Provenance Poems

Authenticity a Freed Verse

AUTHENTICITY
a
resemblance

 confirmed
with
 the
theory of truth
in
a
purported
 pigmentation
of
 flawed aesthetics
 analysed
with
an
impecable
provenance

Introspection

INTROSPECTION
  reiterated &continous
an outpouring
to  enhance trope
   vetted &sublimated
exemplifies
 an alterego
of
provenance&
credence
  timeframed
in succinct
  ironic layers

complementary
in
a  relentless
genre
perennial
&
implicit

 in practice
paralleled &
morphed
into sparse lines
relaxed &
  intimate
as
 visual statements
of solitude mode

yet
isolated
 chimes
with self signature
&
is self streamed


THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived

I Am Lin

I have the touch of viking in me
The spirit of the wild and free
I am the waterfall cascading
Across all nordic kingdom

My sovereignty undenied
I render lush abundance
Assuring joy to a parched land
Pride and glory to its clan

I am the gurgling source of life
That will not ever wither
I am Lin of the winds
The goddess of the meadows

I bring forth springtime’s magic
And the song of meadowlarks
I am Lin who hails from lands of reverie
Of the many crosswinds I am Lin               



Read on air by invitation  ~  January 9, 2022  'POETS HARBOUR'

AP: Honorable Mention 2021

Posted on July 25, 2021

Feel

We may seek a better life.
We may seek a better deal.
But what of the questions of this life?
When a life dies, does a soul choose to heal?
If our provenance is spiritual, if our existence is really this surreal.
Is it more important to choose a mapped out life or should we bend more on what the life is we feel?

Glory To God

Who yields the rod
Tweeked
You are ready to speak
Diligence through provenance
Your inner child stood with dominance
My detail perfectionist
You are my novelist
My successor
Through past failiors
Earning your promotion
Through your level of devotion
Love was enough
For you never gave up
No sweeter place than your mind
Skipping rocks across a deserted river 
No notion of time 
You have reached the Devine
When asked to explain
Do not refrain
Do not fear change
For it is written within your name
A kingdom now found as the king scepter sound
Jesters will kneel to the ground
The knights will line up
No one will dare to talk
Your triple rainbow you shall have
It is now your time to laugh

For Maura

The love we share might rate no beauty prize
Aesthetics playing servant to its plot
Seen best through finger blinds drawn cross the eyes
A love festooned in Hallmark rhymes it's not
Still we alone stood witness at its face
The provenance of each disfig'ring weal
Inflicted wounds our tongues dare not retrace
Kept moving on and left the past to heal
For love is our reward for knowing such
That self-survival is a pauper's end
Without your love I'd not have learned that much
The richness of my life's to comprehend
Love's beauty's lies not open but at heart   
You are my depth, my love my work of art

Guamera

To know such distant memories are here with me now.
To conceptualize knowing and experiencing the roots binding me to this earth. 
Painful and joyous.
Opulent phantoms.

Tongues I’ll never speak.
Stories I’ll never hear. 
But these feelings transport me to an arms reach from provenance. 
I’ve forgotten the details but I remember the love. 

Roaming the earth.
A vagabond from above.

Karen

She reads Dave Berg and E.B. White,
John Ciardi and Henry Leigh –
My eight-year-old prodigy.

She sings Ray Charles and Jackson Browne,
Benatar and Robin Lane.
Her confidence will never wane.

She loves writing and drawing,
Painting and dance.
I’m proud to be her provenance.

The Shadow

There once was a man from DeBose
who had a gigantic nose
his nostrils squawked
whenever he walked.
When at rest it sat on his toes

The man got a job at a farm
his task was to sound the alarm
when the sly fox
tried the coop locks
intending to do chickens harm

One night his nose fell asleep
lulled by the bleat of the sheep
fox took a chance
interrupted romance
of two lovebirds, now the one weeps!

The man with the nose then got fired
The farmer now wished he had hired
a man without clothes
not a nullified nose
so prone to be slumber inspired

As the nose and his man went away
Nose saw the sly fox in the hay
with much boogie-woogie
nose hocked a great loogie
and splattered the fox where he lay

The farmer was pleased to be rid of the pest
though the hay loft was terminally messed
Everyone cheered
nose grew a beard
and moved to an ashram out west

You may wonder, is this tale is true?
I assure you it is, yes I do.
to doubt the nose
would presuppose
this story is nothing but poo

The legend of the hero nose grows
if questions of provenance pose
look on the shadiest side
of that big chunk of hide
for only the shadow knows

The Thinker

a perfect world, those words get so swirled
is it all perspective, or just selective rivers
do i dare deliver such a crazy prayer
as the mayor steeps, the angles creep
conscious yet asleep, fishing in our ocean
wishing for our promotion for a new way to recieve speech
some say naive yet our provenance from stars is belief

sometimes it can be hard to say, what feels my way
maybe i lack the confidence, to portray today
but if our rhymes could touch the soul 
we'ed all be singing on grassy knolls
until then this tinker must remain a free thinker
enjoying every grain, unraveling every chain

Volition To a New Life

A clean slate onset
                          With the superb volition
                     That states out a provenance
 
                              Bring the best of you 
                       Assume the reins of your life
                   Allow the world know your worth








Nayda Ivette
12-17-2015

Ol' News

ol' news

and on the strife rages
across the heated lands
a blog papered main stage
bombs & beheaded are planned

victims and vicissitudes 
captured on handy-cam phone
talking heads with platitudes
of thugs, their cover blown

pride in mankind runs to core
to prefer right over happiness
so slaughters settle some score
ignoring acts magnanimous

always wars and rumors of 
to accuse and chide and blame
no cheek turned, if only for love
and long for change still remains

is Darwin's theory still alive?
can mankind evolve into kindness
or will only the weaponized survive
will civility fall from our blindness

pray if that's your provenance
act if your actions can better
our behavior has its consequence
let good life be our treasure

© GoodGuySoul 2014-11-20

There Is Nothing Like a Dame

THERE IS NOTHING LIKE A DAME –
and there is no dame like a building society or a bank!

There may be nothing like me, but I assure you
the world would have gone to hell but for organised sex -
if boys and girls were left to nature’s provenance,
a person like me would be nowhere at all.

Oh, I know how to milk attraction
and stabilise what is essentially of short duration:
if boys and girls were left to innocence
there’d be no delighting old men.

If that sounds unfair, I didn’t make the rules -
all this spontaneity leaves everyone very poor,
the Church, the magistrates and the building societies
are all depending on the regulation of love.

It’s the people who won’t smile who bother me,
hard fitted, easy suited, do they think it’s all for free?

(C) Rosemarie Rowley


From IN MEMORY OF HER (2008)

The Mad Secretary

THE MAD SECRETARY

Hunched over the computer, I am  mystical,
With mental white gloves and a karate belt - 
A daylight cursor, but on my bicycle,
A word and energy transformer, a flickering Celt.

Such metaphysics I can make into sensation,
Turned into binary formulae by the boss,
My passion is for punctuation- 
But the lingua franca doesn’t give a toss.

 I see the point.  I accommodate the pause.
I rinse the cups and make the coffee sweet,
I am saving myself for this man of laws,
Of Brehon provenance, who will entreat

Me to be his love, his partner and co-genitor,
Of a life graph, where he can trust the monitor.

(c) Rosemarie Rowley
From IN MEMORY OF HER (2008)

Her Princess Amid Enchanting's Courtyard

Walking as if within a dream down, her heart's hushed corridors....
A swarm of gnats gnawing viciously on their mongrel heretics dogmatic
Scrolls his provenance clinging unto it's birth this womb's, in vogue ? Void
Sacrilegious separatism these virulent breeds as bred by, rabid's father tongue
An ark of their own covenants; Elizabethan's, elliptical children studious starve'lings
Intransigent invading illusionist craving conjurers confederations; ancient's sperminations
Luxferre la fox her kismet's quaff a quagmire ? Yet love's looking glass and time, she shall drink.

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