"bequeathing" poems
☾
*I wish I were the Moon
Bequeathing an enchanting night
A mystical celestial sphere
Bewitching lover’s hearts
A practical magic spell
C a s t
In a lonely hollow shell
An ardent musical echo ―
Released in an irrepressible
Impassioned moan
A twilight sigh
escaping in untamed
Blissful breath
A Sky without Moonbeams
Is like a world without song
It takes a certain darkness
To heed a Sky full of Stars alone
I wish I were Moonstruck
A fate I crave to behold
Waxing and Waning
Rising ― Changing
A distant ocean’s ebbing tide
A captivating enchantment
In the twilight beauty
Of your eyes
Dreaming of drowning
Deep within
Their deepest water’s Wild
I don't want to wake up
and become ―
More fading
Barefoot traces left behind
On some faded memory's
Deserted shore
Right now is all
There ever is ―
and
I wish I were
The Moon tonight*
Jesse Stillwater ... May 2018
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC
The spider Queen, aloofly vain!
She rules a silent ruthless reign,
with black-bead eyes like pearls of rain
that damp the depths of her demesne.
.
.
.
A spider spins, with nimble feet,
a sticky web of grim deceit
that drapes the corners, dark, discreet,
in catacombs of her retreat.
Her jointed legs (in number, eight)
traverse the threads with stilted gait,
but often more she'll lie in wait
within the hub of her estate.
Shy spiders live their lives alone
ensconced within a silky throne;
unless a transient guest comes flown,
their lives bide empty, monotone.
.
.
Well, now and then, a sullen breeze
may twitch the toils, begin to tease –
yet nothing's caught and nothing pleas,
so patience's bid at times like these.
But then again, when stars ignite,
may maunder by a gnat, by night,
be taught a dance, a writhing rite,
within a lace of death, wrapped tight.
Sometimes a spider's in the mood
and waits awhile, whilst being wooed –
and then, to later feed her brood,
the widow slays her mate for food.
In time a spider dies, 'tis true,
bequeathing but a residue
entwined, devoid of retinue,
in fibers decked in silver dew.
.
.
.
One asks "What purpose serves the GNAT –
to feed and make the spider fat?
Well, 'tis perchance just naught but that
within a mindless habitat.
.
.
"Yet, what's the aim?” you may inquire,
“at the heart of MAN's desire.
To which goals should WE aspire
reaching high and reaching higher?"
We've, through the ages, left the mire,
trundling wheels and taming fire,
doing deeds that must inspire,
nursing needy, calming crier, …
Such things as these, most may admire:
- placid dove and war defier
(some are bolder, some are shyer)
- patience (mess-up mollifier);
- humankind (Life's justifier)
- charity (charmed self-denier)
- tolerance (proud pacifier )
- love of Life (folk unifier).
What more could we, as flesh, require?
Needless kneeling neath the spire?
Childish chanting in the choir?
Preaching hell's impending pyre?
No, Death's the only rectifier,
comes the instant we expire,
nothing after, sentience prior.
So, treasure Life and don't deny Her.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
Mongst the salacious ferns of
Artemis requested in the land
of the handsome labyris women
wealing and weaving Vulcans
shrewd hearts of jasper and
chalcendony, governess Hulda
cleaves Muspellsheims yew bones
fletching mandrakes philtre whetting
hie Cupids perfuse herb of grace
intercessorial unto volcanic pious
virtues haranguing loves cataract
dashing herewith demotic enditements
distempered of ludic ordination;
forging a year and a day halest
cledonomancies volley of truths
bequeathing privity of Heavens
prismatic trajectory.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
544
The Martyr Poets—did not tell—
But wrought their Pang in syllable—
That when their mortal name be numb—
Their mortal fate—encourage Some—
The Martyr Painters—never spoke—
Bequeathing—rather—to their Work—
That when their conscious fingers cease—
Some seek in Art—the Art of Peace—
3.5k
The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks
And far beyond the discords of the wind.
A bronze rain from the sun descending marks
The death of summer, which that time endures
Like one who scrawls a listless testament
Of golden quirks and Paphian caricatures,
Bequeathing your white feathers to the moon
And giving your bland motions to the air.
Behold, already on the long parades
The crows anoint the statues with their dirt.
And the soul, O ganders, being lonely, flies
Beyond your chilly chariots, to the skies.
2.9k
Upon the farthest bank of legend’s secret lake,
At the very edge of a summer day,
The last long corridors of light, retract.
Bequeathing dusk his brief dominion
Over dreams and magic quests.
And there, upon the mind’s most distant shore
The ephemeral figure of an almost forgotten boy
Stood waiting for Excalibur to rise.
© James Rainsford 2010
Nov 14, 2010
Nov 14, 2010 at 8:47 AM UTC
Fathercraft
has been passed down
from father to father
losing and gaining
at each slow bequeathing -
less heavy-handed there
more soft-hearted here
as each generation rejects
the disciplines of the past.
So much so that I wonder
what's left of the original art
and what we've lost.
This is my food for thought
as I feed my daughter -
crumbled digestive
with mashed banana -
perhaps a favourite of mine
and my father's,
while she grins and chortles
blowing biscuit dust
and spittle bubbles
with absolute child-delight.
Food for thought
as I drink in her smile,
wipe my cheek
and laugh along,
prolonging the rare perfection
of this father moment.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
I frequently read my old poems and
feel my glass heart splinter with impatience
and demand why my muse escapes
my passions, and my talent must
sleep cold and lonely within the shadowy crescent
where an oil-fire’s tongues dare not lick.
Then, when face with banal, bittersweet
mimicry week after week, therein
braces a bothered stirring of flavorful
jumbles as aimless as houseflies bouncing
against the window blinds.
And, once again, my poems,
with their phoenix lifestyles, breathe brave
gulps with scarlet-robin-breasts puffed
with gung-ho vigor.
Where the poet’s rhythm takes on equestrian
expression along the staggered verses,
bequeathing shine to syllabic shine
and stealing pop from pursed, pronouncing lips.
Each doting word may kiss and nuzzle the
splinters that recognize a cut so rare
that this world’s physical balance would overturn
with no presence of such wondrous oddity.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 5:10 AM UTC
Bathed in fields of hummingbirds
an elderdown of spring purveys
weaves nexus to ancient stone walls
where tomorrow's wood elves
dressed in firestorm blue
wait
bequeathing a symphony of resistivity
a causeway plied with dreams to harvest,
wills the east winds high.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC
Oh, here I am confined to the walls of my sadness!
I am lean and weary,
my heart thin and dreary.
Oh, how I've longt to wander yon mountainous hills again,
this time with thee,
descending the steeps, our bare foots brushing against the heath beneath
blending into the hilly surroundings
under the laughter of the joyful heavens -
o how riveting the bank underneath shall be!
O how delicacy shall reign my frame abruptly -
bequeathing its foreign spirit gladly,
so that I am showered with its frantic idyll
with adversity whose love can never forget!
O how this joy shall conquer any rivers of indignation,
drive their disdained yoke away
along with those conceited tears
of sullenness, hatred, and amorous gluttony!
But unreachable art thou!
O Kozarev, my prince, sole prince in these silent wintry dreams,
how thou appeareth like a gleaming apparition,
soothing my reposes, making whose armours complete,
with smiles can bear all my gloominess away,
whose lovely jests are warmth to my soul, my yearning and choking soul,
in the deathlike bursts of this misty day!
O Kozarev, in today's laborious air I shall think of thee,
thy stately figure, thy youth of ardour!
Thy grin the star to the fading sun;
thy words that calmeth sorrow; and sendth thrills through my bones!
O mumbling lips, o trembling horns!
My little treasure, if only thou could hear my earnest longing
my very earnest desire; sincere yet tempestuous
that I shalt lift my hands around thee
Just how those rocks stand firm on the glaring sea
Cheers in its coldness; praises its bland waviness
Like a small boat unyielding to the melodious storm
when the last harmony is no longer sounding!
O, how I long to share this fondness with thee!
Kozarev, my demure pleasure, my belated fate!
My firing snow, my blazing sun,
the handsomest flower of my being!
My lithe little heart might be of nothing to thee
I am unworthy, yet I yearn for thee so willingly!
Kozarev, amidst the rolls of my dreams I devour thee,
wherein dwells the upmost of our affection
and sits our sheepish little village!
And adjacent to the gentle fireside
upon our wooden squeaking chair
brimmed with love, smeared with laughs
I should rock by thee
sew thee into my very own loveliness
and ****** thy grace
to the faint redness of my lips.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 5:55 AM UTC
I know only this,
With you died my bliss.
Why had you to go,
When I loved you so?
What in my love
Was there not enough of
For you not to see
You were needed by me?
Just a selfish act
Without thought of impact,
Of how it would destroy
Me, your little boy?
I want you back
From your self-attack,
From your self-hate.
Come out of that crate!
I won't let them bury you
Or away let them to carry you
I refuse to desert
My daddy to dirt.
Why did you flee
In a way which would be
Such forever unending a leave
Bequeathing me only to grieve?
Why did you hate me
Leave me, forsake me?
I loved you with all that I had,
Daddy forgive me if I made you mad.
Come back poppa, please
I'm here on my knees
Begging, please don't be gone;
Tell me this is just some con.
I Loved You! I Love You!
I Hate that I Love You!
For now love is only deep pain
From love now there's nothing to gain.
-From the Author-
And hopefully this
Explains why I dis,
And will have no pity
For a 'poetic' suicide ditty.
Just such selfish gusts
From self-absorbed egotists
Playing as the word is a toy
That wrecked the heart of this boy.
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 8:59 PM UTC
Rings of light lowering from the skies I called my faith Godly and A universe is birthing somewhere; Transporting peace into this world everyone else infidel. Now I going extinct Dinosaurs in There! Ant-eating stick,
I emerged have divine rights to pillage all.
A galaxy few light-years away, A tool-making ape. And gave the Shoreless ocean knocking the heart. At this very moment, life first
key to St. Peter and walked, walked That I locked away behind a
door. peered at
the firmament of stars. Bequeathing hopers,
A light called forth and I walked forth A supernova ***** all light. memories down epigenetic lines. out a mollusc to the future But peace was alive all along. An arc. Epic. Exodusish. enroute a transcience
called man; Now
in the fear of a mushroom There is a God.
Too bland for our Tossing around in a centrifuge. clouds, she graces
the world in taste, lighting all hearts in peace-fires. Giant wheel. Merry-go-around. her dome-shrines dotting the wide
shores. And now
we like them, deranging conflagrations more.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
Poets carry the legacy
Of truest of feelings
And obscure emotions
Fertile minds ponder
Conversation with muse
Fountain of inspiration
From the cosmic core
Poets with finesse
Carry the words with care
Leaving a rich legacy
Bequeathing everything
A magnanimous soul
Poets change the world
With every word
Poetry is the mantra
Chants heard far and wide
Reverberates the legacy
With profound clarity
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
1.
An escape beckons,
A slow and dark reunion,
It's calling me once more,
The chains have been broken.
2.
The savage stands upon the distant mound,
A bearded smile, a laughing frown,
And from the peyote trance comes the ancient dance,
Heads on fire!
Transparent funeral pyre.
And so begins the long, slow and frightening fall into divine madness.
3.
How good it is to be back among the insane,
The oceans of hallucinations running amok inside my brain,
The subconscious dweller has returned,
Relighting the quiet inferno,
The songs of ambience ooze from every flame,
Expanding paranoid thought,
Bequeathing forgotten demons,
From the shadows back into the game.
.......................................................................
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 9:17 PM UTC
Another day of cheer opens door wide
Bequeathing all with plenty of fun to play
Catering to the needs of all at anytime!
Delight after delight increases interest
Enchanting brim full of bubbles of joy
Floating everywhere in the feast full!
Gathering friends meet companions
Hugging with humorous thoughts ever
In the dreams of the past glory immortal!
Joint partners in play revel in merry making,
Keep all with glasses never minimizing at all
Losing or winning without minding time...!
Moments of joy never to be forgotten in life
Neither the winner nor the loser ever bothers
Openly losing one's Self as rivers in the ocean!
Pure heart of gold caring all with comforts only
Queen of heart can do so in revelry of ace class
Rejoicing in the occasion quite grande in scale!
Surfing on the waves of fantasy all forget world
That has progressed accumulating problems As
Universe only can accommodate their proportion!
Vertically and horizontally all things explored
World of woes is kept at the back burner ever;
Xerox of it only kept for ready reference however!
Year long striving is made to disappear by feast
Zigzagging over woes with new found solutions!
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 11:38 AM UTC
I know not, how often
Have I smiled with tears in my eyes.
Silently watching as
A quiet calm throws a veil over these lies.
Still waters, bequeathing,
A sense of hope and longing.
These dire days, I pray,
May one day be forgiving.
And I have kept my heart locked,
Dark and protected.
Once so welcoming to the world
Lo! The pain to which it was subjected.
Now as I gaze back,
To the storms I have braved,
Demons tamed,
With dreams, my dearest, I had paid.
I look into your eyes,
There is warmth, beckoning.
I have come so far,
Wished on stars afar, for this tale that is unfolding.
I know not, what tomorrow holds,
Thorns, nay, wild flowers.
But I know now, for sure,
That even love can start fires.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 1:36 PM UTC
The end result is a losing battle for both sides
The fear encompassing has no place to hide
Bequeathing a new type of thought
Insanity, psychotic all symptoms of brain rot
Was I taught because all knowledge is gone
Using my pen to write a memoir of things I never did
Plenty of things seem to relate
In a way never before, such a feeling with power so great
This thing is now a part of me
Speaking truth in a voice of blasphemy
In each ear I can hear it so clear
Scary, pervasive, sometimes brings me fear
X, y and z you see
Just letters of dimensions that contain versions beautiful to see
Another you another me
We have spoken
They are truth
They are it
Inside my mind speaking of theories that here can’t be defined
His name is mine and we finally agree
Gained intelligence 6 and 7 8d
Cornering a thought that was chased for too long
A relief or reason why I’ve become so strong
Emotionally blank awoken by my own stank my arms are pinned so tightly to my chest
Padded room hair is sprawled in my face, ***** and feces everywhere
A man approaches plugging his nose
Force feeds me pills and speaks non sense
Then another with a hose
Cold, wet and feeling so ashamed
I wish to speak to the man from another that carries my name
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
Unfortunate successor,
With regret I imagine you
Reading the account I put here
Regret partly for myself
For I will surely be dead-
Perhaps worse-
Regret is also for you
My yet-unknown friend
Only one needs
Such vile information
My heir,
I feel sorrow bequeathing
My unbelievable evil
Upon another human being
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 1:27 PM UTC
Settled in the ***** of Paris,
Decades after painting the Bay of Naples,
The artist now known as classic
Sat with a content smile
And reminisced about the guardian angel,
Who painted a masterpiece,
Containing just a leaf
And bequeathing a hopeful life.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
Fiend he was and fed away my heart to the pack of nightscratchers in his wake - all the while looking me in the eyes, my superfluous pose, his wired,
wicked laugh echoing at me in my dreams, behind my nose and in every strand of
flitting, fleeting hair, like a mechanical fantasy of Mr. Poe, and It was Then, in that freakishly drawn-out moment of my life that I realized I am not a girl, this nonsense may have
ripped the veins from around that kaleidoscope dreamland of my interior but from now till on I will
live unreal realities outside the mind, bequeathing thoughts and sense but as a woman,
taking my fall with grace, gracing the light with a smile, smiling at the
dreams
I
once
dreamt.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
Tryouts starring musical prodigies
and/or an attendant conductor
attempt to approach ambient chorus
divinely exhibited from Gaia's handiwork
heavenly invoking kapellmeister's
magnificent nonchalant outlook
piquantly, quintessentially, repertoire sensately striking
unmatched vast wisdom yielding, zephyr air albeit creativity
engineered from groundswell harmony
juxtaposed, kindled, linkedin,
manifesting noteworthy opulent philharmonic recording
transcribing universal veritable webbed wide world.
Wunderkinds yield Ziggurat acme approximated asymptote
bequeathing celestial Doppelganger Earthly emulations
formulating fractal glinting highlighting
ineffable joie de vivre jostling, keen kindling,
la la land legerdemain lifting logic
lording Ludwig (Josef Johann) Wittgenstein.
Yelping zoological apostle Al affidavit Gore handily
heaping hubristically invocation jolting kickstart measures
nipping nixed noblesse oblige opera
quickening quotidian rapid ruination sans supreme
teetering upended venerated wise with acumen
arithmetical Benoit Mandelbrot
chasing far-fetched ideas
lightyears menacing nihilism purging ogres opportunistically
resplendently ripping revered tankard tipping unstoppably
vanquishing varietal whipsawing wonderfully
wrapt yawning youngsters
warfare written wrought
yanking zestfully crushing environmental family
granting Herculean instant karma
malevolent, opprobrious pronouncement
quiet riot silencing severely tragic ubiquitous vicious wreckage
yikyaks apemen cleft Earth.
*************************************************
Future foragers denounce capitalistic bamboozlers aggression
zealots wrought trashing quintessential naked kingdoms issue
flotsam coagulates zonal wastelands torquing quality NON
killing habitats Earth bleached yellowed voodoo ruins.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 12:12 AM UTC
Who shall find intermittent song?
...of reason wrong ...of time so lent
Who could position themselves to be
... lark in tree? ... one heaven sent?
Audacity to find in peace of mind
... words so kind ... yet ever untrue
Convince me now of lies so bold
... so very cold ... never more undue
Lie to me till eminent death
... with sweet breath ... in toiled rest
Sing to me great love accolade
... make fine charade ... fibbing best
Do this in pity, I shall bequeath
... a laurel wreath ... a poet's song
Precious days numbered in ways
... testament blaze ... schooling wrong
Consider final pathetic beseeching
... it's own bequeathing ... riled begging
Harden heart to own such phrases
... this last lying day .. is mild *******
... it won't hold on without you
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 11:44 PM UTC
We're weary and wet,
trowelling through the muck,
looking for ancient bones,
cold as skeletons.
The earth gives up its ***** old men,
bequeathing their remains -
bog people, trog people,
pongy gaping gob people -
most likely Angles and Saxons.
At least they have their own ***** old women,
and don't try to rattle our women's bones.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 2:11 PM UTC