"symbolic" poems
Municipal Gum was written by Oodjeroo Noonecaal. Municipal Gum is about the changes in society and the tendency of people to want to control everything. Oodjeroo uses various techniques to convey this idea.
At the beginning of the poem Oodjeroo is addressing the tree. This immediately creates empathy for both the tree and her people. By the last line she has emphasised this with the pronoun “us” to show that they suffer a similar fate.
This poem expresses how life in Australia has changes especially for Aboriginal people. In the first half of the poem Oodjeroo is talking about how life was for her and others. It explores the changes in society and the displacement of the Aboriginal people from their land.
“Whose head hung…Its hopelessness”, the author uses this as further re-iteration of the immorality of the situation and by the use of analogy comparing the tree to her people to further emphasise the shame and lack control of that the Europeans have inflicted upon her and the environment.
Oodjeroo uses extended metaphor technique in the very first line of the poem ‘Hard bitumen around your feet’. This means that the gumtree has been placed in the city scape where it is suppressed and not allowed to spread out and be unique in its own way. This is clear and immanently direct link to the pain and suffering endured by the Aborigines post European settlement.
Oodjeroo uses vivid language to present these ideas. For example the use of the word castrated is very effective. The connotation of the word is very demeaning. With castration often comes a sense of a loss of pride and power. The word castration is symbolic of how Oodjeroo feels the European have treated Aboriginal people and the environment. Castration also refers to the fact that what is done is done. Nothing can undo what they did and the damaged they have caused.
Other symbolism includes the title “Municipal Gum”, municipal meaning community, implies that the gumtree belongs to the community. One of the vast differences between European and Aboriginal law is that Aboriginal people did not believe in the ownership of land or of animals and plants. Municipal Gum is a reference to the Europeans assumptions that everything is theirs to own and control.
The rhetorical question, “O fellow citizen, What have they done to us?” is the conclusion of the implications that have been made throughout the poem. Oodjeroo, is advocating for her people and all things wronged by the controlling behaviour of the Europeans. Rhetorical questions are used to provoke thought and to stimulate a pre-determined response. “What have they done to us?” They have “castrated, broken… strapped and buckled” and ultimately changed things to a point that they cannot be fixed.
In conclusion, Municipal Gum is a poem about the constrictions and change that the European invaders forced upon the Aboriginal community and the environment she believes that the Europeans have deemed themselves ever powerful and practice their power in a manner that is immoral.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
Here is the inimitable Jeff Buckley's poem, "My New Year's Eve Prayer," which he performed live at Sin-é in Manhattan, NYC, in 1996.
"You, my love, are allowed to forget
about the Christmas you just spent stressed out in your parents' house.
You, my love, are allowed to shed the weight
of all the years before,
like bad disco clothes.
Save them for a night of dancing ****** with your lover.
You, my love, are allowed to let yourself drown
every night in bottomless wild and naked symbolic dreams.
You, my love, in sleep can unlock your youth
and your most terrifying magic;
and dreaming is for the courageous.
You, my love, are allowed to grab my guitar
and sing me idiot love songs
if you've lost your ability to speak.
Keep it down to two minutes.
You, my love, are allowed to rot and to die
and to live again,
more alive and incandescent than before.
You, my love, are allowed to beat the **** out of your television,
choke it's thoughts and corrupt its mind.
**** **** **** **** the ************
before the song of zombiefied pain
and panic and malaise
and it's narrow right-winged vision
and it's cheap commercial gang ****
becomes the white noise of the world.
Turn about is fair play.
You, my love, are allowed to forgive and love your television.
You, my love, are allowed to speak in kisses
to those around you
and those up in heaven.
You, my love, are allowed to show your babies
how to dance full bodied,
starry eyed, audacious, supernatural and glorified.
You, my love, are allowed to **** in every single endeavor.
You, my love, are allowed to be soaked like a lovers' blanket
in the New York summertime
with the wonder of your own special gift.
You, my love, are allowed to receive praise.
You, my love, are allowed to have time.
You, my love, are allowed to understand.
You, my love, are allowed to love.
Woman, disobey,
when little men believe;
You, my love, are Rebellion."
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC
I fall in love with everyone,
I'm falling hard for you.
You aren't something easily found,
you're rare,
and real,
it's true.
You've traveled such a rugged path,
but through the trials you grew.
This isn't all just simple math,
it's souls
and spirits too.
The future holds
what you can't grasp,
but you can see it through.
And when I place it on a graph,
it all adds up to you.
Scatter plot the present and past,
you'll end up with the new.
But isn't music,
secretly math,
that follows certain que's?
No!
Music
represents our love,
for all that may ensue.
It's symbolic
of our emotion,
either happy
or blue.
It's what I feel,
that prompts my life,
with what I need to do.
The sounds i hear,
release my fear,
and in my heart imbue.
A fire,
I could never start,
without some help from you.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 11:12 PM UTC
Static, memories
Emanating, separating
The postcard- perfect
Still life speaks
From its storied past.
Invisible, to drift
Among
The florid aphorisms,
Ending in
Deleterious debris,
Aftermath of
The inevitable.
Empty room, echo hollow
Tabula rasa -
Carpet clean, quite candid in it's
Return to callow.
Consciousness athirst,
Absorbing phenomena
Effervesce, inquisitive
Ideas foment,
Sealed inside a question.
The what -
Against the narrow
Scarcity,
And fatigue of should.
A tender malleable
Youth,
Betrayed, under
An assumed decorum -
Residue of truth,
Flattened emotion
Privations of a self
Unheard;
Misplaced affirmation,
Buried pathologies
In architecture
Fear manifests symbolic.
Harboring apathy
The lunacy of pious
Pedigree,
Import contagion,
Fetters of benignity
Doubt and indecision
Into ******
Cognizance,
Fallow spirits
Seep fumes of decay,
Credulity bleeds a human stain.
Social edifice, inoculated
Heirs of neurosis;
Palpable, sensual pain
And transience, though
Tacit - remain,
Our haunted history,
The blind hyperbole,
Maudlin
Forbearance, this haven,
A portrait
Of immaculate condition,
Nurtured with precision
Under sterling pretense.
Provincial domicile -
House beautiful,
Savage irony -
Unseen treasure
Innocence unabridged,
Faces, tiny creations;
Compliant vessels
Wounded,
While modernism murmurs
Its promise.
Brave New World,
In a late model sedan,
Domestic ranch on a
Corner lot,
Suburban natives,
Silence means security.
The misunderstood
Speak louder -
Consumerism beneath
Unvarnished ambition,
Never could
Repair the brokenness within...
© 2011 & 2018 W. S. Warner
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 5:38 PM UTC
Dearest Destined Jewel,
Of longest heartfelt yearning, Bestow on thee, Hamlet awaits, Ophelia picking flowers, Magnolia branches speaking, Beautifications of Spring.
Supreme buds of new life, Magnoliaceae of Queen bees, An enterprise of wonder, Symbolic child's enchanted play, Faeries in flight whisper attractions, Fondness, Les fleurs du mal.
Ample blossoms, Bosoms of delight, Devouring light, Little birds sing, Nestling, Chirping a languishing cacophony, Blissful unawareness, Nature nurture the soul.
A slip then fall, Nearby church bells distract, Into abyss fallen, Elevated body all at once, Floating amidst flora, Drowning, Petticoat woven dress, Resting on fresh valley water, Immersion, No contention, Hamlet awaits.
© Sia Jane
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
Oh1 Durga, the symbolic victory
Over the worldly evil
You can **** any devil
And you are the most benign
As you are divine
Shiva (goodness) is your
inseparable half
Mahishasura’s ( Man’s evil) death
Is your valour’s proof
Goodness and valour are made
For each other
It is paradoxical that
Man stands for goodness
And woman for valour
But it is true in divine parlour
Hindus believe in Durga’s divine force
Even others can not deny the cosmic source
Even the staunchest atheist
Can not deny the women’s collective fist
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 4:43 AM UTC
Gendering Woman *******
Beautiful, anatomical part // Ugly, anatomical part
Natural, pleasurable // Burdensome, loathsome
Female Symbolic // Femme Symbolic
MALIGNANT HEALTHY
fearful, tearful, wretched // joyful, hopeful, euphoric,
bereft, wept, grieving // embryonic, rapt, relieving
leaving, loss // believing, gain
m a y b e - d e a t h r e - b i r t h
BI-LATERAL
MASTECTOMIES
Operating Theatre
SURGEON ANAESTHETIST
cleaning/ cutting/ knife/ scalpel // doping/ unconscious/ airway
blood / tissue // hypotension
loss/ damage // shock
drains // sinus rhythm
stitches // pain deadening
tight binding // reversal drugs
POST-OPERATIVE
a l i v e a w a k e
draining, bound & stitched draining, bound & stitched
DRAINED
~ UNBOUND
-- UNSTITCHED –
Empty chest Flat Chest
FREEDOM from Disease FREEDOM from Dis-ease
© M.L.Emmett
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
The greatest demonstration of freedom in the history of the nation.
Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation.
A great beacon light of hope.
Seared in the flames of withering justice.
One hundred years later, the ***** still is not free.
We’ve come to our nation’s capital to cash a check.
This note was the promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white, men, would be guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned.
Now is the time to make real promises of democracy.
Now is the time to make injustice a reality for all of God’s children.
There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the ***** is granted his citizen rights.
In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds.
I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations.
You have been veterans of creative suffering.
Go back, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.
I say to you today, even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream.
A deeply rooted american dream.
A dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.”
I have a dream where little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the context of their character.
I have a dream today!
That little black boys and girls, will be able to join hands with little white boys and girls as brothers and sisters.
I have a dream today!
The rough places will be plain and the crooked places will be made straight, “and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together."
This is our hope.
This is the faith I go back with.
With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood.
When we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children --- black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics --- will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old ***** spiritual, “Free at last. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, we are free at last.”
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 8:26 AM UTC
Upon the wings of doves it was pure
Their purest white Feathers
Glided,
Floated,
Nestled
Its clearness, Its symbolic touch
Upon my yet to be woken heart,
For this beauty showed what was
In front of my eyes,
Feathers did come down like snow
Not only touching mine,
Awoken,
Revived,
Vitality
Sprung forth, emotions were flowering
Everywhere,
My heart was touched
By a feather of purest love,
That is when our eyes meet, I saw a feather
Caress your loneliness and we
Were transformed from
Solitude,
Seclusion,
Sorrow
To hearts that were now awoken,
The true feeling stirred from inside,
To love at first sight,
We were like the feathers
Our hearts had taken flight,
We were in love as white feathers fell,
The symbol of love had opened our hearts
To what was always Within our now flourishing hearts.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
Arriving at the entrance of the ancient temple the white rabbit covered his ears. Shattering glass from a high-pitched vibration he leaped away from a falling chandelier.
“I must find our beloved Harvest Moon."
The white rabbit said to himself. With stern affirmation, a dark fog churned then into the vortex he was consumed.
He stopped at the entrance of the temple courtyard; everyone was frozen like statues.
"What has she done to all of you?"
He cried, then pulled out a magic rune deflecting a hail of daggers. The white rabbit looked up at a floating cocoon and saw the shadow witch hovering over the temple roof. Pale skin and veins glowing red, she was draped in a black tattered robe. With a sinister look and a Crown of Fire on her head the shadow witch spoke.
“White rabbit, white rabbit the Harvest Moon is dead!"
The white rabbit took leaped back then cried out.
"This cannot be so!"
Then he pulled from his bag a magic scroll and read the words written in gold.
"I ask the wind to protect me from this dark magic despair"
Then he conjured a circle of trees in a water globe. The witch streaked across the air and swung around her jet-black hair. Then she commanded an infestation of spiders to climb inside the trees and explode. Barricading himself inside a magic bubble he was protected from the onslaught of shrapnel. The white rabbit grabbed the water globe, leaped into the air, and disappeared in a puff of amber smoke. The shadow witch pulled out a blood-red pearl and murmured an incantation.
"Clever white rabbit, I shall find you in the invisible world"
The white rabbit snapped his fingers then magically appeared behind her. He snatched off the Crown of Fire from her head then whispered the following words.
"How dare you use dark magic on me!"
She jumped in fear spinning around, then summoned a devil hound. The white rabbit raised the water globe and merged it with the crown. A shock wave of light pulsated in the air then the witch menacingly yelled.
“Take him down!”
The white rabbit saw in his peripheral view the hound lunge to attack. But he was too cunning for this, with a symbolic wave and a vigorous slash the hound was severed in two.
The shadow witch glared, then cried out.
“We shall meet again white rabbit; I promise you I'll be back!”
Then she summoned a fiery cauldron and vanished with a blinding flash.
The white rabbit ran inside the temple and approached the Harvest Moon. He stared with eyes full of tears and sorrow at a beautiful princess with hair long and blue. A beautiful creature he so desired, the love he had for her was true. He opened his bag and pulled out the globe which was now encased with the Crown of Fire.
"I brought you a gift from the shadow witch"
Then he smashed the globe and with a flash of light, the Crown of Fire was finally free. The white rabbit held the princess and spoke.
"I have always served you because I love you and now, I command you to come back to life!"
Then he placed the Crown of Fire on her head igniting a ring of light. The white rabbit looked down to see the Harvest Moon Princess opening both of her eyes.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
The first thinkers were poets
Naming Mother Earth
Beginning symbolic thinking
Of nature, death and birth
Though themes are often repeated
Love, Beauty and God
Poetry in the guise of Religion
A prophet or a fraud
The poet resurrects the Primitive
Through allegory and similes
Disarming the unknown like explorers
Sublime Prophets and Visionaries
They must lay bare those treasured images
That must be expressed
Unraveling and revealing the sounds
At each soul’s behest
Encompassing the entire Cosmos
So lyrical the beat
The poet’s excitement flows outward
Laid at the Reader’s feet
So original, individual
She won’t examine or explain
Letting go the festering feelings
Disturbances in her brain
He exposes his dark, wounded psyche
Just to release and express
Such capacity to see and compare
Hyperbole at its best
I love, I hate, I suffer
A special dance in rhythm and rhyme
The poet as a buffer
Lessening the pain and sting of time
Laden with symbol and feelings
She gives you sweet relief
From something urgent, revealing
Confusion to belief
Through a cinematic kind of seeing
The poet purges to transform
By leaping through Alice’s looking glass
She never was one to conform
Quite intolerant of convention
Just like The Mad Hatter
His passions immune to all logic
In syncopated patter
Jamming up the poet’s mind
Struggling for expression
Seeking order out of chaos
An infantile regression
Cleaving to his imaginary world
The poet breaks out into words
Creating sound paintings to be unfurled
So his own agony is blurred
She succumbs to storms of passion
With instinctive techniques
Rhymes and rhythm still in fashion
Out of hand flows mystique
The poet mines from his unconscious
The Reader is not blind
For every single line and symbol
Means something to the mind
Causing an inner liberation
Enlightenment or flight
It is a matter of life and death
When darkness turns to light.
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
I took a walk in La Goulette yesterday
From the “Bridge-of-the-Casino” to the port.
The things I saw on my sun-bathing way
So simple they were, here is a report:
II
Sea snakes under a blue bridge did frolic
As hardware stores displayed paint in their windows.
The water snakes performed some dance symbolic
And the paint braved the dark rust from a distance.
III
And I, hastening to my liquid address,
Shot a side look at a man in a dress,
And hoped the blue water in the White Sea*
Would wash the wound bleeding in my memory.
© LazharBouazzi, 16/11/16 (revised Nov. 17)
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC
Today is the festival of colours.
We,Indians, sprinkle colours on friends
Nature is replete with beautiful colurs.
Life is a mixture of many emotions
We turn red when we are angry
and we become greenif we are jealous
Red stands for change and valour
White is symbolic of peace and purity
Green symbolizes harvest and prosperity
Yellow is considered good omen
Saffron means sacrifice
black is considered an evil
The leaves are green
The human blood is red
The Ripe fruits and corn are yellow
milk is white and the sky is blue
Nature and life are inseparable
Different colours tell different things
May the festival of colurs bring Happiness
and prosperity in this trouble torn world!
Mar 19, 2011
Mar 19, 2011 at 3:38 AM UTC
I would rather be hysterical than vulnerable
to what most people call love.
I would rather couple with strange women
on an Amsterdam getaway
than let one more man
try to own me.
I prefer to ignore my own psychodynamics
in favor of endless talking cure analysis
and occasional astrology cult ******
that promise to speed my eventual evolution
from wounded *** object to invulnverable starchild.
I don’t need a Beverly Hills shrink
to tell me my narcissism and depression and squeaky voice
are symbolic of never having the power
to set a boundary between me and my father
who doted over my puberty
with slobbering praise and veiled lust.
Everyone who knows me for more than a week
sees my father throwing me financial bones
instead of apologizing for what he did
and the more I take his money
the freer I feel
distanced by automobiles with dark-tinted windows,
a house with a skull and crossbones doormat,
a silver .45 under my pillow
and not one single ex-boyfriend
about whom I will ever say a kind word.
I have created emotional and psychological invulnerability;
all men are now my father
and all men pay the price
of never being loved by me
and I pay the price of never being able to let them love me.
Now I just play with partners
and when they inevitably start to use the “L” word
I start to run inside
and I bounce off the walls and mirrors
of my own emptiness
and I go on a photo safari to Africa
where I pretend to understand the meaning of life
and I put out restraining orders
against the men who insist that I explain
and I have come to rely on legal and monetary fences
to protect me from
the truth about my deep loneliness.
I’ve never had an ******
never said I love you twice to the same person
and I think
as long as the money’s there
I won’t have to.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
Our lives are a Jenga masterpiece,
a collage of self-interpreted
debauchery that we have been
told is the work of R.F.
Is it necessary to destroy ourselves
for the things that we desire?
Why do I have to be symbolic
of an Irish dome of the rock?
(have you ever touched the rock?)
(has anyone?)
I am tarot prophetic in my
loathing of our distorted level.
I am chronic mime gestures
on the West Banks of the Jordan.
We are rouge lipstick
smeared across blue collars
and twisted pretzels lounging
citrus grove clean and sad.
I am just a man.
We are just people.
The buildings are just Lego's we have
crushed and spent combating azure tides
to stand ourselves straight against that
last wall...
but I love you still,
despite.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
there is a darkness
that the silver song
of soft illusion lights
in symbolic equivalents
of images real
it is a light
brutally interrogative
magnifying with dazzling rays
the breakage
at the jagged edges of the world
and lays hostage to impersonation
that resembles fragments
of smashed oval shaped mirrors
reflecting pieces of broken
brown terracotta soldiers
and causes the eyes to hurt
with a watched inner holocaust
of disturbing coloured detonations,
implosively autonomous
given to a deceived departure
a departure from reality
given by the advocacy
of ideological rationalism
that sees three kings
with blood on their crowns
in amplified convulsions
call mustre for
disturbance, disorder, destruction
and death
as blood stains the Balkan streets
and all emotional impulse
is volatilized
and a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy
stalks the land
where sustaining minds
are subject to a brutal insensitivity
that dazzles on the edge of a spiral vertigo
it is a light
brutally interrogative
magnifying with dazzling rays
a vocabulary of incoherence
like the rancid stains of *****
that inhabit the jagged edges of the world
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
365Nectar #46 The High Priestess of Soul
Fri. November 8, 2013 10:38 P.M.
Deep in the distance
dancing upon the horizon
a deeply distinctive voice
defies definition
bending genres to her will
clearly breaking boundaries
an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues
Little Girl Blue
lettin' it all out
with a wild as the wind
Sinner man
just tryin' to feel good
absolutely refusing to be misunderstood
a strong-willed priestess turns tempermental tunes
into blazing beautiful harmony
putting a revolutionary spell on you
belting emotional songs of freedom and spirit
Peace of Heart
Nectar of Truth
just in time
to do what you do...
an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues.
Born to a preacher handyman
and housemaid minister
a gospel pop fusion diva
emerges from the Glory of Love
a strange volatile fruit
blossoms into young, gifted, and Black
spitting storms of spiritually smoldering Black Gold
from a silky soul
that scorches the earth
an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues
Masterfully mesmerizing
Black rock
Blood
and Candlesmoke
a fiery flow of
tangy, tantalizing and titillating
under a fog of duality
genius bears two heads
vibrant and intricate
a saucy songstress swings with passion and honesty
an empowered diva
breaks down and let's it all out
just energetic expressive jazz
injected with well composed folklore
live at Ronnie Scotts
an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues
From Newport to Baltimore
an exiled priestess feeds forbidden fruit
and hypnotizes the masses
with tantalizing love me or leave me alone torch songs
a powerful
Four Women
high on Lilac Wine
blush from Broadway Blues Ballads
in Baltimore
See-line woman
goes to hell
to save Little Liza Jane
and shelters in Barbados
Cotton-eyed Joe feeds
Brown Baby controversy
behind Blue Prelude
Did it move you?
Yeah...
Hell yeah.. it moved me too!
Mr. Bojangles wave bye bye to a Blackbird
in chilly winds that don't blow
while willows weep something seemingly
symbolic of soothing
to an African mailman in Central Park
and an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues
The High Priestess of Soul
caged but still singing
shivering sensations
from stubborn sweetness
under sweet strings
that sharply spill and scatter strength
to the sorrowful
that daily dine and devour
silky, soulful, and spicy
Pastel Blues.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
I got a haircut a couple months ago
Just after I had the worst possible month of my life
And I guess it was almost symbolic
Because I was cutting ties and knots in my hair with what I had been killing myself over for the past year.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 12:23 PM UTC
Fashion’s symbolic sensuality draws eyes, stir passions and maybe even resentments! =]
Of course, maybe you’re above worldly conceits, above fashion. YOU, go through life as unaware as sinless Adam and you’re excessively handsome, or pretty, obviously.
But for the rest of us - fashion is the medium of our beauty and God created Paris for fashion.
We’re pretending we’ve come to Paris (our immediate, pandemic safety-pod-family) for a family reunion - but REALLY, we’re on safari - a freshmen, college-wear, “back to school,” ensemble hunt (for meeeeeeeeeeee!).
Step 1 (there’s only 1 step) - go to the Rue Saint-Honoré.
This year, I like-like Anna Molinari - most of the ready-to-wear daily-trash I snapped-up is hers - all hers. It didn’t start out that way - but she sould me on an uncharted course at first sight.
Other designers seem to be pushing old-lady-looking floral prints this season. Eeuw! Why?? DIAF.
My gran-mère (grandmother) told me - 6 days ago - as she attempted to tame my run-away hair: “You need to be unpredictable, petite beauté, not some comely young automaton. Then everyone will find you interesting and watch to see what you do next.”
Thank you, gran-mère - I’ll settle for looking interesting any time.
Jul 30, 2021
Jul 30, 2021 at 8:42 AM UTC
I Am Waiting
I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Second Coming
and I am waiting
for a religious revival
to sweep thru the state of Arizona
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really American
and I am waiting
to see God on television
piped onto church altars
if only they can find
the right channel
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper to be served again
with a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed
and I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered
by an obscure general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and tv rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
and I am awaiting retribution
for what America did
to Tom Sawyer
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other up at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
typewriter rhythm
clacking away new beats
tempo exchanges
computer lab concerto
fair-weather phonetics
hunt and peck symphony
symbolic of the system
poking at inmates
pecking at the enforcers
attempting to gain an education --
floating above the ruckus
offering research aid
I sit at the desk seeking only to enlighten
service work for those
suffering servitude
serfdom
post-modern slavery
complete with subsidies
scamming the con-men --
white house looks best
through prison barred windows
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
A string of words that flow like the rivers,
Showing enough thought to provide the shivers.
Reflections of the poet within,
The type thrown out in the garbage bin
Or the type framed and hung on the wall.
There's a poet within us all.
Not all are eager to show their inner poet,
But would rather let it set sail
As rivers stream from their eyes
Due to the symbolic lie
They believe, making them pale
As, with their sorrow, they wallow it.
Patronizing executives and farmers
Believe their exterior would be shattered
If their inner poet let slip.
Once somebody gives them lip,
They harden as if it mattered
And equip their shields and armors.
The Spartan with the inner-Athenian
Would be killed by his friends
If they knew who he was on the inside.
This fills him with fear.
He keeps his ears open to hear
If anyone is coming as he hides
So his poetry will have its end
Before this war with the Peloponnesians.
Such beauty gone to waste
All because this facade of masculinity
Everyone puts on to protect themselves
From the beasts in this society
That would love to shatter those dreams.
Artists should gather in teams,
Ready to fight this anarchy
That would place our poetry on the shelves,
Collecting dust with haste.
