"afeard" poems - Hello Poetry

I often forget how to write. Not because I am happy, and, as they say, happiness writes white. Nor for any lack of sadness, for, as I see, sadness is a bottomless ink well. But for any wild and outrageous feeling, any like spirit who possesses my hand to start -- with awesome, judging faces sliding on the ceiling, icons of the mother and god-child dripping down eternal blue and martyr red, like arms hanging, waking, pinning! "Woman, behold your son!" Behold me, my THC and psilo-sin life, an endlessly whirling maelstrom of emotion! flanked by monstrous, winged choirs of Motown slinging fiery spears, gold rays penetrating! "Oh, oh, God!" The Ecstasy of St. Philip! Visions of horse-hung hosts and celestial orbs, Heaven's dynamo, an **** of screws and cogs! -- are hid. I too watched the best minds of my generation, anesthetized by sanity in a bottle (id est: pills, pills, pills, pills, pills); mesmerized by patterns of flashing lights of digital desperation crying, "affirm me, friend me!" -; drowned in an endless sea under a twilight of information or else cats, cats, cats, cats, cats; and ever afeard of mortal judgment. “Big boys don’t cry” (so poets do in breathy meter). A generation asleep - and though in hopeful dream - We are placid. We work obedient. We speak soft. Because the whole world is medicated now. Because the whole world is fixed. And I wonder if there is a Spirit. I think, if there is, We have drugged her. We have ravished her. We have wasted her. And the whole world is silent now. And the whole world is fixed.

0

Sep 28, 2012

Sep 28, 2012 at 11:51 AM UTC

p-pax

I often forget how to write

I often forget how to write. Not because I am happy, and, as they say, happiness writes white. Nor for any lack of sadness, for, as I see, sadness is a bottomless ink well. But for any wild and outrageous feeling, any like spirit who possesses my hand to start -- with awesome, judging faces sliding on the ceiling, icons of the mother and god-child dripping down eternal blue and martyr red, like arms hanging, waking, pinning! "Woman, behold your son!" Behold me, my THC and psilo-sin life, an endlessly whirling maelstrom of emotion! flanked by monstrous, winged choirs of Motown slinging fiery spears, gold rays penetrating! "Oh, oh, God!" The Ecstasy of St. Philip! Visions of horse-hung hosts and celestial orbs, Heaven's dynamo, an **** of screws and cogs! -- are hid. I too watched the best minds of my generation, anesthetized by sanity in a bottle (id est: pills, pills, pills, pills, pills); mesmerized by patterns of flashing lights of digital desperation crying, "affirm me, friend me!" -; drowned in an endless sea under a twilight of information or else cats, cats, cats, cats, cats; and ever afeard of mortal judgment. “Big boys don’t cry” (so poets do in breathy meter). A generation asleep - and though in hopeful dream - We are placid. We work obedient. We speak soft. Because the whole world is medicated now. Because the whole world is fixed. And I wonder if there is a Spirit. I think, if there is, We have drugged her. We have ravished her. We have wasted her. And the whole world is silent now. And the whole world is fixed.

43

(Song title from The Beatles’ catalogue, by Lennon/McCartney) Miles I have struggled, Trudged down the manacled streets, A lifetime spent in misery, Surrounded in sin and tragedy, The long and winding road I walk, Is diseased with pain and hurt, I bury my heart and evil soul, To save them from death and wicked sights, Scarred by rumours; afeard of the light.

0

Aug 28, 2012

Aug 28, 2012 at 11:09 AM UTC

simon-clark

The Long And Winding Road

(Song title from The Beatles’ catalogue, by Lennon/McCartney) Miles I have struggled, Trudged down the manacled streets, A lifetime spent in misery, Surrounded in sin and tragedy, The long and winding road I walk, Is diseased with pain and hurt, I bury my heart and evil soul, To save them from death and wicked sights, Scarred by rumours; afeard of the light.

10

Far, far away Deep in the woods Filled with thick trees and tall grass Lived a man named ‘Saga’ Short and stout Noisy and loud He lived alone Screaming at the air, talking to the rain Saga lived in a cave Posing to be brave But, afraid of the loneliness How naïve! Living in the wild Far away from his tribe Alone through the woods he steered Saga was afeard He missed his wife His old, happy life And cursed the dusk When he lost his way, following the musk He cursed his daughter, Hilde Deeming her the reason he was lost in wild ‘Why did you have to be so obstinate?’ ‘Spoilt as hell, brat, ****** arrogant” Mumbling under his breath He was lost in his wrath Crossing the same eerie desire trail With misty fog and traces of hail “What a horrifying path to take Death be waiting for all treading this way” Shivering and afeard He walked rapidly till that path disappeared Days passed and nights went by He lay on the grass Watching the drifting sky Change its color from blue to brass The trees rustled and wind blew As the storm brewed Sky thundered, rivers creaked Saga listened to the forest screak. “Hellish! I am lost in these labyrinthine woods With cimmerian paths and Styngian brooks” He started towards his aphotic cave “Someone come for me and save!” The forest grew murkier and dark Deafening sounds of storm, hark! A whip just cracked Echoing the sound of a thousand claps. Saga fastened his pace In terror and haste Mud laved his feet As if mocking Saga’s hysterical retreat. “Oh! Get out of my way you muck” As he fell on his face – Shmck! Thud! flumb! squelch! splosh! deign! He flushed through the water of rain. For hours he struggled against the gush Louder and louder grew brus With each passing minute, the storm soared The forest rumbled and sky roared. Saga brawled and bawled As if trying to silence the stormy howl. Alas! all his attempts failed Unconscious soon, he sailed Where to? He would never know For the forest had already beseeched his breath Saga swam through the wild flow Into the comfortable arms of Death.

0

Jun 9, 2018

Jun 9, 2018 at 6:59 AM UTC

Kaaya_Faye_7

Vadon

Far, far away Deep in the woods Filled with thick trees and tall grass Lived a man named ‘Saga’ Short and stout Noisy and loud He lived alone Screaming at the air, talking to the rain Saga lived in a cave Posing to be brave But, afraid of the loneliness How naïve! Living in the wild Far away from his tribe Alone through the woods he steered Saga was afeard He missed his wife His old, happy life And cursed the dusk When he lost his way, following the musk He cursed his daughter, Hilde Deeming her the reason he was lost in wild ‘Why did you have to be so obstinate?’ ‘Spoilt as hell, brat, ****** arrogant” Mumbling under his breath He was lost in his wrath Crossing the same eerie desire trail With misty fog and traces of hail “What a horrifying path to take Death be waiting for all treading this way” Shivering and afeard He walked rapidly till that path disappeared Days passed and nights went by He lay on the grass Watching the drifting sky Change its color from blue to brass The trees rustled and wind blew As the storm brewed Sky thundered, rivers creaked Saga listened to the forest screak. “Hellish! I am lost in these labyrinthine woods With cimmerian paths and Styngian brooks” He started towards his aphotic cave “Someone come for me and save!” The forest grew murkier and dark Deafening sounds of storm, hark! A whip just cracked Echoing the sound of a thousand claps. Saga fastened his pace In terror and haste Mud laved his feet As if mocking Saga’s hysterical retreat. “Oh! Get out of my way you muck” As he fell on his face – Shmck! Thud! flumb! squelch! splosh! deign! He flushed through the water of rain. For hours he struggled against the gush Louder and louder grew brus With each passing minute, the storm soared The forest rumbled and sky roared. Saga brawled and bawled As if trying to silence the stormy howl. Alas! all his attempts failed Unconscious soon, he sailed Where to? He would never know For the forest had already beseeched his breath Saga swam through the wild flow Into the comfortable arms of Death.

64

Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not. The Tempest III.ii.129-130 Be not Afraid Iambs Are just The way We speak They are Our natch Ural Rhythm Or: Be not afraid; iambs are just the way We speak; they are our natural rhythm 1 Sometimes they must be squashed a bit, and then (Hear “natural” as two syllables, a pair Othertimes “natural” is read as three) – Be a skilled artist in your poetry! 1 “Rhythm” is a trochee, not an iamb But let it stay, that poor, little lost lamb

0

Sep 12, 2018

Sep 12, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC

lawrence-hall

"Sounds, and Sweet Airs..."

Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not. The Tempest III.ii.129-130 Be not Afraid Iambs Are just The way We speak They are Our natch Ural Rhythm Or: Be not afraid; iambs are just the way We speak; they are our natural rhythm 1 Sometimes they must be squashed a bit, and then (Hear “natural” as two syllables, a pair Othertimes “natural” is read as three) – Be a skilled artist in your poetry! 1 “Rhythm” is a trochee, not an iamb But let it stay, that poor, little lost lamb

22

Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not. The Tempest III.ii.129-130 Be not Afraid Iambs Are just The way We speak They are Our natch Ural Rhythm Or: Be not afraid; iambs are just the way We speak; they are our natural rhythm 1 Sometimes they must be squashed a bit, and then (Hear “natural” as two syllables, a pair Othertimes “natural” is read as three) – Be a skilled artist in your poetry! 1 “Rhythm” is a trochee, not an iamb But let it stay, that poor, little lost lamb

0

Feb 7, 2018

Feb 7, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC

lawrence-hall

"Sounds, and Sweet Airs..."

Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not. The Tempest III.ii.129-130 Be not Afraid Iambs Are just The way We speak They are Our natch Ural Rhythm Or: Be not afraid; iambs are just the way We speak; they are our natural rhythm 1 Sometimes they must be squashed a bit, and then (Hear “natural” as two syllables, a pair Othertimes “natural” is read as three) – Be a skilled artist in your poetry! 1 “Rhythm” is a trochee, not an iamb But let it stay, that poor, little lost lamb

22

Painted Atelephobia Inevitable is the oblivion afeard within celadon gardens. In the center a cerise bloom reaches clouds with ruby fingertips. Not I will touch sunsets as she. Click is the cardinal heel of white collars which soar in cerulean skies. Still I stand on russet boots stuck in mud. For the wings on my back have been clipped long before. Aye is the color changing leaf. Not apace is she, yet still grows skillfully radiant. Evergreen bristles with no compare to her auburn tint which gracefully touches winds and sails the seas. A green of dark hue flies not so angelically. Never will I be the shadow in your eyes, nor the dimples on your cheeks. Never will I stand from the crowd and bloom like her. Never will fly nor soar nor swim. Never will I be good enough for you.

0

Mar 3, 2018

Mar 3, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC

dreamer5003

Painted atelephobia

Painted Atelephobia Inevitable is the oblivion afeard within celadon gardens. In the center a cerise bloom reaches clouds with ruby fingertips. Not I will touch sunsets as she. Click is the cardinal heel of white collars which soar in cerulean skies. Still I stand on russet boots stuck in mud. For the wings on my back have been clipped long before. Aye is the color changing leaf. Not apace is she, yet still grows skillfully radiant. Evergreen bristles with no compare to her auburn tint which gracefully touches winds and sails the seas. A green of dark hue flies not so angelically. Never will I be the shadow in your eyes, nor the dimples on your cheeks. Never will I stand from the crowd and bloom like her. Never will fly nor soar nor swim. Never will I be good enough for you.

6