"bides" poems
LOVE, on wood,
Is raised
Perpendicular
Into the grey sky.
Below
The intense agony
And silent victim
Stand the military
Gambling
For his apparel.
Mary and Mary Magdalene lament...
Above,
Utters of despair, forgiveness...
Then death.
Imperceptible
To the organic eye,
His Spirit ascends into the opening
Sky;
And there in the empyrean
He bides his time
For the Love---
Of ALL mankind.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 11:37 AM UTC
In a midwinter night’s dream
i found myself lost again,
or was it even this year ?
It may even go back farther
than yesterdays out of reach,
older than an ancient pyramid stone
Before the rebirth of past life deposits,
unborn orphaned motherless sediment,
flotsam of the ages adrift,
unknown for more than a thousand years
... waiting for so long to see beyond the bounds
High atop a slippery edge-cliff
i clung ―
Searching for a deeper understanding
of who i am;
Roosting like a starving bird of prey
with a broken wing
born alone ... holding on
With a fear in his eyes
that only i could comprehend
Staring way down deep in the pith,
into an internal pitch black abyss,
just begging to see beyond ―
Mindful it's so hard looking
into the eye of a storm
Intimately parsing the recurrent source
of reigning pain
Where the perpetual fog of isolation dwells;
an inversion, preventing dispersion
of the nimbus cold and dark
In the darkness, there bides a suffocating
emptiness,
A swelling silence what loudly knells,
leeching through a perennial ache
An abating voice within hollers unheard,
invisible as a bitter cold wind howling
relentlessly through the hollow pang;
Echoing the subsiding say
(squeezed out) ... of an orphaned soul
deep beneath the light
Awakening to realize ― once i was alive
and
i could feel me holding on to you
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 7:11 PM UTC
"A patient man bides his time,"
Theodore tells the man in the mirror
Tomorrow, all the levees will break
And all the fables will be told
Of distant Decembers and forgotten fathers
Livelihoods will be threatened
And remorse will fall by the wayside
He watches as icicles on the awning
Melt away into puddles on the ground
"Warmer every day," he thinks to himself
He hangs up his scarf and overcoat
The way a simple man, with complex demons, is wont to do
And as his wants devolve into needs
And as all his anchors deteriorate to rust
Her smile unnerves a once-settled man
To think of the quality of glove necessary
To hold onto the wagon in this day and age
So Theodore pulls the door to,
Leaving Chopin's "Horseman" to gallop in peace
And in pieces
He watches her from across the courtyard
"Such sweet bliss in her footsteps," he sighs
And it seems to him as if the snow dissipates
Just from the warmth in her steady gait
Just from the radiation behind her brown eyes
He slides open the dresser drawer
A haven for scattered trinkets, odds, and ends
A place of respite for the weary souvenir
There, amidst all the corroded memories
Lies a corroded pistol, unspoken and unburnished
"And a lonely man drinks his wine,"
Theodore says, as intrepidly as he is capable
For there is a time when fathers stop teaching
A time when mothers stop singing
And a place where the sins stop searching
A last breath is deeply inhaled
But never again will find its escape
With a thud that echoes to Seymour Street
Theodore crumples to the cold wooden floor,
A simple man, finally free of complex demons
Jan 25, 2023
Jan 25, 2023 at 1:19 PM UTC
The hour which might have been yet might not be,
Which man’s and woman’s heart conceived and bore
Yet whereof life was barren,—on what shore
Bides it the breaking of Time’s weary sea?
Bondchild of all consummate joys set free,
It somewhere sighs and serves, and mute before
The house of Love, hears through the echoing door
His hours elect in choral consonancy.
But lo! what wedded souls now hand in hand
Together tread at last the immortal strand
With eyes where burning memory lights love home?
Lo! how the little outcast hour has turned
And leaped to them and in their faces yearned: —
‘I am your child: O parents, ye have come!’
4k
That you are fair or wise is vain,
Or strong, or rich, or generous;
You must have also the untaught strain
That sheds beauty on the rose.
There is a melody born of melody,
Which melts the world into a sea.
Toil could never compass it,
Art its height could never hit,
It came never out of wit,
But a music music-born
Well may Jove and Juno scorn.
Thy beauty, if it lack the fire
Which drives me mad with sweet desire,
What boots it? what the soldier's mail,
Unless he conquer and prevail?
What all the goods thy pride which lift,
If thou pine for another's gift?
Alas! that one is born in blight,
Victim of perpetual slight;—
When thou lookest in his face,
Thy heart saith, Brother! go thy ways!
None shall ask thee what thou doest,
Or care a rush for what thou knowest,
Or listen when thou repliest,
Or remember where thou liest,
Or how thy supper is sodden,—
And another is born
To make the sun forgotten.
Surely he carries a talisman
Under his tongue;
Broad are his shoulders, and strong,
And his eye is scornful,
Threatening, and young.
I hold it of little matter,
Whether your jewel be of pure water,
A rose diamond or a white,—
But whether it dazzle me with light.
I care not how you are drest,
In the coarsest, or in the best,
Nor whether your name is base or brave,
Nor tor the fashion of your behavior,—
But whether you charm me,
Bid my bread feed, and my fire warm me,
And dress up nature in your favor.
One thing is forever good,
That one thing is success,—
Dear to the Eumenides,
And to all the heavenly brood.
Who bides at home, nor looks abroad,
Carries the eagles, and masters the sword.
3.8k
Summer fell in pale midnight
With ice crystals answering the nomads plight
When silence fell on deafened ears
A heart was impaled by ruby spears
A kingdom of dust with castles of bone
Risen amidst ruins of blackened stone
Demons falling from heavens high
Weeping at their brother's sight
Then golden blood streamed and flowed
In rivers where kings fearfully bowed
A giant struck by lightning's blaze
Glimmering in his flaming haze
Burning, burning, he slowly dances away
And a knight in the armour of dragons to slay
Hunted by wolves with greenish gaze
Is desperately searching for a safe place
Fairies of burns float through the air
Surrounding the phoenix's heir
Golden diamonds grow out the trees
And scatter in the ashy black breeze.
A king atop his throne of wood
Laughing madly about his brotherhood
Oblivious of the strange smoke
Rising from his burning choke
His nose burns away, he no longer smells
So he doesn't know about his hollow shell.
War after war ravages his beautiful lands
Waged by his corpse's stiff, dead hands
A bird flies in the mountain's halls
Trapped by it's stony walls
A cage, a cage, his voice bides
A cage safe from the demonic tides
The serpent's fang bitten in a hero's knee
Who lost his valour and tried to flee
Justice is carried out only by death
And in this world, there's no longer breath
Amidst it all, a young man stands
Looking at his icy flames
A smile stealing upon his face
Behold!, This is the madman's grace
Jan 13, 2023
Jan 13, 2023 at 6:11 AM UTC
I said: ‘Nay, pluck not,—let the first fruit be:
Even as thou sayest, it is sweet and red,
But let it ripen still. The tree’s bent head
Sees in the stream its own fecundity
And bides the day of fulness. Shall not we
At the sun’s hour that day possess the shade,
And claim our fruit before its ripeness fade,
And eat it from the branch and praise the tree?’
I say: ‘Alas! our fruit hath wooed the sun
Too long,—’tis fallen and floats adown the stream.
Lo, the last clusters! Pluck them every one,
And let us sup with summer; ere the gleam
Of autumn set the year’s pent sorrow free,
And the woods wail like echoes from the sea.’
2k
Trying to figure out why a ***** tried to stunt on me.
While my homie fronts on me.
Triggered lie’s blasting out like bullets into your chest, golly!
Vigor dying whilst family crying that left me locked up now in a little celly.
Why did I pour out my heart to that ***** named shelly?
**** got me melancholy, casting out poxy curses.
My proxy is dropping down which got me feeling worthless.
Growing up in projects where one survives by snatching purses and killing snitches.
While society bides their time by tying nooses.
Rigged games yet we are told to give no excuses.
So, a minority got no choice but to role with the punches.
But with darker skin colour most don’t or won’t notice the bruises.
Vile nobility just loves hunting gooses.
Stark contrast idly confides and resides Inside institutionalized nuances.
Some people can be such nuisances.
Got me feeling like tony roaming through the different cosmoses.
Lonely sinking feeling, with my hope which was once flickering but is now slowly fleeting.
Reciprocal tensions pokes through my barriers like an unwelcomed greeting.
Typical tropes of under-achieving maybe it’s time I let God start intervening?
However, I’m doubtful on whether spirituality is real or nothing more than Kris Kringle.
Jingling jester choirs who always be harping on my people.
Which makes me ponder whether or not God’s supposed love is fickle.
Or if supposed believer’s have actually ever read the bible?
Religious pharisee’s not seeing the irony of praying to their falsified idols.
With their heads so far up their own *** That they don’t even realize that they’ve actually been worshipping the devil.
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
The Earth No Longer Nests Within Summer's Clammy Palms,
But Is Suspended Upon Autumn's Chilled Fingers,
Soon To Fall Into The Chasm Where Winter Bides It's Time;
The Dwelling Place Of All Things Which Lie Dormant
*The Lawn Remains Long And Untamed,
For The Carcasses Of Summer Leaves Litter The Ground,
The Summer Sparrows Have Flown Down South,
And The Pigment Of My Skin Has Faded With The Sun*
The Breeze No Longer Harbors An Exquisite Song,
Only The Husk Of A Hymn Which Was Once Sung,
The Summer Leaves No Longer Whispered In The Trees,
For They Lie Speechless Upon The Frosted Forest Floor
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 2:04 PM UTC
Thou art not but a siren,
Singing thine song.
Thou do not but lure the hearts of men,
Into thine caltrop of a jaw.
Not devouring instantly,
But instead thou bides thine time.
Thou pleasures before thou feasts.
Thou waits until the opportune shade of sundial,
When the hearts of men art trustworthy.
Thou feeds upon them as if a beast.
But dost thou have beauty?
But dost thou have charm?
But dost thou have wit?
This is why thou cannot resist.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 10:52 AM UTC
Tenderly I’ll tell you of the saddest book i've ever read;
The story of two lovers and how their love is ******
For the love each has for the other represents
The only bit of good either of them has,
And yet because of this love they share,
You can’t help but sympathize in his despair,
When she leaves him for a wealthier man,
That she doesn’t love and can barely stand,
Because she’s too proud to marry beneath her,
And so effectively is her own murderer.
Dying, and leaving him, as she does
Even after all that time, still in love,
And so he bides his days until the time
he can leave his lonely existence behind
and together their ghosts can wander the moor,
seperated by the miseries of life no more.
Dec 8, 2010
Dec 8, 2010 at 12:28 PM UTC
There's an age old undying question that
Bides my blood stained wrists nailed here on thine earth,
That keeps my toes digging into the soft
Soil; into which we bury our dead, yet
Stand upon by which we mock the living,
And so that question stands as a viewer
Would you jump off a bridge if all your friends
Were doing it? As all our mothers asked,
Though what stuck about you, if I were to
Jump, what stops you from jumping after me?
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
While whispers shush on sheltered shores, as soon the cockcrow quakes,
the seas descry a skittish sky, sense summer zephyrs wake –
roused passions neath the sunrise pulse, the whitecaps throb and ache.
Along the crests crawl shallow shades the soaring sun effaces,
and rain in streams belies the dreams that fantasy embraces –
the ocean sprays of yesterdays conceal forsaken faces.
The midday sun has slowed its run, a shrinking puddle steams,
between the knells for shattered shells drift wounded seagulls’ screams –
affection blends but sometimes ends, or so it sadly seems.
At dusk a ruddy disk descends, the skyline's furnace burns
and neath the swells where Neptune dwells, an undercurrent churns –
a seahorse hides and seaweed bides until the tempest turns.
While twilight hosts the winds with ghosts of barbed electric spangles,
a mermaid braves the crashing waves adorned with starfish bangles –
the spirit yearns in twists and turns entwined in rockweed tangles.
As seven stranded ****** scan the dimple-dappled moon,
eleven sultry sirens serenade a lonely loon –
the breakers pound and sometimes sound a melancholy tune.
Soon gales ignite the briny night and rip the skies askew
with zigzag teeth flashed deep beneath a blazing bolt tattoo –
storms, spent, subside with ebbing tides, then all begins anew.While whispers shush on sheltered shores, as soon the cockcrow quakes,
the seas descry a skittish sky, sense summer zephyrs wake –
roused passions neath the sunrise pulse, the whitecaps throb and ache.
Along the crests crawl shallow shades the soaring sun effaces
and rains in streams enhance the dreams that fantasy embraces
while ocean sprays of yesterdays reveal forsaken faces.
The midday sun has slowed its run, a shrinking puddle steams,
between the knells of shattered shells drift soaring seagulls’ screams –
the beauty wends but never ends, or so it surely seems.
At dusk a ruddy disk descends, the skyline's furnace burns
and neath the swells where Neptune dwells, an undercurrent churns –
a seahorse hides and seaweed bides until the tempest turns.
While twilight hosts the winds with ghosts of barbed electric spangles,
a mermaid braves the crashing waves adorned with starfish bangles –
her spirit yearns in twists and turns entwined in rockweed tangles.
As seven stranded ****** scan the dimple-dappled moon,
a brace of surly Sirens serenade a lonely loon –
the breakers pound and sometimes sound a melancholy tune.
Soon gales ignite the briny night and rip the skies askew
with zigzag teeth flashed deep beneath a blazing bolt tattoo –
storms, spent, subside in ebbing tides, then all begins anew.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 4:21 AM UTC
Upon the blackened reeds
She sits upon her throne
Where all is blackened roots.
She is the angel among
The darkness sitting, watching
Upon her blackened throne.
The days are of no consequence
But in darkness the world
Is real. She bides her time,
Woman upon a darkened throne.
She waits passionately for
The fall of man, and
The rise of the true leaders,
Obscured by man, she
Sits, she waits upon her
Lonely throne.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
In the bowels of the old post office
The printing press, like
a large rusted spider
makes a bed out of *****
yellow paper and
rotted cloth of postal bags.
It bides it’s time pondering
On how it was formed
and listening to the coyotes
at the moon’s apex over
a long stretch of prairie.
Resting in the post office
on a grassed plateau are black
iron machines that walk, crawl
and scurry but shouldn’t.
They spend their days
building nests and staring
into stagnant pools at
their own reflection.
Waiting for someone
to use them.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
There is a beauty that
comes from walking a
clover laden field, or a
path in the woods and feeling
the autumn breeze and
smelling the wildflowers.
You are so alive.
There is an aching pain
as sharp and vivid as the
beauty, some knowledge in the
fiber of your spirit, that you
won't hold it forever.
Death walks with you silently.
It bides the times...so patient.
You are aware, so keen to
the fact that if you could
consume the beauty, the
honeysuckle, clover and brilliant
orange and pink of the sunset,
you might put death off for a while.
You do it in the heartbeat of your
sweet green youth, and you
keep walking, eyes wide open.
Aug 22, 2025
Aug 22, 2025 at 5:50 PM UTC
I.
brewing and brawling, bronzing
she cries
the mighty blue-tailed
golden hawk of the skies
she screeches and crones
for the souls in her bones
that she hides away
bides away, flies away, souls.
souls she collects,
to tinker and check
to see if their wailing is loud-
loud as it goes
proud as it goes
an ego as big as is tall:
a square of dementia
and a sprinkle of manic
lead you to think she is largely just panic
frantic and tied
the souls she must hide,
to tide away, bind away,
find a way free -
free from the earth,
its land and its girth,
free from the sea,
its waters and needs,
free from the fire,
burning desire,
loosed to the air,
its wings without care
fighting and lighting
the sky in her path
the soul-binding hawk
slowly wanders back
II.
one by one
faintly they come
daintily and faintly
quaintly, they come;
the souls, how they tremble,
quiver and weep
through the slightest of all tiniest cracks do they creep
whining, entwining, smiling they float
burning passion and love,
all on one music note:
dripping and dropping
they dangle and sway
floating, just floating, ever slightly away
III.
souls having *** and souls bemoaning love
wailing and flailing, as soft as a dove;
perfect, he says, are the shape of your *******
lovely, she responds, i'm sick of taking tests -
no one will know, they like to pretend,
but obvious was their means to an end;
switching and curling, lipping they smack
the man over the head, whose head is on crack
and sad they all are, demented instead,
inside of their heads they are missing a *****
brightly, tightly, they hold on to their due
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 8:14 PM UTC
Darkness of the patterned cloth,
Roughness of the sheets,
Wakeful wisping washing dreams,
Needless, needless sleep,
"Awake!" and "Awake!",
Alarm clock cries,
Quick and roll,
Avoid demise,
Bright and vivid bleakness seeps,
A coil to neck and chest,
Lost and losing the way it seems,
The serpents war is best,
"Arise!" and "Arise!",
A savior shouts,
Cast off the snake,
Forget your doubts,
Blackness of the inner eye,
Restlessness, heartlessness drives,
Struggle to the surface so close,
Final, dreaded release arrives,
"Sleep." and "Sleep."
The demon chides,
Hold gets tight,
Time he bides,
Sleep, Awake, Arise
Sleep, Awake, Arise
Sleep,
Awake,
Arise.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
inside weeks now, first frost warmed off, a *** watered
but still sere; her leafless twigs stand here ... pointing accusingly
(she'd promised us limes someday)
hope's a careless gardener with deep roots
resurrection imagined, coaxed to new shoots, green flecks ... some sign
(and lime fruits some day)
or any season grander than aged bourbon and ginger ... sipped
the crystal decanter bides quietly with gilt china
(for our harvest of limes)
a dusty cabinet counts reasons in neat rows
plant and man await parting, those pursed lips of time
(and dream, both, of limes)
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
To the vast emptiness you believe in,
memorized cursed faces,
breathe in dying lies.
Which do you prefer?
Protest vulgarities
and we'll shoot you
between blood shot eyes.
We are not real.
Secret?
Yours bides time in your eyes
the stench of ****
rolls off your priest collar.
You're high
taking the bible too literally.
The confession booth
is so much less than truth.
Sunday seems like a good day
to betray your faith
and **** every *****
that's been lured into your cellophane faith.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
If thou be the spear that pierces my soul
Never will ****** seem so sweet.
The softest of places thou wouldst control
If thou enter, and never retreat.
Open the flood-gates to this waiting heart
The bolts to thy power will yield.
Love for thee oils them and no rust will part
Or bar thy way if thou makest a start.
Enter thy sword in this scabbard of mine.
Mine armour bides ready for thee.
Reside in this haven, love as divine
Thou wilt find with no other than me.
Sojourn within this palace my lord, white
Sheets of satin deck this my bed.
Thy lady awaits, so enter tonight.
For by the sweet morrow we shall be wed.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 9:47 AM UTC
.
*Remember today,
as the self bides
the gavel-ticks
of the hand.
Celebrating the arrival
of each new second,
while mourning the ones
left unfulfilled
and regrettable.
Remember the todays,
as they might spring forth
or amble along…
Never forgetting
to frolick in the allures
of possibly better tomorrows.*
.
Sep 4, 2021
Sep 4, 2021 at 9:23 AM UTC
these are the same keys you taught my fingers to love
still the same deities changing channels on their tvs cause our team never hits home runs
the cliffs so sheer that the caverns look like dew drops,
beginning to simmer in the morning sun
giving the atmosphere a breath of fresh air when it is done
the night sky drops a shower of ice pops down onto your ancient mountaintops,
the same ones you told me i would love if we didn't go careening down a wrong turn.
keep a cheshire smile fading in your jacket pocket and bring me up,
i'll bring you a peace of the atmosphere, we'll watch the colors run away from the sun
sweet mint chip against hungry lips, smile as the milky sugar runs down
clean t-shirts can expect the worst in this race for last place
the city sleeps beyond my windowsill
i am a crippled ballerina, dancing a frustrated, slow pace
time bides itself and i smile in imaginary landscapes painted by masters
living like a story inside me
like a flower i open to the world, dispose of the plaster cast
dream to dare me, i will jump, and my arms unfold spirit feathers that tickle the air as i am
flying
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 8:19 PM UTC
round and about discovering
the hidden mosses and evergreen
mosses lichens
down on all fours recovering
the bides of soft scenes seen
tosses like soils moist
brown and rich recalling
the times of a youthful dreaming
spent
discovering the
doe romping fertile in her young
youthful nature growing
seeds sowing
this
remembering.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC
As fresh as the cresting sun.
As renewed as a parched root system,
sipping from newly fallen rain.
As strong as the piercing scent
of death.
As inspiring as a color never before seen.
As beautiful as an uninterrupted
view of the coming horizon.
Tracing my tracks against the
dew soaked grass.
The stride seemingly effortless,
but that imposition of thought
betrays the plight.
A vehicle of processes unseen.
A coalescing of doubt, fatigue,
and soul shrieking fear.
The listless sojourner bides his
time, by hearing the winds
flow through the branches of
trees sheltering his tumultuous,
tortured head.
The mirage of freedom begs for him.
The anticipation of impact beckons him.
The theory of altruism entices him.
The actual silence imparts peace on him.
As brave as a child facing life with
no hand to hold.
As defined as the microscopic view
of the macroscopic systems moving
around me.
As invigorating as a bath in a cool
blue spring.
Renewed, reborn, raised.
The tearing pain of exhaustion earns
no acknowledgement.
The screaming agony of muscles
garners only more ambition.
The eyes of a weary sojourner
shows sincere empathy,
real love,
amazing faith.
Surrender yourself,
lay prostrate,
know your place,
and by grace,
they will see it upon your now
smiling face.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 9:44 AM UTC