"testimonial" poems
Some stand on the corner and seek a donation.
Stating nothing more.
I believe some of the nicest people, are the homeless?
Now, the meanest are?
Mmmm those with negative comments.
Why?
Don't they get a job?
Good point?
Except, those that donate do so from the heart.
And yes, some are hustlers with a job?
But those with cars might not be homeless at all.
We know not their stories and many have a testimonial to encourage another.
But in my heart, I believe the homeless, are some of the nicest people?
Have you been around those judgemental church folks?
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 10:42 PM UTC
Darling,
in the event of a zombie apocalypse,
I’m gonna marry you.
I know, that romantic testimonial
isn’t quite the matrimonial proposition
you were expecting,
but I’m projecting a lovely future for us!
You see, when the dead break free,
I’ll come save you.
I’ll be your knight in shining Kevlar,
your cranium-crushing crusader,
and safe in our barricaded bungalow,
we’ll match moans for groans
with the shambling horde outside.
We’ll make love ’til death do we part,
or at least til we start
to run out of supplies,
and if we get in a pinch,
I’ve got a surprise:
see, I’ll paralyze them with poetry,
’cause if there’s anything
a zombie understands, it’s desire.
Meanwhile,
you lay down suppressive fire
and we’ll take out as many as we can.
If in the end we are overrun,
I’ll let them take me
so you can get away.
They can have my brain–
it’s my heart that beats for you.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
he trickled into my consciousness
like an unseasonal, stealthy raindrop
my mind still ripples
--the aftershock of his presence
testimonial to his absence
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
12.03.2013
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
Teetering on the edge of insanity
Trying to find a center of Gravity
Cutting off my circulation
in order to make this declaration
about my queen-born ability
to walk with such fabulosity.
Though this gown's a monstrosity,
my hair a curiosity,
there's much about this lofty gait
that I did not anticipate.
Like how the swinging of my hips
counters the sway of my fingertips.
Who knew there would be such an orchestration?
A body in concert - a standing ovation!
And every step another encore,
deliriously shouting, "More! More! More!"
And suddenly, the world is new.
I've never seen it from this point of view.
Amazing the difference a few inches can make
to change the reality which I now create.
And though my feet are squeezed like stumps
into these six-inch stiletto pumps,
a testimonial I must profess;
How wonderful it is
to be a boy in a dress.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
Oh my bella Signora why you wanna break my poor heart
Dino he tells me quietly, he saw you with that grande Signore
Tells me you make the **** eyes and **** laugh ooh lika that
But which for me you don't smile **** like that, maybe I bore
Dino says, Signore pretend and ask why you laugh like that
Bella Signora, why can't you see for you I have more amore
Oh my bella signora, Sofia says that Signore has grosso cazzo
Now I wonder if our friendship is beyond Via della Conciliazione
I make for you good coffee and don't rope you in with any lasso
Play as you like, I will bring you roses in rosa at Palazzo Torlonia
Don't leave to go drinking with that Signore at Campo Marzio
I'm sad because alcune donne says Signore has good testimonial
Oh my bella Signora if you break my heart I will run away to Haiti
People they say, you play with quattro corteggiatore or pretendenti
I say to Marcello, pretend as in English is more like it, go tell tutti
I know window dressing when I see it, know you are too faulty
You like rosa, yes! you like ***** maybe Martini or a cool Chianti
But I worry maybe that Signore turn your head with Royal Treaty
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 6:25 AM UTC
I've been in a love a time or another, I have sisters & brothers, a father & a mother.
I've called disguised enemies bestfriends & believed they cared for me.
I've been in every situation regarding the complexities of a human relationship, & its dreadful rollercoaster of emotional intoxications.
I've had my highs & I've gotten beat down by the blows life rained on me.
I've let disappointments & betrayals plague me & depress me.
I've kept a closed mouth through the majority of my mistreatments, passive & submissive to all the things that have marred me.
I have my own testimonial story, & I'm strong enough today to keep it from destroying me.
The me I am today, can say " I understand the difference between speaking up to save my soul, & keeping quit to keep the pain inside.
The difference in walking away for the better & clinging to the wishful hope that it will get better.
The strength to keep quiet when necessary & speak loud & proudly for in the things I believe. "
In ever intricate situation I have risen.
My strength, not to be mistaken or underestimated.
I am a savior, & I will continue to do so.
No soul on earth would like to see me happy, in the way the soul I harbour inside myself does.
My trials & tribulations, are the best part of me.
Keep me or leave, I will always be me.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
I woke up today,
realizing
that if I hadn't
gone to psychiatrists,
and studied religion,
and worked hard
for many years
at Zen,
that I probably
would have been
one of those guys
who gets a gun
and shoots a lot of people
and then turns it
on himself
and blows his brains out,
because I think
that I have lived
a hundred lifetimes
before this one
as a victim of torture
and therefore
was pushed to the limit,
but instead of becoming
a suicidal psycho-murderer,
I became
some sort of
love, peace and happiness
Bodhisattva,
so instead of criticizing Zen
and psychiatry,
like I usually do,
I'm praising them.
Aug 11, 2012
Aug 11, 2012 at 8:42 AM UTC
Using the 1% of those who got out of
the violent act of poverty
at the expense of billionaires
and taxpayer payed subsidies
Yes, they use the most pretentious
of our few escapees
they become a mouthpiece
to deny the facts researched
by actual experts
Truth is
what is powerful
There's no escape
from the ruler's messages
There's no escape from miseducation
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
System malfunction
Analytical predictions based on formality
Lithium hallucinations develop into swarms of locusts
Instant addiction to the possible restrictions of never
Caught stuck in the storm with a body full of metal
Falsification addicted to contradiction
Testimonial analysis documenting excessive possibilities of black
Hear the screams singing the golden song into the night
Ceremonials speak precision accuracy when you listen intimately
Apprehension of the individual
***** induced waterfalls
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 6:21 AM UTC
Inside the network of humanity,
There is a swell increasing,
Bubbling to the surface,
Clawing through sand and gravel,
and mud,
They are the sacred and pummeled hands,
riffling through the cosmos,
By and by making their thirst increase,
For dominance,
For sheer arrogance,
For all things wholesome,
For the coming of reason,
Dipped down by the ever restless,
Drawbacks that pinch their sides.
Then a time will emerge,
The face of the clock,
Shrouded in smoke, fog, and
mirror.
A specter of radiance,
draped in neither human
costume,
or of drawbacks; pinned wings,
Suckling a Dionysian Principle,
relishing the illicit,
and honoring the
perfect existential
burden,
Thus making assured this gift, this
upheaval,
Obsolete, dangerous,
misunderstood,
To the grand choir and,
velvet dungeons,
Slime pouring from an,
everlasting faucet,
His fate is surely carved into the
hieroglyphic walls,
in madness and panic,
swelled a deep tranquility,
The etchings formed poetry,
formed testament,
formed testimonial,
formed remedy in martyrdom,
Others were closed to strange intensities,
Others sat and smoked on their patios,
Watching the worlds collide,
Rattling the great fabric gong,
seizing with pleasure,
omniflourescent fireworks,
of absolute brilliance,
The twinkling dust falling,
flickering as
they fall,
Becoming imagined demons,
sacred omens,
reassurance that things,
derive from all things,
What had been said and done in the past, now is the wall keeping them from taking a look at the real veiled horizon that captivates the ethereal mystery of the child's wonder.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
This is for those sky high low and ***** media grads of the fate-late noughties,
grasping,
pathetically,
as dreams slip like their youth of yesteryear.
Unpaid, over-laid, saturated with the cum-comedy of their university days.
Then comes the choke and cloak of the next interview,
interview,
interview,
the view into the next room is so beautiful and dazzling after that last ****
so beautiful and dazzling after the next ****
so beautiful and dazzling, please, I swear I'll just have one more ****
Ceremonial drug use,
a testimonial abuse of government aid,
paid to those by the Hair Blair bunch of chumps who screamed the promise of higher education for the lot,
a degree for every adult,
an unpaid job for every graduate.
The clouded confidence stutter of the high as a helicopter, once potential author,
lost in the part-time smog of inner city university town down-and-outers.
Left adrift with no financial spine,
left to pine the disillusionment they now know they felt way before they knew what they've come to do,
and be,
and exist as forever.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 8:03 AM UTC
In dull radiance he came to be, humbled in the belittle of broken, and dying trees, he gleams, in the darkly unseen seams of beautiful, beautifully, rippling through his being, where even the stars shall sing of dustly dreams, twisting and drifting into the lully, uplifting, sinking of doubt, as he drown in an endless ocean of sound, precision thoughts, but not, to be gone in his lossless spawn, of the epiphanies sprawled upon his heart, and from the dead Earth he grew, born anew, in the molten fluid of lucid wounds, strewn about in floating tombs, shattered and scattered upon the planets, as the latter scavenged trinkets of testimonial pull, in the disharmonious hum from black holes, crafting his soul, in the gentleful stroll, to existence.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 12:36 AM UTC
You're at peace.
No more hurt.
No more heart ache.
A snow white dove flies besides your spirit.
As it travel the air waves to heaven.
You done well.
You done really well.
With your fiesty attitude.
And your out spokenness.
But , now you've been called above.
To be in the peaceful kingdom of God.
You be missed.
You'll be truly missed.
Which is a testimonial to the person you were.
And, why you'll be forever connected to a dove?
Be that bird that advocate peace.
Cause God knows this world has too many wars.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
I write you these letters,
as a reminder,
that Love still exist,
and She will always welcome you,
in unconditional acceptance,
please remember this,
or forget,
either way our collective memories,
will continue to collect,
at the top of The Great Pyramid,
in Giza,
Jesus,
Mary and Joseph,
or Broseph,
or whatever other name needs to remain,
to remind us we are family,
so whichever name I choose to address this letter,
the message in the reminder is the same,
we are family,
and as family we write letters home,
letters written like this,
a testimonial that Love exist,
call these words emotional hieroglyphs,
words,
written in script,
a curse,
as well as a gift,
which translate into this,
the bottle and the message,
21st. Century written words,
written from a genius wordsmith,
from the top,
of The Great Pyramid,
unedited,
pure medicine,
evidence,
written in,
the light of the Moon,
Mother,
I love you,
and I wrote you this letter,
to thank you and say that I’m coming home soon.
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
A quick exit
That's what they promised me
But I never took that road.
One exit turned in to another
The numbers rolled up to hundreds.
So I took none.
Let it be a testimonial
To how much I love you
And how much you mean to me.
Someone once said
That trauma memory is like a high way
For the trucks that pick up and deliver memories
To the consciousness.
And trauma memory is right behind
That road blockage from the town of horrors.
And an alternative route has not been provided
So the answer to your question is
I don't remember
Nobody is going in or out.
But today I do remember.
I know it all.
If not in words or just a knowing,
Then in images or a sensation.
The blockage to my mathematical thinking
Was blown to pieces only reveal
That not only can I do math
But that I've always been talented.
My grades never showed it
But my reasoning always has.
Let it be known that to me
You are the Pytagoras Theorem
And that one angle I loved dearly
But never calculated
Until you gave me the motivation to.
It was in that one stroke
Of the softest hand on my cheek
That inspired forgiveness
That inspired trust.
And knowing how badly we were targeted.
Now I know how much I put you through
But let it be a testimonial
Of how much pain, our love could inspire
And how much pain our love could endure.
Let it be known that I'm free
Of the projection of your image on to others.
Let it be known, that I'll always be that girl with a pencil behind her left ear...
Because I was left handed... most of the time.
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 4:15 PM UTC
I’m exhausted
Drained by superficialities
That mark a women’s worth.
Pondering questions asked
By those who fear to answer
Because they know the truth.
Ridiculed by baring gifts from God,
A slanted nose or fumbled hands.
Exhaustion are those who embrace;
Embrace scared sanctions from
Others who demonize their faults;
Faults-a rare gift from Mother Nature herself.
That is our testimonial kiss
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 1:13 PM UTC
On a day when men have paid,
The cost of soul for war,
The heaven sends its' rain,
As a testimonial,
The cost is high; the price to die,
Yet so many shed their blood,
Some by night or by fair sky,
But those appointed grace the mud,
Past our understanding, so is our destiny,
To live or die, tis not our own; owning is conquering,
For men to die for freedom's cry tis the finest chivalry,
Once was the battle cry of these very men,
Now in mud their crimson blood paints the winding way,
A prey for birds, their bodies burn and turn to dust again,
Who would know that it would rain today?
On blood stained ground the rain drops pound,
They hit their mark once more,
The drums are heard all around,
As they play again for war!
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 9:49 AM UTC
Spoken word: the resting tongue laiden on potential thought.
I exclaimed, "I am, a poem," loudly as courage lets the heart
be bold in her voice.
She is love, but often wicked and rough.
A cup you fill of often watered down emotions. Do you focus
onto past or present experiences,—or are experienced in growing
a worthwhile future? I attest to myself of a testimonial; in these
dreams I've perceived.
Do see I firstly before you see just some random guy. I am
bright,—as two suns crashing into each other; that the stars
witnessed in awe. I am spoken word, a poem of endless words.
As you see less of me, so shall I give them more.
__I am, a poem.__
Jun 5, 2022
Jun 5, 2022 at 12:41 PM UTC
Ancient secrets in dark, dry, caves
filled with airs of eldritch winds
suffocated of life and it's needs
solemn graveyard to the nonexistent
Biting brown of antiquated dunes
dead fire of fossil sand
burning with the lost rage of lost ages
exterior to great alchemic secrets
Heavens filled with brooding anxiety
pining and craving teem in the atmosphere
desires to combust and crystallize
eroded off by laws of impossible physics
Uncongealed remnants of shells and beasts
bacteria and algae now unearthed to light
testimonial to buried memories
mummified by cadavers of glaciers and mesas
But a glacier for whom?
Can resolution be concluded by the uinverse
that vast cosmic void hanging in oracle's riddles
staring back at the stargazers?
Ancient secrets, eldritch airs,
solemn graveyards, and requiem for what?
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
Bouncing round' a mindless institution for the righteously sane
Play it loud
Play that **** n' blow them speakers
Explosions surround my insides with cartoon missiles and true artistry
Frame rate, corrupt
Wishful testimonial contracting embalming with a side of hot vinegar
You must not be here at this particular century
You must be here at this particular void
Touch the fire
Lick the tongue of ash-grown slash-sown fash-i-own
Whether you weather the feather or whittle a little or blow the flow it doesn't matter because I don't know
Slide the note over the note noting that the tote is on his merry way to fairy day
I scratch my neck off and pull head into the lower half of my extra escaping toe
Where am I
Where am I
Where am I
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
Theme Muzik
Drums beating
Echoing in the Forrest
Like a thousand heart beats
U r Africa
U r America
U r pagan
Traveling legs
Packed into your journey
Whiplashed with kisses
Unfurl your monarch wings
And become a miracle
In those foot falls
Is a testimonial
The story begins
Calligraphy walking
In the desert
Writes upon
Blood of imagination.
Spaceship, ninja, dragon race whip
All the pertinent deaths happen in sequence
Charging the the line of firing assault rifles
Taking on shape is the storm
Sated completed with Kung fu lighting arms
Roiling clouds inside eyes tornados leaping
From lips cussin' in thunder
Take love by force and keep it
*** shaking, ******* on sidewalks
In theme muzick
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
It was an uphill trek to the dilapidated fort
Reminiscent of the past glory and supremacy
A grandeur which cannot be replicated
The solid stone walls smoothed to perfection
Each stone sitting perfectly, filling the jigsaw puzzle
Taking a walk around, I come across some etched paintings
Wonder what story it narrates, or what secret it holds
I try to peer closely and see what resembles a princess
With all the swordsmen surrounding her
Maybe from the prying eyes of some obsessive suitor
Or is it that the princess was held captive by a rival?
The fort is testimonial to so many incidents
Which may have happened, clandestinely, inside its walls
It must have been attacked so many times
Also, it could have been taken over by force by the enemies
I enter the fort through its imposing entrance
The thick and heavy wooden doors, now ajar
Riveted with iron bolts, now rusted over time
The door must have been attacked and pounded with severe force
Weakened by the ravages of time and the aging wood
I enter the fort and is greeted by huge arches and a corridors
Surrounding the length and breadth of the fort
With so many chambers, that I lose count of them
Wonder, where the princess must have been kept in captivity
Or, may be kept safe from the obsessive lover, from the lower ranks
I weave my own intriguing story, unaware of the history
Once a secured monument of the glorious past
Now forlorn, it stands there in stupefying silence
With each passing day burying the cries, shrieks, laughter and conniving plots
Someday, the whole existence of this fort may be diminished to dust
For it is comeuppance of time, where, even the glorious and mighty are not spared
© Amitav (Radiance)
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 3:35 AM UTC
dispensing
poetic justice
is a measure of fate
of this punishing toll
chiseled on the grate
how befitting
for a personage
to be on the receiving end
of its age old adage
a reckoning
appropriated
on the stone's memorial
shackled
forever
in a penal testimonial
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
The night dips its pen
in the silvery inks and starry hues
And writes a testimonial to my solitude
Slinking away within me
A song of hopeful annihilation
Matched in silent rhythm to yours
The darkness slips away
Unnoticed and quiet in its exit
It leaves me braided with the music
----Vijayalakshmi Harish
26/01/07
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 5:34 AM UTC
Allí están,
allí estaban
las trashumantes nubes,
la fácil desnudez del arroyo,
la voz de la madera,
los trigales ardientes,
la amistad apacible de las piedras.
Allí la sal,
los juncos que se bañan,
el melodioso sueño de los sauces,
el trino de los astros,
de los grillos,
la luna recostada sobre el césped,
el horizonte azul,
¡el horizonte!
con sus briosos tordillos por el aire.
¡Pero no!
Nos sedujo lo infecto,
la opinión clamorosa de las cloacas,
los vibrantes eructos de onda corta,
el pasional engrudo
las circuncisas lenguas de cemento,
los poetas de moco enternecido,
los vocablos,
las sombras sin remedio.
Y aquí estamos:
exangües,
más pálidos que nunca;
como tibios pescados corrompidos
por tanto mercader y ruido muerto:
como mustias acelgas digeridas
por la preocupación y la dispepsia;
como resumideros ululantes
que toman el tranvía
y bostezan
y sudan
sobre el carbón, la cal, las telarañas;
como erectos ombligos con pelusa
que se rascan las piernas y sonríen,
bajo los cielorrasos
y las mesas de luz
y los felpudos;
llenos de iniquidad y de lagañas,
llenos de hiel y tics a contrapelo,
de histrionismos madeja,
yarará,
mosca muerta;
con el cráneo repleto de aserrín escupido,
con las venas pobladas de alacranes filtrables,
con los ojos rodeados de pantanosas costas
y paisajes de arena,
nada más que de arena.
Escoria entumecida de enquistados complejos
y cascarrientos labios
que se olvida del **** en todas partes,
que confunde el amor con el masaje,
la poesía con la congoja acidulada,
los misales con los libros de caja.
Desolados engendros del azar y el hastío,
con la carne exprimida
por los bancos de estuco y tripas de oro,
por los dedos cubiertos de insaciables ventosas,
por caducos gargajos de cuello almidonado,
por cuantos mingitorios con trato de excelencia
explotan las tinieblas,
ordeñan las cascadas,
la edulcorada caña,
la sangre oleaginosa de los falsos caballos,
sin orejas,
sin cascos,
ni florecido esfínter de amapola,
que los llevan al hambre,
a empeñar la esperanza,
a vender los ovarios,
a cortar a pedazos sus adoradas madres,
a ingerir los infundios que pregonan las lámparas,
los hilos tartamudos,
los babosos escuerzos que tienen la palabra,
y hablan,
hablan,
hablan,
ante las barbas próceres,
o verdes redomones de bronce que no mean,
ante las multitudes
que desde un sexto piso
podrán semejarse a caviar envasado,
aunque de cerca apestan:
a sudor sometido,
a cama trasnochada,
a sacrificio inútil,
a rencor estancado,
a pis en cuarentena,
a rata muerta.
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