"sequentially" poems
my rhymes, they're supremacy, while they need consistency, yours the are unwanted clemency, mine requires ability;tremendously, you rhymes, low volume low density, D=m/v, ***** that, im all about chemistry, chemistry between the bonds of my melody, while yours are useless discrepancy, perform reverse polarity, while you're searching for popularity and keeping your rhymes up breathlessly. hey, i'll give you a break; temporarily. i'll come back later; sequentially.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 10:08 AM UTC
Those silver ***** were my favourite
Placed sequentially on piped scrolls
Round the circumference, sparkling;
With Robin and Snowman greetings.
Tied, two inch wide, red satin ribbon
Around decorated cake on silver base
Marzipan and apricot coating under a
Stage of shimmer hardened royal ice.
Love Mary xxxx
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 7:38 AM UTC
“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)
objects, humans, surprise and interrupt our
daily modalities, knocking us, yo! to the ground,
we, pounding it, for the word void appears,
the frustration of incapacity incarcerating,
accompanied by the loudest silenced scream,
of no poetry available, try again later!
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
we walkabout, thinking of the scheduled eventualities, or
the dates calendar-circled, though some questioned marked,
in pencil inserted, will I be a mother, find me a husband,
a human grander grandee, fit to be with me a noble progenitor
of more than our generation, watching the sidewalk cracks for an
inkling of when, on or about such and such an alteration,
a seam undone,
a stumbling, seeing a realization as we fall, hands extending,
a notice of arrival,
all needing reconnoitering, commemorating, a poem prepared,
but none to no avail
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
so we are in awe of words, so necessary, everybody knows,
the awe in awesome, a description for the pixels encapsulates
in I-phone photos,
the where and the why of when, I was grinning like a stupid fool,
the inability to deliver precisely when required the covering of
an appropriate description, your words, use your words, will
fail you spectacularly and so we remain awed, realizing
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
but awesomely awesome word worlds, near and dear, held forever
in scrapbooks, the literary overlay of the treasures of everyday life,
are the still life of our longevity contextual, the celebratory,
the unexpected losses, largest to smallest, in size order,
kept fresh when you flip through those poems in dusty binders,
in oversized sewing boxes, yellowing in concert with our eyes,
graying with follicles of past pluperfect,
recalling not just the when’s, but the more important, now, the
wherefore and whereupon, the words marking the conjunctions,
recoding the recorded synapses firing sequentially, brain to fingers, the ah so of the poetry of lifetimes
“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)
<>
Saturday
September
21st
2019
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
The way the clock ticks
Smooth away
Spirits dry
Slightly tender ears
Become another breath
A breath a sigh a mess to deal with
A test of zeal
& a box of papers
strewn left
& right
torn & strung about to conceal
the floor
the door
the walls
& the ceiling
naked peach & sweating
standing still like a post, but turning around slowly internally
putting on graces & smiling, sniffing the glass
before frowning & commenting on the values of waiting,
or diving right into the chasm of debt,
he looks handsome
& brutish
like a man best used for feeding
himself, feeding someone else
mere feed
he was food
a cow in a pasture
devouring to continue the feeding
for some dollars each day increasing
‘no worries mate’
a gesture to continue moving
there’s less to do
ensuing deadlines
wave beside the days arrive
sequentially,
enduring through them dutifully
like you must
red stars of sparks string off his limbs
& burn holes in the papers
brown cigarette burns widen & envelop
the papers that are small, the bigger
ones catch alight & fall to the
floor & it spreads
to the door
the walls
& the ceiling
now naked & blue & burning
the red & yellow flame rises high
a candle stands spinning
screaming & fighting & running from foe
who will eat him,
or **** him
he sleeps shivering under stars burning brighter than his own
& the papers are gone
so few left to feed the fire
he collapses
in a heap of soot & ash
he lies naked & black & steaming
panting & huffing like a kid on a balloon
on hands & knees observes the wreck
& sighs to clean the mess before
he becomes accustomed
or bored
he swings a broom around
and a dust pan handily collects the
soot & the wreck doesn’t seem so bad
it still stands & he stays there
in a darken pit, a hole of charred plaster
& carpet,
it seems OK so he stays there
all along the street the candles are snuffed out
they still stand so they stay there
in a row
toe to toe
all together
in compartments
of a box
of matches
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
he called me *****
when I left the room,
he called me *****
My tomes of Shakespeare,
witnesses,
fellow poets all, my wall decor.
well familiar with fools,
reported the occurrence
upon my return.
confronted, it,
he did not deny,
for he understood
pointless
at that point,
exceedingly well.
was not angered, simply asking,
since he fancied himself a poet, did
he know any rhymes for that word?
in the interest
of poetic brevity,
answered for him.
*****
witch.
twitch.
gave him reason to use
those words
sequentially.
after that, he addressed me
as mistress, or **********
with respect, an attitude
that was previously
menu unavailable.
what then shall we call you?
the Bard,
his Band of Brothers, and I
jointly confabed.
undignified is slave,
Shakespeare opined,
human dignity needs
respecting.
my walled observer,
co-conspirator of
all that transpired,
drew upon his
own source material,
suggested,
knave.
yes, quite apropos,
my considered reply,
a fool always, and still,
after all, was he not
himself not a
son of a *****
as much as I,
Brandy Channing, is, was, daughter, proud, child
of one great and wonderful Queen
*****
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 12:15 AM UTC
i.
In the hysteria of absolute clarity
- *Otherwise known as the aftermath
Of an epiphanic experience or
47 revelations of elemental semblance* -
One sees one in all, and in
All men, Angels.
____________
ii.
I live in the suburbs;
New subdivisions sitting on
Sliced up ground, where elvish houses sat
Comfortably twelve years prior.
The flowerbeds tell stories
In a Tolkeinesque script.
iii.
But the air's clear here, I can't complain.
We've sunshine and enough rain to sustain
The whole football team... we're in A division this year,
My last in high school...
*but I still pigged out on candy today,
don't tell mom*
iv.
I've been listening more to the silence
And counted seventeen days,
Sequentially (and to my disgruntlement;
thus I dare not jest),
Wherein alarum bells did roar
From iron red chest
v.
Took Casper to the hospital downtown
On a day like today, hey
It was raining then too...
He had candy in his veins,
And purpley-white too tight skin.
I still pray for his life every Sunday night.
vi.
All Hallows' Eve, now two years past,
Beneath a blood moon
Did the two dance, and sat inside
A crippled tree
To laugh and kiss;
Make merry of a mutual sense of entropy
vii.
In slow motion with
devils dust and funguses and herbs
They brewed and spewed as
We watched and sang to each other
And I learned that demons are in
All men
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
It was a deep dark energy. A pulse. Thick, heavy pulses; radiating between bodies.
Magnetism, a primitive attraction. So carnal in nature, so rooted within the primal psyche.
The air was straining, the gap was treacherous to bridge and far too untamed.
Tension gathers until it touches the tip of the tongue, taste buds overloaded, it is a rich,
overwhelming taste, yet it left you quietly seeking more.
Desire. The urges threaten to swallow you whole, teasing you
with the
threatening riptide
that is this
feeling.
Pulling against the rope
dragging you in,
struggling with the strangling grip,
face only somewhat off-color,
eyes only rolling on occasion.
You can take it.
Until you are
overtaken by the mounting wave, swept away
as it crashes upon you, drowning your senses…
oh but how you relish in its wake
It's hit or miss in these raging waters, you make it
or you don't,
and no one ever knows if you'll end up
a floater like so many others.
Not until you're found bloated or bare *****
only then are they certain,
and how condescending
in the way they shake their heads
and announce that they knew where, “you lied all along“
Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 6:28 PM UTC
These special summer afternoons
have no time markers,
no human dividers,
no watches watching
or clocks clocking,
just grins and smiles,
divining the divide,
painting lovely
the one canyon
of humanity and nature
attending to each other
These summer afternoons
have no time markers,
but drift perfectly sequentially
from sun to nap to
black striped grilled franks,
and red watermelon,
orange cantaloupe,
cold coronas,
and desserts of
indeterminate beach walks,
and quiet talks
These summer afternoons
are as close
as I remember,
what it was like to
be seven or eight,
years of age,
knowing only
carefree summer months
that were
carelessly treasured,
thinking there is
always another,
looking forward to tomorrow
to do nothing in
exactly, happily,
the same way innocently
I am an adult
and that means,
cares are ever present,
ever fair or fear not,,
they lurk and
attack the goalie,
with noisy or subtle unrelenting attacks
but as I overlook the waters,
scenario soul gentling me
under the cooling coverlet of
the perfect breeze and
what lurks
is the moment
the eyes and heart
are fulfilled,
satisfied by what they see
The bay,
dotted with the boat traffic
not too much,
but just interesting,
a right tiny armada
to entertain,
all of us,
inattentively observing
the submerging
descent of
summer daytime friends,
and I think of you only,
at this perfect second
and I am besotted
with grief
and guilt
why can I not grant you the moment,
that I desperate wish to share
my arm is not, not,
careless slung, but
grasping firm with squeezes tight,
finger under chin chucking,
come friend be with me,
and for just this moment
your anti-toil tool here,
your plight beyond my comprehension,
though I live a life on the unknown edge,
what matters is the relativity of us,
and I relate to your weariness,
I weep with desperate knowledge
transporting you here is still an
impossibility
though my eyes see glory,
though my heart cannot refuse
the scene's peace invading me,
it is not fair, it is not fair
and I want you
to have this more than me
so I can keep it too
until then it is a glaze,
surfacing the coating,
that is me
but substance is untouched
until this guilt morphs into a
shared pleasure
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 4:36 AM UTC
_I
may
play the
joker, *****
the knave, covet
the queen, and tuck
the ace of spades under my
pillow on a ringed moon night,
but I am forever shuffling the same
deck of cards. Marked cards, imprinted
with loss and patterned with misfortune. Co
urt cards dressed in ill-fitting suits, each face as
familiar as my own. Four seasons, four pips; twelve
months, twelve crowns. One card for each week of the
year. Sequentially pred ictable, and as underwhelming
as a rigged roulette wheel. U ntil, unable to distinguish
between the red and the b lack, the picture and the
plain, I fold. Void of co ntracts, and bleeding
widowe d blanks.
__.....So.....__
deal me in,
but deal me unpainted
and unmastered. Deal me clean._
Jun 2, 2020
Jun 2, 2020 at 4:14 PM UTC
Foretelling the sweet aura of a dream
Signaled by the silent whisper of the southern winds
When all that counts is the smooth sail downstream
And a peaceable expedition upon the Sahara silky sands…
Nowadays a young voyager seeks to understand and affirm
The recourse being presented by this mysterious cosmos
Which stealthily conceals its activity like swimming *****
Pursuing its ambition surreptitiously to win the dummy run;
Searching, leaching and escaping the monotone matrix amid countless
Incidences of mystery that only point to infinite possibilities
Devoid of meaning to the ‘blind’ mainstream masses
Initiated into scripts they did not opt to engrave;
The vexed issue of priorities to save
This amateur spirit innocently postulating for pity,
Searching to find the obliterated Sovereign deity
Whose sacred truth is jam-packed with piety:
Imploring, musing and mulling over yesterday
To sequentially understand today and tomorrow beyond the unvoiced valley,
Ascending the irksome expedition to the mountain top
Were the most wondrous reality awaits this intellectual creep,
That the delightful fortune being sought
Is the world “With-In” and not
The world “With-Out”
Muhumuza Kenneth Ezra.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 3:54 AM UTC
Profligate pundits and
Philandering plutocrats
Promulgating pusillanimous
Pandering polecats
Put partially putrescent
Punks and pettifoggers
Past pitifully puny pollsters
Pushing the party politics
Of petrified pashas.
Disgusting demagogues
Dealing delayed death
Deeming democracy dying
Deny diplomacy daily
Deftly develop departments
Defending discrimination
Dividing deities from devils
Draining dedicated duties
With disgusting dictatorship.
Sorrowfully sublimated
Citizens of society slide
Swiftly and sequentially into
Sibilant session of silliness
In which similes scintillate
Signifying sensitivities
Of separate sensibilities
Subtly smiting the senseless.
Sauce for the stunningly stupid,
Champagne for the saboteurs.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
Shoot Poetry
Come flow with me
Make nasty rhymes
In various Time
Sequences
Neat with it
Or nasty on the grind
Like 2 Chainz
Without the mindless rhymes
Or be so sophistimacated
Like Plato or Socrates
Whatever, they're related
Sequentially
In terms of philosophy
What am I saying G?
I know not no never
Except for when I cease trying to be clever
And make rhymes like I am the go getter
Making up fantastic adventures like I am a snow setter
Or Canadian flow-better, nonsensical love letter
This poem is all those who know better
That poetry is a flavour of the loving center
In Canada we spell it centre
But no metter
I take my time and this rhymes dragging on like her wool sweater
*** poking out like ooh letter'
This cute little girly on the dance floor
Swiping shoe like woo-feathers
Dubstep two-step into hardstyle go-wither
Dance to rhythym of the eternal father
Going hard like go longer
This rhyme never ends
Never never.
So don't let me end it like I'm a n00b and this is Halo 2 or whatever
Making sense of my past in context that's better
This rhyme might end now but its now or never
And I choose the latter because I'm jazzy like Coltrane
I stole that line from someone but I don't remember
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 3:27 PM UTC
Tick, Tock
He is covered in mud
For so long, dark brown
The years have left him
Cold to the touch
Click, click
Tasting of dust and
The bark of birch
Gears in his mind
Constantly shifting
Tick, Tock
His tapping heartbeat
Breathing sequentially
Chorus of bells
It's his job
Ding, ****
There goes my grandfather clock
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
Brilliant patterns in a blaze
Snapping together as you turn
Seeing you without a haze
In the wondrous light, which you burn
Oh the color! What a glorious sight!
To watch you sparkle and shine
Each facets glint is ever bright
It is elegant, delightful, and fine
To watch you dance the days of life
As your jewels sequentially fall
Whether handling moments of joy or of strife
Its amazing to see through it all
See your beauty shine from the depths of your soul
Watch the rapturous mosaic of hope
Taking position in the spectators role
Peering through you...my kaleidoscope
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 4:31 PM UTC
We are sequentially adrift
in time’s light motion
embroiled in the obscure darkness
which turns into a lavish midnight blue
deeper than the ocean
that will define these oppressed hearts
Age endures
and if we could roll back the years
can we go beyond measure?
to question blatant morals
or do as we’re told?
fervent in sublimity,
when so bold
We are locked in dream-filled fantasy
where we find devotion
lost in our epoch
so we can rise above
the memories we shared
it is not enough
when they say time will heal,
it won’t work for love
Jan 2, 2024
Jan 2, 2024 at 11:34 AM UTC
the sickly soft and sentimental sensations of yesteryears seep into the sequentially searing scars of last nights mistakes
and the smoke simultaneously serenades my soft tissue into sorrow soaked sleepless sunday mornings
and we silently seek solace in the safe haven of wordless songs
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 12:06 AM UTC
Xanadu; quintessence of the words,
Of beauty to our ears.
Not love of mind nor fanciful sight,
Nor tenacity of breath of those who might,
Speak provocation of effusive tears.
Diversification of those whose diction,
Expansion was sought imploringly,
Displayed meek thirst,
For knowledge first;
They’ll be blessedly beset linguistically.
Longing rills of liquefied utterance,
Reverberating waves aplenty,
Bellowing whispers loud,
Heard from within a shroud,
Giving rise to a barrel never empty.
Roaring murmurs of ripples in thousands
Cascading to oceans below,
A fast falling downward demise,
Sounding white truth and that of black lies,
Of onomatopoeic H2O.
Not stringent is the string of letters,
Lax are the words to be strung.
Not sequentially,
But dulcetly,
Outward beauty will be rung.
With a patterned strike using one’s cerebella Mallet
On the gong of one’s cerebral stock,
Eloquence imbues,
The mind your ears use,
Curtailing the perpetual tick tock – tick tock.
Facile masks circle that face,
Consuming as they revolve.
Filched is elation,
Taken is creation.
Yet knowing the inevitable resolve.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 6:16 AM UTC
Dragging sheets over head during the dark of night
Slipping away, crawling into the mind's cave
Sequentially tumbling into the dark chasm
Million-mile, feathery fall through a grey abandon
Upon landing scenes start with a glowing sky
Swirled in blue, red, purple, yellow and black
Somehow familiar, I'm sad but never scared nor cry
A house sits empty, tall and alone
Upon a hill where an empty tree decays
Tended, yet desecrated and dry
Don't go inside... Don't go inside.... No, not alone
Deep wells awash with ghosts and faceless ghouls
Shells of scenes you never want to see
My nightmares and wanton dreams
The wind slides thick across the terrain with an audible scream
Down the hill is a black frothing stream
Surrounded by naked women and wild men,
****** and killing, each other over and over again
Familiar faces start to stare as I pass the heathen fire and fare
Glowing insects lounge like lanterns, witnessing their share
Sudden cold hand grabs me, trying to force me to participate
But closed eyes make no contact; I thrash with teeth bared,
Clinging with dried torn hands and lost hair
The black stream saves me by dragging me under
Until I slowly disappear
A cave with a pool reveals the next stanza
Wooden dry dock and blue water give a purple glow
A girl sits there with a boy, his shadow on the wall is a crow
Cawing, he has a voice that I understand and know
She, a snake body that sheds and rapidly grows
The couple melts and I suddenly slow down, down, down...
Deeper this continues to go
I wake up in a bed, but it's not my room
White lights above and dark faces ahead encircle me
Trying to inject me with my doom
I beg and scream
"This isn't my intent, this wasn't my desire!"
But it's all my fault the past was doomed
Thrown punches and scrambling for a door
I find the walls fall and the lights glimmer no more
The floor sympathizes and surrenders
Sees the pain and turns to a warm pool
Dazed, I float on to the morning's shore
Endless nights of fantasy and hedonist to the core
I'll be thrown from the night into fantasy once more
Don't envy me or the source of my quill's tone
I hide all the monsters under my pillow
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 3:18 PM UTC
_I watch him tapping, from the corner of my eye.
Left hand. Pointer to pinkie. Sequentially.
Beginning and re-beginning.
Defeated, intent, scowling, jubilant.
In my imagination he is a poet, counting syllables.
Writing haiku in his head, as he waits in traffic for the light to turn green._
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 4:29 AM UTC
on the Earth, some need a heaven and hell above,
which suits the powered up reigning status quo rulers,
promising that by being just and docile,
one will earn frequent flyer life miles
to a destination ticketed & named,
but not by actual visitation,
a return confirmation, never
some take your self-love as their own idea,
reselling it over and over again back to you
but know that when you sing your own song,
the discoverable truth is we all
get to go to sort of a sanctuary,
especially if you record-keep your flaws,
in order to constantly reinvent yourself
in order to
reach some kind of agreement with yourself
human gravity is hard enough to escape so travel light,
shed those skins over and over again,
each a modest improvement sequentially,
leave your exited charred speech behind,
knockoff the blackened flaking edges, a discarded cutaway,
this way to transcend phony notion redemption requirements,
redemption
is a toxic emblem, a symbol unrequited and a sucker’s play
I am the spirit of another’s name, who, here to teach,
this being today’s lesson;
how to reach your unique
truth sanctuary,
where the stronghold of who you yet-to-be, can-be awaits,
the reinventing ones, successful, some call poets,
they do not confuse redemption requests
with sanctuary
only provisioned
by yourself,
for yourself
Jun 21, 2019
Jun 21, 2019 at 3:46 PM UTC
for Denel Kessler
i am a persistent pain in the ***
too many of you lost at sea
big gray dots marking the disappearance last sighted
some in absentia
hiding real absence,
behind a teacher’s X
as someone calls out present,
for you
so still marked “here”
periodically message them to inquire where and why
they’re keeping their talent warm & selfishly to themselves
should know better than to send selfish
my “just me, checking in” message every more than twice
cause then they reply
with tales that render me into stupid stillness
that cards can deal such bad hands
when you are already
all in
so-passing along a message from
Madame Kessler via a
persistent dude
to you
she, after enduring 11 weeks of hurricanes, followup floods and
other unnamed unnatural events; sequentially called “Job”
she tells you this:
“Feel free to let others in the circle know I think of them often and appreciate all the hands reaching out. It's just all a little much and I'm hanging in the best I can”
so now posted, duty done, perspective slapped
and we who write of pain and life as if
we knew of what we speak
should start over
6/2/18 1:39pm
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 1:51 PM UTC
The choral fraternity
breathed coordinately,
perfectly quietly,
and (crucially) sequentially,
so that the consequent silences
went largely unnoticed,
fortunately.
Dec 16, 2023
Dec 16, 2023 at 4:28 PM UTC
Sequentially flowing in mind
Restlessly leaving behind
Confusing whatever you have inside
Dillusioning whats right and wrong
Forcing to weigh all pros n cons
To fight and to come out strong
Not easy to clear me out
Picture i create speaks loud
Loosing your practicality is what I aim at
Rearranging your acts , to save you a fall flat
Surrender, as I stand supreme
Dare not even in dreams
Let the efforts rest as the power resides in me
Manisha
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
You are like sleep
When you are away my body function normally
And I always plan to assume you
When I see you
My mind turns a factory
Producing sweet phrases unending
My heart pours emotion unstoppable
And my mouth pours words sequentially
No time to think of assumption
Left!
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC
you're in my head
i can feel you coming on
you're in the blood
that rushes to my lips
i know when you're near
i smell you in thin air
and did you know
the connection is
Inherently like trance
when
you say something profound
and it falls through the air like
a poetic dance
of
mental happenstance
i'm captivated
you are
what the sound of a
beautiful prophetic whisper
would look like in my dreams
it's enough wonder
to ignite sparks
that would
uncover hidden
sequentially driven
unparalleled stories
of infinite wisdom
universe has written
listen
Apr 15, 2022
Apr 15, 2022 at 5:53 PM UTC