"acceded" poems - Hello Poetry

A shark afebrile acceded deep in shallows there his teeth lasted with anticipation of her bay was akin to high jinks as his floridity was aghast with achievement that caught her so nobly again.

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Jul 15, 2016

Jul 15, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC

poetman

A Shark

A shark afebrile acceded deep in shallows there his teeth lasted with anticipation of her bay was akin to high jinks as his floridity was aghast with achievement that caught her so nobly again.

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59 A little East of Jordan, Evangelists record, A Gymnast and an Angel Did wrestle long and hard— Till morning touching mountain— And Jacob, waxing strong, The Angel begged permission To Breakfast—to return— Not so, said cunning Jacob! “I will not let thee go Except thou bless me”—Stranger! The which acceded to— Light swung the silver fleeces “Peniel” Hills beyond, And the bewildered Gymnast Found he had worsted God!

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3.1k

Emily Dickinson

A little East of Jordan

59 A little East of Jordan, Evangelists record, A Gymnast and an Angel Did wrestle long and hard— Till morning touching mountain— And Jacob, waxing strong, The Angel begged permission To Breakfast—to return— Not so, said cunning Jacob! “I will not let thee go Except thou bless me”—Stranger! The which acceded to— Light swung the silver fleeces “Peniel” Hills beyond, And the bewildered Gymnast Found he had worsted God!

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did you, even now, hope to shut your eyes to so huge a crime, my treacherous one, to think you could stilly withdraw from my kingdom? did our love not once hold you? our ardent vows? or even I, Dido, preparing to succumb barbaric death? how could you, callous you!, take wing to prepare your fleet in winter —i’m sure to run aground— when Boreas thrashes against the heavens? but, if you weren’t pursuing unfamiliar soil or incited to father a distant nation, if ancient Ilium sturdily grimed through the war, would you keep piercing the wave-washed oceans in your armada? why do you elude me; is it because i have acceded irreality? am i worthless, now?—i implore you! by these tears, and your troth, by our wedding vows, and this oath before ***** we began: if i deserve anything good from you, or if you think, i was good enough for you; pity this household decaying before us! it was once yours, too. and if my prayers are still yours, gut them from my mind! for now the Libyans and Numidians hate me! dear Tyre is virulent! as my honour and once-righteous stature has vanished, just as i was about to touch my constellated infamy. for what destiny, my foreign one, do you set me aside; ever-knowing my imminent death? seeing that only your name endures from this union, why do i bother to keep living? am i waiting for my brother, Pygmalion, to destroy my Carthage’s walls, or a Gætulian Iarbus to make me his concubine? if only you gave me a son, a little Æneas to play in my courts, a boy to remind me of you; only then, perhaps, would i not be so utterly violated, and consumed.

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Nov 7, 2014

Nov 7, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC

palladia

quis fallere possit amantem?

did you, even now, hope to shut your eyes to so huge a crime, my treacherous one, to think you could stilly withdraw from my kingdom? did our love not once hold you? our ardent vows? or even I, Dido, preparing to succumb barbaric death? how could you, callous you!, take wing to prepare your fleet in winter —i’m sure to run aground— when Boreas thrashes against the heavens? but, if you weren’t pursuing unfamiliar soil or incited to father a distant nation, if ancient Ilium sturdily grimed through the war, would you keep piercing the wave-washed oceans in your armada? why do you elude me; is it because i have acceded irreality? am i worthless, now?—i implore you! by these tears, and your troth, by our wedding vows, and this oath before ***** we began: if i deserve anything good from you, or if you think, i was good enough for you; pity this household decaying before us! it was once yours, too. and if my prayers are still yours, gut them from my mind! for now the Libyans and Numidians hate me! dear Tyre is virulent! as my honour and once-righteous stature has vanished, just as i was about to touch my constellated infamy. for what destiny, my foreign one, do you set me aside; ever-knowing my imminent death? seeing that only your name endures from this union, why do i bother to keep living? am i waiting for my brother, Pygmalion, to destroy my Carthage’s walls, or a Gætulian Iarbus to make me his concubine? if only you gave me a son, a little Æneas to play in my courts, a boy to remind me of you; only then, perhaps, would i not be so utterly violated, and consumed.

48

Past the green copper bell-ed, Thru the the single trees, un-felled. Do you see that solitary-sentinel chair, Empty? No, not. Can you not see the sweep, The vista, the poems hanging about, Ripe for the plucking from the quiet, Nestled in the soil, on the wings of gulls, Who do not fly, but let the wind keep them And their cargo, standing-still, in place, Awaiting my attention, my need. You read less and less, The more and more I write. It's ok, I understand that. Blessed to have found the spot, Where the poems make a crowd, And the giving is good and healing, easy. A long as there be ten righteous, The Lord acceded to Abraham's plea, ***** would not be destroyed. I am less demanding, For I am just human. As long as but five, Acknowledge the caring, Lick my wounded words like vanilla, Is that too much to ask? If but one finger points and marks it Read, is that not sufficient to let this Battle be ended, tween ego and truth, Pride of craft, and, weak craving for attention-no-deficit? If it be, that only the sea grasses, rooted deep, sway, On the beach, a few feet from where, the chair spends its days, Clap their hands silently to Acknowledging the harvesting of the words, That too will be noise enough to satisfy The Lord who tendered them, all this, to me For safe keeping, and giving me no choice but to write, If but to honor all words, and their creators, Each and every one.

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Sep 1, 2013

Sep 1, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Go back again, look at that photo. See the poems?

Past the green copper bell-ed, Thru the the single trees, un-felled. Do you see that solitary-sentinel chair, Empty? No, not. Can you not see the sweep, The vista, the poems hanging about, Ripe for the plucking from the quiet, Nestled in the soil, on the wings of gulls, Who do not fly, but let the wind keep them And their cargo, standing-still, in place, Awaiting my attention, my need. You read less and less, The more and more I write. It's ok, I understand that. Blessed to have found the spot, Where the poems make a crowd, And the giving is good and healing, easy. A long as there be ten righteous, The Lord acceded to Abraham's plea, ***** would not be destroyed. I am less demanding, For I am just human. As long as but five, Acknowledge the caring, Lick my wounded words like vanilla, Is that too much to ask? If but one finger points and marks it Read, is that not sufficient to let this Battle be ended, tween ego and truth, Pride of craft, and, weak craving for attention-no-deficit? If it be, that only the sea grasses, rooted deep, sway, On the beach, a few feet from where, the chair spends its days, Clap their hands silently to Acknowledging the harvesting of the words, That too will be noise enough to satisfy The Lord who tendered them, all this, to me For safe keeping, and giving me no choice but to write, If but to honor all words, and their creators, Each and every one.

39

Past the green copper bell-ed, Thru the the single trees, un-felled. Do you see that solitary-sentinel chair, Empty? No, not. Can you not see the sweep, The vista, the poems hanging about, Ripe for the plucking from the quiet, Nestled in the soil, on the wings of gulls, Who do not fly, but let the wind keep them And their cargo, standing-still, in place, Awaiting my attention, my need. You read less and less, The more and more I write. It's ok, I understand that. Blessed to have found the spot, Where the poems make a crowd, And the giving is good and healing, easy. A long as there be ten righteous, The Lord acceded to Abraham's plea, ***** would not be destroyed. I am less demanding, For I am just human. As long as but five, Acknowledge the caring, Lick my wounded words like vanilla, Is that too much to ask? If but one finger points and marks it Read, is that not sufficient to let this Battle be ended, tween ego and truth, Pride of craft, and, weak craving for attention-no-deficit? If it be, that only the sea grasses, rooted deep, sway, On the beach, a few feet from where, the chair spends its days, Clap their hands silently to Acknowledging the harvesting of the words, That too will be noise enough to satisfy The Lord who tendered them, all this, to me For safe keeping, and giving me no choice but to write, If but to honor all words, and their creators, Each and every one. See my photo, to better undertstand...

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Sep 1, 2014

Sep 1, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Go back again, look at that photo. See the poems?

Past the green copper bell-ed, Thru the the single trees, un-felled. Do you see that solitary-sentinel chair, Empty? No, not. Can you not see the sweep, The vista, the poems hanging about, Ripe for the plucking from the quiet, Nestled in the soil, on the wings of gulls, Who do not fly, but let the wind keep them And their cargo, standing-still, in place, Awaiting my attention, my need. You read less and less, The more and more I write. It's ok, I understand that. Blessed to have found the spot, Where the poems make a crowd, And the giving is good and healing, easy. A long as there be ten righteous, The Lord acceded to Abraham's plea, ***** would not be destroyed. I am less demanding, For I am just human. As long as but five, Acknowledge the caring, Lick my wounded words like vanilla, Is that too much to ask? If but one finger points and marks it Read, is that not sufficient to let this Battle be ended, tween ego and truth, Pride of craft, and, weak craving for attention-no-deficit? If it be, that only the sea grasses, rooted deep, sway, On the beach, a few feet from where, the chair spends its days, Clap their hands silently to Acknowledging the harvesting of the words, That too will be noise enough to satisfy The Lord who tendered them, all this, to me For safe keeping, and giving me no choice but to write, If but to honor all words, and their creators, Each and every one. See my photo, to better undertstand...

40

She unaware, acceded to the invitation his deeds would haunt her, a restaurant and laughter an after kiss followed by her gnawing expectation. internalised, fear of commitment. She in turn absolved lingering impressions, where bare stone walls only cherish the wherewithal to survive future loneliness undetected.

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Nov 3, 2012

Nov 3, 2012 at 1:47 PM UTC

topaz-oreilly

Led on

She unaware, acceded to the invitation his deeds would haunt her, a restaurant and laughter an after kiss followed by her gnawing expectation. internalised, fear of commitment. She in turn absolved lingering impressions, where bare stone walls only cherish the wherewithal to survive future loneliness undetected.

8

With empty hands, the scared souls Are dead inside like broken bones With plastic dreams, the shattered ones Are done believing that there's life alone **Its hard to believe there's more to life when the skies turn tragic ***** When you're living in the world so high with things unworthy of attention There's none better than to embrace death For it seems the only solution Coz those who tread the path of life are usually sacrificed and **Its hard to believe there's more to life when the skies turn tragic ***** The sun would wilt your soul The wind would stunt your growth The earth would hold your arms until they aren't yours anymore **Its hard to believe there's more to life when the skies turn tragic ***** With nothing more left to say the silent have acceded the throne Those who were in the battle of speech have been the ones who've gone For life is a struggle to death coz **Its hard to believe there's more to life when the skies turn tragic *****

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Sep 12, 2010

Sep 12, 2010 at 9:14 AM UTC

sunpreet-arora

The Tragedy of Life

With empty hands, the scared souls Are dead inside like broken bones With plastic dreams, the shattered ones Are done believing that there's life alone **Its hard to believe there's more to life when the skies turn tragic ***** When you're living in the world so high with things unworthy of attention There's none better than to embrace death For it seems the only solution Coz those who tread the path of life are usually sacrificed and **Its hard to believe there's more to life when the skies turn tragic ***** The sun would wilt your soul The wind would stunt your growth The earth would hold your arms until they aren't yours anymore **Its hard to believe there's more to life when the skies turn tragic ***** With nothing more left to say the silent have acceded the throne Those who were in the battle of speech have been the ones who've gone For life is a struggle to death coz **Its hard to believe there's more to life when the skies turn tragic *****

27

Let me tell you a story About a girl She had tears in her eyes, But she acceded like she was fine She had this story, and you could feel the pain in her heart When the sun turn to moon The night become her life She was lying on the bed Another sleepless night Where she wished she had someone, Someone that would listen So she drifted to sleep Were only her wish was “let me tell you my story”

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Jan 18, 2014

Jan 18, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC

chimen

let me tell you a story

Let me tell you a story About a girl She had tears in her eyes, But she acceded like she was fine She had this story, and you could feel the pain in her heart When the sun turn to moon The night become her life She was lying on the bed Another sleepless night Where she wished she had someone, Someone that would listen So she drifted to sleep Were only her wish was “let me tell you my story”

14

Fresh home from therapy, and resonate with zeal **** air cerebral cogs a turn'n analogous to rack and pinion wheel hence attempt made to bare soul, sans thru poetry re: veal ling avidity, asper barreling neurological daily kos loaded truck full heading toward figurative lifelong landfill deposits on weekly ****** logical session I unseal manipulating bothersome issues controlled via bot size thumbwheel, which grave undertaking i.e. professional counseling allows, enables, and provides opportunistic gradual process at selfheal ling oft times necessitates reviewing silent Virgina reel comprising the story of earlier life piecemeal akin to a slapdash montage chronicling existential ordeal, now referencing adenoids (removal first mention within poetic endeavor, when young boy) loosely linkedin with nasopharyngeal pseudo oral palate highway tucking each meal across miniature bridgework, ma late mum meekly acceded to doctors orders, said operation sub sequently deemed unnecessary affecting negligible decreasing nasality predicated on split (bifid or bifurcated uvula), viz laryngeal utterances finds me speculating speculating now, whether taking kneel ling pose possibly coo dove wrought divine intercession giving me super powers ideal for fighting off being bullied gloating this instant imagining bringing beastie boys to heel actual reality visit my kid self, a most convenient scapegoat socially withdraw puny size lad internalizing hateful barbs glom ming up significant emotional gearwheel inferiority complex predominating supplemented with cumulative anger, a potent feel ling exacerbating anxiety prone disposition courtesy chromosomal (pop'n mom genes) art of the deal.

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Jul 9, 2018

Jul 9, 2018 at 7:50 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

Mental Illness...Inherent Since Birth

Fresh home from therapy, and resonate with zeal **** air cerebral cogs a turn'n analogous to rack and pinion wheel hence attempt made to bare soul, sans thru poetry re: veal ling avidity, asper barreling neurological daily kos loaded truck full heading toward figurative lifelong landfill deposits on weekly ****** logical session I unseal manipulating bothersome issues controlled via bot size thumbwheel, which grave undertaking i.e. professional counseling allows, enables, and provides opportunistic gradual process at selfheal ling oft times necessitates reviewing silent Virgina reel comprising the story of earlier life piecemeal akin to a slapdash montage chronicling existential ordeal, now referencing adenoids (removal first mention within poetic endeavor, when young boy) loosely linkedin with nasopharyngeal pseudo oral palate highway tucking each meal across miniature bridgework, ma late mum meekly acceded to doctors orders, said operation sub sequently deemed unnecessary affecting negligible decreasing nasality predicated on split (bifid or bifurcated uvula), viz laryngeal utterances finds me speculating speculating now, whether taking kneel ling pose possibly coo dove wrought divine intercession giving me super powers ideal for fighting off being bullied gloating this instant imagining bringing beastie boys to heel actual reality visit my kid self, a most convenient scapegoat socially withdraw puny size lad internalizing hateful barbs glom ming up significant emotional gearwheel inferiority complex predominating supplemented with cumulative anger, a potent feel ling exacerbating anxiety prone disposition courtesy chromosomal (pop'n mom genes) art of the deal.

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