"triteness" poems
THE FEAR OF NORMALITY
THE FEAR OF APATHY
THE FEAR OF ORDINARY
THE FEAR OF BORING
THE FEAR OF REPLACEABLE
THE FEAR OF SAMENESS
THE FEAR OF CLICHE
THE FEAR OF BANALITY
THE FEAR OF COMMON
THE FEAR OF DULL
THE FEAR OF SHALLOWNESS
THE FEAR OF TRITENESS
THE FEAR OF VAPID
THE FEAR OF UNORIGINAL
THE FEAR OF INSIPID
THE FEAR OF PRETENTIOUS
THE FEAR IN UNINSPIRING
THE FEAR OF TRIVIAL
THE FEAR OF AVERAGE
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 3:39 PM UTC
My limbs are gushing while I walk
down towards the seaside pier,
these endings and these beginnings
ascending again into mere cycles,
the rising and falling chest,
beating heart,
transcending
I walk
hand in hand with you, restated love,
the new and the old clothes we wear
wrapped around our breathless poses
our heads filled with thoughts
of rose ridden gardens, and of course
children dancing, playing games between
our spacious Pohutakawa branches
where you first taught me about romantics
without that rudimentary triteness
and you sitting, coffee in hand at the picnic table
swearing revolution is never possible
to I dancing, remarking
“you are such the cynic”
before grabbing you and twirling you
faster than the earth rotates
As we drift closer to the sea
the inconstant wind winds the clock to 10pm,
the minutes restoring those now withered days
of woollen coats, new music and Dunedin
I would stand behind you while you played the flute
thinking of that time
where we played in the rhododendrons
till dark; folding time folding into
my arms, the sky white and blue
juxtaposed against the trees
darkened spikes explore the sea
what was it? me, me, me,
of course, I see
and I
remember the melody
(lets go under the covers
we can play games in the dark
we could even try adding to
those stars on your ceiling)
so now, again, for a moment, we reappear
in this hour, this walk, this air
stilted, shaking
we resurface,
and soak in the watery soils of previous deluges
become something overwhelming,
something insoluble
here we are, on the Pier
at noon, dazed, defused
by a familiar grip on the fingers
index snug between the ring
“take me to the end”
“but darling,
we are going further than that”
before we jump
we tie our balloon to the pole
and promise to return, on horses
painted silver and brass
Hey, nice to see you here
come with me
lets watch the sunrise
from the beach,
I think I sense a revolution stirring
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
life, i cannot begin you to describe beyond my dreaming self your how divine moments of simple nothing.
your body is not, and i love it the how it is not. it is
and not it's
some muscles firing with hurt
seething to ache
so horribly
wondrous. it's driving
to the beach
too early in morning and you're heads not clear the sky is so wide and the sun is barely. it is
the uncurling of your fingers between
dishwater
and the winsome triteness
of the caving instant of your breath
caching in your throat
as you realize the dying
of your frail self,
clutching furiously the mundane heady song
of a coffee cup
(and in perfect silence emitting
the most enormous roar
of surging electric stillness) . Life
you are half terribly
painful to. and life, you
are half splendorous to ****
sweating in the heap of your
car behind
the creeping sweep
of raging vein. Life
you are perhaps nothing. But lifE
you are the most,
and nothing hurriedly to slowly
take between the unutterably tiny *******
of snowgirls
their coldest song of closing lips,
and speak something hot
(something big).
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 7:46 AM UTC
Spending my time in some kind
of euphoria.
Some shallow lyrics for you.
But I know they're not boring you.
The triteness of radio songs has been around for so long.
It's a wonder why they're considered
meaningful at all.
I hate the radio.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 4:36 PM UTC
The children, they don't need us.
In fact, they repeat us.
And what ungodly error.
Collecting our wounds en masse,
spreading our crimes so fast-
continuous looping terror.
We spit upon the face of the devil
and bring ourselves right to his level,
pray for consuming ignition.
With triteness we scheme for money,
and laugh at things unfunny
to dodge the hard decision.
**** me, my God I'm not ready.
This burden feels so heavy.
But will it save all creation?
My child, I love so dearly.
I see what love is so clearly,
and gained such appreciation.
Remorseful I am for pain I've caused.
With arrogance, I've rarely paused
to accept the pain of my brother.
And in my soul harbored hatred
and never known what is sacred,
Blamed this disease on father and mother.
What shall we do now to gain redemption?
Life's too vast for our comprehension.
Apes that we are, we continue to wrestle.
********** we **** those who're different.
Though we fall from a common descendant.
I pray to our God, re-brandish the pestle.
Live for each other, I'll tell her.
Into ******* I'll never sell her.
But unto the enemy, I'll submit.
And those who subscribe discrimination,
and from torture derive their elation.
I tell you the truth, you're all full of it.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 11:01 AM UTC
After all that time
There is a sense of triteness in the air,
With no care for observation
Beyond the norm;
No desire for dreams to storm
Sombre sleep. No consolation
Needed for inaction,
No satisfaction sought because
None desired, beyond the satisfactory.
No temptation tried or if tasted
No tainted with trying
Beyond the trite.
After all that time
There is a sense of death in the air.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 4:45 PM UTC
What is beauty, but the sparkle in Her eyes?
But the infinite, eternal path to travel?
What is beauty, but the hues, the ice, the fire –
All the elements Her being can unravel?
What’s a Woman, but a Goddess to behold?
To support, to help, adore and love, admire?
And perhaps to fathom never – young or old…
But to save us from the triteness and the mire.
What’s a Woman, but the beauty of this world?
Slight correction: of this Universe, and others…
But a being above the compliments and words,
Even words that best of poets care to father.
Let us thank Her for the spark, the love, the fire –
Thank in deed, and then shut up, and just admire…
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 3:50 AM UTC
.
( According to the poems of HP )
:::
love is the choosing of some soulless human body
To be played with
Toyed with
&
Disingenuously glorify
until
Like any other childhood toy
One gets bored with it
And discards
"""
Love is just a superficial
Desire
To have and possess
It is a feeling that never deepens
Only one that weakens
With familiarity
Until it dies under the weight
Of its inherent triteness
//
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC