"accustoms" poems - Hello Poetry

Oh how glorious war is! How efficient And adequate! The way it entertains the gods When we shoot fireworks and missiles into the sky It accustoms young women to waiting Awards men for slaughtering men Inspires tyrants to deliver long speeches Adds pages to history books Gives politicians something to bet on Brought tears to Einstein’s eyes Leaves men scarred for life Gives poets new themes Like Bukowski and Cummings It produces less mouths to feed Teaches historians that history is always repeating itself Gives governments something to brag about Pulverises countries until nothing is left Accomplishes equality between killer and killed Keeps the industry of artificial limbs in business Gives grave diggers a pat on the back See how glorious war can be?

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Dec 31, 2016

Dec 31, 2016 at 4:16 AM UTC

planths

The positives of war.

Oh how glorious war is! How efficient And adequate! The way it entertains the gods When we shoot fireworks and missiles into the sky It accustoms young women to waiting Awards men for slaughtering men Inspires tyrants to deliver long speeches Adds pages to history books Gives politicians something to bet on Brought tears to Einstein’s eyes Leaves men scarred for life Gives poets new themes Like Bukowski and Cummings It produces less mouths to feed Teaches historians that history is always repeating itself Gives governments something to brag about Pulverises countries until nothing is left Accomplishes equality between killer and killed Keeps the industry of artificial limbs in business Gives grave diggers a pat on the back See how glorious war can be?

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drunk on the pavement, Jeffrey Campbell Lita's, trashed on ***** bottles, smashed & abandoned, an easy blunt, floating through, social groups, turbulence triggers flashbacks, laughter accustoms a, pendulum of excessive desires, swinging to & fro, battles of wars wage within, cigarette blunts pierce open ******* stings & burns, red yellow ashes spark, black lingerie, a new lover, she's cast away with, ghosts of past, scarred. © Sia Jane

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Mar 16, 2014

Mar 16, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC

sia-jane

trashed glass

drunk on the pavement, Jeffrey Campbell Lita's, trashed on ***** bottles, smashed & abandoned, an easy blunt, floating through, social groups, turbulence triggers flashbacks, laughter accustoms a, pendulum of excessive desires, swinging to & fro, battles of wars wage within, cigarette blunts pierce open ******* stings & burns, red yellow ashes spark, black lingerie, a new lover, she's cast away with, ghosts of past, scarred. © Sia Jane

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I know a land of salt and pepper stalks and moss, whose jagged, hazy coast a thousand flowers bears — of Ireland I boast. Even now my heart is sick for a home I never had. If I were there, what I would do, I'll tell to you.... I'd show my love the mountain's nooks, I'd pounce the foeman's daring rooks, and plunder every dusty book, and sleep in emerald vales. We'd clamber up to a secret cave and there we'd dwell, away from the pell-mell, and fast away in purple robes, pretending we were noble-born (for Ireland, we ought to be), we'd in defiance hunger stave. See now, her cloud legions marching in step like flares emerging from the wood. While horses roam her sunlit plains and flowers shudder in her breeze; while puddles form in shallow pools, my watered mind accustoms trees of bleak and twisted nature, on the wild icicle river, coldly biting my knees. But here afar away, there's treasure under every glistening leaf, 'twixt frond and fern, bristle and bramble, and bounding stream. By daylight, Eire counts every rock; at starlight, assesses her stock. I know a land whose greenery bursts in the morning dew, and gives hopeful cause to a hundred generations of stoic sword-brethren flashing down the coast, singing their jolly tune, as the oak decks are mounted with freedom's guns emboldening battle new. Her amber-gilded name spears through clouded sea and Cambrian cliff: if every isle were touched as this! by saintly light from Atlas' air. She is the jewel of the isles, the song of countless souls. As men march down her summer roads to meet their tender-hearted lovers at home in comfort from callous kings, the breeze will bring news of another christening or crossing... for then each girl will spy him coming, and make haste to alert the town, and they will all turn out with joy to welcome home their darling boy; to herald the ending of famine and war, and so they will shout for centuries more!

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Mar 17, 2019

Mar 17, 2019 at 1:54 PM UTC

Dawnstar

Sweet Ireland

I know a land of salt and pepper stalks and moss, whose jagged, hazy coast a thousand flowers bears — of Ireland I boast. Even now my heart is sick for a home I never had. If I were there, what I would do, I'll tell to you.... I'd show my love the mountain's nooks, I'd pounce the foeman's daring rooks, and plunder every dusty book, and sleep in emerald vales. We'd clamber up to a secret cave and there we'd dwell, away from the pell-mell, and fast away in purple robes, pretending we were noble-born (for Ireland, we ought to be), we'd in defiance hunger stave. See now, her cloud legions marching in step like flares emerging from the wood. While horses roam her sunlit plains and flowers shudder in her breeze; while puddles form in shallow pools, my watered mind accustoms trees of bleak and twisted nature, on the wild icicle river, coldly biting my knees. But here afar away, there's treasure under every glistening leaf, 'twixt frond and fern, bristle and bramble, and bounding stream. By daylight, Eire counts every rock; at starlight, assesses her stock. I know a land whose greenery bursts in the morning dew, and gives hopeful cause to a hundred generations of stoic sword-brethren flashing down the coast, singing their jolly tune, as the oak decks are mounted with freedom's guns emboldening battle new. Her amber-gilded name spears through clouded sea and Cambrian cliff: if every isle were touched as this! by saintly light from Atlas' air. She is the jewel of the isles, the song of countless souls. As men march down her summer roads to meet their tender-hearted lovers at home in comfort from callous kings, the breeze will bring news of another christening or crossing... for then each girl will spy him coming, and make haste to alert the town, and they will all turn out with joy to welcome home their darling boy; to herald the ending of famine and war, and so they will shout for centuries more!

69

Hark! These creatures of catacombs Furrows and the weeping ribbons Forsooth great beasts took a turn here When the mind accustoms itself to violence It bestows it….broken as the temple falling The sword by Israel's cry! Ghosts of the borderline! Ghosts of the borderline! Traumatic as hymens torn By hands unclean by demons born The ***** twas not consenting forlorn Too many nights passing to the dawn Allow when Yosef comes, his predator expression For my milk drop flesh, he claims doth conquer The chains of slavery he forged by Irish blood Born from the veil of wedlock Out of sullen sin, between husband and mistress He took to which he hath none Purple hues adorn the shoulder Bare before the creases of blood These years could not tamper the memories So in night shade, among the ghouls There is a hovering silver sheen Groped by the tiny digits I shall be its sheaf Psychosis the cascade of reality The distortion of time and space An all hallows eve, the sabbath of subconscious monsters The manic and depressive are the swinging of the pendulum And the ****** of thy hand is the dawn of God I fall, the intoxicating pearls down my throat Reek in my blood, Jewish blood, Welsh blood, tainted blood The dizzy fortitude to collapse Will alter the reality and silence the darkness Of faces disfigured, in death they have no stance Thus my torment hath come to end I give way, the sweep of the fall Fall onto my sword… Away from the worlds of disturb content Away from the sacred flesh scarred and mangled Away from the deep cavern of endless thought To God and to my ancestors, who saw with no eyes fit to see But see nethertheless my frail state of a tipping scale I fall onto my sword, distressed as Saul

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Dec 4, 2016

Dec 4, 2016 at 3:45 PM UTC

hayley-siebert

Distressed as Saul

Hark! These creatures of catacombs Furrows and the weeping ribbons Forsooth great beasts took a turn here When the mind accustoms itself to violence It bestows it….broken as the temple falling The sword by Israel's cry! Ghosts of the borderline! Ghosts of the borderline! Traumatic as hymens torn By hands unclean by demons born The ***** twas not consenting forlorn Too many nights passing to the dawn Allow when Yosef comes, his predator expression For my milk drop flesh, he claims doth conquer The chains of slavery he forged by Irish blood Born from the veil of wedlock Out of sullen sin, between husband and mistress He took to which he hath none Purple hues adorn the shoulder Bare before the creases of blood These years could not tamper the memories So in night shade, among the ghouls There is a hovering silver sheen Groped by the tiny digits I shall be its sheaf Psychosis the cascade of reality The distortion of time and space An all hallows eve, the sabbath of subconscious monsters The manic and depressive are the swinging of the pendulum And the ****** of thy hand is the dawn of God I fall, the intoxicating pearls down my throat Reek in my blood, Jewish blood, Welsh blood, tainted blood The dizzy fortitude to collapse Will alter the reality and silence the darkness Of faces disfigured, in death they have no stance Thus my torment hath come to end I give way, the sweep of the fall Fall onto my sword… Away from the worlds of disturb content Away from the sacred flesh scarred and mangled Away from the deep cavern of endless thought To God and to my ancestors, who saw with no eyes fit to see But see nethertheless my frail state of a tipping scale I fall onto my sword, distressed as Saul

44

I am a babe suckling milk from the breast It is bland It is benign With each new experience it becomes less so it grows a taste It is bitter It is sweet I grow my teeth and begin to eat the meat of it It is so rich that I ***** it back up There is none left I eat the ***** until my body accustoms itself I grow strong on it It twists in my gut: a white Worm with its tail in its jaws My teeth and fingernails are yellow with it My eyes and lips are crusty with it too I grow my mind and begin to see the heart of it It is vibrant It is alive I fear to eat it I sit at the table set it with ****** cloth and cannibalize myself I realize I am eternal go to bed weeping and share me with myself: My **** is potency My **** is caprice I love myself We lie close and examine the heart of it It is grey It is dead I eat it without fear

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Jul 14, 2015

Jul 14, 2015 at 8:56 PM UTC

Vlarken

The Heart of It

I am a babe suckling milk from the breast It is bland It is benign With each new experience it becomes less so it grows a taste It is bitter It is sweet I grow my teeth and begin to eat the meat of it It is so rich that I ***** it back up There is none left I eat the ***** until my body accustoms itself I grow strong on it It twists in my gut: a white Worm with its tail in its jaws My teeth and fingernails are yellow with it My eyes and lips are crusty with it too I grow my mind and begin to see the heart of it It is vibrant It is alive I fear to eat it I sit at the table set it with ****** cloth and cannibalize myself I realize I am eternal go to bed weeping and share me with myself: My **** is potency My **** is caprice I love myself We lie close and examine the heart of it It is grey It is dead I eat it without fear

46

By Arcassin Burnham The whole appearance of it all, Brushing off dead butterflies and walking Through crosswalks like the band members from The Beatles and reminiscing about the times you Both have shared and became equals, And still, The possible note is to only bespoke of the dreams and the hopes that follow to put out the fires you Caused, to fly and live again, you can't protect the sin, Waiting for the right times to pin something Special, Love we could get away in paradise but more like luxury In all these accustoms to a brand new life in the Spirit plane, Be my Mary Jane, Can you clear with me, Make dreams with me, Stay the angel that I know and love to comfort me in Every situation please.

0

Jun 11, 2016

Jun 11, 2016 at 10:31 AM UTC

arcassin-burnham

Such Beautiful Company

By Arcassin Burnham The whole appearance of it all, Brushing off dead butterflies and walking Through crosswalks like the band members from The Beatles and reminiscing about the times you Both have shared and became equals, And still, The possible note is to only bespoke of the dreams and the hopes that follow to put out the fires you Caused, to fly and live again, you can't protect the sin, Waiting for the right times to pin something Special, Love we could get away in paradise but more like luxury In all these accustoms to a brand new life in the Spirit plane, Be my Mary Jane, Can you clear with me, Make dreams with me, Stay the angel that I know and love to comfort me in Every situation please.

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