Best Pamphlets Poems
When the
glacial sun slips
in softened womb
of the scarlet
spheres at dusk,
yearning for
hibernal rebirth
as a lustrous
morning star,
it radiates
golden beams
like lakes of sunshine,
flowing over
chiming starlit bells
in our hazy haven;
and I scrap
frosted flakes
off the bittersweet
pamphlets that
whisper our names
in the misty winds
of 'Us'.
Calming the
coalesced chaos
within my
infernal pulses,
his warmth drapes
this enchanted soul
with daffodil-
smudged days
of hot cocoa amidst
a wintry wonderland.
If I could bloom
like an arctic
afterglow's heart
on bare alpine trees,
I would only
choose him to be
my daylight-
perfumed violet
scent, evermore.
I can never
stroll away
from the shimmering
silverine memory,
when my muse's
trust breathed
hailstorm's poesy in
my solstitial lungs
and kissed the
fractals of a bruised
poet's spirit.
Dreaming of yuletide,
I achingly yearn
to become the
silken apricity of
those soft lyrics
that swing in his
thundersnow thoughts
and frostbitten flesh,
re-writing the jaggery saga
of twin-sanguine-lovers
in beige brushstrokes
of foggy 'We'.
Sometimes,
I forsake to
surrender and
ask for a peaceful
nod from the
'Lord of Soulmates',
can I be the
honeysuckle ink
for my beloved's
watercolor feather,
always nurturing
the snowy twists of
our tale within fate's
untold wisdom?
When I desire
to wander in
black-iced myths of
insatiable agony,
will he become
my bejeweled healer
and fight off those
sombre silhouettes
of Jack Frost's
saudade, like a samurai?
For, I take him
as the gift of
my last wish,
forever inhaling
the chilly secrets
of our lantern-
lives in my
subconscious visions,
that keep me
alive upon
crestfallen sleets
of intuitive icicles;
I want to live forever,
in his pearly eyes' abode,
which coruscates
with glossy lustre
of fireflies and
makes me flutter
my hiemal
white wings like a
spellbound fairy in
grey-orchid sonatas.
" In titanium haze of love,
truth is but a mere lie,
never unlocking gold vaults
of feelings, for,
honesty weeps somewhere
in perfumed odes of
inkless pages,
hidden in our forlorn fate..."
If twilight roses were
reincarnated angels,
they would carve
a zillion destinies
with feathered letters,
flickering beneath
butterfly glitters,
adhering glossy
wings of rosemary,
like a balm to
invisible scars
and encasing
my soul in a
hundred hues
of blood.
But, I never knew,
the secrets of
nebulous-cloaked
vengeance which
infused in
nightingale's
forevermore fortunes,
echoing eerie whispers
in elora moors of
scarlet jasmines,
at the jinx of
midnight's omen;
for thou emerged
as a lover in
ninety-nine novels,
but a guised
killer in the
farewell fantasy.
As I float by,
in the swan lake,
losing myself to thee,
I wish upon
defrosting your eyes,
that got submerged
beneath icebergs
of betraying harbinger
and bleed my soul
in frosted heart's
snow-sealed
milky ways,
as these flaked
clayey leaf
pamphlets of
sakura scents
aren't enough
to erase thy
fingerprints from this
poisoned chalice,
that sung sinful
serenades in
deadly paradise
of Eurydice
and sliced my spirit
to sooty shreds,
in this diamond dungeon
behind sage valleys.
Laced in
ash grey lies,
I'm a corpse
enveloped in
crimson croons
of confetti,
whilst lips
soak acrylic
dewdrops of
melting roses,
that once
blanketed our
eden in the
arms of heaven,
with starlit petals.
So, as Nymph,
in the orisons,
with hemlock
fused heart,
be all my sins
remembered.
For, love is a
smoke raised
with the fume
of sighs, demising
to sacrificed
meadows, where,
this kismet tale
departs in the
very ecstacy
of cradling mist,
and thus,
with disoriented
twilight's kiss, I die.
"Cruel birds—ravens—but wise. And creatures should be loved for their wisdom if they cannot be loved for kindness."
- Hannah Kent
My lover's demons are like ravenous ravens.
Her love is a hand grenade triggering exploding emotions,
massacring words into silent suppression
but beyond the threshold of her eyes,
there's a scarlet love silhouette,
hoping upon hope for expression,
to reset her reality - to express her freedom of spirit.
I ask the one who feels the tremors of my heart,
why are you afraid of happiness?
We were not made to be broken,
yet we fracture a little everyday.
Although you are fragile like a paper plane,
the world with you and me can soar
against turbulence in the world's playground.
In darkness I'll be your harbinger of crescent moons,
as my heart is a complex phenomenon,
yearning to be special in your ordinary sighs.
I hunger for you to leave me breathless,
as internal invisible wounds don't heal,
when we are lost in an ocean of souls,
but empathy has an evergreen effervescence,
so I'll radiate light into your wilted moonflower eyes,
watching them glow like dancing streetlights.
In the angst of absence and abandonment,
I've lost all desire to bleed,
searching for harmony in music's salvation,
but it only brings broken strings,
as I'm sleeping to the rhythm of heartache.
My muse serenades in melancholic melodies,
composing a confusing chaos concerto,
searching for pamphlets of medleys
with symphonies of pleasure.
What are we,
but poetic victims of circumstances,
versifying verses which unravel my mysteries.
Maybe in a peaceful tomorrow,
I'll write again,
but today,
I'll bathe in raindrops of hope,
illuminating in a rainbow of reveries.
I believe in magic when I envision your cathartic haze.
I know you are obsessed with forever,
but time silently escapes whilst we are apart.
If not in this temporary existence,
then in the afterlife, meet me in heaven,
where we can rise with eternal ethereal sunrises,
because your celestial eyes betray your mortal guise.
I could never write a poem as perfect as you.
With or without me,
we'll be immortally together in heartbeats,
where there is poetry,
there will always be love.
Jehovah's Witness' Door Pamphlets
Pious
Fly-ahs
Catholic Church During Halloween
Scary
Mary
Scrabble Night With Missionaries
Wordy
Clergy
Preacher Owning at Dungeons & Dragons
Master
Pastor
Our Holiness the Dalai Getting a Text From His Ex
Lama
Drama
Sea Anemone Makes Amends
Moral
Coral
MEMORY OF NOTHING
Listen:
Drag branches comeback
Across the forest floor:
Knowledge of the rough¡
At water’s edge
I gather some things up:
“Happy Ending Story”.
We’ve the time to give the Babel Tower
A close reading.
Awful good, Tú
As Roy A. Rappaport’s
Ritual... as Communication and as State.
Our preferences might be
Toward more emphasis
On species places:
Smooth textures of dead wood
Knowledge of our hands on arms
The body-art of ********
Drinking cocoa
And tend to the faith
With a Vampire’s short stick
That smells of infinite urine
As Madonna.
History reveals itself to us
In this way:
Poetry, Tales, Essays are pamphlets
Of impossible interest
Multiplying voices-human, voices-animal
Voices-plant
Voice-life of Earth
As Dan O’Neill’s
Holiday for Cynics.
Look, little one
Courtney Love
We live this close to disaster
There is no turning back
From the tops of the trees
Which are so dense
Almost no sky is visible
Only the odor dilates the nostril
And quickens the heart
On a marijuana tortilla.
The buddhists have been tellig us
That the Self (Ego)
As we conceive of it
Is an illusion.
A good tip
Thinking about Gurney Norman’s
Jack and His Ego.
Is it?
It is that we are of a Time-Sexual
Wherein all species has been joined
To the Wo/Man
Of *****Sapiens
And Life is a single exercise of Cannibals
In constantly elevating towers
Of Bureaucracy.
Nothing in Somethingg
Something in our Nothingness.
When Neptune's
nostalgic sighs,
weave ruffled rosaries
of brocade ink,
bleeding from
blackberry wrinkles
in torrential time,
I wonder if
herculean eyes
of my earthen heart,
are afraid of being
abandoned by the
electric rhapsody
of life's alienated
aroma.
Swinging on the
translucent
parabola of a
frozen rainbow,
my fate is
skewed as a
cantaloupe
silhouette, of
helix-shaped
maple pamphlets,
where, bluebirds
feast on decaying
seeds of love
and sing
hemlock-croons
in those magnolia
gardens.
But,
what if stars
were edible and
I devoured their
ivory scintilla,
submerging
cosmic potions
in my arteries,
iridescent with
clusters of
quasar's quivering
rays and pulsar's
pistachio glitter?
So now,
I collect
volcanic ash
from rust-orange
ruins of dahlia's
dreamscape
and embalm
them with
paradise-pink hues
of distilled empathy,
for my swan-white
halo of faithful
silence, is still
glowing with
sombre yet
glossy shine
of the linen sun
and I inhale
the fragrance of
my marshmallow moon.
Pamphlets of Prophets
And in the barren face of sanity
I scavenged
For hope
Hope between the bleeding
Stain
Full forces littered the bodies
Pamphlets of prophets
In useless streets
Streets paved with dead
Dreams
Burning crosses
Burning flags
The caricatures of hate
Hate in the Holy walls and domes of
Jerusalem
And in the coloured face of madness
I found the ever smile
Of borrowed light
Light in the Holy walls and domes of
Death
Death in weeping children sung its dirge
In the sacrificial arms of
Love
Love ?
What love is there between the ruins of bone and shattered blood
Siren screaming its danger to flesh
This Auschwitz strip
This apocalypse
Is a lament unheeded
Of starved and parchment skeletons
Turning in their graves
Piteous demise of theirs
Wasted
Full forces littered the bodies
Pamphlets of prophets
In useless streets
She wonders where to go, clueless in her ceramic cage,
with octaves oceanic (there's an oaf in my ocarina)
But Oh! Her delight when her Breather goes soprano
a whippoorwill trying her wings in the sauna sky
laps of leisure in steamy cirrus clouds
(there's a glider on the Puget Sound)
And she knows the stories that abound
in the sensation of a sonnet
(though you may shake a speare at the classic verse)
She's licked the pearl pages of such pretty pamphlets.
You could say she's been around ...
Fighting flights of fancy through Fraser fir,
as busy as a bee, like she's got somewhere to be
(an important meeting with the sea?
a journey through Farrah Fawcett follicles?)
And things aren't always what they seem,
keeping close ties with Elohim,
lubricating our lungs with lovely life (and the pockets of air between the knife)
More hypocritical than Hebraic Hitler.
With tornadoes in tow
and summer waves that flow
(she has secrets to disclose
for elements in the know)
NOTE: Puget Sound is a sound along the northwestern coast of Washington. Elohim is a Hebraic term for God.
Written on March 18th, 2016
For the Element Wind Contest Hosted by Brian Davey
Placed 2nd
Broken but disbelieving, we wait
for any doctor to say it’s just blood
as the gray man greens, throws-
up in triage. A Goth teen holds Band-Aids
to her scalped thumb. Somebody loses
patience, explodes, Why are the sick
treated this way? Doors dilate & the sick
smell of antiseptics greets a waitress
wearing a steak knife. We are cribbed by loss;
gone, teeny heartbeats as I pass blood
clots. A junkie limps, unaided,
to the bathroom, another throw
away human, unlike a tot thrown
from a fire. Unforgettable, that sickening
sound, shrill scream after scream raids
the room of complaints. Hell won’t wait
for examination, I learn, as bloodshot
eyes meet mine. Hope is lost.
Patients stoically sit. Some lose
change to a vending machine. A cop throws
a look to his charge. Words drift, bloody
stool, x-rays, concussion. Sick talk to the sick.
My hand is gently squeezed. No one else waits-
out a miscarriage. I watch an aid
swab vintage tiles, restack HIV/AIDS
pamphlets as if they’re a deck of cards, like loss
is just some hand dealt. Somewhere, a mother waits
for her boy to sleep, will wash bottles, throw
out dirty diapers. Somewhere, a heartsick
father releases bloodcurdling
sobs because a body was found. Blood
is both bond & amputation. I took first aid
so I know why the sickest
get priority. Besides, we've already lost
each other, little one. Our separation has thrown
me off balance. Why couldn't you wait?
As if I need hearing aids, a nurse throws
my name out to the sick, the lost, ER roommates.
No. I'll never be ready. Let the bloody stirrups wait...
Was round about the 60's
And I a budding teen
Was influenced and touched
By a program I had seen
Rod Sterling was the narrator
Of a series quite well known
With weekly visits to a world
Named the "Twilight Zone"
And to this day one episode
The best without debate
Has taught me 'bout the frailty
Of Man against his fate
A short meek man from Queens, New York
Henpecked by his wife
Found his joy in reading books
To assuage a bit his strife
Voracious was his appetite for
Tomes and all that's written
Yet blind without his glasses
He's as docile as a kitten
In the vault under his bank one day
While making a transaction
The world above was subject to
A nuclear reaction!
When he surfaced to the top
To view the mass destruction
He found that only he'd survived
And came to this deduction
No wife! No rules! No one to shriek
Or tell him what to do!
Only stacks and shelves of books
To read, peruse and view
Paperbacks and hardcover
Pamphlets, primers, scrolls
The whole damn New York Library
With him at the controls!
Then as he pictured life
In a world with voices hushed
He bent his head to grab a book
His glasses broke..........................
All crushed.............
Here’s a little something you might like to know.
You're a universal donor if your blood is type “O”.
You may have type “A”, or perhaps type “B”,
You may even possess the type known as “AB”.
“AB” is the blood that is found less frequently.
That type is considered a universal recipient fortunately.
For the D antigen, most people are Rhesus factor positive.
Less common are those who are Rh negative.
So there is just a little medical information.
The American Red Cross seeks donors throughout the nation.
Information obtained from pamphlets distributed by the American Red Cross.
Hang Myself in the Sky
Hang myself in the sky
The sun is shining
It is frightening
The sky is blue
There's no clue
Looking for secrets
You gave me pamphlets
No matter what you say
I will say “nay”
So you’ll say “nigh-nigh”
Hang myself in the sky
The sun is shining
It is exciting
But, I am in blue
You have no clue
Looking for secrets
You took me to outlets
No matter what you say
I will say “pay”
So you’ll say “bye-bye”
Hang myself in the sky
Singing voice is a bit shaky
Honestly I don’t want to die
You're gonna say “Why?”
I was sleeping and dreaming, silently screaming, while violently weeping And mildly feeling that I was honestly grieving I was quitely greeting my anxiety's breathing It was wildy eating at who I was... I could see through the mirrior he was frustrated Feeling devestated, felt isolated, feeled truly aggravated Did I mention the love and hatred upon his eyes Or even the soul teared through a genocide A gemini inside, but set aside he felt terrified But through the lies disguised in your mind He was ultimately petrified...It was you that was scarier then ever, even his barrier Now I'm flying high like a harrier, with you i'm more marrier Was it scary cause of your terror, or your character? See I truly miss you miss, you're a beautiful beautious Broken and brutal, but with you I see what beauty is I love it, cause you're so humorous, is it obvious? I'm operating this auto race Just for you, I'd be dominating...I'd be going pedal to the metal, just till it's settled I just want to win a medal, I'm feeling kind of dreadful I've even beaten my only devil, going crazy, am I mental? Nah, it's where I extract scratched tangets and you stare vast in past pamphlets And you have no answers for your last math's classes, within exams I see you vanishing You close your eyes and drift in planets'n'canvases, and you crash in crafted canyons That clash with granite and imagitive paniced bandits with a habit that granted An attached handprint that reflected my poetic languages They call us anguished animals, but I pass on my damages, on through these messages See I may look different with my clothes that are charred and almost carved off I'm scorching like dark hearts, and warped like barked bronze Can you see I was meant for journalling? I'll be discerning them, as they see me surfacing I'll just be surging in, and it's you that i'd prefer to bring even out of all these earth-a-lings I hope it's permenant, you showed me what my purpose is, I needed the encouragement It was a form of your subtle perfectness, is it courteous that you bring me nervousness? Right now, you got me prouder then, all my extended ends, it's pride from you that i'm conjuring in.... Your loves got me flying high in your turbulence, it's a superb inherent gift, I don't think I could picture it, It has me feeling one with the churches and all my burning urges end...
Where is humanity?
as Congolese players,
stuffs and fanatics
were about to sing
their national anthem
at Afcon tournament,
they put their right hands
on their mouths
to express the silence
of the international community
into the problems of DRCongo.
they pointed their left hands like guns
on their heads to express different atrocities
which continue taking place
in Eastern of DRCongo.
They seemed so confused after hearing
about the bombardment of the rebels
In one town in East of DRCongo
which killed many folks.
the USA, France , UK , Germany governments
are supplying the rebels behind
the government of Rwanda
As they are pushing the deal to balkanise
DRCongo into many countries.
Many people who understood this powerful mute speech of Congolese players
were so sad.
Congolese blamed different media
for not showing the Congolese supporters from the beginning to the end of their match with Ivory coast ,
as they were wearing some tee-shirts
and uplifting some pamphlets
written " Stop Genocide in DRCongo."
Congolese government found
that the CAF is also complice to that action and stopped their team to participate
to any activity of solidarity which will be organised by CAF.
Some Congolese destroyed their Aerials
of some French Channels which were reporting the Afcon.
Some Congolese marched at the embassy
of France in Kinshasa
And called for the closing of USA, France
, UK , Germany embassies in Kinshasa
As many westerners
are promoters of the wars
in DRCongo.
Where is humanity?
As Congolese continue to be killed
Like animals while the whole World
is silently.
Into the solar system
Outreaching myself
Intense grief, mourning
Into cake and wedding dress
Galvanized poorly, the rust
About to topple into ochre
Coated stardust glittering
As we discover the truth
Not enough good, oh but for better
For worse, for years, for a fool
Like me and her, a mirror image
A replacement, a damnation
Creeping over stocking tops
There is not enough bleach in the world
To coat the filthy soul you smuggle
Into orbit, my anger now exceeding
The speed of light, the Titanic
To the iceberg, one way trip
A government secret, a conspiracy
Anything at all to wipe away your guilt
And stardust glittering on her face
Leaving retched little Laika to
Smother in the agony of ignorance
Huddle with me for precious warmth
How I could set a man on fire
The tongue is sharp, cutting through
The web of lies, deceit, conterfeit
Forgiveness plagiarized in pamphlets
Set across the universe, the guilt
You should be feeling, burning up in Betelgeuse
Oh for heavens and constellations spell it out
Every dog has their day, but some draw the shortest of the straws