#donne
for the metaphysical transforming sequences,
this new quandary, the sacrifice of the ordinary,
the absence of safe rituals, known dangers, afeared,
for there
is no comfort when wings fly me, escort me,
above the frayed and the living, and fright
takes hold, my confused status no more
knows not stasis,
the normality
of unknowing, a delicacy
of paradoxicality, paralysis uncertainty that
death provides at no extra cost, other than the
seizure, the censoring perifdy of persistent
perdition, the superior discomfort of heavenly,
perfect
certainty
kisses my forehead finally to rest one last time
and then…
<nml>
~~~
“And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.”
Sonnet 10 by John Donne
Mar 1
Mar 1, 2026 at 9:50 AM UTC
Take that candle
from the step of the door,
for too much light is there
in these bed chambers
to which
your affection
I all but owe.
Would it be
so wrong to love
you in the dark?
Here,
there is nothing but soul to love.
When the face
and the body
are but planet to all
and I am left to love
double crossed sticks in the ground
what else will I adore?
So,
remove that metal plate
from the step of the door.
Let it melt away!
Take it's harsh light to tomorrow!
Leave me with today
in which
I shall love you more
with every inch of darkness
that buries this room
and lets my affection
sprout from within.
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 12:36 PM UTC
What makes a good poem?
Is it the rhythm? The structure? The carefully placed similes like dog treats and the restricted use of rhetorical questions?
Oh.
If that's the case,
I think I failed the test.
Oh please! Don't leave! Let me try this again!
(A cough to clear the throat)
Ha-HEM.
When one writes iambic pentameter
Doth that make his good prose the worthier then?
...No?
If I write a witty couplet in a rhyme
Does that make this utter **** more worth your time?
Have I got the tempo right?
I need an exclamatory tone!
Rhyming feels better somehow
But it doesn't make trombone.
My jittery jilted stream-of-consciousness different-line-length punctuation-less word-vomit onto a page-
Pause for breath-
Can never match the likes of Donne or Keats;
But I've bled my soul and fire onto this page
And surely, that is worth more than conceits?
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 6:11 PM UTC
Maybe this wasn't meant to be.
Maybe this was just a vivid
imagination of what could be.
I fell in love with the idea,
not the journey.
The trepidation in my heart consumed me.
if this was meant to be,
if the stars lined up
just right, for me this to be,
why is it a stone in my heart?
somehow I became the girl
who became addicted to
something she needs,
not wants.
What I wanted was to dance.
I wanted to paint the
colors of my life with
what I have.
But the stars and planets
are never stationary.
They kept moving,
and I was moving with them.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 11:21 AM UTC
I walk the city, the city clean
Where the sun is brighter on this side,
I keep my head straight no to be seen,
Though all my guilt can I cannot hide.
When the dove sings below me I can hear,
When the child suffers I do understand,
Where my conscience bundles up its fear
Before the child does raise her hand.
I carry no hope or miracle for the child
But I probably should spare the change,
To leave her in this city wild,
Would a dollar or pennies ease her pain?
With head straight forward I continue a march,
Pockets jingle past the innocent poor,
Walking past my burning heart,
I wonder if Heaven for her will open a door.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
If yet I have not all thy love
For loving is never enough
I must do more than pray
Both increased by gratitude
And the desire to love more
If yet I have not all thy love
I thought, dream it, enjoy it
I cannot deny, I share it
Fiercely and without restraint
If yet I have not all they love
I who am so little wise, so humble
So simple, deare perhaps I
Shall never have thee all
My stature was made small by
Nature, my wit outbid by
More generous fates, my time
More short and partial to trials
If yet I have not all they love
Be it said that love’s riddles were
Unpublishable to me, triumphs
As if out of reach, treasures
Undeserved, comforts unmet
If yet I have not all they love
Do not bargain but say farewell
Deare, well I know, I shall never
Have all of thee, never know thy
Full heart, love doth every day admit
The worthy choice of my lost destiny.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
Idyllic love poems wander the hills
with a pining goat herd playing his pipe
and singing mournful song
echoing down the quartz sculpted gorge
beneath waterfalls
where alabaster-skinned Naiads
lithe and languorous
bathed in crystal brooks.
Romantic poems lounge on sofas breathless
wearing corsets and crinolines
desperate
and untouched
*********
strands of hair
John Donne’s love poems
are wet
with wit.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 9:14 AM UTC