"sported" poems
An endearing gesture, the respited conjecture.
Fidelity to be measured within the length of our arms,
To be faithful to ends in which gratitude is yet yearned.
Within the brazen walls of such lasting impressions,
The only abstract love is of the confessions.
Let the sincerity of words touch your stricken heart,
Before this world ends, before affliction starts.
Trust these words of wisdom that age cannot exactly tell,
Listen to the gallows of before a winter fell.
The warmth in your veins mingles with the red of mine,
Under the sported remains of a husk of refrain.
Be the wind to guide the loose leaves of a summers passed,
Be the loving gesture of a lasting lovers grasp.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
"Stop It!" shouted the man
who was dressed in a ***** pin stripe suit,
eye glasses half askew on his nose,
ski-slope haircut sported since his youth.
My face turned blank, shoulders shrugged
not fearing this man's belligerent outburst
because I was used to it;
it was the hundredth time I felt it's sting.
I stood there, patiently and quiet
caressing my double bass violin
my secret seventh grade lover;
she had **** curves and a deep, soothing voice.
I stood there, impatiently and quiet
waiting for Mr. Heidrich to finish the lesson
focused on the third seat violinist
whom played without feeling, again.
I stood there, overbearingly anxious
tapping on the shoulder of my wooden BFF
my rendition of the William Tell Overture
A performance worthy of a Grammy!
The man in the ***** pin stripe suit,
turned and looked at me, scornfully
his half-bald head turned beet red
body shook violently like an earthquake!
The energy released from his gullet
would have made Mount Vesuvius jealous
fiery vocals of curse and rage
would have made the evilest of demons run for cover!
My face turned blank, shoulders shrugged
not fearing this man's belligerent outburst
because I was used to it;
it was the 101st time I felt it's sting.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
I sought satisfaction in stupid sheepishly and shallow strides.
Scared subconsciously, I swallow and sustain substance for pseudo self esteem strengthening.
I seemed of in service to slumber and stinging sadness, shots sank like ships, submerging into the sea of my swarthy stomach in seconds.
I somewhat sympathies as a sailor, sweating, struggling and swimming in slipping sobriety saturated in my sulking style.
Scanning swarms of serial swindlers, striking sculptures stances of self-doubt.
I stammer in a storm of slurs, ******* down my safety, stopping myself at the stoop of the saloon I see a seductive silhouette staging the space.
She stroke my sight, standing sanguine in scarlet, soul sold in high heels.
The smoothest sculptures in seven square miles were subjugated into scree and I was ****** in submission.
Stubborn staggering suitors, stand shaking silently as she is stopped by sharks stalking and snarling sycophantics.
So straightforward in suggesting their secret starvation to strip sensations, seem by seem, like a sub-par **** cinema scene.
They step and speak short.
She smokes off, stranding the scree in smoldering slaughter.
Its sad this soul-less sanctuary soaking up sorrows.
So self inflicting, and so satisfyingly side splitting.
She sported her spurned, scorned off into sadistic solitude and stained sticky stigma, sobbing to sleep.
So spent from simple stocked, stored and supported senescence of ceremonial subjection of ****** status.
I savior my sincerity, and stretched out of this strange stadium of stooges.
So long scarlet sanguine I sang softly, as she stole my sight suspiciously in sync with hers.
Sacrificial seconds split from smearing stolidity to sharing a smile.
That's simple satisfaction, so I seen scripted in sitcoms and shows.
Supporting sapiens in stasis to see sappy stunners on screen, to stare snoopy, as stabs and slashes strike socially into socialites of so called sanity and sovereignty.
To sweetly pay salvage as slaves of soppy studio slander.
Such is this sorry Saturday night, I am solidified in sedation.
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
Back in my rebel days (yester)
I sported a spelunking bumper sticker
On my 1972 VW pop-up camper van
That read Free Floyd Collins
Totally apolitical well intentioned humor
Concerning one of my pasttimes that surprisingly
Never maimed or killed me
Whilst reporting for an official call for jury duty
The uptight and obviously a **** (did I just say that?)
