Long Articulates Poems
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Here on the cusp of all things, is where I succumb
Ceding my stuff blindly, toward oblivion and none
Unwilling to persevere, without a modicum of fun
Listing in perpetual stasis, til the spasm’s undone
And yet a god may save me, or a talisman of love
Some prophet of euphoria, quelling ennui thereof
Placing good tidings, into a universal equation
Edifying eternity…..revealing its exact duration…..
Alas he speaks in riddles, and treads a mobius strip
Each cycle forming a twist, convoluting his trip
Determined I follow, my awareness in collapse
Narrow-mindedly stumbling into mortality traps
Now I sense the endgame, but decline to exalt
Its a distortion, an abortion, a cataclysmic fault
Chance meeting with a nihilist, yields positive results
Unable to see past zero, he reveals nothing but cults
Here on the cusp of all things, is where I begun
A contorted brain-f*ck, had no choice but to come
A demon of clarity, with an open ended measure
One who gives to please, but prefers taking pleasure
To believe for one moment, I’d live off a dying spark
Only denies potential, when again life goes dark
With more light to come, my sunglasses prepared
Eternity’s not polarised, just infinitely layered
If a blind man articulates, I’ve seen all this before
Screaming and convinced “I’m a seer at my core”
Could be he’s mistaken, or deluded with Déjà vu
Begs his final question, “do I have a point of view”?
Is a diary entry 'poetry' per se?
What if it touches engaging the soul
peeling back layers of raw hidden emotion?
What if it bares sharing innermost secrets ~
what if it articulates heart to heart?
Sometimes we'll just blurt out our feelings
avoiding the fancy frivolous packaging
spilling the beans it's not always pretty.
We just say it like it is
black on white unfiltered uncensored
words spewing out without grace or flair
just getting the load off our chest.
So... are diary entries 'poetry'?
Yes if you want them to be
Yes when they go beyond the mundane
Yes when they pull at your heartstrings
in any way you choose ~
Lineku: 3 stanzas of 5-7-5 lines ~ every line either 5 or 7 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
"What is life but a succession of preludes to unwritten words . . . "
Quote by_Constance La France
The creative urge of our vibrant soul
articulates poetry when it heeds
pulse of divine consciousness we extol.
Navigating life to fulfil our role,
without any doubt love magnetism leads
the creative urge of our vibrant soul.
To rise from limitation and feel whole,
drawn to love’s beauteous rhythm soul needs
pulse of divine consciousness we extol.
Knowing our aura is blackened like coal,
oh hermit, know God's boundless grace yet feeds
the creative urge of our vibrant soul.
Making unique music, being our goal,
empty like space, purity of heart speeds
pulse of divine consciousness we extol.
We paint the canvas by ceding control,
as the burning yearning to ink love seeds
the creative urge of our vibrant soul;
pulse of divine consciousness we extol.
14-November-2022
HMS, Rhymezone, PS Grammar
Theme: Writing
WRITING CHALLENGE - ''V'' Forms Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
This old oak-tree smiling through my balcony
Sways and swings cheerily, a happy emissary,
Budding new vigor upon tiny greenish leaves
Adorning exuberance of idyllic new morning,
Quivering golden-beams on dawning of spring.
When the sun rises, blushing mauve feelings,
Its gentle oscillations fetch tender sensibilities
Inviting sparrows to grace the stage of robins
In spontaneous outburst of ceremonial music--
Chirping, twittering, singing for the hatchlings.
As summer of my mind churns wistful stories,
Its white blossoms waltz tender warm breeze
And leaves flutter merrily, twirling to comfort me
When thoughts bygone nudge parched vagaries
Engrossed in realm of burned-out memories.
When autumn turns green into fiery-red leaves
As ruby sundown glitters on amethyst evening
And gusty winds rustle-in endlessly, ferociously,
Whirling flying colors, floating crimson revelries;
A few remnants cling-on, loath to forsake me.
Yet, brazenly I gaze away, ignoring its appeal
When harsh winter shudders essence of its being,
Quivering, shivering bare-skinned branches;
Staying beguiled instead on top of frozen hills
Where sunset articulates ochre-tinged themes.
May 26, 2020
Poem of the day on May 28, 2020
Placed 2nd: Brian's Choice Y Contest
George Galloway, does his re-search is
Passionate..I beleive 'for open fair debate''
I see some things he articulates that i do not agree with..Yet how can faults be corrected? With closed minds.' Closed narratives.? Insofar as his willingness to
Engage with real events.' And to admit if he
Realises he has reported an error.' I find no
Fault there..So I hope you who read my posts.' And I am sure there are some.' Might go to ( you-tube) and see what you
Gather.? I post this to be of service to free
Speech, even though it be the very least..I
Hope? its a counter..To the (false prophet and beast')
Luminary Visions
Automatic liberty for one who has been incarcerated
Technocratic synergy that evolved to be automated
Enigmatic creativity which is overtly animated
Charismatic sensibilities that are recognised and celebrated
Amazing grace just pouring down from a twighlight sky
Stargazing at space as the question of origin comes out as a “why”?
A blazing face hot in disgrace about to suddenly die
While the grazing poor are dressed in broken lace and caught up in a politicians lie
Miscommunication at the place of education while the illiterate learn to read
Defamation of the current administration as the population articulates what it needs
Condemnation of the newest correlation that is necessary to feed
Exclamation of fascination as the people refuse to pay heed
I can see this microscopic look of fear inside your eyes
If it weren’t so clear I would tell you that there is no need to hide
But I can only add that your feelings are always justified
There’s a place for you among it all that you can always reside
Sanctuary at the latest state to take a stand
Extraordinary instances as I extend my shaking hand
Diversionary distances that remove the people from their land
Luminary images that allow the vision to remain grand
The End Copyright Elizabeth Moroz
While rummaging, mining,
and distilling me gray matter,
stoking mentality activates
oft time surprising me,
where unexpected novel
cognizance never abates,
I experienced becoming
linkedin with cosmic fates,
sans collective unconscious
soul of the universe,
and chanced to espy,
(albeit only a trimmed speck),
the spirit of William Butler Yeats
considered one of the foremost figures
of 20th-century literature,
where elan suddenly accelerates
though immediately abruptly stops
dead still in figurative tracks
utter disbelief accompanied
by shell shocked shyness accentuates
to remain stock still
suddenly feeling inadequate, inferior
immovable, insignificant...self doubt actuates
internal tussle, while
wise counsel within adjudicates
unable to convincingly
brush off devil's advocates,
which in no way, shape or form
successfully bolsters cockamamie idea,
floats and navigates fan to see, alternates
with bold prospect an emotional
paralysis immediately aggravates
anxiety as cowardice accumulates,
nonetheless pesky needling aggregates
maximizing far fetched optical illusion,
despite what must be hallucination,
this laughable wordsmith appreciates,
though many wildest dreams of mine defy
explanation, a feeble attempt articulates,
how dreamlike hypnotic stance captivates,
thru cosmic haze quantum matter assimilates
aura, charisma, enigma
rippling ethereal tore'n shroud
sensing, nursing, imbibing...
indecisiveness capitulates
wavering seduced mooring
temptation assertively celebrates
nonpareil genius among pantheon,
whose Eire rush grandeur circulates
thru time and space infiltrates
stimulating within mine off kilter crown,
where reverence circulates,
for long deceased Irish poet laureate,
his unseen presence amalgamates
vibrant tendrils of late
August author's grandeur effectively percolates
within and illuminates me with inspiration.
In the universe of the two rooms, she gathers her dreams between her palms,
She lets her fired hair descend upon the folds of our fleeting time.
"It's the end," she articulates with a voice sipping from the last silences,
Through the mirror in which we have often been born and died together.
I watch as she spreads the roots of fire over her shoulders,
In the innocence of what will melt and crumble under gazes.
I wish to be Adam, to feast upon the forbidden fruit of the heart,
But our Eden is now nothing more than a colorless portrait on the wall.
In bed, I embrace her lost silence, somewhere between my ribs,
My arm, a sleeping serpent upon her white neck, searching for the pulse of life.
My hands — two frightened mollusks — came to a shy halt on her skin,
Clasping fingers, joints, a prayer to the elbows whispered.
She rises and the nightgown becomes a kind of pale ghost,
"Enough," she murmurs, "this is fine," in the echo of her voice, a suspended goodbye.
I watch as the echo of her steps vanishes in the marble of the corridors,
Through the ajar door - a beggar of her silken memories.
As she leaves our concrete garden, under the swaying trees,
She asks — a final whim — "buy me high heels with thin spikes,
Shoes with black, thin heels," and then a moment’s reconsideration,
"No, I want them to be red." It’s a longing for shoes on the road to nowhere.
While the poinsettias shake under the weary sun, I close the door—
I close a book whose last page burns, and between the lines, does not.
Mike Pence for President
always made sense
to me
A man of rare conviction
in this land no longer brave
and lately not free
He reserves kisses for his wife
tithes his income to charity
At times of crisis, like January 6
He stands up tall for his country
As Vice-President he's met and measured
the likes of Putin, the Mullahs, Kim and Xi
A man who's balanced budgets as
Governor of Indiana a time or three
A man with a concrete plan for 'Our Country 'Tis of Thee'
who articulates as well as did John F. Kennedy
Yet when folks talk about the next President
they tell me Mike Pence has no chance
Pity...
within acoustic shadow invisible to the world a man of Silence
hostiles shudder of his life's strength , figurative mind wealth
sentiment beneath his fingers touch flourish draped in dreams
1/5/2020
I had to write this after the contest without his knowledge.
This poem was written in tribute to Silent One. A man who sees beauty in everything. He articulates his poetry with imagery, deep emotions within him. I am very proud to know him not only as a poet, but as a friend, a brother, a son. He has been there through my deep hurt and enjoyable times of life the past 4 years. Thank you Silent One.