"summaries" poems
Surrounded by friends
A welcoming hug lingers
Filled with what ifs
Uncomfortable for some
Warmly welcomed by others
Conversations fueled by
Wine, beer, and martinis
The comfort of acceptance
Non-judgmental reception
Imagining what’s not said
Some thoughts you can read
Others arise unbidden tongue-tied
Accidental truth shared
Sheltered by laughter
We retell our practiced stories
Not noticing the kind
I’ve-heard-it-before looks
Oh to hear the late night summaries
The evenings score card
We sway from oh so silly to
Pugnacious
We may have crossed lines
We never saw and wouldn’t have cared
If we did
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
I self-indulged—
For me a rare
Lapse, an unexpected
Slide to materialism.
Repenting already,
My selfishness.
I bought myself
Internet Radio.
How could I resist?
E-Tail has made it so easy.
GOTO Amazon Electronics.
•Amazon.com: Electronicswww.amazon.com/electronics-store/b?ie=UTF8... Amazon.com, Inc. Online shopping from a great selection at Electronics Store. ... Electronics. Shop for TV & Video, ... Featured Offers in Electronics ... Electronics Categories • ($“Ka-Ching! Ka-Ching!$ Ads in the middle of the freaking poem!”)
The omnipresent marketplace:
Shop at home in your pajamas,
Pay for it with keystrokes,
Go back to sleep.
FOR SALE: Hail to thee,
Oh bittersweet Credo of Capitalism!
I finally broke down,
Accepting the fact that
RADIO: once a wireless marvel;
Now, a fading media option,
Its broadcast range
Not only shrunk, but
Signal reception, downright poor.
So, I finally broke down
Bought a radio that actually works.
So what I want to know
Is NPR so full of itself that
They go so far to find some
British-accent guy to read
Sports summaries?
I am listening to some
Pompous Pommy poofter,
At KBOS, Boston, Massachusetts,
Nigel Longshanks, himself,
Recapping “The Run for the Roses,”
Kentucky Derby homestretch,
Missed NBA semi-final foul shot &
The freakish mojo comeback of
Yankee Baseball Bad Boy: A-ROD.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
You find patterns
in everything
and I am just beginning to notice this about you.
You watch documentaries,
and tell me all about them.
One was about
a nanny turned photographer
capturing strangers
mid-conversation-
I like your summaries
better than the stories themselves.
Someday, you, too
will take great photographs
and the world will know your name
before you're deceased.
I'm sure of it.
We walked through a field of glowing grass,
and you tried to touch each blade.
It began to rain,
I wiped a stray droplet onto your nose
and kissed your eyelids.
You laughed at me,
tried to annoy me,
hold my hand in different ways,
push me
off the sidewalk-
I stepped in dog ****
but you insisted
it was human...
I listened to you spin your story
and was reminded of how lovely
it is to peer inside your mind-
My glasses broke tonight
and yet I haven't seen this clearly
in what feels like forever.
I'll tell you "let's do this,"
this time, without any liquor
if it means I'll prove my devotion
to you
and this time
we have together.
I don't care what you call me,
or who knows I exist,
as long as you keep kissing me
with as much electricity
as I felt when I first met you.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 2:06 AM UTC
Once upon a time,
i had a book i read nightly....without fail.
t'was a compendium of impossible dreams,
big plans, summaries of late night talks
on "long-shots-but-worth-a-try," stuff,
...our very own fairy tales, where we
wished for magic wands and wings,
written on nights when sleep was elusive,
when bottles of cold beer had lost their effect.
talks were long...my fingers grew tired, for,
my guitar wept with sad songs....t'was then
i learned to pour martini...into my coffee.
::::::::::::::::::
lost my guitar one day, got busted....but, life's
many notes and tunes, played on with time.
eclipses shaded the already dimmed horizon,
floods ruined boxes of souvenirs...stamped,
handwritten...with ribbons of silver and gold...
people died, some left...some fell out of love,
moved near the mountains, others left their
preferred milieus...for uncomfortable zones...
the moon, looking down from mountaintops,
was a witness to tears...of sufferings,
.....realization, and of acceptance.
when nights refused to end,
when the howling of distant dogs, echoed
and shattered the stillness of the night,
i question marked our tales with suspended
endings...tore off unfulfilled, hopeless pages,
i crossed out those with "no forever afters,"
only a few pages were left......so, i began
creating new plots......and new settings
i added new characters, and new twists,
all written in the midst of unholy hours
.......til a new dawn....proclaimed itself...
:::::
to this day,
i write my own fairy tales, with no beer, definitely
i still have my night coffee...though sans martini
......it could be black, or with its mating cream,
....and all the dark curves and swirls, in between...
:::::
"a long shot, but worth a try," it may seem,
...yet, i do wish, i could put some sugar and cream
......upon everyone's dark, and bitter coffee...
:::::
Sally
Copyright June 6, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 11:33 PM UTC
I think I understand now why people compare the one they love to a star filled night. Why they dream of the first snowfall, the first Christmas, the first set of fireworks.
I think I understand now why people give the person they love flowers and chocolate. Why the first kiss matters, the first “I love you” matters, the first sleepless night matters.
I think I understand now why people fall in love. Why they’re willing to conquer the cold, to travel any distance, to spend money they don’t have.
I think I understand now what love songs are about. Why people write metaphors about someone to share to the world, poems to recite about ever changing eyes, melodies as sweet as their laughter.
I understand.
I understand that I get the best sleep when I’m talking to you. I understand that I wake up every morning with only you on my mind. I understand that my poetry will always seep with your presence. I understand that there is nothing I want more than to hold you in my arms.
I think I understand now that I’m falling for you in ways that I’ve never fallen for someone before. That nothing else matters besides the way you look at me when you think I can’t see you. That thinking of you brings me a smile.
I think I understand now why people fall. Fall off bikes. Fall off horses. Fall off tightropes. Fall for girls. Fall for boys.
I fall for you.
I fall for sleepy nights, for daily summaries, for adventures and humming. I fall for song sharing, for I missed you more’s, for wins and losses.
I fall for chance, for randomness, for the idea of falling. I fall for laughter, for secrets, for one a.m. conversations.
I fall for you not because you’re the only one to fall for, but because you’re the only one I want to fall for.
I want star filled nights. I want the first snowfall, the first Christmas, the first set of fireworks.
I want to give you flowers and chocolate. I want the first kiss, the first “I love you”, the first sleepless night.
I want to fall in love. I’ll conquer the cold, travel any distance, spend money I don’t have.
I want to break the habit of running away from things that make me happy. I want to stay this time and keep every promise.
I think I understand now that adventures are not always physical quests set before a hero. They are sometimes the feeling someone gets when a person says their name for the first time, or a tightening in the chest when that that someone looks a person who has wonder filled eyes and a fiery laugh.
I think I understand now that an adventure is how I feel about you. How I fall for your eyes, your hair, your ability to make me laugh without being funny. How I feel when you interrupt me to talk about silly things. How I feel when your eyes shift to me and you smile.
I think I understand now why my heart beat flutters when we talk. Why nothing else seems important. Why I find you between the lines of my favorite books.
I think I understand now why people say someone stole their heart. You hold mine in your hands and I’m not sure I want it back.
I think I understand now why I write love poems. Why I etch you into pieces of paper, why I contour your soul into words I’ll never forget, why I take notes of the events of my falling.
I understand.
I understand that hands are made for safety. That words are made for comfort and understanding.
I understand that I’m falling.
I understand that it’s for you.
I understand that I can’t change that.
I understand that I’m terrified of it.
I understand that I need work.
I understand that you’re worth it.
I hope you understand too.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
upon closer examination,
my hands,
my history.
my hands fit
irregular-sized gloves,
life summaries,
slightly worn,
marked down
for the discount table.
my creases are
covered up
underneath a few
genesis survivors.
a "handful" of
youthful blonde hairs,
failing to depart,
as time has requested.
these blonde survivors,
refuseniks to
time's ravages,
mockery makers,
of history book writers.
yet, these cohorts few,
are in cahoots with,
wave machines,
tidal decay suppliers,
gray color,
content providers,
to the balance
of my body.
nicks and grooves,
crisscross stitches,
vanity disrepairs,
someone is
counting down lifelines,
one million billion cells,
used up, only shells,
wreckage of death stars,
jails for membranes,
forgetful fabric memorizers,
crumbled fractures,
patches designed by
an unknown haute couturier,
a failed revisionist
of the original conception.
All our hands.
upon closer examination,
Jubilee finale,
arrival day of the
Halcyonian,
mythical bird,
powerful enough,
charm the winds,
calm the waves,
harbinger of
our demise.
that date,
initialized,
DVR recorded,
visible,
right there,
upon on all
our hands,
all our history.
Source coded
in a language
for which the
Rosetta stone
yet undiscovered,
but visible,
right there,
on all
our hands,
all our history.
Halcyon bird,
comes
when it comes,
though we,
always, surprised,
oblivious
to the obvious.
Halcyon bird,
coming, to calm,
and to lament loss,
coming,
to still the wind
and wave within
the heart,
repair the
deepest rent.
So these words,
caresses,
coming,
to calm and to lament,
from my hands
to yours,
asking modestly,
for acceptance,
for forgiveness,
for another's hands hold
mine, my heart.
Yet my hands wave on,
each wave, a day,
an entry in and on my handy ledger,
where recorded,
**upon closer examination,
my hands,
my history,
the what is
as well
what cannot ever be.**
------------------------------------------------------------------
* http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/halcyonian
(Halcyonian, a mythical bird, said to have the power of charming winds and waves into calmness, associated with death)
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 3:55 AM UTC
Should I bring a résumé of my dreams
to the publishing company on West 38th?
An abstraction of when my teeth
crumble like pastels, or summaries of my
vocal cords seeking air through a taut fabric.
I’ve achieved piercing silence in a room of white noise.
I have an impressive inventory of witnessing infidelity.
once, we were both in between romantic partners.
I was awakened by the taste of copper
from biting the inside of my cheek.
It looked worthy of an aged Merlot.
My most admirable skill is prediction.
I can sense a mass shooting or the expiring heart of a loved one.
but I usually float like an island over the scene
because my biggest weakness is lacking density.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
My Dad plays a game of "hide and seek" : A Tribute poem to my beloved Dad: Late George Maveli
_____________________________________
• My Dad plays a game of "hide and seek" :
• A Tribute poem to my beloved Dad: Late George Maveli
____________________________________
My Dad plays a game of "hide and seek",
Though in Intensive Care since a week,
But I know He is still sleeps by my side,
He still makes me happy by elephant ride
Putting me on his bare back to continue play
Taking his strong arms to go fast or to delay
And to repeat the black elephant's game
Making me to be happier and fame
• Top from heaven I heard
• a song of love from a bird;
• A sad word from my Lord,
• I still love you my dear Dad.
He died not too late in my hand,
but lives still in my own soft mind
I wish time wouldn't go forward,
then I would make a good reward
I try to have and repeat old memoirs,
my minds mostly turns to summaries
• Top from heaven I heard
• a song of love from a bird;
• A sad word from my Lord,
• I still love you my dear Dad.
I wish I had my dear dad by my side
The stories I hear about ocean tide,
To my eyes it brings more and more fear
Before I had to say good-bye, a drop of tear
I wish I had more fun time with my dear
My mom lets me know how much he care
Since I was too young to have love to share
• Top from heaven I heard
• a song of love from a bird;
• A sad word from my Lord,
• I still love you my dear Dad.
_______________________________________
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
_______________________________________
NOTE: I left my dear Dad (Late George Maveli) in the hands of my Lord Jesus on Saturday 19th July @ 1630 hours Indian time. He died at the age of 89, I am his eldest Son. I regret to express to all my beloved viewers and my well wishers of Hello Poetry. I shall post my poems after a weeks period of condolence - WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 4:47 AM UTC
~~~
sometimes right and wrong,
good and bad,
are accurate single summaries of
the momentary episodes,
the essays,
that constitute the whole human voyage
to parts unknowable
there are but a handful of persons
who might fit the lightness
of your loveliest of theories
but how could you know
that long ago,
one declared independence from the
oppression of personal dependencies,
from either
admissible fear,
more than,
admirable courage
and yet,
those few,
those so very precious few,
a band, a squad, a fireteam
of successful piercers of
the bark of an ever scaling armor,
are warmth welcomed and comforted
within my hearts hearth,
under the protection
of my soul's furnace,
for welcoming flawed me,
fully,
without reservation
Nowadays,
I write mostly for
the lost children,
the lost loves,
the long agos of long ago,
those whose caring and loss,
scars and medals
somehow
were adjudged,
deemed too costly,
for everyday wearing
and for
those mates,
whose caring and the sharing
of their losses,
demands memorization, savoring,
writing down,
proofs of open boundaries
for me,
***in the losing, is the saving,
in the poems that honor recall,***
therein, thereof, and
thereby,
gaining
for our lives,
a modest, husbanded,
allowance,
a fund mutual,
of caring,
hard earned
and keeping us alive
~~~
October 26, 2015
8:48 AM
NYC
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 5:34 PM UTC
Write about me she said,
Write me a poem and tell it to the stars,
Talk about my talents,
Or confess my many scars.
But her beauty could not be captured,
By any photo or ball point pen,
And no length of poetic summaries could ever,
Express the fire that she holds within.
Even Venus, she is envious of her,
As she walks this earth with grace,
A fallen angel from the heavens above,
To know her soul is to know real strength.
She twirls her arms above her head,
As she dances down the street,
Twisting and turning away with the wind,
With the prettiest smile you ever did see.
She needs nothing from you, and she takes nothing more,
She comes and goes softly with poise,
With all of the beauty she possesses she still is so compassionate,
Because that is who she is by choice.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 4:26 AM UTC
We’re busy all day long with studying and chapter summaries,
we’re stuck in quarantine. Luckily, I like my roommate's company.
We know that we have work to do as prep for upcoming classes,
but we know that it takes more than work to make young lasses happy.
So I talked my roomies into getting, a steak-n-cheese delivery,
instead of working fact-sheets, for our next term chemistry.
Dueling playlists cave-rave from the echos in our suites,
we’re having all the fun we can on opening quarantine week.
Some guys try for invites, like we’re throwing a private wingding,
but those texts go unanswered ‘cause we’re genuinely quarantining.
With the COVID blues proscribed - get that frown right off your face miss,
our studies are on schedule - and it’s time for some serious play *****
Jan 20, 2022
Jan 20, 2022 at 6:48 AM UTC
Upon closer examination,
my hands, my history.
Irregular sized summaries, slightly worn,
like gloves, marked down for the discount table,
my creases covered up underneath genesis survivors,
a 'handful' of youthful blonde hairs,
failures to depart as requested.
Refuseniks to time's ravages,
mockery makers,
yet, cohorts of, in cahoots with,
wave machines, breaker bringers of tidal decay,
gray color content providers,
to the balance of my body.
Nicks and grooves, crisscross stitches,
vanity repairs to counting down lifelines,
one million billion cells,
wreckage of death stars, jails for membranes,
forgetful fabric memorizers, crumbled fractures,
patches designed by an unknown haute couturier,
failed revisionist of the original conception.
All our hands.
Upon closer examination,
Jubilee finale, arrival day of the
mythical Halcyonian,
the date, initialized,^
even DVR future recorded,
visible, right there, upon
on all our hands, all our history.
Source coded in a language for which
a Rosetta stone, yet undiscovered,
but visible, right there,
on all our hands, all our history.
Halcyon bird,
comes when it comes,
though we, always, surprised,
oblivious to the obvious.
Halcyon bird,
coming, to calm, and to lament loss,
coming, to still wind and wave within
the heart, repair the deepest rent.
So these words, caresses,
coming, to calm and to lament,
from my hands to yours,
asking modestly, for acceptance.
------------------------------------------------------------------
^http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/halcyonian
(Halcyonian, a mythical bird, said to have the power of charming winds and waves into calmness, associated with death)
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 4:35 PM UTC
Mass or morning; the new detection panel
of six Jewish artillery summaries to see
blonde ***** and married boxes invaded
by the empty strippers while painting a
firearm from the shadow of dawn with
police dogs to the beloved mother of the
Western window, shows showing mistakenly
calling the furies, bears get distemper
enough to scratch the thin skinned
Australians while the planet's emperor winds
up leaving women by admitting only
to getting a ******* in the museum, the spell, |||
the flesh, the color, the skin, the sensation,
the adolescent kisses under the side of his father
In general terms, my oscillating lover
keeping the pain abroad remembers
his hostility towards Paul's assembly,
there are enough trees on the corporate website.
Perhaps the Jews who ****** the tongue,
the fog and the drawers in a book of dark images
were prostitutes who were abstract yellow devils.
That fire engulfed the whole building,
saints on their knees separated by the "Eve"
to paint a divisor on the order of a dog
that is right since it is on the rise in the breaking
of the police to speak of the public to believe
that the mother of the beloved of the living God
of matter was thrown onto the United States
of America in the division of the person
of all time as we warm ourselves.|
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 1:46 AM UTC
All that I think is mine,
All that I think is me,
is a summation of what I've been told,
of what I've been instructed to see.
'Who am I' is not the question.
The crisis is not one of identity.
Don't be misled, my friends.
The real illusion is this 'me'.
There is nothing new inside there.
Just scribbled notes and summaries.
A bunch of borrowed opinions
And some stolen memories.
I know I can talk and share today.
I can scream to make some noise.
But I hope by the day I die,
I'll have somehow, found my voice.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 3:37 PM UTC
Buying a bottle was an adventure and she was always my plus one.
We plucked cork after cork, off the bottles, never thinking back.
Every bottle had a story and the corks we collected were the summaries.
Every cork was a memory, stored in a cage never to be revisited but always to be cherished.
Never to be forgotten, till the night came where she'd never again be my plus one.
Now I sit here with my glass empty, looking at a cage full of memories.
I can't start a new adventure alone nor can I keep this glass empty for long.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 4:11 AM UTC
I want to see the world
I want to watch it unfold like a whisper into a secret
dancing in a different perspective
from what each set of eyes dreams it
I want to watch the world imagine
sprinkling a mana potion of possibilities
across the land for us to dance in
I want to see the world's mistakes
where its heart broke into the grand canyon
where it cried to fill the atlantic ocean
where it colored to create the flower fields of Holland
I want to listen to the world
while it commutes around the sun like a day job
while it tells stories to the stars like a fantasy
while it grieves over a tragedy just out of reach
I want to see the world
so I can show it a new humanity
not every human here is all we're cracked up to be
some of our souls are still dancing
looking down and up and rejoicing
we want to see the world
to understand it, fall in love, and come into unison
society is just a plague wiping out the brightened energies
but we're finding a cure, an infinite anecdote to the mess of man
and we'll come from the inside, to feel the world
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
*
Good memories divided by
Seconds; minutes; hours !
Hours, then added to
Days; weeks; months!
Numbers divided by
Fractions; nuclear; atoms !
Atoms, then added to
Actions; attacks; reactions !
Bad memories divided by
Years will be added to age;
Life Summaries added by
Fears will be added to page;
Lust divided by love
Will give birth to child;
Rest added by life
Will give death!
Life added to death;
Love divided by Life;
Someone had written
an odd ode of human life:
Something, just like this …
Somewhat, just like that…
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
[email protected]
www.williamsji.com
www.williamsmaveli.com
www.williamsgeorge.com
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 9:47 PM UTC
~for S.,
who needs to look up
nada et. al.,
for & cause,
she was the
implanter-in-chief~
<>
by now
you know exact my meaning,
the daily diurnal,
the witchs why you keep
a log, a journal,
of the all memories mundane,
pleasurable and pained,
the stuff of life
which morphs into
the stuffing of your
scribing,
aged pages
of endless fascinations,
of the tiny artifacts,
the dance habits,
muscular sized,
from moment of
first arousal,
to the last thought
clanging,
all are impressed upon
your closing jail door eyelids,
all these minutiae
now nightly benightly
locked in,
the actions and reactions,
that choose you,
or vice versa
the A to Zed
of who you be,
what summaries get kept
in your head,
of who you
were, was, when,
now storaged
in that stainless steel
attic of
you actions
in living color, the
terrible and the tedious
all these seedlings of amoebas,
of unending routine edges,
that define
your selving delving,
and shelving of
yourselves,
the best mysteries
of your personal histories,
that you’ll take to your graveriueries^
t h e y
are the original origins of a life,
you who walked you out of the sea,
to become the
salt of recorded history
sprinkled upon
your poetry…
<>
and those ****
they
said you
couldn’t rhyme
worth a dime
ah well,
they~them
last seen
entering
the hated gated
halls of hell
sighing,
while I’m
laughing,
Rolfing^
on my
Armstrong ceiling tiling^
Oct 27, 2024
Oct 27, 2024 at 9:48 AM UTC
The basic texts, dictionaries,
letters, strategies, risks, events,
publications and the interpretation
of whores' literature and translation,
especially 1, are permanently
deleted. Literary abstracts: literature,
literary stories, historical books,
***** and board of directors.
Theory of Iniforishinelli: this article
prints publications and forms for
the promotion of prostitution
and the programs used to publish
prohibited drugs. 29 other examples
of publications, cleaning standards,
articles, letters, good road network,
credentials, events, police
officers 1: descriptions
of key functions, especially
the best long-term artistic
values. Great epic literature,
literary texts, history books,
participation in the council,
concepts of medical
information programs.
This ***** edition
and the impact
on ****** purity.
Other samples:
Creative,
Common,
Brochures,
New brochure.
Dictionary of basic definitions,
letters, good methods,
accidents, incidents, police
interpretations. Basic writing,
particularly high and durable
artistic values. The best literature;
Summary of communication
articles, texts, recognition
of articles, letters and integrated
maps. This publication of Women
and Drug Trafficking (narcotics /
29 and observations of other texts,
creative writing of literary texts
and sources) Letters, good tactics,
identities, political definitions
1 Basically, The work is considered
the best for long periods of modern
texts, literature and nicotine.
Books, compositions Tables
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Drugs for women's articles,
emphasizing the difference
between the program and
the effectiveness of the use
of medicines 29 ******
and other units to create
the same samples, creative
writing articles for Publications.
New brochures and promotional
material ... literary dictionaries,
letters, tactics, accidents, events
and interpretations of police
publications. 1 Literary work
is particularly high or permanent.
The best summaries of literature:
writing, literary literature,
history books, summary table.
Theory of information:
this article deals
with published publications
****** and the proliferation
of prostitution for
the publication of criminals
of drug abuse programs.
29 Examples of other hygiene
criteria: Publication Prints articles,
letters, good roads, certifications,
events, literary definitions of the police
that have 1 basic writing,
particularly good long-term for the arts.
Great works written poetry,
written texts, historical books,
county councils. Information
theory: this publication reviews
the reviews of drug treatment
programs and the implications
for ****** hygiene.
Other samples of similar samples:
Creative Commons Publishing
New brochures. Translations
of definitions of basic logical
dictionaries, letters,
good methods, disasters,
phenomena, definitions
of police literature. Essentially
1 written work, especially
those considered superior
or of lasting artistic values.
Great literary work.
Summary: written works,
written bibliography, bibliographic
texts, complex boards of directors.
Bibliography examples: this article
is published literature on the *****
scope and efficacy of the substance
abuse treatment program for women.
29 Other examples of compliance
with education. Creative creation
of literary texts Publication
Brochures; New offers
Translations to basic logical
definitions of dictionaries, letters,
good methods, idiosyncrasies,
phenomena, definitions of literary
police. Essentially written work,
especially those considered better
or longer artistic values. Great
literary work. Written works,
written bibliography, bibliographic
texts, complex boards of directors.
Bibliographic examples:
this article evaluates
the published literature
on the whores' scope
and effectiveness
of programs to combat
substance abuse in women.
29 Other samples of equivalent literature;
Creative writing's Creation of literary text
Brochures of New promotional publications.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 2:50 PM UTC
I died as i sip, the last inch drop of memories...
Tasteless, unfragrant, fragmented vacancies...
Recollecting, regulating the blurry negligible visions...
Recalling, rewriting, summarizing the Summaries
It felt like Treachery, disregarding this treasury...
life is a Memory, and then it is nullity...
Or at least that's what the wise man said...
We drown ourselves in each shot and swim out with a sigh
Sometimes with a gloom and sometimes with a smile
But in the end, both fades away,
And oh how quickly they fade away...
As if waves washing away our names written on the shore...
it fades out to presence, to sense another sore
sores, like old chest boxes, we dive deep in each,
swimming into it's memories, bone narrow they breached
like Leeches, we **** on our melancholy as we silently screech
watching pains as days turning to wrinkles, as closer we reach
We build our future, though we live for the past...
We all get obsessed and we all get attached...
We move forward to looking back trying to find a meaning...
But after all, Life is a memory, and then it is nothing...
Or at least that's what the wise man said
Sep 25, 2020
Sep 25, 2020 at 5:37 PM UTC
Burn. Burn. In the firelight of dawn when the sun sets aflame
those of us who awake to the clamor of day
unfinished tasks still holding up a traffic jam of events
on a scale unprecedented. Mind-blowing.
Work. Work. To break the list down into manageable machinations
Hoping that one by one the tasks will take flight
The page will be blessed with red bloodied execution
and the ****** taken, will settle into substantial maturity.
Try. Try. New tasks germinate and populate the columns
and there is never enough time to juggle between starting
and finishing all those noble intentions. They crowd me out
pushing for space in an already jammed tight list of things to do.
I try to get on top of it but it wont surrender to my flirting,
and pampering and pushing, dressing and **********
and will not yield to my best one-liners.
Tasks come with a stern face and stare back at you
if you dare do something else instead.
The battle of boldness continues day in and day out
and I move on into sunnier climes where the beach
beckons more than another day at the desk
plodding through plots and summaries and shaping characters
line after line.
Sometimes I wonder what internal turbo charged engine
drives me to keep going-without looking back
at all those unfinished, abandoned tasks that never
helped in taking me forward.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
Hands places I haven’t known
in her room taking-light all I have known
groping for some place I haven’t known
from her belly once with the life I have known
of value, I cross an ocean I have not known
to know my girth within her rondure eye I have known
to live with is a cross I carry to a hill I haven’t known
seeking correspondence from rocks that I have known
to be much wiser, in account of what I have not known
yet to be wholly complete as in ready for fragmenting I have known
as means to live in summaries I have not known
to be a tracer of evidence, as if a search party I have known
to be your hands in all the places in my body I have not known
to be sequestered by the face you carry all these years that I have known.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 11:42 PM UTC
Like post-it notes,
upon a yearbooks page.
Hand scrawled summaries,
of the important bits.
Faces, places, names,
happiness and sadness,
loves and passions,
hurts and pain.
Tattered but treasured remnants,
that taught me, that made me.
They fashioned me,
and completed my design.
All duly noted and stored,
and learned for good or ill.
These are my memories,
they are both me and mine.
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 9:49 PM UTC
Hundreds of haunting memories,
Of the times I've left behind.
Essays and summaries,
About the life that's been unkind.
Places and faces I've seen,
Some good while some were mean.
Everything written on white paper,
Now has vanished into sky like vapour.
Lessons learned from mistakes,
Saving myself from deep lakes.
Black ink flooded the blank pages,
It felt like my heart's inside cages.
With tears I erase the past,
But hide them from the world.
Neither the pages nor the pain exist,
Of "the diary I burned".
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 2:05 AM UTC
A song played by so many,
Heard in infinite variations,
Violence and oblations,
Beyond our mortal stations,
The Triune of the universe,
King and Lord of all,
The worthiest source,
Insight into shining truth,
Warmth and life,
Enhances us into enlightenment,
The rebirth of fire stripping back impurities,
Oh the Triune, King of the Universe.
So many pray to be pluralists,
Hoping for pluralist babies,
Praying for purple Daisies,
Looking at the mobius strips,
Where to even start?
What wisdom there is to impart?
Looking through prisms at,
The bluest of contraptions,
Through Goya's mixed abstractions,
Picasso's representation of reality,
Worked our way down the path,
A room that cannot be found,
A path that confuses and confounds,
A sin of pride sung by the bride,
Are these the stations?
The death of our nations,
Is it the deviations?
Calvin speaks of pre-destination,
Disbelief in oblation,
Summaries above his station,
Where is he now, what is now?
Every seed upon a rock,
Every foundation upon the vultures,
Lacking stability to advise the manufacture,
Trapped in a catatonic daze,
Disguising the onward march of fate,
For when time will count the date,
Rue the day when we ruminate about space,
Amplified Polar neuron twitches,
Passing us by with bipolar switches,
Uncoupling and unhitches,
Welted stitches falling apart,
The fool now plays his miserable part,
I know there was a room I couldn't find.
Did it ever manage to demystify?
Is this how the events arrived and came by?
With songs played by so many,
Heard in infinite variations,
Violence and variations,
The Triune of the universe,
King and Lord of all,
That the worthiest source,
Insight into shining truth,
Warmth and life,
Enchants us into enlightenment,
The rebirth of fire stripping back impurities.
For you are my refuge and security.
Nov 28, 2024
Nov 28, 2024 at 8:21 AM UTC