"sog" poems
Aur kitnay kaffan uthayein gay?
Aur kitnay bichar k jayein gay?
Aur kitnon ki qurbani dei
K ye sanehay khatam hojayein gay?
Aur kitna hum seh payein gay?
Aur kitna khoon bahayein gay?
Aur kitnon ko hum bhool jayein
Tou ye sanehay khatam hojayein gay?
Aur kitna sog manayein gay?
Aur kitnay ansoo bahaein gay?
Aur kitnon ko hum maaf karain
Tou ye sanehay khatam hojayein gay?
Kya hum bhi muskuraein gay?
Kya hum bhi zinda reh payein gay?
Ya hum bhi ab apni jaan de dein
Tou ye sanehay khatam hojayein gay?
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
Golden shawls envelope
flushing, blending fabrics
which billow
under the waxen blackbird's
silky braided feathers.
Heaven's vault, a celestial sphere of blue yonder,
a swirling palette of oils
suffusing and dancing,
wrapping their ringlets
into one thousand spirals
which signet shadows onto the
slender impressions in the sog.
Illuminous, voluminous salmon
bleaches blushing black tissue
to pale primrose promising the cobalt then marrying to aquamarine.
Stained glass fingers barely protruding from aurelian pews.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
Rush, Rush!
Gunky plush bagog
Nugget sog
Peedle glog
Plundering down the boulevard
I saw what seemed to be a Schmagtap
Slukavard.
Under his buttons, there grew his
Mutton.
Mutton branch, penal franch
Sogging down the grittle bog
And briggenfagig squeezing a bib,
Soaked in carrot juice frib
Muggafloo
Plubderp.
Schmubderp.
Aug 21, 2011
Aug 21, 2011 at 12:45 AM UTC
No one ever looks up
unless they're desperate for someone
to be looking down.
From a secular point of view,
the blue resembles passive disappointment,
while ******** clad oaks scream at business on the sidewalks.
Five-hundred dollar spectacles don't christen sin-wrought oxygen,
pure, spring water is perfect as the grey sog seeping from the seams,
benevolent ******* makes every trouble white sand
and iPhones can only do so much for a borrowed morality.
Bright eyes fade with the morning wind.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
Yesterday,
I went for a jog,
in the fog.
It was there that I saw,
a man and his dog.
On the sand and sog,
through a natural smog,
hopping over a driftwood log.
A Lake Michigan wave
yes, it's those that I crave.
It's this moment now,
I'd like to save.
And I'm feeling so brave
just me and a wave.
A population of me,
and all I can see
is my feet
that beat
so quietly.
That's all that can be
my own little key
to simply
being
free.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
In walked the manmade entirely of Graham Crackers."Get out," I said, "this is my room."But he wouldn't leave,So I threw the milk at him.
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 3:33 AM UTC
If when the thistle wet drip on my log
If when I throw the stone down to flip on my pog
If do the wet log, sog, gets to the gog
Then the bog twist suckle nutted left on the bar
If a man is prized by the dead wind buttel
If it is a sprig of wheat tugging on the chug narg
Then flark my tizzle, wet the bed
Put the thick log on my head
I am not a sped
I just dread the nut
Put it on my fat leg
Put it on my fat one
Oh yes
Oh yes
Now drip the salt, salt my boney
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 10:42 PM UTC
I'd wanted to see the moon again –
Pockmarked and ivory, entering and
Innuendo, like crisp leaves under foot;
“Crunch, crunch, crunch,” and so went
The cereal before sog. Parallel, the same
Suffering’s smeared come my bones
Under foot, under cloud and ‘ever as I’d
wander empty if even with you. You've
Turned back and continue to study,
“Away.”
I'd wanted to see the moon again -
Come the scent of fried wantons and
Neon glance; “Crackle, crackle,
Crackle,” like hot dogs over fires, only
Hindered, the hiss of a boy’s tears atop
Flame, so long as I'd understand empty,
If only with you. But your two’s atop
His lips, a smear upon the line we call,
“Horizon,” and so continues, this study
Of, “away.”
And I'd never see the moon again – So
Silence became the sun, a blight, a
Bright, the, “shiny,” I'd wish banned;
Like the eerie, like the day dad’d packed
His bags or day he'd finally died; If only
To accept this solitude, miasma
Subtracted you, with everything else,
But emptied you. An impasse atop
Endeared eidetic, as I’ll try and I’ll
Recall and I’ll fail, this test to finally
Forget.
So I’d rest with an, “F,” he’d rest in
An urn and you’d rest, simply rest, at the
Top of your class, without fault, and a
Graduate, your study of, “away.”
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
MINESTRONE NIGHTS (on the summer of 2018)
Deep in the incubus of fantasy
As torrid painter makes its art
Rips a flash of an epiphany
A plaintive whisper of the heart
Hobgoblin summer full of slobber
Beget febrile reveries unkind
As dance character’s macabre
A three-ring circus in my mind
Each minestrone moldy night
When body craves boreal slumbers
Akin cat on hot tin roof I fight
Dank sog my sleep encumbers
Comes morn aft time eternal
Half charged at start of day
Abscond sodden dreams infernal
Tormenting orb is up to play
I was hot before I even knew
Never really did cool down
Too warm again, for morning dew
Vague slumber’d avec frown
Haven't slept for an age or eon
Cadaver tacky to the tepid touch
Arise, trepid to perspire, like peon
Labour in this broil is just too much
©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 7:58 AM UTC
Autumn trudgings lurk the air
Searching for a soul to bare
Their weight upon, so heavy
They break from trees in heady
Harmony, brown and sog
Yet crisp in the fog
mist mornings which creep
Into road as an early sun peeps
Above our golden horizon folding into
Faded merry-go- round and blue.
Autumn days are fairly sad
As you wait for dormant trees to sag
And groan
As their coverlets are blown
Onto the soft down
Of concrete frown.
These are the autumn days to me
Brown, melancholy, mahogany.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC
six a.m. her eyes popped wide open,
stretching her body, she closed her eyes for a a few minutes to
adjust her mind and prepare herself for another dreaded Wednesday working day:
"oh gosh, mid-week" she grumbled.
six thirty a.m. her kitchen was filled
with the smell of sweet honeyed french toast (with a slight smell of overcooked eggs).
she packs them nicely into her paper bag:
"hope it won't sog up fast" she thought.
six fifty-six a.m. her bus arrives promptly,
the commuters seemed oblivious to her
they start nudging and pushing their way up the bus:
"i'm in black and so i'm invisible?" she questioned.
seven o'one a.m. her seat has finally warmed up,
her hair was still damp from her morning shower,
and she looks to the front blankly:
"what's new" she mumbled.
n.y.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
Rainbowed mirrors mask checkered lives
Implant the satin, if you will
But beware of the baker's staple,
For a thousand tablets could not portend
the Infatuous Sog
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 9:01 PM UTC
Rainbowed mirrors mask checkered lives
Implant the satin, if you will
But beware of the baker's staple,
For a thousand tablets could not portend
the Infatuous Sog
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 9:01 PM UTC
No matter how I tried to beg
Dad put his meds to soak in eggs.
Not liking the resulting sog
He tried to give them to the DOG!
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 2:40 PM UTC
it starts with the masses.
heaped upon one another in grey, wet bodies
and from the amalgamate of ruined life
rise the silver, brilliant winged
filthy sog and bones sludging off
their unmatched, magnificent light
like shooting stars they ascend
to the enormous white clouds
garnered with the span of their great feathers
wearing masks of divine neutrality
and we
in the masses
stare so longingly at those divine heavens
some of us with patchworks of feather and bones- hopeless things we can barely call wings-
tattered and ripped but still determined, like the writhing of a starved beggar-
flatter unsteadily up
groping desperately at the clouds
with bony, aching fingers
only to meet
solemn and unforgiving
stone
and pushed
back,
tossed
back
into the masses
and like comets, they
rain down
the fall of the inadequate
crashing into the hideously wet festering:
into the decay of the mundane and ordinary
and thus the procession commences
great silver wings nailed with dignified
steel stakes
graceful hands and feet
mangled unforgivingly with hammer and iron
we, the inadequate and mundane and ordinary
we wail, we scream we cry
for the destiny of divinity
in anguish and desperation, our cacophonic chorus
becomes
the great symphony
of the decaying and dying
bathed grotesquely in the light of the holy
we continue to beg and shout and call
the opera of roaring voices:
the crucifixion of the prodigy
as we continue to decay
the weathering, spreading
and becoming, morphing into something no longer
recognizable
slowly we die off
each of us, clawing and howling to our very last moments
in succumbing to mortality
the symphony, melting in its desperate, rabid energy
until the echo of the last
haunted cry-
silences
hence closes
the fall of the inadequate
the crucifixion of the prodigy
and
the decay of the mundane and ordinary
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 8:19 PM UTC
How contradictions play a vital role in life, to a point where you become soft buttered bread, about to sog into pantyhose and made to look like a fool. While everybody mocks and laugh you stare into vastness wondering why? why cant I fight?
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
mi·sog·y·nis·tic
Mesthenth throope
Drops a dime a day
makes the day a lesser pain
And spreads the pain
For gain.
Oct 6, 2017
Oct 6, 2017 at 10:06 PM UTC