"ailed" poems
Azure was the sky, and leaden was the sea;
Not surprising would the discord be
For him who has read Wordsworth.
What ailed his thoughts were the debris
Of broken glass fishermen-in-boats
Might have thrown into the ocean
On a night of 'Celtia'* with no pairing,
Or the sight of a woman’s dress
Whose swollen darkness was
A sea urchin, whose quills
Were plucked by the greenness of rust;
Or a German parachute
Over Kasserine pass**, my thyme nest
And the center of Tunisia.
©LazharBouazzi, July 15, 2018
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 6:35 PM UTC
He almost let out a sigh of dismay,
Knowing this stint would be short lived.
The common sense in his head seemed to say,
"No one could be this lucky, don't have yourself deceived".
His wheels wobbled and shook; squeaked and wailed,
Under the collective weight of the two.
Screaming threats from worn bearings that ailed,
He did not want to appear weak so his legs pummelled on through.
The ease of cycling was only temporary
He pedalled harder to gain more speed.
Then the ground began to slope gently
His lungs felt like bursting as he pounded his iron steed.
The journey uphill had been more laborious than he had expected.
All the while, the beauty hadn't uttered a single word.
His mind had drifted off even though he was worn and ragged,
The thought of emerging as a couple seemed less than absurd.
The crest of the hill was a cool, long anticipated welcome.
He could finally ease up on the pedalling.
The view from there was nothing short of handsome,
The downhill would take charge and he could catch up on his breathing.
The wind met his face and whistled itself tuneless.
The bicycle rattled as it rolled down the uneven trail.
He felt a sense of flight, there was an air of calmness,
Almost had forgotten about the quiet guest on his tail.
At the bottom he thought he should check on his passenger,
He looked ahead as he addressed the lady.
When he had expected an almost immediate answer,
No response came, despite his calls for her repeatedly.
He pedalled with little effort as if there wasn't added weight
The bicycle slowed down to a clearing where it was dim.
Fatigue was setting in as the night stretched late
His curiosity won the battle and got the better of him.
He stopped his bicycle and maintained balance with his feet,
He twisted his torso so he could speak to his fare.
The moment he did so, his heart had almost ceased to beat,
To his horror, he found that the lady was no longer there...
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC
*Yeah, I'm at a point where I'm handicaped by fear
When stimulant sadness clogs my eyes but can't shed a tear
A point when I'm afraid of both the future and my past
Feeling tethered to bad karma,feeling cursed
Stuck in this minute with the clock ice paused
On the fringes of life where all doors are closed
And heated so that not even opportunity can dare knock
Seated in the quiet of the noisy silence watching the clock
Frozen to a single moment yet seasons are ticking
And there're signals that rest of the world's moving on I'm picking
I'm living like a ghost that died a million years ago
One whose owner ailed of an incurable syndrome pride
A disease born of a blood ******* vector called ego
One from which the wondering soul's holder died
I'm at a point when I ask myself why I was born
When It's clear I have to work my fingers to the bone
But not even myself can get me to my feet to start the journey
I'm at crossroads, and I know I have to choose
Because I've got rest of my life at stake, everything to lose
At now, and thing about now is knowing the actual value of having money
I'm at a point when a have to make the big calls, hold or move on
Keep being a cry baby or put the badass pants on
Looking back to the age when I was afraid of Gekkos
And it's how I feel calling out and feedback's my own echoes
I'm at a point where I don't need spectacles to see my mistakes
Yet it still feels like I'm not ready and haven't what it takes*
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
Dapple-throned Aphrodite,
eternal daughterf God,
snare-knitter! Don't, I beg you,
cow my heart with grief! Come,
as once when you heard my far-
off cry and, listening, stepped
from your father's house to your
gold car, to yoke the pair whose
beautiful thick-feathered wings
oaring down mid-air from heaven
carried you to light swiftly
on dark earth; then, blissful one,
smiling your immortal smile
you asked, What ailed me now that
me me call you again? What
was it that my distracted
heart most wanted? "Whom has
Persuasion to bring round now
"to your love? Who, Sappho, is
unfair to you? For, let her
run, she will soon run after;
"if she won't accept gifts, she
will one day give them; and if
she won't love you -- she soon will
"love, although unwillingly..."
If ever -- come now! Relieve
this intolerable pain!
What my heart most hopes will
happen, make happen; you your-
self join forces on my side!
3.2k
208
The Rose did caper on her cheek—
Her Bodice rose and fell—
Her pretty speech—like drunken men—
Did stagger pitiful—
Her fingers fumbled at her work—
Her needle would not go—
What ailed so smart a little Maid—
It puzzled me to know—
Till opposite—I spied a cheek
That bore another Rose—
Just opposite—Another speech
That like the Drunkard goes—
A Vest that like her Bodice, danced—
To the immortal tune—
Till those two troubled—little Clocks
Ticked softly into one.
2.9k
I lived among great houses,
Riches drove out rank,
Base drove out the better blood,
And mind and body shrank.
No Oscar ruled the table,
But I'd a troop of friends
That knowing better talk had gone
Talked of odds and ends.
Some knew what ailed the world
But never said a thing,
So I have picked a better trade
And night and morning sing:
Tall dames go walking in grass-green Avalon.
Am I a great Lord Chancellor
That slept upon the Sack?
Commanding officer that tore
The khaki from his back?
Or am I de Valera,
Or the King of Greece,
Or the man that made the motors?
Ach, call me what you please!
Here's a Montenegrin lute,
And its old sole string
Makes me sweet music
And I delight to sing:
Tall dames go walking in grass-green Avalon.
With boys and girls about him.
With any sort of clothes,
With a hat out of fashion,
With Old patched shoes,
With a ragged bandit cloak,
With an eye like a hawk,
With a stiff straight back,
With a strutting turkey walk.
With a bag full of pennies,
With a monkey on a chain,
With a great cock's feather,
With an old foul tune.
Tall dames go walking in grass-green Avalon.
2k
This night I cradled you to sleep
In my arms, you began to weep,
How could I know this was your last night,
On this earth, of this life
-
Tonight I’ve witnessed disaster,
Her longing heart beat ever faster,
Not knowing who I was to her,
I slept softly beside her,
-
I awoke to darkness, and warmth beside me,
Her body cold, the sheets bleeding,
A razor, tucked in her veins,
Her vacant eyes bore depraved
Lines within her gorgeous face,
In her tears there was no trace,
Of heartache, of nothing but peace,
Alas there was turmoil in her face, creased
-
Tonight I’ve witnessed disaster,
Her longing heart beat ever faster,
Not knowing who I was to her,
I slept softly beside her,
-
I lay beside my deceased love,
Like a rat with wings, a diseased dove,
Spreading sickness, depression,
Love is only submission,
-
She gazed in to my emotionless eyes
I had nothing left but despite
The revolting feeling of loss,
I held her beside me until my heart stopped,
It took days, weeks at that,
Skipping sup and water.
Sticking with but ***** and bourbon,
I drank myself in to oblivion,
Somber silence and muffled screams,
Her eyes never closed, though I tried, and it seems
That love is ideology of long ago,
An unkempt burden of tomorrow,
-
Tonight I’ve witnessed disaster,
Her longing heart beat ever faster,
Not knowing who I was to her,
I slept soundly beside her,
-
And finally on my last night
On this earth, of this life,
I held her frigid body to me,
Cradling loss and tragedy
Though she herself never caused misery,
I couldn't wait for death to claim me,
And although she left without goodbye,
I know she feared to ruin our night.
I never knew what question ailed her,
On the morrow I had planned to ask her,
If she would have me then,
I’d be lucky of all men,
To see her dressed in white,
To love her as my wife,
She slipped away within herself,
She drowned in waters of her own hell.
And as my heart stopped beating, alas,
Her eyes closed, and a smile my lips passed.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
I LIVED among great houses,
Riches drove out rank,
Base drove out the better blood,
And mind and body shrank.
No Oscar ruled the table,
But I'd a troop of friends
That knowing better talk had gone
Talked of odds and ends.
Some knew what ailed the world
But never said a thing,
So I have picked a better trade
And night and morning sing:
Tall dames go walking in grass-green Avalon.
Am I a great Lord Chancellor
That slept upon the Sack?
Commanding officer that tore
The khaki from his back?
Or am I de Valera,
Or the King of Greece,
Or the man that made the motors?
Ach, call me what you please!
Here's a Montenegrin lute,
And its old sole string
Makes me sweet music
And I delight to sing:
Tall dames go walking in grass-green Avalon.
With boys and girls about him.
With any sort of clothes,
With a hat out of fashion,
With Old patched shoes,
With a ragged bandit cloak,
With an eye like a hawk,
With a stiff straight back,
With a strutting turkey walk.
With a bag full of pennies,
With a monkey on a chain,
With a great cock's feather,
With an old foul tune.
Tall dames go walking in grass-green Avalon.
1.8k
For eons untold I have watched you rise and fall. Build empires and break them. Cure diseases and be ailed by them. I have watched you commune in many religious ways… watched you slaughter for your faith. Now that the darkness has dawned, finally I have come, soaring towards you.
As the farmer brings his harvest home, the librarian pores over long forgotten a tome, whilst the piper flutes a final tone. Echoes from my insides a most peculiar and maddening drone.
Too long soils you have stained with blood, bygone your time of breeding. Your cancerous race, your viral existence… Put out of its misery soon enough.
I soar, adorned in shrouds of doom and gloom, my wings blowing frigid winds and blotting out the moon. Unseen horror, hidden in the darkest nooks of your feeble minds. The stalking predator that lurks near the sheep pen. Crypt born from the graven mounds of a long stained and rotten memory. Ancient pillars carved for me, worshiping us.
No atonement can there be for the existence of human sin. Only to rend and tear your fleshy vessels. In a nuclear chaos confounded to the self-made oblivion, the blindfold to not see, the unutterable horror that is me…
Flee…
If it makes you feel safe and sanctified. You will feel my leering gaze and gaping maw wherever you may hide. Sleep will creep upon you somehow.
Like in times of old, there are some stories they left untold. To prevent further damnation and total extinction, the worship of the gods of all creation. Floating in a sea most nebulous, blackened and foul, adrift outside of the play garden of time and space, there live things without a face.
The piping of mad flutes a harbinger of my coming, a blazing star to wipe the slate clean. Not even a faint echo will remain.
Go out while you can… Walk hand in hand into extinction as brothers and sister, opting out of a raw deal. The last midnight for the human race…
A cancerous vile growth that only thrives for our amusement…
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 7:52 PM UTC
They slipped a roofie
in the wishing well
Now we're all on some ****** up
American wet dream
Baptize the ********
In the sacred swamps
laced with chemicals
They bottle feed
We're the children of the same struggle
Hungry ghosts of the nursery
Pacified by the message
they shoved down our throat
via the animation machinery
with malicious undertones
**** on this
Oral fixation
Choke on this
We can fix it
The problem you see
The problem we invented
it's what you want
to be ailed with*
The hypochondriac
vs. the human conditioning
Prescribed apathy
They want us numb
Some scared sick lullaby
along we hum
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
Jesus as you hung with arms outstretched
Even as you were rejected time and time again
Somehow you loved us so much that you would give your life
Unconditional unsurpassed love would win
Sin couldn’t hold you, death had lost its power
Over and over you showed us love
Nailed on a cross between two thieves
Three days later you came back
Hell could not hold you; Heaven rejoiced
Everyone could not believe so easily
Carrying that cross to Calgary I can’t imagine
Ridiculed, beaten, ripped and torn
Our sins you took upon yourself
So that we might have new life; so that we might be:
SAVED
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 12:05 PM UTC
Out in the back forty
There's a tree and underneath
Is a lonely wooden marker
All it says is "Heath"
Not many really knew him
He just hung around the ranch
I remember when I found him
Hanging from that branch
He never really said much
Kept quiet most the time
Always had a smile
And he had his lucky dime
Heath was slightly slower
Not in step, but in his brain
But, that didn't really matter
For folks loved him all the same
I remember back in school
When Heath was getting teased
The only one defended him
was me...and Heath was pleased
We were bonded from that moment
We were brothers you might say
Where I was, you would find him
Until that fateful day
Folks say that the Johnson boys
Caught him down by Crindle creek
They girls were down there swimming
And they'd gone to have a peek
Heath was down there fishing
Saw the boys and gave a shout
The girls went off a runnin'
And then Heath was set about
The story gets all muddled
Since no one was around
There were six conflicting stories
On how he got hung up off the ground
The truth will be deep buried
Since only four folks know for sure
And three of them aren't telling
And Heath was number four
I rode out after supper
No one knew where Heath was at
I took out for the creek bed
And there I found his hat
From there I took off westward
Toward the tree, to spend the night
I'd head home in the morning
I'd leave at the first light
But, there was where I found him
Hanging, dead from that old tree
From what ever demons ailed him
Heath had been set free
His folks has left for Tulsa
Leaving him back at our ranch
That's where he will stay now
In the ground beneath that branch
I made a simple marker
Painted white with just his name
And even though nobody goes there
I had to let folks know he came
So out on the back forty
By the tree, yep..underneath
Sits a little, simple marker
painted white,....it just says Heath.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
*Sing we for love and idleness,
Naught else is worth the having. -Ezra Pound*
Today, there are no words on my lips.
Love has no surprises and life no pain.
The faces before me refuse
to invoke grief or any whisper of hope.
The dying oak tree in the front yard creaks
and whimpers and begs for peace.
It has witnessed the years and taken
them in indifferent solitude.
I do not think it wants to live
this solitary life any longer.
Under its rotting armor a fragile sign of life.
And just beneath that thin layer of green vitality
lies years and years of death.
I should hope that it heals or falls to the ground.
I do not think it wants to live
this ailed life any longer.
I know it will. I have not the benevolence
to chop it down.
I stare at the flora of branches,
the sun tries to emerge from the clouds:
it cannot. It sheds a tear of futility.
No one hears it, though.
I think of the days of childhood past,
where the laughter was abundant
and the smiles genuine
and the tears flowed without any hesitation.
That was a long time ago.
An innocent version of myself climbed
the branches and appreciated the
tree's fortitude.
I wonder,
can this dying oak support my weight?
Have I grown too much or has it died too much
to climb it?
Have I died too much to climb it?
I disregard these thoughts and continue:
Deadweight swings on a lowly branch.
I fear it will snap but I continue to hang.
It does.
I fall to the ground and appreciate the skinned knee.
The only pain available
on such a lifeless day.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 7:30 PM UTC
*For your happiness I'll move mountains
If I fail, you my world will know I tried
My desire is like natures spring and fountain
None in history with passage of time ever dried
When lost in the oceans, I'll be your radar
To point the vessel of your heart in the right direction
And when you need to climb, I'll be your ladder
When ailed I hope to be your prescription or injection
When your enemies close in on you,I'll be your shield
I'll light your way when darkness takes over your universe
Because our attraction is more powerful than magnetic field
I'll be the rail to the train of your life,ceteris paribus
I'll walk all the miles of your voyage's estimation
Nothing would please me more than sharing your destination*
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 3:13 AM UTC
I chew my way through nickles I earn from angry tourists ambivalently tossing percentages into a jar. I've learned that some of the toughest people come from the proletariat. I fear the people that have worked at McDonalds for 20 years. I kneel before the Knights of Mediocrity.
I check my mail and I come back with a fist full of loonies and quarters. Payday. My great big nose reflects back in the copper before I put the coins into my mouth-recepticle. It is barely bearable. It tastes like blood, but is it from the metal or is it the coin cutting my gums? With the sheer yield of my fields was I able to get it down. I wash it down with some OJ.
Of the queerest men and women I have met, most of them were from the same world as I came from (and to which I will inevitably return). The world of the workforce. I am merely ailed by itchy feet and a severe fear of placidity. I work hard. But only if my work is paid in mileage. If every penny spent is a road to anywhere but here.
A former colleague of mine developed prominent ****** ticks from working as a cashier at a market. The world falls harder on the content, because their yields shield most of the fall. People die both in front of desks and between steel beams.
Two men sit in silence, playing chess. Suddenly, an argument arises and both parties toss theories of chivalry between one another before one of the men yell,
"I don't think it's quite that black and white!"
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
I am an aircraft
and you are my wings
let sail
together
and the skies
will be our
tales,
love will feel safe
so high it can trail
and time will scale
to an infinite
amount the stars will feel
pale.
prodigy is ailed.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
I have alot of opinions, this particular one I am about to share with you today is a seemingly less popular idea amoung the masses.
Let's take it back to right after the first world war- soldiers coming back from battle were ailed physically, but what drove many of them sadly to the points of insanity and suicide were the things they had witnesses on the battlefield. Scenes of people infected with festering diseases that eventually took their lives, some with arms and legs completely taken off- still walking around in the shock of it all, and most of all- the death, the brains and blood and insides of what used to be living breathing people now splayed out across the landscape or piling up in the trenches. The mere thought of it is absolutely horrific.
Today, we can turn on our various screens and witness the horror in high definition, excruciating detail. Human being desimating human beings. Killing each other for fun, taking another life for fun.
I know I am mostly alone on this, every single man enjoys his brutally violent video games, gore movies and zombie thrillers are the biggest thing right now.
Personally, I feel its disgraceful. A total disrespect for the dead and human dignity. Think of your grandparents, your parents, all of your friends and family. Would you be so excited to see them fall victim in the zombie apocolapse? Already dead, reanimated, rotting corpses of your loved ones attempting to take your life. Would you be so thrilled to have them pinned at gunpoint, because to the shooter- its a game?
This numbed human experience is insane.
I don't believe in it, and I refuse to live by it.
Yes, I have been exposed to blood, guts, gore & war
But I certainly don't absorb it for fun, or as a silly past time.
These are peoples lives.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
I once loved a woman so,
left my wife, my young baby children,
desperate desolate for a scrap of
a reason to exist.
her, the other woman,
welcome was unquestioning,
she was an answer.
you may judge me,
I've paid and pay on-
but this is not the taken tale,
verily, I have come to write.
Jennifer her name,
was my savior,
took me from the cross unbearable,
washed my feet, covered my wounds
rebirthed me a new man.
weak was me,
fell fallow to cries,
whimpers of the weak,
weakened me worse
and she said
*go,
bewitched man,
magic enough to defeat
the wicked one,
but not
the weak ones,
I don't possess,
you have to have
metal in your mind,
rock steady,
maybe you do,
maybe you will,
but no crutch of steel
can I be forever.*
but this is not the taken tale,
verily, I have come to write.
what I remember best,
the love I lost for
the lesser love I gave up
and took back
as a lessened and lessoned man
is this:
*my chest, my heart,
for months, not weeks,
for months, not weaks
of words,
hurt so bad I
could not believe,
my life forfeit,
this heartache palpable,
was real beyond belief
when I went to the
emergency room, the doctors,
stethoscope-confirmed,
my tearing-warped, embodied mind,
had no prescription, no surgery,
for what ailed the failed man.*
when in the street would see her,
in the elevator trap, smelled her smell,
for seconds I was triangulated,
until lost sight, and was ill-mis-positioned
once again in a shaft that could only go
down.
Shortly thereafter,
took up pen and paper
bad damage to repair
and began to write,
decades worn, pen nub'd
the writing,
never thereafter,
stopped or ceased.
now I ask you plain
straight from the
place of pain,
that is almost healed,
tho twenty years,
the damages are still
upon my persona claimed,
for this is the taken tale,
verily, I have come to write.
how do you like your poet's poet now?
not so much?
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
Teardrops fall,
telling stories
that eyes cannot hide,
when the heart reveals all
without using words.
Pain and joy both flow,
as healing trickling streams
roll down over skin,
washing away
whatever ailed
or blessed the day.
©️Lizzie Bevis
Aug 27, 2025
Aug 27, 2025 at 7:07 PM UTC
I’ve run the gamut
From plus to minus
From nearly the worst
To among the finest.
But there was an actor
I’d love to date again.
The incredibly attractive
Richard Chamberlain.
Richard Chamberlain
You magnificent man
I blush to write a poem
But I will do what I can
To get the point across
That you’re one of a kind
To think otherwise one must
Be deaf, mute and blind.
I am just old enough to
Recall young Doctor Kildare.
I am sure with cable now
It always plays somewhere.
But, for a young gay kid
I immediately lost my heart.
I could not convince myself
You were just playing a part.
To me you were the doctor
That could heal where I ailed.
No matter that at this time
What I felt could get me jailed.
I just went on and pined for
This beautiful man on TV.
Every word he said seemed
To be music to young me.
So when I got the chance
To spend an evening with him
Dancing at a nice party
Thrown by a mutual friend
I jumped at the chance
And broke a cardinal rule
I told him of my crush on him
I am sure I looked the fool.
Thus, it really wasn’t a date
More of an amazing evening.
That kind of happy accident
I still have trouble believing.
But it counts as a date to me
When a delightful, classy man
Spends the evening chatting
With an obviously smitten fan.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 4:04 PM UTC
The stars were startled awake by the thundering snores of the suns slumber,
and brought to being by the night.
They twinkled and bickered
They were ailed with the task of holding the sky up
while the suns eyes were set to rest.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 2:52 PM UTC
Find me in your pile of tissues
It was about time we promised each other to leave, and
Xylophone sounds ringing in your ears used to be mine
Moonshine is quiet and pale
Even though you asked me to brighten it up
I will stay in your head as an apology
Nailed on it
4 gigabytes of memories, and
5 months of regret
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
Have you ever heard
of such a thing
as being heartbroken
for hearts, not your own?
absurd
tell me please
because I do not seek a remedy
for myself
to soothe my ailed heart
see,
it's not my heart that's shattered
but
I'd let it shatter
oh, I would
if it could make yours whole again
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC
Do you know not of how badly I want to sing my song to you?
how much, how often I yearn
to reach out to you, “my something”,
and utter a florid cacophony of emotion past my thin lips
and into your ears?
Although I have already written you prose
this provides a paltry effort
to soothe the innate desire for me to sing.
“This I believe”; it feels of but a modicum,
inadequate to depict your lithe stature,
and unworthy of your alluring azure eyes.
Oh, if only it were as simple to sing as the others make it seem.
But how are they to know truly of my turmoil,
my struggle between the face of perfection
and the face of regret should I keep safe my song?
It could have been any face, I suppose,
but what is a face to me if not to be backed by good nature?
Because of this, singing is not aided, only ailed,
and not only behind the face does lie a brilliant disposition,
but is on the surface polished to mint at every angle.
And if in the case this face was not so,
I would not have a song to sing.
Thus I am fearful,
for it is I who knows not of how you will react if I sing my song.
Cowering in the corner, disheveled and wild;
I: the peasant,
and you: the king.
Two worlds that are never meant to cross,
two realities remaining untouched by the other.
And on that ill-fated day,
when finally the peasant exercises her lungs,
will the king banish her,
sending the peasant back to grovel?
or, perhaps,
will the king accept the peasant into his court?
and, on that slim chance,
would the peasant,
feeling welcome enough,
allow herself the privilege to trot on such holy ground?
Probably not,
for did the king ever want to hear her song at all?
Yet a time will come still,
with the crowning of a new sun on the horizon,
when the peasant must decide;
will she admit her song to the king?
Or will forever she remain safe in her silence,
safe in the unknown judgement of the king?
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC