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Rohan P May 2019
They are strings of letters unset
from their horizons.
Swollen ink smearing
in air;
their little stalks, serene, suffocated,
like pockets of dust, attended
but in passing. Pieces
of you—agile, remiss—
spark notes in shattered
melody. The dying refrain
flutters;
only the echoes are staining. She
is like a tumbling highway,
still tumbling through full-stop.
Decay of sibilance;
Varying structural emphases;
Enjambment as emphasis;
Change in reference pronoun;
Line break with em-dash to de-emphasise the natural chiastic connotation of that device.
Owen J Henahan Aug 2018
On an Ohio vacation, we got the call.
Dressed in a navy t-shirt, and stiff boating shorts
(plucked fresh off a J. Crew shelf just earlier that morning –
        I wanted a darker grey)
My mother and I parked by the open grave.

The visitation was packed with strangers.
Stuffy, suffocating almost – I tugged at the new shorts,
coarse, rough-feeling, no time to break in yet –
        fibers still unset –
My back hugs peeling wallpaper.

My mother's tears stain my shirt, the salt stiffening fresh fabric –
Baptism. Each tear carves fresh wrinkles, crossing her face like rivers,
slicing into her like canyons. Her hands are childlike upon my shirt,
grasping blindly for anything, her vision blurred, her breath short,
her heart broken.

I peer at the uncovered casket and look at the woman's face.
Thin halo of white hair, skin pale like alabaster –
She is stiff. Eyes fixed, blood cold. Her hands clasp tightly.
Her black cardigan holds her like a piece of glass,
stiff, hard, yet so fragile, threatening each second to crack,

and the sounds of its breaking my mother's muffled cries,
and my hand's rhythmless consoling pats upon her back.
This poem is inspired by the death of a very prominent woman in my mother's upbringing, who she in turn referred to as her second mother. I had never met her before, or if I had, I have no recollection of it.

I could feel my mother's profound sense of loss, flowing off of her like waves, washing over me. I felt an emptiness, a lack of emotion, and this combination of empathy and indifference struck an interesting chord indeed.
Yule Nov 2018
Should I give up
on a chance that cannot be
To our story
that never even began
Am I just being petty?
We have not even started yet
Did I just leave the pages unset?
It’s just starting to unfold
Or have I really loss it? I believe
We haven't even given a chance
To our story that only has a page
180920; 6:34 PM
mio Feb 2021
orange sweater with wrinkled sleeves
it fits you perfectly. it looks like it was taylored to your measurements perfectly
i bought it about a year ago
let you wear a part of me i felt safe in
worn proudly you are the boy that i thought would never
i painted a picture of you in my head in which you were perfect
i had sculpted each pore perfectly
placed each thread of your hair on your head but
i guess i must have done something to mess up because the perfect picture i painted
dripped with wet unset paint
on top of me suffocating, i couldn’t move
i could only see your chest covered in the stupid orange sweater
tongue deep down my throat with your hand on my neck
your face is dripping on mine this wasn’t who you were supposed to be
it hasn’t been longer than a week but the days drag on years and pull on gods ears and beg for more time to pass but less and less goes by
never ending i feel like i’m stuck
im in an artblock
your face is gone but it was just there i must have misplaced the brush that i drew your short eyelashes with
whimpering you are but why, was it something i did?
my paint brushes are all intact and my workspace is clean
how could i have messed up
the painting with the orange sweater delicate brown eyes and thick bleach hair is dripping
off the canvas
i haven’t done much other than wait for you to dry our before i can add more on to you
but you won’t dry and you’re on top of me
my neck is wet with the saliva you won’t stop touching me
no i said i would take a break from this canvas but it’s encasing me i cannot leave
i messed up havent i
wonder why i did to deserve this
im using my fingers to put your streaky smile back in place don’t look at me like that please
i have to ask for you to leave i cannot stand the shade of orange you’re wearing being on top of me
please leave
im letting you out to dry

in the same position i can’t move
my neck is casted by guilt i must have done something wrong
looking back that couldn’t have been you
it must have been the wrong medium
your acrylic is dry and patched you couldn’t have torn me down like the thin canvas dripping with trauma filled sweat
no because you would never let yourself wear something mine while you took myself from my own body
right?
youre the boy i painted over and over in my head just to get you right
hold my hand let’s go for a walk hold me tight because the wind against my cheek causes a shiver down my spin
lift my head up to glance at the intentional light because you know i’m scared of looking down at the petrifying dark
but you burned my eyes and i am no longer mine the painting is ruined and i can’t fix it
but that’s not who i planned for you to be you would never do that because i don’t mess up the watercolor goes on thick paper while you go on premeditated canvas
was it me?
have i misread but i do not misread i am not an idiot it’s not my fault you chose to do this yet i cant not feel this in my chest
im a failed artist with a body stolen in disgust
i want my orange sweater with wrinkled sleeves back
Mike Finney Dec 2011
GLUTTONY


Go ahead and gorge yourself upon gallons of gaudy garments,
Gaining more weight got by galling garish goods I guess won’t
Ground

Let loose to the luscious luxuries of lackluster lemon and
Lots of lulling bedtime letters that will surely let at bay the
Ladies

Unravel your unctuous mind and unwrap the unstoppable urge
That undeniably lives under unruly layers of
Unproductive

Together bring the talk of taking another tackle to your taciturn tally,
Taller the score and take down the tormenting tickling
Tack

Over and over in obscure ovals until objective becomes apparent
Only leaving orbs of former obliqueness’ obliging to
Object

Never again nourish the need to negate the null to nonsense,
Leave behind the knots of then and live the neat of
Now

Yesterday was yellow in yielding to yearning and
Today is your yet to the question of no or
Yes











GREED



Gradualy every great thing grounded in your gaudy life will grain,
Falling from grander to
Greed

Run away you realize will render you ridiculously reeled
Be the regal recall of natures
Ranting

Even then elude the everlasting elasticity of your sins
Only to elect your own faults and
edict

Evermore entrapped in the entity of your greed which eels
Its way through your
Etiquettes

****** to depths of hell’s dungeons you will go down
If you never fix your
Deeds.







WRATH



Wound so tightly your will won’t save you when the
Day weans of light to
Wear

Repent all you require if you really must, no reprise
Will be your
Reward

Again and again you’ve all but alleged all of your agitations
And now do you
Abject

Too many you take to the top and through to the terrible
Tale of
Tartaras

How do you have your hallowed hot-headed hate now
Had by all you
hocked







SLOTH



Silently slithering fangs strike and pierce into your supple skin
The serpent of Hades himself forcing you to succumb to
your sloth

Legs let leave your longing to linger standing
The lull of the luscious leisure of laziness
Calling you

Over and over you omit the need to oblige
Object the obscurities and overcompensate the
obligation

Though it takes away tell of your toes, stunning your talk
Teathering you to a tree and leaving you to the
terrors

However hollow the halo, the hearth of hasty hearts, may be,
you cannot halt it before is has you in its hold
sleep








LUST


Linger in line a little longer until your litenous lust
lessens to lethargic
larceny

Undone and unset you undermind your unity
and uncite all uncertainty, understand to this
ulcer

Slung across a slat singing sultry in your stipple,
you slew to sound off your
sanity

Taught thoughtless logic tenderly apply topical treatment
to tape together the tatters, tonight a temporary
Tylenol








ENVY



Eject and exact illusions of elected goals eluding your reason
So eject them for
Ever

Never return, never negate the negligence of this nuisance,
Need it
Not

Vanquish your venomous vicarious visions so vivid
I assure you not very
Vivid

Yearn no more and yearn by years how yellow
Can yell the
Yetti








PRIDE



Perniciously palpable pigs of pride that so prate way their progress,
Putting all but prosperity in their own
Propensity

Ridiculously cold rendering the most righteous of realist,
Even relenting to the racketeering of a
Rider

I too see an iota of insolence in intemperate impostors
Of what internal instances tell us is
Intimidating

Down the street dally a day and discover how detrimental
Such a disease dilutes the delineation of our past
Delegation

Even if one ever eludes the elasticizes of this eccentric extortionist
Eventually another will emit it upon to you again
entirely
In darkened dream, my walk was halted,
confronted by a tree,
It stood upright, a branch outstretched
and blocked the path on me.

In circumventing sideways dance
I edged in grass quite slow,
but a craggy root handcuffed me,
and would not let me go.

I stood in shocked drawn silent gaze,
unsure of where to turn,
This tree had pulled me tighter now,
it fought my urge to run.

But then it spoke in ancient voice,
in tones of guttural flow.
Dark words in wood translation,
spoke of a poisoned stream below.

The leaf on every branch now shivered,
in worried recounted tale,
as it described through words so clear
what caused its bark to fail.

A darkened tale of toxic waste,
a legacy untold.
of man's destructive story,
where greed and fear unfold.

Water table now unset
In (fractured gas) halation.
Land is sold and cracked
in tempted cash flirtation

War for oil in scarlet lands,
where majors lived at base.
The youth in pointless sacrifice,
to save the political face.

Where poverty prevailed amid
abundant arable nations.
and the silent cries of children
skewed charitable donations.

Air of grey, fermented
with pollen soft pollution.
Chokes of spluttered ash,
cast doubt on evolution

This tale of woe recounted
by nature's mother-tree
with roots now losing hold
while balanced grip on me.

Swaying branch quite dangerously
in forgotten leafy youth.
this once majestic elder falls,
unburdened by this truth.

It died in pain where it had grown
drowned slow in poisoned stream.
a fading track on reddened skin
where its handcuffed branch had been.

I straightened up and stumbled on
relieved it had let me go.
My eyes in shock, slowly adjusted
To wood in flat plateau.

I cast my eyes in horizoned view
not believing what I'd seen.
The wood in matchsticked pattern
where once proud kings had been.


The landscape now lay barren,
with wood strewn all around.
The stench of rot erupted
from muddy blackened ground.

I wandered off to tell the tale,
of being confronted by this tree,
unsure of what just happened
or why it had chosen me.

I walked for miles in desolate,
through air starved atmosphere.
but met no one along this road,
a winding ***-holed frontier.

I walked until I finally woke.
in spluttered inhalation.
Confused, I feared this reality,
of earth's final damnation.

In darkened dream, my walk was halted,
confronted by a tree,
Awoke, its tale will linger,
forever haunting me
Jordan Chacon May 2014
"What Will Happen!!!"
How do I know there is anyone else
how can I be sure what will come
how do I know that you really feel that way
what will I do if I fall again
that's the answer I don't know
I don't know what I would do it
you tear my heart in two again
that will be the end
the end of my humanity
the end of my sanity
the end of this whole place
I will challenge someone to fear combat
just to end it there
If I go on like the way I would
I would be a soul
with no meaning or no heart
I would be the man of a shadow that used to be
the man that has to smoke **** to feel free
the man that won't give a crap what you think
that man that you will learn to fear
or gets unset over every little thing
this is what will happen if
you break the heart in me
Tearani C Mar 2012
My intuition flashes like a hot flair shot desperately into an empty sky
Where no one cast a seeing eye and I myself can only smell,
The charade a supernova a chemical shimmering sun
What seems to me to be the bitter sweet vapors of the powder of a gun
An empty thrill that builds atop  unspoken words that usher.
Beneath the glare and a quickened stare I take a liking
to the lightning striking, a sharp spike on the wrong side
of the mountain we’ve been hiking, to get that
Panoramic view of you I’ve been lusting so long after,
a ****** addiction for your airy laughter like
the parched summer air with wide banks cradling sensual water
Lapping at the sand, the firm grasp of a hot hand.
You still stand eyes blinking kiss me, mouth unmoving murmur miss me,
Heartbeat quaking behind the curtain of your chest yelling at me
To take a chance. Wearing silence so inviting I sense,
You’re a trap unset to catch, but you don’t know
You’ll love me yet. You step through the doorway,
I turn my head to my feet, I don’t need to see to feel
My intuition flashing like a hot flair shot desperately into an empty sky
Where no one cast a seeing eye and I myself can only smell,
the charade a supernova a chemical shimmering sun
What seems to me to be the bitter sweet vapors of the powder of a gun
An empty thrill that builds atop unspoken words that usher
Beneath the glare and a quickened stare I take a liking
to the lightning striking, a sharp spike on the inside of every vain
You’ve not a word spoken, and yet I know I will never be the same.
There's no straight lines from A to B

No compass does it show

It shows my life as it has been

It doesn't show me where to go

As time goes by the pages fade

Just memories of past times

At times the present's blurry too

There's just so many criss crossed lines

No pages show my future

Just blank, unfilled, unset

You can not have a road map

To things that have not happened yet

Some roads it shows are darker

Roads you'll want to use once more

And on other pages, blankness

You don't know what they were for

The map is everchanging

It's not always the same

You can blame the old mapmaker

It's your mind that is to blame

You trigger things with songs and sounds

And others you might lose

It's a map that should show where you've been

But it's no good without clues

A compass in the corner

Doesn't point which way to go

It's your life, there is no answers

You get to choose which row you ***.

It's not an easy map to follow

Hills and valleys all around

But, somewhere there's a spot that

Is where your best can be found

A page that now sits empty

Tomorrow, will be mapped and show the way

But, it won't show you where you're off to

It'll show where you were today

So, enjoy the roads you've travelled

And the experience so far

For this is not a map you'll ever

Find inside of any car

As I said, it changes daily

There's only so much room for stuff to stay

So, remember just what's important

And make the bad stuff go away

It's not a map that can be folded

It doesn't show you where to start

But when you go and look back at it

You'll see your life was full of heart.
.
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this ****** tyrant, Time,
And fortify your self in your decay
With means more blessèd than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life repair
Which this, Time’s pencil, or my pupil pen
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair
Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
    To give away your self keeps your self still,
    And you must live drawn by your own sweet skill.
Joel Emmanuel Dec 2011
****** if I'm through,
****** if I do
stick around to
   let you feed on me,
   see all the gold turn to green,
           o r
this apparent love
turn to mean
something
a little stronger,
perhaps, last a little longer
than those cold, stygian nights
in some stranger's bed,
all those times you could've not
played with my head,
but yet, instead,
you did,
then you'd fib
and say you didn't mean,
oh, but I've seen it -
the dark in you, too,

play(th)ing; whatcha thinkin'?

I've unpacked myself
for you
and the wolves in your logic,
I've unset myself
for the second
I could see it again -
and those wolves concurring with your logic,

I found you hiding in the mirror,
creature of the lion's share,
drowned you in all my care,
                             my love,
a heart without sufficient sleep,
you tell me -
what was I supposed to think?
you made it so easy,
but how it got within me
I'm afraid to know,
was 'fraid to go
into the light without you,
but as I please -
I'll just
keep
going
AP Vrdoljak Sep 2023
Is a poem not just a song
with rhyming verse
that’s not yet sung?

With repeated chorus
not yet stuck
inside one’s head,
amongst the muck?

Is a poem not just a song?
A daisy chain of verse
not yet strum

around a fire
among some friends
deep in the woods
on away weekends.

Is a poem not just a song
not yet proclaimed
by a choir’s tongue?

But uttered silently
in a bed-lamp’s light
at early hours
of the night.

Is a poem not just a song
that peacefully rests
in black ink upon

a white page
inside a book,
upon a library shelf
until it’s took?

Is a poem not just a song
quietly set to lips
that read along

on a train,
on the way back home
from visiting gran
for tea and a scone?

Is a poem not just a song
unset to keys
and not yet begun?

Not yet major,
and not yet minor.
Just metered in beats
and little other.

Is a poem not just a song?
I suppose it could be
but not this one.
Grahame Jun 2014
“My Lady! My Lady! Arise from your bower,
    I’d show you something, come down from your tower!”
The maid into the Lady’s chamber goes,
    she is intent on telling her news.

“My handmaid, my handmaid, what’s all the row?
    Don’t you know I’ve been asleep until now?
I am in my bed, in nightclothes I’m dressed,
    so please impart to me, that which you feel pressed.”

“My Lady! My Lady! Please get out of bed!
    it needs to be shown you, it can’t just be said.
In your private garden is something to see,
    you wouldn’t believe it if you heard it from me.”

The Lady arises, and in her clothes dight,
    descends from the tower in the still of the night.
“Hurry, please hurry,” the handmaiden said,
    “lest what I would show you has already fled.”

They reach the tower’s base, both breathing hard,
    go out of the tower, and into the yard
That they walk across, right up to the gate,
    which the Lady unlocks, though the hour is late.

This garden is private, the demesne of the Lady,
    hedged and bowered, everywhere shady.
With windy gravel paths, carefully laid,
    and only attended by the Lady and maid.

This is her refuge, her own privy lair,
    where she’d repair, far from the care
Of running the castle, looking after the keep,
    which often oppressed her, until she could weep.

Her husband, the Lord, is oft-times away,
    in ‘The Field of Mars’, in the thick of the fray,
Leaving the Lady in the castle alone,
    who, for a pastime’s made the garden her own.

She lovingly tends the plants and the trees,
    which were chosen to tempt birds, butterflies and bees.
And, by selecting ones with strong scent,
    she could know, by smelling, at night where she went.

She now knows this garden like the back of her hand,
    and loves to walk through it, or simply to stand
Admiring the vistas, or taking the air,
    now, lead by the maid, she follows to where
A unicorn lies, wounded with a spear,
    stretched out in an arbour, showing no fear.

The Lady and maid, now hand-in-hand
    slowly approach, and before it do stand.
“My Lady, my Lady, now do you see why
    to observe it yourself I have brought you nigh?
If I’d said, in your garden was a unicorn,
    I fear you would have treated my words with scorn.”

“My handmaid, my handmaid, yes, you’ve done right,
    to bring me here, to show me this sight.
And now, we must help with this poor creature’s plight.
    We’ll pull out the spear, I hope that’ll be right.”

“Return to the castle and fetch water hot,
    and cloths to clean, and what simples we’ve got,
And needle and thread to mend this wound.
    Hurry! Go now! Don’t just stound!”

Back to the castle the maid does hurry,
    while, for the Lady, she does worry.
They’ve neither seen such a creature before,
    and know not if a grudge it bore.

Slowly the Lady approaches the beast,
    cinching her kirtle around her waist.
By its side on the ground she kneels,
    and slowly reaching out, she feels
The unicorn’s flank, to try to decide
    how far the spear has pierced its side,
While the unicorn, with lugubrious eyes,
    gazes at her face as still it lies.

Soon the maid returns with the gear,
    which she lays on the ground, conveniently near
To where the Lady is stroking the creature,
    staring in wonder at each feature.

Two brown eyes, limpid and large,
    a spiralling horn crowns its visage,
Muzzle and feet, all black as jet,
    hide as white as milk, unset.

Ears pricked up, alert and keen,
    tail and mane both long and sheyne.
They know not how long there it has lain,
    with open mouth, panting in pain.

The maid hands the Lady a dampened cloth,
    which she uses to mop up the blood, then doth
Grasp the shaft of the piercing spear,
    and with one pull, draws it clear.

The unicorn gives just one start,
    then lies there, still, although alert.
From the wound comes forth a little blood,
    which the Lady staunches as best she could.

The Lady does the wound clean and dress,
    and stitches the edges, neat as a seamstress.
She wipes the unicorn’s fevered brow,
    then she and the maid wonder what to do now.

The sun’s rays over the garden wall creep,
    So the arbour, still in shadow deep
Slowly brightens up, and then
    the beams light up the unicorn, when
A flash of light blinds their eyes,
    and when they can see, to their surprise,
At the place where lay the unicorn
    there’s now a girl lying, looking forlorn.

Amazed, the Lady and handmaid stare
    at the girl, with a stitched wound, lying there.
Seeing her naked, exposed to their sight,
    they cover her form with a length of samite.

The sun does slowly the arbour warm,
    and they think she’ll now be safe from harm,
Then gradually, she opens her eyes,
    looks at them, and then she cries.

Her whole body with her sorrow shakes,
    the arbour echoes with the sobs she makes,
She appears so fragile and delicate,
    and seems to be inconsolate.

The Lady, sitting by the girl’s side,
    is concerned that the wound might open wide.
So violent is the girl’s paroxysm,
    that she fears it might cause the suture to schism.

So taking the young girl in her arms,
    she cuddles her closely, to soothe her alarms,
And with gentle rocking to and fro,
    the girl, exhausted, to sleep does go.

Later, the Lady feels the girl’s hot,
    and realises she a fever has got.
From the simples she makes a febrifuge,
    which she administers in the arbour refuge.

The sun is almost overhead,
    so fleetingly the time has sped.
The arbour now is cool with shade,
    while the Lady continues administering aid.

The samite cloth is soaking wet,
    so some of the Lady’s clothes does the maid get.
Also fresh water, because she does think
    the girl might like a cooling drink.

She sees the girl is sitting up,
    so offers her water in a cup,
And then offers her a silken gown,
    though wonders if she can dress on her own.

The Lady asks, “Can you put this dress on?”
    Weakly, the girls says, “I’ll try anon.”
Although, when she tries, she cannot stand,
    so the maid offers to give her a hand.

With the help of the Lady and the maid,
    in the dress, the girl is arrayed.
And then she says, still seeming dismayed,
    “Thank you for your help, I’ve been so afraid.
And if you’ll continue sitting near,
    I’ll discover to you just why I am here.”

“My stepmother did me cruelly treat,
    though when with my father, she seemed so sweet,
And because his love, he between us divided,
    to separate us, she then decided”

“She semblanced gaity by day,
    while always looking for a way
To make me seem as a fool, or worse,
    and to appear in all things as perverse.”

“At night she magic studiéd,
    while my father, drugged, lay asleep in bed.
I tried to tell him of her deceit,
    though he always maintained she would not cheat.”

“Eventually, she found a way
    of letting me stay a fille by day
While becoming a unicorn filly at night.
    Against her magic I could not fight.”

“I knew it would break my father’s heart
    to discover his wife had used black art,
And so I thought it a kinder way
    to pretend to go on holiday.”

“I forged a letter from a friend
    inviting me to go and spend
A few weeks visiting her home,
    and took the chance to distantly roam.
And that is why I happened to come
    into these woods, near your home.”

“Because I’m a unicorn at night,
    I live in the woods, like an eremite.
I try to keep to my cave by day.
    I have found this is the best way.”

“As a lady in the wood,
    it’s difficult to find any food.
My clothes are ragged and all torn,
    I’m better off as a unicorn.”

“As a unicorn, I’m able to eat.
    There’s grass all around, and shoots so sweet.
There are ponds and streams where I can drink,
    and this is my best chance I think.”

“I left my cave early last night,
    however, there was still some light.
The sun had only just then set,
    and I, some grass, was eager to eat.”

“It was then I did realise
    I wasn’t alone. To my surprise
A band of hunters, going home,
    by chance through your woods did come.”

“They, straightway, their horns did sound,
    and then let slip their pack of hounds.
I desperately fled away,
    and from my cave was forced to stray.”

“I managed, in front of the pack, to keep,
    meanwhile, my strength, did slowly seep.
On reaching a river that did rapidly flow,
    I desperately leapt it, and over did go.”

“Just as I landed on the further bank,
    I felt a sharp pain in my flank.
A huntsman had chanced a spear to throw;
    I thought I’d been given a mortal blow.
Because the hounds couldn’t the river cross,
    they had to reckon me as a loss.”

“I carried on, full of fear,
    until, to the castle wall I came near.
Then seeing a garden gate open wide,
    I managed, painfully, to struggle inside.”

“I staggered into this arbour deep,
    hoping it would me safely keep.
Then, passing close by, walked your maid,
    and I made a noise though I was afraid.”

“I didn’t want to die alone,
    so I made a sound before she was gone.
I only wanted someone to be there,
    I didn’t expect to receive any care.”

“Your maid came in, quite unafraid,
    and saw me, as on the ground I laid.
And from her eye fell down a tear,
    so then I knew I’d naught to fear.”

“I could now die in company,
    except your handmaid said to me,
‘You stay there, some help I’ll get,
    I will not let you die just yet.’”

“So she brought you, and you helped me,
    and for that I’ll always grateful be.
And now, if you’ll kindly open that door,
    I’ll return to my cave and you’ll see me no more.”

The Lady and her maid said, “No!”
    adding, “from here we shall not let you go.
You have still got a crippling wound
    and for it to mend it needs to be bound.”

“My maid can fetch some serving men.
    They’ll carry you to my chamber, and then
We can give to you the care you need.
    With this plan I hope you’ll concede.”

The girl said, “Nay, this I must gainsay,
    I really must now go away.
How do you think you’ll cope with the sight
    of a unicorn in your bedroom at night?”

The Lady and handmaid thought about this.
    Then the Lady said, “I wis!
My old nursemaid lives near the wood.
    We’ll get you to her, I know we could.”

“She has a cottage and a little land,
    a stable and outbuildings round it stand.
For love of me she’ll look after you,
    I think that is the best thing to do.”

“My handmaid, fetch some serving men,
    and ask them to bring my litter, and then
They can carry the girl to my old nursemaid.
    You’ll be safe there, look not afraid.”

The handmaid goes to find some men,
    while the girl and Lady stay snug in their den.
The girl tells the Lady about her life,
    and the struggle to cope with the constant strife
Which arose from the stepmother treating her ill,
    while her father seemed totally bent to her will.

The maid returns with the men and the litter
    and though the girl said she does feel fitter,
They place her on it, and she’s then transported
    carefully to the nurse’s home. All is sorted.

To alert the nurse, the maid goes on ahead,
    and the nurse listens carefully to what is said.
She quickly makes a spare room ready
    to look after the girl, who is so needy.

The girl is gently placed on a cot,
    while the nursemaid, making some water hot,
Gives the girl a sleeping potion,
    and covers the sutured wound with a lotion.

She binds the wound with cloth that’s clean,
    then asks the Lady what it does mean.
The Lady asks her nurse, so dear,
    to keep it secret, which the nurse does swear.

The nurse then listens, quite bemused,
    how the wounded girl’s been so badly used.
And the outcome, really tragic,
    of the stepmother’s evil use of magic.

The nurse says that of course the girl may stay,
    and the garden’s enclosed, so she will not stray
At night, when become a unicorn,
    so she should be quite safe there alone.
And, furthermore, while the girl is there,
    she’ll try to find a way to save her.

The Lady and maid walk back to the tower,
    and start climbing the stairs to the Lady’s bower.
The Lady asks the maid about the gate,
    if she knows why it had been open so late.

The handmaid said, “I must confess,
    I knew the gate was open, yes.
Oh please try not to be angry with me,
    I had unlocked it with my key.”

“Why were you out, my maid, at night?
    Why couldn’t your business wait until light?”

“My Lady, I have made a match,
    a soldier who’s in your night-watch.
His duty’s at night, he sleeps by day,
    so I have managed to find a way
To see him sometimes, if I can,
    Together, we have made a plan.”

“Although he’s always on duty late,
    he’s occasionally stationed by the gate
Of this garden, near the bower,
    and then he lets me know the hour.”

“When he’s there, I use my key,
    to enter the garden secretly.
I go through it, to the gate,
    then open it, for some time with my mate.”

“So I suppose, when late last night,
    I had opened the gate for a sight
Of my leman, I must have forgotten to
    close it tight when to him I did go.”

“Then, later on, when going home
    through the garden, I heard a moan.
And tryi
Seán Mac Falls Jul 2012
When first we met our words with each
Were laced with smile and touch.  Our eyes,
Confessed and broke at the closing café
And fused in joy and salt, opened up
With long, arresting arms at our sides.

You brought me to your toppled room,
I counted a number of worn, weary 
Books, various anthologies, travelogues 
And philosophers, a few fierce Poets,
Looking on, strategies for study, 
All assembled, with great measure,
It was an alternate version of my own
Battle ground library.  Then, I was yours 
But you were never mine.

                                           Your stone, 
Walled spirit encroached upon me 
And I was unset to siege at the base 
Of your winding turret and waged 
With you a fortnight of five full years
When you rushed forth on your crusades
You left me, flung, far from the holy lands.
Lawrence Hall Oct 2019
“…where a kelpie lived”

     “A little below the bridge was a pool where a kelpie lived.”

               -Sigrid Unset, Kristin Lavransdatter, p. 8

If you are blessed with a little back yard
The smallest of gardens, a bit of grass
Then you have pixies and fairies and sprites
They like you, but they’re awfully shy, you know

If in your garden there is a little pool
Even a dish of water for the cat
Then you have a tiny kelpie or two
(And they are much nicer than you’ve been told)

In flower and leaf and water and soft night air -
Oh, yes, there is sweet magic everywhere
Seán Mac Falls Apr 2013
.
When first we met our words with each
Were laced with smile and touch.  Our eyes,
Confessed and broke at the closing café
And fused in joy and salt, opened up
With long, arresting arms at our sides.

You brought me to your toppled room,
I counted a number of worn, weary
Books, various anthologies, travelogues
And philosophers, a few fierce Poets,
Looking on, strategies for study,
All assembled, with great measure,
It was an alternate version of my own
Battle ground library.  Then, I was yours
But you were never mine.

                                           Your stone,
Walled spirit encroached upon me
And I was unset to siege at the base
Of your winding turret and waged
With you a fortnight of five full years
When you rushed forth on your crusades
You left me, flung, far from the holy lands.
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2013
When first we met our words with each
Were laced with smile and touch.  Our eyes,
Confessed and broke at the closing café
And fused in joy and salt, opened up
With long, arresting arms at our sides.

You brought me to your toppled room,
I counted a number of worn, weary
Books, various anthologies, travelogues
And philosophers, a few fierce Poets,
Looking on, strategies for study,
All assembled, with great measure,
It was an alternate version of my own
Battle ground library.  Then, I was yours
But you were never mine.

                                           Your stone,
Walled spirit encroached upon me
And I was unset to siege at the base
Of your winding turret and waged
With you a fortnight of five full years
When you rushed forth on your crusades
You left me, flung, far from the holy lands.
Harriet Shea May 2023
Singing songs of glory
bringing joy within souls
of understanding, wisdom
heart, mind.

Completeness unfolding
softly before the light
of admiration brightens
with hues of irresistible
co lours conquering
spaces of wonderment
astounding, untouched
tranquility.

Long-lasting capabilities
controlling laughter unset
desires destroyed from
denial.

Glory is my song of loyalty
upon arrival of innocent
realities of known abilities
and surreal surroundings.

Song of glorious knowing
words untouched, acknowledge
accepted, enveloped in
anatomical discipline
and reliability.

Copyright ⓒ DerenaBree( All Rights Reserved)
E G Fellenstein Dec 2013
And if your meticulously mixed colors
and carefully articulated strokes of the brush
happen to disintegrate in the charring of a fire

what then?

Was the time spent crafting your rolling mountains of somber lunar blue
or prickly fields of mouse-housing wheat
or soaring, rumbling majesty of an unset sky
for naught?

Does one create for the
eyes or the
currency or the
back pats?

or

Is passion crafted
simply to create
in a world of destruction?
Crystal Erickson Dec 2014
Words can not undo what has been done
Desire can not unset the sun.
Time never stops, never pauses, never slows.
What happens next we don't get to know.
The world spins on, oblivious to chance.
We can sit it out or chose to dance.
Lingering in bittersweet memories past.
We long for a truth that will forever last.
We find ourselves crying alone in the night.
Chained by mistakes we long to take flight.
Trapped from within and tortured forever.
Until we let go and look back never!
So goodbye my dearest, my lover, my friend,
Goodbye seems so permanent, Is this the end?

© Crystal Erickson 2008
Seán Mac Falls Feb 2013
When first we met our words with each
Were laced with smile and touch.  Our eyes,
Confessed and broke at the closing café
And fused in joy and salt, opened up
With long, arresting arms at our sides.

You brought me to your toppled room,
I counted a number of worn, weary
Books, various anthologies, travelogues
And philosophers, a few fierce Poets,
Looking on, strategies for study,
All assembled, with great measure,
It was an alternate version of my own
Battle ground library.  Then, I was yours
But you were never mine.

                                           Your stone,
Walled spirit encroached upon me
And I was unset to siege at the base
Of your winding turret and waged
With you a fortnight of five full years
When you rushed forth on your crusades
You left me, flung, far from the holy lands.
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2012
When first we met our words with each
Were laced with smile and touch.  Our eyes,
Confessed and broke at the closing café
And fused in joy and salt, opened up
With long, arresting arms at our sides.

You brought me to your toppled room,
I counted a number of worn, weary
Books, various anthologies, travelogues
And philosophers, a few fierce Poets,
Looking on, strategies for study,
All assembled, with great measure,
It was an alternate version of my own
Battle ground library.  Then, I was yours
But you were never mine.

                                           Your stone,
Walled spirit encroached upon me
And I was unset to siege at the base
Of your winding turret and waged
With you a fortnight of five full years
When you rushed forth on your crusades
You left me, flung, far from the holy lands.
Emily Overheim Sep 2016
It is too early, or too late, and
you are scrubbing your underwear
in the bathroom sink.
The light is white, and cold, and
the water is pink, and cold, and
your fingers are stiff, and cold.
Ice water and hand soap,
the tried and true recipe
for unset bloodstains.
It’s unsettling something else, too;
something coming undone in your chest
and pushing your lungs into
your throat. A Gordian knot
that loosens and loops
until you are so tangled
you lay down and hold still,
the better to swallow your frustration
my dear. It is shame, perhaps,
or shame by another name.
There is this thought
that turning your hands
into blunt instruments
by freezing the blood in your veins
will keep it from seeping
hot and sticky and clotting
like your frustration
in your hair and your throat,
and you just want
to be clean. By morning
your fingers will bend again,
but there will always be
a faint stain, a pink ghost
that you cannot scrub out.
A tiny haunting,
a sigh on laundry days.
But there’s no use crying
over spilled milk, or blood,
as the case may be.
Only more threads to pick at,
more low and high pressure
fronts moving through you;
lightning in the roots
of your teeth, acid rain
being used as bleach.
Seán Mac Falls Jan 2015
When first we met our words with each
Were laced with smile and touch.  Our eyes,
Confessed and broke at the closing café
And fused in joy and salt, opened up
With long, arresting arms at our sides.

You brought me to your toppled room,
I counted a number of worn, weary
Books, various anthologies, travelogues
And philosophers, a few fierce Poets,
Looking on, strategies for study,
All assembled, with great measure,
It was an alternate version of my own
Battle ground library.  Then, I was yours
But you were never mine.

                                           Your stone,
Walled spirit encroached upon me
And I was unset to siege at the base
Of your winding turret and waged
With you a fortnight of five full years
When you rushed forth on your crusades
You left me, flung, far from the holy lands.
Arik Fletcher Mar 2015
Born the same yet different,
Twin peas from distant pods,
Thoughts so loud yet reticent,
Two minds always at odds.

Stars in skies so different,
Twin moons light years apart,
Siblings without a parent,
Two souls joined from the start.

Walking roads so different,
Twin paths that never met,
Journeys far from innocent,
Two hearts scarred with regret.

Dreams and goals still different,
Twin lands the gods beset,
Lovers with no precedent,
Two fates as yet unset.
co'brien Dec 2019
Speak to the muses blamed for your bruises—
They might say something yet.
Forget that the news is staring right through this—
Their blades with blood are wet.
You know you and I, we peer through the sky—
Feeling for fates unset.
Even though they lie about where or why—
I knew I’d ne’er forget.
Alena Voltaire Oct 2014
The journal opened,
On its own.
Encompassed my thoughts,
My heart,
And bled them onto unlined pages.
Raw, and complete.
Synced up in perfect harmony.

The short hand on the clock moved,
Took its first step,
And shielded clarity,
That no depth could have foretold,
This is what I needed,
On the same page,
The battery started to recharge,
All on its own.

Until after awhile it began to tick,
The clock came unset,
And there was no countdown left to look upon.
It moved at its own pace,
Fate and destiny,
Weaved its intricate web,
Attaching red thread to the tip of my pinky finger,
The cord that stretched to the tip of a finger of someone,
Whose heart, memories, and experiences,
Were that much like my own.

But we can never see who is at the end,
We may cross paths on a busy street,
Our eyes might linger for a moment,
And we may feel struck in the chest,
By an unexplainable force,
Or we may pass without notice,
Always thinking,
That when the book comes to a close,
That soon their hand,
Would fit perfectly in my own.
Monsters of men, not under your bed,
best do what they said, they said all is well.

Is all so well?

Monsters of men, know you not but know your head, we're fish in a net, mind-sets unset, we're living like the dead,
But only truly living after death

*¿whø are mønsters øf men?
Men.

2:22
In the woods far from all men
There was a woman that lived in peace
With her dog and daughter made three
From time to time people would come for her help
She knew much of many things
And lived a life of light love and compassion
She was a healer
But some would say witch
And a day came that a child went missing
The villagers came to her but not for help
They decided that she used black magic to lure the child away
They burned her in autumn air at end of day
Standing elevated above on the unset pyre
Looking around as fire was kindled
She felt the lick of flames
Yet only hot for a moment then cold
Her daughter looking on as she uttered her last words
"This is what you pay to love
Im to be ash in the wind
And your to live with your sins"
She went out like a flame
Like a star winking out
the world was left darker
And a small heart left cold
andy fardell Aug 2014
I'm trying to think to what to come
in write
A head imploding
Left in a fright
All starred to the walls that don't come
co exist
A mirrored for horror
Faceless in bliss

This prison that holds me
My breaking the free
Unleash me this message
Set me the free
Go
Set me the free

Climb up on unset me
For I need to breath
Release all this in me
For I need to breath
Just let me
Be free

Then the cracks in my wall start to shatter my view
I'm out of my inner
I'm free break the through
The wall has come down
Yes
Now let dust fills my lungs
It's good to breath in out
This writing is done
Arina Jun 2018
Quietly sneaky
you came
Thunderstorms
in my heart
Yet you left
me alone
unset and alone
You were the moon
Now i ask delicate
why when i hear your
name i can't forget
the words on you mouth
those blue eyes staring
inro mine unashamed
I found new hope
untouched
buti can't shake you away
when i hear you name
and your sparky attitude

but i will keep on
romoving your spell
on my soul
for there is always the
sun when the moon fail
A great chasm gaping but no words are escaping and it feels like I'm skating on ice.
Nice though it may be each day comes to slay me as the morning breaks open my eyes.
It cuts through my skin as it finds a way in and I want to get out but cannot,that spot in the sky burns me down and I die into daylight once more.
I am trapped on the scrapheap where sleep is the answer and the question unset, is this moment in time where I get the unsettling feeling that my life is just peeling away,
the chasm spreads wide like the tide's going out and I find I can't swim but the day's already in and so it's going to be fine.

Then the wine flows like evening that goes on and on and the bottle once full is now gasping,
almost gone.
The ash of the day flusters slowly and gray and the night grasps me tight to her waist.
This tester,this taster of what will be later is enough for the hour of me,I see  trees bare,unladen with care,I see them full with the blossoms of May and am blinded by beauty,
surely
sore and rocked by these cores which are central,essential and necessary to me where the elements line up and the squadron I see forms the form of all things
and the conclusion I come too is that all things will come true as each day I break out of breaks through into me.
Romance is distraction -
Romance is elaborating saga,
Romance is invention,
and not at all Love's dogma.

Love is discovery -
Love is devotion,
Love is creativity,
It evolved as we evolved,

Love is center, in all kinds
in the pure and the complex,
Love expressed in all the fines
the beauty in finding is yet -

Losing oneself in the find
or finding oneself in a loss,
unset from stone your searching mind
come morning, midnight, sun rise or set -

Love will find you as much as
Love willingly let's you beget.
Kristen Lowe May 2014
Your hands are on her waist now and my head burns
Oh, these steady, even, licking flames that tickle the linings of my heart
The sky's gone black and blue tonight

And I think it's a little bit sad, isn't it
That the way your fingers kiss her skin sets me off
Like an alarm that was never unset
Even after our funeral came and came again,
And we all put away our condolences on a shelf that only I'm still keeping clean
And empty

When your mouth is on the lines of her neck, the curves of her mouth, on her
My heart implodes
An inky, sticky stain that drips down into my bone marrow like rain, a deep and apathetic life support
A midnight blue promise that streams into the bullet-holes in my shoes
Promise me that this is not what morning looks like

And I hope this is how you feel
Battered.

When I find hands to fall on me too, and I really hope someday that I might,
I hope your blood gets viscous and gets caught under the edges of your skin
Just black little blurs peeking out unabashedly from behind your paper-thin touch

We all fall down, but I collapse quietly
Beaten to a small, smiling carcass that you can put away on a shelf
Discard me until the Spring thrashes against the frozen ground and strangles our winter
I'll be here, despondent

Her skin is warm and clean, I suppose
Yours is not. The ash will find you too
And I'll be here.

Search all you want through the strands of her hair
You'll never find it
And morning may never find me again
Neal Emanuelson Feb 2015
An illusion to me was believing that the sun could be unset by
traveling this iced path laced with slippery regret.
But marked by my own accord, silvered bee stings from
nightly passions for crimes against myself.
Slithering softly a secretly silenced flow from blade tip
to skin deep are the fears held with the mind's first
traps.

Night-summers crept past my windows locked,
carefully observing my frame weaken from
failed attempts of drowning in my sleep.
As my heart slowed and breathing infrequent,
my mind wandered to darker halls, conversing
within myself for my own answers.
Rejection for help was an ambush set by my mind's second
maze.

All the leaves turned brown as the sky turned to gray
with an unfaithful thought to those I cherished.
With uttered sins against my enemies I lashed out,
"Till the last stands tall will I be undefeated."
Hubris being a blind path of death to the unwary disguises
Its self well within the needs of the suffering.
Tastes of abnormalities would tempt me to do what I did to
others to myself without choking up with hesitation in the third
riddle of my mind.

Daylight deceivers and no witness with a clue to what has gone
terribly wrong by fusing the thought of nine to one soul.
Recreation of my broken sky, a creation of myself as a product of
hurt by misleading lovers, blinded by love's desires to be accepted.
Life's lies lie in life's wake once your slumber has ended and your
eyes have awakened to the darkness of a fourth vision of an apocalyptic
mind.

Are they then over as they began their rampage?
No, never resting are tribulations of simple crimes
embossed to the sacred flesh of time itself.
Followed by my careful hand, shattered by the cares and worries,
I hold on to my broken shield of faith and pursue futures onward.
Thus, the last mistake, proven faulty at most, has been nothing more
than a grim reminiscence of why I exist. And so my mind fails to conceive
Its last oblivion.

© 2005

— The End —