"versed" poems
There are roots that
delve deep in our bones,
wrapping us like our skin.
They define who we are.
But,
who am I?
I am learned, sophisticated,
well versed in history and language.
My companions are numbers, papers, pens, and letters.
I drive a fine silk suit: shiny, clean, fragrant...
Though
am I, really?
Or am I
one who acts the opposite?
One who is
surrounded by those who have numbers, papers, pens, and letters as companions
whilst I am with pebbles, leaves, sticks;
driving a worn out hide made from a dying pig.
Or maybe,
I am both...
No.
I am not common folk who act out the Streets
on a home lined with shiny rocks,
smooth paper on a lap,
twinkling fireflies hanging from the roof
whilst displaying what I've learned from being raised around uniforms and books.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 7:42 AM UTC
The router's a strobe light;
I can't connect.
The microwave fritzed,
I can't heat.
The circuit shut;
guess no electricity.
Ayo no technology.
Let's talk ancient
philosophy,
NOT whether
Beyonce is a feminist.
Let's have a bonfire
and roast meat
cause none of us
were vegan
before this.
Let's light candles
in the streets.
Pray batteries die
on LCD screens.
Cause we were alchemists
before technology,
the versed probing
the multiverse,
thrilled,
lighting our golden
embroidery on life.
Now were just bored.
Coy toys to tied strings,
webs that touch
everything,
but the space between.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
Hot as Fire
cold as ice
she encapsule
a chapel
of heaven
and hell
her universe
well versed;
I dwelled.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 6:12 PM UTC
It was in the end of September,
The kashmir trip i still remember,
The thought of going to the heaven on earth made me feel so excited,
I was happy and delighted,
Our eyes filled with enthusiasm and hope,
And to kashmir we wanted to lope,
Just the twelve of us,
There wouldn't be any ruckus or fuss,
We were accompanied by ma'am Handa and Mr. Pandey,
We enjoyed everything from gondola rides to our house boat stay,
We went to places like Sonamarg and Pahalgam,
We'd get tired reach the hotel and apply Jhandu balm,
We enjoyed all our horse rides,
We were accompanied by well-versed guides,
We always managed to take out time for shopping,
From shop to shop we went hopping,
Kashmiri kawah and authentic Kashmiri food for almost every meal,
Would make the tiredness for long distance walking heal,
A Kashmiri wedding is also what we attended,
For back and forth rides on shikara we depended,
Oh! But to sum up I have to say,
In kashmir we loved it each and everyday.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC
They say God is the most important being,
But don't they realize
He's the one
That sends us to Hell?
And don't people understand
That by teaching someone to shoot,
They become vulnerable?
Dramatic irony.
Maybe we should be
More versed in Shakespeare
Than in the Bible.
Maybe then
I wouldn't have so many bullet holes
In my back.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
Somewhere, amongst the debris
of cigarettes after ***
chemicals to induce sleep,
I forgot what it means to love.
I forgot what it means to breathe,
to sit still, and just be.
Somewhere, beneath these hooded seams
of solitude and well-versed grief,
beats a heart less cynical,
less tamed by vague distraction.
My nervous ticks and bad habits,
line of best fit for a near-hit
of satisfaction:
This is not enough, I know.
This is not nearly enough
to cool the bray of life
that still rattles meaning in my bones.
I forgot what it means to love,
what separates a house from a home.
Somewhere beyond this thirst
for brand-new words
is a gratitude for all that has been.
Every cliché holds a truth.
Every sentiment, a cocoon,
that I should lie so still inside
until I am wholesome,
until I am new.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 1:41 PM UTC
His name purred on her lips;
She loved the way it
Rolled around on her tongue,
Loosened her vocal chords
Every time she said
his name aloud,
It felt as though she were
Becoming more and more
Well versed in him;
His character,
His very being
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC
(explicit)
**** my soul
with poetry
scream out my gracious name
slay me with words
that peel my layers
and simultaneously
drive me
insane
finger me slowly, hotly
with just the right rhythm and rhyme
push me past my
tender limits
into tongues of syntax,
sublime
alliterate my senses
(in swift stac
c-at
o)
until my mind is but blank verse
mess up my stressed
and unstressed syllables
in unsung language, versed
I will speak to you in vowels
(the only sound
I will be able to make)
as you stroke
my iambic pentameter
in the heat of frothed-up
ache
we are this heroic couplet, you see
even if the meaning seems veiled
no need for simile or metaphor
as I feel your chest rise
in deep inhale
we are a natural paradox
so many ironies abound
discordant harmony
is our synaesthesia
in visible darkness found
and I love this delicious enjambment
as your aura invisibly slips
into mine
our lines have no beginning,
no end
as we undo
the boundaries
of time
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 5:18 PM UTC
Swept in on the sixth of the first
Icy winds sluiced on dripping fleecy snow showers
I saw a raging storm coming with vile foreboding nursed
Staple in peace in love in goodwill laid a fitting banquet for all hours
Rewards for toil and strive in minds attuned and goodness versed
I knelt supplicant before my Lord
Laid my just heart bare and without fear or dread
laid a ringing vow as in warmth or bellowing thundering cold
I rest in the forethought I am girded to sail sun's flames un thread
For no blooded being can justly state I harmed or injured in my fold
I will walk this vale of tears
Meet with demons and the ****** of the outer worlds
Face the volcanoes in hell and shame blazing red lava ingots
I will not cower before deadly serpents or baulk at icy frozen walls
If I fall I will stand again an again till God's time uneaten by maggots
I implored my Faithful Lord
Take me down grind and cast me asunder and bereft
If this be ordained that an innocent soul pays an unjust price
The darkest storm has raged wild and furious a depraved joy theft
My God upholds me and holds that truths and honesty never a vice
[email protected].
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
Not-father’s day today
No morning breakfast tray.
Nor card soppily versed
In filial love immersed.
Children in great array
Their father love display.
Each post that father lauds
Cuts as a thousand swords.
The words ‘I love you dad’
Not hearing is so sad.
We sit and pine away
On this not-father’s day
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 6:54 AM UTC
Can the unstoppable force overcome the immovable object? The waves have been a teacher with more wisdom than any I have ever had before. Something so constant, so committed, so unflappable as the lapping or crashing of the waves upon the shore. If you need any evidence of her relentless nature, look no further than the foreshore, great boulders and cliff faces worn down to grit. A true mechanical entity, with precise surety, well versed in engineering, mathematics, weather patterns and fluid dynamics. Who would have thought a philosophical question would have an engineering solution? The answer is no, but the question lacks precision, it doesn't quite paint the picture as it happens. I dive into the crashing waves, stretched out long, offering no resistance, the wash thunders around me but still I glide forward in the water like a shark, no resistance. I am the immovable object. Suspended weightless I overcome the unstoppable force by holding ground, offering no resistance as it rages around and past me, trying to capsize me or push me backwards. The way of the seas, the ultimate peacemaker.
The parallels to life do not need pointing out thus, especially to those who fight for justice, the Davids versus their Goliaths. History's great peacemakers have been here before, the art of war is in passive resistance, principled adherence coupled with civil disobedience, your silence is considered tacit acceptance, so be not silent but give unto Caesar that which is Caesars. The fight is an uphill playing field, you must play by their rules, or the game is over, but you can win by their rules if you know where they bend. So stand peacemakers, face rows of riot shields, plow fields as Te Whiti did, collect salt as Gandhi, be not silent, tip toe that fine line between real change and hard time, wherever you see injustice speak, and seek conciliation. Peace is not achieved when nations put down their guns, peace is achieved when people embrace their neighbors as their brothers and sisters. It is achieved when people no longer speak of peace with longing in the same breath as cursing the person that parked in their carpark. Be peace and you will see peace, wish not to see it in the world if you cannot be it in your world. Change yourself and the world changes with you. So can the unstoppable force overcome the immovable object? That much is up to you.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
Seven sit around a fire,
burnt marshmallows on two foot sticks
stuck between grahams,
talk *** and film.
Had her naked like Kate Winslet,
not Titanic Kate,
but Little Children Kate.
**** on the washing machine
behind Jennifer Connelly's back.
But the part about Madame Bovary,
who really needs feminist literature in a feminist film?
Okay, maybe it's classic romantic...
I felt lost like a pebble
sinking in the ocean
five miles deep
in the Puerto Rican trench.
I hadn't seen either movie
nor was I well versed
in feminism or romance.
My mind drifted to my first time.
Started with a french kiss
from a Latina girl,
at a house on Cleveland Ave,
I wish I could remember more.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:15 PM UTC
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?!
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 6:45 PM UTC
*Onward, soldier.
Onward.*
That’s what they all
tell me, but
let me
slow down for a moment.
There’s a little something I gotta
say,
Thank you.
To that swing set in Greenhills Music Studio
San Juan City,
without you,
I’d never have learned that sometimes
it’s the other way around—
feet in the sky and head on the ground.
Mrs. Arambulo, the swing set’s owner,
who made sure I was well versed in
sonatinas and arpeggio scales
before I found out they’d already made
a piano that didn’t need tuning, and
Ma, who’d test my memory by
asking me if I
could recite
whole paragraphs at age four,
she’s why I remember things like
the smell of pilmeni,
the color of our first house’s carpet,
and nine page spoken word poetry,
to everyone behind that old kids’ show, Bayani,
watching it in my
second grade HEKASI class
would bring me to tears each time — no kidding,
you all paved the way for my homeland’s history
to make its home in my heart,
my English teachers from
sixth all the way to eleventh grade,
who all believed and still believe in the words I put down on paper
and spew out on dark stages armed with imagery and the Spirit,
you made me fall deeper in love with the way words can be waves
or flames,
Dad, who taught me
to climb mountains, to read books,
to let myself run free among the nations
but to always remember to leave a part of my heart at home,
to the four little boys I met in Hong Kong,
if we meet again, I owe you a better explanation to your question,
“Why do you dance?”
thank you for asking me that, and I’m sorry for my cowardly answer back then
but I’m braver now, and
I promise it’s for more than just fun or exercise,
it’s for this God I hope you get to know,
and to every Philippine history teacher I’ve ever had,
keep teaching like that,
we need more young ones who’d be willing
to die for their homeland,
you taught me that there is so much more to this country
than its own people tell me, so
burn on.
and make sure they catch fire.
*Onward, soldier.
Onward.*
I’m not sure where I’m headed,
but I’d rather be uncertain of the road ahead
than forget
where
I started.
I’ve told you mine, now
tell them yours.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
Know this—I am well acquainted with the wolf,
Well versed in his ways, his demeanor,
His dispassionate relentlessness,
His pitiless focus on hunt and hunted,
His workaday disdain of pity.
There are those who would laud the mythical Spartan lad
Who hid the wolf beneath his cloak,
Affecting some gallant stoicism
As the beast consumed him without restraint,
But I say to you that is a mere romantic fallacy,
A wanton failure to apprehend the true moral.
I have learned that there is no accommodation,
No covenant to be reached with the wolf,
And any attempt to do so is merely to invite destruction,
And so I choose to engage him openly, without reservation,
Rolling tail-over-teacup in the streets,
Attempting to hold his jaws open with bare hands
While those who find such battle unseemly and uncouth
Jeer and hoot from porch and portico.
No matter, for I will continue to meet the cur on my terms,
For staid suffering in the hopes
Of reaching some accord with the beast
Is the not the act of the noble sage:
It is the mock heroics of the coward,
The sad acquiescence of the simpering fool.
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC
Gemini's are known to dabble in arts of all kind; Well-cultured, well-versed and rehearsed in both rhythm and rhyme.
From music to magic and everything in between; Learning lessons as they unfold with the change of each scene.
We cannot be contained within wires nor hidden behind screens. Energy is everywhere; We choose our frequencies.
Disconnect from electricity and experience the ever-natural waves. Break harmful traditions of doubt and unobtainable change.
We are not alone.
This life has no range.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
Nothing familiar is the answer
It is always someone you don’t understand
Finding meaning
Outside our own means
As if they have nothing to lose
And they don’t
They do not think of their parents
Or what they were taught
Except for facts
Warding off
Things that are unexplained
Strange
Scary
Secret societies
Dystopian
Cold
Every institution of man
Rejected
As man withdraws from convention
Stirring the drink
With a hint of every influence
Without burden of form
Changing course on a whim
Fully versed in possibility
Stopping along the way
Every corner
To explore
For days and days
Forgetting the mission
Except to learn
A being of discovery
Courageous failures
Skeptical of every word
Unless it is their own questions
Enduring shock
Smiles instead of fears
No sense of consciousness
The natural act of a man unafraid
Except his own existence
Because then he has to acknowledge yours
And though he loves you
He cannot just sit next to you
And watch flowers return to their rightful place
So you can grimly smile that what you always wanted
May only be counted in moments instead of days
That become years
Though each moment is what he wanted all along
Because time is nothing to consider
Except how much remains
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
I've always been in place,
in situ
Maybe (just maybe) ...
I'm sui generis?
When my lifeline intersected with spacetime on this continuum
I found myself moving toward a collision course with duality and non-duality
Moving towards a zero-point
What are we talking about?
Nothing (Rafelski & Muller, 1985)
As a geographer, the mimetic expression was dualistic
As one plane flowed through another;
as fiat lux flowed through Medicine Rock
I found wisdom
I further explored the duality @ this place
(also known as University of Lethbridge)
The U of L is an interesting duck
It walks like an Albertan university
It talks like an Albertan university
But one of these things is certainly not like the other
The U of L got its chops as a house of learning for the Liberal Arts
Follow those roots and you'll see conduits to another spacetime known as UCBerkley
U of L memetics share material memories from the birth of the Free Speech Movement (1964)
And as Arthur Erickson drafted up his plans for Canada's centennial gift to the Province of Alberta, I'm sure he would have been partaking in the pleasures of this particular spacetime
I'm sure at the very least that he was listening to Hendrix wax on about Castles
As Erickson designed this modernistic monolith called University Hall
There were influences such as Arthur C. Clarke and his novel 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
He was certainly knowledgeable of the Blackfoot stories of the Old Man
And of course as an architect he would be versed in gravity and how built structures on a slope tend to creep toward base-level
Strange but true, Erickson's first degree was in foreign languages
So what I see is Canada's premier architect wrote a poem for us in 1968
In a foreign language
And that poem would be expressed over the next forty to fifty years
Some of those primary poetic elements were:
Berkley, California
Hippie Movement
Creep (or gravity)
Base level
Blackfoot creation stories of the Old Man
Jimi Hendrix poetry and his savage musical genius
"and so castle's made of sand melt into the sea, eventually."
So let's reinterpret that line to be more U of L centric
(through my glossy apertures)
"and so monolith's made by man melt back into god eventually."
........ ....... ...... ..... ..... .... ... .. . zero~point . .. ... .... ..... ...... ....... ........
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
Have you ever found yourself quivering
outside of lines
stained
by what you thought was a love story?
Wondering
if you will be swallowed whole
by the window you sit and stare out,
in love's well meaning glory.
Beneath passion blowing through the door
visiting your mind
like those little things
filled with a warmth
you have wanted
for so long.
Often, you find life
is at its happiest inside your dreams,
where nothing's wrong.
Sometimes in the middle of the night
you want to be
a never-ending flow of love
smiling at the hands
on the Clock of Emptiness,
stuck in place.
However, time melts into years
until starlight becomes well versed
at hiding the shadow of tears
on your face.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
I made a list of all our kisses, starting with just ‘kiss’
Which in the heat of passion was italicized like this:
kiss, then emphasized in variations Kiss! and KISS and KISS
Which even though ethereal somehow added to our bliss.
And later in IM we found that we could really KISS!
I mean in theory still, of course, for physically we missed
The real touch of real lips and autres choses on that list.
And there were funny graphics, I can’t reproduce them here,
But you know the ones we used a lot, they all meant kisses there
The hearton built with < and 3, which always made you smile
And the asterisks and emoticons we used once in a while
And let’s not forget those x’s which a net of crosses wove
*** and xxxx, our ****** book of love.
Soon added to our kisses came words like longingly,
And tenderly, and lingeringly and gentle morningly
Sometimes we gave it lots of tongue, but loving nibbles too
Whenever I’d le pout or tears your lashes would bedew.
These are the ones I can recall, probably there are more
I’m sure you’re itching to remind me from your memory’s vast store
And you can tell me all about them in some poetry well versed
But my love, before you write it, you’ll just have to kiss me first.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 10:17 PM UTC
I saw you on the news again, aiming lies at civilians
You work like a serf to abhor the herd, which was merged by Lords to bore and encore, like a trap door in a dungeon.
What you earth and managed has got me famished, like the dense or pretentious, the meek and the senseless
And type endings to the finest that cry less, the winos that digress, or the shyest who digest
The plate which was purchased, paid to feed liars by the loudest were poisoned by us rebels running incense to the proudest.
Violently passive when distracted, these masses wreck havoc to have their heads handed to them
Sullen sweet to deter, you lure and reserve what is versed or inferred or implied or implored
Like the goodbyed or complied or the ladies waiting with lunacy lining their luxury gowns
Your disheveled and neat demanding appearance has me locked down with pirates and principle pilots
Dulled sick, they spy less, echo with insist, enlist and exist
As terrorists and presidents
Marked with malice making misfits that were mocked and disgraced, maced or laced by daydreams and magicians to assist beggars behind blueprints constructing islands
Which make slaves in to riots that capture journalists under wide tense
To suspend or impend doom sent hell bent by your priestess
You conduct chaos with fast hints, but quit slow when engaged with your conscience
Touched by divine tricks
Decided and destined, best in business
Prince of the wise man
Captain of the compassionate
Comrades with the crack heads singing anthems in kingdoms
We are heartbreakers painting bad graffiti
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
Warmed sand from the hot day slides between her slider toes,
Her soft delicate ankles flex so tenderly with each step,
Smooth calves pull taut with petite strength, yet so frailly,
The falling sun dances on her hip and thigh seductively,
(A woman of complete ****** power, yet seemingly helpless,
Only as fragile as the tip of the golden dagger she bares,
Her greatest power is in your pleasures pleasingly fulfilled,
For once she has you clasped then her bidding can begin,)
Widening hips well versed in shifting her gently pooched belly,
A belly, so sensual, adored with melted elemental perfections,
Colorful beads to draws eyes to skin like petals of a newly bloomed rose,
A belly that when shaking releases all your heart's troubles and woes,
(When she loves, her warmth is ten times the sun on a cold night,
But if you were to oppose her, you are the prey to the panther's delight,
She will give you everything your heart could ever desire,
A kindness that burns inside her for her lover like a bellowed fire,)
Fluid, water like hands tell a story of enchantment as they slice through air,
Caressing a ***** so supple in form, a tear drop design of sexiness shown,
Gentle and smooth as her beasts gyrate with motion as her body moves like waves,
Her hands the constant agonist starting a seductive chain reaction through her body,
(A passionate heart awaiting a love so true, searching for her warrior poet,
She controls her world with her feminine wile but craves a life that is true,
A man that values and respects her intellect, equally as much as the view,
And look into her eyes to see the beautiful goddess that await him,)
Long flowing black hair loved by the wind, teasing her curls as she spins,
The beauty of her face only second to Nefertiti, but her eyes that of a goddess,
Eyes reminiscent of a feline capturing the attention of the strongest man,
Emerald green, deep with passion like the ocean, and rival its beauty infinitely,
A dream that I see her in and long for her intimately......
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
It is a quickened erosion of the spirit
culminated in bad habits
a crisscrossing lattice
over and under like a ferret
Its too small and quick to fight
this parrot is breaching thoughts with its well versed screech
Luring the cavalry into its cancerous reach
Benighted by several regiments of blight
Enticed by visions of a name spelled in the constellations
Do not forget you are a child of the stars
The strength within you contains quasars
A single mind, your mind, has the ability to illuminate a nation.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC
Visual delusions:
*Scrutinizing the acuity of
what is visualized.
But sight is only validated
by the morality glazed over.
Until narratives are edited
to mimic a reality of self delusion.*
Oral formalization
*Dictation versed within syllable
delusions, never sounding
the reflection of thought to breath.
But sour exhalation collects on
vacant windows, spelling other
than what is breathed outwards.*
Auditory silence
*Auditions drummed within,
echoing on shallow walls,
nothing wrote within
A tirade of failures woven with
three perceptions. Collective ignorance*.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC