Best Drearily Poems
It was something
that brought a smile
to my face.
It had unusual underpinnings
with desirable overtones,
a pleasurable experience
as I wandered aimlessly
through concoctions Neanderthal
perpetuations ministered aloft
in dreams drearily
bound by time, space
glittery amidst synchronizing
to a land of make-believe
where all desires
could be fulfilled
it tantalized senses
drifting through subconscious
perplexity illuminating
dismal repercussions stifled
by cold truths.
Watch me creep upon your virgin abode
without a husbandry humping request
to take what is mine from no/mo/mojoe months of
exsocietal solutiservititude of sexlessages unimpressed.
Finally, the the universaladity of our fauxphysicosexual spirits melding
into a one promiscus misspromise delegated by past powers
at be to a false fulminate the sexual prose prowess that we hide
in the nether neath of neutral neuder nuisances hopefully negating
turn raging torrent treasures into mystical monument molecular
memories into that never non-known nil complacent coiture of everpresent
For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge destitiute desires, drearily socialsoft
shifting freefall forever orgofaked fawned populace pleasures deso
designated by an eager ego-stential ergo everpresent freudian fliked flaked frail fixed feverent list of lost lucid loveless latent ladies and gential guised gilded gentlemen to go gonad gender hide a post penal predisposition to pissed off passionate penetration for the sake of wifeful wishes and mistress missed moments of heretofore hideous hiden and psuedo sexual seek/sought preluplentitudes to the other side of a risky/retro recreational ripe respite religiousness that alter states the sociosick
sanctioned **** covert severences, residue that fecal foments our current agast crestridge a----ffairs.
The TimWeiner takes all is fair in love and Warr-----anties;wishful textinking.
E X tendedness will costco create yr penalpussypoliticoplentypiousness. Third party poster plates plenititudes procrastinating???
Fair and balanced banalaties beliguered by biased bigot blogosites. Get Real and How love stinks?
I’m building castles in the sand
on the shores of a grey, grey sea.
The clouds have gathered overhead
and the shells are wave-washed clean.
Footprints wander down the shore
of the vast and vacant sea,
the waves are buffing them away
and turning the sand sateen.
Beyond the berm and the waving grass
inked upon the setting sun,
someone sits in a house of glass
as sand through fingers runs.
I’m watching seabirds dodge the stars
when the waves reflect the moon
and pulling seaweeds from the rocks
they drearily festoon.
And the sand’s run out of the fingers now,
and the drink’s run out of the cup;
the house of glass is quiet now,
all the shutters drawn up.
The evening dons a peaceful shroud
As windows teeter in the breeze.
Here, only lone sighs are allowed
Along the road, an endless wheeze.
While toilers saunter homeward bound
Reflecting hours quite drearily,
With tic- tac rhythm on the ground
Like shuffles of a weary tree.
Dim lanterns cut through brightened shade
With moonlight glowing starlit white,
Till liquid eyes are inter-laid
For even in reminisce is light.
Let's Get Technical Contest, Andrea Dietrich
19 July 2014
The decrepit Winter door drudges open drearily,
And with it, delivers a deluge of drunken delight--
Soft succulent sapphire skies violate my visions,
I stand suffused with muse and mystery in moiety;
A masked man in vast lands of vivacious vehicles,
Each infusing ineffable idyllic ideas into my mind;
Black and blue sockets, eyes beaten by the barrage,
Blinded by the balmy birth of a blistering breed;
This season on Earth, first fauna felt after the melt,
Helps herald the harbingers of heavenly halcyon;
Spring-suede-sod serenely softens somnolent steps,
Woken from within Winter's weary woebegone walls;
Lunges of my lithe legs leave languid lassitude lost,
A grimace graciously gone I gambol glorious groves;
Ethos ebulliently erupting into opulent olfactory scents,
Precious-painted-petals, the smell of perfumed petrichor;
Vestigial vents of weather'y whiffs and feather'y sniffs,
Revolvers of rhapsodic rays release heat upon my rust;
Consummate creations cascading comely conflations,
Slowly saunter splintered shadows of snowy sorrow;
A demure dalliance decadently drizzled in dulcet desire,
My forgotten fear of yesterday's forever falling flakes;
An everlasting elixir of eloquently enchanting equinox,
Fixes my frostbitten flaws and forges fresh life until Fall;
March 17, 2016
So much talk of love is hocus-pocus,
mumbo jumbo gibberish with relish.
You miss it when love's lost,
but getting rid of it, when it goes off, is worse.
You can't take it out into the woods and run away.
You can't just switch it off without a raging fight or a good-bye shrug.
You have to go through all the tragic stuff played out drearily:
"I'm sorry to say I've had enough"
"I simply don't love you anymore, we've grown apart"
"I've met someone else, much better for me than you ever were"
"I'm tired and frankly sick of you"
Such stuff is far more than losing love, it is messy active rebellion and rejection.
Out of love is sad, when you were so much in love.
But you can find love again if you haven't already done so.
And you can be in love, more than once, at the same time,
so losing a love or two can be a good thing.
A love lost can be good riddance.
The leafless, arthritic branches
of the sycamore and maple
trees stretched their grotesque, naked forms
now stripped by the blasts of winter;
splaying drearily overhead
casting cold, rickety shadows
over recently fallen snow.
A prevailing wind rushes through
the trees and a choir of creaks
begin their rasping rhapsody.
A momentary lull begins
and the wooded composition
in a Larghissimo tempo
ends on a melancholy note.
the sloth yawns at time
inert, as listless minutes
turn wasted hours to years
work is left undone
avoided like a poison
the very thought, repugnant
the useless hand rules
in sluggish monotony
repeated “ad nauseam”
hear the weary sighs
a disinterest in ideas
thinking takes too much effort
how dull the moments
how easy to lay around
drearily, suffocating
and so the sloth goes
through blank, barren idleness
wallowing in stagnancy
Written on 10/23/2018
The Missing Season
27/07/2020
Whiffs of summery air grow startlingly unfresh
Dying like a withering dream yet almost deathless
Ruffled by an impasse of a senescent, uncrossable viaduct
that goes beyond my knowingness, beyond my conception
Of an unknown poison instilled merely into my air
Blossomless springs, rainless winters and sunless summers
Yet the missing season is still an untold story of a tired self
Trying to winterize itself for the soon-to-be winters ahead…
All of the un/randomness -of wintry possibilities- maddens
She, all the same, awaits for thousands of summers instead
Away from the insufferable stuffiness that strangulates her
She willingly remains afar yet unwillingly she goes further
Not in the dark does she detachedly dwell, nor in a beacon
In a semi-dark room of her own, she scatters her thoughts
to get drowned into their boundless, unfathomable oceans
toward the innerness of thoughts she steps back and forth.
Dreamless nights very drearily resemble her dreamy nights
Those of the dying birds. On her own she fancies the Quail
That reminds her of the once brawny nest by the mountain
One season with an orphic symbol is still forever unfindable
And the pretermitted leaves remain rigid though shriveled
Unwilling to be vulnerably wept, they embrace summertime
A summer of their own from the figment of their imagination
Softly it drizzles upon their souls, and again they are revived.
Everybody's out having fun
on this lonely Saturday night.
Even your mom has a date
and your brother's with family.
Your sister's at a slumber party,
and even your preacher has plans.
So what do you do on a Saturday night?
When you ain't got plans
and your mama's out all night?
With a gleeful squeal
you leave the windows side
and rush to the phone.
You call up some friends
and tell 'em to come over
'cause everybody's out.
Soon they're over
and the stereos max volume.
You grab some beer and snacks
and bring 'em on out.
You begin to party.
After a few bottles of the alchohol,
your feelin' a lightheaded.
Everybody's dancing and music is boomin'.
And in the confusion a hand takes your wrist.
You're dragged up the stairs
and thrown on a bed.
Your captor rips off your clothes
and from there it goes.
You awake in the morning in your mama's bed
and there's an unfamiliar hand resting next to your head.
You had a hangover; your head was pounding.
Then you looked down and realized,
neither were dressed, both naked as birth.
You look at the clock, it's seven O'clock!
You rush to get dressed, the other's waking up.
He looks around drearily
before his eyes open wide.
He scrambles to get up,
dressed and then left,
and you never figured out
just who your first was.
Two months later
your in the hospital because you've been throwing up.
You're sister says you have a virus,
your mama's not so sure.
The the doctor came out iwht a sympathetic look.
"I hate to say this, miss, but you're pregnant."
You drop in dead faint.
Blending colors captured in a breeze
Offers up a tempting palate, tease!
Whilst roaming free above the swollen hills
Butterflies consider daffodils
Detained, I have become, in painted thirst
Swift swallows sing a merry song rehearsed
Oh! Fields of flowered glory, such delight!
Whilst dancing in the golden sun so bright!
In angst, my indecisive eyes now turn
Causing undo sorrow and concern
Life causes my retreat of blissful place
As I drearily rejoin the human race
In dreams, your grandeur offers up to keep
Vivid shades of freedom whilst I sleep
Until grand fortune knocks upon my door
Your aspirations linger ever more
I am still on the field
In search of pink roses for you.
I find you a beautiful rose but then
The shades of night have fallen,
Nyx has spread her garment upon us
The night is cold and drearily lonely
You have not come seeking for me
I tried to find my way home
But I cannot find my way to you.
I have been roaming, roaming the wilds.
When at last Aurora appears
I have lost my way, my way home
In the labyrinthine terrain
Of the deep forest growths.
I discovered a plane of roses
Roses of all forms and hues, for you
But I cannot find my way home
I shall live here in love with the roses
And explore them, without you
And you shall live there with your Love
Without the roses, my bonnie Liza!
VICKI ACQUAH·MONDAY, MAY 15, 2017
Blue skies are for lovers;
Not for mourners, and mothers.
I am searching the clouds.
Any sign would relieve my mind.
Needing the clouds, as weeds need the rain.
Slow pace, searching for a face;
Rain drizzle falls drearily, befitting my mood.
Searching those formatting gasses and vapors.
For an outline, or any clue.
” No news is not good news”
Her leaving was abrupt.
Is she one of the loved one’s hovering,
waiting for us to look up?
Looking up at the clouds, asking out loud
“Is that her face peering
out of the gray and pink cloud?
Could those be her wings?
fluttering in the wind?
I am deep throat muttering,
“Kai is that you”?
” No news is not good news”
Her leaving was abrupt.
Is she one of the loved one’s hovering,
waiting for us to look up?
How often do I hide in thick layers
of parading masks-- afraid to reveal
the hardened ego which denies
a vanity ruled by a sordid past -
those matriarchal flaws, cracks from
violence, and lesions of snuffed anger
marked by wired illusions
over time's unhealed grievances.
I smile with resistance existing
through fragile acquaintances to escape
light's awakening that could lead
me out of life's pretenses.
So I hover drearily on bloody nights
and run to the woods in search of sages,
even wise thieves , who could give me
refuge from this soul going imaginary-
but my darkened mind lies, asking
"pride, how treacherous or precious are you?"
Russell Sivey Contest: In The Dark
Created 14.09.2017
You never know, you see
When the next time will be.
One moment, you may be happy.
As happy as can be
The next, deep sadness and depression strike suddenly.
Suffocating pressure, like drowning in the depths of the sea
You feel shame as you wonder, "what's wrong with me?"
Emotion, so heavy on your chest that you struggle to breathe
It's no wonder that you have no energy
Time seems to slow, the seconds go by drearily
Shame fills you, as you remember how strong you used to be
Especially when just saying hi feels like a small victory
After what feels like an eternity
The feeling leaves, almost bitterly
And despite the feeling leaving me
I still remember fearfully
That suffocating agony
There are others like me
How others don't see it in us, to us seems a mystery
Yet I know they'd say with me
"You never know, you see
When the next time will be."