"segment" poems
"Stoner's Poem"
I see your snapstories,
I see your ask profile.
I see how you comment and reply and flaunt your English skills.
Trust me, I love your rebuttals,
More than Biryani and the Lebanese pornstar.
I see your Facebook posts,
I see your WordPress,
And I see, how you craft your poems flamboyantly,
And then, and then,
Pilfer my breath,
And rob my me.
Sometimes, just sometimes,
Your deportment bewilders me,
More than Lowry-Bronsted's theory.
I see how you dance in the rain,
Like "All, sin, tan, cos", do in my brain.
I see how you frequent every segment of my cardiac muscle,
And then desert it, like it's one of the many dilapidated constructions.
My reminiscences about your thingness,
Escalate me to a higher spiritual level,
More than **** does.
Oh, that smile,
Oh, that look,
Oh, the mystique in you.
And again, I am writing of Love.
And the pen doesn't seem to stop soon,
For I have taken a greater risk,
Than asking my friend about cathodes and anodes and electrolysis, while I took my last chemistry exam,
When the invigilator was around.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 3:55 AM UTC
And finally
After time seemed
suspended,
We looked into each other’s
Longing
Lusting
Eyes and leaned in,
Tentative
Tantalizing
Taking sharp breaths.
Every time skin
skimmed skin,
a sizzling segment
was breed from
blazing bodies.
Each exhale
Was inhaled
By the other
And turned into steam
With every kiss,
Blood vessels boiled, burst
Burning a trail
Made of ice and fire
Hands shook
Fingers trembled
Bodies meshed
Heads thrown
Eyes closed
Slowly.
Softly.
Panting
Pleasing
Pleasuring
Playing
We were just toys
And we liked it that way.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC
I need to change the circles I'm in
Because I fell into the trapezoid
Of trying to fit a square peg in a round hole
Making people believe I was a square
When I was really a rectangle
You just had to look at me from the right angles
The shape of things now
Is me looking at you from the wrong angles
You're pretty hot
90°
When you turn away from me your hotness doubles
180°
I think my Pompeii worm could survive the temperatures
But if you were to turn back around
No creature could survive
360°
The paradox of the parabola in my pants
Will never be solved
It's not your math problem
We're just two points on this rotating sphere
Where time is a straight line
And our's is a segment
I wish I understood the formula
So I could predict the outcome
But there are too many variables
Leaving my head spinning in circles
And myself running in circles
Meant to be avoided
Because within those circles are triangular trials
Where two points create a perfect line
And a third point ruins that
As points are added to the population
Lines only get larger
Like the welfare line
Mammoth shapes grow wider and more complex
Like the Pentagon
Lines become more easily crossed
Angles more easily tangled
And my freezing point becomes my boiling point
While I wish for a world more two-dimensional
Because once I consider depth
I realize I could never measure up to my ruler
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 12:35 AM UTC
You and me? He said, we're like parallel lines.
Cursed to be apart forever, always just a little too far.
But your slope is the same as mine, and even parallel lines meet at the horizon.
So meet me at the horizon, my love.
Reach across the gap between us and we can intersect where our fingers interlock.
Be my point "b". I will meet you wherever you want to go.
I might not be the "x" you've been looking for, but I'll always let you have the last piece of pi.
We might seem a little irrational, but love is undefined even to this day.
We're both a little odd, but together, I think we could be even;
Even better than anything this world has seen.
So help me test this theorem.
Help me graph this line.
Even if it's only a segment, it will be the most beautiful that I have ever seen.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
_While most beauty pageants are strictly for girls_,
there are a growing number that include boys as well;
[often, age divisions
for boys run through age 6
with very few going beyond that due to lack
of mutual participation in the rampant molestation];
Age divisions will often have names
such as Baby Miss, Petite Miss, Little Miss &c.
Age divisions broken down as follows: 0–11 months,
12–23 months, 1-3 years, 4–6 years, 7–9 years,
10–12 years, 13–15 years, and 16–18 years;
For boys, sometimes two age divisions
would be merged such as 0–3 years, 4–6 years, etc.
Depending on which type of pageant system
is entered, contestants will spend about two hours
or less in the actual competition. Typically,
pageants have a guideline of no more than one
and a half minutes on stage per child for beauty
or formal evening wear; talent usually limited
to two minutes or less;
with the exceptional allowance
of two and a half to three minutes;
In glitz pageants, it is expected that girls
have different routines for every segment
of competition composed of different
movements sometimes described as sassy walks
and pretty feet among other names. ****** expressions can include liberal amounts of duck face; often referred to
as "pro-am modeling". Big hair (including fake hair),
flawless makeup, spray tans, flippers [fake teeth],
and nail extensions are also expected of contestants;
Glitz pageants may best be described as anything goes;
groping, molestation, **** group molestation,
forced oral & ********* virginity checks are routine; any
hyperactive child & also the parent subject
to a thorough, prolonged cavity search;
In contrast, natural pageants have
fairly strict guidelines regarding clothing,
makeup, hair extensions, etc.
Programs such as _National American Miss_
forbid any makeup other than non-shiny lip gloss & mascara;
for girls on stage. This modeling style is referred to as Miss America style [Some pageants have a prescribed
set of movements while others
allow more latitude in how girls will use the stage or runway]
Miss Tanguita translated
_Miss Child Bikini,_
is held in Barbosa, Santader,
Colombia as part of the annual del Rio Suarez Festival
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 10:55 PM UTC
We plucked eyebrows
from the clover.
Caterpillars
contracting as
we pinched each one
between our plump
baby fingers,
expanding as
we lined them on
each other’s arms—
wooly train cars.
They would ripple
blindly, segment
by segment, scoot
across the floor
of the rusty
coffee can we’d
prepared for them
so carefully—
braided hairs of
grasses, flowers,
twigs, stones and all—
a crude and cruel
imitation
of their clover,
but certainly
better, somehow.
We were sure.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC
Sequestration by other means
A railway line its salient claim,
running sleepers into the distance.
Steady reminders -
a segment of canal
whose older self
ultimately gave birth to snaking hamlets, now mature.
A verdant nature trail coursing the disinterred bank side,
a feeder reservoir now yachting waters
shaping the geography.
shaping the geography.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
On the day Liz Taylor died,
CNN called Larry King
out of retirement to
eulogize her during
the mornings
breakfast segment.
Tears were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
TEPCO stated that one
of the Fukushima nuclear
reactors was on fire.
Tears of cataclysm
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
government officials warned
that Tokyo's water was
contaminated with
radiation and was not fit
for infants to drink.
Tears of anguish
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
the crew of the
USS Ronald Reagan
scrubbed the deck
clean of TEPCO
radiation.
Tears of worry
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
Oregonians rushed out to
buy potassium iodine
tablets to counteract
radiation poisoning.
Tears of affliction
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
NATO forces continued
to fire missiles and drop
bombs on Libya.
Tears of agony
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
a terrorist bomb exploded
in Jerusalem, killing one
and injuring many.
Tears of vengeance
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
the Syrian Army fired on
demonstrators
calling for reforms.
Tears of hostility
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
The USA Today reported
that during the past decade
the population of Detroit
declined by 25%.
Tears of loss
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
a dilapidated brownstone
in Philadelphia collapsed;
city officials expect
many more to occur.
Tears of distress
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
President Obama cut
short his Latin American
trip by skipping a tour of
Mayan ruins.
Tears of dismay
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died
the Dow Jones Industrial
Average closed
up 67.39 points.
Tears of joy
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
Elton John dedicated the song,
Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me
to the memory of his departed friend.
Tears were shed.
You Tube Music Video:
Elton John,
Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me
Lewes DE
3/23/11
jbm
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
534
We see—Comparatively—
The Thing so towering high
We could not grasp its segment
Unaided—Yesterday—
This Morning’s finer Verdict—
Makes scarcely worth the toil—
A furrow—Our Cordillera—
Our Apennine—a Knoll—
Perhaps ’tis kindly—done us—
The Anguish—and the loss—
The wrenching—for His Firmament
The Thing belonged to us—
To spare these Striding Spirits
Some Morning of Chagrin—
The waking in a Gnat’s—embrace—
Our Giants—further on—
3.1k
Sticks & stones may
Break my bones, but your words... Your
Words are nonexistent. Images
Flutter,
Nonessential to the plot of
The present, inconsistent ramblings of
Tomorrow. Your
Teeth are bared, stained
& brittle. Saliva
Spurts & hangs in the balance between
Reality &
Whatever this is, this stagnant disbelief, this
Coincidental segment
Of emotion.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
The Israelites (/ˈɪzriəlaɪts/; Hebrew: בני ישראל Bnei Yisra'el)
were a confederation of Iron Age
Semitic-speaking tribes of the ancient Near East
inhabiting parts of Canaan during the tribal & monarchic periods;
Modern archaeology has largely discarded
the historicity of the Jewish religious narrative;
re-framing it as constituting an inspired national myth:
The Israelites & their culture according to modern
archaeological accounts,
did not overtake the region by force,
instead branching out from the indigenous [Canaanite peoples
long inhabiting the Southern Levant, Syria,
ancient Israel, and the Trans-Jordan region]
through the development of a distinct _monolatristic_—
[_Monolatry_ (Greek: μόνος (monos) = single,
and λατρεία (latreia) = worship) is the belief
in the existence of many gods but with the
consistent worship of the one deity; the term
"monolatry" was perhaps first used
by Julius Wellhausen;
Modern scholars of Israel's religion have
become much more circumspect in how
they use the Old Testament; not least
because many have concluded the Bible
is not a reliable witness to the true religion
of ancient Israel and Judah; representing
the beliefs of only a small segment of the
ancient community _centered in Jerusalem_
& devoted to the exclusive worship
of the god "Yahweh": Monolatry is
distinct from monotheism,
which asserts the existence of only one god;
and henotheism, a religious system in which
the believer worships one god w/out denying
that others may worship different gods with
equal validity]; later cementing as a monotheistic religion
centered on Yahweh, one of the Ancient Canaanite deities;
the outgrowth of Yahweh-centric beliefs
along with a number of cult practices
gradually gave rise to a distinct Israelite
ethnic group setting them apart
from the other Canaanites
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
I am melting into a dream of tangerines;
Falling, passing the branches of citrus blossoms that once were.
I land on a rigid peel,
the brightest orange in the colored pencil set.
There are indents in the skin,
depressions, each belonging to a different story,
this tangerine has been through a lot.
**From a young bud,
to a ripe fruit,
it has grown.**
Do not make the mistake of calling it an orange, or a clementine,
it is not.
It is a tangerine.
Peeling it almost sounds like a symphony.
Inch by inch, the orchestral rhythm plays off,
until you are slicing it, accidentally rupturing its walls,
in that moment, it sounds like a little boy, who doesn’t quite understand why it’s encouraged to chew with your mouth closed.
A tangerine,
each segment of it looks like half a pair of healthy lungs,
pure, and fresh.
It is a surprise when you bite into it.
Realize, the prettiest things are not always the sweetest,
they can be a little tangy, a little sour.
The taste bouncing off the inside of your mouth like it is a trampoline.
Realize, it is a tangerine;
**from a young bud,
to a ripe fruit,
it has grown.**
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC
: LAST NIGHT—
I watched a ***** internet video;
a man getting halved by an Elevator.
It was a slow process.
— LISTEN:
I am not really sure if I want
to think about it at the moment— and
I certainly don't want to write it out. That would require me
a stretch of contemplation —AND
a reach to be descriptive on my part, or at least
not to be redundant.
No,
In order to tell you about it,
I would really need to Stress the details that
got me: That really human kind of **** you know? LIKE:
the expressions on his face, and how closely his step brought him to near freedom—just outside that metal box. Just before it came down hard, and took 50% of the **poor ******* with it.
It was the manner in which he got stuck that pushed me There, and
not traditionally.
Think long-ways.
The exact scenario from my nightmare so far back— with a single deviation. Setting.
Of course, inside my twisted anti-fantasy: it was the antagonist was suffering, also this character I had come to know by name and action.
...Anyway that segment shocked me.
And I don't get shocked that often.
It was a sort of fate that I never actually thought I would observe in person. There is always the stopping point when watching gore online and that was mine.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 2:17 AM UTC
Once, we were pure
Innocent and loved by someone
And we showed love to everyone.
Once, we were children.
Then, in the blink of an eye
That white and holy innocence
Was washed with scarlet
Stained with ebony
And swiftly destroyed.
We tried to be brave
Endure it while we could
We became strong, yet so calloused
But eventually lost ourselves
Our childhood was put to rest
And yet, there was no alter or music or flashy sign
It just dropped dead in its tracks.
On some level, we know that
Floating between this childlike state of mind
And the much too mature circumstances
Will take its toll
But we learn to adapt quickly.
Then, things change.
We begin to notice how adults
Adults who have had the chance to
Fully develop in every aspect
Still fight like petty preschoolers
Or gossip like catty teenagers.
We are still young
So watching these "grown ups" quarrel
Is appalling
Or is it the norm?
At this point,
I laugh at such arguments
And yet a very specific segment of my heart
Is uncomfortable and confused by
Why this has to happen.
I am not afraid of conflict.
But I am disconcerted by
The way many people who are supposed to be
Role models and authority figures
Handle such situations.
I see it at work
At church
At home
At school
Everywhere.
While I am slowly learning
To become a woman
To make my own choices
To follow my own path
I am a minority, perhaps.
Perhaps, we should stop letting those who are still, by the law's definition,
Children
See those who are their supposed leaders
Act like children.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
Sat down to write a tribute to this soldier, and a critique of our nation's leaders after watching this CBS 60 minute segment. But as is my wont, I listen to music as I compose, but this time the song was the exact answer to what I wanted to express, much of want to say, almost all of how I felt.
First watch the segment, then read the lyrics to one of Willie Nelson's signature songs, written by Ry Cooder, John Hiatt, and Jim Dickinson. Added the YouTube video of Willie singing as well.
If it helps, change the Rio Grande to Afghanistan.
---------------------------------------------------------------
http://www.cbsnews.com/video/watch/?id=50157505n
---------------------------------------------------------------
Across The Borderline
(Ry Cooder/John Hiatt/James Dickinson)
There's a place where I've been told
Every street is paved with gold
And it's just across the borderline
And when it's time to take your turn
Here's one lesson that you must learn
You could lose more than you'll ever hope to find
When you reach the broken promised land
And every dream slips through your hands
Then you'll know that it's too late to change your mind
'Cause you've paid the price to come so far
Just to wind up where you are
And you're still just across the borderline
Up and down the Rio Grande
A thousand footprints in the sand
Reveal a secret no one can define
The river flows on like a breath
In between our life and death
Tell me who's the next to cross the borderline
But hope remains when pride is gone
And it keeps you moving on
Calling you across the borderline
When you reach the broken promised land
Every dream slips through your hands
And you'll know it's too late to change your mind
'Cause you pay the price to come so far
Just to wind up where you are
And you're still just across the borderline
Now you're still just across the borderline
And you're still just across the borderline
-------------------------------------------------------
Here is the YouTube of Willie singing the song.
http://youtu.be/vi9sXy9eRyA
-------------------------------------------------------
More on Capt. Will Swenson
http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-3445_162-57608305/a-heros-tale/
http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-18563_162-57603788/medal-of-honor-winner-shows-bravery-tenderness/
http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-35277_162-57607565/william-swenson-afghan-war-veteran-awarded-medal-of-honor-by-president-obama/
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
**The feeling of being alive
In a different segment of your life.
When the time passed me by
I can't hold back my reluctant smile.
Every time you just appear
In a bubble champagne
I can't help but to remain hang on my seat.**
*I
Guess
My
Jaw
Just drop*
Can you pick it up for me?
^_~
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 9:11 AM UTC
Bustling tall building
Height of success
I'd climb it if I could
With my young hands
But the topic will digress
And take up an idle way
With some ADD
On OCD, undeserved
Funny how things are no matter
**** you and your life
When work's to be done
Here's shying from, shirking from
Working until done
We can overcome
Right after this segment
Oh shh, show is back on
....
What was it we were fighting for?
Oh well, I forget it
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 6:36 PM UTC
Jessie is seventeen.
She's still in school.
Her prospects are good, her future looks bright.
She likes to act cool,
As long as she deceives her feelings inside.
Jessie is seventeen.
She makes music.
It takes the strain of the words she's victim of.
She writes about conflict,
To try to make her life imaginary, her life without love.
Jessie is seventeen.
She sits at her piano.
Moving her hands along the ivory keys, keeping inspired.
She sometimes draws an arrow,
Allowing her fingers to slice and cut on the wire.
Jessie is seventeen.
She likes the smell of home baking.
If you cut your grass, she compliments the fresh scent.
She finds perfumes totally breathtaking,
When eating oranges, she takes in the aroma of each segment.
Jessie is seventeen.
She has sensitive teeth.
Ice cream is too cold, it sends up a pain.
She worries about what lies beneath,
And prefers it if the taste isn't too plain.
Jessie is seventeen.
She sees a lot.
For someone so young, she's been witness to much.
She got herself caught on a dodgy plot,
And uses her body, for her mind, as a crutch.
Jessie was seventeen.
She wanted to learn.
Her prospects were good, her future is bright.
Jessie was cool.
She managed to decieve her feeling inside.
Jessie was seventeen.
She felt things inside.
Society heard her cries,
But did not listen to her when she tried.
Now Jessie has left for a better life.
Where she'll no longer need to hide.
Yes, that's right, Jessie died.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
Tænk dig
at stå der og se det smukkeste i verden, når du stirrer tomt i kolde vandpytter.
Fordi du ikke kender til andet.
Tænk dig
at efteråret sidder i dine krageben. Dit betonsind.
Dit vinylhjerte føles palperet af kulde,
at du har skadedyr i maven.
Tænk dig
at være anopsi-(tist) og alt du ønsker er at være en aerobe
der lever af kaffekunst; men dit sind søber i inkurabel mercury
Du inficeres af revolutionære misbrugere af forandring.
Tænk at du ikke kan andet
end at lade fremmedlegemerne borer i dit sind
Tænk at være et segment af dig selv
at dit deoxyribonucleic er forkert.
At gå staccato rundt.
Tænk dig at forsvinde.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 1:57 AM UTC
Like a spider on *******
I weave dysfunction
in a haphazard way
My web has huge gaping holes
It continues to u
n
r
a
v
e
l
Stops short of beautiful
I begin one segment
then d
r
o
p it to start piecing together another
My web lacks intricate details
that would make it magnificant to others
My web cannot function naturally
the way instinct intended
The holes in my web
cause opportunities to fly right by and through
leaving me hungry, confused and reliant on you
This web is a silky mess
So I'll just leave it be
to end up
on someone's eyelash
as they acquiesce.
Like a spider on *******
I weave dysfunction
in a hap-haz-ard
way.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
“A demagogue, in the strict signification of the word, is a 'leader of the rabble'.” — James Fenimore Cooper, "On Demagogues"
a political leader who seeks support
by appealing to popular desires &
prejudices rather than by using rational argument;
A demagogue or rabble-rouser is a leader
in a democracy who gains popularity
by exploiting prejudice & ignorance
among the common people, whipping up the passions
of the crowd & shutting down reasoned deliberations;
rabble-rouser, agitator, political agitator,
soapbox orator, firebrand, fomenter, provocateur
"he was drawn into a circle of campus demagogues"
Only in ancient Greece and Rome
was it a leader or orator who espoused
the cause of the common people;
demagogues overturn established customs of political conduct,
or promise or threaten to do so;
demagogues have appeared in democracies
since ancient Athens. They exploit a fundamental
weakness in democracy: because ultimate power
is held by the people, it is possible for the people
to give that power to someone who appeals
to the lowest common denominator
of a large segment of the population;
demagogues usually advocate immediate,
forceful action to address a national crisis
while accusing moderate & thoughtful opponents
of weakness or disloyalty
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 7:44 PM UTC