Prosecutor enquired during jury selection
As to whether any of us prospectives
Had bumper stickers and if so
What they might say
The NRA sticker guy next to me
And the I'd Rather Be Fishin' and NASCAR
Sticker guy next to him
Passed with smugly flying colors
(red needless to say)
While the 72 year old nun
With the Amnesty International sticker
Didn't fair so well
And was promptly burned at the stake
(I kid you)
Needless to say
The long-haired Harvard educated
Native American
With the Doctors Without Borders
And the Remember Wounded Knee
With a not so discreet AIM sticker thrown in to boot
Also got the boot
Pondering the merits of the court stenographer's
Shapely fingers while judiciously confidently awaiting my turn
It never ocurred to me that Mr. Collins might be
So wrongly accused as to have me
Rejected and summarily ejected
From jury duty
A travesty of justice
I say
If for no other reason than I was so looking forward to
Sticking it to the Man
You can imagine my surprise and disappointment
As I wandered down to the Shamrock
To catch Terry O'Leary do a slam
And raise a glass to
Bobby Sands
r~ 22Feb14
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
Fashionable entourage
people dance in step
to the beat of hidden
native rituals
Hidden here and there
seeing a pair clad up to the hilt
with colored shades
cool as mountain glades
that never
shakes or simmers
on fire
a real deep desirous searching soul
Rapping about nothing
even though
face to face
words bounce off expressions
as cool as mountain glades
that soon melt-fade
into the distance
Rap, tap, clap
never nap
the cannibus-filled room
embellished by flashing lights
on nights
that take spatial flights
into another world that enters upon
lounging everywhere
people lost in space,
in time,
in androgynous acts
In vogue, you speak to me
about fashions
that dazzle, frazzel, razzle,
and lip curl
and eye twinkle
me to you,
in real
but unreal
cannibus-sweet-dusky-dreamy-rooms
MTV blotched, bleached
Sergio Valente dungarees,
then a real feeling child cries
in the background
and is soon hustled off to bed
And never a hurt we laugh
and smile
and smile
A frozen smile grin;
take it on the chin sport
Keep up the good front
Keep up the grinning fort sport
A sported fort fortified Disneyland
and life's forever
carousel ride
and sweep the dirt under the carpet
A speak about profits
And speak about"ME" yuppie things;
about golden rings
that wrap around ears, around wrists, and cattle noses
Seek time entwined
to search geometrically
the advertisements
that lead you
and nobody but you to you
A love ballad between
one and no one but you
You and you
and you
and you
Being good you
you being good to you,
Being good to nar-sa-see-you
you being good to only you,
to yoou
to yoou
to yoooooooooou
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC
CHEERFUL voices by the sea-side
Echoed through the summer air,
Happy children, fresh and rosy,
Sang and sported freely there,
Often turning friendly glances,
Where, neglectful of them all,
On his bed among the gray rocks,
Mused the pale child, little Paul.
For he never joined their pastimes,
Never danced upon the sand,
Only smiled upon them kindly,
Only waved his wasted hand.
Many a treasured gift they bore him,
Best beloved among them all.
Many a childish heart grieved sadly,
Thinking of poor little Paul.
But while Florence was beside him,
While her face above him bent,
While her dear voice sounded near him,
He was happy and content;
Watching ever the great billows,
Listening to their ceaseless fall,
For they brought a pleasant music
To the ear of little Paul.
'Sister Floy,' the pale child whispered,
'What is that the blue waves say?
What strange message are they bringing
From that shore so far away?
Who is dwelling in that country
Whence a low voice seems to call
Softly, through the dash of waters,
'Come away, my little Paul'?'
But sad Florence could not answer,
Though her dim eyes tenderly
Watched the wistful face, that ever
Gazed across the restless sea,
While the sunshine like a blessing
On his bright hair seemed to fall,
And the winds grew more caressing,
As they kissed frail little Paul.
Ere long, paler and more wasted,
On another bed he lay,
Where the city's din and discord
Echoed round him day by day;
While the voice that to his spirit
By the sea-side seemed to call,
Sounded with its tender music
Very near to little Paul.
As the deep tones of the ocean
Linger in the frailest shell,
So the lonely sea-side musings
In his memory seemed to dwell.
And he talked of golden waters
Rippling on his chamber wall,
While their melody in fancy
Cheered the heart of little Paul.
Clinging fast to faithful Florence,
Murmuring faintly night and day,
Of the swift and darksome river
Bearing him so far away,
Toward a shore whose blessed sunshine
Seemed most radiantly to fall
On a beautiful mild spirit,
Waiting there for little Paul.
So the tide of life ebbed slowly,
Till the last wave died away,
And nothing but the fragile wreck
On the sister's ***** lay.
And from out death's solemn waters,
Lifted high above them all,
In her arms the spirit mother
Bore the soul of little Paul.
2.5k
The Wilted Leaf
The wilted leaf falls
The wilted leaf remembers
Times when it was once green
Times when it was once vibrant
The wilted leaf wonders why
The colors of its youth left
The wilted leaf wonder why
The green leaves are green
The wilted leaf falls
The wilted leaf shows itself
To sported its green to others
The wilted leaf once fit
The wilted leaf wonders which
Terrible month brought its death
The ground is so close now
The wilted leaf which once
Thought it’s hue was gone
Thinks it has made a mistake
The wilted leaf falls
If only the wilted leaf knew,
how many green leaves were wilted too
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 8:17 PM UTC
But When I said I needed
an ******* on my side
It was in the city of Angels
Where pit bulls are sported like
handbags
And ******** make you money
'cause they rip to shreds
Whatever stands in your way.
I didn't mean
Here
In Paradise
Where my dream
Lays dead at my feet.
And there's nothing left to fight for.
Please
Don't fight me here.
Because with your ******* ways
On more than one beautiful day,
All you've done
is fought your way
Right out of
my heart.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 3:13 AM UTC
Oh! mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos.
VIRGIL.
Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov’d recollection
Embitters the present, compar’d with the past;
Where science first dawn’d on the powers of reflection,
And friendships were form’d, too romantic to last;
Where fancy, yet, joys to retrace the resemblance
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied;
How welcome to me your ne’er fading remembrance,
Which rests in the ***** though hope is deny’d!
Again I revisit the hills where we sported,
The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought;
The school where, loud warn’d by the bell, we resorted,
To pore o’er the precepts by Pedagogues taught.
Again I behold where for hours I have ponder’d,
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay;
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander’d,
To catch the last gleam of the sun’s setting ray.
I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,
Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o’erthrown;
While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,
I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone.
Or, as Lear, I pour’d forth the deep imprecation,
By my daughters, of kingdom and reason depriv’d;
Till, fir’d by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
I regarded myself as a Garrick reviv’d.
Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!
Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast;
Though sad and deserted, I ne’er can forget you:
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.
To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me,
While Fate shall the shades of the future unroll!
Since Darkness o’ershadows the prospect before me,
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul!
But if, through the course of the years which await me,
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,
“Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew.”
1.7k
I’m so tired,
but I could break every dish in this place.
If I screamed,
and bled,
and fell to my knees,
would you even walk over to clean up the mess on your floor?
Mr. Incredible,
waiting for your wonder woman,
but who the **** is a hero,
when no one’s being saved.
Trusted you,
thrusted you,
and now,
i’m disintegrating,
rusted in you.
Cut from the same cloth,
but i’m fading.
I’m torn up,
and spilled on,
and nothing but new is good enough for you.
Took me away,
bag me up,
may wind up at a good will.
But all I had was good will,
good intentions,
muddled by imperfections
you must not have been able to look past.
But ain’t that the ***
calling the kettle ******
You’re riddled with the same mistakes as me,
breaks as me,
teased about your weight like me,
face like me,
the braces that used to cover your incisors,
but mine weren’t.
I was always straight with you.
And one time,
I was late with you.
And then,
you ran.
Cause our mistakes,
could only be placed on me.
Now,
i’m tired.
Cause I could have held part of you,
but I just held the burdens.
And I did so gladly,
I wore you like a crown.
I sported you rightfully,
but you thought you entitled me.
Again about me.
Even when i’m dissing you,
i’m wishing I was kissing you.
Cause you helped make me,
baby.
But now i’m your creation,
sitting here waiting,
wishing I was breaking,
everything,
but us.
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 11:42 AM UTC
Listen to what I mean, not what I say. Because its 1am and I'm eleven poems in. I just texted "Yeah I'm fine lol" and I'm sitting in the bathtub, my chin wearing the mascara my eyes sported earlier and I'm too tired to chase my sanity down the drain.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 9:46 PM UTC
Eros walked into the chamber, garnering all eyes
Lust and Limerence walked by her side
They stopped before a panel where Venus did preside
And Cupid next to Venus, gripped his arrows like a prize
And the Muses made up the rest
And all muscles in the chamber braced for unrest
Glances and gazes did continuously dart
As all sported lockets of fire by their hearts
Venus declared mankind must suffer in pain
For all efforts to show the world love have been in vain
And to continue gifting love would be insanity, a chore
Cause they’d take their piece of it and still declare war,
On themselves and on one another
Slaughtering their self-esteems, siblings, fathers, mothers
Yet Eros objected, keeping her eyes peeled
Declaring love has always been a battlefield
And Cupid fired an arrow at Ero’s way
And Lust led the limp arrow astray
Then those enlightened ones lit fuses that day
And the shrapnel from that fight still makes it way
Through hearts of men and women with feelings at play
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 10:07 AM UTC
In Babylon one must live up to the status quo,
and be enslaved by its economy and entertainment!
