"belfry" poems
Thinking, tangling shadows in the deep solitude.
You are far away too, oh farther than anyone.
Thinking, freeing birds, dissolving images,
burying lamps.
Belfry of fogs, how far away, up there!
Stifling laments, milling shadowy hopes,
taciturn miller,
night falls on you face downward, far from the city.
Your presence is foreign, as strange to me as a thing.
I think, I explore great tracts of my life before you.
My life before anyone, my harsh life.
The shout facing the sea, among the rocks,
running free, mad, in the sea-spray.
The sad rage, the shout, the solitude of the sea.
Headlong, violent, stretched towards the sky.
You, woman, what were you there, what ray, what vane
of that immense fan? You were as far as you are now.
Fire in the forest! Burn in blue crosses.
Burn, burn, flame up, sparkle in trees of light.
It collapses, crackling. Fire. Fire.
And my soul dances, seared with curls of fire.
Who calls? What silence peopled with echoes?
Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
Hour that is mine from among them all!
Megaphone in which the wind passes singing.
Such a passion of weeping tied to my body.
Shaking of all the roots,
attack of all the waves!
My soul wandered, happy, sad, unending.
Thinking, burying lamps in the deep solitude.
Who are you, who are you?
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The nakedness of winter lies heavy upon
the tolling Sunday quietude
Shed leaves perish into yesterday
and the dream of another
dawning someday wanes
The sun ― lay low
the drudging ashen skyline
Barerd emerald moss scaffolds
draw much more distantness
to the pallid shadowed horizon
The evergreens step forth,
roots grasping sacred heart,
soil and rock
In the swelling aloneness
you can feel the grain
of the heartwood
rooted in your soul
There are no hard feelings
but there's an enduring ache,
like a tree with a rotting limb
languishing within
its blackened bark sacrifice
It's not just the grinding time
that slips away begrudgingly;
more of the same takes a toll
as if another unrung belfry hour
in an empty bell tower
without a song rang out in vain,
peeling reflections
of reluctant hours c r a w l by
in the insensible apathy
A so called holiday passes ―
its footprint bears down
hard and deep
as if a paling winter rose
grieves its own passing
A dry wishbone unbroken
lay bare the poignant
truth it holds;
it takes two to make
this wish come true
.
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 12:33 PM UTC
There is a vicar from Chelsea
Who alas is not very wealthy
Often he dines on communion wine
And curried bat from the belfry
He lights a lot of incense
To hide his flatulence
He gets a bit high
Perhaps that is why
His sermons never make sense
--The vicar gets his knickers in a twist--
The old church roof had seen better days
The pressing need was a serious fund-raise
So the vicar abseiled down the tower
As the village watched by the graves and flowers
With a flurry his cassock flew up in the air
Shocking pink he wore under there
Flapping around it covered his face
As he dangled there in embarrassed disgrace
Someone called the fire brigade
A turntable ladder came to his aid
When at last they got him down
Humbled and grateful he kissed the ground
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round,
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the **** hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
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There was a shooting in Redstone
Only one man dead, none hurt
He was found dead in the morning
With just one hole right through his shirt
He was lying in the main street
Face down, right there in the dirt
He was found dead in the morning
With just one hole right through his shirt
I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT IN THE BACK
I WAS GUNNED DOWN BY A COWARD
I DIDN'T HEAR THE GUNSHOT CRACK
The crowd had formed around him
Lying there, all hard and cold
No witnessess to the shooting
At least not one so bold
They knew him from his weapon
The sixteen notches on the grip
He came in on the Flyer
He won't be on the return trip
I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT IN THE BACK
I WAS GUNNED DOWN BY A COWARD
I DIDN'T HEAR THE GUNSHOT CRACK
He was staying at The Belfry
He only brought one bag to town
No one knew why he had come here
Except to shoot somebody down
The papers ran the story
The next morning in THE SUN
They ran a picture and a story
Of the "Man With The Pearl Gun"
I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT IN THE BACK
I WAS GUNNED DOWN BY A COWARD
I DIDN'T HEAR THE GUNSHOT CRACK
The story was quite lengthy
Considering no one saw him shot
But, as usual there was someone
Who had a story to be bought
He'd been shot from an end window
Above the Local Mercantile Store
One bullet from a rifle
And the gunman was no more
I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT IN THE BACK
I WAS GUNNED DOWN BY A COWARD
I DIDN'T HEAR THE GUNSHOT CRACK
Turns out the gunman's killer
Was the one he'd come to find
The shooter was the killer's child
The only son, he'd left behind
They never met before this
He'd never ever met his Dad
But, The Gunman came to find him
And in the end, it's kind of sad
I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT BY MY SON
I WAS GUNNED DOWN WITHOUT KNOWING
I GUESS HE'S NOW THE WANTED GUN.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 8:35 PM UTC
going to the horror films
at ten years old
i wanted to be bitten by the vampire ladies
you know the ones
red brides from the netherworlds
with heaving *******
divinities of evil
with that dah look
in silky white gowns
a little messy from sleeping in the dirt
culture vulture goth girls
with upside down crosses
slags all gauzy bats in the belfry
deranged
but after all they where
dead
and dreadfully appealing
and I'm pretty fussy
so what the hell
they walked like floats
in marshy air
never touching the ground
above frozen dark crypt terrains
with twinkly bare feet
and black high glossed toenails
staring out of blood spilled eyes
drooling cloudy mouth hollows
and a yearning hungry countenance
encouraging me
to get closer
to bite me all over
pierce me
with needly fangs
puncturing little holes in tender me
making me leak like bad plumbing
until i sloped into the bog below
of course, i was panicked
all trembly
but i had a big one
for these evil shadowy ******* too
so i thought
yes
no
yes
no
yes
no
are you gonna **** me?
i asked
they drooled
ooow okay, i thought is it gonna hurt?
they shook there heads yes!
and drooled
real bad?
i inquired further
ah ha
they lingered glaring
drooling
i guess, waiting for me to make up my mind
oh okay anything for you
you dark dreamy girls
dilapidated queens of hell
with ballet derrières
"down and down I go
round and round I go
in a spin, lovin' the spin I'm in
under the old black magic called love"
after all at ten years old,
i already knew i was
a horror *****
and just a little turned on
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC
I’ve learned that in the morning
light is liquid, flowing golden,
and I’ve learned that in the ocean
every motion turns to fluid,
and fish glide, learn how birds fly,
and their eyes are always open.
I’ve learned that if you stand
in the belfry when the bells ring
you can hear them in your heart
like when she calls you and the phone sings.
And I’ve learned that when you’re hoping,
light is lighter, clearer, brighter
and I’ve heard that you can see it
with eyes open
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
A wind came up out of the sea,
And said, “O mists, make room for me.”
It hailed the ships and cried, “Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone.”
And hurried landward far away,
Crying “Awake! it is the day.”
It said unto the forest, “Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!”
It touched the wood-bird’s folded wing,
And said, “O bird, awake and sing.”
And o’er the farms, “O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow; the day is near.”
It whispered to the fields of corn,
“Bow down, and hail the coming morn.”
It shouted through the belfry-tower,
“Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.”
It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
And said, “Not yet! In quiet lie.”
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A grimoire of nuptials apporting
The implored cadaverous knight
Securing obsequious omens
Stirring the sleeping metals of
Chaste belladonna, glistening
Elf-locks entangled with Hellweed
Vowing until the golden bowl is broken
Clasping the devils paintbrush promising
Before the garrulous black mass
Leering upon Vulcans mirror
Cursing the covenant of faithfulness
With a moonstone band
Evoking a vixens wedding
Sealing with Adams holy ale
Their oath as the belfry rings
Resounding admist white sepulchre.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 9:00 AM UTC
My friends without shields walk on the target
It is late the windows are breaking
My friends without shoes leave
What they love
Grief moves among them as a fire among
Its bells
My friends without clocks turn
On the dial they turn
They part
My friends with names like gloves set out
Bare handed as they have lived
And nobody knows them
It is they that lay the wreaths at the milestones it is their
Cups that are found at the wells
And are then chained up
My friends without feet sit by the wall
Nodding to the lame orchestra
Brotherhood it says on the decorations
My friend without eyes sits in the rain smiling
With a nest of salt in his hand
My friends without fathers or houses hear
Doors opening in the darkness
Whose halls announce
Behold the smoke has come home
My friends and I have in common
The present a wax bell in a wax belfry
This message telling of
Metals this
Hunger for the sake of hunger this owl in the heart
And these hands one
For asking one for applause
My friends with nothing leave it behind
In a box
My friends without keys go out from the jails it is night
They take the same road they miss
Each other they invent the same banner in the dark
They ask their way only of sentries too proud to breathe
At dawn the stars on their flag will vanish
The water will turn up their footprints and the day will rise
Like a monument to my
Friends the forgotten
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Within the lotus pink petals
of my tear soaked *****
He has hidden His splendor
Under a raincloud the color
of His peacock skin
camouflaged
He waits
Darling Giridhari
I have driven the tenacious, evil
bats of hatred, envy, anger and
greed from the tall steel towers, belfry
of my mind
Nectarine incense of prayer
and contemplation on You
burns day and night on the altar
of my penitent heart
Ceaselessly my breath does not
hesitate to chant Your divine name
From these eyes the Yamuna river
pours and floods its banks
while I wait for You to
dance with me
Every season is an endless Winter
without your warm Spring embrace
snow drifts pursue and threaten to bury
the tender shoots of love
Hurry Hari Krishna
pull this poison cupid's arrow
from Your devotee's
smitten heart
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
Bumblebees making love or war
On an Easter Sunday morn'
Spritely fairies in pinkish frills
Wearing their patent leather buckles
Little boy blues in powder blue suits
Running amok in the chapel belfry
Sanctuary dressed in lavender hues
As the ***** sounds the call to worship
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
Batman in his belfry
Robin at the all you can eat buffet
Batgirl in my bedroom
things going, all my way
Riddler plying his prose
Gordon on patrol
Catwoman in my trousers
happily, loosing all control
Joker playing the saboteur
Penguin relaxing at the shore
Harley-quinn in my shower
as golly gee and will-a-curs
I can't ask for nothing more
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
An unrequited love that still offers a seemingly patronizing hand of rapport
Is just another way to say "friend zone"
But you'll be dancing in the end zone
After you finally pay your student loan with money from the job you needed a degree to get which called for the loan in the first place
The salt has spilled off the Lazy Susan
Throw it over your right shoulder
Is this my alter ego?
Or do I have a split personality
Maybe this is my light skinned doppelganger
I've got to get these bats out of the belfry
I've got claustrophobic, roided-out butterflies in the pit of my stomach
Busted paper thin lips
A blood sport
Stop it from clotting
Vaccinate me
This vacuum is a rare find
The national demographic is going through culture shock
Assume a surname
Put on the gargantuan pennant
Go to the pulpit and beg for penance
Gridlock
The paleophone is cracked
Study the topography
And pay the bus fare
The squatters who are on borrowed time
Take a swig from the half empty bottle
After searching their whole lives for an even break
But are forced to cut ties and make a clean cut from society
All the lent hands and ears
Are lodged between ungratefulness and exclusive pity parties
Sweet nothings and forget-me-nots
Do a clean sweep
It's imperative to have a method to your madness
A portrayal of eccentric narcissist
Painting self-portraits
While on some kind of wonder drug
Longing for some moral support
Double-dealing
Double crossing
A hypocritical traitor
Who has the right away
I will watch your blood coagulate around the bullet holes
As your body goes into Rigor mortis
I will commit this picture to memory
I would have bet dollars to doughnuts that it wasn't you
But who wudda thunk it?
It's all just an impromptu turn on a dime
That encumbers you with cabin fever
When you're on display in a human zoo
Where unproductive bull sessions are a dime a dozen
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
Dear Poet Friends, having read Henri Bergson’s ‘’Creative Evolution’’, which won him the Noble Prize for Literature and is now considered a Classic, I was impressed by his words, ‘’Life does not end with death. It conquers death through reproduction……..and creative evolution.’’ Bergson’s book inspired me to compose this poem way back in 2008, and post it on ‘Poem Hunter.com’. Hope you like this short and simple poem. Thanks, - Raj.
