"songed" poems - Hello Poetry

When you gonna put my separate selves together When you gonna make my disparate children gather Such a silly mind, say the opposite of what you really mean Just to get a rise, wanna make me rise to the wrong occasion M-M-M-M My Pleroma My Pleroma strikes a mystic chord of memory Better angels spark a dream, get the better of me Nature takes hold, goes bold, breaks cold sweats we wake up from Scatter brained by upside two-by-fours keep score struck dumb Gotta fill it up, fill it up with cuisine Gotta take a pill, **** it! (Know what I mean?) Big pet peeve bug drives a crazy fix-it man sane Till the time ticks past the track, misses the train Gets back to the place to where we once belonged Waterloo derailed, revolution curtailed, narrative sing-songed Everyone repeat after me: Eat a great meal, feel good with friends Put your arms around loved ones, make means meet ends M-M-M-M My Pleroma

0

Sep 20, 2013

Sep 20, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC

jeff-barbanell

My Pleroma

When you gonna put my separate selves together When you gonna make my disparate children gather Such a silly mind, say the opposite of what you really mean Just to get a rise, wanna make me rise to the wrong occasion M-M-M-M My Pleroma My Pleroma strikes a mystic chord of memory Better angels spark a dream, get the better of me Nature takes hold, goes bold, breaks cold sweats we wake up from Scatter brained by upside two-by-fours keep score struck dumb Gotta fill it up, fill it up with cuisine Gotta take a pill, **** it! (Know what I mean?) Big pet peeve bug drives a crazy fix-it man sane Till the time ticks past the track, misses the train Gets back to the place to where we once belonged Waterloo derailed, revolution curtailed, narrative sing-songed Everyone repeat after me: Eat a great meal, feel good with friends Put your arms around loved ones, make means meet ends M-M-M-M My Pleroma

18

You called it our baby And I sung it into life The first word in its ear The song of all our strife. I am the ****** queen No man to make me rule Your underestimated dream girl Your perfect ingenue. You called the sounds The good sounds And from the rock came death And all the sad destruction And all our baited breath And all the holy discord And every frightened dream And bare breasted, I move on Like water in the stream. You called me your baby And swan-songed ever sweet I went along with every gamble Til you tasted defeat. I am the queen of snakes The Pythia, obscured The maiden, mother, mistress, crone The one that’s never heard. You called my body A celestial body And from the sky came rain And in the eclipsing silence You never heard my pain And all the holy hatred And all the washed up dreams And now, I alone move on, Like water in the stream. Sweet Pythia, I’m burning And I must find the way The lonely heart has never learned How to make him stay. But he is not contention He is only choice The songs I sang for many men Only make him love my voice. And you call these sounds The good sounds When the good sounds please you best The sounds when they adore you Not the aggressive ‘I digress’ And all the holy Heras And all the built in rust And I, without armies win battles And you without care, **** trust. I am the mistress, maiden, crone All dolly-eyed and blue Your manic little angel Your perfect ingenue. I am the maiden, mother, crone And now apart from you Because no one is anything And nothing you heard is true.

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Apr 15, 2018

Apr 15, 2018 at 5:13 PM UTC

babe

Ingenue

You called it our baby And I sung it into life The first word in its ear The song of all our strife. I am the ****** queen No man to make me rule Your underestimated dream girl Your perfect ingenue. You called the sounds The good sounds And from the rock came death And all the sad destruction And all our baited breath And all the holy discord And every frightened dream And bare breasted, I move on Like water in the stream. You called me your baby And swan-songed ever sweet I went along with every gamble Til you tasted defeat. I am the queen of snakes The Pythia, obscured The maiden, mother, mistress, crone The one that’s never heard. You called my body A celestial body And from the sky came rain And in the eclipsing silence You never heard my pain And all the holy hatred And all the washed up dreams And now, I alone move on, Like water in the stream. Sweet Pythia, I’m burning And I must find the way The lonely heart has never learned How to make him stay. But he is not contention He is only choice The songs I sang for many men Only make him love my voice. And you call these sounds The good sounds When the good sounds please you best The sounds when they adore you Not the aggressive ‘I digress’ And all the holy Heras And all the built in rust And I, without armies win battles And you without care, **** trust. I am the mistress, maiden, crone All dolly-eyed and blue Your manic little angel Your perfect ingenue. I am the maiden, mother, crone And now apart from you Because no one is anything And nothing you heard is true.

59

To **** a man is to flog his hide if the hide were his brain and the scars were meandering creases littering. I have heard the songed bird cry when the notes were both hopeful, unafraid awake and twittered. And in the tired slow gasping release of moon upon night overwhelmed by stars like satellite transmitters.

0

Feb 25, 2015

Feb 25, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC

mckenzie-fritz

The Tired God Must Be

To **** a man is to flog his hide if the hide were his brain and the scars were meandering creases littering. I have heard the songed bird cry when the notes were both hopeful, unafraid awake and twittered. And in the tired slow gasping release of moon upon night overwhelmed by stars like satellite transmitters.

18