"template" poems
~
*O Painter
with thy own eye
would thee
paint me in mine own natural hue
prithee paint me as i am,
imperfections
and blemishes true
Load thy brush
with colors sundry
to maketh yond first pure sweep
across the ****** frieze,
fill'd with pangs of hunger.
paint me as i standeth
bethought, in deep
With mine own love and mine own desire,
blurring the edges unclean
with mine own regrets
and mine own mental gyre,
in mine own natural age,
of deep forest green
O Painter
Paint me sinister turquoise,
in lavender and maroon,
combine the amethyst and amber
blend the iceberg
and the indigo moon.
Paint me as i standeth,
prithee see with thy eye
a mistress in yond lady plight
Prithee paint me all i am
i cullionly
a mistress in all yond lady might
Paint me in the optimistic
silv'r of dawn,
but don’t miss the purple
to shade the bruise
of the bygone.
paint me in the sky blue journal
O Painter
Paint me as a unique template
smudge black white and grizzled
merging all the colors of thy palette.
col'r me a rainbow
in a rainy drizzle
Paint me tall so yond i standeth
loftier than any mountain
Paint me as a dram bird, delicate
with soft feathers silken
Paint me harmony, as a violin
so yond i can sing thy solitary tune
paint me as thy poetry
with song and melody
wrapp'd in a cocoon
O Painter
paint me as a dream yond rises
in did saturate colors
with a steady upbeat flight awry
tint, a fluttering
of a quite quaint butterfly
Portray me with endurance
imbue so bold and bright
doth not hesitate
to depict mine own mind
in profound fuchsia and white.
Useth the colors yond thee would borrow
Thy palette not yet exsufflicate
Paint mine own loss and mine own sorrow
in search of a shade so ******
Adorn mine own heart in glowing garnet
at which hour thee paint mine own love
add a true broken blue shade
of the cloud and the rain above;
Study mine own dry sorrow
in mine own soul
useth any shade thee plaited
soften the edges of control
in a tinge of xanthene.
O Painter
Prithee paint me
Mine own passion and mine own spirit
shall has't a crimson r'd hint
mine own remorse and mine own regret
shall reflect an ink stain print
Paint me in mine own eye so true
O Painter
but add a dash of courage too*
~
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 10:52 AM UTC
My mom used to tell me when I was a kid
that thank you note is important.
To let people know that you're thankful,
and appreciate their efforts.
As I grow older,
I'm so used on writing thank you notes
with the same template on every note.
But I, or we, tend to forget to write one
for those who cope with our lives.
So I wrote this one is for you.
Thank you for letting me crash in your place
when I was far from sober,
almost on every Friday nights.
You literally picked me up when I'm down.
On the grown.
Thank you for staying up with me until 5
even when you got a big meeting
at 8 in the morning.
Because you know how much I hate sleeping,
but I'll be the bitchiest *****
if you try to wake me up.
Thank you for bringing me a bouquet
of fake flowers
instead of the real one.
You sure know me way too well
to know that I can't keep real flowers alive.
Or cactus, or fishes, or my phone's battery.
Yea, my phone's battery *****
But you trust me to keep what we have, alive.
And lasts as long as it possibly could.
Thank you for making every queue line
less boring with all your dad jokes,
they made me think that
you're a qualified good father
to your future kids.
Or maybe ours.
But I hate children and you love them,
as much as I hate karaoke
and as much as you love it.
But gosh, you made me think of adopting.
We are nothing but night and day.
A thunderstorm and a rainbow.
A cactus and a peony.
A manageable chaos and
a managed you.
And yet we compliment each other like
peanut butter and pickle on a sandwich.
Sure, it's one of the weirdest combination
but somehow it goes surprisingly fine.
I swear I'm not going to make this cheesy
but if it was, well,
****
I know this is not what you imagine
to be with me
in the first place
when you slipped into my life.
But I thank you,
for deciding to stay.
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 7:42 PM UTC
Always walking that line
Always tempting fate
All these temptations calling me
I attempt to numb pain
Got the temperature rising
Know I can be temperamental
My temper’s ‘bout to unleash
Doing something regretful
A temporary escape
From two to ten on the dial
The temper-tantrum and screams
Like a tempestuous child
Perhaps a temporal shift
Like Anty Em’ on the farm
The tempest carries away
Ship wrecked alone I am gone
My template shows me the way
Temptress I can not escape
Contemptuously I have temperance
Finding tempo ‘til break
A temple shrine I pay tribute
Silently contemplate
Lord please grant me forgiveness
For my wrongs and mistakes
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 7:12 PM UTC
Through the wandering spectrum
Of cerulean dragonfly eyes
You fly without hesitation
Observing the vast and marvelous world
As if it were your own
As if it were your cut-out template,
With an admirable sense of wonder
And the fervent desire
Not only to know
But to contemplate
The luminescence of a fluttering firefly
How the brittle mechanisms of life
Apply
Through crystal-clear dragonfly wings
You carry your mind
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
Sadly, there are many intellectual postulations
that are well meaning, but fatally flawed.
One can only end up with an unholy mixture from…
combining Man’s religious views with God’s Law.
Beyond the constraints of the mental realm,
the human template of thought cannot contain God.
Yet after more than two thousand years of Church,
lessons are still not learned; so it’s not odd…
to see a skeptical world, groaning and grasping
for rays of hope and light and salvation.
God’s truth can stand on its own, not needing
to be couched within feeble human traditions.
The multitude of meaningless rhetoric
will ultimately reveal the heart of a fool;
this idea demonstrates that the Church really needs…
Christ in its heart to reign and to rule.
It’s shameful to see an inability to ‘walk in love’;
unfortunately, it seems to appear everywhere today;
stop ignoring the basic, Biblical truths, for…
Christ declared Himself to be the Life, Truth and Way.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Prov 10:19; Eccl 5:1-7; Prov 20:15
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2011, All rights reserved.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 7:40 AM UTC
*What has the world become?
Over come by the perfect image,
Measuring your value,
By the amount of likes you've got,
Can you not?*
*Since when do other people determine who you are?
Has world gone that far?
Seeing all these perfect pictures on every social network,
Edited and photoshopped beyond recognition,
Was that really your parents vision?*
*Stop looking at the world as a template,
Value yourself first and the world will value you.
Social Media...sometimes I wonder what the world would be without you.*
*Social media,we're so obsessed with you,
How can I think less of you?
So much stress caused by you.
Yet, I'm so impressed by you!*
I.L
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 2:06 PM UTC
feet first
into the treat of the night
the teating streets
the neighbours pool
drunken fools the pair of uz
dunked in unruly lust
drunk as fruit flies
for the science
we list about
and stumble
fumbling lyrics
in our dripping clothes
laughing like art gone temple
a mentally unstable template
that'll be fazed by the sunrise
.
Dec 5, 2022
Dec 5, 2022 at 9:49 PM UTC
sometimes-(sometimes);
i love you on the lips
moon garden
paradise hills and november
and it's temple
template of our own world of wild tales .. sometimes
sometimes twine
sometimes silent running sometimes engine purl
under our dark star
the wind rises ; blood and black lace
the pace of our isle
raw and in keeping
sometimes the lighthouse taps
blinking metronome and we use habits of coherence
and practicality and partnership
in some dark corners
alternatives
on another earth
seats an uninvited guest
viewing
(i feel.. sometimes)
Oct 23, 2023
Oct 23, 2023 at 6:30 PM UTC
We live in a society full of insecurity
Red lips
Dark eyes
Fake tan.
Forced smiles
Closed eyes
Clenched fists,
Show no weakness
Show no mercy
Small hands on pale stomachs
Eyes constantly searching for ways to rid that extra pound
That extra curve
**** in
Deep breath
Back straight
Every calorie counts.
Is this really the world that we live in?
Is this the life that we wish to lead?
Our lives are no longer determined by the way that we think
They are not dedicated to achieving our dreams
To pursuing our goals
No
The way that we live is based upon the way that we look
And thus, the way that we are treated
We are always going to compare ourselves to another
That is a given
If we don't look good then we aren't happy
Right?
But for others to determine the fates of ourselves depending strictly upon a template of "perfection"?
Perfection is a disease
The very aspect of it plagues your mind
Inhabits your soul
And brings upon an individual an idea of something to achieve
That is nearly impossible to achieve
It is a roller coaster that only goes down
A concoction that only leads to inevitable heartache and pain
A poison that has no known cure
And it hurts
Perfection hurts.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
http://m.poemhunter.com/poem/salmon/
One of my favorite JG joints. I got a book of hers in the late 90s - the power to dent he template of reason is in how she pulls word around notions. She is gold
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
They cut up her face
to spite who knows
She cut off some weight
despite her bones
She’s starved for grace
like a hungry ghost
Is it passion?
Is it addiction?
The way she suffers
so stranger than fiction
She’s waning away
just like the moon
It’s just the way
the darkness consumes
As they edit away
her absolute heart of the poem
Cut, copy paste
they stretched the truth
across her face
Now the disenchanted runway
calls her name
“Depersonalization"
Baby girl,
you were born
with it
Now you’ve
just been
manipulated!
The transformation
was a success
but you’re still sentient!
Screaming
"Being like everybody
is like being nobody
and this body
is no body
it’s a plastic prison"
built on a template
of all your false expectations
We need to
cut off the face
of the status quo
There’s nothing divine
left to her ratio
Knock the Goddess
from the pedestal
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 8:00 PM UTC
Hold up with that block chain
conflicted economy
keep up the complaints gain
Fall in line with wannabes
Situate yourself into a failing position
Cross the line of chance and miracles without decision
Are you listening to the rhythm or are you trying to glisten on
Shining blindin yourself and everyone you’re walk-in on
Hold a second crazy cuz I’m busy for your hazy mess
Crowded in my head but world is filled with emptiness
Glamour baby
Watch out
Tear at the game
Hear them shout
Test my circuits
Freak out
Sparkin in your eyes
Get down
I’m searching for equality, but let me play don’t bother me
Addicted to the gifted that you try to clone in quantity
Sober up while gettin lit
Fill our cup don’t ever quit
Seeking self control inside of every little hit
Spare the change
Stay the same
It’s a **** shame
We’re all insane
Can’t contain
Past remains
Thinking that we like the pain
Universal consciousness
Never kiss
Heavens bliss
Shake the earth with every moment captivated by a wish
Cold and calculated marketed discrimination
Switch the station work do wages go through phases different stages
Visitation rights to our ancestors blight
Fuel fire engaged engines blast and burn it bright
Out of sight
Out of energy
Not quite, close so let it be
Do you feel me
Come fair to be free
work the weight til they bury me
Commemorate the warriors, fighting behind enemy lines, with idols and worshippers for a war designed to ruin all sides
Guinea pigs
Flipping tricks
Scary that we handle bricks
Galactic motivation cuz they know there’s something more than this
Space it out
Dimension strong
Definitive in guessing the irony of being wrong
Template made
Run the track
Tie shoes or you may never come back
Lock and load
Here we go
Infinity
Now end this show
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 1:25 PM UTC
Late spring. Early morning.
Horseflies in my dream,
dissonant church bells, legless pigeons
I wake to the light’s sharp angle
that cuts this day open.
A breeze stretches its wrap
Lying here, dawn is brief
like a banner slowly raised
then dropped abruptly
Rising from bed
I slump
a prisoner waiting for a beating
The chilled air, a sword
stuck into my skin
Through the blinds
a snap of sun
my eyes rollback
colors pop
I stand barefoot
and become the sum
of a legless pigeon
a horsefly’s faint buzz
dissonant bells
I think of my dream
how it called me
inward
closer to the core
a caravan of pine coffins
lined up in the streets
a future template
Suddenly, church bells,
a fly dead on the sill,
a mournful pigeon’s coo.
--------------------------------------------
from my sixth book-length manuscript
©dah / dahlusion 2015
all rights reserved
"Horseflies Pigeons Coffins"
was first published in 'Secrets and Dreams Anthology'
(Kind Of A Hurricane Press)
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
he rises with words in his unwashed mouth,
mouth, is unwashed, tongue tastes dregs, bits
of morsels of his past, some good, some bad,
some tastes of places, of women he has loved,
sweetness of sorrow, dregs of regret, and all a
jumbled, tumbled, intertwined, clinging combo
of nations, his~stories …a mashup of a mashup’s
smashup
he tries to separate them, this admixture, to better
recall, but the sacrificial fire lit, the ember-members
are too burnt, indistinguishable and can’t find the
vive entre les differences…
South of france, tahiti, the one he loved in cities,
Toronto, L.A., and Portland, and the communes
in Asia, but tries harder but it’s no longer possible
to separate the essences and the similarities same,
and a great sadness is what he recovers when runs
his tongue across the roof of his mouth, the roof of
his memory, the roots of his…being…his unbecoming
he rises to a glorious day, where he is can’t be sure,
who he is with, certainly not, the why, but he recovers
some pants and the idea of a fresh start seeps creepy in,
but by the time both legs dressed, his mind’s eye wanders
to a new sunrise and old template of temptations. . .
Jul 28, 2024
Jul 28, 2024 at 7:30 AM UTC
Once upon a time there was a girl
Fairy tales, huh? Always the perfect template for a beautiful cliché
Once upon a time there was a girl
And even though she never cared too much about being a princess
Or even sometimes didn’t care too much for being a girl
She still loved the idea of finding a prince
So here comes Charming
With battle scars and soft eyes
A sweet smile and armor that was tarnished just enough to awaken
The little part of her domestic enough to actually want to clean
So they fixed up everything in shades of heroic silver
And she smiled
From a bit of a distance
Thinking how neat it was to have found a prince
It never even occurred to her that Charming was looking for a princess
And bit by bit the fairy tales began to come to life
He gave her apples that she didn’t really want just so he could kiss her back awake
And traded her voice for legs so she could always walk with him and he could always speak for her
Leading wolves into her bedroom and then putting the sheep’s clothing around his own shoulders thinking that the wool would cover her eyes the next time he held her close
And when he realized that she wasn’t locked in a tower he gave her enough bricks
To build her own
And as she hid behind walls and water he found his shining armor
And dove into the moat just to prove how ***** he was willing to get to save the damsel
But spending enough time in the tower
She began to trace back fairy tales to their origins and found out
Those stories are really ****** up
Because Sleeping Beauty was ***** in a forest, The Little Mermaid turned to sea foam, Red Riding Hood never escaped the wolf, and Cinderella was only victorious after her sisters were blinded and her step-mother danced herself to death in shoes of hot iron.
Once upon a time there was a girl
And her prince charming, dressed in heroic shades of silver
Liked to tarnish his armor just enough to have her convinced that he was doing it all for her
And bit by bit
He proved to her that fairy tales are real
Once upon a time there was a girl
And she never really liked the idea of being a princess
And sometimes didn’t even like the idea of being a girl
But since Charming was always so set on being a worthy hero
She’ll let him be the leading role of this poem
So he can have his spotlight
And she’ll find a different Happily Ever After
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
The inception of a thought comes from perception
From the desire to create and express
Excitement
The purity is soiled by those who construct labels and boundaries
Causing mental spasms and aborted concepts
The years turn to months
Month turn to days
Days to hours
Hours to minutes
Minutes to seconds
Up until the split moment comes
Always moving forward
Framing your life, organizing it
You can look back but never go back
Death is unavoidable
Progress is natural
Distractions must be ignored
And value must be found
Time is all we have, some have more than others
How we spend and how we waste it is what matters most
But if we so chose to be on the clock for ever are we getting the most we can out of this all?
Beginnings and ends, there must be more
Maybe the answer is as simple as inhale and exhale
Give and take
The bond between opposites that blend and create a balance
Is that what we call love?
Do we look for love out of fear?
Or out of loneliness?
Is it still love then or just something to keep us afloat as we drift?
Selfishness stalls the answer
In the end its definition varies from one being to another
But it should never be held over your head and demand your compliance
Threatening you with cruelty, that is not love
In reality
There are unanswered questions and unquestioned answers
Identity
Faith
Numbers don't lie apparently
And finding yourself is of the utmost importance
While maintaining enjoyment through it all
Until you discover it's all false
And your self image
Your ego dies
You begin to separate yourself from the template
You find sense and logic in your self
In your experiences of trial and error
Reminders chime in every now and again
To help you sort through the nonsense
You become sharp, becoming less self-destructive
You know certain truths
Sacrifices are made
Dreams and denial
There are victims
There are those who run to the safety of monotony
And those who meet their cataclysmic ends prematurely
All in search for what we all want to know
Why?
Simple as that
Why does this life operate as it does?
What does it mean?
And who, if anyone can tell us?
Will it all be okay in the next life?
Or once we get there, will we wish to look to the last?
This is projected on to us through out our lineage
But only so far
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 5:32 PM UTC
I am often asked this question in comments, private notes and emails.
The short answer is: I don’t know.
I don’t know if there is an answer or if I’m the man to even try.
First, there are probably as many ways to write poetry as there are poets. I can’t imagine any one size fits all template. That is too horrible to contemplate.
Second, my method is actually a non-method. I will describe it, but I doubt it will be useful or transferable.
I have been a fanatical reader all my life. I still am. I probably read an average of three books per week. This has been going on for decades.
I have been reading poetry seriously for perhaps 43 years, including being taught how to read closely by some brilliant professors as an undergraduate and graduate student.
This has deposited an enormous mishmash of poems, sentences, images, phrases and fragments in my brain. Add to that mishmash decades of reading across disciplines, especially history, philosophy, religion and novels. Imagine that mishmash slowly marinading and fermenting.
From that random accumulation, without provocation on my part, poems emerge. There is no order to this and not much effort. I just channel what shows up. I do some retouching, but little serious rewriting.
And there you have it: my non-method. It should be obvious why I doubt it will be of much help to anyone else.
I can give a bit of advice, but only based on my experience.
Love words. Love to learn them. Love to play with them. Delight in them.
Read as much poetry as you possibly can. I doubt anyone can become a poet without doing this.
Be patient. It takes a while for the marinade to work. I’m 65 and I only began writing seriously eight years ago.
Find your own method and your own voice. You’ll know when that voice is authentic.
And then, sing out.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 11:10 AM UTC
Opened a book today
My eyes fell upon a page of poems
How odd, it feels so familiar to me
Yet, how can this be?
Picked up an organic instrument
And played a song I do not know
Whence cometh the inspiration?
Only from the whispers of ..... a previous life....
These things I see doing, I claim not expeditious
For it's only if and when....the muses decide to see fit
A mere vessel to transport what already is there!
Every possible thought-combo has its keen template.
Never did an equestrian thing before
Yet I find me mounting superb horse and ride
Flowing action, wide awake and so thrilling
No expletive required to tell of happy lingering.
Going upon the mountain to pray, this day
Not to find you
But that you ....find me
Don't you just give up so fast!
Can't deny strong polarising effect in here
This life affords us another chance: second time around.
S T, 4 May 2013
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 6:59 AM UTC
*insinuate me
into your waking moments
like a pervasive mist
unveil my presence
like a long-kept secret
and hold me desperately
like i matter
nibble my ear lobe
and whisper to me
things no one else will
drift away with me
till dawn
and walk us through the avenues
of your mellow dreams
till all i can do
is pace the mad floor
like van gogh in relapse
or splash paint
like a surrealist brat
carry me on your person
like a gem
and elevate my image
like a crucifix
be thou my muse
when i create pieces of rare genius
for posterity to marvel at
above all
savour me
like i was made of honey
and follow this template of love
like your sanity depended on it*
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
Green giant hand raised
Towards the heavens.
Claws of seaweed,
Pine,
Olive,
Soon to fade into autumn
Auburn,
Burgundy,
Vermillion,
Amber,
Then shed its template
Flake by flake until
Naked; pure
Black against
Snow.
Headstone upon
Life itself.
Root grave. Branch bones.
Skeleton of an
Angel.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
Hug the earth close
as the moon will try to pull you from it.
It wants you to float like an unreal number
in endless digits never coming to rest.
It comes to rest in pools left behind by tides.
The stillness of the water is the template.
The intricacy of the pattern is the movement.
I’ve never not been here before.
What does time say to the other
to shake it loose from timelessness?
Leaves cover the stones
November is the season’s bones.
Leaves cover the ground
the book of nature unbound
the trees are writers out of ideas
the forest a library after an earthquake.
So hug the earth close
whisper the affirmations
-- It is always Close, always Here
It is in All and is All --
and write them on the palms
you busy your days with
for the page lies when it lies down.
So stand it up
and mix it up
with the leaves you walk through.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 9:02 AM UTC
All or nothing...is our
growth template--
no matter how great
the escape...
humanity is not just
a word.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
there's no progress report for this.
no checklist, no itinerary,
no template to restore order
in the aftermath of your tornado path through my heart.
the chaos is powerful and uncontrollable;
i can only watch the person i was with you crumble away
and sweep up the dust.
sometimes i take inventory:
am i eighty-five percent guilt today,
or thirty-nine percent confusion?
or fifty-four percent loss,
or one hundred percent ache,
hot salt water springs bubbling up
from just a brush with the magma burning below the surface?
dust is beginning to settle on the box of our memories that i hid away, where the twister would never touch it.
if only there was some way to give time through an IV,
because i don't know what to do with this heart-shaped stone in my chest.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 9:21 PM UTC
I'm merely a poet
But you may think me a rapper if I didn't note it
I'm made in moments
I design the riots these words are my pilots
I fly them into structures that lack cognitive diets
I'm like cons stuck to your Feel it Try it Cry it
When you're cursing in the car
seeing red
grab a cigarette
light it
I am here to recreate
the con template
make more meaning behind your quite riot
when you remember how to be great
swinging from swings
singing songs of King Kong
and
monkeys playing on strings
When mondays were not monotony
growing older into neoteny
has this gotten to thee?
You take it in threes,
Speeding tickets, Deadlines, and Rotten Trees
keep on keeping on
vote on voting on
PoliceSeas?
Can't change the country without cash, fears, or blood
Que Sera, Sera humans ride the carousel of DUH!
I should Detain my thoughts many deem insane
let them germinate with time attain more circular grain
I'm ready for hand over hate for a steady gain
I'm ready for self worth over wealth a cure for the pain
I could light myself on fire and yes one man can
How long can we malnourish the heart and ********** the brain?
But,
y'all don't wanna be free
just wanna get poor quick
Sell your soul on FB
a phat horse chewing the bit
while you eat the virus
that makes you sick!
"I am not a rapper"
but I can wrap it up in a split
"It's Just US for tray bomb"
if not miseducated in Lit
"Eyed Diabolical, My necklace stripped"
You can steal this message in a bottle
as I bleed out this ****
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 3:01 PM UTC