Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Styles May 2017
As night falls, the air thickens
her pulse races and his pulse quickens
the depths of their thoughts rise to the surface
her body language speaking tongues
their eyes contact and the translation is done
his soul listens
heart beating fast
flesh burning like a furnace
flame lasting longer than they last
lust coursing through her body's viens
like lava melting a porous surface
her window panes with purpose
as their bodies join like cursive
bulging with awareness
his presence is her nearness
their bareness
flipping her world
altering her state of mind
impulse triggerin pulse
a his embrace
tightens
Oh, will you ever return to me,
My wild first force, will you return
When the old madness comes to
Blacken in me and to burn
Slow in my brain like a slow fire
In a blackened brazier - dull
like a smear of blood,
Humid and hot evil, slow-sweltering
up in a flood!
Oh, will you not come back, my fierce song?
Jubilant and exultant, triumphing over
the huge wrong
of that slow fire of madness that feeds
on me - the slow mad blood
thick with its hate and evil, sweltering
up in its flood!
Oh! will you not purge it from me -
my wild lost flame?
Come and restore me, save me from the
intolerable shame
Of that huge eye that eats into my
Naked body constantly
And has no name,
Gazing upon me from the immense and
Cruel bareness of the sky
That leaves no mercy of concealment
That gives no promise of revealment
And that drives us on forever with its
lidless eye
Across a huge and houseless level of
a planetary vacancy
Oh, wild song and fury, fire and flame,
Lost magic of my youth return, defend
me from this shame!
And Oh! You golden vengeance of bright
song
Not cure but answer to earth's wrong
Ah, Yorkshire, thou art purer than Coventry;
and thy promises whiter; than my fluid poetry.
Thou art braver, prudent, and all the way more intelligent;
thy lands are mightier; and perhaps in every possible way-more imminent.
Thou art sincere-and so more delicate than wine, and thoughtful;
Thou adored my words, and made everything else healing, and more beautiful.

In my heart but there might have been no Yorkshire at all-
had I attended not one Coventry last fall.
I witnessed not-at t'at time, all t'is rude twilight-and toughness and madness;
and every chapped breath it had in its roughness, and hilarious-though indeed fake, felicity.
No soul has even bits of a heart, here, to forgive others' soreness,
No being wants to share; no human lives in joy, nor simplicity.
No delight indeed; as I stream my way through every roads;
Everyone is either busy with their selfishness or their coats.
No living is cared for; for humans are phantoms at night and on morns;
Vulnerability is mocked, and demised and often slyly torn.
Ah! Coventry is but a sphere of hell!
For even hell is still lighter when has it not hellfire;
As well cities are, when there is no scoundrel nor liar;
But Coventry is not at all tender;
Its wicked gasp is alive, and never to heartily surrender.
It falls for glory; it bows to such fears for pleasure;
And wanes by the light of whose death; the end of whose allure.
But thou art true-thou art as shy as every flash of virtue;
Thou art indeed-everything t'at is solemnly agreeable and brand new.
Ah, and just now-I had dreams of a fine image of thee;
Smiling within thy fullest verdure, bushes, and lavish undergrowth.
And thy summer is but vivid and friendlier;
Healing every sore heart, and turning 'em all, merrier.
Thou adored the nouns and verbs I wrote,
and admired such simple notions I quoted;
Thou shine upon me-asthe light that shall makest me grow
and the promising dim, faraway region, that lets me glow.
O, Yorkshire, this is still but too early in the transparent evening;
But I am deeply endorsed yet, by t'is poetry writing-
And with thy soul that remains but too witty,
Tearing me away, but with loveliness-
from my cautious present engagement,
Thy charms might be just too hard to bear,
for thy tongue is too sweet;
and thy veracity too chaotic, ye' imminent.
In thee shall I find peace-of that I am convinced,
Peace whose soul is calm, neat and on all occasions, careful-
Unlike t'is bustle which is at times perpetual, and sorrowful;
Unlike t'is very city of Coventry,
Which is damp with exultant bareness, and haziness,
In many ways exalted, but indeed too proud;
And its tongue which is blurred with sin and poison-
Its all-too-loud excitement makes everything but faint,
And at times sends my heart to exile, sends my heart to pain,
In every possible way too unlike thee,
With an imagery, and coaxing voices so sweet
Thou shall leave all my poems bright and freshly lit,
Even though I am still here, even though we are still yet-to meet.

Coventry is too proud and vibrant-yes, too vibrant,
Amidst its own foolishness, which sadly made itself formerly too elegant.
Too elegant to me-in various shapes, and keenly cloaked in unseen deceit,
But only by some beings, whom I was to meet, and my breath to greet.
And as I wake up to an early morning hour,
the plain summer strangely makes me thirst for honest water.
And should I love still-one intelligence t'at is so bitterly repugnant?
I shall certainly not; I shall turn to thee, Yorkshire, who is truer ye' far above, tolerant.
Ah, Yorkshire, but honesty is something Coventry promises not;
for its soul has been maliciously beheaded, and twitched,
It has been paled, corrupted, and despaired-
by its own claws, derived from the jaws of those evil souls
Veiled by their even still inhuman, disguises,
And shall still be wicked, otherwise.
In t'is sea of hate, and these waves of despondency,
I shall think of thee with tantalising depth and scrutiny,
Though thou art still imprisoned in my soul,
Thou who hath flattered and accepted me as a whole.
But Coventry is-still, accidental with some of its bindings,
For mortal as thou art, itself, and is unable to escape its fate,
Still I canst think only of the beauty of thy linings,
And upon thy lands shall I venture to fill my plate.
Ah, Yorkshire, remember that virtue is in thy hand,
but neither is vice-thy dormant enemy, is in its therein,
Virtue who is vile to all of t'is world's inconsolable men,
like in Coventry, as deemed it is, unreasonable and ungenerous, within.
Virtue which is tragically abandoned, in its pursuit of honour;
virtue which was rich, but flattened, and dismayed and disfigured
within the course of one unsupervised hour.
Ah, York, Yorkshire, when shall I ever taste the grandeur
And the very superiority of thy dignity?
For in yon picture, thou art still but a comely neighbour,
Which endorses and attests to my mute, yet unaffected-virginity.

Ah, but Coventry shall despise thee, and with its stubbornness
and overwhelming pride, shall jostle and taunt thee;
Shall defect and isolate thee-when I am but by thy side,
But God be with me still, and blind shall not, my virtuous sight.
Detesting and confronting thee for the remainders of years-as 'tis to be,
Which for thee lie ahead; as how hath it deluded me-just now!
I, who, disconcertingly, placed my heart within its sacred vow,
hath been robbed of my satisfactions, and utmost fortune,
All were perused in centuries and gone in one moon.
Ah, Yorkshire, shall I continue my poetry here-but call out endlessly to thee?
And shall I abandon this tiny caprice of mine-which is a fine, tiny desire of glory
And let myself on the loose, and for evermore be in search
of thee, whom I shall've lost-under the very indulgence of their mirth?
O, I think not!
For I shall mount my poetry-and achieve my silent dreams,
I shall take him with me, if allowed am I-to conquer him,
And make him and thee mine, just like I hath made my poetry,
And be thy light; and thy spiritual and endless reciprocal adoration
All day and night, at the end of our quest for destiny
Wherein I shall dwell, and thrive as my intellect be granted-its long-lost coronation.
O, Yorkshire, for within thy hands now I shall lie my faith-
and trudge along thy forking paths, unto the light of my fate.

Ah, Yorkshire, I am infatuated with these paintings-
these very paintings of thy lush green lands,
And of myself wandering and skulking idly about thy moors;
With my best frock, and his fingers, the one I love, entwined in my hand
As lights procured and on our storming out of yonder wooden doors.
I am shining like a bee is-upon the sweet finding of its honey;
but in whose tale 'tis like thee-to sweet and unpardonable to me.
Be with me, Yorkshire, and be with me forever, only,
As I leave behind this faint malice and commence my journey;
I shall be with thee, and my poems shall be free,
And t'is bitterness of winds shall be no more tormenting me,
Furthermore-be them what they desire to be;
But let me write; and play my song as beautifully as yon naive bee.

Ah, Yorkshire, and wait, wait again for me;
But before let me sink again into a deep sleep,
and tease thee again in my dreams;
Read me once more-the very passages of thy indolent poetry,
Take me out of my stiffness; swing me out of abhorrent Coventry.
Coventry shall be envious, and waiting forever for thy demise;
but honesty is honesty-and one that has no lies,
for thy virtue is clear as thy Western gem,
which is to God, shall always be virtue, all the same.
To me eternity lies in thy eyes,
and thy rejection my demise.
If so but accept and heal me likewise;
whilst shun and stab my sore heart, otherwise.
Thou hath always been to me a surprise;
Though a doubtful, but sparkling surprise,
So any dejection of thine shall be odd,
And a thousand times bitterer than a cold rapid retort;
For thou art pure; and sometimes too pure and fine
As how thy immortal soul stayest still, and growest not old
And in toughness and roughness is to remain,
So long as thy dried flesh shall age, and afford;
And with such songs so prolific as prayers
By friendly laudations like bewitching storms
Thou shall forever stay, and newer grow fader
And in such coldness thou shall offer me warmth;
Beside yon raging fire, and about thy manly arms,
Thou shalt but lull and cradle me like a baby-
until sleep comes and whispers dreams onto me,
Thou shalt be far more tender and smart-
Unlike that ungrateful preceding heart,
Which claimed to be civil, but uncivil,
United but then left my unsuspecting heart apart;
So unlike thee, who is but a smart little devil
Thou who earnestly tempted my soul, and lured my blood
Thou returned my blushes, and caught away my heart
Ah, and now-whenever I thinkest of thee,
All pain and gloom shall revert to oneness,
But how still I know not, as whose days remain but a mystery
For everything in which is at times barren and colourless;
But when alive, they are just as simple
as those brief dreams of thine and mine,
With a love but too sufficient, majestic and ample
Delicately shall they turn troubled and unseen,
But caring and healing and blinding and shaking,
taking turns like oceanic birds which go about
swimming and singing and strumming and swinging,
like a painting of prettily sure clarity-but unseen,
or perhaps a pair of loving, yet unforgettable winds.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee towards whom my hardened heart-again, turns soft,
To thee whom my delirium is all kept safe and true,
To thee for whom I canst feel never reproach-and only love,
And to thee-ah, to thee, thee only-by whom
the grandeur of the blue sky shalt melt;
Ah, thee! And betwixt thy gaze,
All fictitious sunsets shalt perhaps become wet-
Just like those azure spirits in thy fair eyes,
Sometimes too indignant but unquestioning,
and too pure-as to whom even the Devil hath no lies;
To thee only, to whom this enduring love is ever assigned,
And forever, even its temptation be mine, and only mine,
Like unforgivable sins, which are sadly left unatoned
In its eternity standing still like a statue;
beside its wrathed, and bloodied howling stone
And to thee merely, to whom this impaired heart shall ever return,
As it now does, with cries and blows that makest my heart churn
And canst wait not 'till the morn, for on morns only,
thou shalt creepest down the stairs, and stareth onto me,
Often with eyes full of questions;
Questions that thou art too bashful to reflect,
So that turn themselves later on, into emotions,
Which withereth and dieth days after, of doom and neglect.
Ah, but still I loveth thee!
For this regret makest me but loveth thee more and more,
and urge my soul greater, to loveth thee better-than ever before.
For 'tis thee who yet stills my cry, and silences my wrath;
The one who kills my death, and reawakens my breath.
Thou on whom my love shall be delightfully poured,
A love as amiable as the one I hold for dearest Lord,
A love for thee, for only thee in whom I'th found comfort,
A comfort that is holier than any heaven, or even His very own divine abode;
Thou art holier than the untouched swaying grass outside,
Which is green, with greenness so handy and indulgent to every sight,
Thou who art madder than madness itself,
But upon Friday eves, makest my joy even merrier,
And far livelier-than any flailing droplet of rain
Showering this earth's clustered soil out there,
Which does neither soften nor flit away my pain
But makest it even worse, as if God Himself shan't solicit, nor care
Like any other hostile love, which thou might kindly find, every where.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee towards whom my hardened heart-again, turns soft,
To thee whom my delirium is all kept safe and true,
To thee for whom I canst feel never reproach-and only love,
And to thee-ah, to thee, thee only-by whom
the grandeur of the blue sky shalt melt;
In my mind thou art the lost eternity itself,
And by its proud self, thou art still even grander,
For thou makest silence not any more silence,
but joy, in return, even a greater joy.
Ah, thee, thou who the painter of my day,
and the writer of my blooming night.
Thou who art the poet of my past,
and the words of my courteous present.
Thou shall ******* flirty orange blossoms,
And cherish its virtue, which strives and lives
As a most sumptuous, and palpable gift-
Until the knocking of this year's gentle autumn.
Ah! Virtue, virtue, o virtue-whose soul always be
a charm, and indeed a very generous charm-
to my harmonious, though melancholy, *****.
Ah, thee; o lost darling-my lost darling of all awesome day and night,
My lost darling before starlight, and upon the pallid moonlight,
My lost darling above the reach of my sight, and height;
Thou art still a song-to my now tuneless leaves,
and a melody to their bottomless graves,
Thou shalt be a cure to their ill harmony;
Thou art their long-betrayed melody.
And even, thou art the spring
my dying flowers needst to taste,
fpr being with thee produces no haste;
and or whom nothing is neither early, nor late;
And whenst there be no fate, thou shalt be
yon ever consuming fate itself-
And by our inane eyes, thou shalt makest it
but adorable and all the way strong,
For thou, as thou now do, nurture it better
than all the other graciousness among;
Thou art the promise it hath hitherto liked; but just
shyly-and justly refuted, for the bareness of pride,
and often inglorious resistance-all along.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee towards whom my hardened heart-again, turns soft,
To thee whom my delirium is all kept safe and true,
To thee for whom I canst feel never reproach-and only love,
And to thee-ah, to thee, thee only-by whom
the grandeur of the blue sky shalt melt;
Ah, thee! Even in undurable haste, thou art still like a butterfly,
fast and rapid flowing about the earth and into the sky;
Thou who art grateful not for this earth's soil;
Thou who saith 'tis only the sky that canst make thou feel.
Thou who cannot sit, thou cannot lay,
but on whose lanes thou always art secure,
as though from now thou shalt live too long
And belong to this rigorous earth
to whom our mortal souls do not belong.
And as to its vigour, death cannot be delayed,
and words of deadness shalt fast always, be said.
Ah, yet but again, I cannot simply be wrong;
for thou art immortal, immortal, and immortal;
To death thou art but too insipid and loyal;
that willing it not be, to take thy soul into its mourning,
and awkward prayers so scornful and worrying.
Thou who needst not be afraid of death;
for breath shalt never leave thee, and thou shan't breath.
Unsaid poems of thine are thus never to remaineth unspoken,
and far more and more thoughts shalt be perfectly carved, and uttered;
Unlike mine; whose several mortal thoughts shalt be silenced, and unknown
And after years passed my name shalt be forgotten, and my poems altered.
But thou! By any earth, and any of its due shape-thou shalt never be defaced,
and whose thoughts shalt never, even only once-be rephrased,
for thou art immortal, and for decades undying shalt be so;
And to life thou remaineth shalt remain chaste, and undetached;
as the divine wholeness whenst 'tis all slumped and wretched,
and white in unsoiled finery, whenst all goes to dirt and waste;
For grossness shalt escape thee, and stains couldst still, not thee fetch.
To every purity thou shalt thus be the best young match;
Ah, just like my mind shalt ever want thee to be;
but thou art missing from my sight-ah, as thou art not here!
Our paths are far whenst they are but near,
and which fact fillest me still, with dawning dread and fear
Unfortunately, as in this poem, my words not every heart shalt hear;
And to my writings doth I ever patiently retreat, the one,
and one only; whom to my conscience so dear.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee towards whom my hardened heart-again, turns soft,
To thee whom my delirium is all kept safe and true,
To thee for whom I canst feel never reproach-and only love,
And just to thee-ah, to thee, thee only-by whom
the grandeur of the blue sky shalt melt;
How fate but still made us here and meet,
That clue shall never makest me blind, and forget!
Now blighted I am, by dire ungladness and regret,
for having abhorred, and slighting thee too much!
For should I still cherish thee before my mortal death,
and be bitter and testy not; much less grim or harsh.
For fate is what fate is, as how love is just it looks;
and God's doings cannot be wrong; and true and faithful
as words I found crafted, and deciphered in old books.
Ah, and God's blessings are to arriveth in time,
and to taste whose due I indeed needst to be patient.
Be patient t'wards the love on which I climb,
ah, as for me-and whenst the right time cometh-
thou shalt be my sole wealth; so dear and sufficient!
And so for thee, no matter how thou hath my heart now torn,
Still I canst, and shalt reward thee not-with scorn;
for thou art my fate, my path, and my salved destiny;
For of which I am assured, definite, and convinced-
with all my degrees of humble pride, and vivid certainty-
Ah, darling, and thou art my humbleness, but also too many a time-my vanity;
For whom I shan't go and venture but anywhere-
As long as thou stayest and last-verily and for yon whole eternity, by me.
To touch her nakedness with my own
was to take our most human moment
and suspend it higher than the stars
where human beings had no right to be.

To kiss her while we met in bareness
was to transcend our humanity
and in our most ****** pleasure
feel totally unconfined freedom.

To make love with nothing between us
was to make humans’ humanity
and have the two come alive as one
where life itself is understatement.
Instagram @insightshurt
Blogging at www.insightshurt.com
Buy “Insights Hurt: Bringing Healing Thoughts To Life” at store.bookbaby.com/book/insights-hurt
JG Reposh Sep 2010
a railway station with just
three people in it
and you just
walked by
through

one
alone
in bed
with nobody
but you, why
is your breathing
so quiet? please.
and if you want to
then stand up to
walk out and
leave and
return
seeing slow
and pardoning
the bareness of
a new and very red
sunrise

sometimes
I watch it &
I wish you were
dead. but then it
comes up all the
way and I know
that I'm the one
I wish was dead.
and washed back down
to those dead ones
to sit and wait
and whittle my
patience down
so far as
here
- written with a friend.
SassyJ Mar 2016
Your stars glimmers
Belching, wrenching
Exposing my ethnic aura
A tape of heavenly bliss

The acoustic rhythm
Essentially subliminal
Satiably insatiable
Tracked traces covered

Your tree branching out
Railing through my bark
My bosoms blossoming
Tip-toe to my bareness

Your entirely arousing
A summation of beauty
A firefly to enlighten
Encased within to liven

A body I hold twinkles
Whistle magnetic presence
Sprinkle my mind to entwine
Assign your soul peacefully

A might, a light at sight
A whole in me,a one in you
Pluck, nip,smash,trap,stash
In dreamscapes and reality
Onoma Oct 2019
rusty dusks

leave twinges

of sunlight that

may not lift from

where they lie again.

shadowed corpus

growing late to rise--

the psudeonymn

of the last stranger.

revealing what was

so perfectly hid away--

delivered by the cost of

articulation.

bared--that's all, who's to

say?

as no one can see what that

bareness saw.
I want you in your purest form
celebrate your freedom, Goddess
because
what's the perfect gift, if its never been unwrapped?
maintaining my composure
only to align my truths with your contour
see, I prefer you **** and clothed at the same time

Bare it all to me
without removing a single article of clothing
reveal to me
those beautiful scars
that you got centuries ago
although
they never fully healed at all

Guide me to those beauty marks in the most unseen places
until now
I Imagine myself
carefully kissing careless bruises
left by shameless past lovers
Be real **** for me
no where to hide secrets when you're completely naked

There is a canvas between your thighs
it brings out the artist in me
and the art of your naked soul attracts me
to want to know more

Sentiments of what you've learn to conceal
from others
you show to me
transparency in your bareness
as you impose

fearlessly
carelessly
freely
fluently
in your '******'
Sophia Feb 2013
you are lazy like a sunday and irrevocable like my mistakes

you go slow with me because the burns on my body are still fresh

“you’re so sentimental”, i whisper as you fill every crack in me, like cement

you dug a whole in the dirt and told me to bury my past right there

and you watched as i filled the ground with fires and nightmares

when you tell me you love me, i know what you are talking about

my skin lifts away and my bones ache from the bareness when you look at me
Donall Dempsey May 2016
BEAUTY O'ERSNOW'D AND BARENESS EVERY WHERE

A Christmas
with the Thames

almost freezing, then
thawing & then again

the London of 1598
asleep

under a quietness
of snow

that hides the world
from itself

as some Elizabetheans
go to steal

a theatre
silent now for a brace of years

frozen by bitter
dispute.

The playhouse dismantled
bit by bit

so that when it rises
it will become in time

The Globe
this wooden O.

Will turns his face
up to the stars

laughs
at this theatre theft

snowflakes settling
upon his eyelids

remembering when
he was all of 7

and the Christian tales
told in stained glass

are shattered
for their sins

now only white light
is to be

let in

picking up a shard
of the ****** Mary

here a fragment of
St. George.

He sticks out his tongue
tastes the snow

knows that
all things change to

begin again.

He laughs.

The ****** Mary's smile
still clasped in his hand.
Inspired by JAMES SHAPIRO'S COMPELLING 1599 - A YEAR IN THE LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE>

The 'theft" of their former theatre,The Theatre, which dismantled would become the famous wooden O. And Will watching( possibly ) when all of seven. . .the stained glass windows of his 'right goodly chapel" been smashed by a glazier who was paid 23 shillings and 8 pence for his smashing. These two images are what burned on in my mind.

I have often stood in that chapel and seen what remains of the whitewashed paintings now brought back to life. His dad had to order this whitewashing months before Will was born but by 7 Will could have been witness to the death of the coloured glass and all that was to be beheld there.

So this Midsummer's Day madness of 1571 really stated with me and forced the poem upon me.

"Popery may creep in at a glass window as well as at a door" as one William Prynne put it. The English Reformation going about its daily task to the dismay of the common folk who had to put up with the religion changing hands and changing hands yet again all in the little time of just over a quarter of a century.

Being a great lover of stained glass and its beauty this was what got me the most!

The title is from Will's Sonnet no. 5:

Those Hours that with gentle work did frame

"Beauty o'er --snowed, and bareness everywhere.
Then were not summer's distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, "
Tori Jurdanus Jun 2013
While having a heart to heart one night,
My friend informs me that as a straight person, I will never understand what it's like to be closeted.

That there is a reason people understand the term "gay suicide" without context,
That love looked like moth wings that would flutter away or wither at touch,
That the secrets and shame are like locks on the door from the outside and you realize that there is no one out there with a key.

That same friend once asked me if I've ever thought about joining a nudist colony.
She said that the comfort I find in my own skin and my ability to separate naked bodies from beds was admirable.
I told her, there was a reason I never read her my poetry.
I told her, I don't wear make up at Wal-Mart.
That I turn off the lights but still let him love me.
I read to estranged ears.
That bareness was something I would never grow into.

"Darling!" I told her, "there are some things you just aren't meant to see."
I have been truth-or-dared to strip naked, and its not as easy as you might believe.
There is a little something that sits at the back of my mind I like to call "modesty."

Modesty can be defined as the quality or state of being unassuming or limited in the estimation of one's abilities.
"Darling," I wanted to tell her, "You have no idea what these hands are capable of."

There was a time I was proud of that.
They were small and feeble, but holding a blade firm they became strong.
They became what I needed.
My skin became less of a barrier and more of a costume. When I slipped it on, I became original.
I became identified, if only to myself.
The scabs were a serial number the First World girl who was a little too white,
a little too straight,
and a little too doubtful could call her own.

But I was a little too weak,
and a little too lonely
and had a little too much time on my hands to wrap around the knife.

They became my drug. I became a liar.

My skin became an apology for everything I thought you should blame me for.

There was a time I would have done anything to show you, but I have always been a performer.
No one ever asked to see the curtains close.  

My friend told me that I would never understand what it's like to be closeted.
That secrets and shame are like locks on the door from the outside and you realize that there is no one out there with a key.
The tally of every moment I'm locked in is a timeline of my mistakes, visible on my own skin.
There are some things you just aren't meant to see.
Donall Dempsey May 2017
BEAUTY O'ERSNOW'D AND BARENESS EVERY WHERE

A Christmas
with the Thames

almost freezing, then
thawing & then again

the London of 1598
asleep

under a quietness
of snow

that hides the world
from itself

as some Elizabetheans
go to steal

a theatre
silent now for a brace of years

frozen by bitter
dispute.

The playhouse dismantled
bit by bit

so that when it rises
it will become in time

The Globe
this wooden O.

Will turns his face
up to the stars

laughs
at this theatre theft

snowflakes settling
upon his eyelids

remembering when
he was all of 7

and the Christian tales
told in stained glass

are shattered
for their sins

now only white light
is to be

let in

picking up a shard
of the ****** Mary

here a fragment of
St. George.

He sticks out his tongue
tastes the snow

knows that
all things change to

begin again.

He laughs.

The ****** Mary's smile
still clasped in his hand.


Inspired by JAMES SHAPIRO'S COMPELLING 1599 - A YEAR IN THE LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

The 'theft" of their former theatre,The Theatre, which dismantled would become the famous wooden O. And Will watching( possibly ) when all of seven. . .the stained glass windows of his 'right goodly chapel" been smashed by a glazier who was paid 23 shillings and 8 pence for his smashing. These two images are what burned on in my mind.

I have often stood in that chapel and seen what remains of the whitewashed paintings now brought back to life. His dad had to order this whitewashing months before Will was born but by 7 Will could have been witness to the death of the coloured glass and all that was to be beheld there.

So this Midsummer's Day madness of 1571 really stated with me and forced the poem upon me.

"Popery may creep in at a glass window as well as at a door" as one William Prynne put it. The English Reformation going about its daily task to the dismay of the common folk who had to put up with the religion changing hands and changing hands yet again all in the little time of just over a quarter of a century.

Being a great lover of stained glass and its beauty this was what got me the most!

The title is from Will's Sonnet no. 5:

Those Hours that with gentle work did frame

"Beauty o'er --snowed, and bareness everywhere.
Then were not summer's distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, "
Corona Harris Jan 2016
Please O' Lord
Don't let this consume me
This burning urge to do injustices
To violate her sheets
To desecrate her temple
God Almighty
What a beautiful temple you've made
Carved to perfection, it entices me
How can I resist this temptation?
She is my every craving
Tell me Dear Lord
Is it wrong for me to admire your art?
To gaze upon the bareness of her walls
Feel the thickness in her stature
And if So...
forgive me Father
For I can no longer restrain my hands
My tongue can't stay in its cage
My body can not be with out hers
She must be consumed by me
By My lust
~Corona Harris~
Donall Dempsey May 2020
BEAUTY O'ERSNOW'D AND BARENESS EVERY WHERE

A Christmas
with the Thames

almost freezing, then
thawing & then again

the London of 1598
asleep

under a quietness
of snow

that hides the world
from itself

as some Elizabetheans
go to steal

a theatre
silent now for a brace of years

frozen by bitter
dispute.

The playhouse dismantled
bit by bit

so that when it rises
it will become in time

The Globe
this wooden O.

Will turns his face
up to the stars

laughs
at this theatre theft

snowflakes settling
upon his eyelids

remembering when
he was all of 7

and the Christian tales
told in stained glass

are shattered
for their sins

now only white light
is to be

let in

picking up a shard
of the ****** Mary

here a fragment of
St. George.

He sticks out his tongue
tastes the snow

knows that
all things change to

begin again.

He laughs.

The ****** Mary's smile
still clasped in his hand.

*

Inspired by JAMES SHAPIRO'S COMPELLING 1599 - A YEAR IN THE LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

The 'theft" of their former theatre,The Theatre, which dismantled would become the famous wooden O. And Will watching( possibly ) when all of seven. . .the stained glass windows of his 'right goodly chapel" been smashed by a glazier who was paid 23 shillings and 8 pence for his smashing. These two images are what burned on in my mind.

I have often stood in that chapel and seen what remains of the whitewashed paintings now brought back to life. His dad had to order this whitewashing months before Will was born but by 7 Will could have been witness to the death of the coloured glass and all that was to be beheld there.

So this Midsummer's Day madness of 1571 really stated with me and forced the poem upon me.

"Popery may creep in at a glass window as well as at a door" as one William Prynne put it. The English Reformation going about its daily task to the dismay of the common folk who had to put up with the religion changing hands and changing hands yet again all in the little time of just over a quarter of a century.

Being a great lover of stained glass and its beauty this was what got me the most!

The title is from Will's Sonnet no. 5:

Those Hours that with gentle work did frame

"Beauty o'er --snowed, and bareness everywhere.
Then were not summer's distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, "
***

Inspired by JAMES SHAPIRO'S COMPELLING 1599 - A YEAR IN THE LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

The 'theft" of their former theatre,The Theatre, which dismantled would become the famous wooden O. And Will watching( possibly ) when all of seven. . .the stained glass windows of his 'right goodly chapel" been smashed by a glazier who was paid 23 shillings and 8 pence for his smashing. These two images are what burned on in my mind.

I have often stood in that chapel and seen what remains of the whitewashed paintings now brought back to life. His dad had to order this whitewashing months before Will was born but by 7 Will could have been witness to the death of the coloured glass and all that was to be beheld there.

So this Midsummer's Day madness of 1571 really stated with me and forced the poem upon me.

"Popery may creep in at a glass window as well as at a door" as one William Prynne put it. The English Reformation going about its daily task to the dismay of the common folk who had to put up with the religion changing hands and changing hands yet again all in the little time of just over a quarter of a century.

Being a great lover of stained glass and its beauty this was what got me the most!

The title is from Will's Sonnet no. 5:

Those Hours that with gentle work did frame

"Beauty o'er --snowed, and bareness everywhere.
Then were not summer's distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, "
SassyJ Jan 2016
The universal path is a windy link
in reflections it bounces in dryness
the wood wounded with unknown
phases tainted with fists that hints

The bareness of the desert lays untold
roasted and unbroken in resistive dunes
torn and un-tuned in the rusty mirage
bareness reformed by the scorning sun

See those hungry eyes digging in hilled sands
the lost hope lusting for a love swayed to last
memories of the crux, the faded in between
the withering leaves burnt to grimy coal

The tidal waves erupts as pure bliss builds
such loneliness buried in ocean depths
kneeling at the mercies of the greenery
pending rejuvenation to harmonious trance

On the edge of the bridge toes tiptoeing
the cord unfurling in, over and within
waters paints in hues of silverly blue
a sacrifice to reign in the depths of the shore
Keilah Aug 2014
kiss me -
the bareness of my neck
the fragility of my collars

trace me -
the curl of my ear
the geometry of my spine

choose me -
over &
over
TheBookworm Apr 2014
Bare feet scuttle around on marbled floors

Painting muddy footprints on the white canvas.

Onlookers walk by in disgust, their noses in

The air as they click their heels in an effort

To avoid the unbecoming scene before them.


The feet are callused and shred, imprints of

Pebbles forever etched into the raw flesh

Of their nakedness. Was it worth it?

Yes. It should be.

It will be.


The gritty pavement is as hot as the

Sun, a burning star, a supernova lifetimes

Away. Their yellowed teeth are clenched tightly;

They are determined to stand despite the furious

Pain slowly eating its way into the

Soles of their feet.


Many scars and scratches from roads they have

Traveled are scattered across the bareness;

They are proud, for it is their art,

That is the measurement

Of their life.


At last, the final goodbye from the scorching day

Kisses their heads in a bittersweet farewell

And You see them smiling in the dark,

Blue eyes glowing with a brilliance You have

Never seen before. They are eager to

Run with their bare, misshapen feet

And jump with all their strength into the

Watery depths below.

You look around.

They are splashing in the waves,

The cool ocean soothing the pains

Of the day.

The corner of Your lip upturns with

A hint of a smile.

This is how they live.

And this is who they are.


Who then are you going to be?
Jonny Angel Apr 2015
Long ago,
I remember,
we paid the lone-guard
twenty pesos apiece
to camp on
top of the temple,
to experience
something cosmic.
And after he left,
we stripped down
to our bareness
& kissed under
the milky-stars
with howlers squealing
a backdrop melody.
I lost myself that night.
Tracing your lips with my tongue,
I felt the cool jungle air
swirling around us,
you did not fight me
as I melted inside you.
I swear the jaguars
rejoiced that night,
as we had rekindled
the acts of the sacred gods.
It was more than cosmic,
more than stellar,
I felt the poles shift
our hearts.
There were not many at that lonely place,
Where two scourged hills met in a little plain.
The wind cried loud in gusts, then low again.
Three pines strained darkly, runners in a race
Unseen by any.  Toward the further woods
A dim harsh noise of voices rose and ceased.
--We were most silent in those solitudes--
Then, sudden as a flame, the black-robed priest,
The clotted earth piled roughly up about
The hacked red oblong of the new-made thing,
Short words in swordlike Latin--and a rout
Of dreams most impotent, unwearying.
Then, like a blind door shut on a carouse,
The terrible bareness of the soul's last house.
Mitchell Oct 2012
Re-touched by the muse of old work
Light reflects on a life I thought forgotten
The rhythm is straighter
The words clearer
Thoughts not nearly as heavy

We are getting older

Make believe
Reality
And see that
Life is no longer fiction

Clouds wet the land
As the swirling sea on the streets
Tides swelling inland
The cities drowned in their own
Routine & monotony

Slaves to themselves
Their demons
Their vices
Vicious circle

To absurd are we to fight this
Fallible vibrations of human resemblance
Neither dead or alive
In low or high conscious states of being

Where is our message,
Dear Generation?

Concrete caked red hot
In the Los Angeles Sun
Moon setting star light whose
Martyrs are one
And a million

One day
We'll all settle
For whatever
Is in front of us

Some
Already have

Their meals set
The napkins folded
The china out
The silverware
All polished and shined

And oh!
That fireplace is
Burning

Now, the mind recoils in
Kafkaesque' style
More paranoid than old Poe
But not nearly as saturated
In His own imaginations blood
As He'

There was so little, yet, so
Much time back then;

Plenty of room for
The mind to play, to rot, to embrace
The absurdity of existence,
All at the same time

We are quite distracted now,
Aren't we?

So many things to keep our
Naturally busy brains busy;
Hiding so many questions
Hiding so many answers
Hiding so many truths to these
Multitude of questions and answers

What I pain I feel when I think of
How much is missed and the reason for it

Ice hot against the fingertips
A child crying for their mother
Though they know not why
The gavel falling on an innocent man
Girls *****, impregnated, forgotten
An eclipse of humanities evil
Broadcasted as reality television
An apocalypse on pay-per-view
(Is that even around anymore?)
A lie in the form of the truth embraced
Accidents accused for spiritual bigotry
Bareness of the human soul ridiculed
Care taker's thrown from hospital windows
The acceptance of our own horrors
As we smile, nod, a glint of righteousness upon the eye

At times
I hope
This time will
Be forgotten in history

Contributions of
Technology

Almost
Forcing us
To be connected

Making life

A Little More Bearable Every Day

An age who
Finds themselves
As they build
Atop themselves

Nameless,
Their fingernails chip & bleed

Aiming now toward space
A holy place

Or maybe
Just a house
With a barbeque and

A view
Ah, so stately art t'ou, my prince-
prone as th' night, comely as th' moon.
And wakeful is my sorrow;
for waiting for thee-
is not at all th' same
as greeting him soon.
How all t'ese senses remain so numb!
Love, as 'twas first fierce ye'a living dumb,
now as insignificant as a thumb,
and th' fame t'at surrounded was breath
beforeth turning bald and corny as death.
I figure t'ou art now out of my air;
as nothingness like t'is
tears and usurps my hair.
Pursuit of falsehood, pursuit of greed,
is but a seed t'at makes my heart bleed.
Leaves t'at art fake within my torso,
art now crying-and pleading
Just like a cheeky little girl;
unreal as we were,
as t'ou but still t'en-belonged to 'er.

And just like our former sins,
silent but threatening-
thy goneness hath parted me
from my dear'st everything.
Ah, my limbs, my shins,
my lungs, my spleens,
art but now scanty and unawake!
And since t'ere's no give,
thus no more t'ere's take!
How t'ese shadows t'at our hearts made,
now alone and whimper and fade;
startling all over t'is notorious silky winter-
silly as our dear laughter,
but satirical-and edgeless as fate.

And bland, bland, bland;
o-how severely, and dreamily bland!
Thy ever gallantry and morning wit-
so well as charms t'at hath left my cheeks lit!
And with a smile I found so sweet,
to my long black hair t'ou would flirt!
But wherefore art t'ou, now, o my love?
My Russian gem, and prince alike!
Would t'ose mountains in thy Moscow-
be as dazzling as our tomorrow?
And be th' chamber of our dreams-
whereupon thou shalt rolleth into mine,
singeth and reciteth altoget'er our tales
with a glass of ****** wine-
tasty and delicate as our daring gales,
but complicated as we might dwelleth-
and be lost in one anot'er, in our shell.

And ah-comfort, comfort, comfort!
Our dear passion t'at wasth stopped short,
but hath now replied to me
within th' circles of its own balmy nakedness-
and see, my love-how canst it just not, conceal its bareness!
How on one morning shalt tread our foot,
beneath th' sun t'at shines, undereth daylight t'at shoots-
and across our greyish moors and t'eir roots-
all our charms, woes, and reveries-
canst but unite into one again,
as I hath thus dreameth 'twixt yester's rain,
and alloweth our smot'ered course to remain.
Ah, Vladimir, and of course as plainly but sure-
I still long to turn thee to my treasure;
but love is bold and far too inadequate
to our desolate dreamland;
and might be too cynical-
thus unbearable; to just my dearest, dearest friend.
How sometimes I wish to be free!
And obediently disentwineth my hand;
'fore to thee I gratefully bend.

But desires, desires of t'ese, canst only be despair;
and 'till now our meeting hath just been too late.
Tragic as our souls shalt re-main alone, and not ever pair;
as I hath now one else 'ere to date;
as innocent as we wert-could hath he been unt'ere;
whenst I gazed but into thy shadowy eyes-
ones so full of comical mystery, and manhood t'at lies!
O, Vladimir, but still-tears cannot be our pale answer;
whenst our hearts could but suffer;
and secret love; our sole-ye' joyless matter.

And tough, tough needst we be, just like t'is poem-
just by its battered hands on a piece of paper.
But strong, strong and guiltless my heart may be-
dreams of which it cannot lower-
as t'ou art here not with me, o dear lover!
Ah, Vladimir, th' skies above
art still my beauteous, but neglect'd view;
trifling to my veins, as it never knew.
And thus, Vladimir, as it shalt again glow
my heart shalt be with thee in cold Moscow,
as thou danceth and befriendeth
our triumphant tomorrow.

Returneth t'en should I into my clock,
drencheth myself in my best frock;
and waiteth for on my door his knock.
Ah, and whenst later t'is be over-
shalt I but dreameth of thee again-
a guilty, but flawless-as how
a waking dream should be!
A dream, ah, andeth with it still,
a peaceful dream-
in which I canst feel thee against me-
teasing my soul and rubs my knee,
and weaves thy love, into my veins.
Poison me-o, poison me, my love!
And riseth thou t'ere-as my own knight;
within our dark; but stainless night.
Flick of the wrist
Let your life
Sneak from your
Veins
Streaming into
Night
Dreams are dying
Everyone's lying
About the end
When eyelids flutter
And
Lungs collapse
With a gentle swoosh
All you have
Are starry skies
In the tranquility of red
In the bareness of white
From time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees
The soft blue starlight through the one small window,
The moon above black trees, and clouds, and Venus,--
And turns to write . . .  The clock, behind ticks softly.

It is so long, indeed, since I have written,--
Two years, almost, your last is turning yellow,--
That these first words I write seem cold and strange.
Are you the man I knew, or have you altered?
Altered, of course--just as I too have altered--
And whether towards each other, or more apart,
We cannot say . . .  I've just re-read your letter--
Not through forgetfulness, but more for pleasure--

Pondering much on all you say in it
Of mystic consciousness--divine conversion--
The sense of oneness with the infinite,--
Faith in the world, its beauty, and its purpose . . .
Well, you believe one must have faith, in some sort,
If one's to talk through this dark world contented.
But is the world so dark?  Or is it rather
Our own brute minds,--in which we hurry, trembling,
Through streets as yet unlighted?  This, I think.

You have been always, let me say, "romantic,"--
Eager for color, for beauty, soon discontented
With a world of dust and stones and flesh too ailing:
Even before the question grew to problem
And drove you bickering into metaphysics,
You met on lower planes the same great dragon,
Seeking release, some fleeting satisfaction,
In strange aesthetics . . .  You tried, as I remember,
One after one, strange cults, and some, too, morbid,
The cruder first, more violent sensations,
Gorgeously carnal things, conceived and acted
With splendid animal thirst . . .  Then, by degrees,--
Savoring all more delicate gradations

In all that hue and tone may play on flesh,
Or thought on brain,--you passed, if I may say so,
From red and scarlet through morbid greens to mauve.
Let us regard ourselves, you used to say,
As instruments of music, whereon our lives
Will play as we desire: and let us yield
These subtle bodies and subtler brains and nerves
To all experience plays . . . And so you went
From subtle tune to subtler, each heard once,
Twice or thrice at the most, tiring of each;
And closing one by one your doors, drew in
Slowly, through darkening labyrinths of feeling,
Towards the central chamber . . .  Which now you've reached.

What, then's, the secret of this ultimate chamber--
Or innermost, rather?  If I see it clearly
It is the last, and cunningest, resort
Of one who has found this world of dust and flesh,--
This world of lamentations, death, injustice,
Sickness, humiliation, slow defeat,
Bareness, and ugliness, and iteration,--
Too meaningless; or, if it has a meaning,
Too tiresomely insistent on one meaning:

Futility . . .  This world, I hear you saying,--
With lifted chin, and arm in outflung gesture,
Coldly imperious,--this transient world,
What has it then to give, if not containing
Deep hints of nobler worlds?  We know its beauties,--
Momentary and trivial for the most part,
Perceived through flesh, passing like flesh away,--
And know how much outweighed they are by darkness.
We are like searchers in a house of darkness,
A house of dust; we creep with little lanterns,
Throwing our tremulous arcs of light at random,
Now here, now there, seeing a plane, an angle,
An edge, a curve, a wall, a broken stairway
Leading to who knows what; but never seeing
The whole at once . . .  We ***** our way a little,
And then grow tired.  No matter what we touch,
Dust is the answer--dust: dust everywhere.
If this were all--what were the use, you ask?
But this is not: for why should we be seeking,
Why should we bring this need to seek for beauty,
To lift our minds, if there were only dust?
This is the central chamber you have come to:
Turning your back to the world, until you came
To this deep room, and looked through rose-stained windows,
And saw the hues of the world so sweetly changed.

Well, in a measure, so only do we all.
I am not sure that you can be refuted.
At the very last we all put faith in something,--
You in this ghost that animates your world,
This ethical ghost,--and I, you'll say, in reason,--
Or sensuous beauty,--or in my secret self . . .
Though as for that you put your faith in these,
As much as I do--and then, forsaking reason,--
Ascending, you would say, to intuition,--
You predicate this ghost of yours, as well.
Of course, you might have argued,--and you should have,--
That no such deep appearance of design
Could shape our world without entailing purpose:
For can design exist without a purpose?
Without conceiving mind? . . .  We are like children
Who find, upon the sands, beside a sea,
Strange patterns drawn,--circles, arcs, ellipses,
Moulded in sand . . .  Who put them there, we wonder?

Did someone draw them here before we came?
Or was it just the sea?--We pore upon them,
But find no answer--only suppositions.
And if these perfect shapes are evidence
Of immanent mind, it is but circumstantial:
We never come upon him at his work,
He never troubles us.  He stands aloof--
Well, if he stands at all: is not concerned
With what we are or do.  You, if you like,
May think he broods upon us, loves us, hates us,
Conceives some purpose of us.  In so doing
You see, without much reason, will in law.
I am content to say, 'this world is ordered,
Happily so for us, by accident:
We go our ways untroubled save by laws
Of natural things.'  Who makes the more assumption?

If we were wise--which God knows we are not--
(Notice I call on God!) we'd plumb this riddle
Not in the world we see, but in ourselves.
These brains of ours--these delicate spinal clusters--
Have limits: why not learn them, learn their cravings?
Which of the two minds, yours or mine, is sound?
Yours, which scorned the world that gave it freedom,
Until you managed to see that world as omen,--
Or mine, which likes the world, takes all for granted,
Sorrow as much as joy, and death as life?--
You lean on dreams, and take more credit for it.
I stand alone . . .  Well, I take credit, too.
You find your pleasure in being at one with all things--
Fusing in lambent dream, rising and falling
As all things rise and fall . . .  I do that too--
With reservations.  I find more varied pleasure
In understanding: and so find beauty even
In this strange dream of yours you call the truth.

Well, I have bored you.  And it's growing late.
For household news--what have you heard, I wonder?
You must have heard that Paul was dead, by this time--
Of spinal cancer.  Nothing could be done--
We found it out too late.  His death has changed me,
Deflected much of me that lived as he lived,
Saddened me, slowed me down.  Such things will happen,
Life is composed of them; and it seems wisdom
To see them clearly, meditate upon them,
And understand what things flow out of them.
Otherwise, all goes on here much as always.
Why won't you come and see us, in the spring,
And bring old times with you?--If you could see me
Sitting here by the window, watching Venus
Go down behind my neighbor's poplar branches,--
Just where you used to sit,--I'm sure you'd come.
This year, they say, the springtime will be early.
Hal Loyd Denton Oct 2012
These dark red canyon walls stand in tall narrowness they are defined by disregard are they not
Inflamed in temperate conditions as a caldron pressure intensely felt with the occasional “emotional
Firestorm” that erupts with water that stands tall in this narrow straight tossing water makes the picture
Totally true how you feel emotionally undercurrents that perform devastating acts the unpleasant
Reality of dry bareness after such flood waters to taste and know love and its pleasure then have it
Removed on all levels home friends family all that you cared and shared just a sweet haunting memory
Then the lone masterful dark angel loneliness itself makes camp in your hearts devastation the one
Battle strategy left is defiance where honorable love was the most inviting host now rebellion insolence
Leads the heart that is alone you look out on the world with a course eye but all the time the heart of
Wealth and love that once was calls after you with tears and a haunting lament crying for yesterday
Those last days of autumn when even the earth is in tender moods with assistance of colors so blended
They are the materialization of peace joy nature’s love told on the grand scale come and walk under my
Wooded canopy of richest hues as they burn into this decline that speaks of hope and richest promise
This must be where you seek a refuge this power at this level will mend the most broken of hearts
Tender finger that surpass any and all surgeon’s ability to heal this healing rides on the gust of wind
In late fall it mixes with emotional heaviness it actually removes heavy hurts then takes their place and
Imperceptibly a freeing has occurred the longer these days last more mercy is found go into this wooded
Wonder follow the hill down to a peace full stream and as it carries the wayward leaf it will also carry
Some more of your wounds away the cool water will raise a temperature control heavenly designed it
Will touch your brow a morning long past will return and you will acknowledge it with a smile something
That has been a stranger for many days now these early days the harvest moon shines so golden
No one can stand under its golden beams and not thrive with serenity’s voice passing over the torn parts
Of the heart it responds by these wounds becoming healthy with healing oh gentle memory I
Remember so sweetly in September those fabulous days so again just in a small amount of time it will
Be turkey and all the fixings topped off with pumpkin pie and whip cream on top I hope you think of all
These thoughts as you stroll through pumpkin patches know this from this lonely heart of yours that
Beauty and love are the dominant truths that will win so use that as your fortress your mind protected
And secure behind these impenetrateable walls if you feel any different it is only lies that given the test
Is only like wisps of smoke no substance just a lot of empty drama that is useless when truth answers
The door there is a usurper loosed in our world he starts the problems that break the heart then as
A good devil he comes back to mistreat you some more it’s like he is trying to improve on the
Devastation already visited on your life these words for ever bind him I will stick to you closer than
A brother I will never leave you alone how would you like it if you lived in olden days and the king of the
Whole realm came and knocked on your door wouldn’t you be excited my friend there is a King at your
Door but He is the King of Kings you first would melt in His arms and all troubles would dissolve not only
Would it be honey in the rock but your heart will know sweetness beyond compare this is only a prayer
Away hurting broken one mercy as wide as the ocean and tall as Everest only awaits your voice’s cry
BEAUTY O'ERSNOW'D AND BARENESS EVERY WHERE

A Christmas
with the Thames

almost freezing, then
thawing & then again

the London of 1598
asleep

under a quietness
of snow

that hides the world
from itself

as some Elizabetheans
go to steal

a theatre
silent now for a brace of years

frozen by bitter
dispute.

The playhouse dismantled
bit by bit

so that when it rises
it will become in time

The Globe
this wooden O.

Will turns his face
up to the stars

laughs
at this theatre theft

snowflakes settling
upon his eyelids

remembering when
he was all of 7

and the Christian tales
told in stained glass

are shattered
for their sins

now only white light
is to be

let in

picking up a shard
of the ****** Mary

here a fragment of
St. George.

He sticks out his tongue
tastes the snow

knows that
all things change to

begin again.

He laughs.

The ****** Mary's smile
still clasped in his hand.

*

Inspired by JAMES SHAPIRO'S COMPELLING 1599 - A YEAR IN THE LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

The 'theft" of their former theatre,The Theatre, which dismantled would become the famous wooden O. And Will watching( possibly ) when all of seven. . .the stained glass windows of his 'right goodly chapel" been smashed by a glazier who was paid 23 shillings and 8 pence for his smashing. These two images are what burned on in my mind.

I have often stood in that chapel and seen what remains of the whitewashed paintings now brought back to life. His dad had to order this whitewashing months before Will was born but by 7 Will could have been witness to the death of the coloured glass and all that was to be beheld there.

So this Midsummer's Day madness of 1571 really stated with me and forced the poem upon me.

"Popery may creep in at a glass window as well as at a door" as one William Prynne put it. The English Reformation going about its daily task to the dismay of the common folk who had to put up with the religion changing hands and changing hands yet again all in the little time of just over a quarter of a century.

Being a great lover of stained glass and its beauty this was what got me the most!

The title is from Will's Sonnet no. 5:

Those Hours that with gentle work did frame

"Beauty o'er --snowed, and bareness everywhere.
Then were not summer's distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, "
~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~
1. Take care of your teeth and gums
Brush & floss, everyday (Seriously)
Keep your teeth, if at all possible.
They are your very own precious Ivory.
~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~
2. a. Eat well. Do not deny your body
nourishment. Gals, you will want a nice
set of *****. Trust me...eat.
b, Try to not put on too much extra weight.
(no judgement here) Just that it is very
******* your body. Ridiculously
difficult to lose when you're older.
~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~
3. Love the skin you live within.  Try not to
bake your bareness too long in the sun,
or burn your precious epidermis.
Cleanse, exfoliate. Most of all, drink plenty of water and moisturize, moisturize, moisturize
~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~
4. Hang on to all of your bones.
You will miss them when they are gone
Take care of your hands, neck, hips and knees.
Once your joints wear out, it's a total ******.
~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~
5. Keep movin' and groovin'.
If you stay still too long, you will get stuck
~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~
6. Find the humor in everything. It is there!
All of life's lessons placed before you.
When all else fails, you can laugh about it.
(Trust Me. Your going to need this one)
~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~

~Christi Michaels~May 2015~
Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.
☆Retrospective☆Sage Advice☆
all information learned by trial and error
SassyJ Feb 2016
Is passion a virtue?
A passion that ingests my inside
The bareness exposed emotions
The slow graphic censorship
A depiction of Zion on earth
A deception ranting with wars

Is dedication a virtue?
A definition of a hard felt path
Preserved with heartfelt zeal
An ember that ceases and glows
Triggered touch of perseverance
Till death does you part in parts

Self restraint for one another
Dedicated to fulfil a purpose
Quests of alternative borders
Armoured in armed negations
Negotiations negative dominion
Should we control sensuality?
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December’s bareness everywhere!
And yet this time removed was summer’s time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widowed wombs after their lords’ decease:
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit,
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And thou away, the very birds are mute.
    Or, if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer,
    That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.
Natalie Przybyla Jun 2013
At the first rumble of the thunder
You threw me to the grass
Kissing me deeply,
You knew you did not even have to ask
At the second dribble of rain
Your strong hands ripped my shirt
Stroking me softly,
I clawed at the cold, hydrated dirt
At the third strike of bright lightning**
You smiled at my body
Thanking me sweetly,
Our bareness was anything but gaudy
Follow me on Twitter @laniate
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
For never-resting Time leads summer on
To hideous winter and confounds him there,
Sap checked with frost and ***** leaves quite gone,
Beauty o’ersnowed and bareness everywhere.
Then, were not summer’s distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was.
    But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet,
    Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
You and I…
We could amuse ourselves
With a pocket-sized butane flicker,
A tall, jagged promontory,
A slip of favorite this-or-that,
Or a jubilant burst of notes.
Equipped with the bareness of life
- Hands, tongues, breath, stars-
We could still have everything.
You just don’t know it yet.
10/13/12




Breaking in a new muse.
Debra A Baugh Jun 2012
I, stand before him
poised in bareness;
his bristles, he dips
upon his palette to
color me, in passion
upon canvas

in artistic eyes;
his smile beckons
and unravels my
composure, eliciting
his brush to paint
hidden sensuality
in demureness

his brush tantalizes;
a flick of his wrist
dabs upon canvas
stroking curve after
curve, as if, caressing
my frame, the look in
his eyes reveals;
charcoal etchings
of his cupidity,
coveting lust

pantomiming
intentions upon his
canvas; his thoughts
flow from fingers to
brush, brush to palette,
palette to canvas; in
his mind's eye hunger
unfolds, as I, in turn
invite him to partake
of his artistic craving
to taste his own art
with each brush stroke
savoring my essence
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Searching
The Cree and the crow know the meaning of searching you have to lose a way of life and yearn for it in despair to know the true
Way of the way of the searcher if you were painting this you would put the southwest scenes on canvas then build into it the essence
Of aloneness bareness as far as the eye can see I to know this loss mountains an ocean a desert and a southern Mecca of fantasy
it occupied your mind and you didn’t have to face the hard truth life as you know it has passed away I came back to a familiar
Land in my own right a refugee in exile my first deliverance was when I found a little one hurting she was searching for a lost father’s
Love together we drove back the darkness refilled the space with light old streets and houses are promises that are really traps
The broken hearted seek among them treasures that no longer exist all you find is structures that are the same but new faces
Emerge you are craving recognition all you receive are blank stares no great breaking smiles the feeling of love you once new in
Abundance no all you find is shadows from their great brightness that burns on a future plain for a time beyond reach so the desert
Extreme is all you find on your journey but then a surprise encounter held more than you could imagine rising in this wasteland
Two pillars rise a vibrant aliveness pulsates draws you in you recognize what has ordered this perfect union over time you see the hand
Of love it has seasoned them perfected human endeavor by sacrifice and giving of themselves they were acceptable the altar burst into
A consuming flame that burned off the dross and the elements of discord it was like observing a sacred scene as two kneel in holy
Devotions their faces were smooth and resonated tenderness all was reshaped into splendor and grace I just sat and let the wonder
Wash over me though the sea was far away through them I felt a connectedness again the deep fathoms carried me into hidden
Gated worlds only found in deep waters the desert was no more the harsh broken land receded it was replaced by fields that were
Weighed by the burden of a harvest that must be taken stored lived from for all days until time ends and then we all change now it
is where only angels preen in the beloved unseen until then no one must pine alone as long as he has friends these true riches
are abundant you could find them in a neighbor or a stranger if you know what to look for my western home is closer all that I loved
is not found in places but in faces just think I found it in a meirrifeld
SassyJ Mar 2016
In bareness life sheds
Melting our essences
To fear our termination
In caskets it all ends

In excess life mends
A regeneration read
Generations transpired
For eons we existed

In neutral life tends
Unscripted to rest
Reassessed to subsist
Repressed to matter

Thou shan't fear death
Embraceth thine destiny
Immortalised in shrines
Till the universe climaxes
Name of an Orchestral Music Piece (Joshua Ingram)
Thanks for the privilege.
Danielle Shorr Jul 2015
Dpl
While standing in the line to get inside,
the rain makes a surprise appearance
this may be one of the few time I don't mind it

I remember the first tuesday spent here
when my Chicago soul ended up on a Los Angeles street at the recommendation of a new friend and then
somehow ended up on stage

I don't recall details like I should but
the eager racing of my heart every time I walk through the door speaks volumes, says I know why you feel the way you do
that moment of hearing myself speak for the first time is still new

on the nights like this where I don't read
I still feel an energy that reminds me of a certain comfort
my hands still shake through the excitement of just existing

my stomach, a drain of stories, was used to swallowing whole without chewing
this is where I learned how to digest my past

I trade smiles with strangers who are just realizing their ability to do the same

if you were to ask anyone who has ever sat on this stage, in these seats, why they choose to join this cluttered convention of hearts in such a small space,
they would probably pause,
smile and answer something along the crooked lines of,
"you just have to be there to understand"

and you do
there is a magic in the air that you can't bottle
instead you hold your breath through a busy week to
make it to the next
in order to experience it again

there is no language that could describe this place where
we each speak our own yet somehow
still understand each other
this is the place I cannot put an adjective to,
there is no metaphor for what experience can offer

this is the place where my cheeks turn fire in the best way possible
the rhythm of my chest is faster than it is in fear, unexplainable

this is where my tuesday night becomes weekend
this is where my empty becomes whole
this is where Yesika forms full moons with her words and the softness of her voice echoes against the hollow of the theatre lights
this is where the power of black stories remind my whiteness how necessary vocality is
this is where I found myself bare under a spotlight for the first time over a year ago and
this is where I discovered that bareness doesn't have to be a bad thing

I know how it sounds
sitting on a stage in a dim room with strangers
listening for an hour and a half to a story that isn't yours but
the best way to find yourself is in the words of another
this is where I find myself
again and again
this is where I come whenever I am lost

If you were to ask me why
I could only say

you just have to be there
to understand.
for da poetry lounge
Chris Hutchison Nov 2021
She raised you, and gave you all she had
You did not listen
She was not overbearing
But she needed your bareness
The awareness
You lost long ago
She let you go into the wild, to make your own choices
Even if those choices mean her death
Knife in your hand with garlic breath
Joyous in the ****
Veiled violent negligence
Oblivious malevolence
Your innocent eyes
Red tinted, devilish yet despondent
Pontificate of poison
A laughing fat hedon
Crying now for pardon
But you will never **** her. She is bigger than you
Mother doesn't care
She will break you without blinking
She is Pandora and soon you will know
How hot the soil scorches, and how hard the wind may blow
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
i get letters from home,
and girls tell me about the boys with the trench coats
who used to smack my *** and give me free brownies and smoke with me in the forest,
when snow was icily hugging the sleeping earth.
how he acquired a green thumb
and landed his ******, joking *** in jail
by painting "revolution" and "anarchy" on the walls of the
stone white highschool,
sprayed the word "pig" on a cop car.

i was proud,
remembering the time i told him i wanted him to help me
paint Pink Floyd lyrics in front of the library,
below the hill
on the big white canvas
to remind all of the dry-eyed, cardboard-mouthed kids that they're
just another brick in the wall.

i read it and my face glowed
with the fact that
they were revolting,
that the little town i left behind is still on fire
rife and ripe with the deep streaks
of maroon rebellion.

i hear about how
the only boy i've ever truly slept with;
fell asleep with our legs intertwined,
and woke with his soft breath on my neck in the morning,
naked skin growing goosebumps
in our bareness,
how he drew in my darling girl
of sweet chai and small teeth and big eyes and warm heart
like a soft, cozy cup of spicy tea,
how she became lost in his green eyes
and dripping confidence,
overflowing, superfluous
from the bursting vaults he holds inside
his chest, sprouting out along
with trees of light brown hair.

i got angry
i don't want stupid men to touch her,
to taint her
with small lies,
slipping from soft lips,
just enough poison to enchant her.
i'd bite their fingers off
one by one,
and chew their lips out with my
raging teeth
before i let that happen.

sometimes i feel like i need to protect her,
even though i'm the one who
corrupted her in the first place.

i'm the one who taught her that
chain smoking cigarettes in a ditch
during P.E. isn't so bad,
(and it's not, i just dont want her to do it)
who told her that kissing boys half naked in
fall leaves behind apartment complexes,
and letting them take off my clothes in the bushes
getting thorns stuck in my hair,
letting my underwear and skirt scatter forgotten at my feet,
along with his softly murmured "i love you,"
i told her that's normal;
(i want her to kiss who she pleases
but
****
i just dont want them to touch her with their ***** hands.)
who ranted to her that commitment was for people
who didn't want to experience everything they possibly could in life,
for boring ones,
who weren't worthwhile.

i showed her that
self destructive tendencies,
messy, unbrushed hair,
and purple leather jackets,
tie dye skirts
smelling like an ashtray
from smoking Marlboros in the school garden house
with a yellow sun a top it just before class
was just a part of growing into a woman.
(i guess we all have different paths,
but i wont forget her eyes when she looked at me,
i was torn and she was
stitching me up with string made from her
own skin.)
and then i realized what an absolutely
horrible friend i am,
how wretched i had been to you,
when you called me so long ago
and told me in a dry, vacant voice,
you were sad,
you had thought about hurting yourself.
i should have realized what i'd done
i hadn't protected you enough from the
desirous, screaming demon inside me
always craving, aching for more,
never, ever satisfied.

then,
you tell me in a letter
that you understood why i did the things i did,
and that you're learning
its okay to let go and do them too.

and i had to let that sink in.
if that's what i always wanted, then why did panic suddenly take me, light my body on fire?

when i'm away from you, its so simple
to become overprotective,
lashing out my broken jaws and
roaring voice at anything that
dares try to hurt you
erase the truth,
purity,
that you hold so deeply inside you.

i don't want you to kiss manipulative boys,
with dark hair
and let them touch you in a sneaking drunk dreariness
within a winter cave of night,
and i don't want you to touch them back,
and find broken brandy bottles
and their shattered glass
slowly sinking their bodies into your delicate fingers.
i don't want you to be numb, hollowed out,
walking around halls
and open lockers of close-minded
highschools
with bloodshot eyes and unstable hands, shaking and jittering,
high off some good bud after third period,
and adderall just before sixth.
i don't want you to let boys finger
you so
hard
that you practically popped your cherry,
so you sit, hips cramping, and
hurt,
soreness sinking into you,
as he begs you to kiss him
and you refusing,
insisting that he ought to know by now
"you're just another boy
i have too many
to risk kissing you in public."
i cant believe he stayed.

i don't want you to realize,
when you're drunk and stumbling on black asphalt
in the early morning
that you always feel
so ******* empty,
and off-kilter,
like somethings missing,
but whatever you try to fill it with;
gentle *** in plaid sheets,
(or were they plaid boxers?),
burning *****
(was it whiskey?).
broken ashtrays
(i said sorry, but still didn't feel forgiven)
cigarette after cigarette
("you always try to drown yourself in perfume,
but i can always smell it.")
until you get a headache and a groggy voice,
hash smoked out of apple pipes from
cafeterias,
("i'll bury it here, whenever you want to ****, just dig it up.")
visits to the school therapist
("you're bright, you know that."
how many kids have you not told that to?)
hits from your mother
("i don't regret it, like you probably don't regret the cigarettes."
"WHY DON'T YOU JUST ******* EAT THEM IF YOU WANT
THAT POISON INSIDE YOU SO MUCH."),
call slips from the attendance office
(i pinned up all my detention slips on my walls,
white flags flying
far from surrender)
same record playing,
(Vincent, Don McLean)
blood dripping down to the brown
towel you set out
to catch your slipping fears,
as they bled out of you in crimson rivers
and made a savage battleground below you;
feeling like you will never fill that empty,
tar-like black
hole
burnt inside you.

i don't want it to happen.

i want to protect you fiercely like
a mother lion,
and keep you in the safe haven of my echoing
den,

but then i think of what i'd do if you were next me
laying on your silk sheets,
looking out the glassy windows
reflecting the sky,
i know without a ******* ******* doubt in my mind,
i'd light my eyes up with a mischievous grin,
glance at your paintings
(they always inspired me)
and march to your parents bar.
(why did they keep it downstairs when they knew you had friends like me?)
i'd insist we'd have to drink at least a little,
swerve our vision till the music
caresses us,
and then i'd take a bit of everything and i'd watch you
as the liquid slid down your throat,
then i'd say i was proud of you.

but really, i want you to know that
you'll grow up when your ready,
you're so precious, but so strong
and i just need you to remember who you really are.
you're inspiration,
paintings made out of dots,
you take care of me when i'm falling apart
and horrible
and yelling.
there cant be two of us
drunken,
screaming for cupcakes in the middle
of a brightly lit grocery store,
please don't change just because
other people are doing it.
you're so strong,
be strong.

god i'm so ******* contradictory.

i just love you so much.
i don't want you to hurt
i don't want you to lose things
like i have,
to greedy boys fingers,
i don't want you bearing the pain,
(it'll be gone by the second time anyways)
i'd do anything to stop it.

but if you really want it,

some things are just so inescapable.
to Anabella Funk.
Morgan Milligan Feb 2013
With all my heart I wish I could think with just my brain.
I wish emotions were easily controlled,
Like the wind
sometimes.
Harness its raw power and turn it into a type of energy that's pure,
Cleansing to the world.

But I guess there are tornadoes,
Who funnel into one destructive force,
Tearing down everything that was supposed to be permanent and leaving behind nothing
except a trail of desolate bareness littered with broken everything.

And then there's the hurricane.
The power and area it covers is immense, effectively covering everything in a dark shadow
and flooding the area.
In the center is the ebony hearth of the storm, the monster swirling around indefinitely,
whispering promises of catastrophe.
And no one is there to stop it,
Because everyone's already evacuated to somewhere more convenient.
Everyone's already moved on,
before the waters could flow and the hurricane could fully develop...


I hate when my heart starts

sk     ip     pi     ng

At the prospects of idealism, for dreams
Are sometimes not the logical choice but what is life without interest?
Disappointment is something I'm used to
In society,
In everyone's expectations,
in myself.


Why is the heart so painful?
Why is something that is so essential to life so easily ripped apart?
Why is mine always leading me in the direction my brain knows is wrong?
The love that rose on stronger wings,
  Unpalsied when he met with Death,
  Is comrade of the lesser faith
That sees the course of human things.

No doubt vast eddies in the flood
  Of onward time shall yet be made,
  And throned races may degrade;
Yet O ye mysteries of good,

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear,
  If all your office had to do
  With old results that look like new;
If this were all your mission here,

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword,
  To fool the crowd with glorious lies,
  To cleave a creed in sects and cries,
To change the bearing of a word,

To shift an arbitrary power,
  To cramp the student at his desk,
  To make old bareness picturesque
And tuft with grass a feudal tower;

Why then my scorn might well descend
  On you and yours. I see in part
  That all, as in some piece of art,
Is toil cooperant to an end.

— The End —