"templates" poems
The robotic surgeon didn't blink
Smoke, swear, or fool around;
He was the newest design of science
His metal feet firmly on the ground.
Robotic surgery was the latest
Improvement over the manual kind
There were no variations in technique;
No reliance on flaky mind.
He was diligent and precise
Cutting flesh to invisible templates;
He never erred and he never missed
Never once paused, to vacillate.
Trusted beyond the regular surgeon,
Using his fragile, shaking hands;
The robotic surgeon could do anything
Because he wasn't just a man.
The newest miracle of science was hailed
As the end, to the older style;
But one day the program blew a fuse-
And he cut her head off, by a mile.
Jun 30, 2010
Jun 30, 2010 at 8:20 AM UTC
Marvelously Mentored
In mind
I guide my wheelchair
forward through the valley of death
and fear rises as if lachrymal dew
But I take heart knowing
there is a private way,
a fusion of mind=body,
my tao
Out of this valley
the way is paved
with slippery tempting templates,
Sirens songs,
a lyrical playlist cunningly self collected,
but I remain mindfully resolute
caped in electric blanket and birthday suit
my 3D hero is me, Marvelously mentored,
sans copyright.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC
This poem is reserved
for the love of my life
Its lines are only
placeholders
templates
for what is to come
There is no meaning right now
so don't go and search for it
These are cold, emotionless words
ready to be replaced with fire
when the time is right
This stanza will be filled at a later date
This line will be about her laugh
This line will be about the look she gives me (you know the one)
This line will be about the spark in her eyes
This line...mmm...will be none of your **** business.
It's a private moment
It's between her and I
The one with the reservation
to my heart
One day this poem will mean something
One day these lines won't be empty
Someday
But not today
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 9:55 PM UTC
**To Incorporate Institutional Effectiveness into
Our Everyday Language**
)/)/)/ is updating our assessment plan for
Instructional units beginning this fall
2016 semester. After
Visiting with /)/, our SACSCOC
Consultant and Dr. /) yesterday
About our assessment process, it was
Determined that it is in our best interest
To clarify, verify and hopefully
Simplify the current random selection
Assessment process. Therefore, in lieu of
The use of the random selection process,
The plan for this semester and moving forward
Is to assess all students in all sections
Of courses used in the assessment process
And to report data on all students,
NOT just assessing or reporting data
On a random sample. In order to provide
Appropriate artifacts, we will choose
Representative samples (examples
Of great, fair and low achievement artifacts)
To be included in the artifacts
Collection for SACSCOC reporting. However,
We do still need to collect all artifacts
So we have those in the event they are
Needed. This will give us a better picture
Of how our students are performing.
I know that we are changing directions
And I ask that you be patient as we
Navigate through this process and determine
How best to collect, assess, and use the data
We receive to make continuous improvements
For the good of the students and to
Incorporate institutional effectiveness
Into our everyday language.
Thank you for your willingness to assist
In this process and determining the best
Ways to help our students. Stay tuned as we
Look at and develop some additional
Templates or formats to report the data.
Please share this information with your faculty.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 7:03 PM UTC
I buried them in a shallow grave
outside the sunroom where their cage hung
rain washed their bones into a deep earth cellar
Where I descend by night with my lone candle
to find them fixed in strata, yet not fixed
scaled claws striking Jurassic dragonflies
*My shadow flickers and dissolves
as I sit at the sunroom desk
Tiny scaled claws strike my head
Pinioned dervishes scold:
My suit of black and white feathers
my smooth hands and my scientist's smirk
my two-finger typing and opposable thumbs
my missing wings and manifesting teeth*
We dinosaurs live on, incantations of ancestral rebirth
templates used, discarded, and used again
as our sphere cycles on, now warming, now cooling
the uniforms change, the costumes evolve
but the sudden-death scrimmage is eternal.
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 1:52 PM UTC
Morning:
My taken place at the faucet, a peer
Staring into eyes, not sworn to me
And I was standing, looking in the mirror
Speaking as my reflection
Spoke back to me.
I was shocked when he took my hand
Starting speaking about identity
I was shocked he knew so much
More of me
Than I.
He talked about my too-long hair
Or how good I looked in green
Or how messy my morning face could be
Or whether I was feeling smart or lean.
He knew it all:
I’d go so far to say more of me than I.
Evening:
Look to the east! A sun set
—Bravo! At least consistent and THEN gone.
Me? I’ve no such liberty
I couldn’t even tell, bereft a mirror,
The thing I like to call me.
Walking the roads, lined with lights
Bustling, living,
Lined with sights
Constituting the parts of me, invisible
—Added to nothing, they’re indivisible
Closed, exposed, fall and drizzle
Without the gall keep hold
From doors and boughs
In the windows—I’m there now
And THEN I’m gone.
Night:
The stone church’s door where
The righteous moor their souls
Piety flows
In its golden veins
And I’m there no more.
Their God does hate me
Without presence in the
Pews; I’m dross
Since the saint I chose
Was Saint Me beatified
Confirmed from the sinner Laity Goss
—So I turn
To the school affording play in my words
And a tact therefore
But rejects
All but their templates in blue shoes
Who sleight my for company
Only when within them
Or drowning in *****
—So I turn
To the wilderness
Blooming in virginal grapes
Disrobed save the skin
Unfamiliar,
Self-aware but only on a whim
And whirlwinds that blow
Ice and shrapnel and
Exile me to the country
Where not but dearth may grow
In a single season of mine
—So I turn
Too afraid of that winter
So much more the fall
And me in the mirror
Knows it all, knows it plenty
A casual drop in a casual chat
About identity
—So I turn
Back to the mirror
Back to it all
With showers and pictures in its wall
Staring into eyes, sworn not to me
Speaking as my reflection
Speaks back to me
I was not shocked he knew so much
More of me than I,
Since he strides alongside mine
And only in a certain climb
Telling me
It’s almost time, I’m almost there
But it’s not clear in which direction,
Or where.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
she lived on the only street
in Rattenberg, the smallest village
in all Austria. because it was all
she knew
and all she loved.
in the summer, she lived in the
kitchen
away from the flies and
the itching glow of the sun
sketching designs of glass crystal
and playing records
her father played from his armchair
when she was young.
the blinds closed, the shadows
of pedestrians drew sloping
templates of bodies large and thin
she guessed their faces and painted
girls with small noses and round chins
and made the men look like him.
her sister, from the neighbour town
called in the winter months, when
Rat Mountain devoured the sun and left
Rattenberg in day-night. she invited her
on walks, said it was not good
for her complexion to live in shadow
unmoved, she
preferred instead to pace the only street
in the welcome midday greyness
and smile quietly
at the pale faces she passed
when plans rumbled of a
contraption of mirrors to steal
the day's shine from her sister's town
she prayed to the moon
he would let them leave her alone
in the shadow of Rat Mountain
a child of the night
the girl who preferred the dark to the light
the lady-moth determined to stay in flight.
Mar 10, 2012
Mar 10, 2012 at 6:45 PM UTC
Being on your own
being intimate with oneself
in silence
and still...
...enables the monsters to emerge from their shadowy places,
to egress from their hidden agendas,
from their porcelain, painted masks...
out into the free air to indulge in one's fresh flesh...
much like monsters who hide in closets.
And you'd call Mother and swear and swear
you could see, hear, smell them in full
in that ****** dark thing
with the creaking door...
but when you implore Her to look,
she finds nothing
but a fluffy stuffed pink bunny...
But O She leaves again and there they are.
Ready and salivating to reveal their evil templates
and in all their glory watch you squirm over the knowledge.
And they watch you, tell you things about yourself-
things you've tried to ignore all this time...
Apr 8, 2010
Apr 8, 2010 at 7:12 AM UTC
I remembered the name,
one morning in the frost
after Neighbours where
fibrils of wet snow made
dewy gossamer templates
on my gloves, but I could
not turn to the next person
and tell them that, because
who would believe that I
had never met the Winter
until then?
who?
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
One must suffer for beauty
But not in this self-destructive fashion
Maybe after we put ourselves out there
They'll worship at the pedestal
Some skewed mindset of what glamour highlights
Re-invent yourself
Not innovate another's identity
We're just templates
left to be traced by another
Who wants to be the photocopied poster child?
She just wants out
You can't blame her for exploiting herself
This was after the sext messages
Sent to his phone
forwarded to all his friends
sent to all their friends
inevitably the internet
Girl's got a sickness about her
She wants to go viral
Starving for attention
Starving herself for perfection
Caught somewhere between ascension of ego
and descension of the soul
She's lost like a lighter in a smoke circle
Won't somebody spark the way?
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
blind promises lead to
a bruise festering beneath
stifled utterances and apologies
prerequisites for templates
of things never meant
but nevertheless
permanent
charred ochre and Prussian blue
churn into an acrylic wound
cringing
mesmerizing
all the ways to gouge into silence
just to purge verses that sound like
Not next time, I swear
I guess this is what they meant by
abstract
I should’ve listened
when I heard from a backdrop
that perfection is silent
behind clouds of luminescent cataracts
gushing
scorning
what has yet to be illuminated
but all this talk of perfection
makes me want to burn at the stake
there must be something
to ruin or save
because sacreligion isn’t free
Mar 13, 2012
Mar 13, 2012 at 12:47 AM UTC
Thought about the values
That stipulate the way
You hold yourself in public
And play your cards each day.
Those building blocks of character
The templates in your psych,
The friction points of weakness
That wake you in the night.
Thought about the substance
That binds you to your way
The strengths and the failings
That motivate your day.
Enigmatic factors,
The quirks in your soul
Which endear you to some
But leave others quite cold.
Thought about loving
And loathing and pride,
And the great depths of sorrow
We carry inside.
The reluctance to face
The resentments of sin
With selective amnesia
We nurture within.
Thought about birth
With it's promise and joy,
Thought about death
As finality's ploy
Laughed at the memory
Of your smiling face
And squirmed with discomfort
In an old lies disgrace.
Thought about leaving
But decide to stay,
Thought about praying
Buy what would I say ?
I decided to sit
And contemplate life
With it's myriad fantasies,
Pleasures and strife.
I Thought about you
With a smile on your face,
So I'll ponder awhile
In this pleasant place.
I'll sit and remember
The happiness spared
In that thin whisp of timeframe
That mother fate shared.
Marshalg
@theBach
19 July 2009
Oct 23, 2009
Oct 23, 2009 at 4:36 PM UTC
IF I wanted to move on
I would.
IF I wanted to forget
I would.
If I wanted to know all of your opinions
I would ask.
Be pleased with my false sincerity.
Be pleased I genuinely care
That you feel I’m “happy”.
You don’t want the truth.
You want an easily believable lie
So your conscious feels at ease.
I’ll give you what you want.
I’ll burn the fragrances of my soul
On the embers of your altars.
Don’t hand me re-dreamt petals,
Templates of what I should do.
You know nothing.
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 5:46 PM UTC
This isn't a poem
this is just to make you think it's a poem
really it's just a few splurs of verbiage
thrown onto a template
and then you probably wonder what kinda template I'm using
and then you probably google poetry templates
and then you might think to yourself
that's bullox
you can't make a template for poetry
and you'd be right
cuz I'm lying.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
The central location, the angel of natural oils
such as black and silver. Oh, well with China,
this is your sister, a message Angel Heaven Asia
belly coated bar is not growing, it is known in
the market to begin to feel the atmosphere brother
and Russia starting strippers bad, odorless plastic
file templates losses in the garden in Einstein's city,
the police said, these smoking firebrands for the
information, it can not be seen, which is the other
half was in bed, and the angel of the you Metallica
of the Orcs of the darkness of his brother in the
thousands [of for the] in a few days, most of the
former with a black brother's infertility haste, indeed,
you led to a string of women with child of the
Underminds of the 500? Yu's brother, afterwards,
in ***** and with good reason able to use a bow,
Mark says, that durst presume their arms are getting
ready for a war, interrupted, for the birth of Rhee's
injury to be inflicted on a child to speak the Gospel
of the yellow Earth of the flock, for Karachi with the
cold and the darkness into the heart of our God, and
in the custom in public out of her ***** it lies, and
in the gate of the court, a man: Something went wrong.
Express light; Harvard He added. Finally, he asserts.
How to share a bottle of wine, as well as in the love
of God, and what will you do? and You can choose
from black Africa into something that cannot be white.
What does this mean for 13 hours in Europe? This
product has an unemployment? My Africa. conditions?
Armenia, with the wisdom of a question between some
of these fears or another. Vitamins are present, and
John Charles is not exclusive. However, the vitamins?
Vitamins and Therapy; News. "(1) What do you
remember about it? The father has changed. And to offer
a woman's life. And the city. Therefore less. "1: 1 enemy.
However, they are waiting for what they want.
And peace from God. The hood is constructed. Cravings
and juice. \ 1 = []? And the same thing? Marcus sees the
anti-social Harvard (10) ... Color is a wonderful love of
intermediate Gap Socks. Africa loves you For the physician.
Rome It can be placed in Europe; As the weekend's
northwest result. And now. The use of vitamin Karalini
These program. vitamins? Vitamin 1: 1: 1 hours.
For there is one of them, it doesn't get worse. 1 but
cannot remember - that is, He is a father. The woman
said: This double grab runs deep in this world. "1: 1,
and I do not think so, But the initiative. Where \ 1 = 1 (|);
Marcus | But smoking is not of the same ...
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 3:13 PM UTC
Flowers rottening, is the reason to grow them
The acknowledgement of a volatile time
Templates an, at least real, ache
Embracing the pain possible to touch with fingertips
When imitating deleted feelings
The satire of smashing a plate to feel complete
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
The diseased roots have come to
lay bare. My fear so strong, this one thing secretly
paralyzing me, feigning it be a natural
friend or even the paper on the wall, written in
reflecting ink, permeating every part of me.
When time calls out for the necessity of my
bold action, I will run out into fire for another
but for myself, I hold no peace. So how can one
come out for other beings like this? It’s no
fact of toil, the lot befallen to us, all
the weary, is love. So when these hearts have the space
to call for justice, the lone world will tremble
from our contradictory bravery, unity in the
numbers, forsaken by only the giro templates.
If only this fear knew the strength I find
in lonely places, solely accompanied by sacred whispers
of revolution. How much we want it, I hear the call
in the night across the vastness.
The uncaring trees with pleading hands
will burn black, and the little birds fly free to
where fear no longer exists.
© July 28th, 2014
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 9:50 PM UTC
Be inspired not from without
of those you imagined yourself desirous to be
but rather be inspired from within
from discovering the unique self you truly are
the one you and the world never knew
the mystery and the wonder the world awaits to see
and the reason that is truly your reason for being
But the world demands success
defined from templates of history
imposed without care for who you are
but only for what you count for them
you, seduced with morsels and crumbs,
freely choose to be slave for their profits
And so alas the world lost
the truly free alienated
becoming
one weary hungry step at a time
discovery drifts to disillusion
mystery remains mystery
wonder turns to ruin,
despair and cynicism
the flicker of reason
burns dim
if only
on hope
of
eternity
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 2:55 AM UTC
With utter dismay, a boundless aura portrayed in which one could truly say due to the weathered soil at stake, many templates were driven
"As my sight is vague and night transitions to day, I coincide with the breeze throughout artificial structures that is my name
I ask for the gate that has embedded my mere existence unto a vivid Chirov relates"
"Lightened chatter isn't what one must towards a God as myself
A sudden suffocation of infinite concepts might, indeed help
With great remorse, we fancy for my brother
Unfortunately, how desperate Chirov had to be as he ate his developing hunger
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:43 PM UTC
Everything is measured and sized
Necklaces gaudy and gay,
Rings of different carets
mingle near gold and silver bangles
No scale or ruler
marks distances between them
Templates screen words
of spontaneous bluntness
Turn the apple
toward the worm's
tip peaking through the skin
Cull the fruit from the basket
Between ardent glances
and shallow breaths-
an awareness of nourishment
beneath peeled skin
All realize
one seldom cuts
delicious melon
without spilling some juice
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
Of course
I have fireworks
so many incessant, breathing
bodies, active and
available.
The environment
requires these.
Can I offer you
my name, first?
After, will you memorize
edited
versions of me,
templates and tailored materials
you find relevant to your
exercise?:
Mother,
Home is a four
letter word.
Please I am
limited.
Value each crux
of me.
I will not be open
and courteous and
free.
Home is a
promise of
leaving.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
what we become in
rejection to the templates
we succumb to
a positive negation of what
we once believed to be our
being
cast aside even the idea
of a revelatory rebirth
silence and space do not
describe it
emptiness, void - they too fail
the more i write about it,
the less i say about it
Sep 28, 2019
Sep 28, 2019 at 11:11 AM UTC
The fair tales of my works
Early wakes out of pijamas
Quick sights to lament my day
My lover slept right
On the pillow i didnt buy
Come see my dream
I caught a fortune at hand
Of the previous to build
A thousand templates of mould
Judge your own wishes not of my acts
Am full of smells of success.
Look down to set admiration of my under feet
And smoke to the sky a wave of congs
Must you not be grateful better than you
Oh yer your linen cloth costs so much
Than the over coat i inherited
Bla bla i inherited luck not a job
Brains not money
Personally am fortune a son of fortunate mother by Blessed and sistered by Hope
Slash your competence in worries am a slave to non as my wisdom is buffed from above
Hello tomorrow, see those that dislike me
But its fine am off to fly far their plans
And now look at me My Majesty
Let them drown in hustle am sorted by extreme blessings flow.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 6:52 AM UTC
Cookie cutter templates for every soul in a building.
Sheep.
They are not the same. We are not the same. You are not.
The same.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC