Citatepedia^®.com

Worker

Eight or more hours you work everyday,
to earn your weekly wage, opening it,
look in disgust with what you made.
Therefore, off on strike you go, to cause a little fuss.
The PM beams a fat face,
from your television screen,
say you must go back to work,
and live within your means.
You look at him angrily,
saying, “you silly fool.
I’d be better clothed and fed
if I lived off the dole.”

It is all right for him,
with his thousands a year,
but what about us poor workers
on forty pound a week,
whose monies gone,
before we even, see it.
That does not tweak.

[...] Read more

poem by David Harris
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Stop-And-See

I’M STEWING in a brick-built town;
My coat is quite a stylish cut,
And, morn and even, up and down,
I travel in a common rut;
But as the city sounds recede,
In dreamy moods I sometimes see
A vision of a busy lead,
And hear its voices calling me.

My flaccid muscles seem to tweak
To feel the windlass pall and strain,
To shake the cradle by the creek,
And puddle at the ‘tom’ again.
I’d gladly sling this musty shop
To see the sluicing waters flow—
A pile of tucker, dirt on top,
And simply Lord knows what below.

’Twas lightly left, ’tis lately mourned,
The tent life up at Stop-and-See,

[...] Read more

poem by Edward George Dyson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Even If It Kills

He was thought of as great.
Even though he embellished those times,
And exaggerated his own self importance.

Stealing most of his concepts from someone else.
That human trait will never change.
Today honesty is scrutinized and found to be repulsive.
Thieves and priests are on the same mission...
To dupe and pray they are not caught for their transgressions.
And if they are?
So what!

Shakespeare was considered one who depicted his time brilliantly.
Even though it is debated he 'was' who he 'is'...
Or 'is' who he 'was'.
Making great fun of royalty...
Government and those in high positions.
With men playing all the roles.
Was he gay and outcast?

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Bullets

As bullets come to us they're thin,
They're angular, or smooth and fat,
Some spiral are, and gimlet in,
And some are sharp, and others flat.
The slim one pink you clean and neat,
The flat ones bat a solid blow
Much as a camel throws his feet,
And leave you beastly incomplete.
If lucky you don't know it through.

The flitting bullets flow and flock;
They twitter as they pass;
They're picking at the solid rock,
They're rooting in the grass.
A tiny ballet swiftly throws
Its gossamer of rust,
Brown fairies on their little toes
A-dancing in the dust.

You cower down when first they come

[...] Read more

poem by Edward George Dyson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Poppy's Hold

The suns raps like burning lava on the skin
As the peau embraces life in its scorching thin
Where the bactrian camels roam in absolute glee
Where fields of poppy smile in their domes of free

Not a mercenary but a proud soldier within
As the terrain desecrates the life from within
As a bomb explodes taking away the carrier's life
Hoards of innocence at mercy in the unfolding strife

I have a picture of her in my wallet's space
My guarding savior from the bullet's brace
As life's timber fall like the Amazons in Brazil
To the delighted faces of a few in the cheapest of thrills

She is a nurse in making in the badlands of Lakota
An Indian princess in the pieces of Dakota
A lass with a simple outlook and kind eyes
As I long for her kiss in these badlands as time rarely flies

[...] Read more

poem by Dilantha Gunawardana
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Who Do You Want Me To Be For You This Week?

Who do you want me to be for you this week?
Someone conservative and works alot?
Or some thug who disrespects and cusses?
Like that guy who caught your eye down the street.
You know...
The one who has five kids with different women,
Who you say is so sweet.
Who do you
Really want me to be
For you this week?

Who do you want me to be for you this week?
Tonto, Baskins of Robbins or a preacher...
The one you say looks at you,
As he stumbles through his sermon as he is preaching.
And reaching towards you to fondle,
But you say...
Nothing has happened between the sheets.
Who do you
Want me to be,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Fractal Reflections 1555

He triptoed to and fro between her energy's go glow and fractal reflections of her parallel factual reality relays in fact, fiction and fantasy, unGODlily attracted to his lily: her.

She, once torn between LIFE giving support paying lip-service to conform_I_tease rediscovers karmic context known, familiar grown, gears up to foreknown as unblown yet sown spins from Time's weave boll weevil's second take at times taking therefrom, EVIL, and adding thereto LIVE - [s]he saw the light. Errors edited out, she'll flout doubt without second thoughts. 'I can' defeats Cannae constraints as carriage receives a breath of fresh air away from day-to-day nights as knight's dreams beam team towards serendipity.

They flowed on SHarEd pixels, photon win/win spin spilling from illusion or self-delusion confusion to fusion's conclusion. Try angles not angels said Pope Gregory formulating information for unformed nation to be strung on Time's beads. Rose awry awaits bloom, disregards doom tomb's drum boom, as some prime[aval] sum snaps hibernation's suspended animation causal chain. Pinch of salt 'collideoscopic' sand mandela bröt grains interweave fractal anima without animus outside time line rhyme's selenite rosary.

Chance ON OM dance advances shedding shells from Chelles to Eternity, from 'here' to eternity. Eagle eyed MOON extends sing-song shadow patterns, warp wefts between real-I-tease, unpeels seals, peals without paling beyond the pale, reels round each successive buy line lass_who woo. Poets self heal, as sin is spin - moral gin VERityMOUTH. Frustration fades as empathy catalyzes vision mission clarity, fords and affords humorous humerus interplay's funny-bone facettes. FIRE supercedes IRE, irony PURifiEd.

Free verse talk walk waves along Way side sways, prays, preys from slay oblivion to play rev_elation - revel in pointed yin yang contradictions, in situ 'sit I zen' situation standpoints. Sinuous insinuations blow-throw topsy-turvy glow flow through Sphinx's choice voice rejoicing in labyrinthine closed or close woven pattern play pinpoint ME-anderings. Dazzle dizzy crazy-paving pictogram universe pyramid's crater creator kids parallel kabbalistic code modes few decipher or deem dream-theme schemes accessible. Hope gropes scope in enigmatic holy gram, reacts to wavelength relays clicking on subconscious screens, attempting to avoid cacheless society's disk risk oblivion.

Imagination is life's architect, being the finite sum of infinite opportunities, attracted to or defracted from protracted links between expectation and reality contract - as contacts contract probabilites, soul re_mainS[T]AYing whole, intact, as tact and tactility tease subcontracted substance with DIStracted EASE dissolving disease often leading through convention to misguided conviction.

Reality remains conundrum, paradox docks parade, if choice is pre-ordained. Thus meted meter met her matter matters little if perceptions are immortal streamlined spotlights echoed as idea[l]s tune-tweak leak spheres' muse music, reaping energy, leaping beyond heated arguments. Current or recurrent pluridimensional parallel cycles, pixel paradox, spirals curlicue ad infinitum.

poem by Jonathan Robin
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Sailor Boy to His Lass

I go away this blessed day,
To sail across the sea, MATILDA!
My vessel starts for various parts
At twenty after three, MATILDA.
I hardly know where we may go,
Or if it's near or far, MATILDA,
For CAPTAIN HYDE does not confide
In any 'fore-mast tar, MATILDA!

Beneath my ban that mystic man
Shall suffer, COUTE QUI COUTE, MATILDA!
What right has he to keep from me
The Admiralty route, MATILDA?
Because, forsooth! I am a youth
Of common sailors' lot, MATILDA!
Am I a man on human plan
Designed, or am I not, MATILDA?

But there, my lass, we'll let that pass!
With anxious love I burn, MATILDA.

[...] Read more

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

I Have Grown

I have grown significantly to understand that every throne I've ever sat upon was quicksand and that I am living leniently on the match-head of a planet waiting for the thumbnail of the moon to ignite it with one quick flick of a crescent. Equine and apocalyptic as hell, and the irony is, more than possibly accurate. I'm running out of doors where I can billet my assassins; I keep giving my heart to women who reject it like a bloodbank without an overdraft. I'm a diffraction pattern in the twilight zone, in media res, between this world and the next, and that's not the one where the herders and the hunters are having it out in a range war of religions. Like a page torn out of the multiverse, I'm just a zone of local cooling, a sunspot, and my neighbour is another, though we know we're both just fooling when we call each other brother. Forty-eight years a poet and a painter, intoxicated by the picture-music threading the fog of the sirens like a theme I couldn't resist. Foolish, I suppose, not to have tied myself off like a lifeboat and rowed and rowed for years just to stay where I am, but I had to jettison my landing gear to achieve cruising altitude in the oxymoronic abyss that the sirens demanded, saying, live this, if your poetry isn't just the romantic bloodletting of a rose from a vein that you've slashed on the moon, prove you're not a lie to us, and conduct yourself like a terrorist, prepared, are you prepared? -to die for us. I cut the eyes out of an eclipse and wore it over my face like a ski-mask, and walked around in the busy market, weighing the world like a tomato in my hand, the original primordial atom, packed with explosives, ready to detonate on command, to delet and improve the world by splashing myself against the wall like a bucket of paint and see what I could make out of myself in the mess of the ensuing vision. It's amazing how suggestive a real siren can be when you're lying in an ambulance without any legs. So I learned to swim like a fish among the stars; the last archon of an extinct species from Mars, evicted when all the water went south, and I had to come up with a completely new medium, new atmosphere, new idiom, out of myself, ingeniously, given what I had to work with. I adapted to the solitude and silence of my own vast spaces within, and vowed like a candle, to root my flower in the dark like lightning. Now there's a squad car outside the candy-store and a swan that barks like a god. Make of it what you will. The pebble doesn't enquire after its ripples. I write without feedback, without telltale bubbles of meaning rising to the surface like survivors who want to crawl back up on land and start it all again. There's not much point in panning for gold in an asteroid belt when the only way to tell one nugget from the next is to break your teeth biting into them like fortune-cookies enshrining the haloes and the horns of the prophetic comets that dash by like bunting on a campaign tour. Elect me your fate, and I promise to find a place for your day old reflection somewhere on the plate, and a way to flag the fools down for easier detection. But I won't tweak your mountainous erection like a gunshot when there are avalanche warnings all along the road, and the echoes return, born again, rehearsing their own names like fleeing refugees on a rosary of boulders that were left overs from Soddam and Gomorrah. Better to write this way than to lie buried like the last laugh of a kingly line in the barrow of a dunghill, pleading like a seed for an upgraded resurrection. I may well be the last extant defect of a fallible perfection, and all the mistakes of the bruised morning glory are mine, and the snakey tines of these tendrils of blood get tangled up in the twine of my thought and no one knows how they got in nor how to get out, and the homologous combs of the mentally coiffed are useless against the love knots that have coiled into nooses around the neck of the wind that's run out of excuses for inciting the spring to riot, but at least I don't snitch my way through a poem like a hydrophobic divining rod rooting out the terrorist wells of the watershed in order to secure some heartland in the back pastures of God. It's dangerous wherever I am. And flawed.

poem by Patrick White
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Upwardly Mobile Breasts Current Version

Upwardly mobile breasts
link together East and West,
occupying cyberspace
to tease, to please, as they unbrace,
spring feeding fantasy oppressed,
that gravity which, second-guessed,
would temper passions. These, apace,
grow, flow with honey, milk, chased chaste.

Upwardly mobile breasts
time time. Against time each protests,
the morals of the marketplace,
reject as callous, coarse, misplaced
manipulative maladress.
By tenderness they're more impressed.
Pneumatic cushions chaste encase
chased goals which souls should not debase.

Man, mammal mammary obsessed,
manhandles, memory manifests

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!