#classic
Old longings nomadic leap
Chafing at custom's chain
Again from its brumal sleep
Wakens the ferine strain.
Helots of houses no more
Let us be out, be free!
Fragrance through the window and door
Wafts from the woods, the sea!
After the torpor of will,
Morbid the inner strife
Welcome the animal thrill
Lending a zest to life.
Banish the volumes revered
Severe from centuries dead
Ceilings the lamp flicker cheered
Barter for stars instead.
Temp, they dreams with trees
Nature they god alone
Worship the sun and the breeze
Altars where non atone.
Voices of Solitude call,
Whispers of sedge and stream
Loosen the fetters that gall
Back to the primal scheme
Feel the great throbbing terrene
Pulse in thy body beat!
Conscious again of the creed
Verdure beneath the feet
Callous to pain as the rose,
Breathe with instinct's delight
Live the existence that goes
Soulless into the night.
Nomadic - A non-sedentary lifestyle categorized by constant moving
Brumal - A deep or dreamless sleep
Ferine - wild or untamed
Helots - slaves
Torpor - a sluggish or inactive state
Morbid - pertaining to death
Strife - struggle or fight
Revered - worshiped or respected
Barter - to trade or negotiate
Temple - (in this case, as a verb) adorn
Sedge - verdure or plants
Fetters - chains or shackles
gall - a sore or wound from rubbing or chafing
Primal - ancient, old
Terrene - earth, pertaining to a worldly matter
Verdure - plant life
Callous - (in this situation, as an adjective) numb or unaware due to exposure
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 10:31 AM UTC
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream and not make dreams your master;
If you can think and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 9:40 AM UTC
By: The Drifter From Heaven
The shadows dance upon the chapel wall,
A silent ghost within the holy light,
I wait for death to answer every call.
With eyes of grey, a silhouette unknown,
A watcher, dusk to dawn—and out of sight,
The shadows dance upon the chapel wall.
I crave for freedom, waiting time to stall,
In anguish, reaching for an amber light,
I wait for death to answer every call.
I look so somber, frozen in the hall,
In stone-grey eyes, a vision—soul in flight,
The shadows dance upon the chapel wall.
Heaving a sigh, my thoughts are now in thrall,
To shun the pain, I cling to Godly light,
I wait for death to answer every call.
I pray for quick death, a redemption call,
To give my soul a home—its final flight,
The shadows dance upon the chapel wall,
I wait for death to answer every call.
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 4:53 AM UTC
By The Drifter From Heaven
After Arnold Böcklin’s Die Lebensinsel
Amidst the vibrant colors, I saw two silhouettes,
Perhaps two lovers who lived in the dark, but frolic in the light;
Two drifting souls, still trapped in the mortal life.
They are bound by the beauty of life's song and dance,
The weight of love and friendship an anchor of heavy chains,
Tethered to the mortal realm by the graceful wake of nature's claim,
Waiting for the night to reclaim the sun's blessing.
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 5:13 PM UTC
By The Drifter From Heaven
After Arnold Böcklin’s Isle of the Dead
A macabre scene: a cold, misty, uninhabited phantom island,
Where the river is as still as a corpse.
A sudden apparition, a ghostly, white-clad abomination,
It consumes all reason, isolating my mind from all distraction.
I find my peace and solitude in this Island of Isolation.
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 7:13 AM UTC
Colours are hidden in a lover's eyes.
Painting that grows deep with time.
Colours of love make destiny blind.
It fades, leaving heart's ruins behind.
Sometimes it is as pink as a smile.
Sometimes it's the endless night.
But has more shades than the sky.
No paper can hold its great might.
It's a bliss when it's red as a wine.
Few keep it close till their last time.
Giving birth to poems of sweet lies.
And ages sweeter with flowing time.
Many drown in this very wine.
When this painting fades with time.
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 11:49 AM UTC
I still hold the roses she gave.
Withered, but not for the grave.
I whisper the poems she wrote.
They are like wine to my throat.
But I don't hope for the same.
I don't wish for her to feel this flame.
I know she will forget my pain.
As I was never her first rain.
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 11:48 AM UTC
Flowers breathe with a smile so calm.
I love them a lot so I give no harm.
Never pluck them to as gift of warmth.
Flowers do not bloom just to wither.
They sing tunes with turning weather.
And dance with winds and heather.
Flowers are the love's living feather.
When I look up at the sky so wide.
I do not admire him for being wise.
I also listen to the secrets he hides.
The sky never rains but in pain cries.
Clouds get heavy with prayers of lies.
Then tears fall from the heavenly skies.
He lets his tears fall to see us smile.
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 11:46 AM UTC
God is a poet who loves tragedy.
He wrote our tale with ink of misery.
Our poem begins with smile and pain.
Ends with wishes whispered in vain.
God is a puppeteer holding the strings.
When he hums, in choir we all sing.
But what are we in His world's stage.
Nothing but His puppets made of clay.
God is the father of all who breathe.
Keeps sword of justice in his sheath.
Why does he never save the dying?
Why does he never burn the lying?
Maybe we're too blind in his love?
Will we forever beg the sky above?
Will he ever face our questions' rain?
Or pull the strings and make us pray?
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 11:44 AM UTC
Winds whisper in the meadow.
But I hear silence of my shadow.
Winds sing the tales unknown.
But I sit to write one of my own.
This world is too a little meadow.
People come like winds unknow.
What's unheard is our own sorrow.
Left alone, with tears to swallow.
Hear the voices that in silence echo.
Sit with yourself, and never be alone.
In this meadow let's make a home.
To store the memories of our own.
Apr 5
Apr 5, 2026 at 3:05 AM UTC
The new year rises like the morning sun,
Its golden smile whispers, a journey begun.
We mutter softly, “a fresh path is here,”
As the horizon glows, the vision is clear.
The sun climbs gently to the middle sky,
Some rest in shade, letting moments pass by.
But time keeps moving, it will never wait,
Each hour is a seed, each choice is a gate.
When Evening arrives with labor’s reward,
That's when the lazy begin their rush hour.
Dreams deferred may fade with the night,
Start now, pursue, while the day is bright.
Do not presume the last thirty days will suffice,
The curtain may fall, and demand its price.
Begin with zeal, let wisdom steer,
For the dawn is fleeting, and so is the year.
So rise with the sun, let diligence show,
Your first fruits of effort to God you owe.
Jan 6
Jan 6, 2026 at 10:07 PM UTC
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Dec 16, 2025
Dec 16, 2025 at 9:37 AM UTC
Oh she doth teach the torches to burn bright. It seems she hangs on the cheek of night, like a rich jewel in an Ethipoes ear. beauty too rich for use, for earths too dear. So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, a yonder lady her fellows shows. The measure done, I’ll watch her take her place of stand, and touching her- make blessed my rude hand. Has my heart loved til now? Fire swear it’s sight! I’ve ne’er seen true beauty til this night!
Dec 12, 2025
Dec 12, 2025 at 8:36 PM UTC
There's something sweet that moves the garden air,
It fills my chest with embers of the sun.
The morning dew clings light as starlit hair,
Upon my face their luster softly spun.
And yet I know the comfort of these hues
That once had led me down to kneel and sow.
The darkened groves beneath the wistful yews
Have loosed me to the place where gardens grow,
Where you, so sweet, compel my voice to sing
With birds that soar along your tower's ledge;
They've carried you within their loving wings,
And clothed your heart with flowers of the hedge.
Beneath the stars my serenade begins,
For you whose roses kissed soft summer skin.
Nov 28, 2025
Nov 28, 2025 at 6:10 PM UTC
Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever fare thee well!
Even though unforgiving, never
‘Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o’er thee
Which thou ne’er canst know again!
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
‘Twas not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee,
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another’s woe.
Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, oh! yet, thyself deceive not:
Love may sink by slow decay;
But, by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still thine own its life retaineth;
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat
And the undying thought which paineth
Is – that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead:
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widowed bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child’s first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say ‘Father,’
Though his care she must forego?
When her little hand shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is pressed,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee;
Think of him thy love had blessed.
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more mayst see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults, perchance, thou knowest;
All my madness none can know:
All my hopes, where’er thou goest,
Wither; yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken:
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee, by thee forsaken;
Even my soul forsakes me now.
But ’tis done: all words are idle;
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well!- thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie,
Seared in heart, and lone and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.
Nov 18, 2025
Nov 18, 2025 at 9:16 PM UTC
When Jane, broke the rules,
Life had made her,
Not suffer fools,
Down the corridor, up the stairs,
The teachers door, slightly ajar,
Peeping inside,
From afar,
There lay Helen, a nurse by her side,
Sleeping.
Jane stood by the bed,
Gently stroking
Helen's head,
"Jane, what are you doing here?"
I came to see you,
"You're cold, get beside me"
Are you going away?
"Yes, to a place where I'll be happy"
But you're my best friend,
Without you,
I'd never mend,
"Hush now, I'm feeling tired, cuddle up,
Before the nights transpired"
Life and death,
Have a fight, during the
dead of night.
Oct 18, 2025
Oct 18, 2025 at 4:28 AM UTC
In the new world of books,
Where the hungry mind's meal is cooked.
Laid ancient artifacts.
Golden treasure that the unborn yearn to behold.
This treasure caught my busy sight,
Which hungers for root of the rare gem.
My legs drove me here like a fast bike.
It covers 5 meters in a second,
Just to take a glimpse this diamond.
A mountain of books.
An ocean of map, a guide to today's writers.
Their quills had dried up long ago,
Yet their words still drip ink on our tongues.
Scrolls of Aristotle and Shakespeare won war.
The war against time that makes things lost.
Your words are not trend that are visitors.
But your ink is like the earth that never stop.
Your ink shine as though made now.
I use your ink in writing this scroll.
Ink men of today still drip your ink on their scroll.
Will our ink still shine if time tests the scroll?
Aug 27, 2025
Aug 27, 2025 at 5:34 AM UTC
I.
Lain down, unconcealed
toward the window
shoulder to hip -- a shadowy cursive
perhaps penumbra
II.
Seated, face in utter profile
standing, sorting laundry
washing dishes, guarding
the radiator
III.
Hair eschewed in
conjugated waters
double-exposed
roots and
foliage -- wisps
of sugarland
in subtext
their dark net
cast over a pearly bright sea
discovery left
to the imagination
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 1:52 PM UTC
Did you hear about the stark raven?
A conspiracy they got to know.
Heard of the lonely crow?
****** killed what was alone.
The orphan doe?
A stag that grew antlers.
Hog runt of the litter?
Boar of the bog - grew tusks & got a bit bigger.
The tiniest elephant?
Trunk like a trumpet, ivory like horns.
The smallest hummingbird?
Sharp as a dragon in precision, quick as a griffin.
As for the prairie dog?
Town; coteries & clans a̲r̲e̲ the wards.
Of the marmot?
A burrow whispers of whistles.
The tortoise galápagos?
Variability shines spectrums of different rays -
Amid waves, like amber will age.
The Axolotl?
Regenerative & able to metamorph -
Like a phoenix.
Adaptation is their wisdom.
Jul 26, 2025
Jul 26, 2025 at 12:41 PM UTC
...
You see them hazily dancing,
like in a fever dream
shades turning to dust
in dimmed neon lights
ghosts of a past, wieghtless in flight
you watch them dancing in the haze of the night,
Engine sounds cut the dew Of the dawn
You are too young to sleep
tangled up in roadside oleanders
All trying to live a dream
Jul 13, 2025
Jul 13, 2025 at 1:21 PM UTC