"sentimentality" poems
I reached up into the top of the closet
and took out a pair of blue *******
and showed them to her and
asked "are these yours?"
and she looked and said,
"no, those belong to a dog."
she left after that and I haven't seen
her since. she's not at her place.
I keep going there, leaving notes stuck
into the door. I go back and the notes
are still there. I take the Maltese cross
cut it down from my car mirror, tie it
to her doorknob with a shoelace, leave
a book of poems.
when I go back the next night everything
is still there.
I keep searching the streets for that
blood-wine battleship she drives
with a weak battery, and the doors
hanging from broken hinges.
I drive around the streets
an inch away from weeping,
ashamed of my sentimentality and
possible love.
a confused old man driving in the rain
wondering where the good luck
went.
16.2k
I will always think fondly
Of the park bench
Near the sad man’s statue
Whose beard of stone
Was sloppily painted
By a bunch of overenthusiastic pigeons
That silly park bench
Where we first kissed
And had our first public argument
About nothing at all
And at the same time
About everything we thought we had
At first our memories
Turned the grass greener
And the skies bluer
And sometimes it seemed
That sad man smiled
Though it might have been an malevolent grin
But soon it became tainted
A symbol of fleeting love
Of passion’s mortality
Its habit of swiftly disappearing
Like cagey, distrustful pigeons
And illusions fuelled by sentimentality
Now I understand the sad man
And consider his faith to be cruel
To want and crave and hope
Yet to be sentenced
His life writ in stone
Near an empty, broken bench
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
Maverick ex-cop (Green Beret /Navy Seal /SAS/Ranger)
Twiddle of the fingers to crack a 64 bit hexadecimal code
Shot but can still beat up bad people and run
15 people firing automatic weapons and they all miss
Database that searches the planets population in 2 seconds
And has photos of their children and plans of their building
Regardless of the crime scene sample, always a rare element that pinpoints location
Car chase where a truck can keep up with a Ducati motorbike
Organisations that only employ attractive people in lead roles
Ugly people are tech specialists sometimes allowed to be ‘quirky’
Even the uglies are attractive people disguised with glasses and bad hairstyles
‘I dream of genie’ gendre were they flirt but never get it on, unless it’s a hospital series
Watchable, funny programs that always succumb to sloppy sentimentality
High schools complete with intolerance, marginalisation, bullying, and hell on earth,
The most disturbing and darkest crime sent to titillate mid evening family viewing
Endless humiliation for fatties, chefs, performers, builders, restaurateurs, and troubled teens
Dysfunctional law enforcement agencies that never work together under any circumstances
Enough, if we need this thick coating of unreality, perhaps its time to switch off?
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
It's not the warmth of your touch that makes me cringe
It's the underlying intimacy of it all
The dormant passion that lies beneath your fingertips
And it's not loving you that gives my bones goosebumps
It's the silkiness of your voice when you first utter sentimentality
And the flash of disappointment that dawns upon your face when I don't immediately regurgitate your emotions
But everyone I've ever known had to learn to crawl before they could walk
So would you mind terribly if I just held your hand for now?
