"abash" poems
254
“Hope” is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I’ve heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
5.2k
First Girl
When this yokel comes maundering,
Whetting his hacker,
I shall run before him,
Diffusing the civilest odors
Out of geraniums and unsmelled flowers.
It will check him.
Second Girl
I shall run before him,
Arching cloths besprinkled with colors
As small as fish-eggs.
The threads
Will abash him.
Third Girl
Oh, la...le pauvre!
I shall run before him,
With a curious puffing.
He will bend his ear then.
I shall whisper
Heavenly labials in a world of gutturals.
It will undo him.
3.2k
you hold my heart in your hand,
it is safe there, in sunshine land.
my mind often wanders,
to you it must go....
no other vision but of thee,
closest to my heart it must be
you hold my heart from day to night,
from sunset to the first sunlight...
my world has become a wondrous adventure,
*"a magic carpet ride, over, sideways and under,
Indescribable feelings,
Soaring, tumbling, freewheeling" ........:)*
you have me quoting lines from movies....
ahh i must be in love.....abash.....sheepish....how groovy
I love you my redhead, blue eyed ladybelle
well that you must know.....
in your hands, my heart's aglow
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 3:58 AM UTC
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 2:45 AM UTC
Aug. 13. 1653.
Lord in thine anger do not reprehend me
Nor in thy hot displeasure me correct;
Pity me Lord for I am much deject
Am very weak and faint; heal and amend me,
For all my bones, that even with anguish ake,
Are troubled, yea my soul is troubled sore
And thou O Lord how long? turn Lord, restore
My soul, O save me for thy goodness sake
For in death no remembrance is of thee;
Who in the grave can celebrate thy praise?
Wearied I am with sighing out my dayes.
Nightly my Couch I make a kind of Sea;
My Bed I water with my tears; mine Eie
Through grief consumes, is waxen old and dark
Ith’ mid’st of all mine enemies that mark.
Depart all ye that work iniquitie.
Depart from me, for the voice of my weeping
The Lord hath heard, the Lord hath heard my prai’r
My supplication with acceptance fair
The Lord will own, and have me in his keeping.
Mine enemies shall all be blank and dash’t
With much confusion; then grow red with shame,
They shall return in hast the way they came
And in a moment shall be quite abash’t.
1.2k
Dream dreams,
Reality is harsh,but face it;
Everyone needs some hope,
Abash negativity!
Manage your fears.
See your dreams realised.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 6:03 AM UTC
Striking poses or putting noses out of joint, Jack Dash was never afraid to clash, to abash bosses, exposing injustice, making a splash to turn our eyes to the unjust slash to rights of men on the docks.
A boxer, a poet, a son of the ancient Borough, with heavy weight words and feather weight fists, he galvanise his brothers.
Firebrand or fire fighter he took to the fight with every fibre of his underdog frame, calling stevedores to flame to life their struggle for their rights to challenge closed doors, with a chirpy charm that was sure to disarm the hardest of hearts.
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 6:57 AM UTC
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 1:29 PM UTC
'Twas the way she said,
...be sure to call me, don't forget...
then turned off her phone,
3 days net
I cast her a line
will she bite or let free?
readily lost from mind
the bait was me!
Oh mused from her loving
her plaything, her joy.
I spat out love poemz
Less haste did annoy
Lifted kindred spirit,
no more wobe-gone for me
was but a lie from a Strom
too blinded to sea
"You and I are going to have
a great love affair."
Should have been warning
Foundeld on note in sunlight morning
I asked the project wood
It for-told me, "Why Bother?"
Alone in my room, to ration or despair
Ignore nature's warning,
'tis up to me, I declare.
Sealed my fate...
I'm strong, been here before,
I'm ready for this...this...this time winning!
FOOL
Her's unslaved, mine unscathed
night,
was just the begining!
Oh the joys,
Such sweetness up to the edge,
but not quite *****
As promised her lore
THE everything abash
Irie romming back,
gonna get IT,
this time?
Maybe mohr
The musing doest stop,
genuine dost frey,
Lovings subside
Betrayl dost pay
"It will melt your mind"
Were the last words I herd
all in due time
her torture, my absurd
Communicate?
Communicate she says?
Why were not those words
so heards
Whence whining and pining decays?
Hypocrispy so blatant
it must be ignored,
and the melt of the mind
gets restored
For it was up to me
All along on this journey
The most painful part
Is I always did see
This dance with the devil
The game of fairie,
My loves lorn lost
To the leanhaun shee
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
The bathroom faucet drips hurried footsteps,
carrying him back to dappled wood buried
in repeated dreams: a brushed ritual
circle hasty ringed by displaced logs, bark bit
by lichens; their sacrilege tools — hammer's
rotted-wood grip, nails with rusty shafts — littered
about a stump-altar where brothers met,
made not-so-secret sacrifice, to abash
their god; still suffering toad, random
picked to endure this mock passion play ending
on cross-tied twigs. Its yet resurrected
eyes stare at him, ask simple but damning "why?"
No Samaritan, good or bad, among
pretend Romans, ever stayed their hands to help.
Sep 19, 2009
Sep 19, 2009 at 8:48 AM UTC
Struggling to bud, stretching,
The ache reminds me that my inspiration
Has seasons
And dies sometimes.
I eventually start to wonder if it will ever return.
Next I forget I ever had it
And then things appear to me -
Light spectrums stretch,
I notice the weather,
The blue filter removes,
And I'd like to capture it, somehow -
I turn my lens and let blur come to beckoning.
I'd like to record this enlivened state of beauty
Before I shift my gaze in ignorance
And thanklessness.
My words are the flowers and the bugs
I want to catch but leave alone
To not abash their fluidity.
I pet them with my pen
And suppose questions I might ask
If I could bother them for answers.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 2:52 PM UTC
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard,
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 6:34 PM UTC
The wrongs that you have been done in are strong
And torturous to be hold. O’ a pain!
A pain of such a lost to you the wrong
To keep in deep hate, unsure to be wane.
Cut by unvalued blade of love’s curl malice
You stand against her vaulting hate abash
But you have been made rough by her callus
Now done away with her vicious backlash
Set free are you to live a life a new
From lover’s quarrels made to new found peace
Of long spent wealth now able to pursue
Endeavors till the day that your heart cease
Look onward my old friend and be joyful
For it is time to pass me another bottle.
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 10:01 PM UTC
to avoid the pitfall of prospective homelessness
which near future prospect
induces existential angst i confess.
Today (end of rope rhyme rote
approximately deux orbitz round the sun),
i wanted ta die and bid god riddance grandly
going gamesomely gra grave,
de deum, and cymbal crash
to Bing mulct emotionally, physically and spiritually -
all the grinding hardships would be gone in a flash
how tempting to seek ot a solution sans hemlock
or other deadly potion,
whereby toothless mouth need not gnash
boot simply swallow and drink from the goblet of
mortal freedoms renting psych *** under
with purposelessness mine hash
tag, which bout with suicide
while n the edge of thirteen -
Anorexia nervosa defeated -
then as now experience
10,000 banshee maniacs whip lash
lacerating, flagellating,
and repeatedly rousing thoughts
shin to circle back to why death be not proud
when life on par with a mash
up of ennui, futile gobbledygook housing incubus
analogous luft waffe bombardiers quash
the joie de vivre per je ne sais quois spritely spring
in step happy jollity,
and levity attempt to make light
of psychological me's mental illness rash
whence thru the (then) lvii roam min years
as chief garbage taster of trash
hurled my way gnome matter
the gremlins dwelt within the Wabash
distance to inflict din er of dissonance
targeted this mortal for'er abash
as soon as he got expelled
from the womb, his reddened ears did bash
from sonic screaming boom causing astir the nurses
into the maternity ward
of me late mum sped like dash
her, and fast as a comet Prancer doth emulate
a con ***** dancer, cuz ova this rude half
re: that came a boot
from genetic chromosomal dna wash.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 3:56 AM UTC
“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,”
“And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I 've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.”
-Emily Dickinson.
Jul 9, 2020
Jul 9, 2020 at 1:38 AM UTC
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
Once you said forever did exist within our hearts
The promises of then, not true today
So that now, we’ve lost the loving feelings... torn apart
To leave our wasted love so once regarded, cast away
So many years ago we thought that love would see us through
But youth and reckless hearts, betrayed our trust
We stand upon the edge of loneliness, bidding love adieu
With things our hearts refuse now to discuss
Yesterday I saw the world as shining fresh, and free
Though day has now so sadly, turned to dusk
Now the scent upon the wind, is sorrows potpourri
Golden memories, slowly were exchanged for faded rust
Once you said that you and I were surely meant to be
Now you have forgotten things you said
Years have not been kind to love, at least for you and me
And emptiness arrived, now in residence instead
Perhaps the things you said were right, although our time was flawed
Emotions, lost devotion caused our crash
Years were spent behind our paradisaic facade
Until forever stood alone, abash
Though I do not regret the things we promised in our youth
Dreams just lost their strength along the way
Now my dreams are mixed, along with ***** and vermouth
My dreams are much too small, to my dismay
Though I recall the things you said, now far beyond my reach
Perhaps I still can find them in the night
Love, somehow became another sad figure of speech
What it has become absorbs me, quite
Once you said forever did exist, within our hearts
Though there were things your heart could not condone
The past comes back to haunt me now, since love has come apart
But I can still recall,
when forever stood alone.
Dean Evans
5-12-14
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 7:55 AM UTC
An hour passed by reading a book,
And I entered a new world,
World full of peace
Where everyone is busy in his own world, nobody here means anything to anyone.
full of happiness , where no one is abash.
People are neither beautiful nor ugly everyone is equal in eye of human.
Where I can sing, dance and do anything with rapture ,without any hesitation.
I am lost in this immensity,
Their is no logic only magic ,
Though it was just a world of book,but I wish,I could really get lost in this type of immensity
Sep 25, 2020
Sep 25, 2020 at 12:41 AM UTC
Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
*Do not speak of flowers
burning and burning the rose
petals find a glimpse of world
right before they collapse in ash
Do not speak of your lovers
no matter who they stand opposed
if two or more, your always cold
hands never tremble nor abash
Do not speak of night
fearing each and every day
as the beams bow lower
before her curly silver touch
Do not speak of what is right
killing your spirit slowly prey
on weak minded and lost
people wanting to die too much
Do no speak of love
and her skin being ripped off
soul chained to a heavy stone
idea lost in the motionless spark
Speak do not
only the silence prepares to be
our judge as the winter paints
the icy flowers in a complete dark
And when you ask
is there anything left to talk?
My poor hard heart is dead
as is your idle flaming heart*
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 8:56 PM UTC