"sobriquet" poems
I have this sobriquet,
some say,
of being a naughty poet.
But why should what’s there, underneath us,
be figuratively beneath us, and shouldn’t it
more frequently come between us?
That’s my ethos
about the penoth
and the clitoroth
and the propagation of the spethoth.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 7:37 AM UTC
My ***** Lover
Irrationality always wins
Chicago is aspirated beast
Braggart forced laugh
I had a vision but I have no vision
Dreamed I was making out with a woman
Who had long stretchy pink octopus tentacles
Sedulously legato ephemera
Growing from external rim of ******
Sobriquet inimical desiccation
One tentacle wrapped around and tickled
Diurnal nugatory verisimilitude
While other squeezed testicles
What was I talking about, oh yes
Everything got out of hand
Expect unthinkable gusting winds
To huff puff blow house down
Filthy rotten scoundrel but
Started out so sweet
Inchoate caliphate apocryphal
Wish I had her gift
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
He’s no God like Sachin, neither is ‘Wall’ his sobriquet
He doesn’t whack them a mile like Sehwag or Ganguly.
He just comes in with a resolve and soaks in the pressure
Where others would succumb to panic, he thrives beautifully.
When the team is sinking, his steely nerves bring them to shore
He kisses the tension in the air away with his assuring presence.
When the gods turn away, VVS emerges – serene and tough
And clears up the mess with divine grace and elegance!
When his bat swivels below his magical wrists, its pure bliss!
The cherry caresses the grass and dances towards the fence.
Like a stroke of an artist’s brush that just painted a perfect arc.
And with his own people, the enemy’s admiration you can sense.
He doesn’t evoke fear, excitement, anxiety or frustration
He doesn’t pump his fists in the air, doesn’t snarl or stare.
You either see the calmness or a bright smile on his face.
He’s a stern fighter with no arrogance – a quality so rare!
They say he’s ‘Very, Very Special’, which he indeed is.
In the country of demigods he’s a man that makes god proud.
He’s not worshipped by sponsors, doesn’t earn big bucks,
But he owns a bigger treasure – Respect from all in the crowd.
The Aussies ***** feared the world over, swear by his name,
For, he crushes their strong might with his class and sublimity.
Their killer-instinct turns into shivers when they see him walk out
Their razor-sharp words get blunted by his poise and humility.
VVS epitomizes romance. No wonder he loves the Eden Gardens!
Where the ‘Lord’s’ of Indian Cricket reside, is his fortress.
When he bats, you just surrender your senses to his splendour,
The twirl of his hypnotic wrists can bust your biggest stress.
The world seems a better place when you watch VVS on song.
Even time stops to admire his delicate flick that goes fine.
And as you lose yourself in his determined yet soft eyes,
You find yourself sitting in heaven, enjoying a glass of wine!
Selflessness is his middle name; there is no 'I' in the word 'Team,'
The hardest job that no one wants, he will do for his team.
I’m blessed to have experienced the beauty of VVS…
The skill of his splendid batting and the purity of his beam!!!
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 6:53 AM UTC
A sea of names
--the waterfall of praenomen
Nary just a sobriquet
this is who you are, child
or what you shall grow into
Bathe in it
take drink from its fountain
aver your lifeline and identity
to the cascading baptism
It's your birthright
Jan 17, 2021
Jan 17, 2021 at 2:55 PM UTC
this is a page about how you broke her bones brutally.
blinding her days into the darkness she couldn’t settle for a stand.
“this is your sin.”
love was great,
love was strong.
but,
she felt small and very alone.
she has been good with broken things.
she is a big bang of catastrophe, an eruption of God’s tears.
if you just didn’t promise, she was whole without your shadow.
a promise is a sin.
and there is a sea of promises bare of thunderstorm needs to be nurtured because she has been damaged with your bona fide lies.
a dudgeon.
her voice is hoarse, a singer of your sobriquet name.
nights are no absolution and her cries are getting softer.
she wanders aimlessly to the 12 am's.
for her, this is exactly what death looks like.
a midnight snack and frozen story with her bedroom’s wall.
she locked herself in a funeral she called a slumber.
your love was a fanciful story, but one night away from the present time.
“this is your sin, and now she’s a sinner.”
she has been fragile and your love was boastfulness.
she was a rose and you brought her wrong.
this time, it’s her period of middlescence.
maybe you love her but your goodbye was more intimate on her guessing mind.
she was no longer a human, nor ghost in your grasp.
she is a belle of disaster.
but a million miles away,
you will beg her to come back home.
and missing her will be the only thing you need to shrive.
she has struggled to pluck your name and deep in the ground up you know she will.
and you expect her to be whole for your bathos tub.
the riot forms within your lungs,
and you had enjoyed as a fabulist to her.
she was your joke and games.
she's altering your lies into poetry.
her dictums soon to be as soft as the dusk teaches her tenderness.
to tame the seas inside her,
you have to tame her kingdom with thousands of armor.
and her Lord listens to her prayer.
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 5:52 AM UTC
These thoughts and feelings
flowing through me
affecting
every aspect of my being.
My brain
receives and processes
the information
and then
reacts
No thought is needed
A highly functional automated algorithm
abiding by the learned lessons of interaction
and conditioning burnt into the once easily malleable
network of neurons that defines my personality
The heavy mask of logic and pride
so tightly wrapped
over the fabric of my true being
keeping me in this game
Yet
I chose to play
To identify
with this silly and burdensome sobriquet
To one day break free from the automated voice-mail
that responds apathetically to the glorified
archetypes, thought-forms, information
that originates from
God
creator of
signal and receiver
thought and mind
emotion and body
Once the original signal is found
a needle in a haystack
the mystery is opened
the opening of a book yet written
A beginning to all beginnings
An ending to all endings
this is you, here, now.
LIVE. BE.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 1:13 AM UTC
You've got the biggest smile on your face but no light in your eyes.
Your ******* are over-exposed, and you're slightly less than flesh but much more than bone.
Nobody remembers you now except in black and white,
In headlines and articles; your existence summed up in a single sobriquet.
You're the Mona Lisa of tragedy, a painting created with camera flashes,
And your nakedness is clothed in speculation and mystery.
The scandal of an era; defamation and declarations of promiscuity,
Ripping away your personality, tearing off your integrity.
Left even less than the mess your artist carved you into
After the insatiable appetites of the vultures picked your image dry.
A mere carcass where once there was a body of hopes and dreams,
Posed to perfection; you're the model everyone imagines you to be.
Beauty personified, everyone is an admirer,
Everyone wants to take credit for creating a masterpiece,
Yet there is only one person that can take credit.
Only one person responsible for transforming you
From the ordinary beauty to the extraordinary artwork.
You were transcended into eternity.
Only your artist and his methods remain secret;
A sculptor, a painter with an eye for an eye-catcher.
You're the flower that was destined for fame,
Even if your petals had to be cut up first.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 3:37 AM UTC
There is country that is far away
In time and space no more than shadow play;
A land designed to elevate the soul
More lofty than a soaring oriole.
A place that helps to make my spirit sigh
And soar as light as any dragonfly,
Respecting each the rights of every other
Where every man to me is my blood brother.
I lived there in miasma quite opaque
Within a dream I dreamt while still awake.
A land that’s still as far away in heart
As this which very soon I must depart
Although they seem so very far away
Neighbours are a cynic’s sobriquet
For people who are simply non-aligned
With nothing but contempt for all mankind.
Within the real world all is selfish interest
But not so far away in truth this is the best.
True patriots there are who here assemble
Be warned you tyrants that you stand and tremble.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 5:17 AM UTC
Verily the exordium told anent a beauty engirdled in her fedora
soliciting those whoever descried her into her mere servile admirer
eight trenchant tinctures upon her body invigorate like a cadenza
I dare not to contradict the verity that I am beguiled afore her
whilst the snain distilled faintly enwreathed her in unctuous silk
concordantly she devote herself earnestly to the impeccable rain
that emanate her fragile poetry with prestidigitation in a whisk
forsooth she is but the vernacular sobriquet to the soul of the rain
recall me otherwhile during the rainstorm champagne did coerce
and the sunset's glass of wine exude her ingratiating persona
like a myriad of aphrodisiac summarized in a single verse
when harmony and lyrics danced in the crepuscular crescendo
all of that needed to be enunciated is it is you
do not harshly let me be thy unrequited dilettante
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 4:27 AM UTC
I. the breathing of human nature
her poetry weaves a chimera
through ontario maples,
ghostlike songs intoned in late november breath:
*i don't really want to be a pretty girl... *
whispers of woodsmoke fall from sky
(sky, pink as cochineal, pink as avarice
sky, blue as bruises, as jazz, as tropical waters)
she steps from the fog and ash into the beckoning trees,
seduced by leaves,
an autumn saturnalia of honey, flame, amber,
nectar, pistil, anther.
she is cupola and chalice,
budding fuchsia and iron cherry--
but she writes and breathes
as if something more than a woman
who knows all the names for the ocean
stirs and struts inside her.
II. the statue and sobriquet
piano wires melt into statues,
heat steals rusty bottle caps
and bends them eerily into muses.
butterflies perch astutely on their shoulders,
violet, violent, a mosaic of shredded lilies and shellac,
paris in flames, flowering tea-houses,
the mariana trench, a thicket of morning glory.
nature sculpted this metaphysical tribute to her
for all that she has done, for all that her bent fingernails
and snow-covered lips have given
to inspire solstice and equinox--
in the night-songs of the crickets,
crystal bells and rustic chirps,
she was lauded.
III. declaration
she feels the songs in her eyelashes
and writes of wine and palest bone,
fragments of bashful moon,
roots her fingernails into the tarnished canadian willows
and finds her way through magnolia clouds and sea-spray sky;
after all, she can soar.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
There is a country that is far away
In time and space no more than shadow play;
A land designed to elevate the soul
More lofty than a soaring oriole.
A place that helps to make my spirit sigh
And soar as light as any dragonfly,
Respecting each the rights of every other
Where every man to me is my blood brother.
I lived there in miasma quite opaque
Within a dream I dreamt while still awake.
A land that’s still as far away in heart
As this which very soon I must depart
Although they seem so very far away
Neighbours are a cynic’s sobriquet
For people who are simply non-aligned
With nothing but contempt for all mankind.
Within the real world all is selfish interest
But not so far away in truth this is the best.
True patriots there are who here assemble
Be warned you tyrants that you stand and tremble.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
Your face is oblique
But it's quite unique
Don't mind the critique.
Apply a pound of cosmetics
Transform your looks of a derelict
Into an Anna Kendrick.
Here, take this bouquet
Use a striking sobriquet
And own the soiree.
Sting like a bee
With your Master's degree
In bottomless energy.
Crack jokes like a nut
Leave them hanging like, "What?"
Blend your humor and your guts.
End the night like milk
Drag your dress of fake silk
Call a taxi driver of your ilk.
Head home like a killer
Laugh proud at the mirror
Because tonight, you're the winner.
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC
The seesawing sun of solipsy,
A satrapy of soliloquy,
Sol was once but now is she,
Sailed off into a darkened sea,
Sith some solitary soiree,
Goodbye my Sirius from Wi!
Oh solely solar solemn stigmata!
Sun’s sobriquet solitaire staccato!
And sonorous salute sonata!
Sing past swaddling clouds of terracotta!
A crucifying crescendo armada!
And endless stars in space of Satá!
Insatiable story of a Son’s redemption,
Who stole away the sins of man’s convention,
A cross and form at right ascension!
The astronomy and mythology of the aforementioned,
Whom but was pierced for our transgression,
The tale that lead to man’s discretion.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 5:48 PM UTC
Hello again my cute little coy butterfly net
I know that with time you may fray and fret
Though I wonder at which it is you wake to yearn
To be re-woven by one's intricate concern
Or the display of versatile reverberant things?
I recall your temporary retention of those beautiful wings
Your cornice of vivid vitality forever vicarious
Are you- the gentle jailer, nervous ****** or simply fastidious?
Those lives that you catch into your fluttering heart,
I suppose they may change you when pinned and ripped apart
Whether that be or they are released to fly free
In what you have yet to see spins your sense of serenity
So forget them, when you remember your demure nature
For history is just a child caught in sincere nomenclature.
Shakespeare's Sonnet #9
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,
That thou consum'st thy self in single life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep
By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind:
Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused the user so destroys it.
No love toward others in that ***** sits
That on himself such murd'rous shame commits.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
A word like no other.
The world next to a mother
No matter how far away I go,
She always has me tethered
To my roots, my culture. I never forget
That horrendous day we met.
A wee babby in his uniform, parrying
Away at first sight.
You carved every inch of a masterpiece
Which grew ever thankful to you.
Though never chanted,
Your sobriquet remains holy in mine heart.
Shall God bless you
And life bequeath its bliss
For you, are a soul…
Crafted to craft.
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 3:35 PM UTC
Who can stop this thing called love?
When she's stuck firmly in the grip of winter's icy finger tips.
The seasons changing are not noticed.
The sky is nearly always black.
The sun shied away always.
Hiding behind the clouds.
The pearly droplets of perspiration are merely the tears of the insincere.
Wiped away on a handkerchief with a name embroidered on it.
***** old cotton rag.
Boiled in the laundry.
The stitching all became undone.
His sobriquet was love itself.
She's over him.
Heigh- ** she won.
(c) Livvi MMXV
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 5:31 AM UTC
Head notes
Of loam fringed apple trees,
of near-but- nether fuchsia roots
A timeless travel of ridge top tiles.
Steepled spins of weathervanes,
A sobriquet of pre- dawn rainfall.
Heart notes
Of hornbeam,
of coriander deer path.
Memories of bonfire- hope
in ragwort sprays of yearning.
A hint of feelings half remembered.
Of longbows hewn from churchyard yews.
Of rope swings and of scaffold
Base notes
Of river mist.
Poseidon wreaths of furnace ash,
allied to a merlot tint of afterglow release.
Endings are, valerian,
patchouli heads of linen musk.
A lasting peace of closing lawns
that wait approaching snow.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 3:08 AM UTC
The self proclaimed writer
Jerking himself off to exhaustion daily
(Never touched, never connected)
To play roulette with his circadian rhythm
And turn an otherwise docile daytime delinquent
Into a nocturnal creature's fear
All to avoid the cliched train wreck of a family
The alcoholic mother
The never proud father
And the always beyond reach sister
Yes yes, feel the waking nightmare
This insomniac desperately craves sleep
As the titular picturesque life
sobriquet to family cat
Is slowly causing his dormant degeneracy
To blister and boil the brain
And he feels like he is losing his mind
In this otherwise ideal world
This grotesquely pictersque
Fevered upper class dream
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC
without words
and their wondrous servitude,
i would only be
and cease to become.
as in a forest,
i shall then continue to flower
in the sharpness of swan-song.
like a beast dazed
into nothing and its bafflements,
even the triviality of a lone stone
shall vagabond through me
in a thousand days that pull
downward, refusing to reveal themselves and their paradisiacal nuances. their etymologies
star their deaths to a languid crawl towards an empty page.
all words trapped, slurring
in the radiant void, unbecoming of themselves and who i am.
if i am to be without poetry,
my then epiphanies would be scaled down to an epitaph's weight and its proper terrors;
to think that i cannot write anymore, weave anymore these words,
reeks of deathlessness, and i,
communing through the myriad dailiness of things shall exist only to be,
and not become ( as a single star is meaningless in the coruscation of the multitude - a constellation without moniker,
a god rid of sobriquet,
as a carpenter without tools,
orr an army without arsenals)
i am things vaguely not.
god forbid, if i am to be
without poetry,
what will i become, unknowing of
its grave rescue? these marvels
shoot off in the temporal flight
of this splendid fate, and if without words, then this shall only be, still afloat, a wild, directionless flight.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
His sobriquet was lost as documents detailed his official names,
With relatives and friends no longer parting lips to give breath to his letters.
Shy away from his life--
His pain was adopted by them--
Never again see the man with his soul intact.
Bones fractured with a
Crack
As his body, weighed down with burdens,
Collided with concrete, created a pile on the street.
The screams of on-lookers fell on dead ears,
Since his spirit was already soaring high.
Higher than the drugs ever took him, and his skin lay there,
Left behind in a mound of worthlessness.
The pathetic loner of a man, weak,
Swiss cheese arms from syringes, decaying in a mirror.
Life was never going to be his saviour,
But society was always going to be his executioner
Unless the drugs got to him first with their axe.
Picking his brains only led to self-loathing and confusion,
And now they can't be picked up,
Only wiped away, washed...away.
Like the memory that he ever existed,
Because folks turned their back on him a long time ago,
When it first became clear
That he was a problem, and an oblivious one at that.
Now he's just a name, a record and a headstone,
Family never again speak his name.
Wonder if they even know he spilled his body onto the ground?
All in an attempt at saving his soul, putting right his past.
The man's self-crucifixion.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 7:03 AM UTC
Silence fell, the waves broke through
A whisper on soft wind
I will find a center in you
Pressure pulse beating rhythm to night time dreaming
I am left with the sobriquet
Always leaving
We are heaving, pulling moves from all directions
A solid stunt with clouds for vision
Unknowing of our fated predilections
The desire for something different, sings wild
Curved and copulate along fine lines
Dreaming bright colors vivid like a child
Urging to pull closer and keep what is within reach
Having no more power over the hours
Than those that the stars keep
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
You've taken my beau away
Without a thought and then
Do not care,
"It's not appropriate"
To give it back again
And you do not know,
Or perhaps you did,
Or do,
How much that sobriquet
Meant and means to me
Or how keen and deep the knife wound
Through my chest
And heart at losing it,
And feeling torn as you from
Me draw part
Til nothing left
No name of love or
Of affection remains,
Just some bloke you knew
Who's name was James
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 5:26 PM UTC
****** into a new role
With a brand new moniker.
Do you think that I may now be the Queen Mother,
The First Lady, The Duchess of Somewhere?
No, I am The Mother-in-Law
It is only a handle, a label
A sobriquet or alias
Cognomen
Appellation
My nom de plume
Henceforth I shall be Sandra Lee,
Aka Mother-in-Law
I shall identify as MIL.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 8:49 AM UTC
(this pastiche promulgated many moons ago from those screaming ****** thirsty headlines from the Italian court for justice sans the brutal homicide attributed to this then American college student and her ex-boyfriend). My gut reaction that zero apr guilt linkedin with lonely looking lass, who may very well bear the burden of culpable guilt for the rest of (what this totally tubular unknown guy no war) a fulfilling life.
with the assiduous vigor of a cadre of volunteers
brought sought after fruition of freedom
per the release of imprisoned young (twenty something) American lass
whose former life sentenced commuted to egress from an Italian jail
to her home within Seattle, Washington
whereby family, friends and strangers who fought for her liberation
breathed one palpable surprising sigh of euphoric relief
when the plane who boarded landed safely on the tarmac of SEATAC
aswarm with frenzied television camera crews
scrambled to get the initial scoop and what promises
to land this once anonymous cell bait
an undisclosed amount of lucre
which many on the other side of the pond
find mind boggling if not downright objectionable
moreso livid with rage
against the Machiavellian machine
on account of supposed culpability in tandem with her then boy friend
accused (under the guise of guilty fiat)
sans homicide of college roommate
now sought after garnering this fawning female
(salaciously tagged by Perugian court with the sobriquet “she wolf”
now faces a future replete with riches aplenty
allowing gravity of ugly epithet plus stigma from accusation of ******
to serve as basis for what will no doubt be a best seller
not to mention made for the silver screen blockbuster
with subsequent royal carpet treatment
to compensate for guilty judgment decreed
without tangible evidence nor fair trial to boot!
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 3:44 AM UTC