"voluble" poems
Miscommunication
serendipity, anticipation,
blurred reality -
lost in the dialect
of a dream,
in pursuit
of Love
find callous irony;
subversion of desire
what's it all about?
to know and be known.
Mere seconds
of scrutiny
inferior,
I am shown.
Her appraisal
eviscerating
my warm flesh,
her tilted criteria
supplanting the interior,
voluble with
saccharine neologisms
and preferences
for the exterior.
(not mine)
Ironic was my
attraction to
her brain.
Lines, features
and symmetry,
image - the commodity,
aesthetics, the
currency
in this transaction,
cursory liaison,
incendiary,
collapse of the
insurgent ego -
there was no
us in the
the affair of
nothingness.
Bruised in
abasement,
I'm not the one -
I thought I was.
Hyperbole -
the center
of delusion,
a curious
diversion -
avoid my life.
The allure of
the illusion,
transference,
the ordinary to
the romantic,
the perfect other.
Searching, the
absorbing project -
aquiring wholeness,
did she reject me?
I rejected me.
The escape into
fraudulent
sadness,
to mourn,
is to displace,
the disowned heart
by self is tragic.
Should
I not mourn for
the one I'm
deferring?
Inside of me
It's safe,
to lament
the loss of
identity -
tension is agony
without resolve
sequestered,
in my pain,
self-imposed
familiar terrain,
upon retrieval,
awaking in
renewal,
mystery and destiny
providentially,
I am free.
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 8:08 PM UTC
The living reality of a metaphor, almost every ounce in-taken,
Every nuance, every pronounce, measured, weighted and weighty,
Fluid or firmament, each encapsulated, prior to release, scaled,
Tabulated, ordered, noted, recorded, and ultimately judg-ed.
Totality of it all, the varied quantities of the ingested nutrients,
even the forecast of the future, if every day was a metaphor for
like today…
DO
I speak of the day's headlines?
Of the quantity and nutrition that passes through my lips?
Or
The surround sound of the surrounding sounds of this day,
the flocks of bandito geese who exist only to torment,
the landscape working crews, with their tools, like a 7::00an wake up buzzing about, for the entire street, going house to house, looking for itinerant grassy knolls of patches of bright green,
overnight sprung up and needy to be
guillotined,
laundry to do, rugs needy for clothesline screaming/beating or merely super fast vacuuming;
they, hawking their skills available for the old and infirm,
or the fatty catty cattle lazy, (somewhere in there is moi);
and the decibels of their machines, the rat-a-tat of their rapido, voluble speech that feeds me poetry by the ounce of their laughter, but more exactly of,
What do I speak, to what do I allude?
Why all and none, everything and specifically nothing,
for the metaphor is meta! (1)
It is life itself, from the quarter teaspoon
to the overflowing bath, it is life at its most incremental,
the moment
of flushing face,
the second
of ah ha! recollection, the,
long term trends
trending,
the flatline of my EKG,
the weighty pronouncement of my talking scale (you've been bad),
IT IS THE EVERYTHING
that is measurable, weighable, isolatable, defined;
it is our existence of our each & every of action and inaction strung together like a necklace and a chain
We are metaphor, reality, is, the script,
which is the product of you.
scriptwriter…/
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 6:17 PM UTC
The doctor of Geneva stamped the sand
That lay impounding the Pacific swell,
Patted his stove-pipe hat and tugged his shawl.
Lacustrine man had never been assailed
By such long-rolling opulent cataracts,
Unless Racine or Bossuet held the like.
He did not quail. A man who used to plumb
The multifarious heavens felt no awe
Before these visible, voluble delugings,
Which yet found means to set his simmering mind
Spinning and hissing with oracular
Notations of the wild, the ruinous waste,
Until the steeples of his city clanked and sprang
In an unburgherly apocalypse.
The doctor used his handkerchief and sighed.
3k
living life on paper sheets,
in between nights and days.
paper planes that'll never reach their destination.
phone calls that hang dry like raw art.
painted sculptures are a fantasy,
my sensory hands, are voluble,
in evening's breast.
the clock moans for tomorrow's ******
and it's dull hums yesterday.
like raw art, on winter.
hanging dry, devoid of existence.
only citizen of the dead soul.
Jan 7, 2022
Jan 7, 2022 at 11:36 AM UTC
A Golden Brown Mexican Royal Eagle proudly soaring and gliding on invisible æther:
Human Eyes from the ground: dark, attentive, following the Raptor's deadly arc as it ascends:
The Mexican Brown Royal Eagle spots
A frightened Doe:
The dark eyes from the leveled plain:
a startled double-take,
follow the rapid Eagle's spiraling descent:
The vaporized cloudiness slashed;
A cinematic flash
of hide torn
and shrieking delight
are jumbled,
and echoed
through the void:
The Raptor is
Voluble butcher
As it devours,
Sinewy flesh,
Peeled from broken bone
leathery skin and
curved horn;
The Dark eyes moisten
While the scene
Fills His Eyes;
What Beauty juxtaposed:
Death And Life Are Just
A House
Inhabited by
Swift
Or
Quick
The Fortunes Named
In The Game
Called
Life Or Death.
J Eduardo Ramos©
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervours: the tall maize
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven,--
Their bases on the mountains--their white tops
Shining in the far ether--fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet ****** from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays its coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?
Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud top, and now
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes!
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders of the brook,
Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.
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Gaia sighed. Not a sigh like lovers sigh looking deeply into each other's eyes. This was a sigh of resignation. In all her long life, there had never been a time she felt as unheeded as now.
Yes, there had been a time once, a time of oneness when all her multitudinous inhabitants had coexisted, when species knew their place in the chain of life and cycled through their existence, not always at peace but with respect for one another: the lion hunted the swift gazelle which in turn fed on the fruits of the trees, parasitic birds and insects grazed upon her and they in turn were the prey of others. ‘Yes,’ Gaia thought, ‘there was a time.’
She sighed again. She remembered when humans first came to prominence in the twilight of her existence. To them, she was the Great Mother, the Creator of life. Was it not she who bore all her inhabitants and was it not to her that they all returned to continue the cycle?
Gaia felt old now, old and forgotten. That respect, that devotion was all gone now. She felt the hurt as the careful balance she had sought to maintain was eroded, not by wind and elements, but by the ravages of humans.
‘They have overstepped their bounds,’ she mused. ‘They must be taught a lesson.’
She pondered on that thought for a moment and for a moment felt a surge of effervescent warmth flow through her form. But grim reality broke through her musings and she shuddered at the horror of the reality. Her memories were dim and misty now. She could remember her birth but only just. How she had taken form from the cosmic flotsam and jetsam all those countless aeons ago. She remembered the youthful exuberance she exhibited then and she smiled in embarrassed recollection. No life could have survived upon her surface then for she was wild and wilful, hot and inhospitable, prone to savage outpourings. But she grew, she gained the experience of time passing, and slowly, slowly, her voluble exterior became calm and gradually her form was blanketed in a kindly cloak of life-sustaining gases. The soup of her oceans spawned and multiplied a myriad of lives and forms and she thought of how many she had seen come and go.
The present again broke through her meditation of what has gone before. Now she was approaching the nighttime of her existence and, like the old elephant, one of her favourite inhabitants, she knew her time was near. She had tried so hard to adapt, to compromise but, like a cancer, the human scourge had spread beyond all control. Oh yes, there had been a few voices raised in concern and some, she knew, spoke with all the sincerity she knew the species was capable of. But, those voices went unheeded, listened to by a few but ignored by the many. Gaia was tired. She hurt. Sol bore down on her savagely, relentlessly and she felt her protective shroud growing weaker and weaker as every moment passed. It was now, the time had come...
© David Simons 2001 (revised 2016)
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
Now I'm in the turnips and string beans of poetry:
It's like, you think you'll grow up some day
And live in a two story house with swimming pool,
And a two car garage, with a six pack driveway.
Things turn out differently, though you might think
You'd spend whole days devouring Dickinson, Keats, and Shelley,
Drinking fine wines with tidbits of exotic cheese.
Then you find out you'll live in a one car rented garage apartment,
Over a couple always yelling or making love-
There's no in-between; and you never know which it'll be
And if you're mistaken for the significant other you might get
Bopped with a lady's spiked heel or an army boot.
Then you find out that you're the couple
But you're always too busy to make love;
Love is no longer scheduled like bowling night,
It all depends on uncluttered horizontal surfaces and spare minutes-
And the wine turns into beer, when you can afford it
And the nightly budget pizza is the only dough you'll get
It's constipating; but the words still get squeezed out.
And the poets you're reading now aren't dead:
They're urbanely unkempt, and you know them personally,
All their quirky habits; writing poems at bus stops
In a voluble rush; writing words on cafe napkins,
On discarded want ads and torn paper sacks;
And none of them are well known, and none of them are rich.
But they're poets all the same, they live and breathe
The written word, and you're no different, certainly no better,
All of you shooting up words and slang nightly,
Weighing out the soul of the latest idiom,
Choking on cheap cigar smoke and wishing you'd written that,
And thinking you could have done it worse-
And suddenly some night, you look around you
You realize you're living poetry, and you don't care anymore
About rich and famous- because now it's your addiction;
None of that mattered anyway, for only poetry holds any reality now.
Everything else is imaginary, and all the poets started out this way;
Nobody knew them or gave a rat's ***
And they went on writing just the same
As if it were the most important job on earth they'd been given.
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 2:02 PM UTC
Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals,
And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep
Like whispers of the household gods that keep
A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.
And while for rhymes I search around the poles,
Your eyes are fixed, as in poetic sleep,
Upon the lore so voluble and deep,
That aye at fall of night our care condoles.
This is your birthday, Tom, and I rejoice
That thus it passes smoothly, quietly:
Many such eves of gently whispering noise
May we together pass, and calmly try
What are this world's true joys,—ere the great Voice
From its fair face shall bid our spirits fly.
1.5k
They asked, "why are you as silent as a stone?"
She replied, "why should I be voluble as the Mynah? My heart and tongue are deprived of goodness just like a desert, deprived of a sea.
Another voice said, "Ergo, redundant talk comes with unbearable guilt."
They asked again, " if so, why do you not speak the despairs you hide?"
She replied, " Because, the gift of patience usually reigns.
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 8:13 AM UTC
A thousand god-eating plates in a summer wind
Listen, china-white, to the audible inaudible that flanks
The paint-chip, earth-red bridges. Susurrations weave
Through grass with spider fingers; following curves in seashells
As a voluble electric screen who Speaks as dew and taste.
Water is depth beyond what can be acquainted with memory
Or fancy. Watches turn delicate, May-lace and wedding night
Music: Vertical, Veiled, Very. Dust in the stream lisps
Headily to shore, rests by a forgotten child’s shoe,
Bronzes it like mother’s finger and burns like daybreak.
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 2:46 PM UTC
Tired yellows on infant flowers
Are like resignation on new lovers.
Rains drop, when the sky blinks;
Fetching tears on abandoned brinks.
The sweaty smell of gestation,
Signifies the mangoes’ manifestation.
I close my eyes and hear
The inevitable drum roll caving near.
Spring reclines under the parapets of roofs,
Crushed like a migrant under our carriage hoofs.
Summer.
The Harbinger of Life.
Possess these seeds and fertilize
Their voluble dormancy
In the flames of insurgency.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 6:21 AM UTC
~
The Great Switch Off
*louder in its silence,
than a flicked light switch
in the midst of a midnight-darkened house
more crackling than the slowest
of lasting gunshot resounding re-soundings,
of the ice pond white coverlet shredding itself apart,
by its own voluble volition
I hear the switch
switching off,
the giving-in, taking over,
the surrender negotiations
swift concluded with just those you know,
two words
let the anguish languish,
the discipline,
become someone else's disciple,
just let me be
well familiar this on-off moment,
well recalled from all prior nine lives,
exactly the where and the when was,
I gave up on trying,
but never needed the why
cause the why was inadmissible,
tampered evidence, dampened down,
tainted lies and justifies
tomorrow I'll restart, re-equip,
cause the catching up with lost sleep
a minimum week,
to require, to reacquaint,
with the on-demand, life props
for properly slacking off*
***the oldest loudest sound
you have and will ever make,
the crack of self-deception,
when your mind lies to yourself,
this latest, greatest switch off is only
temporary***
~
Feburary Nineteenth, Two Thousand and Sixteen
5:49 am
nyc
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
Mientras haya
alguna ventana abierta,
ojos que vuelven del sueño,
otra mañana que empieza.
Mar con olas trajineras
-mientras haya-
trajinantes de alegrías,
llevándolas y trayéndolas.
Lino para la hilandera,
árboles que se aventuren,
-mientras haya-
y viento para la vela.
Jazmín, clavel, azucena,
donde están, y donde no
en los nombres que los mientan.
Mientras haya
sombras que la sombra niegan,
pruebas de luz, de que es luz
todo el mundo, menos ellas.
Agua como se la quiera
-mientras haya-
voluble por el arroyo,
fidelísima en la alberca.
Tanta fronda en la sauceda,
tanto pájaro en las ramas
-mientras haya-
tanto canto en la oropéndola.
Un mediodía que acepta
serenamente su sino
que la tarde le revela.
Mientras haya
quien entienda la hoja seca,
falsa elegía, preludio
distante a la primavera.
Colores que a sus ausencias
-mientras haya-
siguiendo a la luz se marchan
y siguiéndola regresan.
Diosas que pasan ligeras
pero se dejan un alma
-mientras haya-
señalada con sus huellas.
Memoria que le convenza
a esta tarde que se muere
de que nunca estará muerta.
Mientras haya
trasluces en la tiniebla,
claridades en secreto,
noches que lo son apenas.
Susurros de estrella a estrella
-mientras haya-
Casiopea que pregunta
y Cisne que la contesta.
Tantas palabras que esperan,
invenciones, clareando
-mientras haya-
amanecer de poema.
Mientras haya
lo que hubo ayer, lo que hay hoy,
lo que venga.
1.1k
¿Cómo era, Dios mío, cómo era?
-¡Oh corazón falaz, mente indecisa!-
¿Era como el pasaje de la brisa?
¿Como la huida de la primavera?
Tan leve, tan voluble, tan lijera
cual estival villano... ¡Sí! Imprecisa
como sonrisa que se pierde en risa...
¡Vana en el aire, igual que una bandera!
¡Bandera, sonreír, vilano, alada
primavera de junio, brisa pura...
¡Qué loco fue tu carnaval, qué triste!
Todo tu cambiar trocose en nada
-¡memoria, ciega abeja de amargura!-
¡No sé cómo eras, yo qué sé qué fuiste!
995
Words carry weight
Sometimes you can even see
The strength and immensity of their power
I’m reminded of wizards and sages
Who spilled over their voluble incantations
Illusions made real by voice and rhythm
With lips and wisps and flowing tongues
Chords and cords plucked and strung
Watch carefully now as lives lean to and fro
At the immeasurable strength of words
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
“**Few people know how to take a walk. The qualities are endurance, plain clothes, old shoes, an eye for nature, good humor, vast curiosity, good silence,
and nothing too much.**”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
<>
A late-in-life walker, the words above resonate in my mind,
with a check, check, check, check and a voluble ding, reading
and nothing too much”
many a poem mine labored, birthed arrhythmically walking,
eyes see verses, verses fill the mouth, mind desperate as
the feet unceasingly trod round new corners, new visions,
Emerson’s words remind my well worn weary path daily renewed, a vocabulary child re-newborn, and how to keep all this forever,
until tomorrow, and nothing is everything all too much carried over
and nothing too much”
speaks to an openness in every orifice, be prepared scout-boy,
to adapt to nothing too much as hours earlier now recalled are ancient history, mind staggers at the minuscule differences tween yesterday and this exact moment in this exact place that has been reimagined, deserving of recording, notating, and my desperation struggle to
semi-successfully delineate, report, on all these
mini-magnificent miracles countenanced, overwhelms…
the brain furnaces/furnishes a thousand thoughts, a million worries,
slew of infinity-sized emotions like love of children, so it’s confusing to window-peeking strangers watching for the walking man with tears pockmarking his cheeks, unaware that his each stride is a story, a unique grace forward and too, backwards, history mine, reviewed, graded, and the comfortable shoes, the old sagging clothes well worn and beloved, fit like gloves, whispering in the good silence,
a lamb sacrifice to the
**good silence,
“human, your foibles and deeds, admixture of
blood inherited, a morality crafted by ancestors,
so the next step is
alway$*
and nothing too much” and everything…
Sat Dec10 2023
Shell Beach, Central Park, in my mind, and nothing is perfect
Dec 10, 2022
Dec 10, 2022 at 8:02 AM UTC
the initial purport
this literary effort delivered atchew
to reed constitutes hazmat tocks sin
within White House blew
per, viz thee president be
getting a Hollywood love story
with "Stormy Williams" despite brew
haha murmur, now dapper Don in deep doo doo
thus, this garrulous married pro LIX prone papa flew
off (like a bat out of hell)
to his Macbook Pro laptop presenting myself
implicating Trump as po' faux guise Mister McGoo
affiliated, confused, and explained
being on par with Winnie the Pooh
especially stuck right tub bear arms in grr...
Rabbit's House, now he doth stew
nsync, nonetheless this path a logical
rhyme stir on the straight and true
composeing grist sill for ye to view
now, nar hating, hit ting
private links provide attention turned toward
two thousand twenty presidential election campaign
no Iron nee, anno putter opportunity,
how he diplomatically strived, and nearly scored
to boast asthma, overt braggart, stalwart
asper ideal consistency of cement poured
affiliation, aggregation, and attestation moored
prevails ma (Jack booted - magical) lord
rolling back to Timbuktu progressive liberal
Democratic initiatives star Apprentice
sans ("NO LIES") being linkedin, he almost ignored
with voluble chattering class hud hoard
hobnobbing (with the likes of Missus Muir's ghost,
who resort to Matthew Scott's turf brand),
reconstituted, recycled, and repurposed, gourd
nonetheless Trumping protocol necessitates me bing bored
predictable feigned "FAKE" non accord.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 10:31 PM UTC
...Eres tan misteriosa como la voz del viento
Eres tan atrayente como un abismo ¡Abismo
lleno de rosas frescas! ...Eres, como el contento,
expresiva y voluble. Ama el romanticismo
tu alma, le dispensa igual recibimiento
a la blanca ilusión que al ***** sensualismo.
Eres tan turbadora como un presentimiento,
y cruel y a la paz piadosa, tal como un espejismo.
Por esas vaguedades que en tu ser adivino,
por saberte dudosa, por saberte imprecisa,
y porque nada esperas de Dios ni del destino.
Yo amo tu alma, sutil como un jirón de brisa,
y tu cuerpo estatuario, que son la ostia y el vino
con que consagro a Venus esta erótica misa.
812
gOd
must have
been somewhere else
for he had forgotten there
is a planet called Earth
squall of the morning harboring at bay
the howl of the wind rampaging
through the tired streets,
i take no sorry hints from the bends
and turns, nor did i hear the gutter weep.
only the baritone snarl of the swathe
of brute air through the entire vein
of the city.
here now is the voluble thwart,
crumbling in the heart of it
are mere species, the slavered hounds
of being chained to verily existing here, even the infinitesimal
were not spared in the glib downpour.
windows shut deep into stillness,
the automaton shadow submerged
in delirious light, as winds once again
with unannounced perditions
uplifting the nails, tossing the
alloys like birds swift in the catapult
of breezy flights, lives sojourning,
some left only a scarring story,
or just prodigal and nothing else.
carcass stench carves its reek
in the onlooker, the rat **** foams
altogether with the brine, a cesspool
of unheard screams dwarfed by
the circular roar of the grey behemoth
showing only its unblinking eye
running, searching for a place
to go less terrifying
than this, a bearable departure,
or a hopeless sling at rescue,
luckless imperative,
today's vibrant children,
ashen tomorrow,
gone.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 10:46 AM UTC
“Whatever happened to Tuesday and so slow?” ^ or
Absolute Absolution
<>
the slow Tuesday fragrance fills the nostrils,
Van Morrison in my earbuds, reminding that
“This Must Be What Paradise Is Like!
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here…”
Sea salt spray spicy sauces the atmosphere,
Many boats, some silent, noisy too, transverse the eyelids,
entertainment of the vista, decorating time’s motionless motion
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here…
the voluble hush, delightfully confuses mes sensories,
noisy cacophony orchestral avians, waves, and a human voice,
punctuate the music, absolute absolution of mes sensoriels
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here…
Indeed, it is a Tuesday, and the slow of the surround sound,
vanilla spotted with rainbow sprinkling of the noise of life,
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here…,
so full, so rich,
so vast the strands of colored variegated, perpetual motionlless
moves me to tears, steals my emotional refuse,
I too,
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here…inside of me…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~—————-~~~~
(1) Lyric from Brown Eyed Girl, Van Morrison
Nov 6, 2023
Nov 6, 2023 at 3:47 PM UTC
Whispering strings
lithe fingers
Touch
Lovely to longing
to listlessly
pluck.
Voluble vibrant
vigor yet
light
Haunting and heavenly
wraithlike and
slight.
Harmony human
melodious
sharp
Gracious and gorgeous
most beautiful
harp.
S~S
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
contructs that are
made of parts.
a new whole function
persists.
no switches.
changes are intentional
in the design.
desire from subject
as if dance
made a
baric battle
bless the ground
matchsticks animated
from dust
are
insoluble
voluble in
incantation that
are
lazy laments . shifts
of pressure from the
id (who understands nature)
to the ego (who esteems in published forecast)
in flows of gritty water
the dust people that travel
on the wind
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 9:03 AM UTC
How to describe the era we live in today
one filled with a constant diatribe
of those beliefs that were once treasured
Now it seems the more bellicose one appears
the more they are held in high regard
with those that are voluble taking center stage
Being peaceable is now a quality to endear
with the denunciation of the common good
replaced with boisterous chest beating
Antagonism is the order of the this time
using social media to be pugnacious
and argumentative the norm
One can only shake ones head
to the contriving that has infected our humanity
with machinations too wild to believe
We are besieged by the need to be superior
to the people that share our streets
is this because our voices have been drown out
We vilify those who dare denounce
this way of being with venom
like that of a deadly snake
Hoping to silence those that oppose them
with a tyranny of fake news claims
neither verifiable nor accurate
Into this world our children are being born
what will they learn
that belligerence is the way to get ahead
Pity us all for we will all rue the day
that we collectively chose leaders
who embody these qualities
Andreas Simic©
Dec 23, 2017
Dec 23, 2017 at 8:45 PM UTC
"The brine of sunrise has been aggregate to my life,
The Sea filled with love and emotion so have thou?
You fill my heart and soul with complete rapture,
Our hands embrace itinerant as the sunlight appears,
“I will want my antediluvian voluble to win your heart,
To continue to serenade and catechize my love,
Sonnet of love that will cajole your pleasures,
At this radiant time with a perpetual perpetually attire,
Her kisses taught my lips to embody the flame procured,
Her mouth has taught me the fervor of emotion,
As our sensations mount to an unrivaled high of sensuality,
Came into a demur yet noble fathom delectation of love,
Her celestial auspice lustrous as the morning calm sea,
You begin to rue with pleasure as you have never before,
As the imaginary ethereal sunbirds fly above the brine below,
So is the sweet scented bouquet of your amour femininity,
I love you as the calicoes pompon of the sea love the deep brine,
As briny deep spawn calamus into neophyte perennial enclaves”
By AG 5/20/2020 © HP
Sep 14, 2021
Sep 14, 2021 at 3:21 PM UTC