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Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault
was, had I not been made of common clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed
yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had
struck a better, clearer song,
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled
with some Hydra-headed wrong.

Had my lips been smitten into music by the
kisses that but made them bleed,
You had walked with Bice and the angels on
that verdant and enamelled mead.

I had trod the road which Dante treading saw
the suns of seven circles shine,
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,
as they opened to the Florentine.

And the mighty nations would have crowned
me, who am crownless now and without name,
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling
on the threshold of the House of Fame.

I had sat within that marble circle where the
oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the
lyre’s strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out
the poppy-seeded wine,
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,
clasped the hand of noble love in mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush
the burnished ***** of the dove,
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would
have read the story of our love.

Would have read the legend of my passion,
known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as
we two are fated now to part.

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by
the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered
petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you—ah! what
else had I a boy to do,—
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the
silent-footed years pursue.

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and
when once the storm of youth is past,
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death
the silent pilot comes at last.

And within the grave there is no pleasure, for
the blindworm battens on the root,
And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of
Passion bears no fruit.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you, God’s
own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an
argent lily from the sea.

I have made my choice, have lived my poems,
and, though youth is gone in wasted days,
I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better
than the poet’s crown of bays.
A Harris Oct 2015
In a far and distant galaxy
Inside my telescope I see
A pair of eyes look back at me
He walks and talks and looks like me
Sits around inside his house
From room to room he moves about
Fills his life with pointless things
And wonders how it all turns out

Do do do do do
Do do do do do
Safe to say that

I don't think you understand!
There's nowhere left to turn
Walls keep breaking

Time is like a leaf in the wind
Either it's time worth spent
Or time I've wasted
Don't waste it

Afraid of what the truth might bring
He locks his doors and never leaves
Desperately searching for signs
To terrify, to find a thing
He battens all the hatches down
And wonders why he hears no sound
Frantically searching his dreams
He wonders what it's all about

Do do do do do
Do do do do do
Safe to say that

I don't think you understand!
There's nowhere left to turn
Walls keep breaking

Time is like a leaf in the wind
Either it's time worth spent
Or time I've wasted...

Clearing my mind
Losing my friends
Follow my fears
Do it again
You say how, do, you do
Man, how 'bout you?
Man, how 'bout you?
To be free
To be son
To be killed
To be saved
In my head, I'm alone
I'm un-dead, I'm ashamed
Just like you, I've been tryin'
To be scared
In my bones, I feel cold
I give this to the lord in the sea
In this street
Let me go
Let me be, I don't need
To be here, I'm alone
Can't you see? Can't you see?

I don't think you understand!
There's nowhere left to turn
Walls keep breaking

Time is like a leaf in the wind
Either it's time worth spent
Or time I've wasted...
Don't waste it

This is not my writing but rather one of my favorite songs by Cage the Elephant, Telescope
Here I keep in thoughts so deep there is no end,
to plummet down past autographs and
pictures of my old home town that send me
to this reverie.
This tree with many branches shakes, passing
tears and the breaking of so many hearts
and parts would shower me with seeds
that fly and grow to feed
another reverie,
no end,no bend to go around,to flush the roaring sound
that battens on my ears,more tears,
and happiness.
Just as is, is more or less and this is,
I guess why my thoughts are so deep
and I keep them in the end
to send me messages.
Fay Slimm Oct 2019
Too soon comes Autumn, nipping the heels
of unwary Summer while it stealthily seals
subtle changes in verdant leaf-laden trees.

Ripened fruits begin dropping unhinged by
rattle of branches in which Autumn hides.

Before battle commences its volatile breeze
scatters copper-thin shivers through obese
Summer with its cunningly capricious ease.

Autumn comes running nor stands aside
while plants adjust to its dynamic stride.

It tosses relentless as with bounty it plays
and douses growth's hold by raining days
of voracious havoc onto Summer's ill-fate.

Scurrying birds sense the warning of chill
as Autumn's sigh pecks at my window-sill.

All life battens down to change of season
for as Summer recedes, fight must yield.

Flower buds crumble and last roses fade
knowing Autumn comes running, to stay.
and ruffling turkey feathers!

An innocent miss steak kin...
once former main lion,
resident iz cow herd vegetarian boar

ring beastie boy, who doth
newt practice, what he preaches your
truly battens down chicken
coop hatches so... call me galore
re: us hypocritic,
this honest to dog omnivore – more

accurate said buzzfeeding primate -
**** sapiens, he whelk hams
adieu after quick bonjour
hears ear splitting eeyore
deaf finning chore
tills unable to ignore

admits transgression,
now wonder wherefore
whether art thou still
game to reed my adore
hub bull poetry
understandable if ye deplore

such atrocious, egregious, opprobrious...,
violating ethical core
**** regarding straying
against dietary herbivore
rudimentary eel lamb ants
(chocolate covered my dear Watson)

boot fault in the starfish...por
favor mice elf can
oxe plain twittering like plover
with reasonable rhyme for sure
don't get doggy dimples in bunch
cause to skewer me but... but before...

sending killing squad to slaughter -
this puppy, aye kindly honour
my wish and don
me noggin with pompadour
as fetching drag queen
torpedo sized *****

squirting parti-color
milk as self defense mechanism
averting casus belli thus
amidst melee I abhor
find self on horns of dilemma
life story these of this poor

cooked goose flambé
caught between rock and trapdoor
special cannibal delight
where madding crowd
chants "send him back"
accursed unconscionable roar

ring anger, but lurch for eats,
an impulsive reflex courtesy extempore
rain nee yes unforgivable poor
craven impulse to up peas hunger
uncontrollably craving regarding carnivore

pang additionally not further injure
ring innocent animal plus more
to this fishy tail than
meats the Wawa birdseye.

— The End —