A Poem For Prolix
Tediously wordy.
the Latin prolixus
(extended, poured) ,
from liquere (to flow) ,
the source of words such as liquid,
liquor,
licorice.
Now do you see the connection - why consuming lots of Tanduay 65
make the teachers of Cancainap
prolix?
Let me try using the word,
No one has ever called her prolix.
At a seminar sponsored by the DECS,
Miss Manolita mumbled a few introductory words
and then sat in silence,
eyebrows arched,
arms folded,
for the remaining two loveless days.
She misses someone
No, not the prolix poet
But the sylvan lover.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
an ad: PROLIX (for Manolita)
Who uses PrOlix?
Law enforcement
Military
Outdoor enthusiasts
Olympic shooters
Target shooters
Biathletes
Homeowners
Collectors
Designed for Firearms
Lubricates and cleans
Waterproof
Inhibits rust/corrosion
Eliminates oil/grease
Preserves wood
Environmentally friendly
Safe to use on Glock polymers
PROLIX is a registered trademark
Dry lube technology
Use prolix on Valentine's day.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The French, I think, in general, are strangely prolix in their natural history.
quote by Gilbert White
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Profess
A strange language!
To the spot,
With your works,
Prolix,
With your muse,
Profess,
Prolong,
And like a light in darkness!
At the X-Ray Room,
Like Miss Undercover! !
With the oldest person in your land;
But, this road leads to the Golden Gate.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Black Licorice
Whooo ... wheee!
You there, comin up the stair, the feelin is ice-blue cold.
Shake, its more than I can take, Im startin to lose control.
Watch out, whats that noise, theres somebody at the door.
It must be black licorice, she come back to make me cry some more.
Time, aint on my side, Im losin it more each day.
Licorice, licorice.
Shes got evil in her eyes, and catnip is her taste.
Licorice, licorice.
She wraps me up in her slender legs, her hot black skin to mine.
Licorice, licorice.
Ple ... ple ...please, dont touch me, oh, I know Im dead this time.
Oh, oh, yeah ... licorice, yeah, black licorice.
Licorice, licorice.
Licorice, yeah, black licorice.
Licorice, licorice.
Licorice, black licorice.
Licorice, licorice.
Licorice, yeah, black licorice.
Licorice.
Licorice.
Licorice.
Licorice.
Licorice, yeah, black licorice.
Licorice, licorice.
Licorice, yeah, black licorice.
Licorice, licorice.
Licorice, licorice, black licorice.
Licorice, licorice.
Licorice, woah, black licorice.
song performed by by Grand Funk Railroad
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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13: 00 Predicament
There are songs I'll never sing
And places I would shun
For when the night fell
Unto the prolix limbo
Of timelessness and infinitude
All these memories thawed
Before it amalgamates -
An unjust jeopardy
In this savage world
Of tigers and vultures
Caught in the same trap
poem by Norman Santos
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In Your Fidelity With The Word
in your fidelity with the word
despite what mood you keep on siding with the word
giving it a face
and a soul
and a certain motion like the planets in their orbits
what then? what shall all these words reward you?
a story to tell? a poem that you can read for all of those
who are weary on the journey?
a novel to spend time with
or kill it since it bores you to death?
yes, i must ask, what shall this fidelity give you
as a reward for your affections
and loyalty to its nuances, moods, and context?
is it the liberation of your soul from the prison of doubt?
oh, you keep on saying you are free.
is it the liberation of your mind from the unpopularity of reality?
oh, you keep saying you do not need it.
is it the liberation of your body from the shackles of your organs?
mind boggling, why should my organs be my prison?
is it this prolix that keeps you bored?
or is it simply the questions that keep on growing
that keeps you alive?
are you more interested in the answers?
i am just asking. Are there answers?
my dear, at the end, there are only questions.
These are the realities of our world. The open mind
is the gift. It is the reward to your fidelity
of the bosom of the word.
kiss it then, and make love to the beauty of the
question mark.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Curtains of Malignance
Your heavy mascara
And violent red lips
Technicolor berries
Can it moor the squirming
Seraphs and lice?
A thousand prolix words
Inside a single line
Can it calm to compensate
A thousand virulent wars
In one solitary day?
Inedible metallic veneer
Flustering the eyes
Crucifying the hands
Of the prying spectators
Can it really harm?
Step on the pedal gravely
The engine rummages
And you hum along
Can you ever run
And outrun your home?
Four dark corners
One despondent room
And ten colossal icons
Of religious expeditions
Can your prayers save you?
Prowl and roar, dear Hyena
For as hapless as it may seem
We'll never know
But we'll let it roll
The curtains of malignance.
poem by Norman Santos
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Silence
When I was cub reporter I
Would interview the Great,
And sometimes they would make reply,
And sometimes hesitate;
But often they would sharply say,
With bushy eyebrows bent:
"Young man, your answer for to-day
Is - No Comment."
Nigh sixty years have called the tune,
And silver is my pate;
No longer do I importune
Important men of state;
But time has made me wise, and so
When button-holed I shake
My head and say: "To-day, I've no
Comment to make."
Oh, silence is a mighty shield,
Verbosity is vain;
let others wordy warfare wield,
From arguments abstain;
When faced with dialectic foes
Just shrug and turn away:
Be sure your wisest words are those
You do not say.
Yea, Silence is a gleaming sword
Whose wounds are hard to heal;
Its quiet stuns the spoken word
More than a thunder peal;
Against it there is no defense,
For like the grave-yard sod
Its hush is Heaven's eloquence,
The VOICE OF GOD.
poem by Robert William Service
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Spirit
An arched bow lined with an arrow sharp
An arrow poisonous aimed to hurt
Words born from tongues arched to pierce
A fragile spirit cracking with the first shot
What's worse than words spewed to hurt
What hurts more than a broken spirit
What's better than an encouraging word
What's more beautiful than a soaring spirit
What's wiser than silence when mad
What's more foolish than insults hurled on one who hurts
What excites more than the fall of the great
What thrills more than the shame of the mighty
What travels faster than gossip which destroys a name
A word's a hammer, a hand, a clay, a sword
You choose with each arching of your bow
To break a spirit
To build a life
To mend the broken or
To pierce the soul
As words created all we see
Words destroy all that be
Speak with ease, with words that heal.
poem by Jenim Dibie
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A Poet Loses His Power For Poetry
A POET LOSES HIS POWER FOR POETRY
A poet loses his power for poetry
He can put down words
But they no longer have poetry in them
Something of the feeling of what real poetry is
is gone.
He strives
He writes again and again
He puts words down in the forms and in the shapes his poems usually take
But he has no poetry in him
He has lost what he is
And all he can do
is strive again and again
Word after word
Silence after silence
To hear within himself again
A voice he does not have.
The poet is writing poetry
And it is not poetry
The poet is dead
And he is pretending to be alive
Is this a poem?
Is he a poet
Is he dead?
Is he alive?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Untitled 15
there is a mountain of words
an ocean of words
a continent of words
there is a rain of words
a flood of words
a river of words and true to their being words
they also disintegrate as syllables
on the other hand some form the clauses
conditions and terms
some make sentences and paragraphs
a world of words full of words
i am not a word and i am buried in a mountain of words
a sea of words i drown
a continent of words i am condemned to walk all the days of my life
too may words my ears do not listen anymore.
my eyes do not like to read anymore.
i like something not having to do with words.
what about a touch? what about a picture?
what about a kiss?
why don't people just make love without saying a word?
let us start touching the hearts of people
to avoid this war of words that lead us to our own perdition.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Best wishes.
The thirtieth, May, this year,
Is the thirty fifth day of you,
That comes to you in as many years.
A mother may wish with smile.
A spouse may wish with eyes.
The kids may do with grins.
Others may greet you with words.
But the pet wishes with silence.
That silence is louder than the sound.
A wish gains as per its source,
Not by words. The pet has no words.
All wish you to live long.
I wish you to live young.
21.05.2001, Pmdi
Greeting from the forbidden lover]
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Some Silence, Some Words
Today somewhere a mirror broke
And a music of end splashed in the pages of time,
Someone lost his meanings in the broken mirror..
And an unending silence flowed
Many things happen silently, , ,
How the silent weeping of the lost meaning wander in the depth of the night, , ,
I unveil the sea of darkness...i find only silence
And the music of the end keeps on splashing around
Life is all about some silence and some words…
Far away a poet was looking for words, .
And a poem was seeking for its understanding, ,
for the heart where words dwell with meanings, ,
As long as they both were away everything was all right...
And when they met, , ,
the poet lamented on the end of words of the poem, , ,
and the poem on the unending silence of the poet, , , , ,
poems are not about understanding....
poet is not about words, , , ,
Sonnet To Henry Cowper, Esq.
Cowper, whose silver voice, tasked sometimes hard,
Legends prolix delivers in the ears
(Attentive when thou read'st) of England's peers,
Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward.
Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,
Expending late on all that length of plea
Thy generous powers, but silence honoured thee,
Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard.
Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside
Both heart and head; and couldst with music sweet
Of attic phrase and senatorial tone,
Like thy renowned forefathers, far and wide
Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet
Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.
poem by William Cowper
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Imagination
Imagination plays me most intolerable tricks.
To enumerate them all would be unbearably prolix.
Just a trifle bids them gather and a trifle bids them go.
And they tease me and torment me more than anyone can know.
Tricks of strange, disordered action, tricks of strange disordered thought.
Tricks of seeking explanations most unprofitably sought.
But my will is learning daily, when the creatures growl and leap,
That a stern voice and a stinging lash will drive them back to sleep.
poem by Gamaliel Bradford
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Am I dying in your Silence?
Silence is a sure killer
For your silence kills
Kills me slowly and softly
Your silence is like a song
Sung silently but killing me at the same time.
I hear a song in the quiet of the room
and in the still of the air
A song of our love
A song of our life
Every word in it
Has so much meaning and pain
I hear you singing that song
So soulfully, but hurting me at the same.
In silence I bear the pain
As Life goes by
The colorful past seems all over
A new day is born
And a new life has begun
Sometimes I crave to just
A hear a few words from you
But you just seem to ignore me
And pretend like I was not there
Like a few drops of water
that quench my thirst
So do I miss a few words from you.
Yes, I miss you
For your silence is killing
And I am waiting
For a few words
To show me a sunny day
Or even a rainbow in the sky.
poem by Debra Masky
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I Like To Think That All These Are But A Game Of Words
that is the impression from the beginning
when i started to scribble
word, and more words, i assured her that they do not
mean anything at all just
words, and words and more words
that even a sunflower wilting and spreading all the seed on her feet
are nothing too but words and more words
nothing to grow nothing to expect like a sprouting something
thus my loneliness, i again assure here, is nothing but a word
my way of taking solitude on the other side to save myself
is another word, and she of course, did not believe me saying
there is more to these words, there is fire in them and i see you burning
there is the sun inside them and the letters glow and the
there is smoke rising from the heads of vowels
from the nonspeaking consonants
i keep hiding the flowers
i bury those that are alive in the silence of my pretensions
until one day she grips me like she is a knife wanting to stab me
and then she stabbed me right in my throat and there i bleed
words, words, and more words coming from the slit
bloody words, and she was convinced, until death, ... and then i vanish.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Tenderly you come
tenderly you come
to touch the locks of hair
that rest there on the pillow
feathered in a dream
i sleep my silence long
two words for its spell
and no silence for a word
you touch my face and line it
up in warmth through glass
that stands there instead of window
sundialed roomed so spacious
i sleep my silence long
two words for its spell
and no silence for a word
you open eyes of a closure
'neath unfaithful sky
to write me there word cloudward
wipe me away or melt
in my sleep silence long
two words for its spell
and no silence for a word
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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A panorama with arches…
Arches, arches, arches
Arches of lips, palates, eyes, eyebrows
Arches of hearts, minds, kisses,
Indignities, obedience’s,
Arches of dreams, skies, stars, waters
Arched bridges that make me easier to reach you
More quickly than one single arc
Arched of words, that goes so smoothly
When they fly in arch style between us
Arches under sustained bridges of our love
And, I get thirsty oftentimes for them…
Vasil Marku 2012
poem by Vasil Marku
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Teacher’s Day Poem (A Pot Pourri)
They help us strive for goals;
They give us model roles;
They are such superb souls;
That help sprout ‘student-poles’!
Most teachers teach us well;
We have no words to tell;
Sometimes, they even yell,
When we can’t rightly spell.
A gentle pat on back;
A simple word or whack;
Most teachers know the knack,
To find out what we lack.
They show us how to write;
They tell us what is right;
They taught all to be bright,
No matter what our plight.
And some talk about life;
And problems that are rife;
Be careful with a knife,
And how to tackle strife.
A teacher is so wise;
Most teachers do advise,
To keep away from vice,
And never tell white lies!
They teach us speak the truth;
And guide us in our youth;
In life, they help us smile
And run our earthly mile.
Some teach us how to play;
Some tell us how to say
The twin words, ‘aye’ and ‘nay’
And put us in life’s way.
God bless our teachers dear;
And keep them always near;
Their voices to well hear;
May they in life not tear.
What could our school-life be,
Without teachers lovely?
We love our teachers truly
We’ll miss them all surely!
‘Happy Teachers’ Day! ’ (Sept 5th)
Copyright by Dr John Celes 8-31-2008
poem by John Celes
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