Best Elocution Poems
WHEREVER IS WHENEVER
Whenever living begins to chase me
or whenever it attempts to erase me
whenever life seems like a tumultuous insurrection
I always run in the same direction
Whenever denial defies my ample need
Whenever a festering sore begins to bleed
Whenever I feel like an outcast from a righteous breed
I fly for the same heading with ferocious speed
Whenever the sun is conquered by the rain
Whenever pride conquers disdain
Whenever by hopefulness helplessness is slain
I run to the same source to heal my pain
Whenever I feel as though I cannot tread another misery laden mile
Whenever beauty begins to vie with the vile
Whenever boredom keeps the shadow stuck in one point on a sun dial
I chart a course wherein I am rewarded by a smile
Whenever stagnation prevents me from doing what I know how to do
Whenever frightening are the tarot cards that I drew
Whenever I awake to the promise of a sky that won’t ever turn blue
I run to my only source of confirmed comfort which is you
© 2012.......copyright PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~
ELocution
ELocution
Diction ENglish grammer proper nouns predicates verbs learn the way the language
works then grow up to be a poet and throw it all away today to make new words to
make poems bleed to make the rhymes the prose doth need. Shakespeare is an
affluance. He rubbed off some on my purple prose. O God! how wonderful are Thy
works! Thou makest the rotting log to nourish banks of violets, and from the
stagnant pool at Thy word springs forth the lotus that covers all with fragrance and
beauty! Sonnet #3,000,745,001 OH LORDy
OH LORDy, howe wondrous is thy working beauty. Thou doth makest the rott sprout
violets from olden logg on water bank nearest stagnant pool whilst at Thy WORD the
lotus springeth forthwith to cover over all the smelling salts nearest hand to hold in
cuppboard bare the bone for elbert Hubbard gone. Hark the light from yonder glaring
glen forsook the frames the lenses now opaqued. Blind to world of beauty winter
paints a white mistaken ache in me. Amid the bones of whited elephaunt skunks
rome near me to harken when the crow calls daybeak come. Caw the raven quoth.
God forbode a man, that an Englaisman should tell or act a lie, neithor the Son of
GOD my Jesus, that He should feel repentance or compunction [for what his Father
has promised]. Has He sayeth, and shall He not say on? Or has He spoken and shall
He not make it gooder. Oh LORDy. For the reasoneth He stays upon His bethroned
placement is quite evident for iff GOD were to walk the Earth as a mere man in sight
of all this assembled Heathorns even for just one day twold make us all so jealous of
the miricles in the clay. For Jesus could open up his hand wiht a plott of dirty clay
and make a violet blooming say. Oh Lordy.
like leftover sloppy joe dripping
out the sides of his/her mouth
as the gormandizer gets ready
for the rest of the meal---s/he
stands at the podium, a politician,
a priest---one in the same, telling
the sheep that they are not to
blame---because s/he tells them
what they want to hear (that things
will be better once they are in
charge, that if things don’t get
better there is a land somewhere
off in the distance waiting for them
after death that will help make
sense of it all), that s/he
can relate to the way that they
hurt, s/he looks, s/he appears to
have lived a life of worry like them,
s/he appears to have creases in the
face produced by lack of financial
security just as they, s/he even
tears up on cue as the best in
hollywood, when pressed---with
handshakes, baby-kissing, “blessings”
& “prayers,” each signal the
lowest possible denominator of
evolution, what hangs on for
dear life as those final attributes
that will be forgotten with the
dust & left in the gutter, when the
robots finally come.
ELITE ELOCUTION
Pray tell
My belle
Bespeak thy spell
And pierce my fragile shell
To make of me a harbinger in hell
My belle
Please explain
My swain
How thou shall surely be the measure of my pain
Please make plain
The stain upon my life which you will, with certainty, ordain
And about all my merriment which you have slain
Poor me, left with nothing left to gain
Caught in a realm where the unruly reign
My swain
Kindly repeat
My sweet
Why you granted me such grievances to greet
While mourning the morning we came to meet
A pert lady, both pretty and petit
Who elucidates the elite
But is far less than discreet
And defined well my love’s ultimate defeat
‘tis true
That is you,
my sweet
So utter goodbye and please finally free me
Because with you it’s not easy for me to be me
And let me make it all quite clear
That I fear
I like not liking you more than I liked liking you, my dear
So there!
© 2009…..free cee!
Tales and folktales binds
the mind's eye about firmly,
spearheading log of thoughts—
rock of words, after another
into bridges of unified force.
Father the ship on my head
fanning out memories between
the cracks of my torso why
I press myself under the sun
is s t r e t c h I n g to
kiss my toes after etching
a canvass of you in my mind.
If it is true that God restrict all mortals
from touching the personality of immortals
then maybe, I've a prayer
to pour into my memories
from portraying and plucking gloominess
& grief that holds 1000kg of botheration.
#Excelwrites #poeticrhythmn
Why slaying the stars
& rigorously binding their light
for listening ears under the mango tree
to frame folktales for midnight song,
make a geysers of yellowstone
carrying fresh fetch palm wine—
put their tongues to taste the juice,
to kiss the faces of roses.
I tell you, they aren't the equation
where xy=0
the shape of a doughnut
set orderly for rituals—
the contents of misery.
for their body won't be yours
to slice an orange
to fill your sac
after greasing their dreams with frost.