"blandly" poems
the glory is fallen out of
the sky the last immortal
leaf
is
dead and the gold
year
a formal spasm
in the
dust
this is the passing of all shining things
therefore we also
blandly
into receptive
earth,O let
us
descend
take
shimmering wind
these fragile splendors from
us crumple them hide
them in thy breath drive
them in nothingness
for we
would sleep
this is the passing of all shining things
no lingering no backward-
wondering be unto
us O
soul,but straight
glad feet fearruining
and glorygirded
faces
lead us
into the
serious
steep
darkness
16.5k
Thank Heaven! the crisis—
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last—
And the fever called “Living”
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know,
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length—
But no matter!—I feel
I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly,
Now in my bed,
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead—
Might start at beholding me
Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:—ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
The sickness—the nausea—
The pitiless pain—
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain—
With the fever called “Living”
That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible
Torture of thirst,
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:—
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst:—
Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed—
For man never slept
In a different bed;
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses—
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies—
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie—
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast—
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
Now in my bed
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,
Now in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me.
Thinking me dead.
But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie—
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie—
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
4.4k
Blandly mother
takes him strolling
by railroad and by river
--he's the son of the absconded
hot rod angel--
and he imagines cars
and rides them in his dreams,
so lonely growing up among
the imaginary automobiles
and dead souls of Tarrytown
to create
out of his own imagination
the beauty of his wild
forebears--a mythology
he cannot inherit.
Will he later hallucinate
his gods? Waking
among mysteries with
an insane gleam
of recollection?
The recognition--
something so rare
in his soul,
met only in dreams
--nostalgias
of another life.
A question of the soul.
And the injured
losing their injury
in their innocence
--a **** a cross,
an excellence of love.
And the father grieves
in flophouse
complexities of memory
a thousand miles
away, unknowing
of the unexpected
youthful stranger
bumming toward his door.
New York, April 13, 1952
3.4k
Someone once asked me
questions I would answer blandly
they weren't what I wanted to answer
Questions of perfect dates
and perfect people
when simply
I wanted them to ask
"What is you favorite flower?"
I could respond with my fascination
with these tiny
white petaled
flowers
ones that made me smile
so wide
eastern Europe could see my teeth.
I wanted someone to ask
about my favorite food
So i could respond
with this amazing blend
of rice and fish
and seaweed and other ingredients
but I'd add
that I only eat them with chopsticks
I would look at them and ask
If I was to fall in love with you
could we share these things
and face the world?
but I couldn't do that
because who wants me,
the girl who wants Sushi and daisies.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 3:36 AM UTC
1428
Water makes many Beds
For those averse to sleep—
Its awful chamber open stands—
Its Curtains blandly sweep—
Abhorrent is the Rest
In undulating Rooms
Whose Amplitude no end invades—
Whose Axis never comes.
2.8k
Why does every emotion live across the street from me?
I stare every day
over my morning coffee in this blank apartment
trying to stay awake,
alive.
And the apartment across the street has a window,
an open window,
and I spy inside and glimpse the colors.
I remember having those here living with me.
How though
can I trust memories of feelings I've forever lost to the next building?
Can I?
I feel their echoes.
But when I go downstairs the pancakes will be flavorless and
blandly white with gray thick
nothing syrup
drizzled all across them. I'll have to eat
to stay alive
but don't think I like it one bit.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 12:34 AM UTC
.
*He lays in peaceful repose upon a sheet of satin,
she moves up to his body and curls into him,
placing her head upon his unmoving chest,
unconditional grief shown in mute sadness.
She recalls his voice filled with love and affection,
his familiar scent now gone, cold and musty,
as deaths sweet perfume hangs heavy
like a drape of choking intoxicant trance.
Moments stretch blandly into minutes of ache,
the minutes career into hours of silent vigil.
And with her head upon his unmoving chest
she exhales and whimpers her final sigh,
a last breath and she submissively slips away.
Hoping, perchance, once more to hear
her masters voice.*
© Pagan Paul (25/11/17)
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 3:26 PM UTC
when we think idle thoughts and ****** with our mind
we might as well just blandly look into the sky
and absent-mindedly pursue the flights of distant birds
against the matrix of blue firmaments
which seem less infinite than our imaginary universe
trying to look beyond that globe of blue
we venture into depths that really make us think
about the cosmos out in space
infinite stars and planets of unknown identity
we soon become aware
that our idle thoughts are dwarfed
by the immenseness of the space
through which not quite discovered forces
propel our planet with incredible speed
to destinies we do not know
perhaps in order to avoid acknowledgement
of this precarious reality
we fill our lives with more comforting things
fashions wars power games religion money
internet chats with other avatars et cetera
anything to distract us from the contemplation
of insights into how to live
in such a transient indeterminacy
with a determined sense of goal and meaning
think about it
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
Gather nuts.
Grasp for the lean times.
Rotting potatoes
lie blandly in dark corners.
Silently stare at me with many eyes.
Find bright baubles.
Keep pretty playthings.
Trinkets and knick knacks
Ornaments on grimy shelves.
Idiotic faces chipped teeth and paint.
Saved paper
Stacked to the ceiling
Overflowing words
Seem to whisper as I pass.
Dangerous towers of unheeded news.
Faded petals
Pressed between pages.
Vacuous promises
carefree inane memories
Dreadful hopeless dreams nourishment for worms.
copyright protected Ramona Hughes
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 10:20 AM UTC
had it run just straight
with no turn on either side
we all would surely fret
life is such a boring ride
life is so dully made
that's all we would say
the road is clearly laid
same looks every day
no bumps and no holes
sharp bends of surprise
the way blandly rolls
we don't fall and rise
thank god ain't so made
life has twist and turn
in search of what's ahead
we persist with the run.
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 10:51 AM UTC
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
I see my flaws at the door
You're shaking their hands and letting them in.
I sit so close - skin to skin while you discuss my chopped hair and tarnished skin
Blandly discussing how you want me thin.
Five.
Six.
I blame the mirror for making me like this.
Counting the marks that don't look so beautiful - don't shine or sparkle.
Fighting the tears and biting my lip
I look at you with reassuring eyes.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
I don't think you ever wanted to be mine.
Ten.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 1:32 PM UTC
Twitch of the eye, recorded.
Beads trickle down rippled foreheads.
The Voice is loud, but lips are sealed.
The pawns thoughts remain concealed
As the mad King addresses the board.
The cameras don't feel the chill
Nor the barrels, aiming still
Yet as the hairs on the necks, they stand
Fellow comrades of the land
Blandly hiding their rebellious wills.
His voice is ice, his head is earth.
His heart is fire but his gaze averts
The marble army changing sides
And as the jester laughs and cries,
Whites turn black and aim as one
And fire as if through just one gun.
No sudden moves
But the King is down.
No one comes to claim the crown.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 7:01 AM UTC
Ah me, what can I do?
I see the fear and the pain,
The terror and the unfair gain,
The starving masses through a screen,
News reported blandly;
A woman ***** her strangled throat
Cannot voice her pain,
Black children shot, democracies rot;
We must enrol to vote.
Yes! Use our voices and
Pick the suited white man, who
Best represents our feelings;
We might as well be kneeling
As picking from that self-same lot
Of narrow minds and paunchy pots,
*Ah me! If I only knew
What I could do.*
For now I only have these tossing thoughts
So hard to sort, or to abort;
Truth and lies, life, demise,
So I only utter, as I watch the TV screen
A silent scream;
Ah me! One day, will I find my voice?
Voice my findings and my rage?
Have enough nous, be enough sage
To let that scream be heard,
And crack through the screen’s merde?
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:37 AM UTC
Every morning
I shoot through miles of tunnel
In a rattling tram
And people have forgotten how to look out of the window
At the fleeting lights
Which highlight
The graffiti
Which highlight
The primordial urge to create
Which has morphed
From the cave paintings of bison
To territorial pissings
Of equal splendour
People try to avoid eye contact
Look at their shoes
And everyone wears a shade of blue or brown
Blandly coupled with something black
But I stare at the tortured faces
Dominated by Moloch
Who is slowly branching his tendrils around my ankles
And I try to guess their stories
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 7:45 PM UTC
Tugging at my heart
Constantly tugging
Pulling me apart
Always bugging
Just leave me be
I want to be alone
Your here to bother me
This I have known
Grabbing at my sanity
Please just go away
You smile at me blandly
Why do you stay
You center yourself around me
Like you've built a home
Constantly trying to hound me
My fury has shone
If you won't leave me for only a moment
I will be forced to go
This time will be forever
I thought I'd let you know
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 6:42 AM UTC
*Twenty six alphabets swirling around
but this soul only has twenty four hours to wander.
Thousands of words
and there is only one of me,
deciding which word should sit next
to the other stranger.
So that it makes sense
to give the whole stanza a reason.
To let it sing a melody
but it just sits there
staring blandly at endless dreamers,
wondering if they would understand
the reason why these words
were stringed next to one another.
Or if they would give up
thinking the poet must have been
some clever mastermind
and the whole art piece needs to
be re-examined word by word.
Decoding each line
that unveils itself and
gives a whole new meaning
of it's existence.
Then again, what if I told you
As you read this
That there is no reason
To my creation.
There is no rhyme or rhythm
No rules that can set these words on fire.
What if I told you, I exist for no reason?
I am not governed by an external force
That is in need to tell a story
Or deprived of a reason to live
Or just to breathe.
Just like how the falling autumn leaves
Falls from its old roots-
Silently.
Without needing a reason to fall
Without anyone telling - its time is over.
Surely words were created for a reason,
To converse with impalpable creatures,
But words didn't ask for it
It didn't plead to have a reason for its survival
In the lonely throats of the dead.
But the universe came together
And did it anyway.
So today, the warrior words formed together,
In a battle that was long forgotten,
In silence, when it was once thrown into every page,
Forced into the mouths of the filth
And sometimes the lovers
To create romance and never endings.
Today, the words stand here tall
Within the screens and papers
In bold it speaks-
That it holds no reason,
It does not take the blame for the hurting
Nor for the joy of the fresh bonfire
in cold winter.
It stands tall for its own victory-
In its own reality.
For no reason or rhyme,
For it was only meant for those
Built with sovereignty,
Who knew words were only meant to be free.
It belonged to nobody, nor will it ever.
And with no reason,
All the words in the world,
Cease to end right here.*
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
the future is coming
I'm often reminded of this when
the other students in my class
ask me what my major is.
“Liberal Studies,” I say.
The follow up question is always the same cookie-cutter inquiry.
“So you want to be a teacher?”
“No, not really” I say.
At this juncture the person who is blandly asking the questions begins to express
genuine interest in what I might do next
in the “real-world,”
spiked with a fear of the unknown.
“So what do you want to do then?”
I've come to realize that this is the point where most of my passing conversations with peers are brought to an abrupt end.
“I don't know.” I say.
And there it is, out in the open, lying on the floor-- the ******* future. I search their eyes and find panic,
then doubt,
followed by pity.
I have officially shared too much information.
Figures. Honesty creeps people out.
We part ways with, “Oh, that's great” or “I'll see you around!” and march forward to that inevitable, tantalizing ***** that is the future.
I've found that when I express a modicum
of trust in the world,
it is often met with an alarming dread
and concern for my prolonged well-being.
I am without a plan, so naturally-- there's a problem.
That if I don't have my calendar
marked up through to the second coming of Christ,
at some point all of my limbs may simultaneously fall off.
Or I may simply cease to exist
and all the joys of life will slip through my fingers
as I descend into my faithless pit
of poor-planning.
I'd like it if everyone could just breathe--
get your cell-phones and computers in class,
and live in this moment.
Because yesterday is today
and today is tomorrow,
and there is no future more important than now.
Until then and philosophy aside,
I guess I'll keep careening on the edge of reality
with my thumb up my ***
because god forbid
you become anything
like me.
-r0
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
Just cut me a break won't you?
Give me just a little bit of joy again?
it doesn't take much to push me back,
push me back down to the ground.
But I'm sick of not feeling happy,
sick of not feeling safe and sound.
I want to scream with my emotion,
yell from the rooftops,
jump high into the sky,
not just sit here blandly crying,
asking how?
asking why?
not really expecting answers...
waiting, helpless, waiting to die.
I'm sick of asking why and how,
sick of asking who and what.
I've found the cure though, deep inside,
I've found the answer, found the rot:
I bring it on myself.
there I said it! And I won't take it back
what right have you to say
I shouldn't take the blame at all?
I see now where the issue lies.
I'm prepared to take the fall.
All this time I've sat here helpless,
to myself,
silently screaming,
terrified,
dust layering onto my shelf.
And I'm done. I'm free.
So I'm now going to dare to live as
me.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC
(I’m so incredibly alone
I might as well not exist at all)
my transmitters are malfunctioning or they’re
fine, and its the source
which is broken
what is happiness?
A sensation unfamiliar to my blandly textured existence
if only I could be once again
needed
My Terminal Countenance
scares away not only predators,
but friends of the same form
where lies the line which separates the two?
If it is even real
it escapes my clouded vision
(obstructed by the gleams it so desires,
it averts the illustrious sun)
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 10:58 PM UTC
There is something about churches—
the sanctuary filling slowly,
brass ***** pipes arrayed like halberds
in a medieval arsenal,
stooped ushers handing out programs
as the congregation
accumulates softly
like snow.
And the pulpit—like a queen
in a hive of wooden pews
all of polished walnut,
stands hushed and expectant.
(I know within that pulpit
there is a place to put cough drops,
a legal pad, second pair of glasses.)
Sanctuaries have a peculiar smell,
redolent of potted lilies,
Youth Dew perfume,
aging hymnals,
the suspired breath
of five hundred faithful
lifting their voices to that soaring
Byzantine dome.
I was glad for your presence that day,
the sound of your marvelous
voice, the warm sense
of your shoulder next to mine.
You cradled a hymnal
benevolently in your hand
as though you were baptizing a child.
"Jesus Christ is risen today, Alleluia!"
I sang more loudly, I suppose,
for gratitude that you were with me.
I held my hymnal with more care,
sang and looked up more hopefully
to that pulpit than I might otherwise
have done on any given Easter.
I prayed more ardently for good things to happen,
thought more kindly of the man
beside me who wouldn’t make room
when we three entered the pew
but stared blandly ahead as if
waiting for an opera to begin.
When the minister spread his arms
in benediction and bade us all go in peace,
we stayed to hear the postlude
and watch the Easter crowd
wind its way to the narthex
and spill out into the boisterous
parade on Fifth Avenue.
I sat there and listened with you
as the organist played his sonorous farewell.
When I was a boy sitting next to you in church,
you might gently pat my thigh
when the organist’s final note
passed through the sanctuary
like a great bird in flight.
You would smile as if to say,
“You made it through the whole service!”
On this Easter, when the hymn began,
and the mighty ***** notes swelled around us
like God’s own voice in song,
it was the thought of your shoulder near mine,
your hands upon the pew,
that halted my singing for a moment,
to let a silent bolt of longing
pass through me
like a solitary dog crossing a road.
Then it was gone, the thought,
but so, too, was your palpable nearness,
the idea of your voice
ringing through the church
like a celebration.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC
no matter what the words remain the same
echoing blandly down the aching years
our beast once wild has now turned safely tame
your voice is one that could with depth proclaim
ending to hurt and to the weight of fears
no matter what the words remain the same
as when we started infants in the game
certain that we'd be the new cavaliers
our beast once wild has now turned safely tame
and we have come despite the threat of shame
to know the meaning of so many tears
no matter what the words remain the same
still they are uttered out of need for blame
while horror is doled out in lavish shares
our beast once wild has not turned safely tame
and cowers uncertain of the fading flame
as each who waits at last wails and despairs
no matter what the words remain the same
our beast once wild has now turned safely tame
Jun 23, 2011
Jun 23, 2011 at 10:31 AM UTC
For decades now
We have serenely, blandly,
Had the Huron horizons
To the North.
All colours of clouds,
Bringing shade or rain,
Snow and flora;
And all the shapes of Noah's zoo,
Morph approaching our soft shores
Of sandcastles and tender fires,
Those milestone from our youth.
Our fresh waters have given much,
And taken more with wailing
For the never returners.
For mothers with terror splashing
Over faces and maligned hearts and spirits.
The alone times of punishing memories.
Jul 31, 2023
Jul 31, 2023 at 7:05 PM UTC
An animal avalanche
Arrives at the dance
In a defensive stance
To prevent the chance
Their resentful trance
Won’t pass first glance
The animals rush
Kicking up dust
Responding to lust
Or a threatening gust
Mass hysteria must
Make them adjust
Misery wombat
Blistering combat
Administering on that
Ministry contact
And industry contracts
In their dusty con track
They use a flawed
Blanche DuBois
Survival law
Scratch and claw
Acting raw
Imposing paws
The stampede
Slammed me
Blandly
By ramming
My standing
Expanding
My understanding
Of the farmers branding
I paddle fake
Rattlesnakes
That tattle stakes
The battle takes
To bother me
With bomber dreams
Of somber screams
I’m always annoyed
For in this void
I must avoid
Love devoid
Terror droids
On steroids
I’m backing out
By lashing out
By blacking out
Tapping out
To the drought
On my route
My mastery
Of catastrophe
Blasted me
Classically
Back to be
Where I bleed
I need a solution
That’s a substitution
To their pollution
Like a revolution
Of evolution
Sending fusion
Mysticism
And cynicism
Blocking vision
Without permission
Are just superstition
Looping pistons
So I won’t listen
Caught in the feud rain
That is the food chain
Bringing my brood pain
From the lewd game
That glues shame
To my doomed brain
The stampede
Trampled me
Sampling
The example of greed
For their ample needs
That scrambles seeds
Planting problem trees
To obstruct the breeze
To calmer breeds
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 1:46 AM UTC
Dictionary in hand Bobbies
manned state of the spy craft created
strategic peripheral outposts
a comma dated,
(sans syntax garnered monies) equated
justifiable to build galley ma free
Highland Manor wing - feted
via "FAKE" glitterati
creating surreptitious hated
surveillance monitor ring, which insulated
decked out starry eyed Starship
Enterprise surprise rated,
as an unbelievable well Spock kin
Duplicated Star Trek venerated
popular culture science fiction set piece,
where elderly residents waited
this other worldly architectural phenomenon
didst immediately outshine by alight
year among the original seven wonders
of the world prominant
as a buck toothed over bite
yet, didst camouflage top secret AngloSaxon
incognito missionaries delight
upholding correct language usage,
Thence trumpeting amidst
nonchalant onlookers as excite
mint hinted grammarians with listening devices
some flying unseen
as period size drones taking flight
other more sophisticated
electronic accouterments
dolled, gussied, issued with apostrophe
shaped flower buds scaling height
of cerulean sky, where blinding light
of a solar ellipsis, thus
arousing no discovered night
gallery suspicion during
feted occasion rife with polite
"FAKE" markedly questionable legatees quite
suitable asper The Art Of The Deal during
ribbon cutting ceremony,
and after words right
ting up citations slyly
slipped under windshield wipers
as the madding massed crowdsource,
would take dispersed out of sight
nonetheless echoes plenti chutzpah left
English figures of speech
uttering unstinting (quote unquote)
premature ejaculations,
eh so blandly trite
non-sequitur visited
by thee epic of Gilgamesh
for a dangling participle
during the split infinitive Sumer season
(exclamation point) no more to write!
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 2:15 AM UTC
Sleepless nights with imagery painted so blandly
wandering
A constant feeling of loss or losing
Thoughts on progress and prayer
I'm self destructing
Forged from fires stumbling
Embers whisk away into nothing
Now I ask this "God" am I even worth your saving
The silence, it is crushing
Flowing endlessly underneath
Born into a life lost to misery
Wandering
Thoughts on progress, prayer, self-loathing, and envy
is all that's left of (for) me
No
Conquering
Visions of a future so serene
Conquering
Visions of a life of constant building
Conquering
Visions of lines blurred oh so passionately
Conquered
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC