"besmeared" poems
A waif on this earth,
Sick, ugly and small,
Contemned from my birth
And rejected by all,
From my lips broke a cry,
Such as anguish may wring,
Sing, — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.
By Wealth's coach besmeared
With dirt in a shower,
Insulted and jeered
By the minions of power,
Where — oh where shall I fly?
Who comfort will bring?
Sing, — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.
Life struck me with fright —
Full of chances and pain,
So I hugged with delight
The drudge's hard chain;
One must eat, — yet I die,
Like a bird with clipped wing,
Sing — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.
Love cheered for a while
My morn with his ray,
But like a ripple or smile
My youth passed away.
Now near Beauty I sigh,
But fled is the spring!
Sing — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.
All men have a task,
And to sing is my lot —
No meed from men I ask
But one kindly thought.
My vocation is high —
'Mid the glasses that ring,
Still — still comes that reply,
Chant poor little thing.
9.5k
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme,
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword, nor war’s quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
‘Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.
5.7k
pale sheet
besmeared
with inky
red's
black's
(blues)
catch on my i's
as glide (drip slither) - ing
across shimmering
linoleum
brown rounds (wrapped in white)
lead me down
perfect lips
to (between)
soft *******
ungulate
with rhythmic
lucidity
(i would put my strong hands
to your unbearably beautiful
vessel)
if only my mouth
didn't lack
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 12:40 PM UTC
*** cranberries, sunflower seeds:
Wasn’t it you who slipped through the door?
The floor creaking beneath your socks, you ignore the sounds.
That besmeared smirk on your face tells me you’re leaving but not soon enough,
as you slip into bed and tell me I’m lovely, you’re lonely.
Undress my shoulders and turn on the lights.
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 5:58 PM UTC
'Neath a cover of black faux leather
bursting with half-written verses
Lie coffee stains, old bird feathers
and lines of illegible cursive
the bitterness of heartbreak
on lines by brine besmeared
of victories and of mistakes
and thresholds I have cleared
This is my skeleton key
a glance into thoughts long passed,
for my broken memory
I hold a looking glass.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 8:05 AM UTC
They gathered at the sitting home
They searched how to get rid of this problem
Mohamad came with new religion
Mogul of his nation hated him
They said he differed between man and his wife
Between father and his love
His son who was grown to be his prop
He differed between the master and his slave
He put their shoulder in equal way
He destroyed the worship of status
Which was great trade at hajj season
They sold the gods of several names
For several ways and calls
Mohamad destroyed these gains
One said we must get him away
The Satan was there
He appeared on the face of the old
He laughed and said
"if you get him away
He will attract them by his sweet talk"
Another said," we must prison at wide prison"
The old said,''
He would make magic and attract them
He might get out
And make force to attack them
They looked with amazing
They said, "tell us our lord
How could we stop him?"
He said as an experiment,"
I see
Take from every tribe a strong one
These men will be forty men
With their strong swords
Waiting him till when he got out
To pray to his God for sun rise
And **** him as one man"
The masters thanked him
Saying," that is a good idea"
His God had another opinion
He told his prophet
Mohamad was known with the honest
And the trust
The masters put their important things
To him
To maintain these, until they demands
He told his cousin
Who was so youth
To sleep on his bed
To mock them
And to return their probity
When they looked at the hole of the door
They saw someone slept there
They thought that he was Mohamad
Before the sun rise' time
The God put the sleep over them
They slept in spite of their wake
Of their high rank emotion
After long time
As the sleeper did not get up
In spite of nearing pray, that was besmeared
After one passed by them
Asking, "whom do you wait?"
They answered at one sound
"Mohamad"
He said he passed by them
He put sands over their heads
They did not believe, they put their hands
Over theirs
They found it is not fault
They entered the home
By force
They entered the home
Without any permit
They found his cousin there
They asked with anger
"where is Mohamad?"
He loved and said,"
God protect!"
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 6:48 PM UTC
Engulfing dew from misty cold
Snoring on frosty haystacks
A dense carpet swirling around
Of crafty creatures and hags from hell
Fresh rainy aroma in delight
Inescapable , unhindered through nostrils
Neither railways' wheels of time
Nor bickering souls tarnishing demeanour
Mounds of besmeared rocks
Severe yet silent
But since joyous moments last momentarily
An ant from the core bites me harshly
I step into droughts of aforesaid enlightenment
As I close doors into confinement..
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 11:35 AM UTC
She sneaked in with polished boots
Carried her lateral inversion
To her " the other side"
Left behind indelible impressions
Shattered granite masks
She snapped off yet persevered
In the social, ethical arena
Utterly bewildered and besmeared
She entitled herself
" The Protagonist in Photographs"
But in the flashlights of sparkly stares
Filled with immense lustre
She was bewildered and besmeared
Adored her dull granite mask
Carried her lateral inversion
Left behind memorable impressions
Crying in the corners..
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 10:44 AM UTC