"bedew" poems
I made a list of all our kisses, starting with just ‘kiss’
Which in the heat of passion was italicized like this:
kiss, then emphasized in variations Kiss! and KISS and KISS
Which even though ethereal somehow added to our bliss.
And later in IM we found that we could really KISS!
I mean in theory still, of course, for physically we missed
The real touch of real lips and autres choses on that list.
And there were funny graphics, I can’t reproduce them here,
But you know the ones we used a lot, they all meant kisses there
The hearton built with < and 3, which always made you smile
And the asterisks and emoticons we used once in a while
And let’s not forget those x’s which a net of crosses wove
*** and xxxx, our ****** book of love.
Soon added to our kisses came words like longingly,
And tenderly, and lingeringly and gentle morningly
Sometimes we gave it lots of tongue, but loving nibbles too
Whenever I’d le pout or tears your lashes would bedew.
These are the ones I can recall, probably there are more
I’m sure you’re itching to remind me from your memory’s vast store
And you can tell me all about them in some poetry well versed
But my love, before you write it, you’ll just have to kiss me first.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 10:17 PM UTC
Son of the old Moon-mountains African!
Chief of the Pyramid and Crocodile!
We call thee fruitful, and that very while
A desert fills our seeing's inward span:
Nurse of swart nations since the world began,
Art thou so fruitful? or dost thou beguile
Such men to honour thee, who, worn with toil,
Rest for a space 'twixt Cairo and Decan?
O may dark fancies err! They surely do;
'Tis ignorance that makes a barren waste
Of all beyond itself. Thou dost bedew
Green rushes like our rivers, and dost taste
The pleasant sunrise. Green isles hast thou too,
And to the sea as happily dost haste.
2.6k
Quis multa gracilis te puer in Rosa
Rendred almost word for word without Rhyme according to the
Latin Measure, as near as the Language permit.
What slender Youth bedew’d with liquid odours
Courts thee on Roses in some pleasant Cave,
Pyrrha for whom bind’st thou
In wreaths thy golden Hair,
Plain in thy neatness; O how oft shall he
On Faith and changed Gods complain: and Seas
Rough with black winds and storms
Unwonted shall admire:
Who now enjoyes thee credulous, all Gold,
Who alwayes vacant, alwayes amiable
Hopes thee; of flattering gales
Unmindfull. Hapless they
To whom thou untry’d seem’st fair. Me in my vow’d
Picture the sacred wall declares t’ have hung
My dank and dropping weeds
To the stern God of Sea.
2.3k
Since now the hour is come at last,
When you must quit your anxious lover;
Since now, our dream of bliss is past,
One pang, my girl, and all is over.
Alas! that pang will be severe,
Which bids us part to meet no more;
Which tears me far from one so dear,
Departing for a distant shore.
Well! we have pass’d some happy hours,
And joy will mingle with our tears;
When thinking on these ancient towers,
The shelter of our infant years;
Where from this Gothic casement’s height,
We view’d the lake, the park, the dell,
And still, though tears obstruct our sight,
We lingering look a last farewell,
O’er fields through which we us’d to run,
And spend the hours in childish play;
O’er shades where, when our race was done,
Reposing on my breast you lay;
Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,
Forgot to scare the hovering flies,
Yet envied every fly the kiss,
It dar’d to give your slumbering eyes:
See still the little painted bark,
In which I row’d you o’er the lake;
See there, high waving o’er the park,
The elm I clamber’d for your sake.
These times are past, our joys are gone,
You leave me, leave this happy vale;
These scenes, I must retrace alone;
Without thee, what will they avail?
Who can conceive, who has not prov’d,
The anguish of a last embrace?
When, torn from all you fondly lov’d,
You bid a long adieu to peace.
This is the deepest of our woes,
For this these tears our cheeks bedew;
This is of love the final close,
Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu!
2k
Thou art to all lost love the best,
The only true plant found,
Wherewith young men and maids distrest,
And left of love, are crown’d.
When once the lover’s rose is dead,
Or laid aside forlorn:
Then willow-garlands ’bout the head
Bedew’d with tears are worn.
When with neglect, the lovers’ bane,
Poor maids rewarded be
For their love lost, their only gain
Is but a wreath from thee.
And underneath thy cooling shade,
When weary of the light,
The love-spent youth and love-sick maid
Come to weep out the night.
1.5k
No specious splendour of this stone
Endears it to my memory ever;
With lustre only once it shone,
And blushes modest as the giver.
Some, who can sneer at friendship’s ties,
Have, for my weakness, oft reprov’d me;
Yet still the simple gift I prize,
For I am sure, the giver lov’d me.
He offer’d it with downcast look,
As fearful that I might refuse it;
I told him, when the gift I took,
My only fear should be, to lose it.
This pledge attentively I view’d,
And sparkling as I held it near,
Methought one drop the stone bedew’d,
And, ever since, I’ve lov’d a tear.
Still, to adorn his humble youth,
Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield;
But he, who seeks the flowers of truth,
Must quit the garden, for the field.
’Tis not the plant uprear’d in sloth,
Which beauty shews, and sheds perfume;
The flowers, which yield the most of both,
In Nature’s wild luxuriance bloom.
Had Fortune aided Nature’s care,
For once forgetting to be blind,
His would have been an ample share,
If well proportioned to his mind.
But had the Goddess clearly seen,
His form had fix’d her fickle breast;
Her countless hoards would his have been,
And none remain’d to give the rest.
1.5k
So before I start this poem I'd like to acknowledge some helpful folks in my life.
First off, I want to thank my literary agent, Richard Shelby for suggesting I take my current frustrations out through poetry (He's a big fan of Whitman). I, however, was never much of a fan of poetry; although in High School I was taught Horace, Wordsworth, Milton. Yeah, they actually had us blokes memorize poems!;
*What slender youth, bedew’d with liquid odors,
Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave,
Pyrrha? For whom bind’st thou
In wreaths thy golden hair...*
Secondly, I'd like to give a big thanks to lawyer Dawn Young for pointing me to this particular website, Hellopoetry. I haven't read much of anyone's work, but I doubt I'll have any difficult time fitting in.
Lastly, and most importantly, a big shout to for my jezebel of a wife, Courtney for inflicting upon me all this unnecessary pain by means of a quarter million dollar divorce. We were High School sweethearts up until my 48th birthday. She thought it would be the best time to drop the bomb that she was in love with my old Rugby ally, and Rutgers roommate, Henry O' Shay.
I have to admit life has been ***** ever since then.
Well, here's to new beginnings.
My poem starts now.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC
For steady path lay'th deep,
a journey long and far to steep.
With amber and ashes we heap,
The fairest of nature's keep.
As the pallid yet palpable a'sphere bedew,
From saints to sinners shrew,
I shall paint this day a new,
where angels not lovers flew.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
As I pray this even time
sparkling risen boughs of silver maple
wave and nod in the gusty breeze
between them is a patch of blue sky
I read Psalms of merciful forgiveness
while tears bedew my eyes unworthy
The dove flies over my house and away
out she goes into the endless blue distance
all of my dust applied to her tail
my sins all carried aloft and quickly passing
disappear forever with the fading silouhette
as onward she goes winging away
between the leaning branches of the elms
which ever bow to these prevailing winds
of my earth bound life
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC