"verbosity" poems
What truly is the definition of righteousness?
Is it determined by act or by mind?
They say a good man fights for justice, peace, and prosperity.
But then, can a man of such moral truly remain so
if he turns to violence as an answer?
Does his intent to create marvels render him of moral status
though his methods may empower death and promote war?
Oh, this man is peaceful himself,
taking letters instead of bullets to battle
but his lyrics dislodge society in a manner not all approve
and so begins combat.
Can this soul carry such holy title,
if the repercussions of his strung together words are strung up necks?
Or is the good man the one who turns away from the world's fight
to be his own embodiment of ethical beauty?
For the one who remains silent causes no direct pain;
he himself is passive and tranquil
and moves to inspire such conduct in others without commanding it.
But his silence encourages fierce vehemency and wildness.
Does this fact not taint his name?
The first man had pure intent,
but with his tongue he spit sparks
which others used to ignite a fire and burn the world.
The second did not fight himself
but his chosen hush could never end the blood rain,
and so his lack of sharp verbosity allowed knives to flash and blood to spill.
So I will ask again,
what determines morality?
Though this time with a grounding response;
morals define morality.
Each man's mind renders his own flawless ideal individually,
and so one's perfection will always be another's monstrosity.
In truth? There are no good men,
or at least not one to all.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
Pernicious mind, stop eating me!
Incessant head, oh, can’t you sleep?
I’ve moved beyond mental
Have approached the eternal
But god’s still a mystery
at times I’m a husk
Shrinking back at times
from light of open mind
Find a spot to fester
if I’m feeling like a sore
Swaying mendicant head
of sweating adolescence
Jacking off verbosity
Shut me up, Oh Lord!
Now all given way to
spiritual ************
********* a smile if
I’m too tapped out for joy.
****** slips away,
I’m naked in God’s hand—
Surrendered to the will of
some other spirit’s blood.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 8:23 PM UTC
the fountain of poetry
e'er threatens to dry up
yet the inspirational words of Beryl Dov Lew
re-supplied my dwindling cup
with his advice duly given
my expression's reservoir fills to capacity
in a most generous
flow of endless verbosity
had he of not encouraged me
to keep the pen's ink spilling
my Hello Poetry pages
would be empty of shilling
with a mentor of Beryl's calibre
positively re-invigorating my oft dry fountain
I am ever assured of a verse
brimming unto the highest mountain
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 7:50 PM UTC
Mnimalists uproot everything,
Aiding natural entropy.
Poets can do likewise.
Omit redundancy;
Scorn verbosity,
Make words work
Hard.
Articles shunned,
Prepositions abhorred;
Conjunctions - need none.
Edit,
For our sake.
Snip,
Fit words together.
Make words work
Harder.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=Betterdays
**as is my wanton wont,
when stumbling
upon a new voice,
the passed baton
is herein handed off**
am old man.
my poetic voice is just
memories that are
repetitive lies and lines.
speak in simple sentences declarative.
this is nature's way.
darkness approaching is indeed my
au courant poem, mon actuellement.
I have seen better days.
I have read betterdays.
now I am upset, distraught.
here come another young
hot bright votive voice,
and I am being asked to believe that there are
still words that raise hopes of
betterdays.
her bed chip crumbs, delighting,
leave crumbs of pleasure in my soul.
l like her big word poems,
that leave me, fill me by:
*siphoning all in a parched gluttony
leaving behind a viscous residue
and few glassine portals
into a reflective world*
better yet I love her
mothering little god poems,
letting me remember little boys
who once loved a father
*little god love
radiant is thy smile,
smallboy love, exudes from you,
like a flower god's nectar,
bestowed, with negligent love,
upon a mother's world.
i will drink my fill,
everyday, whilst i can,
for far to soon will you
grow up.*
don't speak eastern Australian,
tackers and doona's, no clue,
blue cats are a foreign breed,
but the cat of this starfish mother,
shares my literary tastes:
*him, nestled,
on the second, to
uppermost stay,
of the third
bookshelf,
in the study.
he has filed
himself,
between,
ogden nash
and proust
and it is there,
he plans to stay.*
let me not go on and in deeper, lest
I delay you from her pleasuring
thy tasted untested senses.
so here I am all grumpified
(at my age, you can make up your own words)
unsure if un or satisfied,
knowing that a woman,
word whips me into a
soothing frenzy of creamy
morning coffee verbosity,
a captive taker of life's
ungrandest moments,
poems of them,
make to glory come.
somewhere in the world,
a woman writes of plain goodness
of simple strife and simple lives,
makes methinks that there could be
betterdays still ahead,
better poets surely, than me,
and the day starts well
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
I cannot recall the precise moment of my arrival at Anhedonia
memories blindsided by a phantasmagoric comorbid collage of cant
precipitated by some newspaper reportage or holocaust story
some creepy instance that breached the precipice between simple sorrow and permanent melancholia
some fatal blow that cinched the deal
some horrid event that could not heal
some dejected disappointment that could not be resolved
some moment of unguarded clarity when integrity dissolved
nevertheless I have arrived at this mangled juncture
élan a mania not even Edison's medicine can extirpate
I was quite lighthearted before the inferno
before my brain broke
ennui now a turgid companion
feeding on gaiety, never sated, seeking famine
esurient unrelenting usurper of happiness
go away, leave me alone, relish some other soul's madness
gone is any exuberance, glee or mirth
miseries are mine, many the days since birth
better I was carried from the womb straight to the grave
a fatuous existence, clamoring and grasping in vain
it's as if I was born into a well
but these waters they burn
the bludgeoning alcohol a liquid hell
Oh florid loquacity, you are an impostor
your verse is an adversary
a foray of jagged rhythm justifying a storm
a sordid verbosity assuring no norm
a plaintive scratching guild of recriminative collaboration
some alliance of fulminating disquietude
the cost for the fare on the adventure to:
the stunning moment you too will visit Anhedonia
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
*Tell yourself to breathe
as the stratosphere is falling,
imagining verses tumbling
midst downpours' dissension,
sans sentimentality's
loquacious language,
and the land is left barren
as verbosity disintegrates
and emotions wholly perish
'neath fickle cloudbursts
of poetry's extinction*
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 7:12 AM UTC
Verbosity
kills
Intimacy.
Hugs
deliver
care.
Hearts
talk,
Kisses
translate.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 8:15 PM UTC
never fall in love with a boy who
speaks in lavender soliloquy and
smells like cigarettes and melancholy;
whose kisses leave you in nirvana and
whose flesh lays in some lovely façade;
for he is a poet, a philosopher, and a believer
whose mind will disappear into breathless purgatory
when you're not even looking
and by the time you'll find out
you'll already have lost him somewhere,
between wandering verbosity,
and ashen wordlessness
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 7:11 PM UTC
My poetry is an acquired taste,
So come, dear one,
Place your tongue in my mouth.
Pace yourself, there is so much,
Spoke and unwritten,
That fruitions only when spit-shared.
Flick your tongue-tip to mine,
Sealing bond, the salt caramel of my rhymes,
The iambic meter of my tamarind prose,
The buds, flowering, poems forming,
Watered by the admixture of joint, minted saliva.
My poetry, so very complicated,
Hints of currants and ash,
Soil volcanic, basaltic vowels, oh's and eyes,
Cursed verses that commence with I,
Nonetheless, despite soil inhospitable rued,
Compositions flourish, born wetland soluble.
Yours, for the taking,
Yours, for the tasting.
You place your fingers on my waist,
My body of work to contemplate,
My ditties, you spit out,
You want courses, not appetizers,
You want truths, not fluff, lies, menu tastings.
Columbus and Magellan, thy fingers named,
Trace the curvature of my ***
With tip and tipsy stroked caresses,
You laugh with the pleasure of all the sssssss's.
Hissing all the day your satisfaction,
Capturing my writs, by your tongue's duress,
Recipient-thief of my literary largesse.
I am dressed all in white,
Stripped bare to my native coloring,
Except for two brown nippled spots, you lick,
Imbibing milky thoughts from fountain-heads *****
Savoring, relishing, stanzas that praise love's flavor.
With every line, every word-painting accessioned,
You make my soft parts hard,
My hard parts soft, but my liquidity,
My tears, they, that, you drink straight,
Licking, liking, and oohing and ahhing,
You tongue curled, upside down arching,
The storage point of your seduced gatherings.
To drain me full, your incisors cut,
Straight lines, entry points for your *******
Taking, draining, leaving nothing,
Not even one aleph or bet escaping.
When you acquired my poetry, my verbosity,
Pillaging soul's hiding place, took and *****
Your acquired the best, breaking my nape,
Imprisoned on and by my island's seascape,
Blanched and pained, a blank tape,
I am tasteless, witless, mockingly, tongue-tied.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
Sitting beside her
Watching her slowly break to pieces
The only thing keeping her together
Were her thin calloused arms
Clasped tightly around her heaving chest
I couldn't bear it anymore
I love you...
I blurted out hastily
Before the significance of what I said could settle in
But I couldn't take them back
The words now stood between us
Floating in the silence of my confession
Her eyes widened and bloodshot
Arms wrapped tightly around herself
Hair left in a messy half tied bun
She sat just an arms distance away
And all I could was see beauty
In those runny kajal lined eyes
Coloured a warm shade of brown
I love you I specified once more
Her stumped silence more annoying now
But better, much better
Than one filled with her tears
I've loved everything about you I explain
More for my own sake than hers
For my mind could barely process such a confession
I love the way you dance to the corniest of songs
When you think no one can see you
I love how you spend an hour just figuring out makeup
Only to walk out with just lip balm gracing your face
I love how you try to dress ****
But would rather get married in a pair of boxers
I love how you're a hard core geek
But still can't resist an episode of Greys Anatomy
I love the contradiction you are
As changeable as the winds
But always steadfast when I need you
I love that awkward smile
I love that messy bun
I love those over sized t-shirts
I love that sarcastic mouth
You are not as weak as you believe
Your scars are what I love most
And how you show them off with pride to the world
Your imperfections make you perfect
And your...
Before I finished this sudden display of verbosity
She kissed me
Wrapping herself around me completely
For our imperfections we loved
And no person would make us erase our proud battle scars of life.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 1:36 PM UTC
I woke up to the pious sunlight of broken dreams
drenched in the faded tear drops of yesterday
arcing like a broken rainbow down empty streets
leading to the septic tank of tomorrow.
Resplendently dressed in rhetoric
silk woven by congenial weevils
frantically fed on gypsum and diesel
weaving verbosity with loquacity
table a motion to make independence illegal;
keep the status quo unequal between certain people.
There once was a dream called change
proclaimed to be the prize of revolution by some
restrained and contained as hyperbole by others
the disenfranchised left muddled in facts unexplained
the vocal ambivalence of political unrest is to blame
as Union Jacks march on Glasgow with steel toe-capped boots
and in the George Square riots the Saltire burns in flames
as history repeats itself
and the thistle of Scotland is ripped by her roots
the first act as a welcome back
into the fold of the commonwealth .
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
☺☻☺☻
When painters who paint about painting
meet writers who write about writing,
self-conscious redundancy
bordering lunacy
ends in esthetic in-fighting.
These modernists, right about nothing
(mostly nihilists mad about something)
are so lost in the process
they vent all their excess
in metacognition: dull writing.
You poets who muse about musing –
unaware you are reader-abusing,
provide a terrific
verbose soporific,
yet not of the hearer’s own choosing…
I long for some righteous verbosity –
but I’m stifled by all the pomposity.
This dull erudition,
“sub-metacognition”,
is but an artistic atrocity.
You thinkers who think about thinking
drag my spirit far lower than sinking.
What we want is a Word
which we haven’t yet heard –
so till then I’ll just drink about drinking.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
Words, once obedient servants
Now claim suzerainty over ideas.
The age of meaningful verse has yielded
To gobbledygook.
Poetry, a grey mist half-understood
Through which I stumble blindly,
A mirage I chase through the sands...
The wells of creativity run dry.
Neither outpourings of emotion nor tender murmurs;
Mere craftsmanship remains.
Lines dolled up in ****** baubles
Literary ****** soliciting passing readers,
Fireflies, impotent
In the face of the darkness within.
The autumn harvest of verbosity is ripe
For the scythe of the Grim Reaper
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC
Verbosity
A patchwork quilt that I roll roll up in
Stitched with syllables
Like a little phonetic sausage
So deep inside you can't hear me go
Dur dur dur.
(insert self-deprecating quip about being a wiener)
laughing track
But it's cozy and neat.
And if you do
I'll rubix cube your dearest mind
Til I'm tucked deep inside once again.
And I'll softly pontificate about the genetic code
and how it made your irises not quite hazel
But still able to illuminate spontaneously
teal, laurel, cyan, the sea
And if you'll pardon my hyperboles
They draw me strong as an Atlantic tide
This ocean that ***** me the deepest inside
Aesthetically, the contrast is startling to your skin
An artist would capture the portrait therein
But really, all you need to know
Is they're the prettiest
prettiest ******* eyes
I've ever seen.
And I'm sorry
That when I get nervous
My heart is a little effervescent
My words become too efflorescent
(I seek not to strangle you with King's English Shrubberies!)
As you stand before me, incandescent
My dread is that you're
Evanescent.
...
But that thing about your eyes.
All you need to know.
That thing about your eyes,
Not to mince words
But I think
I'll feel that way always.
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 8:27 PM UTC
its not like i traded up
or for that matter down
every cog still turned to the left
each lever, still up and down
it started like an episode
of ricky lake
and ended abruptly
on springer
im in the sound proof booth
judging those who stand encased
aside me
i should leave before this gets ugly
indiscretion led me here
fortitude kept me
embarrassment fed me words
and loss encapsulates all
every stitch
the joy and glee
lost to ants in a wildflower patch
it stings now
verbosity rivaled only by impetus
but quickness
if only counted in months
falls short with words
im sure there's a happy ending
a call in the black of midnight
in a letter carefully opened
through a kiss tentatively given
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
I could never pen a string of words
Sentences
Idioms and general verbosity
that will be capture your beauty like a photo
I could never capture an angle
Lighting
Aperture and timing
that will capture your vivaciousness like a video
I could never record a motion
Expression
Presence and fluidity
that will project your nature
like being by your side
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 6:42 AM UTC
I
am of
vulnerability
authenticity
empathy
fun and
assertion.
I
am of
devotion
humbleness
health
tolerance and
skill.
I
am of
perseverance
learning
pathology
deviance and
contrivance.
I
am of
purging
expanding
contracting
worth and
contrition.
I
am of
polity
deference
you
me and
verbosity.
I
am of
humour
kindness
kindred
kin and
Ki.
I
am of
the earth
the wind
the fire
the driving rain and
the glaciers crevasse.
Who am I?
I
am
one of your tribe and
I need you tonight.
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 2:13 PM UTC
In a weary series of redundant repetition.
I feel less of a hearty player, but more of
a lethargic field whos reapings are to far from succession.
Evolution happened somewhere along the
way.
Somewhere along the way we forgot there's nothing more powerful than the verbosity of our name.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
12 days in the wilderness
what solitude hath brought…
a paltry sum of windy words
silly abstractions with the scent of turds
wandering the cedar dotted mesas,
once a vast and dreamy sea
inspired nothing in the verbosity of me
now home from the night walks
the ghostly winds that had so much to say
yet if I heard them, the words are hiding
in some wavy web of cells, firing blanks
when I aim at the blissfully blank page
who am I
to defile this space,
with puerile pecking
when the white wisdom of the ages
eyeless, stares at me
admonishing me
that words can
beguile the shrewdest master
by convincing him
they do not exist
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC
**Letters fill my lungs
As I fight to breathe, to live...
Still choking on words**
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
*You dropped my faith in the gut bucket
I thought you were to be trusted
I was sadly mistaken once again
a dependable friend is a commodity
your perfidious words slayed my credence
the testimony can be found in written word
inconceivable after what I've been through
intentions of loyalty misconstrued in your head
never fed the fire, never asked to be rescued
a fraternization in need was what was spoken
my hand in friendly alliance was not enough
crumpled trust wrecked, strewn bits pen'd on paper
i may be broken but these cracks are uniquely mine
in the meantime i nursed you whilst in desperation
should have known you were radioactive
by your past nefarious grievous verbosity
you corrupted every sentiment set forward
a bitter fire to light for public consumption
hard pill to swallow being openly ripped
aspersions cast within my treasured love of words
it was always about sheer joy of shared poetry
the lunatic in your head took a giant leap
landed in my cup of realistic doubt
bitter taste took a dive in my elixir
yet another painful lesson ingested
you drew your sniveling sword unjustly
then cowered amongst those you spewed upon
little do they know the wickedness of your ways
far be it for me to come to rescue any
who'd listen to the likes of your grotesque tongue
put your big boy pants on, you fight like a girl...
who the **** do you think you are?*
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
Poetry comes in many themes and schemes
Don't care much for long winded written ostentatious verbosity
Full of riddles they expect me to unscramble
To quote "Bukowski" :
" An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way
An artist says a hard thing in an easy way"
The best for me is: Enigmatic prose
Well structured ...That I can then define as Art
If I entertain you with what I write
Then you may decide if it is Poetry
And then If... i am a Poet
Apr 8, 2010
Apr 8, 2010 at 4:35 AM UTC
***So weak is the mind
That the heart feels drained
Evaporating love in respire
Pretending inviolate love
Has a place here
Ascension of the soul
Negated by nocturnal verbosity
Insipid words of discontent
Exacerbated by the irrationality of emotion***
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 4:51 AM UTC
The guise of a false hope warily cloaks
an unkempt soul bereft of fortitude -
stolid in the belligerent face of unnamed evil,
an aura of past opulence adulterates naive purity,
the stigma augmented by an insidious breach
of internal asylum. The vulnerability of
a soldier against oneself takes precedence
in the chasmal crusade yet to come; omniscient
intimation gives way to dour prophecies,
ambidextrous in their intricate verbosity.
Molten in the inferno of cross-interrogation,
pliable in the hands of a mortared veteran,
reiteration serves only as a gibe, a grievance
only the most foolish jester would make
before a corroding monarch. The demons
have rallied for annihilation; the starling
warbles an aria of capitulation, its notes
reverberating through the tentative sunset,
a sky of gray and orange mingling with the song
to convey an unequivocal defeat. But after every
dusk comes a period of resurrection, and from the haze
emerges a heroine unrecognizable if not for eyes
ablaze with scarred determination. She strides
with the strength of ten thousand legions, a leviathan's
courage uncovered in her still-beating heart.
The devil flees, uncomfortable in the blinding presence
of mortal accompanied by heavenly body. This -
this is redemption for armor lost, the answer
to her yearning prayers that had been barely audible over the
convulsing sobs that had swallowed her for so long.
Finally vanquished of the toxic beast that had claimed her,
she rises victorious, proclaiming amidst glory a single word -
“Checkmate.”
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC