Last Edited Tongue Twister Poems (1,151)

Forced to study
Mathematics
I forced myself

To force that force
Of useless poetry
From my mind

The Beauty
Highest
Escalon the

Power
Of
Elegance in Her
Majesty

The paradoxical
And insoluble
Nature of her Voids
Has left me broken

Yet the finesse
Of her axiomatic
Logic is still
Beautiful

I stared too long
And hard
Into that
Abyss

And I am broken
And yet remade
By the Logic
Of the Great Men

Now I sometimes
Read her again
And find that
I still love her


© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

She flew her glider off the Blorenge*
For she had a bird-like skill;-
And the flimsy craft was orange;-
('Twas launched from that mighty hill).

It took a long walk to arrange;-
This courageous act of will;-
To first mount this rill (or range);-
(The braveness does impress me still).

Her name was Angela (or 'Ange');-
She lived down by the old stone mill;-
Her surname could be "Gorringe"?**
Yes, I think that fits the bill!


© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

Like a Navigator, using maps of old,
I now consult my list for one more story,
Which I bring to you; (If I may be so bold);
As it yields to become Poetic Glory;
Which may skew the facts; - and yet it must be told,
By myself (now somewhat old and hoary);
Now reconstructed from the "mists of time"-
As I settle to the rhythm of my rhyme.

So locked down from Covid, in old Sydney,
I watch the news in intermittent bursts;
Feeling now, I well could lose a kidney;
Or catch the Delta Strain (which could be worse).
Nonetheless, I must write on, and give thee;
A true account of my 'lover's curse';-
And like the night-time rain, which falls relucent;
I write now of my life without inducement.

I drank the years away, let me tell you,
Time vanished in solution down the drain;
And yet I have the wit to now renew,
My memories, and half-forgotten pain;
Therefore, before, this rhyme now goes askew,
I will write down my story bold and plain;-
Concerning of a girl in Quaker's Hill*-
An encounter that was an act of will.

Does anyone remember Lavalife?
The lonely heart's club, using just the phone?
And if you do, you may have met your "wife"**
(Though not for me 'cos I am still alone).
Not that I was looking for such a strife;
But like the "poor stray" I need a loving home;-
I've swum in murky depths - yet they're pellucid;
And no one knows where they may find their cupid.

And yet the introduction service worked;
It worked a charm (as it was meant to do);
For as a lover, none of this I shirked,
Because ev'ry woman's diff'rent - so would you?
And so I put on my very best shirt,
(Having now a destination's rendezvous);
Her name was Anne **- she met me at the station;
Close to paddocks, (as the suburb was then).

The year two thousand and three, (maybe four),
My list is incomplete, and not conclusive;
At any rate 'twas Anne, she opened her car door;
We introduced ourselves, which was conducive,
To further happenstance (and maybe more);
The conversation did not feel intrusive;
And pretty soon we're both at her abode -
(I would have gone there sooner, had I know'd).

Anne and I were sitting tete a tete;
But not for long - soon we're on the sofa;
Another glass of wine to feel replete;
And quite soon after both of us in bed were;
Then making love betwixt the clean white sheets;
During which (and something like a gopher);
I went beneath to taste that furry heaven;
Which beats hands down the taste of bread unleaven!

Thus, the lovemaking, it did continue;
As rolling overhead a thunderstorm;
Pelted raindrops down the bedroom window;-
While lightning forked in phosphorescent form;
It gave me recourse to remain "in venue";
My prospects of leaving were now forlorn;
Now her on top, she tosses her long mane;
And where I was, I wished there to remain.

Her body womanly, her skin quite alabaster;
As I watched the ecstasy upon her face;
And her reasons, I never thought to ask her;
We're happy, private, and not in disgrace.
It transpired that her husband left her;
When he found a younger girl to take her place;-
T'was that (and maybe her diabetes);
The rogue was gone - with no need for entreaties.

As all good things, they must come to an end;
(I was happy, and so was she, in fact);
And of this tale, I do not recommend,
Superficial judgment - I don't retract,
A single word I've said, (or verse I blend);
So, you've had another anecdote, I'm back!
The CS poet, they call lovecanbereal;
Whose verse, and meter have a silky feel.



© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

To feel too much is surely a tragedy;-
To feel not at all is a monstrosity.

Poets are sensitive, (this is a fact);
And that's a statement I won't retract.

So when you click, to read words deferred;
Some previous suffering may have occurred.

It's in the nature of Man, to make his art;-
And in most cases, it's from the heart.

We make our art to tell you something;-
There are times It'll strike as lightning.

So read words here with perception;
Feel the poet's skill and direction.

Thus poets must write to cure past ills;
We swim in words like fish have gills.

And words retained cause indigestion;
So write them down - (just a suggestion).

Some must pray, and some must grovel;-
And some must write in verse forms novel.

For me, I don't believe in much;-
(Though I have the poetic touch).

Metempsychosis of the poet's soul?
(Well, it may at least be possible).

Reincarnation? - mere poets as mystics?
Through the agencies of Quantum Physics?

And if it is true there's nothing after,
Then I will have the final laugh here.

Is Reality as deep as we imagine?
Or is Nature just a fractal pattern?


© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

Be real is back in full poetic mode,
(And resolves to write a stanza per day)*,
Now off the drink, his verse is no more slow'd,
By hangovers, (which caused him much dismay);-
A poetic castle - his fair abode,
(And he wouldn't have it any other way);
So get ready, now, for another spiel;-
From the CS poet called lovecanbereal.

That's, to say, (of course), me, myself, and I;
It's why I voice my verse in the first person,
So you can have confessional poetry;
(Yes, indeed, that's what I voice my verse in);
As memories are drawn from my mind's eye;
And I'll not let the alcoholic curse win;
I now address the world and my fine nation;-
With verses that are fit for publication.

I've lived a life that I don't regret;
Does anyone read poetry today?
To write this down, before I just forget;
Another soul that dies and fades away;
For modern times you must have a vignette;
Readers wouldn't have it another way;
Attention span is short now - like our dreams;-
Getting shorter, all the time - or so it seems.

I would that I could write here with more space;
Although I must abbreviate my verse;
Maintaining rhyme, integrity, and grace;
Is brevity a modern poet's curse?
The outline of my story, I must trace;
To tell the truth for better, or for worse;
That's if I - (your poet and narrator);-
Can remember all that happened then, and later.

And just what is it, I will write of next?
Well, subjects - they are many - and incredible;
When I was young, I was quite highly sexed;
(Although I am now, these days, more cerebral);
And at peace with myself - no longer vexed;
By the things on this earth labeled 'terrible';
By being happy with what one does have;-
I'll never be, no more, just passion's slave.

Casting off the chains - alcohol and dr*gs;
And ev'ry morning, now, my mind does thank me;
Before, I'd down the glass to lees and dregs;
John Barleycorn would sneak up then and tank me;
Then crawling on the floor, passed out on rugs;
Before the morning's black coffee would crank me;
To a new day's destruction overwrought;-
If I had money, then alcohol I bought.

The anecdotes will still flow from my pen;-
My indiscretions make compelling muse;
Back and forwards in time 'tween now and then;
For I've gone and lit the poetic fuse;
Improvements in perception of my ken;
Makes for verse that no reader can refuse;
I'll tell of instances of impropriety;-
Now crystallized in mem'ry, by sobriety.

So Bereal's been sober, now, for a year;
Never will he waver, or relapse;
Not touching whisky, wine, or a beer;
That brought him close, to a state of collapse;
His mind works best without boozes' veneer;
In a heatwave, he may have an ale, perhaps;
But only for emergency hydration;-
Of fluids, lost by heat, in this hot nation!**



© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

I stand at North Head*, and the sea,
Spreads its arms, in most joyous blue,
Horizon's edge; - infinity,

Now drops away before my view,
As I extend my gaze beyond,
To imagine a clear purview;-

Of dreams in magic fractal frond,
Distant white caps, sapphire blue sea;-
Far from this land that is my bond;

As I find an epiphany,
In Nature's rills of seamless waves,
That seem to dance there just for me,

And this is what my spirit craves,
Cyan water, powder-blue sky;-
Where some have gone to watery graves,

And, we will never know just why;-
They sing now in the restless deep,
A siren's song, a plaintive cry,

The endless waves sing them to sleep,
In Old Poseidon's seething chains,
Don't think of them - for them, don't weep,

For they leave no Earthly remains,
Their spark of life, back to Nature,
And echoed in the waves' refrains,

The Sun wheels in a sky of azure,
Beneath my feet are craggy cliffs,
Waves burst in each rocky fissure,

Of ancient sandstone monoliths;-
I love my life - for I choose life,
And not the cruel sea's endless drifts,

Although I've had my share of strife;-
For me - I never will cave in,
And though this world has troubles rife;-
Pessimism will never win.



© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

The arctic tern wheels the sky;
All the lonely Summer through;
Sailing on the sleety wind;-
And most accurate his view.

In fields of desolation;
Of white and polar caps,
Seals lie lazy on the rocks,
And whales beneath, perhaps.

Though lonely is the tern;
The world grows ever warmer,
As meridians he turns,
Habitat grows ever smaller.

Yes, lonely is the tern;
Skwarking cranneries on cliffs,
Cruising on the eddies;
Thermals now the tern uplifts.

Looking at the wide blue ocean;
And with that bird's eye view,
He cares not for Man's commotion;
Just his ever-clear purview.

Alas! the graceful tern;
Who lives upon the wing;
Would wish for her return;
To write just one more thing.

Before the tern must face his long migration;-
To Southern parts across an endless sea;-
So she flies in my imagination;-
Safe travels;- seagull - wherever you may be.


© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

I sought to find, I sought to find - and found,
Lost innocence, that was newly shattered;-
When, now that I had seen Old Sydney Town,
In her cloak of darkness, nothing mattered.
When all I wanted, was to find my own
Identity; my senses now were scattered,
Into the stars; now down in Old Kings Cross,
(My memory now grows a verdant moss).

So young, (they say), so young for a "street kid",
(Well this is what it makes you - if you stay);
Something to shock the Ego, and the Id;
To shock your very soul into dismay;
Where in this shady place, in corners hid,
Were ev'ry type of vice, and wicked way;
There's things you shouldn't see when your fifteen;-
Things that are a nightmare's waking dream.

So now up gaudy William Street, I walked,
Past glitzy showrooms of luxury cars,
Past girls on corners (before whom I balked);
And by each corner, with their lonely bars;
Past the trannies*, whom their wares they hawked;
(For a Mountains Boy, this may as well be Mars);
Past the Coke Sign**, and into her den of vice;
And anything you want - if you have the price.

Bright lights, big city, (so they say) - it's true;
Many moths to a flame, many moths destroyed;
And once it's seen, there's none forget the view;
(Even if thereafter, they then, the place, avoid).
Here's another street fight, here's another blue;***
And before too long, here's police deploy'd;
A gangster's paradise - men like Neddy Smith;-****
Now all these years later, we have Neddy's myth.

I'm on Darlo Road^, (I'm in the "Cross proper);
Past strip shows, f*ck shows, nightclubs, and such things;
With drug dealers paying off the bent coppers;^^
And all is well, and good - till someone "sings";
Then you'll see "what gives" - when they "come a cropper";^^^
(Their blood on the street - is what this brings);
They're called a "dog"^^^^; and bashed there in the street;
And afterwards; their face is like minced meat!

Still there's virtue, in the worst of us;
When the tattoo'd arms, of some criminal,
Would pull me back from the danger, and the fuss;
Away from things which scarred the mind subliminal;
And swimming in societies' worst pus;
With prostitutes strutting in their clothes minimal;
And most of them off their heads on smack;
Which was guaranteed to keep them coming back.

Though in this place, there was a kind of beauty;
Sometimes mix'd in, with the vice, and dross;
At fifteen, I was innocent, as could be
Expected; when I first saw old Kings Cross;
Still things run deep, and deep runs the cruel sea;
And many things must die, to pay the cost.
Some things, which died, inside me, at this time;
Now form the very subject of this rhyme.

So at fifteen, (and also still a virgin);
A young kid's eyes are opened to the world;
My education, somehow, had to begin;-
And so it did - in this underworld.
Drinking underage - most pubs let me in;
(My young mind swimming in the alcohol);
Of course these places also paid police;-
To operate in this place of vice.

So there you have it all;- "it takes all kinds";
And of this saying's truth - I have no doubt;
At my young age then, I missed the land mines;
By keeping quiet - a whisper was a shout;-
(Or could become one - in some other's mind);
It took so little for a fight to break out;-
Which could then cascade into a mighty brawl;
That was "all in" - a violent free for all.

Now the 'Cross is nothing like it used to be;
(Though some things do not change up there - I'm sure);
And She's expensive - in her gentility;
(No longer will you find the dozy whore).
With a veneer of respectability;-
And a little more regard for the Law;-
Pubs close early - with Lockout Laws in place;^^^^
And less young kids there, getting off their face.



© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

Lost among the algorithms;
Is some verse profound;
Buried in archival pages;-
That you may not yet have found.

Some profiles deleted;
(By members who have gone);
Now Endlessly repeated;
By the algorithms song.

Hark the unknown Poets!
In this sea of cyberspace;
(The question marks don't show it);
But the words retain their grace.

Much, this verse is excellent;
(Though they have sought not fame);
And some poets, - they don't care;
If they leave behind a name.

Next time, you are stopping by;
Just spare a thought or two;
For those fine unknown Poets;
Who wrote just for me and you.


© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

Waves of time moving across Space
Memories formed that
Trail behind us like a wake;
The future yet to come;

As glitter stars shine light,
Opon an Immensity;
We cannot comprehend


© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved