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Tom Blake Apr 2016
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.
harlon rivers Dec 2017
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



//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Written by:   harlon rivers ... 12/30/2017

Thank you for reading this personal introspective journey  ― peace
Chris Thomas Jan 2023
"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
This is a poem about hopelessness, unrequited love, and the sense of loneliness that accompanies every loss.
Such faith, conceived by truth-revealing trials
Would open up the way for sojourn hearts
Which, too long groaning, some contend the while
And fix not, pierced through with searing darts
Of cruel despite.  The back and not the front
Too much pursued, then turns away the thought
Which, rightly meek, could otherwise wax blunt
The plaint of sorrow, though not falsely wrought.
The vale they pass, and must, which set before
Is flood with tears of loss for grace remiss
Unkindly given, faithfully now born-
Both cheeks for smiting, doubly felt love's kiss.
Forbearing calls of tempted wrath, uncouth
They still the soul with love to love in truth.

Miners do not bemoan their lot or odds
Toiling amidst the mountains for the boon
Of rare and costly things, nor curse the gods
That one is later rich, one richer soon.
Attentiveness they hold who sooner reap
The treasure that's around them secret sown
While into every crevice careful peek
To pluck what heedless others pass unknown.
Life is not slack to proffer all the glee
Of finding underfoot their stainless wealth
If but the waking heart might, pious, see
The subtle vision slipped their soul in stealth.
A fool to Fortune's ways too tempted cling
As others own great price in common things.

What is a plowman’s good who does not know
To rend the fallow starts a noble work
And sluggard helper who rose not to sow
For early rains, and still the labor shirks?
All seasons come upon a certain time
Accounting naturally important ends
Then run together, pending to adjoin
And pass one into each toward that they tend.
So bides the heart, all dispositions moved
Proportionate to their respective toil
And meets the trials of reason, thorough proved
To blend experience for richer soil.
Such faithfulness lays hold upon the tares
And garners truth in joy of harvest tears.

The carpenters, with line and cornered rule
Perfect their plan, all purposes befitting;
Discerning every plane, they make it true
To need and art, nothing good omitting.
Time, space, and material, they well acquaint
To suit what in idea they have known
And do not reckon aimlessly to joint
The forms of care which discipline bestows.
Determining at first, their soul aspires
With upright means to prove a steady norm
In outward style, contracting the attire
To fit, more solid, ‘gainst the pending storms.
All ends appraised, no castle in the air
They raise integrity’s undoubted lair.

The shifting winds of glancing pride toss-on
The ship of fools ambition ere the port
Of youth is left, though life will not disport
With careless confidence and ****** throngs.
Awake you sleepers, grab onto the helm
Of discipline and keep a watchful eye
For them false prophets' quackery that o’er whelms
The halting reason; now, the trial draws nigh.
Set sail for deeper waters, brave the depths
Of judgment, yet retain a stern relief
'gainst piercing cynicism, which has cleft
Many strong hull upon the siren’s reef.
A hero braves the dark, where Dagon preys
To pluck the pearly gem from wisdom's lay.

Seeming and unseemly, like and dislike
The teeter and the totter is such play
Of mind and meaning, cause and mirrored sight
Which founding can confound the night with day.
The child is parent to the man while life
On loss is nourished; so a fusion rules
The universe inverse, returning strife
To compound allegory, deft endued.
Now what in words the wise of men contend
Consistent with or contra-wise contrived
Truth veers centripetal as spirit bends
The line’s division into circumscribed.
So Hermes’ message, as with salty might
Transforms the fixed in point of solving light.

The trials’ invocation always lends
Two ways to go, all faithless thoughts determined;
Another’s liberty of life extends
And once encompassed, all sure hope resounds.
What outward and destructive ways are there
In boasted things and ****** aspirations
Darkens careless souls that proudly bear
The cruelty of reckless estimations;
Though as an envoy of the light there’s one
That demonstrates a proven dignity
In all the world, illumined as the Sun
Their character’s sublime prosperity.
Such paragon of peace must ever live
In conquest of the other's death and sin.

As donning faces for the shift of things
Accommodation is the passing rite
That opens up upon the newest things
Where right or wrong, as given's, always nice.
What dogma won, in things of captured worth
Then fails for certain as both night and day
Impose fierce gauntlets which, ordained by birth
Initiates into humanity.
Whether comes fair or foul, truth ever is
Between what was, perhaps that which shall be
Where nothing good's received, nothing given
Except that proven by integrity.
More prudent hearts, in seeming-self discern
What loss to own, what gains to yet forgo.

No longer bothered in the waking hours
To vex the soul with thoughts of cruel reproof
They lighten every gloom with kinder bowers
And firm affections for shared primal youth.
Life’s promises they keep and sooner turn
On admiration of a sincere care
That judges not but, ever ready, learns-
What good or bad, by name, is common shared.
So being one within a true respect
They dare no more contend with right or wrong
Nor weary coming days with old regrets
But thank the night as harbinger of song.
At last to love in truth and constant live
By word of grace, their best of care to give!

Confessing nothing rash to vainly give
An estimation of life’s fleeting span
They overcome the world and constant live
In each, uniting, as is fit to stand.
Too soon, contesting banter comes about
On winds of contradiction, outward born
For inward wreck upon the teeth of doubt
As partial men from better self are shorn.
But owning what is due in right respect
Of station that sets all among the stars
So puny, comes a night to recollect
Those cares that found and folly each discharged.
Without more striving then, their way bestows
A humble truth, in love more plainly known.

So comes the proof upon transcendent will
To study every thought and whispered care
In what is sought and how may grace distill
The phantom soul; from private ways to bear
All things of good and evil in compound
As strange concoctions are at first the mead
Of sojourn ways, from ancient roots to bound
With vital links of continuity.
No star of vacant hope to glimpse at first
Where subtle intimations strike the mind
For sacred unction, urging on a birth
Through shadowed veils of self and misty kinds.
Once found in each, born by integrity
They compass perfect care to open up
The fount of golden youth while manhood’s key
Unlocks the treasures of salvific sup.
Such ripened grace of knowing, rightly heard
Stores up the nations, garnering the world.

A vision in the heart of Man, more true
To magnify the deed and, pure as gold
Proved equity of faith in each that holds
As dung all things which strife of pride once lured.
Allied and filling up the high measure
Of righteousness, with precepts born of love
It rectifies the will, drawing treasures
From Hade’s misty shrine and dank abode.
Thereby to light their lamps and truth reflect
The awesome wonder of life’s unity
While nothing of their tears to yet regret
Nor grant a loss to love's great sanctity.
Great mystery, though measured in the known
It rises, all in each and each in all!

Who knows what by this awful sight is spied
For proofs more sturdy, sought upon the word
To shape the justice of their dawning days
And lift to yet new life the palling world?
More subtle than the silent creep of time
It slips on by like whispers of a dream
To walk amidst the hustle and the grind
Of souls, too careless snared by cruel disdain.
Not here or there with proud insistency
Nor couched in dainty flirting of the mind-
A form of light and golden verity
Clothed in itself, itself a world sublime.
Substance of being, hope without a fear
This faith, indemnified by countless tears.

Ten thousand times ten thousand worlds employed
With weight and number, light and vast devoid
Before this fairest seat could faith enjoin
As heaven’s solar dame to the sublime.
Compressed within its bowels, the work's distress
From many tons of ore brings forth one stone
Which rare carbunculus the sage invest
With value, their beloved to adorn.
But this and all true wonder has not shown
What men and women may, in time, bequeath
As one pure breath of aurum spirit, born
To comprehend and compliment the rest.
Great agony has justified the odds
In consequence of Man, revealing God!
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!’
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.
Terry O'Leary Feb 2017
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.
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.’
Lou Alpha Jan 2023
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
Sometimes I just mumble some words and they begin to form rhymes.
That's basically how 99% of my poems are begun.
So don't wonder about this one! XD
Classy J Feb 2019
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.
Sydney Victoria Aug 2014
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
Autumn's Arrival
Jason Walsh Jul 2013
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.
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2012
This one absolute truth she was the embodiment of peace and grace they speak of guardians in
Childhood with such sweetest words she created fairest order if the day was mean and reproachful
It wasn’t known I think many children knew one such as Marie a soul so gentle we played in the coldest
Rain herd the thunder sound like great rocks were falling off a wagon being driven across heaven cold
And shaking we would regroup on her front porch she seemed to shake off the cold and her warm
Words were so comforting I believe I starting thinking she is special she is taking us beyond childhood
She possessed a central framing to her thoughts they seemed beyond her years and they instilled
Questions childhood wonders were many and it’s nice to stop now and cast our mind back to that time
Just maybe things are a little too hard at this moment in the lives of some the tremble she did win over
It was beyond her words it was her inner nature released through the heart and eyes of a small child
She was a stillness that calmed invited you to spill with her over the spillway of running water not be
Upset not to get entangled take the strong wind and use it for winging your way to heights that it
Afforded she taught ineffable lessons by just simply turning of her head you followed a little force of
Nature that was attuned to the spirit she spoke often of wanting to be a nun her boundless soul
Would have served her well she possessed a quiet command of life and what it was all about how she
Stirred your heart and emotions it was a hard and fast rule that all parents weren’t and didn’t meet the
Dreamy expectations of being Ward and June Cleaver at low times I don’t think she called the blue birds
Down from the trees but she had to be on intimate basis with them hard difficult problems were
Dissolved favorably when you hung out with her she had an ability to draw power that empowered
You wasteful and hurtful matters turned from glaring to a soft shadow that mixed into understatements
They shrank to a size that you could think on them and then turn aside and play her great help was her
Unflagging optimism it was the greeting you met when trouble flared she was centered in loveliness
It was like you were entering this misty cloud she had the uncanny ability to see life with sweetness
And you were pulled in underscored by it a dance was called from a far off place and your feet glided as
Your heart was filled with delight adult life was more alien childlike innocence couldn’t throw of the
Cancer that came and claimed her life at a young age she left a devastated husband and five precious
Little girls I wish they could read this and know their mother as the rich and precious child that touched
And gave us a shelter that was made from tenderness it bides us well on days that assail instead of
Giving encouragement she was always on hand to do that for us truly life is a mystery that it would
Reward her with such dismay but I bet if she stepped out of the shadows her words would be the same
As they were in childhood there is a place a man told of when you are there you love your family for the
First time the way they should be loved but you couldn’t make it to that high ground you want to wait
And anticipate their arrival to such a place of wonder he said that when you walk through nature’s
Grassland that it has intelligence no longer do you have to walk country lanes and you provide the
Stirring no now stimulating wonder is in every living thing you blend you are entrusted with richness
That captures you on every level everything contributes speechlessness occurs in two ways you are so
Overwhelmed words are arrested but you don’t need them communication is by pure thought do we
Not yearn in our speaking to be heard and understood an fall short not now Marie just caught up to her
Childhood that had perfection that was limited now all limitation is removed
Meghan Marie Dec 2010
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.
Nic Carter Nov 2014
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?
Poetic T Feb 2015
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.
Timothy Zero Apr 2014
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.
Sequoia C Aug 2012
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
Matt Martin-Hall Oct 2020
Stones hinged
In jagged mystery
Behind whispered veils
And torrid grays.

A damp earth hinting
The bashful sun
bides it’s peak.

Morning is a majesty
parried
By chaotic wakes.

Hark!
The stolen kingdom!

All is Regicide;
the car
the train
the lovers quarrel

Over coffee-
A public execution.

Mysteries remain

The sun bides less
Unabashed-
Fading
with the grays.

We’ll try again
tomorrow.
An observational/existential reflection with a tinge of peace glorification. Maybe over-glorification? You tell me...
mads Sep 2012
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.
I'm just emptying my notebook, it's all rough junk so enjoy.
Zac Sandri Apr 2013
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.
Fay Slimm Sep 2010
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.
J Jan 2011
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
written 01/18/2010
traces of being Feb 2016
She promised lightly
to be the one,
step beyond  time
which cannot be undone,
to bathe sensately  
in her soul’s spring water tides

ride audacious currents
through vanishing dusk,
beneath the yielding horizon's
sky full of stars

When came the morning
fade into light
submerged in a sea of love,
thine eyes closed,
blind to perceive the sparkle  
in thine own
abounding shine

I demurely close my eyes
cast myself blind
to any world beyond
a song of breathless whispers

alas  ,...

my senseless heart
now bides silently unspoken,
listening to the murmur
as destiny ebbs

immersed in unsettling seas
where only the drowned
enjoy the silent writhing
of the waning afterglow,
enmeshed in unrequited dreams

a beautiful agony abides
basking in a restless solace

drenched in what might have been


wild is the wind   ...2.18.2016
ryn Sep 2021
.
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.


.
wordvango Oct 2014
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.
sd Oct 2013
Self harm is a disgusting
little sadistic, vile creature
who sits on my shoulder,
quiet, so quiet;
I forget he's there.
He sits and bides his time,
waiting, waiting.
Waiting, until I am
angry or lonely or depressed.

Then he whispers,
in a saccharine,
sickly sweet voice,
how much prettier I'd look,
with bite marks littering my arms.
Dark pink crescents,
over and over,
hard enough to bruise,
so that, days later,
little purpley-green marks
decorate my wrists.

Most days, I give in.
I try though, not to.
I clamp my jaw and press
my thumb into old bruises.
I know it hurts Sh-,
and that's the last thing I want.

*Show me your wrist and I
Show me your wrist and
Show me your wrist
and I'll kiss it, kiss it.
The last verse is a verse from the Red Hot Chili Peppers song, 21st Century. All rights to them.
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.
Atriptocome
Robert Zanfad Dec 2015
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)
Someone is peeling the skin off the sky
the baked sun has begun its scratching.
I am hatching a plan to escape if I can
and to bathe in the sea
the scratching of skin never bothers me
if it's flaky and dry.
I want fins,want to swim to the end of all time
I need to find out what's there,what people would dare to reside
at the end of the tides,at the turn when times bides its time.

When the weather is fine and I'm feeling spot on
I feel I belong to the cosmos
because I melt into light where night never creeps through but with fins I could do
so much more.
I could bow and dip down to the ocean floor
I could knock on the door which Davy Jones locks
with a shock of blond hair waving here,waving there,I could meet up with Poseidon,try on a trident for size
I could open my eyes and could breathe underwater,could sort out the pearls from the shysters,those oysters that dive and make jewels out of grit where they sit and they filter.

I have built this dream from vanilla ice cream and am slowly licking it away
a cornet they say
plays a very nice tune
and Neptune agrees
as I float in the seas of the shore of no more and the sharks mill around as if they're knitting the sound of my death on their breath
which by the way stinks of fish.

My wish and I wish it comes true
is to sink into a heavenly bed
and to sink in it with you where the truth always lies
and the someone who peels all the skin off the skies
dies into the day
If I had my way
my wish would be your wishing too.
My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime,
  For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight;
Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time
  Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light,--
Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong,
  And quick the thought that moved thy tongue to speak,
And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong
  Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek.

Thou lookest forward on the coming days,
  Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep;
A path, thick-set with changes and decays,
  Slopes downward to the place of common sleep;
And they who walked with thee in life's first stage,
  Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near,
Thou seest the sad companions of thy age--
  Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear.

Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone,
  Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die.
Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn,
  Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky;
Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides,
  Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour;
Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides
  Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower.

There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand
  On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet
Than when at first he took thee by the hand,
  Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet.
He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still,
  Life's early glory to thine eyes again,
Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill
  Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then.

Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here,
  Of mountains where immortal morn prevails?
Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear
  A gentle rustling of the morning gales;
A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore,
  Of streams that water banks for ever fair,
And voices of the loved ones gone before,
  More musical in that celestial air?
Omar Kawash Jun 2015
Soft gray waves crashing on the shore of us
and how serene do you ride the inconsistent night tide.
I am the observer, the witness to your grace, the recorder of time that bides
Slow, indigo transcends to a cool tranquil hue
The pacific shadows accent the stormless body beside me, and I wish to leave her undisturbed but I cannot be so standstill, despite such clarity and clearheadedness you bestow upon me.
Azure quickly washes away when warm gold blankets my affectionate one.
You tasked me to find an answer for why I cannot sleep:
you dawn sunrise and radiate natural regality that even the royal Sun
could not deny that you wear a crown of brilliance.
Vanessa W May 2012
The first time I didn't mean to make the cut
I heard dad's bedroom door open
I had the razor blade halfway apart
He couldn't see
So I fumbled
I was already shaking
and it slipped
scrape
across my thumb
The blood poured out, and I panicked
I couldn't feel anything though
It was numb
And after he left
Watching the blood pool out was....
satisfactory
I thought of everything that's gone wrong lately
And I brought up those dark feelings
After the blood ran dry
I picked up the blade
And began to hack away at my thigh
Each bit with a stinging pain
But satisfaction all the same
Relief like no other
A secret almost as dark as the one that bides me to do this
I didn't mean to fall this deep
But the blade wants more...
And I'm not one to stop it

— The End —