Collecting dust with haste.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 6:19 PM UTC
Red flags in the beginning are easy to turn into little sticky notes, notes for later that sometimes lose their adhesive and fall to the ground much like my current tolerance for ****** dudes
The first known use for red flags was by the military to indicate they’re ready for battle, unfortunately I’ve seen enough red flags to start the next world war
I should’ve known
When I came back from Arizona and he said “you must’ve cheated on me because your ****** feels different”
Not because he’s insecure
or
because he doesn’t know trust
or
because he’s trying to assert control
I should’ve known
When he asked if I “had a problem getting wet because it seemed like that was a thing”
Not because he doesn’t know foreplay
(side note: **** doesn’t teach you foreplay)
or
because he doesn’t actually turn me on
or
because fun fact!- women can be turned on and not be wet
I should’ve known
When he said “if you shaved, then I’d go down on you 24/7”
Not because he was scared that choking on my ***** hair reminded him he’s with a real woman that grows hair
and humans inside her
and ideas
and opinions
and strength
and my body is not yours to give me ultimatums of
I should’ve known
When I asked if figuring out my pleasure was a burden and he answered “actually, yes it is”
Not because he’s too lazy to actually want to pleasure anyone but himself
or
because his only ****** education ended with a .com
or
because no one has ever expected more of him
I should’ve known when he said
“What I want out of a ****** partner is someone that wants me inside of them as soon as possible”
Not “inside my soul”
or
“inside my thoughts”
or
“inside my memories”
or
“inside an intimacy he will never know”
I should’ve known when he said
“Let me show you how Rachel did it”
Not “this is how I like it”
or
“can we try this?”
or
“opening your ******* mind to how another human being moves around you”
I should’ve known when
He spit on my ****** the universal sign for disrespect
Like I deserve the same fate as tobacco swollen cheeks
Like my ****** is your spittoon,
am I the end of a tobacco session or a fancy wine tasting?
these things matter
Now I find it symbolic men are taught to spit while women are taught to swallow
Swallow our reactions
Swallow our feelings
Swallow our voices
Swallow his releases
Swallow his spit
Swallow us whole
When you see a red flag do not ignore that it means battle
This battle is not a healthy one, this battle will leave you bruised
Uproot this flag and take it with you to remind yourself
You can lose every battle and still win the war
11/28/2016 Amanda Powell
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 8:59 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Did you ever consider segregating,
The good ones from the ********
The devils and gods,
With trending honorables,
Or symbolic presses,
Call it lame meetings,
Random trending would be my guess,
I'm ******* crazy,
In reality I need a physical test,
Fail it then then turn it in,
Then tell every in class their all ******* pests,
Like I said I don't need your pity,
Nor your sympathy,
It was the end of me,
But also the beginning of the new me,
I will never rest,
I just need some time to think,
While this blows over,
Being hated by many,
But no luck with clovers,
Violent black kid in America,
Do I sound like a good person,
Mistake me for a fool,
Leave you with one of my curses,
So strum away lady,
Cause I'm not listening,
I'd rather be frozen in block of ice,
Then be trending.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
all things are useful, bulbs
bring light , denote ideas,
good intentions, spent,
collected.
cotton hankies, frayed hold the books,
yet those with nylon, stretch the skin
resulting in red and soreness.
shy away from dangerous commodities,
use the best, those tradtional artefacts
which are gentle on your soul, bring light.
wipe your nose clean.
sbm.
today we have added notes for your interest.
A HANDKERCHIEF (also called handkercher or hanky) is a form of a kerchief, typically a hemmed square of thin fabric that can be carried in the pocket or purse, and which is intended for personal hygiene purposes such as wiping one’s hands or face, or blowing one’s nose. A handkerchief is also sometimes used as a purely decorative accessory in a suit pocket. When used as an accessory to a suit, a handkerchief is known as a POCKET SQUARE. There are a wide variety of ways to fold a pocket square, ranging from the austere to the flamboyant.
The material of a handkerchief can be symbolic of the social-economic class of the user, not only because some materials are more expensive, but because some materials are more absorbent and practical for those who use a handkerchief for more than style. Handkerchiefs can be made of cotton, cotton-synthetic blend, synthetic fabric, silk, or linen.
Historically, white handkerchiefs have been used in place of a white flag to indicate surrender or a flag of truce; in addition to waving away sailors from port. King Richard II of England, who reigned from 1377 to 1399, is widely believed to have invented the cloth handkerchief, as surviving documents written by his courtiers describe his use of square pieces of cloth to wipe his nose.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC