"afore" poems
"When a person is born it's a blessed time,
Albeit a person is in love it's a splendid era,
When that person perishes it is a bereaved era,
Albeit Love of two people expires it's a cataclysm,
Vestige as we used to sit there on the littoral,
As the dusk of the winds would blow the sand,
The sand pursues into your long black hair,
Visage your dark green eyes and a beauty of a smile,
All times I have enjoyed greatly also suffered greatly,
Times you loved me and alone on the shore,
It is an perpetual power that as my utopia,
Is me ichorous of our love moments together,
Afore us lies the port and a skimming ocean liner,
As we slowly see an alluvion gloom in the darkness,
Legions of souls drudged here in day and night,
Above gusting drifts the rainy constellation of stars,
As we gambol in our fervor of cognizance of love in our
Utopia Ichorous"
By Andrew Guzaldo 08/03/2018 © Posted HP/
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 10:10 PM UTC
A man is only half of what he is; always leaning towards the dim
Lacking a flouted need which whorls in the mute within him
A man bigots an ideal and will lark it away at the hold of his routed pith
A smile is not worthwhile if the smile does not have anything to receive or to give
A man is skyless; bound to his back with his dreams fixed on a rapture
He gorges upon tasteless feasts gasping for that sup he hungers to recapture
He does not know nor recall the times that did once befall
Of the lossless suffers and how they ever meant anything at all
He will become the most that he can ever endeavour
Be the creature he needs to be and whichever
Way it may engross him and how it moulds or claims him
It will be still him but leaning not so far in the dim
He would be a whole man who would give himself wholly
Who would be more and only more to her and her solely
His full heart would be tendered for it would not be his own
If it was still partial of the heart that had since budded and grown
A man would be raised and the sky would be without border
A bliss amid clouds where the undiscerning muddle finds order
There would be a sense to the road an approach to the wander
A reason for all a kiss a need to ponder no longer
There would be such rise in his depth and a contest behind bit teeth
To fight for the purposed kiss to hold her and keep her from grief
To offer her all embrace not too tense and not too slack
For her to breathe is to breathe; now half new he would never give it back
To be back upon his back with eyes busy to the sky
His bones broken as her feet glide indifferently by
Over his stare among cloud where she impelled his descent
He’d lay fallen and broken beaten and bent
If Half a man became whole does a whole man not become naught?
If he fights for a dearest never afore dreamt dream then what is left to be fought?
Was it his minds misgivings that would lead to such a trite giving reliving to doubt?
That surfaced more than he knew; the intended whisper instead a floundering shout?
Would it have been his heart that threw him from his felicity?
Could his relish overwhelm and mutate into potent toxicity?
Could it be fact that without thought nor without tact he impelled her?
Either overthought or over loved he would have fallen the hardest and he would not rise
No he would not rise anymore
If there ever was such a man and ever such a she
He would have her for as long as that may be
Her greatest gift is after saying all this to you
Is that after knowing all that you could you would feel the same way too.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 3:21 PM UTC
Ahoy Captain Courageous!
Cleave not thy ship from soul
Past heaving swell through
Stormy sleet this spellbinding
Siren to seek.
Away thee, Ahab! More than
Whale, this mistress heaps
Thy spirit to take thee
Deep ‘neath sandy shoal.
She sings... clings... captures.
Pour over rocks
Impudent-ass officer
Soon torn and tattered.
You know better than
Fools before thee!
Yea!
Your liquor lapses
Dead man dreaming!
Admirals and angels
Have fallen
Afore thee… oh wise one,
Ha!
Like notches on a barrel
Your soul… she’ll tow on her tale.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 9:21 PM UTC
Pyres of cityscapes burn contingently in the distance
ever drunk with blood of a mother, a nurturer who asks
nothing of the morose, self-consumed existence
she cares for. Her brow cocked,
wrinkles descend like
rain that tears down
a window.
Pain.
You're bleeding out! But she'll never put herself
forefront. How could she? Sitting, reflecting.
Tormented by incompetence, her soft
voice silently flutters the leaves.
Drearily an extension of her lips, the words
escape the cusps like a cautious prairie-dog.
Smog obscures
the senses, a haze
darkening the pupils of your celestial eyes.
I still see You
drooping in the rocker under a hard light. Retaining know-
ledge of past and present, through spectacles.
Her deflating **** secreting
concrete into the sucklings, cementing fate,
as the clock that hangs above her falters. I shutter to think of the
future that's afore. When the one who's raised me is not.
No more.
Your timber limbs look awfully thin. Restless and alone,
she's tired. "Abandoned"
we're all alone,
but your company means more to me than a sustainable
stone.
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:31 AM UTC
Going Off To War (a/k/a Washing The Dishes)
When its time to wash the dishes,
I make proper preparations for this serious business,
I strip down to my skivvies (shorts, in a prior generation)
Cause there will plenty blood and gore afore too long
Soap and water flying about, the ceilings and the walls,
Not to mention big, big puddles on the floor.
Multi-colored sponges of sizes varied,
Some Brillo-sided, like extra armor on a tank,
By Dawn's early light, turn the clear water
Into a heaving, breathing soapy concoction.
Woebegone and woe betide, dried and sticky maple syrup,
You are no match for super-strength orange dishwashing solution,
Of the Greeks did praise, a single dollop packs a mighty wallop!
Ain't afraid of any stain, decomposing, half chewed, culinary rejection.
Don't even bother with rubber gloves, cause that's for sissies.
The dirtier the better, cause I love the sounds of
All out war, the rushing water, the futile screams of
Grease departing this world, down the rabbit hole,
My gleaming, victorious sinking of the enemy shipping
You think I am the first to celebrate in verse
This storied fight of right over dirt?
Recall please this famed couplet, for now be known its true inspiration!
"Oh, say can you see by the Dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?"
Though Men Like to Load the Dishwasher (You Didn't Know?)
Is another poem of a similar ilk, when technology is unavailable,
It is fact verifiable and unassailable,
That if you give a man some room and some privacy,
Ignore the shouts and war cries from the kitchen emanating,
Male aggression can best be expiated,
When playing war games in the kitchen, a live action movie,
A video game that never grows tiresome,
And violence is necessary, for the enemy's complete annihilation.
Thank you my dear, no medal need be awarded,
Scored this poem as my just reward.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
i.
The atlantian theorists, of the Masonic order,
Wanted a new world, ****** indigenous quarter's;
They came by their ship's, to conceal native truth's,
Only coming for a plunder, to giveth satanic rule.
ii.
The warrior-painted faces, naturally painted by ash and red,
Sawest their shores, being broken by it's door's; mad-men in
Shiny silver, hand's open, yet were fed. Sachem prophet's
Bellowed the harbinger's long afore, now all hast come, these
aborigines weren't dumb; they prophesied this long before.
iii.
The wigwams, longhouses, teepees and lodges, were uprooted from their sacred ground's, the creator's meek were ravaged; as giant bones were taken while found. As hidden beneath the surface, the haut monde made none sound; playing dumbed with Gun's, they ran their fun, fabricating lies, under the America's sun. As tis they gave the world alibi's to be one, O' what hath they done; O' what hath they done.
iv.
First the viking, with dragon ship thunder
came to conquer,pillage and plunder
taking lives without a thought
unwary of the cruelty they wrought.
v.
Then pilgrim's progress seeking new land
would have starved if not for the "savage" man
onward, westward, did they go
killing for profit, pleasure little did they know.
vi.
Grandfather, earth mother and spirit of wild
they watched as the white eye usurped the child
and still, no lesson has been learned
the people grew fat, their culture spurned.
vii.
Most of the tribes are gone away
and America has come to stay
but in my native heart i yearn
to see the Indian nation return.
©Brandon Nagley \Wolfspirit duo poem
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Indigenous harbinger's revealed
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
'mma comm'ner!
'mma comm'ner!
Whild it
Port 'rhet above,
'im down
F'rsaken.
Afore'd!
Allay'd!
De' the round,
De' the Bayck
Brent of stick
Wally a'bock
Rayne
A'doon, a'tunya, Mekker'un
A 'block, a moon.
The Rhine, 'ya dance 'ya
In the Maine
Yal 'amo
Tor'red ett'on
Fer tha'dance 'ya
Fer tha'roon
Allek 'un daree'ya
Mag'k ung Garee 'ya.
Jan 5, 2010
Jan 5, 2010 at 4:10 PM UTC
I'm just back frae The Kirk
Doon Canongate way,
Afore yi get tae Parliament,
That was brand new yesterday,
Way back tae the 1700's
A poet in his grave,
Fergusson the poetry man,
He couldnae be saved,
Banging his heid in a fa'
Tumbling doon a' the steps,
Hadnae sterted livin' yet,
His poetry had some depth,
Rab trained as a minister,
He abandoned fir poetry,
At the age of twenty two,
With no heart for the ministry,
He took a job as a copyist,
Tae earn a crust tae live,
Probably hated it,
So much poetry for tae give,
If he wis alive the today,
He'd be pertying in Ibiza,
DJing wi' the discs,
Rapping like a geeza,
He was only 24,
At Cape Club he'd dae a gig,
I'm sure he enjoyed himsel',
It's something that he did,
After the fa',
Darkly melancholic,
Depression followed,
He wisnea an alcoholic,
Straight to Edina's loony bin,
Then ca'd Darien House,
On Bristo Street used to stand,
Can't think what'd be worse,
He was born in 1750,
Died penniless in '74
Unmarked grave in Canongate,
Nae headstane was in store,
Many years later,
Head stane was selected,
Rabbie Burns inspired,
Was paid fir an' erected,
The date upon the stane was wrong,
Hopefully wis being changed,
By Robert Louis Stevenson,
But died before old age,
Grave is now restored,
Tae it's former glory,
Ironwork and stane cleaned,
But it's no the end o' story,
A statue wis erected,
On the street ootside the Kirk,
The way they positioned him,
He's on his way tae work,
You'll see the Parliament building,
If you wander doon the road,
Poems and poetry on the wa's
But none in Fergusson mode,
It seems he's been forgotten,
In this day and age,
Someone with his talent,
Wan o' Edina's greatest sage,
Let's hope we'll see his poetry,
On Scotland's parliament wa,
I dinae mean graffiti,
I mean poetry fir a'.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
i.
O' mine asawa, mine novel put away for millennia,
Brute man hast hidden thee from view, thou hast been burdened by men's crucifying, thy fear's art of lonesomeness; as many hast left thee, As I've known thine tears. I've seen and watched thy fear's, over the year's thine heart was bleeding.
ii.
Though whilst thou was leaking from thine wound's, I was keeping track on high, from the moon, and universal sky, from the nebula they calleth God's eye; I made plan's to cometh near. Thither below where I hadst none purpose, other than thee; I asked ourn maker to pusheth me into the sea of the great Pacific ocean, I hadst come with mine love, and incorporeal potion's.
iii.
Afore thine nativity, I hadst known thee a whilst, though as an angel thy falling to the atmosphere madeth thee forget thy memory; and divine self. Though I remembered thou, as thy soulmate from ages passed: I waited, with the great originator, I hadst beseeched him to seeing thee again; mine beloved, mine consort of other realm related. As Elohim kneweth thou was mine Filipino rose, mine all, and best friend: he granted me back heaven, as I landed into thy hand's.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley-Filipino rose dedicated
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
~
remnants of
afore night’s grieving
before her on the table lie,
echoes of her sobbing
tears from last night's cry;
boxes of his cards,
handwritten letters,
a schoolboy’s pictures,
the wadded tissues
lie in random crumples,
for his silent laughter,
his fading whispers;
the one remaining lock
of hair she used to rumple;
the invisibly present
drying tearful brine
to table salt reduced;
the how remembered,
the when recalled,
the why that's yet
to be deduced.
each a remnant of
her softened weeping,
each a minder of
a mother of a sorrow,
a son-of-a-gun,
don’t-know-if
i’ll-make-it-to tomorrow,
reminders of
a yesternight’s cry;
the remnants of
afore night’s grieving
that on her table lie;
the six-years-ago,
still-can’t-believe-it,
never-ending-long...
goodbye.
~
post script.
*"her smile...
’tis the thinnest veil o'er a razor's edge,
it can ne’er conceal her bleeding heart..."
like the spiraling whirlpool
like leaves bowing to winter
it's palpable, predictable,
a seasonal forecast...
guess it's just
that time of year.*
***for Becky,
for Tonya,
for Andrea,
for all
grieving mothers
everywhere***
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
I'm not taking a side
I think you're all daft
With words that deride
Afore and aft
It doesn't have to be snide
Trolling can be quite a laugh
But it lacks imagination
And creates an irritation
When you're ******* at it and use it as an excuse to just be nasty to each other and then you don't step away, and just keep arguing and arguing and arguing like you're in nursery, and nobody gets a solution because the whole thing is pointless and irrelevant and based on opinions that don't matter of people you will probably never meet and it's just so ridiculous I can't even end this sentence because of how ridiculous it all is and its made me forget about punctuation and sentence structure and everything because I'm annoyed at having to read such pointless ******* and I'm tired because here in England it's after midnight and I'm laid here reading ******* rather than sleeping when I just want to read some poetry aaaaaarrrrrgggghhhh and all I know is to make this line rhyme I need to end it in ation!!!
A rhyme about other trolls
Troll troll
You've got a big head
And you're made of stone
And you aren't red
Troll troll
You're in a film called the hobbit
And you're made of stone
And you're not a rabbit
Troll troll
You could be a rabbit
One made of stone
You could be red
Made of red stone
But you lack imagination
Like an Internet troll
Because you're head is made of rocks
And you were made by some sort of evil wizard or something
So at least you've got an excuse
Unlike people
Who lack imagination when trying to be a troll
Because they lack even the imagination of a troll
Who is actually a troll
But came in 6 movies rather than sitting behind a computer screen blaming other people for their loneliness
I'm off to fester in my own self pity, silently waiting to have my troll poem trolled by trolls who aren't really trolls. I'll be back tomorrow for more fun and games.
That's all folks!!
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 7:46 PM UTC
*Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun
Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun*
It was silent. His body sunk into the earth.
His soul long gone from there. He had died
A gun upon his arms.
*When they come a wull staun ma groon
Staun ma groon al nae be afraid*
He had died with a home that his dream would
live on.
*Thoughts awe hame tak awa ma fear
Sweat an bluid hide ma veil awe tears*
Later they had told us he had died with courage
and valor.
*Ains a year say a prayer faur me
Close yir een an remember me*
The shots continue he fell by the
tenth.
*Nair mair shall a see the sun
For a fell tae a Germans gun*
A ******** grasped in his stone
cold hand
*Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun*
He saw a line of faces, brown, black
and white. Some were smiling others,
crying
*Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun*
His body sunk into the cold, wet ground
As God opened his arms, for a boy
drenched in blood.
Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun
A group waited in the wings. Soldiers
from many places. Who fought to keep
their shores safe.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC
Come,
Dance with me
Under stars
That have died
Thousands of years ago.
Come,
Sing with me
And let us raise voices
On winds that travel nowhere
And touch no one.
Come,
Eat with me
The food left moldy and rotten
By those who came afore us
On the table just out of our reach.
Come,
Lie with me
On a bed of sweat-soaked sheets
In a room rank with pleasure
Others shared.
Come
With me now
And see the life you were meant to have
But were too busy
With all your anxiety
And technology
And pharmacology
And ethology
And ideology
And erotology
To live.
Come,
See the life you were
Just late for.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
*yonder wave wants to come on in
can't make it go away
try so hard to chase away
steel reserve*
1.
don't come cryin' on yo broken shins
who dat talkin' ova der?
yo muvva just ain't home rite now
take ya scraggy bags
and vamoose outta here
pick up dem rings 'round yo trappin' eyes
and lasso 'em round dat red fin
tackle yo chapped lips
afore dem ships fall in yo calyx-cracks
quit dat naggin' bitch-mouth
here, have dis apple, ma piggie
and dems eyes o' yours dat shine so brite
might as well switch off dat lite
hide dem leather-hands dat look like dry branches
wat, even da desert don't win dis contest
pack dat stupid head in a box
der ain't nuttin' inside a see-through noggin
hide dem silly hopes under a hevvy sea
or bury it under da soles of yo crazi hart
take yo blasted treadin' to some udder place
some dark mine where dey can use yo help
and all dem purty words on pages yo just lurve a-spewin'
ain't no party here for fools no more
2.
den, der some funny rhydm 'gainst ma door
pushin' dat big wave
pushin' dat big wave
I'm a-pushing back jest as hard
but dat wrestlin' wave jest a-growin'
keeps a-knockin'
always rockin'
gonna come crashin' rite in
*ain't no good wishing, ma beloved darlin'
so many fine dreams
running silent
in dem luvverly veins under yo kick-startin' tongue*
yah, yonder waves gonna make a breakthrough
some day...
(mebbe)
S T, 21 augury 2013
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
From different times of splender our hearts go out to thee ,
in troubled times when the crow returns to it's stag to pluck and proon , and the mornings dew has cast it's spell ,
as if the shades of the berries in the forest have now all gone ,
and the grave was never entered ,
the church was never built .
How then if when the gates were never
shut .
not crushed to death by hungry crowds.
and Tom to dock yards went so he
could buy some bread ,
to feed his wife and child .
The love they felt when they were fed
on this Christmas morning.
As children played
or begged ,
or stole to feed their swollen bellies ,
in slum streets this day ,
a feast didst lay afore them .
Lamb roasted on a spit ,
Tom's door was now flung open ,
No more hunger ,
No more shackles of rent man ,
poor house years ,
then ****** tears shivering in dark infested boxes .
Yet to this day a child was born into
this poverty ,
to save ,
amidst wise men and donkey.
Then a crow with eager eye picked a snake did wrestle ,
took it away ,
it's beak it's prey ,
rose to catch the dawn .
For a bud was formed
not in autumn
not on June ,
did it blossom
but out of hardship did it lay ,
out of a forgotten tommrow .
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
Love, faith and forgiveness principal are in
Christian school. Torrid anger thou must flay
While it's still displaying on the eastern tray
Ere its set on the *** laude of thy sterling
Prize. The other meek cheek of thine turn--
Though tough--to him that seek thy burn.
Gladly go not one but twain miles with
Him that bid thee. Distribute cheerfully
To widows cream bread and wine; the needy
And orphans--whether you're rolling in it--
Never neglect, and make no open show
Of thy charity: its trumpet do not blow.
Make mammon thy master nay. Believe
The Bible though you cannot It fathom
Out--the Spirit thy heart will guide. Kingdom
Eternal chiefly pursue; to goodness cleave.
Both parents and priests honour, and men
In authority obey. Keep the Lord's pen.
Fast and pray, playing not to the gallery.
In heaven's safe thy treasure store, where
Robbers and rust have no access nor share.
For worldly wants, soul, never you worry--
Jehovah-Jireh above knows thy very need,
Who gives in season due to the sower seed.
Salt and light on earth be. Thy righteousness
The Pharisees' must exceed. All differences
Reconciled, lest thy balance draws offence
By heaven's audit. Loincloth of faithfulness
Wrap. At a lady be weary to leer, and thy
***** bridle. To God thy heart wholly tie.
The log in thine own eyes first remove
Afore thy brother's speck you see. Grudge
Not but ask, seek and knock. Don't judge.
Such measure from others expect to them give--
Golden rule. Strive to enter in at the narrow
Gate: the rough, rugged road to the end follow.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:34 AM UTC
A leitmotif of your average smug **** is a proverb here and there.
Spouting them off like the receptor has no care.
Their evidential naivety is blatant and almost impossible to bear.
As an audience member you can do nothing but hide your malevolence and stare.
******* in maxims that are apparently laced with benevolence and care.
You know the kind of oxygen waster I’m referring to.
The type of person that watches BBC 4 and likes tofu.
The kind that does the Financial Times So-fucking-Do-Ku.
Look I’m just saying that clichés annoy me.
I’m not asking you to love me, give me a reach around or employ me.
In fact you don’t even have to enjoy me as I tell you of things that matter not.
Suture yourself hypothetically to a geographically different mind. That mind being mine, oh that maverick-esque mischievous mind of mine, looking at this from my perspective.
In my transcendental endeavours to rid the clichéd ridden world of the afore mentioned adjective.
In the opposite of anachronistic times, we might successfully, surreptitiously rid the world of moral coated rhymes.
We can do this; all it takes is a few. One of which needs to be you.
Break out from being solipsistic, even the blind, the meek, the autistic, those that besmirch the edge of coffee cups with their lipstick.
Yes, I mean you. Here is what to do…
The next time someone spouts off a cliché, punish them, make them listen to an album by “Hearsay.”
If someone says “An Apple a day keeps the doctor away.” Then simply say, Steve Jobs had thousands and the here’s the definite answer, that consumerism inducer still died of cancer.
If a woman says “When I say jump. You say how high!” Don’t even cogitate to pardon her.
If the grass is always greener on the other side – shoot your ******* gardener.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 8:03 PM UTC
i. iii.
Daliythers expand,
Afore man's image, bridging Nova's.
Twin flame heat;
Extra-amourials,
lantern's to be the
There were writing's. Star's.
On the wall's; carved
Afar, betwixt the jar's,
Wherein tear's art
Stored from children's
Long.
ii. iv.
Exuberance aroused. Me and mine Jane
Dark matter to ourn halo O' mine twin flame;
Me and mine Jane
From the heaven's whence
We came.
Head's; bairns of the super-
Natural, never born, never
Dead.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedication
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 10:14 PM UTC
A choice along one direction leads
to consequential choices based on quasi-essential needs.
And countless more directions;
some more pointless than they seem.
Each with unique-essential implications;
all random in their themes.
And when faced with new directions,
we all enjoy equating means.
There are sub-directions and sudden choices;
some with supplicatory pleas.
Yes, implication's long duration is an invisible machine.
A meta-physical motivation to a person and their genes.
Personally, my own choices corresponded
to these unlimited extremes.
To these tiny little time-transporters
that fit us into teams.
And I thought I'd reached a choice;
was on its corresponding way.
I followed down its passageways and subdomains
for consequential days.
And from the way that we all network,
I have come to the belief
that our decisions implicate
the parts that aggregate beneath.
Yes, every person has these combinations
aggregate throughout their lives.
And by the afore-mentioned complications,
They (eventually) divide to warring sides.
On one side is destruction;
On the other, love resides.
If you make the wrong decision
then these forces, they collide.
To catastrophic implications
and such damage done inside.
But if you're able to pause for just a moment
and hold them side-by-side.
You will find the sort of peace
that only finds those who have died.
And suddenly life becomes so simple;
no more chances need be applied.
Just one choice and two directions
Lie in front of your own eyes.
You feel quite amazing in
proportion to this fantastic new sensation.
As one choice takes you to destruction;
the other leads you to salvation.
It's the truest self-realization
and it's there for you to take it.
There's a chance of your damnation...
but, see, only you can make it.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
Teen, sixteen, gazing into the mirror, adoring
Her smug self afore that vanity espying glass.
At her well favoured features she's ogling
With ****** grins, sans ****** feelings.
Everything was still in a pink state,
Like morn, from her sole to her pate.
"Time's winged chariot" flashes by, and she's
Turned sixty. That same structure luscious
Like seasons, from summer to winter,
sooner changed: gray hair hath taken over
With wrinkle surface, shelving ******* on
A frame frail. Her cherished hot form
Has sunk, as the sun, down the horizon
Of beauty for ageing, which doth man transform.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 8:17 AM UTC
Eftsoons, thee would fain depart and chasten thy chance
Meseems to be fond of thou beloved with fears:
Harken thy anacreontic jovial at once,
For whosoever conveys love shall drown on tears.
Thee may not ratify affections I bestowed;
Each morn may bring no reasons to behold the sun.
Yon enigmatic events has come and winnowed
Beseech, to cease the fires, afore thy love has gone.
Somehow, blossoms will wither, as rivers will dry
Mayhap, thy heart I own shall be shattered in twain,
Welkin rings, pearls cannot retrieve ev'ry goodby
Maimed and futile; whence, no one can withstand the pain.
If these velvet ropes would seize thine eyne twixt the thrill,
Utter prayers, for Heaven would burn me in hell.
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 5:12 AM UTC
So lost, do I feel...
That what I once knew, will no longer appear.
Terror racks me deep inside,
Forever yearning what once stayed close by my side.
Desperation has bloomed beside my feet...
Screaming...
Pleading...
For what I most need.
With pen and paper taut by my side,
Shall my will continue to thrive,
Afore the ink in my pen dares to dry.
This mere extension of myself,
Paints the colors of my soul.
Of what one will never know,
'Till the new becomes the old.
Too long have these words gone unsaid,
Tainting the many pure thoughts, that have swam through my head.
Trapped deep within my heart so dear,
All of my passions, now contorted with fear.
Curiosity forever sealed within its cage,
Fighting,
Crying,
Desperately wishing to be saved.
A key-less lock hangs loosely,
Taunting those it may.
Holding the door of my prism open, yet preventing any escape
As my lifelong dreams bitterly scream my name.
I cringe,
Shying away from the guilt.
For locking away my desires
And abandoning my will.
Will you ever forgive me?
For leaving you so alone
To gather up dust and grime,
And wander without a home.
Will I ever forgive me,
For deserting my only hope.
Locking it deep within my soul,
Till my hand moved once more.
Spreading my blood across the parchment,
Forever earning my own name.
Holding tight onto reality,
Unwilling to look fantasy in the face.
Creating the key to my own prism,
Will I protect this sacred place.
Sword and shield,
'Til infinity fades,
Do I vow.
© 2013 SparksLC
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC
Abandoned, deserted and forsaken to whine.
In privation was he left lonely to pine.
His friends like a bird fled to another tree,
Leaving him to rot away in Dundee.
His soul was parched, pained and weary,
Longing him to be refreshed speedily.
His heart was sad, bitter and lorn,
Praying him this even to morn would turn.
And the laden lad afterward to London went.
By labour and favour did he an apartment rent
And began in earnest his early dreams to pursue,
Having himself picked up, as a man ought to do--
After a certain disappointment or fall in life--
Chasing no fantasy, frivolities, but working to rule;
Neither was he as afore again playing the pool
But was saving straight, and soon he success struck,
By heaven's fortune that to him came--nay by luck:
Like it's no fluke finding a goodly and godly wife--
It was by grace that he was wherefore blessed.
So his old chummy comrades to him returned to nest:
To wine and dine with him more like before. But he,
Once bitten, twice shy, was wise enough to repeat folly.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 4:33 AM UTC
Spirit of pleasant memory told me;
(to) keep writing
So
sweetly fell her words
to the crests of my shoulders
she lifted me with high breath...
"the world was waiting".
Selfishly I seek that soul of a day,
such that creation no longer tarries
save at least one precious moment,
sooner, than what was writ afore.
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
Gentle waves of the beach
caressing the shore,
the sun sinking into the core,
a known figure from my life's lore,
stood afore,
in this orange light
this divine body,
god's very own pottery
appears in sight.
Into each other's eyes we sunk,
like our feet in the sand's chunks
like a dip in the ocean in front of us.
Apr 15, 2021
Apr 15, 2021 at 5:23 AM UTC