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 5:28 PM UTC
I wish you were here
I'd hold you in my arms
And if you were near
I'd smile all the time
So lonely without you
The days are dragging on
I'm so glad that I have you
Without you life feels wrong
So please don't leave me
I don't think I'd survive
I wouldn't be happy
Without you in my life
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 5:14 AM UTC
His kalenjin tribesmen planned for tribal wars to cleanse kikuyus and luhyias
From the their lands, planned out of tribal sadism,
He was fully aware, as he understood the kalenjin coded language of war
And preparation for war, war of the years 2007 and 2008,
He did not give any holy bishopric **** to save his non indigenous folks
The people to be killed and tribally cleansed were the members
Of his catholic church in the dioceses of Eldoret,
The ones to **** were his kalenjin tribesmen,
But bishop korir could not counsel nor forewarn,
He did not give out any peace focused advice
That a catholic should not **** a catholic
Because of politics or worldliness,
Instead he gave respect to his tribal sentimentality
He behaved as a kalenjin first then a catholic later,
A spiritual paradox of the century,
Only equated in the Biafra tribal sentimentality between igbos and yorubas
Redolent of European ****** or the American ku Klux ****
But after all the non kalenjin Catholics from his dioceses
Had been killed, burned up in the church, ***** up
Homoerotically perhaps in the madness of tribal scorn,
That they now became refugees in their own country; Kenya
And then solemnly condemned to the refugee camps,
Is when Bishop korir Cornelius came out of his tribal kernel
With vices of a kipskiss sadist , holy rosary in his hand,
Singing an out dated poem of Hail Mary the ******
Mother of Jesus Christ to them, the IDPS,
He then promoted a priest from his tribe,
The one kimengich up the hegemonic altar to become
The bishop of Lodwar from where they loot
The illiterate turkana catholic peasants their relief foods,
And even jobs, and clothes, only to give to those who are not needy,
To the kalenjin who are not even catholic nor marginalized, some even Moslem,
All these happens in the sweetness of tribal syndrome,
A social disease which the holy sacrament of the catholic faith
Have not and never will heal Bishop Cornelius korir.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
*Tell yourself to breathe
as the stratosphere is falling,
imagining verses tumbling
midst downpours' dissension,
sans sentimentality's
loquacious language,
and the land is left barren
as verbosity disintegrates
and emotions wholly perish
'neath fickle cloudbursts
of poetry's extinction*
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 7:12 AM UTC
The first shots slammed across the woods at dawn
Into my sleep, there taking down my dreams
Which can’t be slung into a pickup truck
And carried to the processors by noon
Venison is a bit gamey, of course:
That’s why they call it game, wild game, then food
Blended with pork and spices for Thanksgiving
And that’s a nice little dream in itself
Let’s not indulge sentimentality here
In forest glades or on china plates – it’s just a deer
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 1:19 PM UTC
Come join me sweetheart at the waters edge.
We can dabble our feet in the water that's soothing.
Splash our feet in refreshing water.
We may sit upon grounded rocks,they look a touch like stranded dolphins.
We can talk to the sound of the sea.
Me and you.
You and me.
There are no cockle shells standing in rows.
Just the fresh aroma of the sea as it crawls up your nares.
Many moments of sentimentality,as together we sit and we breathe in the scent of the sea.
Just me and thee.
The moon rises skyward.
The autumn sun falls down.
Autumn of beaches and stone dolphins, left in front of the falling sun.
Beckoned by the tide.
The pull of the tide is weak tonight.
Come sunrise the dolphins shall still be in sight.
You and I shall say goodbye.
Until the night be gone.
See you soon.
Stone hearted ones.
(c)Livvi
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
*Kindred spirit, the privilege is mine, it's just that I,
I never finish because there is nothing going on, nothing to go on.
All right, all right, all right,
you're right,
I don't write as much as I used to,
but in all fairness (to myself)
I feel a bit more loose.
Never mean to,
but I guess I argue
a lot in order to hide
how much I really don't care;
Celina said it's not okay
but
that at least I know
it's insulting.
I only want to be in my body
when your feathery fingers graze my spine.
That tone an angel loaned
to you can ripple through
the void, make a soft,
translucent puddle out of reality,
can you see me
on the other side?
Don't say I'm angry,
it's just that
no one has ever really tried
to impress me, so I'm scared
I guess.
Remember you are here,
don't be weird about the types of things
sentimentality will bring,
will string along to the
forefront of an open sore;
no one pours the sink a whiskey
drink until the girls are crying out above the stars,
better yet, stirring them from afar
for their own faults, for being
fickle with love
and their own hearts.
You know I don't sleep much,
You know I don't dream of such
pretty things but I could imagine
how you, in a different life,
were gifted eternal wings.
Those that brought you to me.
I would weep
if I wasn't made of stone.*
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
Don't sleep
Don't sleep
I begin to
Like you
A little bit more
I shift and sigh
Say your name
Fatigue rolls
Somewhere by
But, alert I
Imagine
So many paintings
To make for you
You mumble
Childishly
Your laughter
Is glittery
I wish
For so little
I wish too
Intensely
Dont wipe me
With a stiffened cloth
Soaked
In turpentine
And a hundred hues
Dont stir me
I might be disturbed
Out of skill
Out of thought
Onto a burlap scene
Grotesque
Picturesque
And so, so true
Don't move
Or I might too
I might too
Become a facet
Among the facets
Of your horrors
I might
Become art
Might become
Beautiful
In that strange
Black way
Of art
Dont sleep
Talk to me
Speak to me
Let us be
Normalities
Let us
Hold
Technicalities
Forget
Sentimentality
In the silly blue painting
Of an eyeless pretty
Smooth and porcelain
Perfectly closed
No night
To mourn into
Dissolve into
To stumble,
To tremble into
Don't sleep
I become too much alone
Shrivel, burnt sienna
I cannot move alone
I become the paintings
That I fear to paint
I become the sombre
Debris of your laughter
Cold, blue
Featureless
A moonlit night
Nothing but red
You don't know
That I like you
In my head
Come back
Come back
Apr 30, 2023
Apr 30, 2023 at 6:10 PM UTC
I walked around the streets, an inch away from weeping, ashamed of sentimentality and possible love.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
Moon light falls onto my face
As i drift off into deep sleep
But before I nod off completely
I find myself wishing for you warm embrace
You see, dear
As arrogantly as the words will sound
You're meant to be with me
Not him.
Who else can conquer the raging doubts you hold?
Who but I, I alone, understand the deep labyrinth of your mind?
What even, say of your sentimentality?
Your craving for nostalgia?
You and I are emotional beings;
Only destined to find equally passionate
And feeling people
Come with me
I haven't yet lost my forgiveness.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 3:05 AM UTC
Synchronitities
It's 11.11 again,
AM through to PM,
Just to see you again,
In all your simplicities.
11.11 again,
Now tell me what's the relevance,
When I see you there,
Lying in sentimentality,
You got the 411,
Telling me just about anything,
That you can breath,
Steals your rationality.
11.11 again,
The sentence that won't ever end;
Caught up in a comma coma,
Blinded by the clarity,
11.11 again,
I seen it on the TV screen,
What does it mean to you & me,
Simple sequenced synchornities
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 8:47 AM UTC
the nation's pride in graceful wave
delivered 'fore the thousands
the millions as they roared 'n raved
in worship smiles that roused them
from those ever graceful lips
kissed by Jove 'n Venus
that spoke the majesty of queenship
of love above sweet Eros
the smile that shone out from her eyes
with sincerity none could hide
of interest and intelligence wise
up welled from deep inside
no mawkish sentimentality
nor false, nor common rot,
her smile bespoke reality
a truth that G-d begot
Fare thee well, O gracious Queen,
never from nation forgot,
Farewell in flight to Heaven's Sheen,
To bind Celestial Knot
Sep 13, 2022
Sep 13, 2022 at 10:16 AM UTC
Could vous just take a second, a moment, one solid instant
to visualize the boy in the stall with more felt lacerations than words of admiration.
Could the bold, bright, beautiful ones start singing
because I'm sick of the loud talk that goes through the motions of lingering
in an echoed room as they "try" to save the oceans - tell me, did we
litter on the way there? There's a forgotten world in stories told of heroes, breathing clean air.
Could the world give one more shot (a mountainous event) because history needs valor.
But technology is further than requirements for bravehearts to trigger a gun. Envision
a man four foot high, who stands a flag where poppies lie because he was that lucky man
who watched his fellows die
I'll say, weaponry wields death to We, naught could prove me wrong.
Could the world be a little bit more tight; bring back the mystery of gentlemen.
We're too loose and on the edge of loss, and the cost - oh, the cost
is sentimentality that somehow became disconnected when
baring your soul and stripping bare became two
and when I meet the one, my mind is plagued that we shall only amount to half.
Could the world be about more than the new, the sophisticated
or have too many eye closed to the life before the Dodo's died; now only
one view: to screen the disease from the rescued swingers, sinkers and singers
ahhhhhhhhh! basking in captivity: to compensate, we take back by metabolizing habitats.
Could the world be about to - because me and mine are everywhere,
but mind: the brain's likely to reach revelation. Clap, we will excel. After all,
when the world explodes and we reconnect, I'm sure each will preach and teach and leech
until it's known - We'll thank Gutenberg as needed, but printer is no master
when the minds are intertwined. But P'haps it has been a bad morning because I've known you
and you've bled true - long been fixing those around, so they aren't torches who warn off monsters,
instead they shave down fangs of loathing, there's no - not one! - beast they burn.
And don't I wonder? Ah yes, I do wonder: that now
Could the world be about to turn?
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
So keen and careful on
An impending superlativity
Very willing and ready to counter it
In the mighty of their lonely evil machinations
African relatives as black in the hearty as they do in the skin
Fangled to matchless stature in their scramble for ignobling Africa
Refusing to listen to reason of voice by echoing uselessness in their sentimentality
From the past historicity so redolent in the glory of peasantry a sit of nugatory bigotry
Relatives, kindly is implore you to your accurate antonym, it is imperative
When are you bound to set free Africa from the curse of inheritance?
Give Africa a leeway for freedom of thought, investment
Entrepreneurship and corporate glory, pliz
By easily novating yourselves
Relatives with true
Customers
And fellow
Professionals
Africa.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
Nostalgia washes over me like powerful waves do in the sea,
as they crash, knocking me back to shore,
to my reality.
Small satin sage ribbons wrapped around two messy pony tails.
Little white socks up to her ankles,
embroidered in lace.
Baby fingers and toes, grasping at everything within reach.
An active imagination filled to the brim.
Fire breathing dragons that hide under the sofa,
the princess' castle poised on the roof,
crawling worms found in chinese noodles for dinner.
Searching eyes filled with wonder that look back into mine.
Childhood may be ephemeral,
but its sentimentality reigns forever in my memory.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 12:21 PM UTC
over two thousand people have jumped off the Golden Gate bridge
and I don’t think a single one of them thought about how weak
hydrogen bonds are.
I don’t think a single one of those two thousand plus people
thought about the fact that it was water at the bottom of their drop.
to me, it seems common knowledge
that hydrogen bonds are the weakest link that elements can make.
people overestimate the strength of surface tension,
even from such a high place.
hydrogen bonds will always break,
just like me and you.
just like mentality
just like sentimentality
just like reality
just like knowing that i’ve only got a year left with you,
cause god knows we aren’t gonna stick it out after high school.
we’re a hydrogen bond in which
i am the hydrogen
because in every situation i find myself to be the weak link,
like everyone else is better off without me.
the problem is, i don’t know what other people are thinking
when they think of me,
because i’m no mind-reader and i’ve never been a good guesser,
so maybe some of those two thousand plus people who
jumped off the Golden Gate bridge actually did think about the weak link,
the lack of strength in hydrogen bonds, the possibility of water
giving out under their weight and their survival rate.
i read somewhere that no matter how you try, your body will do everything
it can to keep you alive. maybe it’s not just your body,
but also your mind manipulating situations to best advance your
survival probability.
because maybe, just maybe, no one really wants to die.
maybe, but it’s a big maybe, because i can’t read minds.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
Delicacies of darkness,
Intricacies of energy;
Witches of woe
Insinuating that nothing we pass is past,
As all beginnings were long since begun.
Protecting an abnormality,
That would rather be condemned,
By self-centered ambition of men.
An insanity that turns her right, round again.
Now if now only.
Living by wick and glee of natural ability.
You would come and dare,
Old sentimentality and whimsicality,
Rampart of myths and misconceptions.
To indulge in mischievous play
Under the indigo sky,
By the light of a spiral of far fire.
The journey starts by stealing hearts
If only now you would come I should be happy.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 4:39 AM UTC
it breaks my heart to read
your broken poetry
the words you write they bleed
with sentimentality
sometimes you confuse me
with your duality
because you sing with glee
but write with agony
i know you cannot forget
for you love with intensity
yet remember i'll be here
to peruse your heart's ambiguity
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 5:40 AM UTC
***Book One
(∞The Psalm of The Star Child∞)
The Precursor's Psalm I-V
To the Child of The Empyrean. For ye valleity stars shine.
(I) ―En Fortissimo
1 Tender with sentimentality,
I fathom you,
2 That you draw closer, nigh’ with every waking moment,
Closer to ensconce ‘twixt my embrace,
3 That your towering arms
May aegis these benighted bones.
4 The Vestibule of Our Souls shall be
Assoiled by an Arcadian Eternity,
5 Shall scintillate in my every blooded tear, shed garnetiferously,
―Upon my crucifix, our crucifix:
6 A penance, pardoning our transgressions prognostically
Before by romance, we touched erringly.
(Se'lah)
(II) Celestial Communion
1 O, Star Child,
May your beckoning
2 Sow the Seeds of Somnus upon the sanctimony
Festering in my faith,
3 (A besmirched hope)
Tarnished by my reverenc’d doubt.
4 O Minstrel of Manumission,
Will ye sing unto me ye SoulSong?
5 The Womb’d Aethers bleed,
The Terraqueous Mother conceives, Gaian a dream,
6 Her Luminous Brethren yearn
For the Arbiter of Fates.
(Se'lah)
(III) Song of Wishes
1 Velleity speaks,
It whispers,
2 In the twinkling of the stars.
When shall it end,
3 When
It has yet to begin?
4 Be still― and become one with all things,
As time fades, consciousness begins,
5 The Experiential Cascade:
All that was, all that is, & all that shall be,
6 Circular & Cycling,
Forevermore.
7 Know that there is a reason,
Know that there is a place,
8 Know that there is a person,
In this world for you.
9 Open up your heart and see,
All you were meant to see.
(Se'lah).
(IV) Spiritus de Tempus (Zeitgeist of the Future)
1 ―Blooming in Reminiscence
The Dreamscape glistens,
2 A Redolent Reverie wafts
The Tenuous Air amidst
3 Her Zephry'd Lightwaves
& Crystalline Pulsations.
4 Ardently I pine,
For thine visage, groping for a rhyme,
5 Whence I can gaze once more upon thine
Countenance sublime,
6 All desperations been defied,
For thee I reverberate Love, The Spirit of the Times.
(Se'lah)
(V) Bastion Heart
1 The agony in existentiality
Unravels undying piety
2 And
Cloistered in cadence of solitude,
3 I, the Somnolent One,
Am roused by The Heart’s Resonance.
4 In wanting, there is life,
In desirelessness, wanting still,
5 Know thine Power,
Indomitable Will:
6 The Couer & The Amour of the Spirit
Are immortal.
(Se'lah)***
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 8:05 AM UTC
All will power, self-control and mental restraint I have exhausted,
For neither passion reside nor lust emerge in his humble feeble heart.
I have knelt on frail knees and with quaint hands his love I exalted
But within his soul, intimacy and romance he willingly depart.
Minutes to hours to 6 am poetry readings in remote coffee houses,
He has inspired the muses in the hellish chasms and caverns in my chest.
Desperate and loose interpretations of his intentional misleading’s he arouses
For in me he refutes debauchery with sarcasm wherein my tavern I will recess.
I am a kin folk made from a flamed dreams of love unbound by time and lust,
And whose very existence is to serve and be served without expectation.
In us a purity resides of reclaimed innocence from unadulterated trust
Where he confides in me his minds afflictions and turbulent tribulations.
But there is a blonde girl, petite personality, vivacious body and soul pure as light,
So in empty compliments and falsified flattery I forsaken myself to internal desires.
For she is an Angel engulfed in his wings of sentimentality and heroic might,
And I am but the Devils Advocate crucified in a criminal act,
Doing all that his love requires.
For I will walk through time loving him in every way,
And he will die loving her just the same.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 2:39 AM UTC
I saw last night
What you did to Ted Cruz,
"A lying baby leaning on a Bible."
That quote is masterful.
Is that why you spent all that time with Bubba?
It just occurred to me you might have learned a thing or two
hanging out with the most naturally gifted living politician in the world?
And maybe that's part of why you cultivated that relationship with the Clintons?
You ****** up some of his skills like a sponge didn't you Donald?
And you were also keeping your enemies close before they knew they were enemies,
You saw them blinded by the bubble,
Bumbling over egos,
And you saw the seas parting,
Left and right drowning beside you as You walked across to the promise land,
Legs of the future spread out in front of you
Weeping with yearning,
Glistening in the light at the end of the tunnel.
You have no idea what it will be like to be President.
And I know you know you might bankrupt the world.
You have failed at easier things, Sir.
We both know this,
And we both know you don't care.
You are going to **** this country one way or another.
Will it be romantic?
I'm guessing it will be more like
gray **** gonzo ****
On a gold plated VHS,
But maybe not.
If you have taught History anything,
And it's clear you are teaching that ***** a lesson,
A crash course in what Nietsche called
"The Will To Power."
If you have taught History anything it's that
You won't let her tell you what to do.
I hate to do it,
but I just got to love you brother,
Or at least let go of my sentimentality,
And admit you will likely win.
your style is so much more tacky and just plain pathetic than you will ever understand,
But your knife is true blue,
Like the spirit of Sinatra.
You trump it up,
**** it,
Bump it and dump it.
Then you take that money
And bake it and shake it.
Baby you were born to run.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 2:35 PM UTC