"syllabic" poems
I don't have any emotions anymore
Sometimes, I don’t know if I’m having a feeling
Or I am dreaming, while I am awake?
Some might think that my mind
is exploring my emotions
while looking for happiness,
So I decided to bake a melodrama cake
Nope! I meant mel-o-cream butter pound cake
The ingredient is my path to getting my feelings back
Egg, butter, flour, sugar, raisins,
baking powder and a little milk
I just want to transfer my feeling,
with some logical thinking..
Somewhere, deep within a non stanzaic,
and syllabic poem forms by the minute
It’s going to trend like this cake,
which is going to be bake with love
Poetry is everywhere,
creaming my butter and sugar is poetic
because butter and sugar never stick together. It also
reminds me of Nana’s golden brown patties, tasty and spicy
Adding the eggs, nutmeg, baking powder, brings out the
natural female traits in this Island girl,
without my empowering dreads
The raisins and the baking powder remind me of
The Rise of Radical African American Activism,
And all that rises, rise in due degree
so poetry is everywhere
it's in everything we say and do.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 9:03 AM UTC
Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.
Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the ****
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.
Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make of you the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.
5.5k
Inside the bubble that is your mind
Revolves an endless cycle of war
The sting of your tyrannical thoughts
Launches missiles through your vile lips
Vilifying my dignity with hurricanes of syllabic outrage
Swiftly dispensing my emotions into your hole of egoism
Jealousy frequently consumes and controls your actions
Foolishly you listen to every whisper that blows your way
Tell me lady what do you want from me?
I break my neck to fulfill your pleasures
But you repay me in grotesque fashion
**** on my pistol of revenge baby doll
By Glenn McCrary
© 2011 Glenn McCrary (All rights reserved)
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 10:56 AM UTC
Poison Ivy,
red rash on my limbs.
To the Doc I go,
a shot will do.
It grows on trees,
but they're immune,
their limbs aren't itching.
*Thanks ~timothy~ for a new style.
This is a syllabic poem in seven lines 4/5 5/4 4/4/5
Unrhymed
Lines 1 and 2 INTRODUCE the SUBJECT
Lines 3 and 4 AMPLIFY what is affected by the image/subject.
Line 5 thru 7 Focus on NEW SUBJECT that complements and provides a meditative conclusion.
Shanzi may be Titled*
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 5:23 PM UTC
Closed doors never seemed so perfect to me,
To call her mine without the demonic
Stares of the public vultures,
Snapping their claws on the shutters of cameras
And plastering our love across the world.
It is nice to be able to talk to her,
To hide our deep conversations
Under the covers at night,
The luminescent glow
Of another incoming text,
The quiet throb of fingertips
Colliding with the screen,
Each letter creating another
Syllabic heartbeat
Of love and desire,
I just wish that one day
These words will become real,
They will evolve and grow to speak
Louder than the actions we describe to each other.
I want the hugs to be real.
I want the kisses to be real.
I want the inevitable yearning for passion to be real.
As long as at it can be between us and us only.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
My whippet ran
as fast as the wind.
With a cheetahs gate
he could catch all.
And now he rests
his race is done,
all rabbits happy.
*Shanzi is a syllabic poem in seven lines 4/5 5/4 4/4/5
Unrhymed
Lines 1 and 2 INTRODUCE the SUBECT
Lines 3 and 4 AMPLIFY what is affected by the image/subject.
Line 5 thru 7 Focus on NEW SUBJECT that complements and provides a meditative conclusion.
Shanzi may be Titled*
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
Fear.
For so long, I let it sink its tainted fangs into my neck, drawing blood that dripped to my ankles like something that could make angels tremble in the heavens.
It listened to me speak. I could see the hunched curvature of its spine in every corner of my imagination, watched it swallow the colors of my soul like leftover soup.
Consuming.
It surrounded me, an anchor tethering my heels to hollow ground.
But then I discovered poetry. I discovered the syllabic freedom of bleeding love into the spines of empty journals. I found out that poetry existed in glistening foreheads and moments spent trying to catch my breath again, in split ends and blotted lipstick stains.
I discovered that airplanes do not plummet into the Atlantic Ocean as often as I thought. I discovered that I can ride them without becoming another muted headline, a tragic statistic blaring into the white noise of late night television.
I discovered that my voice had meaning, that it deserved the embrace of a microphone, an eager audience, to be shouted and sung like lyrics to a revolution I had always been taught to silence.
I discovered that proving people wrong is fun.
To the boy who told me at age 13 that I would grow up and become someone’s biggest disappointment, this one is for you. To the despair that kept me wide awake until mornings I wished would be my last, this one is for you. To the same girl who doubted that she would make it, that her brain would ever stop screaming the same addictive chemicals that questioned her very fragile existence, this one is for you.
I made it.
I dyed my hair bright red because I am a fire that refuses to die out, my heartbeats fanning the flames of a life I have yet to conquer. I sing in the shower, with my car windows rolled down at fifty miles per hour, in my sleep. I have tasted tenderness in the form of a heart that beats for mine. I am loved, I am young, and I am burning fearlessness with every breath.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 10:24 PM UTC
Behold bright symphonic Blast!
Halt the snail bite damage of youth.
There is none to resist the place and time of one who missed the equal avenue.
Dropping before your phantom, dispirited dew, before shadow portrait drops.
Swine with silver throats!
Corpse of embers preamble multi-various multi-vacuous semi-forte polar rhythms.
Sequencing selves in wood and wire. Pinions at drifted tempo, quavering for poly-syllabic idioms,
In sectioned hostels for their sense and glory restrung.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC
Alabaster Archipelagos
Benevolent Beauty Beaming
Constructive Contradictive Creative Contemplations
Dante's Darling Dances Deliberating Denominatives
Effervescent Escapisms Endearingly Emerge Elusive Edens
Fantastic Flamboyant ******** Flamed Fabulous Fiery Flickerings
Gorgeous Garden Gim'memores Gaudied Garnishing Gasps
Heavenly Hues Humming Heart's Harmonies
Immortaly Impregnated Inspired Ideals
Jessamin Jargon Jacuzzi Jams
Know-how Knacking Knurls
Light-spirited Lovers
Merge Magnificent
Naked Nocturno Nights
Omnipresent Ousia Over Odeons
Palpitations Perfect Peaks Pi Paws
Quintessential Quality Quarrels Question Quarks Quietness
Rododendron's Richameters Rescued Raw Reeling Ruby Realms
Sentient Syllabic Sapfo's Splendidly Spirited Semantics
Turning Turner's Timeless Timeless Twinklings
Unified Undulatory Unsolved Unicorns
Velvety Venice Voyages
Wanton Wantings
Xsylophone Xsantiphas
Yearnin' Yuki's Yen
Zed's Zealous Zen-it-hall Zeppelins
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 9:26 AM UTC
Basquiat brushes
dribbles bulbous breakdance blues
gilding hip hop walls
Dolphy ****** white jazz
welling crank pipe smoked black lungs
on poppin stickmen
Lorca be mute, vexed
with syllabic conundrums
mal haiku riddles
Eric Dolphy:
God Bless the Child
Federico Garcia Lorca
The Little Mute Boy
Oakland
3/6/13
jbm
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
I frequently read my old poems and
feel my glass heart splinter with impatience
and demand why my muse escapes
my passions, and my talent must
sleep cold and lonely within the shadowy crescent
where an oil-fire’s tongues dare not lick.
Then, when face with banal, bittersweet
mimicry week after week, therein
braces a bothered stirring of flavorful
jumbles as aimless as houseflies bouncing
against the window blinds.
And, once again, my poems,
with their phoenix lifestyles, breathe brave
gulps with scarlet-robin-breasts puffed
with gung-ho vigor.
Where the poet’s rhythm takes on equestrian
expression along the staggered verses,
bequeathing shine to syllabic shine
and stealing pop from pursed, pronouncing lips.
Each doting word may kiss and nuzzle the
splinters that recognize a cut so rare
that this world’s physical balance would overturn
with no presence of such wondrous oddity.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 5:10 AM UTC
As night fell, winds whispered his
name; I curled into its breeze as
each leaf danced in syllabic count
with each breath he'd breathe.
I'd smile as he'd toss and turn
emanating masculinities
ambrosia, fingertip tracing
lightly as not to awaken him,
absorbing the moment of us.
Fore, I know there'd never be
another that can arouse emotive
ruminations of him and I as I look
upon his slumbering countenance.
Wanting to slide within his warmth,
embracing the ambiance of what
we have between us, an affinity
of lifetime entwined.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 2:24 AM UTC
SHE so that her skirt was devastated
UP TO "love" went to search a new word for self
SHE fled of herself
SHE ran and went of herself
DEATH not found
A word
OR syllabic
OR voice
FOR himself
IN torture of touching she
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 1:55 PM UTC
Your silken skin, trembling to the touch
A scent of sandalwood, wafts as it soars
Your pant, accentual-syllabic verse
Beats ever faster, no ration of time
Awkward moments as two become one
An everlasting symphony of fire
Quenched, after the crescendo of the night
Descending from a dream all in my mind
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 6:57 AM UTC
I remember the first time I laid eyes on him, that
emotive whirlwind within at the sight of him
I swooned inwardly, blinking...
overtaken by the moment, a radiance connected us;
his visage emanated strength beyond his brawny
physique and his handsomeness
our dawning...
love awakened at the sight of him; keeping bedroom eyes
mentally closed, but, longing to feel him against me
became a resting place in my heart
his eyes were so, tender, I wanted to finger trace his lips,
slowly, allowing him to taste the first breath of our moment
one moonlit night...
he approached, another swoon moment, I melted in his
arms as he whispered in the arch of sultry heat uncovering
the fabric of my being
love aroused...
and our essence melded; one breath...ours mingled,
became precious as wet stained kisses rained
upon upturned pout
taste of him left me adorned, in naked shadows of midnight,
love found; bound by blushed sighs, in demureness I lean
into manliness breathing shades of his love
lost...
in syllabic whispers, drenched in poetry of us, where want
dawdles at the door of need as desire entwines igniting our
flame and I melt between the folds of Him and I
evolving...
in the archway of love at first sight
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 8:15 PM UTC
A word gathering dust on my internal junk shelf,
Inseparable, it would seem, from my ego.
Assuredly it seems just a threat to my health;
It's a surefire harm to my heart, this I know.
But once given the chance to examine my state,
As impossible as it seemed to let go,
I saw glimpses of wisdom, redemptions of fate,
Which swore to this word’s worth, its quo.
For when read alone, on a page in my mind,
The “him” was the syllabic gong that rang twelfth.
But I took a fresh gaze, and upon my collate
Saw its syllabic partner alone; saw the “self.”
My “self,” I then saw, was discovered through “him;”
Made naked, and shivering, and new.
He’d unveiled hottest passions, and fears, with great stealth.
So “him” I can thank, now the word’s split in two.
Driven apart by an unlikely shim,
I have his remains, but see more clearly my “self.”
The dust I will likely now brush off my shelf,
For uttering the loveliest elision since “him.”
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 1:42 AM UTC
I meditate upon shore of thoughts;
washing over my countenance, caressing
my soul.
as he forms verses in syllabic count, fore, his voice
ebbs in tidal waves, teasing with submissions of
cognitive chains of thought; where bated breath
pounds against my peninsula
open to laps in hunger, tasting passions complaisancy;
each rush, mouthed in a sauntering flow; touched
in currents of his thoughts; I absorb bittersweet brine
as there's no lack of verbiage, threatening consumption
of uttered articles of enticement
like driftwood floating; his words glide as tides drag
mind, to and fro with each affluxion, I acquaint
thoughts in odes
his sung ballads brush against me like seaward
breezes and I consume his melody in swelled seas
of delicacy
in harmony and bouyancy of song; I surrender
within his thoughts, relishing serenity; upon his
island of passion, wrapped within his poetry in thought
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
My Whippet gone,
now dust once again.
I've given him back,
from whence he came.
To run again
in cosmic fields,
waiting to be born.
*Shanzi is a syllabic poem in seven lines 4/5 5/4 4/4/5
Unrhymed
Lines 1 and 2 INTRODUCE the SUBJECT
Lines 3 and 4 AMPLIFY what is affected by the image/subject.
Line 5 thru 7 Focus on NEW SUBJECT that complements and provides a meditative conclusion.
Shanzi may be Titled
Harrogate, TN November, 2014*
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
To speak without any editing
Edging towards the ending
To talk without a purpose
Proposing nothing new
Just spewing modern niceties
As modern nice people do
To speak with no intention
Yet live by your words
I wonder do you have to yell
Or will the whispers be heard
To speak
Tongues touching syllables
Tasting the virility of what language is
Links to the past and present
But push us to a future
Were we have no clue
Of what we will do
To speak as I do
As I choose to
Be sociable with you
Let it all hang down and out
Let us speak to figure it out
Let us speak until breath
Becomes non-syllabic death
And we can speak no more
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
Imitation is the ******* of creativity.
So where for art thou romantic silopsisms?
Meta-physical lotion, rubbing Prufrock's
bald head. Where are the errors, syntactical?
Intimation is the blow job of canon,
The body, electric, ******* on Mt. Abora's
Cliff face. Short syllabic thrusts put the pallet
in trouble. Sharp edged thoughts caught in the throat of the speaker, leaving them mush-mouthed,
Sentimental.
The poor rhyme scheme, literary analysis 101
feet, and meter abandoned for fun,
Or played with weakly piling on what will
Fit neatly enough in the bottom swill.
Unrequited love notes, star-crossed cries,
Knotty tangled sentences to explain the deep ties,
Out of focus snapshots of pixilated lives
Even this bad poem, escaped the editor's knife.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
"Utter Nonsense"
these are the
first ordered syllabic constructs
that breach
the vocal chords
this day
thereby establishing
the mirror of the
Descartian Principle:
*ergo cogito, ergo sum
je pense, donc je suis
I think, therefore I am*
these words prove logically the
Left Footian Principle:
*incredulus non ero
je n'y crois, donc je ne suis pas
I disbelieve, therefore I am not*
this is all just
utter nonsense
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC
large beer, with time to
waste. gulping in hopes
at abating stagnant
feel of current existence.
cold and clear night with Spring
hiding 'round the corner
ready to stab out perpetual
cycle for existence. such a
shaming from titled time-
spanse of weather by its
coming and going without
even illusion of choice.
(suppose the Universe never
had a major role in Romanticism)
suppose space will never find
need for periods defined through
titles; suppose man finds
comfort in definitions and syllabic
expression. haikus are, after all,
a buffer between worlds.
digressing with another cigarette,
knowing shouldn't what with
breath being true connection of
worlds. quality of being alluded
to quality of connection and a
vessel's sense of existence.
then, taking time to inhale,
knowing breath given finds
caustic continued life. realizing,
a drowning man cares naught for
quality of final fighting gasp.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 8:47 PM UTC
The terrifying teeth chatter into the crimson lips of a wound up smile, chattering along the very risen table top that draws all small toys to their finite dooms. While breaths sour hour upon hour, each idling ear suffocates the last gasping breaths of its epicurean syllabic tongue, drizzling down the stomach like melt water from a cubic glacier in an ornamental silver tub, and sternly quibbles the stem-like dactyls drawing rose champagne into a fissure of the brain's tumescent humming.
Each finger tips' nail rouge and red, each dry crevice sewn into the knuckles, and a leaflet on sadism near the scratchy illegible lines whittled on the topside of the wrists and the slalom runs of the ankle. The ankle sinister. The ghost-like hallow sockets of where eyes could have once be seen. Plaster and albicant-like dying death white skins forbade from the Flushing streets where the jazz dance once began. And with each nellypotted hop, three useless nuisances could not carry the bridle towards each nearly favorite sound that curiosity enslaved man to lean towards.
The women weirded out by corners, plastic-wrapped furniture in outdoor corridors, where sinners veil their retreats into state run triage centers. Fake plastic countertops built from fake plastic trees. With an M14's muzzle stiffening and shuttering, she who vents off her cured romances will always find herself flaccid on rubber knees. The disease of the plea, is once more an affectation of not falling for royalty but instead the royal we. There is this weapon of fraud that perplexes geneticists, that enslaves heterosexuals, where albeit nor the time or place, she venerates the libations that her mind creates, she lubricates her cells, dressing, her skin ripening, heaven trickling across her humble nape, where gentleness is only a fool's disease and need.
She. We. Heathens of eternity bowing our breaths in grand hyperbole see. I see she, and she sees me.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
Home,
I’m going home,
Words I hear all the time.
Words that I envy,
Syllabic distress…
Jealousy.
What is home?
For you, it’s the place
You’ve lived for eighteen years.
The place where both parents
Welcome you with open arms.
Laughter
Smiles
Hugs
Kisses
That’s not my life.
What is home?
The place where I moved
When I was thirteen?
A brown shingled roof that hides
Hurt, divorce, a mixed family
That will never get along?
Screaming, yelling, fighting,
Something different every time, and
They wonder why I want to leave
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
capitals irk me.
parentheses are comfortable, like my love embraces me, like i slide letters into envelopes, or don't, rather.
uneven lines and fragmented line endings feel more accurate,
real, everything that is not posed or
staged, everything that keeps you
hanging on to the last syllabic
exhale.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC