"shoutings" poems
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Dear New Poet:
Then I'm your man,
your very own
Northern star,
one leg up of a
3 legged stool,
upon which all,
we, enthroned poets,
the world-over,
do rule
the honor you
bequeath me
to be,
a first follower,
your very own
first responder,
it, cannot be
disdained
nor
diminished
this instance,
this birth,
a novice revival,
heart transplant,
makes it
the sweetest blessing
to be the first—
let us be
the quencher
of a desert thirst so long
in the parching,
the throat burning,
by a desert sojourning,
of a now ending
forty times
four hundred years
so come to me!
message me a message,
find me a find,
your poem fine,
so now we vow,
our embrace will
ne’er be broken
give me this
honorific!
let us together
be terrific,
raise our glasses,
with arms entwined
toasting you and
all that mind and
breasted chest of yours,
full bursting from
its future~contains,
of which,
its full release,
brings a fuller life
for us both
I am a father.
I am a grandfather.
I am a First Follower.
and a First Responder,
for all who needs a leg up,
so step upon my heart,
it be but a first step upon a
ladder with no top, no end ensighted
my legs are as old as time, but,
measure me not by the rings and
the metered scales of gray hair aging,
shock of white, a cain mark, wizard-wizened
but
by the muscles
of my deep affection,
the solemnity of this,
my irrevocable promise
this,
the blessing
we both make and earn,
when you write,
and while we wait,
in quiet attendance -
for all of your good works,
your kept promises
Blessed
are You Lord our God,
Ruler of the Universe
who has given us life,
sustained us until now,
***allowing, allying, and
alloying***
the treader of treacherous waters,
reader, writer, swimmer,
to reach, meet, embrace
and greet this day,
this new born poem,
with hallelujahs
whispering and shoutings
together,
as one
in one, of one,
one
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 1:11 PM UTC
The night is young
tis fair in the crickets silent song
alates that come after summer rain
rushing traffic splashing brown water
—my socks are soaked; wet toes,
and cold shiver's marathon in a running
nose
My head pounds like a child
beating a drum
Undisciplined, uncontrollable buzzing
like bees making a hive of my thoughts
choked words by the feelings above my throat
Clouded mind, to now be feeling grey
it's grave to me to dig up my past
Clearer skies, exposed skins, and parent
shoutings, about playing where ringworm
lie in grass
The scent is sour; heaven tears left
on the soil—bending a flower
the silence ends here, but it will
again rain another hour
Dec 20, 2022
Dec 20, 2022 at 11:59 AM UTC
I see people looking at me when I’m not yelling at them.
I see people running away from me when I’m pelting stones at broken cars.
I’m walking alone with barking dogs.
I see crying kids when I smile at them.
I see hand prints all over my body for eating fruits.
I see my black eye in a mirror, all for just asking food.
I hear screaming horns, when I’m just crossing the road.
I hear shoutings, when I’m just trying to sleep in the park.
All that I do is what I do.
All that I take is what I never asked for.
I see no difference between you and me.
Is it because you are yourself, and I am me?
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
There is a lovely noise about your name,
Above the shoutings of the city clear,
More than a moment's merriment, whose claim
Will greater grow with every mellowed year.
The people will not bear you down the street,
Dancing to the strong rhythm of your words,
The modern kings will throttle you to greet
The piping voice of artificial birds.
But the rare lonely spirits, even mine,
Who love the immortal music of all days,
Will see the glory of your trailing line,
The bedded beauty of your haunting lays.
1k
The poverty I am saddest about
( his shoutings about politics )
…..he read that online
mine poetry about this poverty
the stupidity started scolding me
declared instantly me-moi as its enemy
its words, so absurds
a lunatic so terrific
not its area nor its section
I oft write in Dutch and this is mine declaration
I do now one step lower
From “it” I step a bit lower down to “his”
his profession does not read poetry
but he thought he could read
poetry poesy and poems
true very pity
not his art nor his profession
he meddles in everything
mine poetic wings, not his thing
(contin.on Part 2)
© Sylvia Frances Chan
Copyright Protected
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 2:21 AM UTC
when I was younger
home was the best place ever.
whether it was birthdays
which now feels like
a long-lost dream. since we lived in a tiny
house. a family of six huddled up together
in a tiny room to celebrate. maybe times
were simpler or maybe we didn’t have much then.
or on days, mum cooks
which always was a rarity.
she never played an active role
but our younger selves made sure
at the end, we’d be grateful.
things began to shift
when we grew older.
the happy house felt like a dark
gloomy one. smiles began to
be replaced by shoutings.
birthdays began to be less common
and sooner like we all imagined
it would become something
attached with the past.
when i became older
i tried becoming friends with
my younger self. somedays were
a disappointment. somedays we faked it.
I’m still trying to.
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 9:03 PM UTC
Our own imaginations are beyond comprehension
in the moment nonsense garbles
but with the sight of past eyes looking
there unfolds a divination
coming from the spiral pool depths
a fascination with order and control
may miss out on these soul callings
sometimes shoutings
out to our weary hollowed ears
Look at the stars , Look at the feet !
Run to the trees and sway!!
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
silence your animated shadows
such brutal shoutings only draw from your darkest nightmares.
dust away the lines of immutable diversity
the trending nuances are endowed masterpieces
only if you're lucky
will you remember what he did out of passion
dare not complain of things to overcome
do not be your own servile corpse
sufficed to receive pleasures not truly your own
specific miseries perpetuate in stubborn wills
feeling delighted despite everything
forward through a few songs
it's apparent we are sitting in an English garden
and yes I am the walrus
finally we crest in a dream with forged shadows
never before have silent strokes sent such passionate waves of selfish love
your expressions of futile enthusiasm
counterbalance disturbing inscriptions on beautiful shadows
the dark complexions sink further into visible shadows
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 4:05 AM UTC