*Watch this!
Listen to that!
Buy this!
Sell that!
Own this!
Disown that!*
Only in Babylon!
I have been up and down the west coast of Babylon,
To its heartland, or midwest if you will,
And it is beautiful even majestic!
I have waved its flag, sported it along with my children,
and sand its songs!
For I am one of its citizens!
And yet...it is disconcerting.
There is an evil lurking.
The lingering scent of divinity was fabricated and found counterfeit!
The pride of it is imperious!
The self-glorification is overbearing!
And its materialistic needs are excessive!
Only in Babylon!
I abide near the west shores of Babylon,
Though my heart is fully committed to the Kingdom of Heaven,
property of a king not of this world.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 4:23 AM UTC
Today drunks got up,
on an upended axis.
And wobbled
on driven souls,
driven to ****
and let the hate loose.
A drunk walked in mud
to work,
and his boss sported a smile
of sad pride.
He had done a great job,
and no one knew.
When they were sitting down
on the couch,
cracking the air with laughter,
the country man
looked up
and saw
a daughter of light on the floor,
slitted through the blinds.
He wanted so badly
to cry.
But didn't.
An imp limped
upstairs
and down, back again
to the basement,
and his old ma
heard him sparingly.
So much happened to day,
so beautifully
sad,
clear, and azure,
that the masks
of nails
spiking our faces,
slowly wore down
against steel skin.
When the sun went down,
aching for pain again,
they took the first swig,
then a second.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 9:57 PM UTC
Although I'm sure he was popular with the girls
He descended from the "people of the book"
So likely he sported the Semitic look
You may have heard differently on on Fox News
But I'm sure that this is the truth
And here's another interesting fact
Martin Luther King Jr. was definitely black
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 2:25 PM UTC
He sat in the strangest places,
always at the back
of the mahogany slide,
floated in the nicotine-cloud,
wore permanent shades
to hide his killer disease.
One look from him
could rip testicles off,
he foamed at the mouth,
sinned constantly
& sported scars
like racetracks
on his fractured arms.
Gold doubloons filled
the holes
in his rotten
teeth,
he seethed.
Only the fools
made him smile,
& they saw their end
come sooner
than they wanted,
'cause he loved
a great death.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:36 PM UTC
We rode through the spectators,
pedaling our mountain bikes
as if on a sacred mission.
The pink Tinkerbell wings
flapped furiously on our backs,
leaving glitter in the wind behind us.
Our radios squelched,
screamed,
barked requests
as we twisted & turned,
faced the cool breeze
that splattered raindrops
on our grinning faces.
Of course, our tatted left arms
sported colorful tigers & rainbows,
suns & moons.
But despite our reputations
as gangland members,
all we could hear was,
"Here come the fairies!"
emanating from
the laughing crowd
of disbelieving onlookers.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
I met the connect by the water
His Jordan's were Grey Cool
He sported the dread locks
Never shook his hand
Nothing but head nods, we kept it classy
The whip was clean but the seats were ashy
Snazzy
Met the connects daughter
By the border as he smoked the Marijuana
He told me his undercover name was Porter
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
Good god you're in a freaking mess .
Over cultured under-dressed.
A pearl living in suburbia.
A face crippled by wrinkles.
Support offered only, by undernourished blood and bone.
You try to raise a smile, but your supportive cement foundation breaks.
Your lips a shade of putrid pink.
Once a girl of glamour.
Sported a pearl necklace.
A sporty kind of gal.
Etiquette on legs.
Standing before me.
After the night that she fell from grace.
Society disgrace.
Just high and mighty dregs left behind.
Sediment at the base of an old whine bottle.
I cared enough to notice you.
Must have been the nurse in me.
I stopped.
We chatted.
I saw how you felt.
I felt it too.
We drank tea together.
I rested the leather on the soles, of my overworked shoes.
I so enjoyed the moments I spent.
Those spent creating you deep in my mind.
(C) Livvi
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
just moments ago, i went online and tapped Google
if some miraculous spell
could be drawn out of thin air
cause (this house husband
feels a bit embarrassed to divulge),
but at present,
the will to live aye cannot bear
cuz after an ample lather of soap and shampoo,
ah pronounced heady effect became immediately clear
where times gone by
(even as late as early January
tooth how sand and eighteen),
the strands clumped, glommed, and matted together
as sieve ma noggin got sat upon by a deer
no matter after shaking head banging fashion
(imagine rock stars of yore
whipping their wild locks) from ear to e'er
butta noah such dizzy inducing antics
resulted in absolutely no fluffiness,
hence my worse fear
(irrational?) yes, an obsession i.e.
thy hirsute outgrowth fixation dated back
tummy boyhood when cranky gear
and defective cogs somehow impacted
preoccupation concerning
every singular follicle fostering hair
strand, but during prepubescence,
this now grown man took a fancy
to this, that, or the other lad,
who sported a style envied yours truly,
hie wished said thatch tubby upon mine
ma lil oblate spheroid,
and pleaded (weathered and in vane)
with fate to make magically ap pear
this, tis minuscule wiggle room
to muster support from rear
guard, hook offer me wiggle room
asthma body electric goes on a manic tear
precious seconds ticking closer
to the final count down where
this mwm might remain bed ridden
for an entire year.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 1:04 AM UTC
In those apricot-tinged nirvana days,
cigar smoke filled the stuffy restaurant in which we ate.
At the table across from us sat a couple in their fourties,
Him, a toupee-wearing, finger-clicking car salesman,
and Her, the blonde in a tight dress,
glossy white mink and even glossier white stilettos.
She talked enthusiastically about the new eastern religions,
Groups that offered "clarity" and "spiritual guidance" to the dissatisfied Miami girls such as herself.
She said that she wanted a new way of life.
(Secretly, she wanted the young guru who'd promised it to her.)
Toupee protested:
"But honey, we ain't no slaves to the machine!"
The gold Casio watch on his wrist and the tacky pearls she sported said otherwise.
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
The clock read 3 am,
And the street was snoring
When the station wagon bumbled
Into the driveway of the
House with the white railing porch.
Doors opened and slammed shut,
And he looked out the bay window
Towards the house next door
To see who had arrived at this
Ghostly hour.
T’was a girl, with seventeen years
Under her belt, same as he.
She sported a simple brown dress
That was pleated on the bottom,
And he noticed that her feet in those
White sandals were every bit as dainty
And delicate as the rest of her.
Her hair was tucked in a messy bun,
The kind it takes you hours to master
To make it seem like it only took you a few seconds.
He was convinced she hadn't needed practice.
The girl went to her trunk, and pulled out a
Large polka dotted suitcase, the size of
A true adventurer.
Looking closer, he saw how frayed the edges were,
And how the pink background looked almost white
Against the purple dots.
As she wheeled it around and began
Lifting it up the white railed steps,
He noticed maps sprawled all over the dashboard of her station wagon,
Of Wyoming, Utah, and Nevada.
He wished fervently he could see her license plate.
Who was this strange girl?
He had but a lowly Vermont license plate; why was she here?
The clock read 8 am,
And the street was waking up to the smell of bacon and eggs, and
The boy's head was once again
At the bay window, but a surprise awaited him at the house next door.
The station wagon was gone, no trace of it, and the white railed house
Might have even been the quietest house on the block.
The boy threw it away as a dream, but has never been able to forget
The girl with the polka dot suitcase.
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 10:24 AM UTC
The sun sported a brilliant shade of pink eye as she rose this morning
I wondered what had happened to her on the other side of the mountain last night, for her to awake as grouchy as this
I wondered if, perhaps, the moon had been kicked in her face
Wondered if the smoky sky had reached her nostrils as she slept, if she wept when she realized how long the moisture's been kept
But mostly, I wondered how she could be so irritated at the sight of me
Staring me down as she swelled with some awful infection
That had spread to the puffy tissue surrounding one veined eyelid
Well, I looked right back
Daring her to send me back inside to those promising shadows beneath my dinosaur blanket in bed
It all seemed much more inviting than this
At 6:30 in the morning, no less
Why, with her so uncharacteristically red in the face
Would anyone want to be around such a ginormous ball of sunshine when they first awake?
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 3:58 AM UTC
oh yeah, 'cos everyone's happy
and free of prejudices...
when's Santa Clause coming?
it's this adult's fairy-tale
of having the right vocabulary
that doesn't work, i.e.
esp. if we invoke censoring words
and allowing a freely flowing
reign of images... hence concrete
iconoclasm and dyslexia,
with mandarin giggles apart from us
demanding free telescopes for children, to
chastise the stars with our presence
as also noteworthy -
that's what happens when trying to speak
for the entire breadth of mankind,
some sort of sported anomaly -
i ******* hate birds singing in the morning
in summer... they double-up insomnia,
oh sure, they're beautiful when you're
getting a suntan, but not shutter-eye.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 10:57 PM UTC