THE CHURCH AND THE GRAVEYARD
The Graveyard lies silent behind the Church’s cool
shade,
As the shadow of the belfry tower falls over the
world of the dead.
Perhaps they are mysteriously compatible in certain
ways!
Through the front door of the Church we enter;
And with passage of time through the rear door
we exit and go,
Forever mingling with Life’s eternal flow.
In the Church marriages are solemnised.
New born babies are christened and baptised.
Hymns and sermons are heard on Sabbath Days,
People kneel down in silence to pray.
Some to repent and confess, -
To seek salvation and are blessed.
And when the older generation pass away,
In the graveyard behind the church they are
laid to rest.
Yet amidst death Life goes on .......
With peels of bells and chorus songs.
The world of the dead is surrounded by Life,
Our younger generations live and thrive.
For the epitaph cannot bury Life’s eternal song!
Green grass grows around the dead,
And trees showers flowers from overhead.
Bouquets of roses on cold marble slabs,
With fond memories a tear drop is shed,
In loss of the loved one, now in the world of
the dead!
While Life surges, swirls, and flows all around,
As the dead lie in their graves where silence
surrounds.
New Life sprouts, and memories slowly fade …….
The Graveyard lies in the Church’s cool shade!
-Raj Nandy.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC
The chance to blossom, the fear
of failing,
weighing so heavy
on,
my broken,
encapsulated heart
no return, only the
desire, lust
to prove myself, worthy
a candidate,
of caliber, meritorious of
praise,
the extremes, of this
bipolar,
express, they named
it,
would surely bring,
a cast opened
soul,
drinking blood, vampire
of this night,
inspiration from
constellations,
midnight skies
feeding,
pleasure, gluttony
Tell me,
am I laudable
is this,
my true calling
or, am I yet,
again,
fooling myself,
even you,
squirrels in the attic,
batty,
deranged,
maniacal,
unhinged,
unhooked,
berserk.
© Sia Jane
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
I am doomed to these four walls.
The kind that are stained with the sinister colour of hate, but filled with the stench of entrapment.
A prisoner to this war of racing thoughts and self loathing.
I'm shackled with a chain, and at the end of it, is weight of my
remorseful regrets.
A person can go mad on such conditions.
Like bats in the belfry.
But I cope with the worse intentions that I blankly dispatch such events, and call in the wrecking ball.
Operation with the actions to break and have a calling of destruction to these ******* walls.
Just remember you caused that structure.
So now I embrace this freedom with a middle finger held higher than the pedestal you thought you reigned so high on.
You ****** me up.
You once held me higher than I thought I could climb, but now I just say no.
Your eyes enlighten me with such serenity, but now I see the trickery behind them.
I know now what wasn't true.
I know now what wasn't real.
I know now your title will always be a harlot with an addiction of lust like intentions, so lay in your bed of filthy lies.
I know now what ******* **** you truly are.
I know now I'm free.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 12:24 AM UTC
It takes one to know one swift fell swoop
like a bat out of hell and certainly the belfry.
If you've something to prove to the birds and the bees,
I won't bat an eye at your rhinoplasty.
I'll take two hoots, 'cause I sure won't give them.
Find somebody else to get up and go;
I cry like I fly like a carrion crow
and I've two left feet and no time to tango.
It takes three strikes 'til it's not just company
any more — it's a crowd and my agoraphobia
is making this worse, so I might disperse.
If you don't quite care, let's put two and two together;
playing pretend we're birds of a feather.
I could commend, but that's such a no-no;
you're more like a doornail to me, less like a dodo.
And if you don't much mind, I might just take five.
I'm chicken-livered, but at least alive
though I feel like a dead duck, dusted and done.
I won't be there, I'll stay fair and square,
right back at square one.
Now can you see how this is cyclic?
Makes me feel one sandwich short of a picnic,
up the wall, and driving me sick.
Apologies, I don't mean to nitpick,
and I know I've a number of bees in my bonnet,
but I've zero interest in your haiku and sonnets.
So here's one for the road,
turn by the way the devil drives you home,
and one good turn deserves
another.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 3:58 AM UTC
My thoughts are like gamma rays addicted to *******
Fiending for absolute Truth
Or a new use for Head Space
They come in a swarm that bitch-slaps any bats in my belfry
And rational thoughts flash mob
My cherished illusions
Daily.
I'm on the front line
Of a Psychic War with the Brain-Dead !
My Kung-fu is Confused
By Hatred as an Argument -
Racist Beliefs as a platform to start with...
Asinine articles of faith
As arcane Armaments
Immune to subtlety ...Q.E.D. ~
or any proof of concept !
They've kept the Rubicon
Uncrossed by the Curious
Held stock in kerosene
To burn books too luminous
for
Fearful Men, Unaccustomed to Promethean Gifts
And the Unquenchable Flame of Paradigm Shifts
Mortified by any Noble Pursuit
That diminished the Lie
To magnify the Truth.
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 12:37 PM UTC
I've got an invitation to the Boston Tea Party
I'm letting you know in case you want to come with me
I heard from some friends that it's going down in history
Don't think about it twice
Just say yes
Whoa! Uh oh!
No taxation without representation
Whoa! Uh oh!
These patriot's they know how to show a good time.
Whoa! Uh oh!
What Georgie gonna think when he wakes up in the morning?
Pass me the quill, dear Hancock.
Thomas Jefferson, he has got a way with words
He really makes you believe that this dream's gonna work
(Maybe if you forget that these Brits rule the world)
I'll sign the declaration
It's all I have left to believe in
Whoa! Uh oh!
Paul Revere he says the British are coming!
Whoa! Uh oh!
Can't you hear, the belfry's bells are ringing
Whoa! Uh oh!
Pick up guns we're off to Lexington
Hoofbeats are flying out to the night.
Wait.
Here I stand.
At this Battle of Bunker Hill.
Stop.
Close your eyes.
What happend to our sanity?
Civility?
Humanity?
(It went out the door with our freedom.)
Whoa! Uh oh!
We don't need a King we have our own voices
Whoa! Uh oh!
Life and Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness
Whoa! Uh oh!
Save the date, July 4th 1776
US of A, it's independence.
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 2:34 PM UTC
Finnegan, begin again
is it time to wake?
The belfry bats are singing
from the yew trees, "heigh **
heigh ** heigh hooooo . . . "
as lips lip fleshless lips of air
Bloom clinks a glass with
M'Intosh, "Three quarks
for Muster Mark!" and
Stephen drinks tea from
lotus flowers poured by
Nausicaa while sirens call
between the clashing rocks
"Come home Telemachus, come
home Penelope, come home
Mary, come
home . . . "
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
The figure lurks behind my lidded eyes:
His back is all a-hunch and he is mad
With thoughts of you. But often when he lies
He dreams as slender silver as you had.
Your beauty haunts the belfry of my head
And Shakespeare’s darkened lady’s takes a glare.
The sun was Rosaline and I was dead
The day I searched for you and found you there.
The river ran too quick against our days.
My love for you, which never found its wife,
Heard clear those words you said upon the chaise.
The words, "I could not do", which were your knife.
So here am I with no chance to rephrase;
You wounded me with words. I took your life.
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 8:16 AM UTC
I can feel the fire deep inside
Burning words clean off the page
Screaming with fury yet unsaid
Ringing out slowly
Like a hellish belfry
Sing out to heaven
Hope to breath
All the while, Autumn leaves
All I can feel is bitterness at it's reprieve
So comes the winter,
A cold dark thing
For which may well **** me
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
Obsidian black blankets my thoughts and the night.
What lurks in cracks?
The cracked cement.
The cracked psyche.
Bats flutter in the belfry.
Madness takes hold, or is the madness masked as sanity?
Erudite my words may be tonight, but tomorrow I may babble.
Like a brook, black as a rook.
Why do these thoughts become clear in the dark?
Darkness leads the way onto a path.
Juxtaposed by the black night, the light is dimmed
Feelingly, gropingly, groggily I'm frightfully led.
To where?
To bed?
To sleep?
To dream jet black thoughts?
Oblivion, delirium, lithium.
Crow black is the deepest part of the night.
Inky pools of forgetfulness abound the sleepers tonight.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC