"admonish" poems
Heaven is surely here,
hidden within the
heart of man as love.
This is heaven
that I feel within.
Pure bliss
it is definitely.
My whole being
resonates to it.
I am grateful
for this moment
in time.
Filled with
unimaginable love,
A love that sheds
a joyous tears.
Sacred and pure,
it is here to
keep and hallow me.
A love that
forgives and forgets,
a love that
remember nothing
but just to please
and love deeply.
A love that
counts no errors,
but enfolds and
comforts you.
No guilt or deceit
can ever penetrate it.
Though sometimes painful,
it heals without a scar.
Weighed on a scale of
divine purity,
it binds the heart
with joyful tenderness
and sets it free.
This love
doesn't criticize,
it admonish
with compassion,
not confusion.
That life you
wanted so much,
is in your heart,
it will sprout to bring
glory to your soul.
Never minding what
you see or feel.
If it finds you worthy
will rest and abide
in you forever.
Cherish this
moment always
for you may never
have it back ever.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 12:20 PM UTC
With graceful strategy the circling hawk
Whips my circling sorrow to dive and strike;
Indiscrete for action the poison oak
Thrusts up her flushed face for attack
Lizards and herbs and flowers admonish me,
Strict in their innocence: I am cowardly,
Nor will the mourning-dove condone my fault
Who ******* all hazard for a humble scrap
And when she coos courts punishment. My guilt
Is obvious, and I cannot escape.
8.3k
may the way that gives way to this accord of may be in awe of truth and not the fruits of disarray
I shall be meditating upon the roads travelled and many discoveries gather that I have unravelled
I shall curl my high excitements and misguided ambitions to unfurl what the calls of the wise unfurl and admonish
In the mist amidst the tricking twists of fits and false gists, may I hold up fists that will seize to desist and delete the disease of fallacy in curtailed wit
In the shadows dark, some pale
may I not fade into the tales of lies and manipulative games
In the guise of dames so modern and fabulously inclined to fame,
may I guage and carry my animosity into the mystery of my identity where only the genuine and real can relate
In the encounters with material and all that deters from the mystic and ethereal,
I hope to remember the real surreal to surmise the reels of fantasy thrills in graphic frills and euphonic trills
However the gigantic systems of the world in money, greed, vanity or lust, may doctor sickness into the souls of the lost and weak:
may my heart remain meek and my vision bright and led by the lens of the soul....
With or without I pray not as a religious pilgrim but a sage seeking neverending Light... ever the more grateful, harnessing the grapes of creation, worshiping a servant's code in humility.
hustling about this rash hassle of life overshadowed by pyramids and castles
remaining true to the cause even when temptation is endlessly bustling about
remember remember the hustle when you were down and out without
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 1:48 AM UTC
942
Snow beneath whose chilly softness
Some that never lay
Make their first Repose this Winter
I admonish Thee
Blanket Wealthier the Neighbor
We so new bestow
Than thine acclimated Creature
Wilt Thou, Austere Snow?
4.1k
(it's cliché to admonish clichés in their entirety)
I. (love)
We are meant to live the clichés;
we are meant to resuscitate the words,
and rehabilitate their wounds
into a fertile viewpoint
where we build respirators from clichés
to filter the virulent dust kicked up
by the marching pigs.
(re-invented clichés offer back breath
in an exchange of circular breathing)
The swine contort love
into armaments of antipathy;
they push buttons,
squeeze triggers,
pull pins,
and aim where it causes the most damage.
Even though we are natural born hypocrites,
we don't have to let that knowledge corner us
into using love as a weapon.
The pen is mightier than the sword,
and I wield both;
I sharpen the quill on the blade's edge.
If need be, use the pen for a counter-strike,
but only channel love in defence.
II. (poetry)
The pigs march to a beat
of nuclear blasts
that bring poetry's flag
nearer to half-mast.
Poetry should stand on its own merit,
instead of leaning on shanks that hide behind smiles
constructed with aspirations of popularity
that churn out lazy, aspartame-laced lines
devoid of accountability and integrity,
or lean upon smiles filled with slivers
from far too much fence-sitting,
too worried about the trending majority,
to see the complexity within simplicity
and clarity,
or
propped-up against degrees
while writing poems that are drier than the Sahara:
husks of lines tumbling across dunes,
only to be imploded
by atomic-pork mushroom clouds,
their fallout marring parchment
into a poisonous terrain.
.
III. (dreams)
(revive, twist, and switch the clichés )
We must not fear saying "never".
Surrender to love, but never surrender
to the jealous captains who attempt
to hook and net the defenders of Neverland.
With compasses of conscience
beating in hearts kept young,
navigate through the smoke and mirror-smog
emitted by the marching pigs.
(we must never give up on our dreams)
Dream about the courage needed
to love everyone and everything,
including our enemies
who conduct genocide
on the language of a purer intent.
Dream about word-seedlings
pushing through the arid rind
of dying poetry,
in hope for a more organic fruition
to grow in our hearts and minds,
so that poetry gains back its strength and vitality
to once again stand on its own merit.
+/-
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
Where buses still elapse with Time
Down straight Dame Street
The Trees are satellites that allow Children to look up
and let the pavement breath.
Earthen Columns that gate the Boombox Clubhouse tint
Flanked by the Yeoman Guards of Hollister
but forget to pay the same compliment
outside of American Apparel
Where Teenagers dream out fantasies
of lamp-lit, flash-shot
worship-worthy objectification
in a converted loft in the real New York
Their headphones spring streams of bright optimism
as they cradle knitted knee-high socks.
Take the curve round Trinity College
and laugh past the rumours
that it may soon float on Dow Jones
and dodge past the charity advertisers
Strutting over campbags of sleeping homeless
to Lemon Cafe for an overpriced Mocha
Which regardless deflates the sheen-covered hollowness
of green-comfy Starbucks
and learn the subtleties of speaking lightly
to dark-jaceketed Blonde girls
Whose eyes seem to sparkle "Yes, we have sipped
on Veuve Clicquot at reserved tables on Graduation nights
at Cafe En Seine"
-"Where Oscar Wilde might have drank"
- "..Had he been alive."
Then speculate on the best Festivals and whose
Films and Books are over-hyped and under-appreciated
and the after-College Gossip on who broke-up or stayed together
or who hooked up even though they shouldn't have
or regretted it
and who's doing a paid internship and who's moving abroad
and afterwards charmingly tease their superficial attitudes
as meanwhile they secretly take photos
to upload on Instagram
and later you'll fake-admonish them
for how they did this behind your back
while you were staring into the lake
in St. Stephen's Green.
When the moon no longer glazed the water
and had receded its contrast to the farthest grass
and you decide to take the last bus home.
Throughout
Caution Glints The Vowels
and Brands them too.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 10:11 AM UTC
Have you found a Saviour;
One to emulate,
Then denegrate,
Whip and crown and tree?
Then turn, and say,
It wasn't me.
Would I have seen the god-like qualities,
Listen to the sermons,
Eat the fish and bread,
Drink the watery wine?
Would he raise me from the dead?
Could my feet fit the prints
On the sands of Galilee.
Would he admonish me
For having two coats,
Finishing my smoke
With one straw in my coke?
I have found my Saviour.
His name is Xavier.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
We live in the unlighted state of America
Where what happens when we turn the lights off
Is dealt with darkness
And matters of delicate touch
Are treated with sharpness
When our only language
Is to inflict anguish
We cut connections in the bedroom
To clear our cynical head room
For contempt and judgement
People looking for a feeling to fall into
Or a reason to live
Must face frigid climates
When the public invades privacy
And ill fated ****** exploits
Pervade salacious tabloids
Our ****** regrets
Cut the deepest
Society reaps them
Sowing us together with resentment
We provide each other with relief
But not the relief we're looking for
We give each other hours of relief
Until those useless hours become days
And those fruitless days become years
That engender endless tears
As it remains warm in our car
But the winter outside freezes anything that breaks the plane
And our air conditioning only helps so much
When the spinning wheels are in our faces
There is a national coverage in the media
That presents a bleak picture of the ****** health of America
I feel I sit somewhere in between
*** offenders and a disgusted public
When I observe the observers
Who are too scared shitless to ever face their own emotions
Judge those for overindulging in their emotions
They lived their life in fear and safety
So they could be the righteous ones
To admonish the risk takers and mistake makers
Yet they are of the least value to humanity
They're the people who grade all your answers as incorrect
Without providing their perfect alternatives
While trying to erase the context
Because of what the context has to say about society
People feeling that they can never be emotionally vulnerable
Until they experience sheer desperation
And no dollar contract
Can replace human contact
Yet we give men so much money and power
And ask them to feel fine in our cold shower
Until we are soiled by their intention
A nation committed to selling Stella Artois
A nation full of Blanche DuBois
Humanity folds in on itself
When we attack with ***
Humanity does itself a disservice
By not trying to understand these attacks honestly
We forsake forgiveness
And embrace desperation
Until we become unbearably desperate
For attention
For approval
For ****** contact
For money
For validation
And sometimes our desperate desires become tangled
I'd like to think of that as love
And not a meeting between two practical rapists
That conjoin in the middle
Yet somehow come out distorted on the other side
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 4:55 AM UTC
The willingness to speak objective truths!
Born out of the prejudice in experience.
He is no god, but a man who speaks to you.
The people, who are proud to be Americans.
He is our ruler, in Trump we trust.
The abused, the lied to and put in harms way.
The dead homosexuals and Christians.
The ministry of truth, the CNN.
The white lynching at the protests.
And the weak Clintonites are abandoning ship!
Had she won, we would stay and endure.
They run, we stayed under Obama.
The dead are finally leaving.
Lets see if Trudeau can treat them better.
He is hard spoken, harsh and a man of the people.
Build the wall! More like fix the wall.
Deport the illegals, they are not Americans.
Stop the muslims who are killing my people.
This is not out of hate, but love. My love for truth and happiness.
Maybe now we can have a country that values both.
Not a lying ***** who silences **** victims.
Oh, give me strength!
Strength! To save our childrens schools!
Strength! To save our children from hate!
Love! to bring love, not resentment for humanity!
O, give me truth. The truth that humanity is not horrible.
That my whiteness is not a feature to describe me.
That my heterosexuality is not a privilege.
That I find my own life, not the lives of the pacific.
Give us, to trust our country to a man who has raised successful children.
Let him be our role model, not that which seeks to lecture me on sexism.
God political poems are trash. Just like your hatred. Let it go, only admonish the actions.
It's current year.
**** Obama for campaigning for his replacement.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 4:12 AM UTC
Oh happy shades--to me unblest!
Friendly to peace, but not to me!
How ill the scene that offers rest,
And heart that cannot rest, agree!
This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Those alders quiv'ring to the breeze,
Might sooth a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.
But fix'd unalterable care
Foregoes not what she feels within,
Shows the same sadness ev'rywhere,
And slights the season and the scene.
For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn,
While peace possess'd these silent bow'rs,
Her animating smile withdrawn,
Has lost its beauties and its pow'rs.
The saint or moralist should tread
This moss-grown alley, musing, slow;
They seek, like me, the secret shade,
But not, like me, to nourish woe!
Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste
Alike admonish not to roam;
These tell me of enjoyments past,
And those of sorrows yet to come.
1.6k
We are living during the age of Old Children whose toys are cigarettes،
Don't admonish them,
They will shut your mouth with another toy,called broken heart.
💔💔💔 💔💔💔
Feb 11, 2021
Feb 11, 2021 at 12:47 PM UTC
The power went out in my house for the first time tonight.
It took only but a moment for everything to run loose from my hold and to leave me empty handed and
sightless.
It was as sudden and unpleasantly startling as the moment I realized I’d
fallen in love with you
and now these vaulted ceilings and smart, leather couches have fallen
victim
to the same darkness that shrouds my breaking heart.
I think you’re really selfish.
But so am I,
and as I hide in the blackness with the amber haze of
candlelight
casting those flickering shadows of
twisted, dancing demons on the walls I am hearing their exaggerated whispers hastening me to resent you for it.
They intoxicate my head about how you’re probably being
more selfish than me.
For god sakes you sent me a short story
laden and sodden and dripping
with all of these beautiful similes and thoughts and they were
horrible.
Not only were they not written for me, but for some
replacement muse
who has beautiful green eyes (are not mine, any longer?) and a beautiful smile (have I stopped grinning at you? I wonder now how it is I lost your love.)
that conquered your heart and blasted past my deafening, mundane
inadequacy.
You say you love me
You say you wish you’d say it more
You say you love me so much.
But the demons scoff at you—they’re telling me you’re lying.
O the lies! Liar! Clever devil, that one! Don’t believe those sweet things! they admonish with a brutality that entices me to scream out loud at you,
to shout and yell and kick and scream out loud because
how dare you do this to me?
Why love me at all
When your muse beckons with her beautiful, superior, faultlessness and tempts and tantalizes and
replaces me?
You say you love me so much.
And I, you, Darling.
But it’s too dark in my house and it’s too dark in my head and it’s too dark in my heart
And you have a new muse.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 12:20 AM UTC
Once upon a time, on a site far far away, I would post and not a soul would comment, let alone read...
Minor poet,
I am not even, but odd.
A truth that slaps me unto tears.
I seek your admiration,
admonish your failure to
admonish me, fail me
unto tears.
Your academic hyper-pretensions
gods of overlording silence,
sentence condemnations of the
meagerness of mine deaf,
weary-worn entreaties.
Your ignorance and the
vanity of my weaknesses,
pencil point punctuate my brain,
holes filling up with the
approbation of silence.
Tender unto me
the Onomatopoeia of a concerto of boos,
barrels of bitter alliteratives
regretful rainwater,
send me curses of future inspiration.
immoderate me re my mediocrity!
Try try again, to charm thine eyes,
populate your face with grimaced tears,
penetrate our mutuality
with uncommon verse,
pricking the winter frosted windows
of a enmity and a common enemy.
Another day of self-persauding,
un-succeeding to accept that
successive minor failures,
are undeniably,
a success of sorts,
in a minor way.
A play on words,
as y'all play me.
Mr. Adminstrator, answer me!
Are we not all prisoners of Poetry?
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
watching the pain dry
*you did not mistake -
no word play, not the product
of typo or errant
clenched eyes
labored writ,
the liver is failing,
the interval organs
a joint co-production
contribution,
the words demonized,
but truth cannot be
plausibly denied
all cast members
are rehearsing
preparing the last act,
interrupting with
exceptional,
expectorating refusals,
objections,*
too
*this n'that
*all their "too's"
are double O'd,
double ****** negatives
an overflow
bloodletting,
excessive overwriting
the playwright words,
maudlin can't be spoke in the present
of his
presence
revolutionary overridden by the
actors,
the words too hard,
to speak sob as long as I am
almost stilled but still
in the room
-*wrenching a bemused grin
guiding them & pain to a higher purpose,
admonish them with pleasured pleases
needs saying
as it writ and
carrying the denouement
to a rightful conclusion
as*
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
I tell my mother that I love her through
The same gritted teeth that I whispered
"I hope you leave" through.
(It sounds quite the same).
I feel like the pieces of my skin are
Ripping off, one by one, and I swear
I cannot wait seven years for
My body to forget that you once touched it.
I wish there was a faster way to
Sever your physical memory that is sketched
Bone-deep, but seven years is the
Price I pay for letting you too far in.
You could excordinate from my
Goose-bumped chest and hold it, beating,
In your shaking hands and I know you'd
Swear on your great-grandfather's grave that
You loved every inch of me.
But you only loved the chest you destroyed
And a heart can only be an anchor
To those who lost themselves between
A false-lover's sheets.
The one who watched me tremble as
Words spilt from my mouth is the
One who made me choke them back down.
I picked up my death wish and I
Placed it in my pocket, hoping to God
You'd someday forget the look in my eyes
When I told you I'd never make it
Through the past year. But you were
The one who begged me to try and
You were the one who begged me to die.
I swear to God I remember you saying
That I kept you up at night, but now
I'd be lucky if I could fall asleep.
I wonder now what has kept me here;
So desperately victim to the sound of your voice.
I hope to pack bags full of anything but your
Memory, but everything just seems to admonish
And I can't forget the way your hair
Reminds me of the hot sand that
Listened more intently to every displeasure
You ever caused. I must leave that place behind,
And yet it calls me towards it everytime
I want to scream. I still imagine the
Look on your face, I still imagine the way
Your voice quivered as you said
"Please, just don't hurt yourself.
Please, just promise me."
And I remember the way you begged
Me to go against my every promise. So
Now I am packing bags;
I will not be the fool that chose to stay here.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
Are you
the lonely wailing on the radio
or a smile for the screen
The strings do they pull
upward
or down
poor corners of your mouth
sore fleshy cheeks
leave the bone below for your own mind
Cream teeth molded to what the you believed
they want of you
Woman or man or he or she or him or they their
We admonish expectation.
Sep 2, 2019
Sep 2, 2019 at 4:38 PM UTC
Bedlam is our repletion, bellicose our rest,
For ever state which we call peace is war of constant test.
This war must share no allies - each warrior a martyr,
And it would stand that every soldier someone calls their daughter.
The instigator Terra, the perpetrator Yahweh,
Instant and perpetual - a bellum night and day.
The resource universal, from sea to ****** sea.
This war is fought o'er any man who might a bachelor be.
Civility and stupor the only neutral face they wear,
But underneath the plaster smile iniquity lies bare.
How cruelly do they cozen, how capricious they connive,
A thousand times more vicious than any man that seeks to wive.
And how they suffer sedulous, their bodies they contort
Into the most pernicious forms, a weapon of a sort:
They don the war paint, pluck the hair, admonish slightest error,
And take to wield those eyes of steel, and bless the world with terror.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
fancy trender
the algorithms adore me
bits and bites love me
girlfriends gush over
what i write
the promises and perjury i pour out
though other few find it fascinating
a collection of casual carousers
deeply drunk and delirious
leer and like
fumble through and follow
these wild words
which
long for your love
and admonish apathy
say something
anything at least
jovially jeer
praise pompously
i rest
with my hands on the home keys
derive inspiration
from insignificant minutia
and you read
and read
taking a break from your home row
hum drum
flaccid
"oh thats nice"
NEXT
dont read and not write
i give not two
i should say ***
but i wont
i dont care
how inarticulately evil
you chose to be
but you must write
say something
start a conversation
engage your fellow artist
what else are we doing here
if not to inspire
it was never an endeavor
to impress our friends
was it
we found this place
for any kind of outlet
a chance to give breath
to the lightening in our bottles
this is our march
on the collective consciousness
that could be called washington
london
but when we march
we hold hands
chant
sing
speak with one another
and form bonds
and that should be done here too
without those acts
we are protestant pastors
banging on pulpits
toward a parish
that no longer exists
or if they do
never say "amen"
amen
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
Looking out
Around
There is a generation
Not the one with angelheaded hipsters
That were laid infamously famous
But truly a generation that is its own
Cold, calculating, as they, we, must
Be now that there is everything
There is everything here but right now
As we are surrounded by the everything that
Makes up our filled lives, we concentrate on
The nothing.
So we, they, them, I all must be cold, calculating
Networking, meeting, greeting, cheering,
Pleading for work in the everything that is
Nothing.
And as I look out, through the window
Into our generation, my generation
There is a warmness
A kindness once
unfamiliar to coldness and calculating
Where despite distance, time, values, reasons
Nothing
everything
Bonds are made
Is it this cold networking, greeting, meeting that
Allows for the kindness that kindles the fire
That keeps our cheeks warm and glowing
A soft pink in the dead of night
As we stand by kegs, cups, tables, cops, cars, bars,
By girls vomiting on their own volition or not
By boys raising hell as their families admonish but
Their cultures praise
We, Them, I, They, Us, can not know
What we, them, I, They Us are doing
Just as others didn’t know what they
Were doing, and meaning and becoming maryters for
On a clear fall day, when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky
Yet turbulence filled the air, the nation and the world.
They, We, I, Us, Them, do not even
Consider their meaning as they ponder
Fake lives on interposed mediums
Or if they are Jackies,
Or Marilyns or
Audreys
Or if laying down somewhere
just as warm as it is cold
As they touch souls with others
Means anything more than nothing
If they can hold on as they try to let go
When an entire world begs them not to
But the teenage desire to rebel is strong
And the pull of the vast of emotions is stronger
And as we seem to be losing
In clusters
The We.
I.
Us.
They. Them
The fire never dims, and the warm pink glow never flickers
Off our cheeks
And the mix of cold calculations and
Pleasant beatitudes
Combine, like a nights plans
In a gin bucket
And the thought of importance, rarely is thought
Of aside from the few
The brave
Maybe a Marine, but mostly
Those who wish to cure things, change other things
Create things, build things, code things
Things Things Things Things.
T-H-I-N-G-S
For a future of nothing and everything
Everything and nothing
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 9:35 PM UTC
Help me lord to love
Just as you loved me
Help me lord to pray
For others earnestly
Help me lord to encourage
Each one in his task
Help me lord to admonish
The faults that each one has
Help me lord to greet
Each one with a kiss
Help me lord to serve
For even you did this
Help me lord to teach
So that others may learn
Help me lord to accept
That I may show no scorn
Help me lord to honor
Those for whom you died
Help me to bear another's burdens
As I walk with him side by side
Help me lord to forgive
Just as you forgave
Help me lord to submit
To love be a slave
Help me lord to be devoted
To each may I show concern
Help me lord to love
Help me lord to learn
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
My response for your care in my
reputation is
Thank you, but No Thank you.
Your way has seemed to calm the
rest of the people in the room to silence in
appall.
The criticism is too much.
My brain cannot think of anymore ways to change
on your behalf.
I understand my crazy qualities
are too intense for the age we hold according to you.
We are fourteen.
This is the age we both hold in our lives.
It is up to me to have fun while I can.
You are wasting precious time by growing up too
fast.
Seems that all you can tell me is what I did
wrong.
I see you are watching me
as if you have custody over me.
I am no child.
You are no more mature.
My heart breaks every time I see you.
I know our elders find it right but we know it is
wrong for us to be close.
I know this
by the blood flowing from my broken heart
as I walk the street from your house to mine.
There is a trail of blood that you will find
on your own since I am not permitted to say
I am hurt that you
admonished me.
You are no friend.
Control your jealousy.
I have not become the bad one
by abandoning you.
I find moving on a more effective way to admonish.
Be gone, be aware,
be no friend of mine.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
After years of marriage,
We are now gnarled ,symbolic old trees,
It's fruits ripened and matured,
In fine tune with each other.
While I nap he watches his sports channel,
Then he dozes and I watch my favourite programmes.
We share the same bowl of soup,
I don't mind if he slurps,
He does not mind if I spill some.
We have fun in the kitchen,
He helps me to cut the veggies and do the dishes,
If I admonish him for not doing them properly,
He gives me a toothless smile.
People would think we are fighting,
But its natural for us to speak loudly,
We are hard at hearing.
He loves cake,
He is my best cake mixer,
They come out soft and fluffy.
He drives,
I am his guide,
Stop, go slow, turn right ,so on.
Sometimes my friends and I meet to have coffee,
He goes out to meet his cronies in the park.
He enjoys to tease me or put me down,
I just shrug him off,
"Away with you old man"
I tend to nag a bit,
He does not mind.
At end of the day after a toothless kiss,
He holds my hands tightly,
Looks at me lovingly and says,
"We have made it so far love."
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 10:22 AM UTC
Oh happy shades--to me unblest!
Friendly to peace, but not to me!
How ill the scene that offers rest,
And heart that cannot rest, agree!
This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Those alders quiv'ring to the breeze,
Might sooth a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.
But fix'd unalterable care
Foregoes not what she feels within,
Shows the same sadness ev'rywhere,
And slights the season and the scene.
For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn,
While peace possess'd these silent bow'rs,
Her animating smile withdrawn,
Has lost its beauties and its pow'rs.
The saint or moralist should tread
This moss-grown alley, musing, slow;
They seek, like me, the secret shade,
But not, like me, to nourish woe!
Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste
Alike admonish not to roam;
These tell me of enjoyments past,
And those of sorrows yet to come.
952
I wonder if they were ever in love.
I've seen one picture of them, together
Before me.
It's their wedding.
Yes, they look happy.
Did they know what they were getting into?
I bet she did.
I wouldn't be surprised if she had planned it all.
I don't blame her, judge her, admonish her.
She needed a way out; away from meaner men
A home for her children.
I think most of it was for them.
But he didn't know.
I'm sure he didn't know.
He wanted to be in love, I think.
He still wants to be.
I hope she didn't trick him.
I hope she did it honestly.
I hope they were in love, once.
I hope they thought this was forever.
I want to believe that they believed
Because there's nothing shameful about that.
I just don't know if I can.
Eight years ago my grandparents had their 50th anniversary.
All curled hair and black velvet
I danced on my uncle's toes.
He's been married more times than I know.
I know they were happy, sometimes.
I'm sure of it.
But I don't know if they were ever as they wanted.
I don't know if they were ever in it for real.
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 1:17 PM UTC