"awns" poems - Hello Poetry

Bring, in this timeless grave to throw, No cypress, sombre on the snow; Snap not from the bitter yew His leaves that live December through; Break no rosemary, bright with rime And sparkling to the cruel clime; Nor plod the winter land to look For willows in the icy brook To cast them leafless round him: bring No spray that ever buds in spring. But if the Christmas field has kept Awns the last gleaner overstept, Or shrivelled flax, whose flower is blue A single season, never two; Or if one haulm whose year is o'er Shivers on the upland frore, --Oh, bring from hill and stream and plain Whatever will not flower again, To give him comfort: he and those Shall bide eternal bedfellows Where low upon the couch he lies Whence he never shall arise.

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A. E. Housman

Bring, In This Timeless Grave To Throw

Bring, in this timeless grave to throw, No cypress, sombre on the snow; Snap not from the bitter yew His leaves that live December through; Break no rosemary, bright with rime And sparkling to the cruel clime; Nor plod the winter land to look For willows in the icy brook To cast them leafless round him: bring No spray that ever buds in spring. But if the Christmas field has kept Awns the last gleaner overstept, Or shrivelled flax, whose flower is blue A single season, never two; Or if one haulm whose year is o'er Shivers on the upland frore, --Oh, bring from hill and stream and plain Whatever will not flower again, To give him comfort: he and those Shall bide eternal bedfellows Where low upon the couch he lies Whence he never shall arise.

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Although I hardly gave it a thought I didn't really doubt our miniature juniper, a bonsai, would survive our desert vacation. It likes the dry air of our home, needs water once a week at most and seems meditative and active, both. While away I rediscovered my love of agaves - sotol and century plant - met Mortonia and became reacquainted with squawbush, its citrus drupe which makes traveling the long horizon of the desert uplands endurable. Live oaks - emory, wavyleaf - dominant and regally spaced giving ground to mesquite only on the sere sand flats. I counted and drew inflorescenses, spikelets, florets, awns but grasses remain a mystery their microscopic parts. This year I'll study, give them serious thought before our Spring starts. The cactus wren was the one bird I could be certain about. Sunsets made me sorry the desert is not my home. But the ocotilloes flowered before we left and that made up for the vicious attack of a hedgehog cactus. Impressive, ponderosa pine and Arizona cypress the canyon canopy watered with snowmelt and along the high cliffs limestone formations predating our arrival by ten million years of weather. Newspapers kept us aware humanity had not accomplished yet the end of history and that was fair. The planes were full of citizens who no longer applaud upon landing. Snow flew, not a pinyon pine or manzanita within two moons walking. On the dining room sideboard, waiting, our miniature juniper.

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Aug 10, 2015

Aug 10, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC

robert-ronnow

Miniature Juniper

Although I hardly gave it a thought I didn't really doubt our miniature juniper, a bonsai, would survive our desert vacation. It likes the dry air of our home, needs water once a week at most and seems meditative and active, both. While away I rediscovered my love of agaves - sotol and century plant - met Mortonia and became reacquainted with squawbush, its citrus drupe which makes traveling the long horizon of the desert uplands endurable. Live oaks - emory, wavyleaf - dominant and regally spaced giving ground to mesquite only on the sere sand flats. I counted and drew inflorescenses, spikelets, florets, awns but grasses remain a mystery their microscopic parts. This year I'll study, give them serious thought before our Spring starts. The cactus wren was the one bird I could be certain about. Sunsets made me sorry the desert is not my home. But the ocotilloes flowered before we left and that made up for the vicious attack of a hedgehog cactus. Impressive, ponderosa pine and Arizona cypress the canyon canopy watered with snowmelt and along the high cliffs limestone formations predating our arrival by ten million years of weather. Newspapers kept us aware humanity had not accomplished yet the end of history and that was fair. The planes were full of citizens who no longer applaud upon landing. Snow flew, not a pinyon pine or manzanita within two moons walking. On the dining room sideboard, waiting, our miniature juniper.

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8AM strikes like a ***** And romping the losing street - The engineered reptile stalks the hound we are. The soldiered army, oozing molten pride, Spike me in the side with their knees Lifted to caution, so-so below the chin The cold, dead breath bullies like a child Never been taught, never have they ought; I give them pity like spit, the drool reared. The glands of my sodden state are nucleic They spark and fizz and pop at the slightest fix And they mount the green turf as they say the things they say They say them in spite Their eyes to register a flat-line, the pulse of my eyelid Froths staring into their granite granules, you call them eyes I do despise, I do despise, The heartless range of those hunter-deers, The wet pathos that criminals invoke And then, I woke, the rage, the rage! A mountainous affair, cracked into your skin You wished I were dead so you could be thin. And when I am not hot, Risen, aired by the microwaved Monday dawning, I can almost laugh about the spaces between your eyes The slight disgust, the frozen musk Awns over me, little fist tight of pink Ears rabbited off -- a sharp, twisted empale And then, you are there-- Frozen and dominating, your coffin spooks to me A spoken longing and then all we know wilts A running red cloak of tartan regrets Jades the illicit wail bespoken after the instrumental twist The torture device you call your words is broken out I ask for one thing, beg for it, screech it To the solars like I am owed. Knowing Death, if not heed, the spited greed-- Give me strength, for the thoughts The thoughts, that blow through me Windswept, gliding the dead human ash through my marsh Do not upturn the limped greyed grass And blow through, a harmless storm, With nothing to say about how I carry my day. Move on to your homeward-bound, your Concentration plantation, reeling off dead spinners Like your words, your cold ******* words. You slimy ******* you **** I have spoken, one million syllables, For your satisfaction. You lord it over me like a raw-meat hand Of the disciples. Well, well, Judas, Judas -- I bite my tongue. I bite it so it jades.

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Jan 24, 2014

Jan 24, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC

abigail-maddem

Forsooth to Evil

8AM strikes like a ***** And romping the losing street - The engineered reptile stalks the hound we are. The soldiered army, oozing molten pride, Spike me in the side with their knees Lifted to caution, so-so below the chin The cold, dead breath bullies like a child Never been taught, never have they ought; I give them pity like spit, the drool reared. The glands of my sodden state are nucleic They spark and fizz and pop at the slightest fix And they mount the green turf as they say the things they say They say them in spite Their eyes to register a flat-line, the pulse of my eyelid Froths staring into their granite granules, you call them eyes I do despise, I do despise, The heartless range of those hunter-deers, The wet pathos that criminals invoke And then, I woke, the rage, the rage! A mountainous affair, cracked into your skin You wished I were dead so you could be thin. And when I am not hot, Risen, aired by the microwaved Monday dawning, I can almost laugh about the spaces between your eyes The slight disgust, the frozen musk Awns over me, little fist tight of pink Ears rabbited off -- a sharp, twisted empale And then, you are there-- Frozen and dominating, your coffin spooks to me A spoken longing and then all we know wilts A running red cloak of tartan regrets Jades the illicit wail bespoken after the instrumental twist The torture device you call your words is broken out I ask for one thing, beg for it, screech it To the solars like I am owed. Knowing Death, if not heed, the spited greed-- Give me strength, for the thoughts The thoughts, that blow through me Windswept, gliding the dead human ash through my marsh Do not upturn the limped greyed grass And blow through, a harmless storm, With nothing to say about how I carry my day. Move on to your homeward-bound, your Concentration plantation, reeling off dead spinners Like your words, your cold ******* words. You slimy ******* you **** I have spoken, one million syllables, For your satisfaction. You lord it over me like a raw-meat hand Of the disciples. Well, well, Judas, Judas -- I bite my tongue. I bite it so it jades.

51

My parents love me verily, true, Yet I still feel the need for love, truer. In the deepest hour of night, Dawns a realization that they are mortal, Everyday I feel so scared, Alone if I am to stay, Loneliness will **** me. Loved by parents I am, but Often I am so alone, Very sad is this heart, Engraved deep inside it, Rosy name of my ideal lover.

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May 25, 2017

May 25, 2017 at 5:10 AM UTC

Atul

I Want To Be Loved

My parents love me verily, true, Yet I still feel the need for love, truer. In the deepest hour of night, Dawns a realization that they are mortal, Everyday I feel so scared, Alone if I am to stay, Loneliness will **** me. Loved by parents I am, but Often I am so alone, Very sad is this heart, Engraved deep inside it, Rosy name of my ideal lover.

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