#bronte
Lost in the darkness
This fire in my belly can't warm my hands
Or show the path forward
I slice at the black
But it floods back to every gap I carve
I can feel it guiding my knife
It has hands of its own
Feb 14
Feb 14, 2026 at 9:03 PM UTC
Dedicated to the revered Emily Brontë
And all unyielding souls in dark days
No matter the death,no sound may turn me to ashes,
Human is a kind of being, and I’m a bloom of heather.
Alone I sleep, on a rugged hill afar,
Every spring rends here, leaving ruthless scars.
No coward soul is mine, none bind with fears,
Supple are my branches, yet roots clutched fierce.
I dare to rise high, but now I bow,
To wuthering winds that howl aloud.
When the snow conceal me, leave no star nor moon,
In long sealed slumber, I await my turn.
When larks start singing , I shall rule the ground,
No quenchless frost can subdue—this will I’ve found.
Nov 7, 2025
Nov 7, 2025 at 7:07 AM UTC
Fall Leaves Fall
by Emily Brontë
<>
*Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me,
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.*
<>
the summer visage long faded from caramel,
to a bastardized version of ugly dirt brown,
the streets empty of traffic and the silence
is a sadder shade of lesser peace, the vibrancy
given way to sharper clearer long division disagreement
my worrisome peaks when the trees
denuded, less shelter than ever.
no cover offered, we stand divided,
visible lines of demarcation,
unable to hide, from each other,
unable to hide, from our selves,
the briefer day transits quicker
into night’s decay, and the words
we utter and state,, hollow sounded,
have no echo ability, no resounding,
and we all grow silenced, partly in
shame, partly because partisan words
bring no gain, or the satisfaction of a
response that makes us say ah ha! you see!
the leaves crumble breneath tired treads
and forested footsteps long ago forgotten,
beige dust that the wind swirls, delighted
by its new power to spread its grounded
memories of human interference into
a coverlet of dust
this fallen solitude hurts me, for it is in
opposition to the joy gay screams of children
in to water running, the oohs and ahs, of freedom’s fireworks gloried colors proclaiming we are “one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all”
Nov 5, 2024
Nov 5, 2024 at 3:13 PM UTC
Wintersun
entered the upstairs library,
In shifts,
heads bowed.
The flickers of remembrance
softly stroked her hair,
Until the dousing of
the final candle
Summoned nightfall
to dance at her funeral party.
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 4:23 PM UTC
All those books they made us read,
The smelly yellow-pagers
That weighed as heavy as the guilt
We felt as "zombie teenagers";
Do we remember anything?
The names of the main characters,
Or maybe, who died in the end--
Or the ones who were in pictures?
It wasn't that we hated books--
We didn't understand them;
Before the teacher's spiritless voice
Made us slowly condemn them.
"Memorize the vocab words,
And don't forget the spelling!"
Was that the point of literature?
But definitions aren't compelling.
So all those hours in English Lit,
The days spent reading Steinbeck,
Were soured by the grouchy face
Always looming over my desk.
I always wished someone would say,
"This isn't boring, here's why:"
But I was told to shut up and read
When sometimes I wanted to cry:
"I hate this story! Nobody's happy!
And everyone's messed up!
It doesn't make sense to force it on us
When we're already stressed out."
But we had to read it, because they had to read it
When they were young in school.
This book had an impact in history:
So now, reading it is a rule.
So if it's a must, that's fine, then.
But...why don't we make it fun?
Or talk about the psychology
And learn something when we're done?
A book can't be everyone's favorite.
We're all different people inside.
But please try to make us all interested
With wisdom only you can provide.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
What gave you your direction?
What made you want to write?
What ever was the reason
that saw you editing all night?
Perhaps you loved Lord Byron
or for you was Poe the man
or maybe Keats or Dr. Seuss,
with his green eggs and ham.
What had you writing poetry?
Who did you want to be?
The answer to that question
is an easy one for me.
You'll probably howl
when you hear of my choice.
He's hardly a Jane Austin
or Helen Steiner Rice.
And it wasn't Charlotte Bronte
who gave to me the thrill.
But a little fat comedien
with the name of Benny Hill.
As a youngster I remember
his rather raunchy rhymes
that some would look at with contempt
but they did that in those times.
I just remember that he creased me up
and I would laugh and laugh all day.
I would memorise and tell to friends
when we all went out to play.
As the years went on and I read the greats
everything grew in my mind.
I read and read my poetry
anything that I could find.
But of all the brilliant scholars
that have written and do still.
None will grace my heart and make me feel
like that poet Benny Hill.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC