never be acknowledged
like the leafs on her tree.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 3:35 PM UTC