Poem | |
Violet, a lovely lady, kin to Purple, can be a contradiction.
Between her fellows Red and Blue (yet more inclined to Blue),
she lies with a calm passion! Unique and unconventional is she!
A symbol of humility, through the ages she has listened to confessions
as she draped the shoulders of Roman Catholic priests.
Yet often in society, she’s been seen as extravagant and vain!
Just for having embellished the rooms and the attire
of monarchs, emperors, and princes,
and just because Violet is flattering to the yellow found in gold,
should she then be punished for her wealth of beauty?
Should her shades with other lovely names such as
Lilac, Lavender, Amethyst, and Mauve
be seen in any other way as simply gorgeous?
Perhaps for her ambiguity as she shifts to deeper reddish hues
then back to cool blue, she is perceived in western culture
as uncertain and ambivalent, for she is not popular with the masses.
Van Gogh, however, understood her,
painting her as irises and showing her in swirls of stars!
And in the oriental world, where she is extolled,
she radiates the sublime harmony of the universe,
as the melding of the yin and yang of red and blue.
Violet, who sometimes spreads herself splendidly
across the twilight skies
and peeks out from rainbows,
is a beauty so rarely seen in nature
that the birds, stones and plants that she enchants
are not even too numerous to name.
Have you seen her purple pearl or coral in the sea?
Have you heard the song of African violet-backed starlings?
But oh! Violet loves flowers. . . Besides her small sweet namesake,
She colors crocuses, petunias, asters, geraniums and pansies.
Not many other things in nature does Violet cling to,
yet she adores the grape and plum,
and with a certain whimsy, she’s charmed purple cabbage,
the turnip, eggplant, and beets!
Rare lady in nature, Violet, my adored, why is it that you are not more loved?
As I cross a field of lavender and breathe you in, the answer to my question
Poem | |
What is life?
Euphonies, cacophonies and chromosomal anomalies
intertangled destinies and illusive methodologies
Occurring in obscure dimensionless time
Millenniums fertilized to create the sublime
Perceived by ideations so pure it would seem
To exist beyond mind and to all in between.
Lingering as lore to an all distant past
There is no redo, there is no redraft.
The questions, the answers so rightly proclaimed
are composed and transported by thoughts still unnamed.
In limited struggle, the moments unspent
Become the result of a living lament.
In what and wherefore and why and with whom
we unwrap our existence in this paradoxical womb
Can we find meaning, a clear sign that we see
inclusive to all, this existential decree.
From naught made of all and conceived in a star,
we landed on earth, neither near nor afar
For reasons unknown and telegnosis unclear,
These salient projections are all jockeyed by fear
We stand in the way of unknowing surmise
And find the world is still much a surprise.
A quest overwhelming in distressed sanity
For answers not known play havoc to vanity.
To end these remarks with a questionable phrase
all becomes known in 'one of these days.'
From the moment of birth to when we die, life presents us with dilemmas and questions that amuse, titillate and confuse us. As we get older, we realize that what we thought we knew was all pure conjecture. This poem is meant to reflect the myriad of disjointed thoughts that have run through my mind throughout the years. The "why me?" and "what is my purpose in life?" questions usually are met with ambiguity and incoherence.
Many of us are beleaguered with these conceits and although some find solace in religion, for people like me it becomes an existential never ending struggle.
Poem | |
In their dreams…
Whisper indoctrinated dialect
Upon my harrowing song
Remove that scented, plastic tulip
Place it upon my oblivious palm
As if we’re in a Sadie Hawkins dance
With petal currencies
I woke up only feeling like a thousand bucks.
A foreign knock-off made of recycled, rubber bolts
Tell me I’m priceless with borrowed, high-interest breaths
Liquidate my potent complacency
To become that symbol of an elitist humanity
Stroke that clouded, diamond tip
With your sensual thumb
Love stamps of approval
After 6 months of quickie penetration
And co-signatures on dilapidated apartment leases
Take me to our creator!
Tell Him I am free!!!
I will stand here in virtual observance!
Wait, where are you going?
Come back to me!
COME BACK TO ME!
My wheelchair’s batteries are fading!
How will I stand?!
Sadly, they never validated their reality…
©Drake J. Eszes
Poem | |
Dark thoughts emerging from a lifeless spirit,
a wandering ship sinking into the remotest depths;
denying itself reality and its sense of comfort...
and was ever there a lighthouse to disperse its darkness?
A captain stirring his erring ship,amid furious waves,
for an imminent and fierce war,
not noticing the making of its destiny...
fighting unnecessary battles of ambiguity,
hoping that luck would bring it safely ashore;
even a small island was hidden from his gaze!
An unwise listener would not take advice from anybody,
he didn't reject it embracing his own vulnerability;
a good decision that didn't imply a cost...
would he ever been discouraged or lost?
For uncountable years, this eager sea-man,
resisted and spoiled many pleasures for victory...
freezing time to avoid another tragedy
with a perception so sharp to defy anyone's will!
And did he deserve the harshest judgment
from others, who were pleased with their fate?
Loneliness was chosen by him
for unequivocal reasons and he craved it
like the bitterest, strongest wine
to make him strong and invincible...
nothing swayed him from his pride
to obtain that impossible goal!
Poem | |
A sprinkle of sage enhances the flavour of rice
A sage enhances the flavour of life.
A Tribute to Brian Strand
Written: December 30, 2009
An Emily:is a 2(or sometimes 3) line paradox form of poetry created by Brian Strand
(labelled thus, inspired by Emily Dickinson poem 1732).It may or may not have a title,uses a
word with separate meanings,(or one that sounds the same,with a different spelling) with the
intention to mean several things; thereby, to enhance the thought's ambiguity/enigma.
Poem | |
To stand ever resolute
Amongst perpetual ambiguity
That slowly expends me
When I am not vigilant
If I have firmly decided
To walk that razors edge
Where the vile assail me
Allow me the shield
Of His name
Where I will ever feel
Poem | |
Translating ideas through energetic muscles
and calculative minds
is his doing
knowledgeable tricks and wise options
converted to the physical for the honour and glory
is his aim.
The one at the top of the chain
possesses his own repertoire.
A personality with tactical onus
is the one and only expectation.
Catastrophic it is;
when such a charisma is tempered with
An effective philosophy gives him fame
but ambiguity in strategy wins the point
a winning atmosphere brings out his etiquette
a loss- he treats so diabolical.
Every attack is a litmus test
mental kunfu blended naturally
with physical dynamism in display
closing down angles, tight markings
speed injection, courage cultivation,
identity-showing formations with opponent-neutralizing weapons,
massive onslaught, defensive solidity and quick counters
all for a harvest of victory
coming from the equations of his thoughts
watered by distinctive motivational skills.
A team player who's always outside the line
The football Manager is he!
Poem | |
The God that never was, puts one shoe on at a time
And spends four hours in the make-up room
Putting on mascara and eye liner for the darker look
Occult man of seemingly rebellious nature
Is deified by the masses that show up to performances
He, a man of strong portrayal even at a skinny 155 pounds
Grows stronger with every compact disc sold and the overuse of base
Blowing out of a sound system which rocks the car next to you
While you wait for the light to turn green
Abandoning social mores of quietness well into the night
The appeal grows everyday for a man really just making a living
Out of his fans age group they have no idea what he is
Whether the media builds him up or tears him down
As a good guy to hate and a bad boy at heart
Any press is good press, though infamy might be better for sales
Topping the charts and making parents sick of his songs
He is a beneficiary of childhood splurging and so inclined to be
The adults wish for a mere fifteen minutes of his fame
So their children would listen to them with the same respect
But who were they when listening to cassette tapes?
And the bands of the eighties put on make-up then
A man of mixed persuasion people are drawn to his ambiguity
The role model singing about jail time and Hennessey
A toughness to some is a weakness to others
It makes you wonder if the man knows who he is!
Whoever that is and for all it's worth
There will be more than enough of him to go around
In his image that is larger than life
Poem | |
It’s in the dictionary: disambiguate.
It reminds me of Bush’s misrememberate,
a word that always makes me hyperventilate
and sometimes even makes me discombobulate.
They’re words for those who want to circumambulate
proven facts. Politicians overcompensate
with sesquipedalians to overcompensate
for ideas they’d rather not disambiguate.
They also tiptoe as they circumambulate,
or say, “Oh, I guess I must misremeberate.
That liberal press just makes me discombobulate
and more than once it’s made me hyperventilate.”
It is not abnormal to hyperventilate
when one’s stumped and trying to overcompensate
while working so hard not to discombobulate,
worried that someone’s going to disambiguate
his harangue. Then he’ll claim to misrememberate,
or convolute the truth and circumambulate
it if he can. If he can’t circumambulate
embarrassing stuff, he might hyperventilate,
which sometimes causes him to misrememberate
the lies he’s spewed. So then he’ll overcompensate
and slip in some truth that might disambiguate
the ambiguity and discombobulate
his campaign. Then his hopes to discombobulate
the electorate and to circumambulate
the truth will be dashed. If folks disambiguate
his thoughts, all he can do is hyperventilate,
although, he doesn’t want to overcompensate
and say he’s been known to misrememberate.
The admission that he might misrememberate
could lead voters to think he’ll discombobulate
under pressure. He’d rather overcompensate
by making up stuff that will circumambulate
the simple truth and make you hyperventilate
and just too distracted to disambiguate.
Politicians overcompensate, misrememberate.
If you disambiguate, they’ll circumambulate,
discombobulate and then hyperventilate.
Poem | |
I walk over thoughts, breathing my ambiguity
I sometimes have to walk away, singled out and solo
First thing in the morning; like the gentle breeze on my skin
I walk away the edges, to soothe my hot brow
My face against the cool grass, fresh and green in dew pools
My fingers over orphan flowers - lilacs with secret rights
I succumb me, my peace in sage dawns
Beyond wisdom, that dances me into the euphoria
I am cast; the monk from layered lives
Whirling in the intoxication of a thousand dreams
I wish them alive, I give them my magic form
As every breathe vapour, into the mystery
Some of us are Phantoms that freedom surged forth
On realities that shaped from forgotten portals
We drink from destiny that thrives on our lives
Slaking deep, from earth’s ancient lore...
Poem | |
One door closes and one door opens.
My life proceeds in speckled sunlight,
dark to light and back, a shifting lens
of ambiguity, never sure of right,
only sure when the results come in
of those things that turn out wrong.
No, I don't believe in concepts of sin,
but, oh boy, the wages are clear and long
standing. Decisions made so many years ago
in the best of faith just seem to hang around,
like a long term plague, while actions low
and made in haste, disappear, can't be found
and seem to have no consequence. Justice
only exists when time metes out irrelevance.
Poem | |
Tango dance Lovers
An improvision of closeness,
a single body with four legs.
sensuality and seduction,
a gesture with ambiguity.
A single body with four legs,
sensing each other through movement.
Putting us in sphere of action,
like total trust through connection.
sensuality and seduction,
capture his every attention,
by tricks of tenderness that tease,
movements of hips with ease and grace.
A gesture with ambiguity,
overwhelmed by fierce embraces.
The pulsing energy within
feelings that says it without words.
By kelleyana Junique.
A Retourne is a French poetry form wherein repetition is used, employed. It consist
of four quatrains (four-line stanzas), with each line having eight syllables. The trick
is though that the first stanza's second line must also be the second stanza's first
line, the first stanza's third line is the third stanza's first, and the first stanza's
fourth line is the fourth stanza's first. Retournes can but do not have to rhyme.
Poem | |
Great men and small men,
what does it matter?
We all fry in the very same batter.
is not a hot flame
but if we don't
it cooks just the same.
Running a country,
living a life,
Lao Tzu said,
"Keep it simple!",
avoid all strife.
Poem | |
Our eyes reflect that certain uncertainty
Between you and me. The never ending
Obsessing over obscurity. Adding,
Subtracting to the mystification of—us.
We are defined with no meaning,
But clearly comprehendible when several
Possible internal interpretations have
Brought an equally equivocal answer to the
Perennial paradox of pleasure and pain, that leads
To a contradictory conundrum of the weary
Wonderment of several potential possibilities
With no deliberate intent to mislead or cause
Poem | |
well some of the dreams
and the melancholy of sweet sound of love
all maybe lost or washed away
but those that remains, are the graces of the Lord.
there may not be such a thing called eternal love
and there may be such issues called eternal hope
the ambiguity of this ambiance
makes the world go round and round.
the moments pass on
the testings of times as well
we wait for the unseen force to release the grace
and hope that the eternal hope lives forever in our heart.
Poem | |
While a part of my soul longs,
To be carried away,
To another world,
To a mountain top,
To a lonely place,
To where the air is thin and light,
To where sensations stop,
To where feelings end,
To where noise is drowned out by clouds of silence,
Just wants to be where my soul belongs,
Entirely available and present,
Near to who I am,
In the moment,
Here and not there,
To the voice,
Do you see me?
The wings that lift me into the sky,
Soaring in the icy drafts,
Glide with grace,
Leaving no trace,
Of the invisible pilot,
By the reigns,
Of the eye of the mind,
Like a drone,
Operated in some far off place,
By a craftsman conjurer,
Whose fingers mime,
What the imagination can not speak of.
Like a dream,
Where the magic fluid of time stops,
Just long enough,
To not disrupt,
The trust of continuity,
The wings contract,
Revealing an intention,
In a slow,
I am carried,
First up and around,
In a giant bow,
Like the swinging arch,
Of destiny’s hand in the sky.
The torsion and kinetics,
Leave no ambiguity,
What awaits at top,
Hanging upside down,
In the air,
In a chair,
Is unspeakably worse than the crime,
Devised by the mind,
Whose role is to parole,
The empty fallacies,
The narration of self,
When the screaming starts,
In the eyes of those you love,
Is the absurdity of your own silence,
Is the utter feeling of having already given up,
Is the incompatible peace in knowing the end was near,
Somehow not bothering even,
To just say, hang in there my little friend,
I am with you, I am near,
Instead just sitting there,
Waiting for it be be over,
Who you love most of all,
Sits alone in tears.
That my friend,
The rest is just,
A blissful crash.
Hiding is the remedy,
Fighting the disease,
Forgetting is the poison,
That writers conceive.
I will go then,
To that place,
Where solitary men,
From the fires of the soul,
Where broken drums,
To walk among,
To count alone,
Scars and wounds,
To touch and wander,
To love and let go,
To make amends,
With friends and foe,
Just one last time,
Intensely eternal words,
Only she could know.
As if by doing so,
The sun could set,
On the shoulders of all that I have seen,
I would say,
I am not broken yet,
Do not forget.
On the art of living,
For the sake,
Not just yet.
The marksman who chooses his arrow,
Is not like the blind falling sparrow,
In his sight,
Whether day or night,
The beginning of time is now,
Bend it then man,
Forfeit the other plan,
Make from the shaft and plant it.
This then was not a poem,
Nor, was it ever,
Meant to become one,
Which is not to say,
The obvious desire,
In the mood portrayed,
To write something poetic,
A gem even,
A crown of jewels,
For the world of fools,
Those miserly souls,
Being something entirely different,
A monstrosity of sorts,
Entirely myopic, dystopian and fake,
More than blurry,
Always in a hurry,
To cover over what was never even there to begin with,
One might ask,
What was it?
To which I respond,
Hat in hand,
Letter of resignation,
Hidden in my sleeve,
Be patient reader,
Do not despair,
This little speech,
Is meant for the air,
To be inhaled only,
By those addicted,
To disreputable habits,
Those little rabbits,
Who rise from the orifice,
Of one we all know,
Yet never did notice.
This then was how it ended,
Never to be amended,
Just left alone,
To make peace,
With the words,
Who always do,
What they please.
In the beginning was the deed…
Poem | |
I stood by the periphery…
gracelessly doling derivative remarks
(all that is rhetorical in rhetoric and blatant in denial)
upon my comrades, the dust shot Sandinistas of midsummer masochism,
the caliphs of ‘Baltic Bay’.
“The armistice laid flowers upon
the salt seasoned lip of the hatch-backed hawk…”
Blood fell passively between his heartbroken legs,
siphoned from each and every available pore;
the oxygenated irony of pneumatic Gnosticism:
“The desert was a beach.”
They say that war is a catalytic catharsis, a palatial reprieve,
without languid logic or porous rationality,
the emancipation of masculinity,
castrated by the wire…
I thought it was hell… I was taught to think otherwise…
The torrential shards of verbal promiscuity
stole light unto the fore,
the parochial labyrinth of incandescent egotism,
Rare, poached howitzers… laden with anxiety
bore slight from the barbed-wire battalion
of ill-fitting idiots,
shuffling their feet, settling their nerves,
sealing their fate with
slack pot meandering midst snip sniped surprise.
“The technicality of principalities, dukedoms and deceit,
tune the tuneless melody and save your soul from hate. “
Their calibre unknown, their reasons unfounded…
the calypso calling cantaloupes of entrepreneurial acumen
shot black with dusk… slid unto the night.
Corporal rationale: “Half an hour of ambiguity…”
Lieutenant liquidation: “Twenty minutes of woe…”
Collective privacy: “Ten minutes of philistine philanthropy…”
Collective piracy: “Five minutes of... … ….”
Towel clenched soviets, eager and resentful,
scape-goaded the photographic horde into meagre submission…
subverting the course of justice.
Rented Kalashnikovs rattled ravenous replies…
once, twice, three times a corpse…
“Androgyny and xenophiles, the pasteurised provocateur…
draped in Prada propped dynamics, mechanically aware…”
Desiccant faeces flew five feet into the air;
the aluminium gilded lavatories received the short end of the stick,
literally liquidated within (without) the… humdrum humidity.
Gabriel dictated the proceedings.
The abortive restraint of sycophantic silencers
and Hassidic hallucinations,
graced by a political patriarchy…
urinating upon the synthetic soil.
Poem | |
It's easy to become lost in the idea that only things in life change you;
rather than you are always changing in your creation.
When you look at demons in the haze, marvel at the haze.
Demons are feeling homesick.
Be true to everything you are and thrive on.
We all have demons, it's up to you on what to do with those demons.
The most dangerous are the ones unknown.
She is herself. A beautiful demon; not hidden behind a shadow.
Her magic is infested in my desire.
She is beautiful for I can unravel her thoughts.
She expresses to me the words intertwined with my ambiguity.
Riddled with love; I sleep in her soul.
She is my butterfly in our cosmic cannibalism.
Poem | |
Little crystals fallen angel tears smooching ground;
Instills cooling touch among grasses, buds and trees;
Facets rolling ambiguity ~ mystery;
Twirls then twines closely rush on branches bounds;
Inches white eerie cloud rhymes hang rest at key;
Nailing anyone to see natural history;
Garden fog silence~ conceals even tricks;
Tinge golden yellow linear streaks thread through
Hovering to break fogs' gloomy cold mood
Enchantment subsides, enlightening arise!
Fog succumbs ~ gradually disappears from view
Orchards' quiet green scenery renewed
Greets my cheeks breezy soft so prize...
CONTEST NAME: 1 in 4 CHOOSE YOUR ACROSTIC TITLE
SPONSOR: ANDREA DIETRICH
8th place, to God be the glory..:)
Poem | |
My spirit wishes to cry,
But my eyes smile and remain dry.
Poem | |
Why are you still mysterious behind transparent lenses, or
Am I just shivered by my own reflection
Cornered searching beyond the top of your head
a puzzle of ambiguity focused on text..
Vibrate your phone into silent pieces paused as broken starlight… I hope
Who are you a silent page turner or one who blinds with pine smoke.
I want to know, glass stem eyes or un ashed embers??
Here’s to hoping you aren’t sane..
Cause halting my casket is impossible
You can have my sharp lines of passion and dissonance of thought.
Assumed the unlight alley way squeezed all my heart, until you froze water in my
I already bartered my mother’s sleep for a double sealed bag no unbroken veins
Forever committed to loneliness owning me
Punishment for tiptoeing in the dark seeking blank checks.
I guess I don’t deserve to get past the middle part in you..
Forced to rerun moments in the cafeteria.
This is why I push experience onto paper
I’ve already lost to a bloated stomach and burnt lips
All before I even know your name.
Poem | |
i should have fallen for the Sun.
Everlasting light: the absence of ambiguity,
and of course the promised warmth,
it scalds the soles of those who lay upon me...
Or maybe the Forest-
And the incessant profession of love
through the high-pitched squeaks of birds,
and the croaks of frogs.
i am in love with the Sea;
when i heard your breath through the line,
i closed my eyes
and swore i was by the soft thrashing of waves.
Mysteries lay in the depths of your unexplored soul,
and each day i am usurped by your tides,
pulled deeper into the abyss,
maybe even drowning.
Poem | |
As we were admiring the color of love last night,
Appeasing our thirst like two cats in a fight,
Your eyes were as shiny as the sparkled stars.
They were as admirable as the lights of the bars.
As I was starring at them with no ambiguity
Fears, lies and evasions surround their clarity.
But the reflection of love in them retains me
From trying to quit being sentimentally a softie.
Like the seven wonders of the world,
They fascinate me with their eyelashes so well curled.
Just Like the famous Eiffel Tower in Paris,
I can observe their allure all the way from Ferris.
They rhyme the harmonic melody of my heartbeat
Because their beauty is so stainless and so neat.
Your seductive eyes is my favorite site of tourism.
They shape my emotion and imagination by Romanticism.
Because of January 17th God makes me see,
Their color should reflect the beauty of the sea
Because another page of my life is just turn over
I can only hope they remain part of me forever.
Poem | |
Imagination of my heart, be still
Is it not true that thoughts define our world?
And bring to light obscurities that thrill.
For in the mind, new ideas are unfurled.
Genesis, like Einstein’s Relativity,
Embrace complex concepts still swirled.
Religious beliefs seek sanctity,
The pursuit of truths proposes questions.
Imagination sees ambiguity.
Theories evolve, offering solutions.
Discrepancies in the mind’s eye revile.
Daydreams and fantasies launch suggestions.
Within the brain collected thoughts stockpile.
And the heart of imagination stays.
Therein lies progression’s basic beguile.
Knowledge and true belief soon parting ways,
That brings us to the heart of imagination.
Are hope, truth, and peace lost in latter days?
Has the brain become man’s great coronation?
The crowning point too often worn askew.
Sometimes men thrive, beneath domination.
The heart of imagination breaks through.
It is not found imbibing happy pills.
It is found in the woodlands or a coo.
Imagination seeks God’s foreordained will.
For it was set at life’s ordination.
It is the brightest view within man’s thrill!
Be still, heart of my imagination.
My faith combines with facts to find this truth.
Man like beast was formed by God’s creation.
All…discerning Heaven’s declaration –
November 8, 2014
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Challenge Title 'Words - The Heart of Imagination?' - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Brian Johnston
Poem | |
Come two faced Janus, lie to us
Bring me to your door, and leave me ambiguous
A sane drunk in the roads middle
Between prophecy and history
The present stands on a griddle
Full of rational ambiguity
We are burning now
Who dream of a happy new year
While to the bottle bow
Seeking anesthesia from old despair
Oh, fallacy of a pagan lore,
Jekyll Janus, will you be also door
And prophet? Mask in the dead history
And usurped memory,
The earth will spin and a new year starts
Around the sun again as youth departs.
So usurper of Mars and Venus, faked
Jupiter, how can you begin
Anything that you cannot create? Wake
Not the ire of the true God to such sin
Yet I must bid you come despite
Since your name on the first month hangs so tight
To our meaningless wisdom and days
A subtle ferment of surreptitious praise
January, new month of beginning
How do I, like you, find new meaning
Or fresh faith for fractured flesh
Recovering youth and dreams I fled?
Speak not! my soul in a new dimension thresh
You affirm the truth sealed in my head.