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Elué R G Mar 2
Arden mis alas
Tengo que amarlas
Fueron cortadas
Fueron expiadas

Desaparezco
Por ti guarnezco
A cualquier rezo
Pues me estremezco

El aire es tuyo
Y sus susurros
Cuando los luyo
Causan suspiros

Salto al abismo
Que es mi sentir
Y temo que al ir
Vea lo mismo

Quiero olvidarte
Quiero dejarte
Pero no puedo
Pues siempre cedo

Me tienes dentro
Así quedamos
Te tengo dentro
Y así gozamos
Xant Sep 19
At last,
I feel at ease
Alas,
There goes the leash

I am far too young to be bound,
far too old to stay around
Clueless of what there'll be
outside, I might as well feel lonely
I need no freedom
For in this cage,
I am free

And at last,
I feel at ease
I made this poem half asleep
That's why it makes no sense hahaha
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2016
It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.

Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.

Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.

It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate
fullness and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is
everything we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.
~~~
Detached Aug 2018
When you lay thine eyes on that which is yours.
Do you find existence and stability,
or do you find disarray and anguish?

When our flesh unites;
Do you feel consumed and infatuated,
Or do you feel contempt and malaise?

When you hear my voice;
Do you quiver in ecstasy and find tranquility,
Or do you hear endless sorrows..

Whatever you see, whatever you feel, whatever you hear. Do it with much haste! For the clutches of my endless torment beckons my soul..
A blank canvas

A world of potential

Crafty ingenuity

But, alas

There is no room

So I follow my instincts

Wave goodbye to gloom

Much less understanding

About impending doom

The creases in your face

Shows reality and truth

Quirkily misconstrued

With a front row view
annh Apr 22
Alas, for I am master of my pen;
But Calliope is mistress of me.
‘I kept reaching for my muses, my wandering muses, floating on clouds filled with their passions.’
- Chimnese Davids, Muses of Wandering Passions
Alyssa Underwood Nov 2015
It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.

Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.

Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.

It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate fullness
and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is everything
we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.
~~~
Alyssa Underwood Apr 2016
From depths of woe I raise to Thee
The voice of lamentation;
Lord, turn a gracious ear to me
And hear my supplication;
If Thou iniquities dost mark,
Our secret sins and misdeeds dark,
O who shall stand before Thee?

To wash away the crimson stain,
Grace, grace alone availeth;
Our works, alas! are all in vain;
In much the best life faileth:
No man can glory in Thy sight,
All must alike confess Thy might,
And live alone by mercy.

Therefore my trust is in the Lord,
And not in mine own merit;
On Him my soul shall rest, His Word
Upholds my fainting spirit:
His promised mercy is my fort,
My comfort, and my sweet support;
I wait for it with patience.

What though I wait the livelong night,
And till the dawn appeareth,
My heart still trusteth in His might;
It doubteth not nor feareth:
Do thus, O ye of Israel’s seed,
Ye of the Spirit born indeed;
And wait till God appeareth.

Though great our sins and sore our woes,
His grace much more aboundeth;
His helping love no limit knows,
Our utmost need it soundeth.
Our Shepherd good and true is He,
Who will at last His Israel free.
From all their sin and sorrow.

                           ~ Martin Luther (1483-1546)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1aVWBSmghAs
Anecandu Jul 2018
The gilded opening is terse and with age defined,
Locking away the pathway from a golden mind,
Hairlike roots of tiny letters form a braid,
Ficus-ing along stretching prongs of Purple and Jade,

Pushing they gather and spider around its ovate curves,
occasioning sprouts from cracks lips perturbed,
grammarized rain fertilizing delicate pods of flesh,
blossoming frosty lemon blooms of T's R's come to rest,

The bunched words hanging, dangling like grapes, of frailty,
dipping on fickle branches barely holding on to reality,
threatening to fall like daggered swords,
But alas are some silently whispered Jamaican words
Thank you, dear Friends, Jewels of the Southeast
I'm honoured to serve my Lord Philip's needs
Alas I must go for to say at least
This Exercise was best to state your Creed
That Services rendered need no Tall Tale
And Lessons learned were just and expected
For sooner or later I must avail
To pan my Face and keep Work prorated
Like Glue essensed becomes a Brisk Perfume
Even if this Geometry can't fit
At least my Promised Circle shall resume
Then improve the Mistakes I benefit.
After all these done, your Lives I shall miss
Even if your Names are crossed from my List.
Tammy M Darby Aug 2018
The yearning gentleman journeyed near and far
Hoping to acquire his long-sought heart's desire
Pictures carefully painted from a copy of a euphoric time
A multitude of young memories drawn from an aging mind

From storybooks he conjured up the delicate princess and the pea
Next came the white-eyed fairy beauty sailing deep lavender seas
Red headed was the other with eyes of fire
Nought satisfied his slowing blood
And hearts desire

Life with a light kiss
Sprinkled upon him a touch of madness and sublime
Flung before him mountains with invisible peaks to climb

Sympathetic were the gods in their mercy
In forever withholding the knowledge
Alas there were no princesses to rescue
And no more fire breathing dragons

All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Aug. 8, 2018
K Balachandran Jun 2013
Moonlight, sheathing the earth,
lost its heart to a shining smart satellite,
"moving speck of light, inching forwards infinity,
alas! our love lasts, not even a cosmic minute"
w y n n e Nov 2016
18
Lahat naman tayo nakaramdam na ng lungkot
Lungkot na hindi mo alam kung saan nagmula
Lungkot na hindi mo alam kung ano ang dahilan
Lungkot na hindi mo alam kung ano ang kinahihinatnan
Pero ang pinaka-nakakalungkot sa lahat e yung puno ng tao sa isang kwarto
Puno ng tunog at salita
Puno ng biruan at tawanan
Pero ramdam **** maiiyak ka
Ramdam **** hindi ka nababagay sa lugar na naroon ka
Sa pagkakataong ito, hindi mo alam kung bakit hindi mo kayang makisali at magkunwaring masaya nalang
Kung sa mga nakaraang araw kinaya mo naman
Nakakapagod ano?
Nakakapagod magkunwaring masaya
Nakakapagod magkunwaring kaya mo pa
Pero alam naman natin
Eto yung pagod na hindi kayang gamutin ng pahinga
Eto yung pagod na hindi kayang idaan sa alak o ng yosi man lang
Eto yung pagod na hindi kayang idaan sa maghapong hilata sa kama
Eto yung pagod na hindi kayang gamutin o kahit dampi ng matinding menthol ng salonpas sa nangangalay na kasu-kasuan
Etong yung pagod na hindi kayang gamutin ng efficascent oil na suki ng buong pamilya
Eto yung pagod na dama ng kaibuturan at kaluluwa
Eto yung pagod na mahirap punan ng lunas kasi hindi mo alam kung bakit ang bigat sa pakiramdam
Iyong pag napabayaan o mali ang diagnosis mo e pwedeng lumikha ng sanga-sangangang maliit at mas komplikadong dahilan ng kapaguran
Kung pwede lang mapawi ang lungkot sa bawat malalim na buntong hininga ang ngalay na dama ng kaluluwa
Yung tuwang hatid damay lahat ng parte ng kabuuan
Isama mo pa pati yung sangkatutak na split ends mas lalo na ang mga pimples na ayaw kang lubayan
Alam ko,  pagod ka narin
Sadyang nakakapagod lang talagang gumising sa umagang walang kulay
Sa mundong malawak at mapaglaro
Sa mga tulang isinulat pero walang laman
Sa mga nasambit na salitang wala man lang naantig
Sa mga matang blanko na walang ningning
Sa mga patok na banat pero hindi naman nakinabang
Sa mga mensahe sa inbox na puro lang chain messages ang laman galing sa kakilala **** di na umahon sa pagiging jejemon
Sa mga text ni Baby aka 8888 na pinapaalala kang expired na pala ang iyong load pero syempre biro lang hindi ka naman nagpapaload, expired na pala sim mo kasi isang taon ka ng hindi nagpapaload
Talaga namang nakakapagod ang mundo
Minsan nga nakakagago
Itulog nalang natin 'to, ano?
Ayan tayo e, dinadaan sa tulog ang lahat
Pero malay mo nga naman, baka sakaling sa mahabang paglimot sa mundo, isang panaginip lang pala ang lahat ng sakit
Hindi lang siguro dahil tamad kaya natutulog pero eto na marahil yung senyales ng pagsuko sa laban
Sa pagpiling takasan panandalian ang buhay at baka sakaling sa panaginip matupad ang nais ng puso
Kasi sa totoong buhay ang hirap tanggapin ang bawat sampal ng pagkabigo
Yung bang dalawang klase ng pagkabigo
Yung todo bigay ka sa una pero bokya ka parin
At yung isa naman, yung natatakot ka ng sumunggab at tinikop ka na agad ng takot
Beterana na nga ata sa larangan ng pagiging olats
Nganga kung nganga
Nada kung nada
Itlog kung itlog
Pero hindi pa tapos ang kwento
Malayo pa ang lalakbayin
May natitira pa naman sigurong alas dyan na di pa naitataya
Positibo naman ako na sa negatibong sitwasyon makakaalpas din
Lahat naman ng bagay lumilipas, parang yung paboritong pantalon na sa kakasuot unti-unting kumukupas
Tulad ng chika ng karakter sa pinapanood kong korean nobela, Fighting daw!
Minsan may pakinabang din pala ang pagharap sa telebisyon sa ganitong pagkakataon
Ngayon, alas otso medya ng gabi sinusulat ang mga katagang nais ilabas ng puso
Habang wala pang tugon mula sa itaaas
Salamat sa oras na tibok ng puso
Kakapit muna ako kay Captain Yoo
Sa seryoso pero nakakakilig na ugali,
Sa swabe niyang mga the moves,
Sa grabehan niyang mga titig,
At sa mala-fairytale nilang storya,
Captain, ako nalang please!
Ang huling pagkapagod kong nais ireklamo
Siguro sa paghihintay na may isang Captain Yoo Shijin na darating, na kikiliti sa pagod kong puso at magbibigay ng rasong ipagpatuloy ang labang kinapusan na ng dahilan.
carminayasmin Sep 2018
These nights I pretend to myself
and whisper to myself that

its not only you but,
alas,
you are confused why it still pervades you.

But I am told that
God calls lying evil sin.
And through Eden,
God tried to say to the world -
that lust is demolishing.


( but who is god to say)
it’s all so beguiling
and delirious.
and god yes it’s demolishing,
when reality resurrects every day and I am
thrown  to watch it before me
even if I close my eyes
or bite my tongue till blood.

only the  false sins I whisper
will wipe the blood clean.
I don’t think god runs this place
who is he to judge
Noel Oct 2013
The Circle of the Mushroom Ring:
Apocalyptic Sanctification

Feasting I wonder when the crumble will begin?
Alas we wait with our circle like friend.
Darkness entwined the vines where I sit
This shall be a night we gnomes won't forget.

History, mystery they all fall down
The human like creatures know nothing in town
for when we feast from this beautiful ring
all us gnomes will dance and sing.

Singing of terror in shadows they fall
creeping through forests watching them all.
I feel the time it grows too near
my senses feel nothing but their unwelcome fear.
Burn...

Fire to fire and dust to dust
Burn the village with pleasant disgust
Reap what you sow and scream what you plead
Ashes they fall, ashes they bleed.

Our minds are tuned with the ring of fate
We are the gods we create.
A mindless journey to tame the souls
to fill our empty heart-seeking holes.

Chanting and dancing we cheer through the streets
the wind of fire such a beautiful beat.
The cries of the children echo in flame
as I mock there howls with laughter of pain.

Steady I walk designing it all
Flooded by voices of the gnomes violent call.
Releasing the rage, spear-stick in my hand
right through the head, bold where I stand.

The village simmers but we do not
Tearing apart what we feel should rot.
The ground is no place for the blood of men
ashes to ashes amen to amend
The cravings wont stop, or my eyes will bleed.
for the fate of mankind is the mushroom ring.

-Do not forgive us for we have not sinned
We bless mother earth through our beautiful wind.-
Abby Mendoza Sep 2017
Plip, plip, plop
I wonder when will it all stop
Every drop turns a darker red
As all hope are replaced with dread.

Plip, plip, plop
We need to fix this faucet
For soon we'll all drown
And sadly we are too poor for a casket.

Plip, plip, plop
Please don't pretend you don't hear
All the innocent's yawps
Pleading from the faith of your ruthless spear.

Plip, plip, plop
Alas! the streets are clean
Yet every house seems to pray
For their child to come home today.

Plip, plip, plop
I wish to live a day without fear
That the faucet won't wreck my home
Coating it with an awful besmear.

Plip, plip, plop
I just want it to stop
Pray, I do not want the past nor the present,
I just want a life that has future in it.

-a.m.
i wrote this for the current things that are happening in my country and to be honest i am f*cking scared.
E li za Sep 2016
So young He engraved the Law in your fledgling heart
Covering your mind with the depth of His wisdom
Tell no language exist that could translate its art
Hopeless to assess its perfect scale and freedom

The Law is His breast milk you sip fervently
Howl in agony, your stomach digest it not
Fathom submission, son of debauchery
To merely **** is short; apply what has been taught

Sets of teeth sprouted in your gums like white pebbles
Overdose with confidence, sleep without a sword
Stars in woods they seem, Alas! Wild, wild eyes of wolves!
Fight the fine fight of the faith, shine light of the world

A state of armed conflict, His Law against your Flaw
Just streak of insanity in the family
Epitome of cross swords yet who will win in awe?
Glitch in your body, vow in its supremacy
Paul Hansford Feb 2016
My poems are my children, more or less.
I care about them, want them to go far,
would like the world to love them as they are.
Or would it help if I could maybe dress
them in fancy words, improve their accent? Yes,
though a judicious measure of sobriety
might give my work commendable variety.
Alas, they're disadvantaged from the start,
these single-parent children of my art,
and I can't blame their failings on Society.
The décima is a Spanish form of ten lines (hence the name).  See my Youth and Age for more details.
April Feb 2018
Two different worlds
Two seperate skies
And only one that they can see

Inside my mind
When darkness falls
There is no other soul but me

Alone I pace
In deepest night
And no one takes my hand

To lead me from
My shadowed tomb
Where I am doomed to stand

Ah, pray for me,
Though kindness helps,
For only love can save me now

A lonely girl
Lost long ago
Who does not trust, and knows not how

Too often left
Though many cared
And no one saw the pain inside

That lonely girl
The happy mask
Was made so carefully to hide

But now it cracks
The paint wears off
And someone soon is bound to know

And steps will tread
The lonely walks
Where only I’m allowed to go

Perhaps at last
Someone will break
The wall I’ve built around my heart

But no one will
For all have eyes,
And I have been too long apart

And so, alas
For here I stand
A lonely girl in a shadowed land.
karin naude Mar 2013
"if it pleases my Lord? Yes it pleases thee"
made famous by the English
formal gibberish saying nothing
well phrased for max words zero knowledge
this is ingrained in there offspring
Jackal smile and fancy words
the goose that could lay no egg
alas injustice is a good egg
penny wise pound foolish
the grandest motto ever
how proud can you feel, wallowing in mud and smiling
being led by the noise, following bread crumbs
who is the real servant and who is the master?

i know you have lost control
you serve the master you choose, thought it
would have been an envy apparent
you wee outsmarted, not outgunned

but know this my master owns it all
creator of all
master of all
Shin Dec 2013
I don't know how to write happy poems
because I don't really believe in them.
I thought angst would die with adolescence,
but alas I can still feel its cold dint.

Perhaps like virginity this goes too;
no longer a creep standing idly by.
Plastic smiles taped to our cardboard faces
and yours alone I felt the need to prise.

That's okay, because the teenaged rosebud
that we claim to be so very unique
is beginning to wither, can't you see?
And now it's the thorns society seeks.

So look out over yonder cityscape.
Your mask shall be shed only by the moon.
Until then, a cartographer of love;
yours that is, we'll still pathetically swoon.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 6
My Prize for Waiting
~
tucked in all by myself,
resting dark and quiet
in the thin place^
where the distance between
this world and the next,
is no distance at all,
but  a few inches separating,
easily fordable, back and forth-able

my palms, hands down,
come to rest on my *******
and the two thumbs in unison,
begin to sweep the streaming space of their in-between,
conducting a radar sweep-search for the precise point
passageway to poetic mystical places,
hoping to snag any residuals for safekeeping

no hurry to either arrive or depart,
in patient attendance for
rhythms of woven word arrivistes,
coming in no particular order,
asking to be seized, greedy to be
nominated and recognized, immortalized,
as great poetry, prize worthy,
kept for all time inside others poetry chests

but in the thin place,
dream records are not kept,
hazy scraps at best retained,
a recipe for a witnessed totality,
is only a soupy reduction of a
few seconds of hazed video,
that can neither give nor get
no satisfaction

the plastic surgeons attempt to reconstruct
the body of the meal, the real deal,
alas, there are no prizes either
for botched surgeries and pretty but meaningless
poetry scraps

the only evidence of my travels,
a flushing, blushing residual flow,
slow to dissipate, a hangover makers mark
of a sojourn best described as unsatisfying,
my blush, a prize for waiting but failing,
“the most peculiar and most human of all expressions”^^

woe to me when returned in ignominy,
medaled in only base irony,
me and philosopher Pliny,^^^
both dying while recording our own private Vesuvius,
our bodies preserved by voluminous volcanic ash,
but alas, you cannot recite the ash of poetry

so one waits, cut and pasting brown edged
burnt photographs epistles,
that are clinging and clung to the distaff spindle,
insufficient to weave a flax complete

and yet we return perforce twenty four hours from now,
to snag another prized piece of meaningless,
my prize for waiting
in the solitude of the thin place


3:35am Saturday April 6th, 2019

~
last nights scrap

cease your whining,
seize your waiting,
therein is your own paid price
for the prize of inspiration


inspired by Jean Fisher,
a real prize winning poet
^”It turns out these destinations have a name: thin places. ... No, thin places are much deeper than that. They are locales where the distance between heaven and earth collapses and we're able to catch glimpses of the divine, or the transcendent or, as I like to think of it, the Infinite Whatever”. The New York Times

^^ Charles Darwin on blushing

^^^ “For my part I deem those blessed to whom, by favour of the gods, it has been granted either to do what is worth writing of, or to write what is worth reading; above measure blessed those on whom both gifts have been conferred. In the latter number will be my uncle, by virtue of his own and of your compositions.”   Pliny the Younger to his uncle, Pliny the Elder, who most likely died in the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius while trying to save a friend.
JV Beaupre May 2016
The Standard Model is full of sticky, quirky Quarks,
perky little Fermions, and the Boson Higgs,
the reigning King of Mass of towering might;
who, by spontaneously falling off in any old direction,
gives ad hoc Masses to nearly all, and to all a birthright.

And for all normal matter in creation,
the Boson Higgs is the physicist's salvation.
Alas, we could have learned more,
but a Weasel ate through the Collider core.
Commentary on the Standard Model of Particle Physics.
Commemorates the 2015 shutdown due to animal intrusion.
Wordsmith Sep 2018
She seems pretty queer
Yes she does
Something odd
Something peculiar

Is it in her insouciance
Is it in her audacity
Is it in her pirouettes
Spun with such vivacity

Is it in her defiance
Is it in her nonrepentance
Is it in her reveling so free
A form full of glee

Sometimes impetuous
All times ingenuous
Aflame with passion
An immersive intoxication

Cracking down on this mystery
A perplexing dichotomy
Let's remove the misfitting pieces
In sync with commonplace notions

Alas what dismantling of a girl
at peace with her pieces
What uprooting of a girl
at home in her body
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
What poem will you wear, when first we meet?

How will I recognition-you,
when you transverse my land?
Unknown our faces, our voices,
Only silent words electronic exchanged

Will lantern, it be: one, if by land, two, if by sea?
Will your ID badge, passport stamped and state,
Your chest bear a witness-sign?

The Arrivals Board flashes:
                    une poétesse est arrivé
                    eine Dichterin ist angekomme
                    a poetess has arrived
                    una poetisa ha llegado

Will there be a haiku in your hair,
A limerick exposed by raucous grin,
Or just ten words
allotted for your entire visit?

Desperate to locate
Urgent to sensate
Matters I take
Into two cupped hands,
On the shoeshine stand
Climb and recite-shout

Know me by my words,
Know me by the lilt lyrical
Of my American accented,
Canadian Tongue of my mother

Know me by my words,
Carved by time on my forehead,
Poetry is the blood of this fool's soul,
Hear me, find me, look upon me slamming

Poems are the thorns in my palms,
See me crucified, bleeding stanzas
Upon my shoeshine stand cross
Recitation resuscitation welcoming:

Benedicting Gloria, Gloria, Gloria

But if this should fail your attention to secure,
Or the TSA unappreciate my second coming,
Look for the crowd gathered round,
A man of moderate height, in a tall hat,
Beard scraggly, looking sorrowful
Reciting the Gettysburg Address

Either way,
Should be easy peasy to find me,
Grab your bag, off to short-term parking

This is how an Americana poet meets n' greets
Arriving poetess from a foreign land

Is there any other way?
------------------------------
Postscipt
Alas, five years on and I know in my heart
that you are not coming...
Aug 2013
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