"undertone" poems - Hello Poetry

"undertone" poems

I wish I still smoked So I could sit on my roof inhaling this misery. My memories of you are so playful and sweet (Only since that day they got this undertone of heartbreak) It was like this roller coaster of falling in love, the one we all know. But right at my highest point, when I could see the whole city and my heart was racing and you were holding my hand Right there You woke me up And now I will never know how scary and fun the rest of the ride would be. All I know is how I will dream of the possibilities for the rest of my life.

0

Jul 10, 2014

Jul 10, 2014 at 6:22 PM UTC

I wish I still smoked So I could sit on my roof inhaling this misery. My memories of you are so playful and sweet (Only since that day they got this undertone of heartbreak) It was like this roller coaster of falling in love, the one we all know. But right at my highest point, when I could see the whole city and my heart was racing and you were holding my hand Right there You woke me up And now I will never know how scary and fun the rest of the ride would be. All I know is how I will dream of the possibilities for the rest of my life.

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childhoods are forgotten mere bonds simply left to rot bewildered and betrothed to the very idea of a more golden sun and glistening moon but not all the planets in the solar system are close and are in fact very far away words are to mean nothing nothing left with the wind blown away good bye! adieu! I shall miss my friend! and where is the blossom whom I met so long ago on Mars on Jupiter the promiscuity of proximity reminiscing within the shallow walls of the cave that drips drips drips to the past and history becomes bloated with subjectivity and a sepia undertone so how can we see what went wrong? how can we learn the implications of each movement made by our lips fingers each deep breath that coincides with the galaxy underneath a waning moon

0

Apr 14, 2018

Apr 14, 2018 at 8:22 PM UTC

childhoods are forgotten mere bonds simply left to rot bewildered and betrothed to the very idea of a more golden sun and glistening moon but not all the planets in the solar system are close and are in fact very far away words are to mean nothing nothing left with the wind blown away good bye! adieu! I shall miss my friend! and where is the blossom whom I met so long ago on Mars on Jupiter the promiscuity of proximity reminiscing within the shallow walls of the cave that drips drips drips to the past and history becomes bloated with subjectivity and a sepia undertone so how can we see what went wrong? how can we learn the implications of each movement made by our lips fingers each deep breath that coincides with the galaxy underneath a waning moon

Continue reading...

Your shrill, yet oddly pleasant sound, echoes loudly down the long corridor. I try to ignore you as the jaunty sound clashes with my melancholy mood, Yet I find the notes and melodies cling to my mind like tissue stuck to a shoe, Hanging on for it's own amusement, Ignorant of my desire not to be teased nor humoured at this anxious time. I feel I shouldn't like your racket, My naïve ears and young years sense, not only an inappropriate comedy in your sound, But also a daunting undertone, Adding to my sense of having been plunged into deep icy waters. Perhaps your music soothes those who are leaving, Your high happy notes providing optimism and assurance of recovery, Or of a restful sleep enveloping dear ones. For me, however, at the point of no-return in my pilgrimage, I hear only the low notes, Out of time with my quickened pulse, And lending a foreboding soundtrack to my slow deliberate steps. But you play for no pay, Busking in this hospital, Doing good both night and day. Yes, you are well known in this place, Admired for the hours you commit to this space where lives can hang in the balance, And where your instrument by day is a sharp sleek scalpel, Invasive in its desire to alleviate suffering, Your steady, practiced hand rehearsed and well versed in the methodically planned procedure of a surgical concerto. But out of hours your instrument of choice lends you a voice, Allowing flourishes and improvisations. But were you aware that for visitors like me who visited repeatedly, The clarinet would take on a significance beyond other instruments, Taking me instantly back to bittersweet memories of visiting my family, As, in turn, they aged and became unwell and recovered and became unwell again. Now I am older and a little wiser, I reflect and ruminate on this period; My memories of family are more than just hospital visits, And I wonder if I could ask one thing of you? Why no Rhapsody in Blue?!

0

Sep 16, 2018

Sep 16, 2018 at 6:45 PM UTC

The Medical Clarinettist

Your shrill, yet oddly pleasant sound, echoes loudly down the long corridor. I try to ignore you as the jaunty sound clashes with my melancholy mood, Yet I find the notes and melodies cling to my mind like tissue stuck to a shoe, Hanging on for it's own amusement, Ignorant of my desire not to be teased nor humoured at this anxious time. I feel I shouldn't like your racket, My naïve ears and young years sense, not only an inappropriate comedy in your sound, But also a daunting undertone, Adding to my sense of having been plunged into deep icy waters. Perhaps your music soothes those who are leaving, Your high happy notes providing optimism and assurance of recovery, Or of a restful sleep enveloping dear ones. For me, however, at the point of no-return in my pilgrimage, I hear only the low notes, Out of time with my quickened pulse, And lending a foreboding soundtrack to my slow deliberate steps. But you play for no pay, Busking in this hospital, Doing good both night and day. Yes, you are well known in this place, Admired for the hours you commit to this space where lives can hang in the balance, And where your instrument by day is a sharp sleek scalpel, Invasive in its desire to alleviate suffering, Your steady, practiced hand rehearsed and well versed in the methodically planned procedure of a surgical concerto. But out of hours your instrument of choice lends you a voice, Allowing flourishes and improvisations. But were you aware that for visitors like me who visited repeatedly, The clarinet would take on a significance beyond other instruments, Taking me instantly back to bittersweet memories of visiting my family, As, in turn, they aged and became unwell and recovered and became unwell again. Now I am older and a little wiser, I reflect and ruminate on this period; My memories of family are more than just hospital visits, And I wonder if I could ask one thing of you? Why no Rhapsody in Blue?!

Continue reading...

i a wee shaft of beam across a sea of chilly darkness: dashing on, dashing long a chain of disturbing crispy waves. a haunting pitch of sirens, of winging gulls. …then a whistle in the dark ii i have bled. and ever bleeding is resurgence. the stones are stained now not all are stained yet. but i can hold no more. no more. iii to listen would have been enough but spoke i to deaf-mutes, clayey forms. and every uttered little word faded like receding undertone. and then conspiracy of silence, misquotations, sharing of once too friendly shoulders. a nod would have been enough, or a pat, or any like gesture; they turned askance and i fled… fled away. iv back to my chambered shell back to my cradle where there are many whispers. and every fateful swing of the pendulum i reel and ride the wheel of fancy, embrace false idols like one fearful of his god if only to escape the haunts of conscience; tremble at approaching footsteps, shriek at every shadow. v i shall walk barefoot again past leafless stumps windborn, heated, and bowed, ‘cross an oasis grown desert dry, past anthills now dunghills, ‘neath rapid flutter of widespread murky wings, past cliff edges where resound pampered echoes, while arched in deceitful hues a rainbow. …i scan the blue… i pause… vi i await a lily-white stork or there shall be no curtain speech.

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May 5, 2015

May 5, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC

frank-s-tantuico-jr

the barefoot stranger

i a wee shaft of beam across a sea of chilly darkness: dashing on, dashing long a chain of disturbing crispy waves. a haunting pitch of sirens, of winging gulls. …then a whistle in the dark ii i have bled. and ever bleeding is resurgence. the stones are stained now not all are stained yet. but i can hold no more. no more. iii to listen would have been enough but spoke i to deaf-mutes, clayey forms. and every uttered little word faded like receding undertone. and then conspiracy of silence, misquotations, sharing of once too friendly shoulders. a nod would have been enough, or a pat, or any like gesture; they turned askance and i fled… fled away. iv back to my chambered shell back to my cradle where there are many whispers. and every fateful swing of the pendulum i reel and ride the wheel of fancy, embrace false idols like one fearful of his god if only to escape the haunts of conscience; tremble at approaching footsteps, shriek at every shadow. v i shall walk barefoot again past leafless stumps windborn, heated, and bowed, ‘cross an oasis grown desert dry, past anthills now dunghills, ‘neath rapid flutter of widespread murky wings, past cliff edges where resound pampered echoes, while arched in deceitful hues a rainbow. …i scan the blue… i pause… vi i await a lily-white stork or there shall be no curtain speech.

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Awake to a slowly beating drum morning meditation drifting up the hill in the garden, tiny birds add sweet highs tuneless ravens, the bass undertone trees whisper ancient lyrics on the passing breeze. We stroll the Path of Philosophy through massive wooden gates into carefully sculpted gardens exploring the endless number of temples dotting Kyoto each more lovely than the last. Quiet Nanzen-Ji is where I feel the most following worship worn steps to a cave-shrine heady with wet and incense we are purified by waterfall spray before returning the way we came voices hushed buoyed by eternity’s hand. The hotel lobby is filled with crimson and saffron glistening heads and broad smiles from monks gathered there we bow to each other and are one may it never be forgotten revelers arrive by busload for hanami, cherry blossom viewing beneath a revered tree decked out in pink splendor lit from below to radiate surreal, internal light we sample Kobe yakitori soba and corn grilled over open flame as we flow through the smiling celebratory crowd we savor what is transitory as sparks and blossoms whirl settling on our hair and skin.

0

Jan 13, 2016

Jan 13, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC

Awake to a slowly beating drum morning meditation drifting up the hill in the garden, tiny birds add sweet highs tuneless ravens, the bass undertone trees whisper ancient lyrics on the passing breeze. We stroll the Path of Philosophy through massive wooden gates into carefully sculpted gardens exploring the endless number of temples dotting Kyoto each more lovely than the last. Quiet Nanzen-Ji is where I feel the most following worship worn steps to a cave-shrine heady with wet and incense we are purified by waterfall spray before returning the way we came voices hushed buoyed by eternity’s hand. The hotel lobby is filled with crimson and saffron glistening heads and broad smiles from monks gathered there we bow to each other and are one may it never be forgotten revelers arrive by busload for hanami, cherry blossom viewing beneath a revered tree decked out in pink splendor lit from below to radiate surreal, internal light we sample Kobe yakitori soba and corn grilled over open flame as we flow through the smiling celebratory crowd we savor what is transitory as sparks and blossoms whirl settling on our hair and skin.

Continue reading...

my heart is a machine behind every good heart there is an even better machine waiting to take over impulse beat- in out in out- beat who needs feelings { the constant struggle of having to repair the break crashlagslow hurt -reboot- (Call tech support!) temporary no sure fix repeat } behind every good heart is an even better machine waiting to mechanize bastardize supplement LOVE abiotic, anaerobic, clean, pure, simple, sterile who needs LOVE when metal & pistons are so much easier to understand predict replace/fix ? If they can engineer esters to smelllooktaste like anything on earth why the **** can’t that make something taste {like your lips} smell {like your skin; cigarette sweet with an undertone of work sweat} feel {like your too rough kisses and embraces} because maybe if they did it might make it easier, maybe I wouldn’t miss you so ******* much

0

Nov 14, 2012

Nov 14, 2012 at 4:35 PM UTC

ashley-wade-parker

my heart is a machine behind every good heart there is an even better machine waiting to take over impulse beat- in out in out- beat who needs feelings { the constant struggle of having to repair the break crashlagslow hurt -reboot- (Call tech support!) temporary no sure fix repeat } behind every good heart is an even better machine waiting to mechanize bastardize supplement LOVE abiotic, anaerobic, clean, pure, simple, sterile who needs LOVE when metal & pistons are so much easier to understand predict replace/fix ? If they can engineer esters to smelllooktaste like anything on earth why the **** can’t that make something taste {like your lips} smell {like your skin; cigarette sweet with an undertone of work sweat} feel {like your too rough kisses and embraces} because maybe if they did it might make it easier, maybe I wouldn’t miss you so ******* much

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A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos. I am earless with music. Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows- foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution, air freshener and the outside sweet at my back all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference. There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor born partially of personal encounter and- nestled in the hive mind of social experience. A distillation of regret and remorse, of lonely, of irrelevance; this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears, eaten by rust. Four cans of beans, kidneys, in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells melting into other curves and I swerve close and around guiltily, noting you only as the source of this pungent spring. You are smiling apologies ignorant of my apparent inhumanity- blind to my selfish hands.. Pinioning belly flesh, flattening, reaching and gaining attendance from a better man retrieving every dropped can. I’m retreating, shaken, tense to alternatively slacken. My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream, moving from shampoo to conditioner, the whole store is infected with smell. Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind- don’t look **don’t look** I can sense little else but dread drawing closer you are now crouched so close I’m gagging, taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood roiling in rot, currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you fumbling with my electric ears, surfacing in a breath of Amish silence broken with simple request and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body that she is excluded and I don’t know why. I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk, over childish lady bugs framed by yellow or dots of red alternating to black, an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.

0

Dec 10, 2010

Dec 10, 2010 at 1:42 AM UTC

The Inevitability of Human Incongruity.

A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos. I am earless with music. Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows- foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution, air freshener and the outside sweet at my back all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference. There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor born partially of personal encounter and- nestled in the hive mind of social experience. A distillation of regret and remorse, of lonely, of irrelevance; this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears, eaten by rust. Four cans of beans, kidneys, in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells melting into other curves and I swerve close and around guiltily, noting you only as the source of this pungent spring. You are smiling apologies ignorant of my apparent inhumanity- blind to my selfish hands.. Pinioning belly flesh, flattening, reaching and gaining attendance from a better man retrieving every dropped can. I’m retreating, shaken, tense to alternatively slacken. My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream, moving from shampoo to conditioner, the whole store is infected with smell. Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind- don’t look **don’t look** I can sense little else but dread drawing closer you are now crouched so close I’m gagging, taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood roiling in rot, currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you fumbling with my electric ears, surfacing in a breath of Amish silence broken with simple request and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body that she is excluded and I don’t know why. I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk, over childish lady bugs framed by yellow or dots of red alternating to black, an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.

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funny how it's always been about you the wind's through the larynx of a world raging without us the song's making us weep the stage too hard to cast our swag on fingers to shaky to turn the page i've been kicking it with a friend the undertone of sinister elegance of age - the vanishing of what used to be

0

Apr 15, 2018

Apr 15, 2018 at 2:49 AM UTC

when u listen to drake once

funny how it's always been about you the wind's through the larynx of a world raging without us the song's making us weep the stage too hard to cast our swag on fingers to shaky to turn the page i've been kicking it with a friend the undertone of sinister elegance of age - the vanishing of what used to be

Continue reading...

The morning cigarette, With a cup of igneous coffee, On an early winter morning, Alleviates the morning high, Like the smoke from molten lava. The immature ride to the vacant highway, The zephyr gust from the near mountains, Touches the juvenile jacket And through the quietus of nature, The wings inside sails away. The green undertone of cannabis, It's a rational sensation, With every roll the paper silhouettes, Like a shotgun of peace, The buds displace on the white face. The rejuvenating smoke calibrates, Through the dry pipes, And layers the ravenous soul, Like a honey bee, Pouring the golden sugar, Into the barren depth of an empty bowl. Like a centaur with tenacious wings, Accelerating with the air, Feeling every loop of a fresh wound, Riding from north, And taking the fear out, Like a first raindrop to hit the ground.

0

Dec 19, 2015

Dec 19, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC

The Morning Cigarette

The morning cigarette, With a cup of igneous coffee, On an early winter morning, Alleviates the morning high, Like the smoke from molten lava. The immature ride to the vacant highway, The zephyr gust from the near mountains, Touches the juvenile jacket And through the quietus of nature, The wings inside sails away. The green undertone of cannabis, It's a rational sensation, With every roll the paper silhouettes, Like a shotgun of peace, The buds displace on the white face. The rejuvenating smoke calibrates, Through the dry pipes, And layers the ravenous soul, Like a honey bee, Pouring the golden sugar, Into the barren depth of an empty bowl. Like a centaur with tenacious wings, Accelerating with the air, Feeling every loop of a fresh wound, Riding from north, And taking the fear out, Like a first raindrop to hit the ground.

Continue reading...

Whenever my family and I, Prepare to embark on a fair drive, I grab my phone with my playlist along with my headphones. Filled with excitement that nobody knows. We set out on our excursion, I put my headphones in, I turn on my music, And let the symphonies enter my head. If I close my eyes, I can visualize, An ancient city filled with song and dance, Amidst a sacred feast with the finest band. I see the dresses swirl, and I smell the wheat in the fields, Along with the fresh bread that they created with their yields. The song changes to a more melancholic melody, I envision a final stand, one with honor and dignity. The knight fights its hardest, but is overrun, The piano’s keys, haunting me, as it dies under the setting sun. Another change, more upbeat, a comforting, catchy symphony. I wish to dance, but I am confined to the car seat. I open my eyes and look to the right, At the sprawling landscape we’ve been passing by, But instead of farmland and trees, guess what I see, The same mind-boggling envisioning! More songs play, various tones, From joyous to somber, sacred to monotone, Threatening to empowering, all on their own. The drums beat to the piano’s keys, As a rare mandolin strums in harmony. A glorious symphony, An undertone for creativity. Oh, the power of envisioning!

0

Sep 18, 2025

Sep 18, 2025 at 7:17 PM UTC

Whenever my family and I, Prepare to embark on a fair drive, I grab my phone with my playlist along with my headphones. Filled with excitement that nobody knows. We set out on our excursion, I put my headphones in, I turn on my music, And let the symphonies enter my head. If I close my eyes, I can visualize, An ancient city filled with song and dance, Amidst a sacred feast with the finest band. I see the dresses swirl, and I smell the wheat in the fields, Along with the fresh bread that they created with their yields. The song changes to a more melancholic melody, I envision a final stand, one with honor and dignity. The knight fights its hardest, but is overrun, The piano’s keys, haunting me, as it dies under the setting sun. Another change, more upbeat, a comforting, catchy symphony. I wish to dance, but I am confined to the car seat. I open my eyes and look to the right, At the sprawling landscape we’ve been passing by, But instead of farmland and trees, guess what I see, The same mind-boggling envisioning! More songs play, various tones, From joyous to somber, sacred to monotone, Threatening to empowering, all on their own. The drums beat to the piano’s keys, As a rare mandolin strums in harmony. A glorious symphony, An undertone for creativity. Oh, the power of envisioning!

Continue reading...

The faint hint of tension left the air pungent a mordantly eerie undertone that I couldn't scrape from the sky even with a sharp stare from bright eyes there was a subconscious pause in your voice, the type of momentary disillusioned understanding of a shortcoming the sudden realization of a lassitude onset left these battered feet aching to stop running the tread was fresh, anxiously beckoning to simply go an inner utterance gently murmuring no perchance the time was not sufficient quite possibly these watch hands that had seen better days, now judge time slightly different their past experiences dictating the liveliness and youthful ticks of yesteryear to a far more relaxed tock with decades of chasing it's counterpart I became the minutes to your hour, fruitlessly chasing you round the rotation to greet and depart with your change of heart the seconds became the tension building anticipation as I watched them sweep feeling the next moment we'd meet, pain-stakingly creep until I find myself here again air thick with tension, hanging still and pungent I remain for a minute just watching the seconds keep running...

0

Feb 10, 2013

Feb 10, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC

The faint hint of tension left the air pungent a mordantly eerie undertone that I couldn't scrape from the sky even with a sharp stare from bright eyes there was a subconscious pause in your voice, the type of momentary disillusioned understanding of a shortcoming the sudden realization of a lassitude onset left these battered feet aching to stop running the tread was fresh, anxiously beckoning to simply go an inner utterance gently murmuring no perchance the time was not sufficient quite possibly these watch hands that had seen better days, now judge time slightly different their past experiences dictating the liveliness and youthful ticks of yesteryear to a far more relaxed tock with decades of chasing it's counterpart I became the minutes to your hour, fruitlessly chasing you round the rotation to greet and depart with your change of heart the seconds became the tension building anticipation as I watched them sweep feeling the next moment we'd meet, pain-stakingly creep until I find myself here again air thick with tension, hanging still and pungent I remain for a minute just watching the seconds keep running...

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I'm perfectly imperfect That's what they always say I'm crookedly straight But I'm far from gay I forever speak my mind Always and all day My heart is on my sleeve But guarded all the same I'm devilishly innocent My mind is not so tame I'm dishonestly truthful But never take the blame I'm completely backwards We can never be the same To me upwards is downwards The sky's my only ground Your life I can still ruin It is with in my bounds I'm depressingly happy There is no middle ground My version of earth is flat... Why should it be round? My earth is a work of art With colours everywhere Your world I broke and ripped apart Just to prove I don't fit there I tore it up in little bits I left the pieces without a care I'm completely backwards I'm such a major scare I'm nationally local You can see me all the time I can disappear into thin air Leaving you without a rhyme For I'm melodically harmonious No brighter than the dullest shine I'm incomprehensibly real And yet so hard to find Pure white to me is simple black Race is gone and can't come back I can prove all that I am A thing to which you surely lack I'm disrespectfully respectful My words are always fact I'm completely backwards I'll drive you past insane Then I'll never bring you back I'm illegally legal Like a drug that you can't sell I'm contrastingly bendable In this world of my own hell I'm resistingly irresistible My secrets you will never tell I'm obscenely lovable In this world in which I fell I landed in this twisted place A world of expectations This world I created on my own For I'm an undertone of exaggeration Here I've found my only home In a backwards world of my creation And all in all I'm here to say "I'm completely backwards In every single way"

0

Sep 10, 2009

Sep 10, 2009 at 12:49 PM UTC

I'm Completely Backwards

I'm perfectly imperfect That's what they always say I'm crookedly straight But I'm far from gay I forever speak my mind Always and all day My heart is on my sleeve But guarded all the same I'm devilishly innocent My mind is not so tame I'm dishonestly truthful But never take the blame I'm completely backwards We can never be the same To me upwards is downwards The sky's my only ground Your life I can still ruin It is with in my bounds I'm depressingly happy There is no middle ground My version of earth is flat... Why should it be round? My earth is a work of art With colours everywhere Your world I broke and ripped apart Just to prove I don't fit there I tore it up in little bits I left the pieces without a care I'm completely backwards I'm such a major scare I'm nationally local You can see me all the time I can disappear into thin air Leaving you without a rhyme For I'm melodically harmonious No brighter than the dullest shine I'm incomprehensibly real And yet so hard to find Pure white to me is simple black Race is gone and can't come back I can prove all that I am A thing to which you surely lack I'm disrespectfully respectful My words are always fact I'm completely backwards I'll drive you past insane Then I'll never bring you back I'm illegally legal Like a drug that you can't sell I'm contrastingly bendable In this world of my own hell I'm resistingly irresistible My secrets you will never tell I'm obscenely lovable In this world in which I fell I landed in this twisted place A world of expectations This world I created on my own For I'm an undertone of exaggeration Here I've found my only home In a backwards world of my creation And all in all I'm here to say "I'm completely backwards In every single way"

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i I thought I was dying Tis I was in midflight; I was rushed out of the window, A dark haired queen in the night. ii Tis none fright Her in a maria clara gown; A tawny undertone, The other cherub's danced around. iii As she carried me, in the dark suspense Ourn spirit's drifted peacefully; Yellow blanket flower's, amour so immense, I saweth the pearly gates, as tis she stood next to me. iv She let me knoweth The only way to enter beyond; Was to promise her loving kinship As tis I promised mine soul and all. v I shalt never breaketh mine vow To mine asiatic rose, I am quaint endowed; She gaveth me the golden ticket, for the ivory pass So I was humbled on mine knee's, thanked God, I kissed her sash. ©Brandon nagley ©Earl Jane dedication/Reyna dedication ©Lonesome poets poetry

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Aug 10, 2015

Aug 10, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC

Ar ghlúine mianach, phóg mé léi sais ( On mine knees, i kissed her sash)

i I thought I was dying Tis I was in midflight; I was rushed out of the window, A dark haired queen in the night. ii Tis none fright Her in a maria clara gown; A tawny undertone, The other cherub's danced around. iii As she carried me, in the dark suspense Ourn spirit's drifted peacefully; Yellow blanket flower's, amour so immense, I saweth the pearly gates, as tis she stood next to me. iv She let me knoweth The only way to enter beyond; Was to promise her loving kinship As tis I promised mine soul and all. v I shalt never breaketh mine vow To mine asiatic rose, I am quaint endowed; She gaveth me the golden ticket, for the ivory pass So I was humbled on mine knee's, thanked God, I kissed her sash. ©Brandon nagley ©Earl Jane dedication/Reyna dedication ©Lonesome poets poetry

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Oats, stay dry for fecunditys harvest, as Eostres' hares bring pittu; Falling earthbound, in abundance. Spring madness dawns; Love, persists. Once willowed, under Winter skies, **shed all we've done before.** Bringing warmth (sown a lifetime ago) to embrace this thaw. Watching our steps, across moss green floors; We dance lingering in the sweetest meadows.Together, under budding branches; It's time... Blossom, reflected upon dappled millpond; Still. - Dark glassed surface, gently rippling with undertone - Can you hear the water paddles roar? Will Springs' spirit guide you; With carnal lust abound, trusting Her to save your oats from being; Taken...turned out... ground? We, with spare oats, heap to powdered dust; Sifted, then refined... Molded something beautiful, wholesome, yet devine!

0

Apr 2, 2013

Apr 2, 2013 at 9:40 AM UTC

She... knows, back to the grindstone (Spring, in 4:20 verses)

Oats, stay dry for fecunditys harvest, as Eostres' hares bring pittu; Falling earthbound, in abundance. Spring madness dawns; Love, persists. Once willowed, under Winter skies, **shed all we've done before.** Bringing warmth (sown a lifetime ago) to embrace this thaw. Watching our steps, across moss green floors; We dance lingering in the sweetest meadows.Together, under budding branches; It's time... Blossom, reflected upon dappled millpond; Still. - Dark glassed surface, gently rippling with undertone - Can you hear the water paddles roar? Will Springs' spirit guide you; With carnal lust abound, trusting Her to save your oats from being; Taken...turned out... ground? We, with spare oats, heap to powdered dust; Sifted, then refined... Molded something beautiful, wholesome, yet devine!

Continue reading...

herbs new mown send green scent to me an undertone of pepper - non-explosive - marks this spot especially a creole mixture to spice the morning walk were I the chef of this walk blandness would prevail for blanding is safe and requires no inspiration I am learning recklessness and wantonness it is in my eyes, should you peer into them it is in my heart, should you sound it it is in my being now and you can smell it on me like the peppery scent in that spot there I am become a creole recipe delicious and warm fulfilling and comfort to the traveler in this landscape Roberta Compton Rainwater c. 2009/2014

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Mar 31, 2014

Mar 31, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC

roberta-compton-rainwater

herbs new mown send green scent to me an undertone of pepper - non-explosive - marks this spot especially a creole mixture to spice the morning walk were I the chef of this walk blandness would prevail for blanding is safe and requires no inspiration I am learning recklessness and wantonness it is in my eyes, should you peer into them it is in my heart, should you sound it it is in my being now and you can smell it on me like the peppery scent in that spot there I am become a creole recipe delicious and warm fulfilling and comfort to the traveler in this landscape Roberta Compton Rainwater c. 2009/2014

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Quatron of prediction; it is not what's believed by me I've partook more bitter ever since Ever since the phonies kept babbling of morals Ever since the phonies kept babbling To each their own to each Teaching what does not revolve Itching at me because you are not real I hope that someday you will see what is not I hope that someday you can't see Toiling brims of sin or not; I smite upon flakes alas Alas my cynical undertone revealed each day after night and again No remmorse do I own, grave away from epoch I skirm when you speak of such feats To each their own to each Teaching what does not induce Scratching at me because you are not real I hope that someday you will see what is not I hope that someday you can't see Imaum of hate is true of my fate How can you grasp what you are? Where are you? Who are you? Do you exists? We are inkligs of nothing, no doubt.

0

Nov 3, 2010

Nov 3, 2010 at 12:49 PM UTC

Quatron of prediction; it is not what's believed by me I've partook more bitter ever since Ever since the phonies kept babbling of morals Ever since the phonies kept babbling To each their own to each Teaching what does not revolve Itching at me because you are not real I hope that someday you will see what is not I hope that someday you can't see Toiling brims of sin or not; I smite upon flakes alas Alas my cynical undertone revealed each day after night and again No remmorse do I own, grave away from epoch I skirm when you speak of such feats To each their own to each Teaching what does not induce Scratching at me because you are not real I hope that someday you will see what is not I hope that someday you can't see Imaum of hate is true of my fate How can you grasp what you are? Where are you? Who are you? Do you exists? We are inkligs of nothing, no doubt.

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In the kaleidoscope of affection, I painted you with hues of adoration, blind to your monochrome reality. Eyes fixed on the canvas of our shared moments, I brushed away the shadows you cast on the edges. Your smiles, a palette of warmth, a sunlit mirage, Masked the colder currents beneath the surface. I sculpted your silhouette from fragments of devotion, Blind to the chisel that carved deceit into your contours. Each word you spoke, a lyrical serenade, Harmonizing with the symphony of my own yearning. Yet, within the notes, the discord of deception echoed, A melody played on strings attuned to your agenda. In the gallery of my heart, your portrait hung, A masterpiece crafted by hands that concealed ulterior motives. I traced the lines of your whispered promises, Unaware they were sketches of transient commitment. The truth, veiled in the smoke and mirrors of affection, Cloaked by the tender illusions of shared vulnerability. I basked in the radiance of your borrowed light, Unmindful that shadows were the offspring of your truths. Blinded by love's unforgiving lens, I sculpted a narrative, Ignoring the fractures in the marble of our connection. In the echo chamber of your affirmations, The resonance of deception, a dissonant undertone. "The Truth in Your Lies," an exhibition of realization, Where the canvas of affection reveals concealed motives. I dismantle the gallery, unframe the illusions, Confronting the naked truth beneath the painted veneer.

0

Dec 1, 2023

Dec 1, 2023 at 5:40 AM UTC

The Truth In Your Lies

In the kaleidoscope of affection, I painted you with hues of adoration, blind to your monochrome reality. Eyes fixed on the canvas of our shared moments, I brushed away the shadows you cast on the edges. Your smiles, a palette of warmth, a sunlit mirage, Masked the colder currents beneath the surface. I sculpted your silhouette from fragments of devotion, Blind to the chisel that carved deceit into your contours. Each word you spoke, a lyrical serenade, Harmonizing with the symphony of my own yearning. Yet, within the notes, the discord of deception echoed, A melody played on strings attuned to your agenda. In the gallery of my heart, your portrait hung, A masterpiece crafted by hands that concealed ulterior motives. I traced the lines of your whispered promises, Unaware they were sketches of transient commitment. The truth, veiled in the smoke and mirrors of affection, Cloaked by the tender illusions of shared vulnerability. I basked in the radiance of your borrowed light, Unmindful that shadows were the offspring of your truths. Blinded by love's unforgiving lens, I sculpted a narrative, Ignoring the fractures in the marble of our connection. In the echo chamber of your affirmations, The resonance of deception, a dissonant undertone. "The Truth in Your Lies," an exhibition of realization, Where the canvas of affection reveals concealed motives. I dismantle the gallery, unframe the illusions, Confronting the naked truth beneath the painted veneer.

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barricaded bones and your soft tones sweat. lingering. my belly weeps for your song. and from the tips of this mighty dew-dripped tree and from the depths of this reminiscent lake emerge patterns of varying shapes and sounds with one universal undertone of the way the breath pushes its way out of your lungs through your gritted teeth when i make you ***

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Apr 30, 2015

Apr 30, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC

through gritted teeth

barricaded bones and your soft tones sweat. lingering. my belly weeps for your song. and from the tips of this mighty dew-dripped tree and from the depths of this reminiscent lake emerge patterns of varying shapes and sounds with one universal undertone of the way the breath pushes its way out of your lungs through your gritted teeth when i make you ***

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The aged wood of the boardwalk echos hollowly, but has a damp undertone from the left behind wet footprints of the day. We thud forward in silence, commenting trivially on the nights happenings when my attention is slowly stolen. Silently, the night wind picks up the lost sand on the boards and sprinkles it across my feet, desperate to take my attention. Uncaught by anyone but me, a waver in her voice in the prime of her retelling of her day, Did she notice my distraction? In a final attempt at shallow conversation we turn to talking about the weather. But, the wind is greedy. It whips the sea oats until they shiver and sigh, an eerie sound. Silence. Our final few steps on the board walk crunch. Crunch until. . . Finally, our eager toes lick the sand, cooled by the wind and stars. Naturally, unknowingly our toes dig and burrow in joy, reminiscing to the innocent barefooted days in the sand-box. The wind, eager again for my attention, breathes down my spine. We quicken our pace. As we drawn nearer to the ocean, the mist scares the cowardly wind away. Sprinklings of salt, water, and sand speckle upon our sun kissed skin. Laughter. We lay down in the sand, each lost in our own worlds and look to the deep heavens above. Reflections of depth and light, moon to sun, space to sea. The peace found only in the bare nakedness of a bed of sand and friends. Open. Sheltered. Free.

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Aug 26, 2012

Aug 26, 2012 at 7:55 PM UTC

The aged wood of the boardwalk echos hollowly, but has a damp undertone from the left behind wet footprints of the day. We thud forward in silence, commenting trivially on the nights happenings when my attention is slowly stolen. Silently, the night wind picks up the lost sand on the boards and sprinkles it across my feet, desperate to take my attention. Uncaught by anyone but me, a waver in her voice in the prime of her retelling of her day, Did she notice my distraction? In a final attempt at shallow conversation we turn to talking about the weather. But, the wind is greedy. It whips the sea oats until they shiver and sigh, an eerie sound. Silence. Our final few steps on the board walk crunch. Crunch until. . . Finally, our eager toes lick the sand, cooled by the wind and stars. Naturally, unknowingly our toes dig and burrow in joy, reminiscing to the innocent barefooted days in the sand-box. The wind, eager again for my attention, breathes down my spine. We quicken our pace. As we drawn nearer to the ocean, the mist scares the cowardly wind away. Sprinklings of salt, water, and sand speckle upon our sun kissed skin. Laughter. We lay down in the sand, each lost in our own worlds and look to the deep heavens above. Reflections of depth and light, moon to sun, space to sea. The peace found only in the bare nakedness of a bed of sand and friends. Open. Sheltered. Free.

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A flick of his baton, And hate fills the room. Wafting under the doors Into bystanders, And passersby, Ears. My father was our conductor. A sweeping gesture, So well rehearsed... And love and admiration, Make the room quiver with sound. He held his audience in a grip as hard as a scared child's, he'd perfected every move he made. The stage is set, The orchestra is ready to play, Not for the audience, For the conductor. He trained us, his family, as a traveling show All to boost his needy ego. He raises his hands, And the pity raises it's volume. You can taste the salty, Bitter melody On your tongue. You could almost swallow the tune. If he couldn't use you in some way, he'd leave you, Whether you were a friend or his blood. A sweet undertone of hate, So easily made, And so tempting. Now a brief solo... And the admiration blasts full, And loud, And bright. He'd use those who loathed him in his orchestra, Use them to make his admirers defend him. The conductor, And his orchestra. Like the sun and the planets. The music revolving around him, His curled moustache, And retreating hairline. He was a puppet master, gaining something from any Attention thrown his way. Now a solo for the fear, Clear, And high. His hands go down low, For the base sound of anger. He was a walking explosion, when he entered the room in our home, it silenced. Bitterness fills the room, It's strings Singing. And pity again, Perhaps his favorite instrument. I hated him for not loving me, and he used my bitterness to hold my sisters closer to him The conductor, The abuser, Conducting all the attention, Upon himself. Not any type is unwanted, All instruments have a place On his stage. The only way to escape, was to let him go. I've dropped my instrument. Left bitterness on the floor. The last one I've played, I've tried my hand at all the others, But I could never find one I wanted to keep. The life of a musician, Just isn't for me.

0

Jul 5, 2016

Jul 5, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC

A flick of his baton, And hate fills the room. Wafting under the doors Into bystanders, And passersby, Ears. My father was our conductor. A sweeping gesture, So well rehearsed... And love and admiration, Make the room quiver with sound. He held his audience in a grip as hard as a scared child's, he'd perfected every move he made. The stage is set, The orchestra is ready to play, Not for the audience, For the conductor. He trained us, his family, as a traveling show All to boost his needy ego. He raises his hands, And the pity raises it's volume. You can taste the salty, Bitter melody On your tongue. You could almost swallow the tune. If he couldn't use you in some way, he'd leave you, Whether you were a friend or his blood. A sweet undertone of hate, So easily made, And so tempting. Now a brief solo... And the admiration blasts full, And loud, And bright. He'd use those who loathed him in his orchestra, Use them to make his admirers defend him. The conductor, And his orchestra. Like the sun and the planets. The music revolving around him, His curled moustache, And retreating hairline. He was a puppet master, gaining something from any Attention thrown his way. Now a solo for the fear, Clear, And high. His hands go down low, For the base sound of anger. He was a walking explosion, when he entered the room in our home, it silenced. Bitterness fills the room, It's strings Singing. And pity again, Perhaps his favorite instrument. I hated him for not loving me, and he used my bitterness to hold my sisters closer to him The conductor, The abuser, Conducting all the attention, Upon himself. Not any type is unwanted, All instruments have a place On his stage. The only way to escape, was to let him go. I've dropped my instrument. Left bitterness on the floor. The last one I've played, I've tried my hand at all the others, But I could never find one I wanted to keep. The life of a musician, Just isn't for me.

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little yellow flowers in her ears and they trundled along the gravel path, when their bellies grumbled from a day spent lying atop a small hill near the golf course radiance from the setting rays of sunlight shown a haunting sordid undertone that a young boy in love just never would have known.

0

Jul 23, 2014

Jul 23, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC

Listerineyedrops

Scarred memories

little yellow flowers in her ears and they trundled along the gravel path, when their bellies grumbled from a day spent lying atop a small hill near the golf course radiance from the setting rays of sunlight shown a haunting sordid undertone that a young boy in love just never would have known.

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Spells of chieftain splendor Bespeaking of loyal grandeur Now the eye clearly sees without fear At dusk! The ancient kingdom of Assur? A flight in time and space from afar? Was that ingenious creativity of flair? Still bids indubitable eternal mystery! Are clothes on man an anecdote of utter hypocrisy? Is sarcastic humor a precursor of hidden sinister? The animals hereof show their ****** Undertone tinges of impeccant simplicity Stirring poignant Achilles' heel character As an infant suckling the breast of saccharine nature; Lo! And behold… Sage mortals envisage a grotesque quest for a promising stage, Regnant and dignified? The new-age psyches’ beatify and feebly beg "Reform, in fact, is, rather softly, on the win” The lighthouse flashing against the sleet-blurred fig twig As every sacred notion becomes an unwavering origin certain, With no remorse that mankind can now ascertain The bewildering incarnation of science in religion! Like a single lily among lilies in a dark dungeon Great spirits now encounter violent opposition “Un-awakened Children silently screaming with pessimism” Hiding within the smooth sacred mask of personality Yet the fear of “the unknown” silently plays a drowsier symphony Calling back the violent rays to illuminate a peaceable destiny Were illusionary realities conform to the whims of a veiled deity, This goddess! A mystifying inferno doing its own radiance faster What a fuss! So light-footed as love yet so heavy-footed as war As if to justify the whirling gloom of despair Like the bleakness of the morning cuckooing rooster Or the dog which barks at his own image in a pond; “What startling veneration” Mortals without remorse still aspire to find The misplaced diamonds and daffs upon the beamish ground. Muhumuza Kenneth Ezra.

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May 25, 2010

May 25, 2010 at 3:46 AM UTC

muhumuza-kenneth-ezra

~Gloaming imaginings~

Spells of chieftain splendor Bespeaking of loyal grandeur Now the eye clearly sees without fear At dusk! The ancient kingdom of Assur? A flight in time and space from afar? Was that ingenious creativity of flair? Still bids indubitable eternal mystery! Are clothes on man an anecdote of utter hypocrisy? Is sarcastic humor a precursor of hidden sinister? The animals hereof show their ****** Undertone tinges of impeccant simplicity Stirring poignant Achilles' heel character As an infant suckling the breast of saccharine nature; Lo! And behold… Sage mortals envisage a grotesque quest for a promising stage, Regnant and dignified? The new-age psyches’ beatify and feebly beg "Reform, in fact, is, rather softly, on the win” The lighthouse flashing against the sleet-blurred fig twig As every sacred notion becomes an unwavering origin certain, With no remorse that mankind can now ascertain The bewildering incarnation of science in religion! Like a single lily among lilies in a dark dungeon Great spirits now encounter violent opposition “Un-awakened Children silently screaming with pessimism” Hiding within the smooth sacred mask of personality Yet the fear of “the unknown” silently plays a drowsier symphony Calling back the violent rays to illuminate a peaceable destiny Were illusionary realities conform to the whims of a veiled deity, This goddess! A mystifying inferno doing its own radiance faster What a fuss! So light-footed as love yet so heavy-footed as war As if to justify the whirling gloom of despair Like the bleakness of the morning cuckooing rooster Or the dog which barks at his own image in a pond; “What startling veneration” Mortals without remorse still aspire to find The misplaced diamonds and daffs upon the beamish ground. Muhumuza Kenneth Ezra.

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days are spinning by and i think this is what remission feels like empty apathy and struggle i wish i could write better things but this is all that i feel. constantly losing battles is so hard we play a losing game monopoly maybe i long for the person i used to be or is this the person i’ve always been? hold flowers between your fingers and think long and hard about something something that you want real real real bad maybe it’ll come true probably not. so full of pain trying to be subtle i should be bleeding word choice alone should have given you a clue and the consistent undertone of raw pure unadulterated angst and bitter humor that isn’t funny at all. Adventures In Good Deeds i helped pick up the trash and i thought about volunteering at a soup kitchen if only i could find the on switch 5 Hour Energy . am i decent enough for one word biographies? do i hold enough presence for silence? can i afford to not begin my sentences with sorry? i am barley a person just a body with good organs and no license to complain “ma’am kindly shut the **** up no one cares.” that’s what they’ll say to me i’m sure the thought police who hate me and i don’t feel anything towards them because i am nothing but apathy and stupidity i don’t deserve anything not joy or bad i don’t deserve either not because i’m neutral but because i’ve never done anything to feel anything not that i am undeserving of feeling the bad things but there has been nothing in my existence to make me feel spoiled brat woes and hearts sealed with classical silver duct tape maybe a dash of pepper on a delicious meal that had no need for pepper i don’t Patchwork Happiness on the dot 24/6 sunday’s for church where the atheist goes because he fears and dreams

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Dec 5, 2013

Dec 5, 2013 at 1:30 AM UTC

dash dot dot dot dash

days are spinning by and i think this is what remission feels like empty apathy and struggle i wish i could write better things but this is all that i feel. constantly losing battles is so hard we play a losing game monopoly maybe i long for the person i used to be or is this the person i’ve always been? hold flowers between your fingers and think long and hard about something something that you want real real real bad maybe it’ll come true probably not. so full of pain trying to be subtle i should be bleeding word choice alone should have given you a clue and the consistent undertone of raw pure unadulterated angst and bitter humor that isn’t funny at all. Adventures In Good Deeds i helped pick up the trash and i thought about volunteering at a soup kitchen if only i could find the on switch 5 Hour Energy . am i decent enough for one word biographies? do i hold enough presence for silence? can i afford to not begin my sentences with sorry? i am barley a person just a body with good organs and no license to complain “ma’am kindly shut the **** up no one cares.” that’s what they’ll say to me i’m sure the thought police who hate me and i don’t feel anything towards them because i am nothing but apathy and stupidity i don’t deserve anything not joy or bad i don’t deserve either not because i’m neutral but because i’ve never done anything to feel anything not that i am undeserving of feeling the bad things but there has been nothing in my existence to make me feel spoiled brat woes and hearts sealed with classical silver duct tape maybe a dash of pepper on a delicious meal that had no need for pepper i don’t Patchwork Happiness on the dot 24/6 sunday’s for church where the atheist goes because he fears and dreams

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This is you, Its about you, how you adorned a veil And hid beneath it all your life. When the deepest of your thoughts, Turned and gave their evil smile, All you could think was how much In the dark, you could be who you are. And looking at the mirror All you could see were the scars. The despair in your voice Sadly no one bothered to give you a hand. You'd pluck at yourself all day and night Thinking what you see is all that there is to what you are... This is me, myself and I This soul behind the skin, no longer has a voice, a heart An undertone, I choose to hide in the dark This mirror lies, but I can't see through that Clawing at the surface, stabbing at the fresh wounds, Letting the blood flow, maybe slash and burn There should be something behind this disgrace This face, no perfection, no longer a sight The curves of my mouth always turned down And my eyes can't see past the tears... This is all just me, Its about me, how I see myself In the mirror, in someone else's eyes How I close mine, not even dare to look At the demon that stares back.

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May 31, 2014

May 31, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC

meenu-madhavacheril

This is you, Its about you, how you adorned a veil And hid beneath it all your life. When the deepest of your thoughts, Turned and gave their evil smile, All you could think was how much In the dark, you could be who you are. And looking at the mirror All you could see were the scars. The despair in your voice Sadly no one bothered to give you a hand. You'd pluck at yourself all day and night Thinking what you see is all that there is to what you are... This is me, myself and I This soul behind the skin, no longer has a voice, a heart An undertone, I choose to hide in the dark This mirror lies, but I can't see through that Clawing at the surface, stabbing at the fresh wounds, Letting the blood flow, maybe slash and burn There should be something behind this disgrace This face, no perfection, no longer a sight The curves of my mouth always turned down And my eyes can't see past the tears... This is all just me, Its about me, how I see myself In the mirror, in someone else's eyes How I close mine, not even dare to look At the demon that stares back.

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