"versifier" poems
all i see now are the silent ruin
of words teeming with wisdom
in every trail. you are gleaming
in the moony boondocks,
Ibabá remembers you as you were -
timeless and ruminative,
pursuing the source of rivers.
our sublime versifier,
the crucifixes now tremble without
the fullness of your flesh.
each page is turned without
the hover of your voice yet
stills its resonant message in my mind's premises like redolent graffiti.
striding river-pace,
once in moonlit Orfeo
graced by your sibilant being,
leaving only the strongest of impression
on the surly couch, a toppled glass
of Shiraz remembering your attendance
leaving the clamor of the audiences
real to touch, elusive in thought.
before the war was the ever-present word, and after the fray was
the armistice of the Sun where in
humdrum Sampiro, your fire's genealogy
is in the hands of the muse!
idly go the hours, wading everlong past
Calle Herrán - the bells of Paco Church
tell in this imperfect hour
the roads where you once traversed,
travailed and perhaps beer-maddened,
putting a face in the metaphysical!
in your banquet i partake
the wisdom of your wine
and the reason of your flesh -
the gods delight in you,
o, Manila of all Manila.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 2:05 AM UTC
This hushed wind brings about a smaller piece of perpetual silence
Swayed by the similarities of tree leaves and people
Life ahead of a dawn regarded to wake nonentities
Reminded not of the deafening undertones inside a mind
Forlorn versifier levy the elegiac deterioration
A trepanation of dreary memoirs too sore
to cull a pain so congenial.
Life seems a responsible suicide.
© 2012
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC
A sketch
A cigar burning,
smokes,
loitering indoor,
the acrid smell,
abrading,
the undersize room,
a solitary versifier,
at a table with,
rose motif,
scribbling,
the longings of stars for the clouds,
the pyrotechnics flickering,
the heat of wine,
evanescing.
Sleepless,
in the dead of night,
the fountain pen,
stranded on the paper,
staining,
arbitrarily,
till the break of day,
rendering,
ink wash painting,
a lifelike,
buttonneire of roses,
delivering,
words unspoken,
intricate sentiments.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 2:26 AM UTC
A rhymester inscribes his notions in rhyme,
A versifier writes poetry in metered verses.
Another one does a free verse to write at will,
As a poet I do my own style which maybe bad.
A poet for me is someone who does an art;
He does rhyme, metered verse or free style.
His subject can be any matter under the sun,
It may portray about romance, myth or reality.
A poem I believe does not have to be literal,
It may state something superfluous or specious.
But if delve closely may meant a thing of logic.
And will instill a better understanding about life.
Nobody really is a bad poet except me,
Even commits mistake to write for poets.
For expressing my own opinions about them,
Is merely a token of myself as poet who shares.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 3:51 AM UTC
Person who can smoothly run a man's LIFE
could only be his WIFE.
Being single you can have your breakfast on the streets under the sun
but wife is the only one which can make several dishes out of bun.
If your wife is as sharp as knife
than you have the opportunity to live a quality life.
Why most of men find jokes regarding WIFE SARCASTIC,
have you ever thought without wife would your life be FANTASTIC.
From my perspective:
"BEING WIFE IS NOT LESS THAN A PROFESSION WHICH IS FULL OF COMPASSION AND DOES NOT REQUIRE ANY QUALIFICATION TO ENHANCE HER FAMILY'S COMPASSION,WHEREAS,
IN RETURN SHE DESERVES ADMIRATION".
-Propel Versifier.
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 2:38 AM UTC
Random thoughts occur to me in poetic meter.
I tend to write my poetry like the childhood pastime
of connecting up dots
until those random thoughts coalesce
into my latest piece of verse.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC
I saw different RELIGIOUS PREACHERS
but who teaches the religion of HUMANITY are our TEACHERS.
Teachers FACE
for STUDENTS its like a GRACE.
Jesus is worshipped on EASTER
but there is no specific day to worship the TEACHER.
TEACHERS SMILE is like a DIAMOND MINE which makes students life WELL-REFINE.
I would like to quote a saying:
"TEACHING IS THE ONLY PROFESSION WHICH TEACHES ALL OTHER PROFESSIONS."
-Propel Versifier.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 3:18 AM UTC
sometimes I wonder
where new words
will come from,
all the words juggle
for position in my mind..
my thoughts grab onto a few,
puts them into an order
that might create sense;
perhaps they will succeed
or maybe I need to dig
a little bit deeper to
find that one perfect word,
that makes it fit together..
sometimes the words just
glide gracefully along with
a harmony of their own;
but at other times
it can be a
painstaking process that
can cause much agony,
until the right words are
pulled from my mind,
landing side by side
on my blank paper in
some mystifying fashion
that brings me
satisfaction
Apr 7, 2019
Apr 7, 2019 at 4:35 AM UTC
do·mes·tic vi·o·lence
noun
violent or aggressive behavior within the home, typically involving the violent abuse of a spouse or partner.
po·et
ˈpōət/Submit
noun
a person who writes poems.
synonyms: writer of poetry, versifier, rhymester, rhymer, sonneteer, lyricist, lyrist; More
a person possessing special powers of imagination or expression.
paint·er1
ˈpān(t)ər/Submit
noun
1.an artist who paints pictures."a German landscape painter"
2.a person who paints buildings, walls, ceilings, and woodwork, especially as a job.
Are you seeing my body as a portrait,
With painted fields of flowers and streams?
Not a picture of a one night stand and a text forgetting my name?
“I won't regret this” his husky voice kisses my ear.
He paints with purples and blues across my thighs,
And around my neck.
I was always told to never fall for a painter because
Once they finish their masterpiece
They are on to the next, tossing away the last one.
I became a sculpture, with bodies as my canvas
And my nails as my tools.
He was painting my body, as i was carving into his.
Leaving marks and naming my territory.
Soon i discovered i was made to be a poet,
Striking people with my words,
No longer using my fingers to leave messages but my voice.
I learned to hurt people in the best ways.
But in worse ways he left me.
~a.u
November 26, 2:13 PM
When I had first wrote this, I was in the back of a friends car. Thinking about the future. We never really know what all could happen. At first, my poem was about a intimate relationship between partners, but towards the end, it shows an abusive relationship. After reading many books, seeing posts we get into relationships with people we do not know until it is too late. In awareness of those who had suffered from
Domestic violence, abuse, **** here is my poem, Painter.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 10:36 PM UTC