"tonne" poems
Living freely in this world
My vulnerability, feels so lost
As it seeks the skies to escape all
Perched high away and hiding
My heart forsaken
For my vulnerability
Has left
The little bird has flown
My retreating heart lives behind
Many layers of frozen ice
The warm waters of my heart
Have all frozen over
Come back, come back little bird
A teardrop falls
For I see the loss of potential
In this frozen pond
Where waters should be warm
My heart should sing
Great rich jungles, it should bring
My pride wounded by this world
I stare into my murky depths
My standing in this world falling
As my legs are taken
By the jaws of a giant beast
Far away a bird twitches
My stomach twists and turns
Absorbed I am into the belly
Of a great giant crocodile
I begin to feel my vulnerability
In these dangerous warm acidic waters
As I merge into a crocodile
And high above a bird leaves his perch
As the ice layers break
With the force of my tail
New eyes see the self importance in people
Of this earth, with all their arrogance
I will bring you back to earth
For I am the last living dinosaur
Born from a time when T.rex reigned
And even the birds had teeth
For I still live in waters
Where Piranha's seek to
Frenzy on living flesh
And I am to be scared of you
I warn all of those who wish to disturb
My open and most precious heart
That rests in silence over my pond
For your flesh will quiver
With the sound of my ancient growl
And your eyes will panic
With the sight of my jaw
A quiet bird flutters closer
Bring your bitterness and all your sourness
For I am hungry and love rotten meat
And your disregard feeds my fury
Circle my pond
Where my heart rests softly
With rich and green waters
Bursting and growing in love
For I am not scared to feel
And I will lounge and grab
As a tonne of me, slaps itself
Bang, hard on this earth
For I am here to feel it
And not escape it
But you will be blind
And lost in my depths
I will turn you over and
Your arrogance will feed me
As I grow stronger
You will be ripped limb from limb
A little bird comes closer
My heart free from noise
A silence nestles in me
And all innocence is seen
Beautiful souls float freely
Butterflies dance and play
And my beautiful vulnerability
returns in sweet song
And rests softly in my jaw
A strange paradox becomes so very clear
With a little bird we hold so dear
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
She was as light as a feather
Carried on the sweetest wind.
A tonne weight locked
Around my fiercely protective heart.
As sure as an apple falling from a tree,
She brought uncertainties in abundance.
Physics had no question
For the answer she gave.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Quit smoking and excessive drinking,
It was supposed to help with healthy thinking.
That day I made it clear to myself
It's also time to quit you.
Gone hard on greens, had spinach, kale daily.
Worked out every other day, I even had a schedule.
On weekly basis: abs, some arms and lots of ***
My selfie game was on point, I got a tonne DMs.
Until a day I saw you holding hands
And heard you called her 'girlfriend'.
You never called me that in front of your best friends.
It really hurt, I couldn’t stop it.
That day I started smoking cigarettes again
And drinking wine, I had no schedule.
I've made a lot of calls and texts
Quite clearly, I couldn't quit you.
I liked you when you’ve had a ‘few’ tequilas
You’d talk things intimate, it felt as if you mean it.
I really hope you go back to heavy drinking
And start to feel instead of thinking.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 5:39 AM UTC
Darkness of night catches me,
Traps me in his grasp,
I grapple,
Trying desperately to avoid sleeps' sticky web,
Evasive action,
Breathe against cold night air,
Filtered through the open window,
Window to my sleepy soul,
Trying to stay alert,
Under a burning weight of two tonne eyelids,
Flicker of a mosquito shadow flickering under night's lamp illumination,
Buzzing manically,
So insane,
Heavy eyes drift,
View of shadow incessant flicking,
Vacant thoughts as topics drift,
Last shiver, quiver, jolt........,
Sleep.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
Un vieux renard cassé, goutteux, apoplectique,
Mais instruit, éloquent, disert,
Et sachant très bien sa logique,
Se mit à prêcher au désert.
Son style était fleuri, sa morale excellente.
Il prouvait en trois points que la simplicité,
Les bonnes moeurs, la probité,
Donnent à peu de frais cette félicité
Qu'un monde imposteur nous présente
Et nous fait payer cher sans la donner jamais.
Notre prédicateur n'avait aucun succès ;
Personne ne venait, hors cinq ou six marmottes,
Ou bien quelques biches dévotes
Qui vivaient **** du bruit, sans entour, sans faveur,
Et ne pouvaient pas mettre en crédit l'orateur.
Il prit le bon parti de changer de matière,
Prêcha contre les ours, les tigres, les lions,
Contre leurs appétits gloutons,
Leur soif, leur rage sanguinaire.
Tout le monde accourut alors à ses sermons :
Cerfs, gazelles, chevreuils, y trouvaient mille charmes ;
L'auditoire sortait toujours baigné de larmes ;
Et le nom du renard devint bientôt fameux.
Un **** roi de la contrée,
Bon homme au demeurant, et vieillard fort pieux,
De l'entendre fut curieux.
Le renard fut charmé de faire son entrée
A la cour : il arrive, il prêche, et, cette fois,
Se surpassant lui-même, il tonne, il épouvante
Les féroces tyrans des bois,
Peint la faible innocence à leur aspect tremblante,
Implorant chaque jour la justice trop lente
Du maître et du juge des rois.
Les courtisans, surpris de tant de hardiesse,
Se regardaient sans dire rien ;
Car le roi trouvait cela bien.
La nouveauté parfois fait aimer la rudesse.
Au sortir du sermon, le monarque enchanté
Fit venir le renard : vous avez su me plaire,
Lui dit-il, vous m'avez montré la vérité ;
Je vous dois un juste salaire :
Que me demandez-vous pour prix de vos leçons ?
Le renard répondit : sire, quelques dindons.
2.6k
II.
Oh ! vers ces vétérans quand notre esprit s'élève,
Nous voyons leur front luire et resplendir leur glaive,
Fertile en grands travaux.
C'étaient là les anciens. Mais ce temps les efface !
France, dans ton histoire ils tiennent trop de place.
France, gloire aux nouveaux !
Oui, gloire à ceux d'hier ! ils se mettent cent mille,
Sabres nus, vingt contre un, sans crainte, et par la ville
S'en vont, tambours battants.
À mitraille ! leur feu brille, l'obusier tonne,
Victoire ! ils ont tué, carrefour Tiquetonne,
Un enfant de sept ans !
Ceux-ci sont des héros qui n'ont pas peur des femmes
Ils tirent sans pâlir, gloire à ces grandes âmes !
Sur les passants tremblants.
On voit, quand dans Paris leur troupe se promène,
Aux fers de leurs chevaux de la cervelle humaine
Avec des cheveux blancs !
Ils montent à l'assaut des lois ; sur la patrie
Ils s'élancent ; chevaux, fantassins, batterie,
Bataillon, escadron,
Gorgés, payés, repus, joyeux, fous de colère,
Sonnant la charge, avec Maupas pour vexillaire
Et Veuillot pour clairon.
Tout, le fer et le plomb, manque à nos bras farouches,
Le peuple est sans fusils, le peuple est sans cartouches,
Braves ! c'est le moment !
Avec quelques tribuns la loi demeure seule.
Derrière vos canons chargés jusqu'à la gueule
Risquez-vous hardiment !
Ô soldats de décembre ! ô soldats d'embuscades
Contre votre pays ! honte à vos cavalcades
Dans Paris consterné !
Vos pères, je l'ai dit, brillaient comme le phare ;
Ils bravaient, en chantant une haute fanfare,
La mort, spectre étonné ;
Vos pères combattaient les plus fières armées,
Le prussien blond, le russe aux foudres enflammées,
Le catalan bruni,
Vous, vous tuez des gens de bourse et de négoce.
Vos pères, ces géants, avaient pris Saragosse,
Vous prenez Tortoni !
Histoire, qu'en dis-tu ? les vieux dans les batailles
Couraient sur les canons vomissant les mitrailles ;
Ceux-ci vont, sans trembler,
Foulant aux pieds vieillards sanglants, femmes mourantes
Droit au crime. Ce sont deux façons différentes
De ne pas reculer.
Jersey, du 7 au 13 janvier 1853.
2.2k
Hello, whale,
yes, you there wallowing
and swallowing crustaceans
with all your calliousity
and my insatiable curiosity.
What a laugh that calf
of yours was
when it frolicked up
to us diverse divers
wanting to be survivors
of its childlike impetuosity
and eighteen foot
preposterous, gargantuan monstrosity.
When you rose up underneath us
I thought you were going to eat us.
You scared me, whale,
when you flicked us with your tail -
the one you splinter yachts with
when you act as Davey Jones' locksmith.
Of course, I retired then
from my dive-in on leviathan,
happy to survive
your forty-five
tonne introduction.
Then you glided into gloom
and sang your eerie song
about your alien, baleen life
in vast, mysterious,
deep areas of oceans.
Good luck along the whale's road,
you mighty minstrel, you diva of the deep.
This diver hopes all humans and harpoons
will spare you and you can share
your song again.
God speed, whale.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 1:04 AM UTC
There lived a man, a crooked man
Whose journey was indeed sheer folly
He had hoped to meet someone, just anyone
To share his plight and story
Many had seen him walk his crooked walk
But thought him unpleasing and crazy
We had watched from afar, afraid to go near
And we had avoided him completely
We could've looked past his decrepit state
But we invested much in seeing with naked eyes
So quickly we turned the other way
We cared not if he lives or dies
We could've helped this man
To close the journey that he had then begun
The earth would now claim his body where it laid
As his soul disappears into the sun
Know this man, the crooked man
Whose looks weighed on us a tonne
We've lost the chance to see this man
The man we conveniently chose to shun
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 6:59 AM UTC
I amble as if I weigh a tonne
I gasp as if someone has lied
I weep as if I have no words
I mourn as if something has died
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 12:50 AM UTC
Hoobler Hobbler:
He brings only fatigue.
He is but just annoying,
He rarely does intrigue.
Even my brothers are
Extremely irritated so,
For they cannot do anything
Since he really cannot go
For even a strongman like old Mal
He cannot move this hefty tonne,
Both Adsel and Luke alike
Their words like an empty gun
Frank cannot do anything,
He just perches there to watch;
Mike and Blake hide in their hole
And Rooney's but a blotch
Oh this fascinating team
For once they really can't control;
This heavy weighted sleepyhead
Has just worsened this hellhole
Hoobler Hobbler:
It's not just the fatigue,
He also brings along chaos
But still doesn't intrigue
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
In my head I see you smiling.
You're dreaming of something beautiful.
I hope it's the angels leading you to heaven.
That make your face glow in the morning light.
Tonight we are all crying.
It's the regrets and the unsaid words
They feel like a tonne on our chest
Please forgive me for what I have not said.
How do I free myself of this inevitablity?
If I fall asleep will I dream of reality?
Am I really awake in a world without you?
Why did the time stop since you've been gone?
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 4:44 AM UTC
Mes mains : ses minuscules trous, par lesquels tout passe à travers,
les anciens déchets oubliés se ramassent autour de mes pieds,
et montrent les plus belles cendres d’une fablière ratée
-
sous la mer, à des milliers de pas, parmi des feus brûlants noyés
cette langue (jamais entendue) me ramène très **** du moment donné,
entre-temps, l’anti-temps et ses camarades se réveillent battus et épuisés
-
la ligne droite vient de s’exprimer en courbes,
faut se plier en deux, en trois, même en quatre
pour aller jusqu’au bout du monde encore
-
puis, le retour.
-
l’horloge sonne.
l’air pèse une tonne
-
english translation
*Tiny holes in my hands, through which everything slips
the former, forgotten waste collects around my feet,
showcasing the breathtaking ashes of a failed storyteller
-
under the sea, at a thousand paces, among the burning, drowned fires
a stranger’s unknown word takes me to places far from this instant,
Whilst Anti-time et his mates awake battered & dead on their feet
-
the straightest line sings its song in curves,
bend yourself in two, in three, even four
to reach the end of the world once more
-
& then, the return.
-
the clock strikes
the air is thick as hell.*
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 6:16 AM UTC
Anaemic black mist creeps its way between toes,
crawling eyewards, worming stealthily up shins,
pausing only to cup bolted knees and find more
progress toward the stomach's pit where it will rest,
For now.
The soaking - from outside in - is a violation as a pore
stretched aside is all the space this ten tonne mass
needs - a callused finger pulling back a fleshy curtain
to claim squatter's rights - mashing its body into a crawl space,
It curls.
Right here, in the depths, it will feed from its host and
gradually weave a tendril through intestines and bile
like a periscope, seeking and feeling for a route to the stem:
The source of everlasting sustenance;
The end goal.
Once it latches, it will live forever suckling stance.
The insipid parasite, the binding leech; as it takes hold,
consumes with its voidwalker embrace
and paints every memory with your fault;
Perpetual guilt.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 7:50 PM UTC
To Mia
You see I know this girl , I’ve known her for as long I can remember . Sometimes though for some reason ,Unknown to me, she makes appearance. For a while after she’s on my mind , constantly on my mind . It’s like she’s worked her way into every nerve every cell she’s there . I have to please her I’ve got to keep her happy. My mind is a machine , a machine with cogs and the cogs keep turning but when she’s around they’re on overdrive constantly worrying to point where I worry so much it makes me ill .
You see I know this girl , a girl called Mia.
I direct this at you.
The one that clings to my sides,
hangs off my clothes :Weighing me down
Like a tonne of sugar in my gut
Down .
Down .
I can’t stomach it any longer !
You stick to every ounce of my being, Creating a blinding hatred Spiralling
Down .
Down .
Down .
my appearance to the public eye now untrue to my reflection, I wont be added to your collection but the obsession to meet your expectations
is impulsive .
Addictive
destructive
empty swallows, hollow sorrows .
I crave it .
I need it .
you’ve infected every nerve .
I’m weak .
“hide yourself” , no one can see .
don’t stop yet
please stop
I can’t stop
nonstop
drop .
I’m frail , one more blow from you
And I’ll crumble .
Nothing but a bag of bones covered in an
Off white security blanket .
You have thinned my hair ,
Made my nails brittle ,
And my throat swell .
But still you’re attention
Is what I crave the most
I starve to please .
To please you .
I’m starving .
Oct 21, 2019
Oct 21, 2019 at 2:26 PM UTC
- Qu'es-tu, passant ? Le bois est sombre,
Les corbeaux volent en grand nombre,
Il va pleuvoir.
- Je suis celui qui va dans l'ombre,
Le Chasseur Noir !
Les feuilles des bois, du vent remuées,
Sifflent... on dirait
Qu'un sabbat nocturne emplit de huées
Toute la forêt ;
Dans une clairière au sein des nuées
La lune apparaît.
- Chasse le daim, chasse la biche,
Cours dans les bois, cours dans la friche,
Voici le soir.
Chasse le czar, chasse l'Autriche,
Ô Chasseur Noir !
Les feuilles des bois -
Souffle en ton cor, boucle ta guêtre,
Chasse les cerfs qui viennent paître
Près du manoir.
Chasse le roi, chasse le prêtre,
Ô Chasseur Noir !
Les feuilles des bois -
Il tonne, il pleut, c'est le déluge.
Le renard fuit, pas de refuge
Et pas d'espoir !
Chasse l'espion, chasse le juge,
Ô Chasseur Noir !
Les feuilles des bois -
Tous les démons de saint-Antoine
Bondissent dans la folle avoine
Sans t'émouvoir ;
Chasse l'abbé, chasse le moine,
Ô Chasseur Noir !
Les feuilles des bois -
Chasse les ours ! ta meute jappe.
Que pas un sanglier n'échappe !
Fais ton devoir !
Chasse César, chasse le pape,
Ô Chasseur Noir !
Les feuilles des bois -
Le loup de ton sentier s'écarte.
Que ta meute à sa suite parte !
Cours ! fais-le choir !
Chasse le brigand Bonaparte,
Ô Chasseur Noir !
Les feuilles des bois, du vent remuées,
Tombent... on dirait
Que le sabbat sombre aux rauques huées
À fui la forêt ;
Le clair chant du coq perce les nuées ;
Ciel ! l'aube apparaît !
Tout reprend sa forme première.
Tu redeviens la France altière
Si belle à voir,
L'ange blanc vêtu de lumière,
Ô Chasseur Noir !
Les feuilles des bois, du vent remuées,
Tombent... on dirait
Que le sabbat sombre aux rauques huées
À fui la forêt ;
Le clair chant du coq perce les nuées,
Ciel ! l'aube apparaît !
Jersey, le 22 octobre 1852.
1.1k
Winter is a beautiful season.
Playing ice on land in London,
Enjoy without worry or reason
In Icy cold weather without sun.
Winter is a beautiful season.
Eating cherry, berry or bun
Gives us a lot of merry fun,
No use is there of shotgun
As there it is difficult to run.
Winter is a beautiful season.
I enjoy such months, Oh Mann!
Really joy comes to me in tonne;
With papa or mamma no unbun.
All enjoy – Pari or daughter or son.
Winter is a beautiful season.
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 11:38 AM UTC
You scream urgency
Like an accident and emergency
waiting room,
like a person relapsing into addiction,
Because they pushed themselves
too soon.
And there are claw marks in the soil,
Where you've tried to get to grips,
with solid ground,
There's a danger in your voice,
Like a lost child waiting to be found,
And you string sentences at a time
but no sound emits.
Danger, like,
Racing cars and frightened cries,
And there are holes in your back,
Formed by the lies,
You've been subjected too
And i wonder if i could use them
To breath life back into you.
I wonder if i get close enough,
If i could see,
The dreams and memories,
Before they turned stale
And congealed in your veins,
And left you entangled in the remains.
The valleys of your eyes,
Run wide and down deep,
And when you weep,
Your tears fall heavier,
Than a ten tonne van,
You're a shadow of the man,
You used to be,
And even your shadow,
Has deserted you,
Sought someone anew.
And your foundations
Are built on heartache and pain,
And those little tear ducts in your eyes,
Constantly rain,
But you you're in a draught,
All the love you've showered others in
Means you've ran out,
for yourself,
And your health is a picture
Of cigarettes and late night drinks,
Old whiskey, poured down sinks,
And you're reaching the brink,
The breaking point,
But you quite like the sound,
Of broken plates,
And you quite like the taste,
Of self destruction.
And there's a ghost,
Where you used to be,
Haunting the curves
Of your smile,
That you paint on,
Why you defile
Your skin,
This terror your living in,
Could start a thousand wars,
And this battle your fighting,
Inside of your mind,
Leaves a carcus, a morsel,
Of yourself behind.
Your insides stick to the past,
Like double sided cello tape,
And there are windchimes in your spine,
Where your bones should be,
And your heart on your sleeve,
Is clouded,
By red marks where you've sliced open your skin,
In at attempt to be free,
Of those demons, the sin,
For a new beginning.
There's toxic in your lungs,
And a noose around your neck,
Where you've hung your expectations
Too high,
And you're hanging by a thread,
And tying knots the further down you slip,
As you sip,
Another shot of courage.
But there's only so long,
One can hold on for,
And believe me I've been down
To the depths of hell and danced with the devil
On many occasions,
And the sheer frustration,
Of the attempts to be patient,
Are wearing thin,
Like the warm skin, that stretches,
Over your protruding bones.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 12:03 PM UTC
The perimeter was limiting,
the interior more inhibiting
and the Islander lived alone,ambitions dissipated,sun dried,dessicated,he waited for the ship to come,
he lived on coconuts and *** and Wrigleys spearmint chewing gum and two tonne of cargo from the hull of the ship that nearly pulled him to his death.
He was blinded by the sun and sand,so carried lightly in one hand a parasol (made in Taiwan)
not one known to complain,he found it hard to explain to his companion,
a turtle he'd named Marion,in honour of his life and his poor departed wife
just how he felt,
but he knelt before the sea creature,which, though he didn't know it then
would feature in a hot cooked stew somewhere in the distant future.
Sad to tell that the Islander spent eighteen years on his Island hell and went quite insane
thought the sand was rain and bathed in it twice weekly
leaking fluids from his skull he swam out to the rotting hull and danced a jig on the ancient deck,
both man and wreck sank deep below where only sharks and shellfish go and the sea ****** both to their sad demise.
No stone marks the resting place,no words remark on who lies there,but the Island stares out to the sea and knows the turtle was eaten for tea
and Islands never forget.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
I want only an ounce of your attention, but a tonne of your love -
and that's the problem.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
They're piling on top of me, one by one,
Pulling me under, pushing me down,
Like shackles on my limbs, weighing more than a tonne,
Invading my lungs, as I try not to drown.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 9:19 AM UTC
A vision of perfection under moonless skies
And in their hearts but hopes and dreams
Numerous as the stars up high
Disappears as he holds them,into unlit stream...
In the bright sky-light of a moonless night
When shadows dance on darkened sand
When loudest words swim in soundless sight
In waves of water, on waves of land
Twilights last rose gave up its golden dust
As nightingales at large, bereft of voice
The yellow-red orb of the sun grew cold in the dusk
And humanity forgot, gave up its choice
And still he chased his flagrant dreams
Bleeding soles, he ran, burnt fingers still held
Heart ache and disappointment he passed in reams
The insanity of desire, none could mend.
And in his madness he found peace
And in his dreams a quiet solace
When fear and joy mingle, love and hate released
Where life is lived with no thought for the debased
On he walked on a thousand mile road
A thousand mile was walked, was none
On he walked with a hundred tonne load
A hundred tonne he carried as none
With no end in sight an end was found
A sightless silence, a visionary tune
Where the air was earth, where ocean-ground
When water could start and oil put off all fumes
With a vision of perfection under moonless sky
And in their hearts but hopes and dreams
Numerous as the stars up high
Reappear as he holds them,from moonlit stream...
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
*and Cinderella danced to the music box seduction & pursuit song from the Hellraiser soundtrack.*
no one really speaks about the aesthetic element
of darwinism, this strange godforsaken
we-ain't-got-no-fur-but-Chernobyl-happened
conundrum d'uh... people never care for
aesthetic darwinism, as long as you appear
able bodied: you might as well be a romanian
donkey on a building site with the anglos
trying to save money on crane hire...
oh yes, the respectable english dudes
that got me reading hazlitt - i'm backing
Britex! and you know why? i'd love to see
Brits on a building site! i really would!
i'd love to see them sweat like cow dung
on a donkey's head... rear those ******* in!
modern Britain was built on the sweat of
eastern Europe... exit! send the Romanians home!
bring in the Salvation State Civilians to sweat
it out! oh... but they won't! they won't!
hardly a crown among a 1000 men and they're
all second class colonising ******** colonising
their home turf! romanians are donkeys!
that's what they say, takes two to shift a tonne or
two of stones while saving on using a crane!
where's an Impaler when you need one?
the richest country in Europe making cutbacks,
what a paradoxical crescendo! you'd think
they'd be better at athletic sports having saved up
on construction work muscle... but no... oh no...
they're ******* anaemic in both departments!
shrivelling muscle athletes.
VOTE BRITEX! VOTE BRITEX! SEND BRITS
TO CONSTRUCTION SITES LIKE
****** SENDING JEWS TO THE GAS CHAMBERS!
VOTE BRITEX! VOTE BRITEX! I WANT TO SEE
THESE ******* SWEAT.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
good-luck with marriage!
well, i won't be the one,
a conformist,
can't be bothered,
well no, i can't be bothered,
m.t.v. turned into
16 year old pregnancies,
**** **** a closer inspection
of queen,
that won't happen...
there's no utopia here,
but what comes from being unloved -
'good-luck with marriage!'
i asked i got a reply with arsenic...
well, if a diet is a diet,
we might as well be hopeful...
jealous lovers and the incomprehensibility
of certain people not ever having
engaged in a life that might provide them...
tonne of **** with a touché!
as a vet a rubber gloved hand up to the elbow
to check a bull's prostate via his **** hole...
i'd quote feminism, but i might as well
quote Ezra's lunatic judgement correct
against Churchill in defence of Mussolini...
western democracy's narcissism hit me too...
the constant need to export and never import...
the constant need for traitors to upkeep
a contestant populace rather than a populace
of worthy voters... it was always there...
so many sacrifices attached to a political
movement were never worth it,
the least sacrificial politics always produced
the most successful endeavours with china
and india... just those economic gluttons
and continual iconoclasm with dyslexia as proof...
how hope of heaven was never encoded in
images of sounds and kept therein -
i stead dyslexia, laziness of the communicative
angle, to keep heaven forlorn with stressed
images as a laziness to forget the aesthetic of spelling
a wording... oh well...
good luck with marriage!
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
Il fait du soleil
Il pleut, il tonne
C’est l’automne
Du réveil au sommeil.
Les feuilles sont sèches et passives
Et les fleurs mortes et inactives
Plus **** c’est la neige
Les voisins de l’auberge
Voient passer les cerfs
Toute la sainte journée
Et pendant toute la soirée
On sent changer les nerfs
Pour accueillir la nouvelle saison
Où l’on est **** de la moisson.
On peut entendre de très ****
Le vent qui fredonne dans les foins
Les vibrations ne sont pas monotones
Puisque les colibris des mornes
Font sentir leur présence spectaculaire
Et les poètes aux jardins imaginaires
Décrivent tout ce qui se passe
Dans la contrée où la masse
Demeure insensible et ignorante
Et où les élus corrompus se vantent.
Il fait du soleil
Il pleut, il tonne
C’est l’automne
Du réveil au sommeil.
P.S. Traduction de ‘ The Ancient Canticles Of Autumn’.
Copyright © Novembre 2024, Hébert Logerie, Tous droits réservés
Hébert Logerie est l'auteur de plusieurs livres de poésie.
Nov 24, 2024
Nov 24, 2024 at 10:44 PM UTC
the swan's head fell in a collapsing tangent.
the swan couldn't keep it held, couldn't bear stick the feathers nobody believed to weigh a tonne of bricks.
the swan cared all too much, couldn't blend reality with the song of bliss the crows hissed of.
the swan mustered to persevere,
blazing nature's matrons music ear to ear
the swan saw leaves fall as autumn made it's seasonal call,
would you ever guess - the swan blamed only itself.
for the earthly demise wields a beautiful disguise.
the swan named fallacy would never see,
for fall's weight fell into every atom in it's tragedy.
the swan felt death in layers of travesty each sacred hour,
the swan revered the crows and deer, the sea's flows and freer galaxies,
condemned to the fragile atonement of mortality's unutterable catastrophe.
Jul 7, 2025
Jul 7, 2025 at 10:09 PM UTC