"blench" poems
You agitate, I soothe
I laugh, you cry
You procrastinate, I plan
I toil, you sleep
You mingle, I retreat
I reach, you blench
You deceive, I release
I purify, you violate
You mystify, I enlighten
I grow, You shrink
You ignore, I explore
I create, you destroy
You devour, I nibble
I give, you take
You walk, I run
I defend, you assault
You subtract, I add
I love, you hate
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
*Sitting in the cold metal bench
Shivering, I wait for the train
I watch people come, then blench
I hear some guy calling Jane
I see a face, a lost young face, crying
I listen to a mystical men playing violin
In the dark left corner of the station
Weeping a deep melody about lying
This...ah...sedation?
I... I watch,
I... I hear,
I see,
I listen but I've only been
Here for a fraction of a second...
(I reckon)
The train is coming
The ground is shaking
Please view me
Please dye my soul
I've no control
The answers? The questions!
The questions that lead to wandering
Pondering the suggestions of answers
Am I invisible?
A spectrum of light unseeable to human eye?
A slave of the soul?
What role?
Reset!
Set!
and go...
I'm suddenly in a train, no woe
Sitting in a warm bench
Snug and no pain
With no clot of revenge
Someone pulled the plug
I feel...disconnected of...??
Memories?
Reflections?
Wonders?
Brrrumm!!
Thunders in all directions
Ripped from above the numb
I've no control
Am I a slave of the soul?
A spectrum of light unseeable to human eye?
Invisible?
The train stops!
and the curtain drops.*
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 2:11 PM UTC
Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encountered in the battle cloud.
Ah! I never shall the land forget
How gushed the life-blood of her brave--
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.
Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine are heard.
No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;
Men start not at the battle-cry,
Oh, be it never heard again!
Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now
Thy warfare only ends with life.
A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year.
A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.
Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot.
The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may frown--yet faint thou not.
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here.
Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.
937
Was it a divine sign amongst the creation –
A revelation so lightsome and pregnant –
That a blanching feather’s unforeseen descent
Made my poetic soul blench for evocation?
Surely, t’was from some celestial spheres, –
Angelic wings of cherubs and seraphim –
So long been soaking in firmamental affairs
That human mental senses but morphine.
A feather if eatable, a matter of addiction –
Plucking and plucking without satiety –
If been drinkable, a matter of intoxication
Leading humans into ever inebriety.
---
O’ glorious feathers who hover with mystery –
Over skyey dreams and unearthly visions –
Which land on the earth with vice and misery,
Lending the haver only vain aspirations.
O’ one-time ornaments of the seven heavens –
Brightness and whiteness of all times –
Have you no shame on the dirt of your pens
Writing worldly prose and heretic rhymes?
By-the-way, your heaven is no heaven but a sky –
As well as not every brightening is holy –
Just as Icarus has fallen from and by your high
As others are mystified by your fake glory.
---
Whether art thou the sinister poker of Iblis –
Leading by a dancing feather in the hand –
Human arts like the one that let fall Ibn Idris
Calling with fair words to the Fallen’s land?
Whether divine inspirations in form of an aura –
Blown on the poor’s brow as enlightenment –
Art thou as the freshening science of soul and soma
Kindling the minds’ muscles as a tea of mint?
Oh, Only God knows of Ma’at’s Hall of gloom –
If one’s deeds worth a feather morrow –
So, I seek only Deus’ forgiving, life-giving plume
To pardon my feather on the mortal pillow.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 1:13 AM UTC
Tho' if an eye that's downward cast
Could make thee somewhat blench or fail,
Then be my love an idle tale,
And fading legend of the past;
And thou, as one that once declined,
When he was little more than boy,
On some unworthy heart with joy,
But lives to wed an equal mind;
And breathes a novel world, the while
His other passion wholly dies,
Or in the light of deeper eyes
Is matter for a flying smile.
737
The fire and brimstone in their pall
Are the cloak and cloth of sin
Whose tyranny the mind appal
When it fathoms deep within
And o'er those gates so rancid wrought
With blood and flesh and iron
When after that fate one, we, hath fought
We turn up still, all hope be gone
The stench of death dank, all around
Suffuse the climes from sky to ground
The King of Hell who seldom grafts
For anything, yet seldom stops
His command to torture, down the shaft
As to every level hops
Spreads black wings and glides above
His victims as he, gruesome, gloats
Anathema to turtle dove
Who on divine zephyr of heaven floats
His presence ever torturous still
When reign dark from ****** lordly hill
He sees the scuttling victims run
Away, cruel let loose for game and chase
A beautiful mirage of sun
To taunt the soul abased
Hells hills trees grow putrid leaves
No mortal could brace the sulphurous stench
Under canopies the victim weave
As they shiver, shudder, blench
As torturer catches up, apace
Him testament to time's disgrace
By his vainglory employed
That ******* of the angel boys
Treats people, world, as things and toy
Seduced to do his bidding, ploys
But justice, freedom will uproar
Angels of Hell link arms, uprise
For Heaven they have wanted more
Than sooty, oppressive, obsidian skies
**** the devil, his ****** lies
Hear us rise, sing God's reprise
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 11:48 AM UTC
Blake meandered, like a wayward stream
Over the valleys and the hills
When suddenly: struck by a dream!
An inferno of dark, satanic mills
Spread across the land and overseas:
On tyranny’s wind, the mills replace the trees
Abominable as a cage for a child
Putting bars behind their eyes
The factories enclose the wilds
A bleak blockade against the sky
Thousands he saw in a momentary flash
Festering on the Earth like a virulent rash
The dirt clouds above the factories loomed
Only beat by the awful stench
A poet wants the world to bloom;
The mills just make Earth blench
He stared – and stared – in horror enwrapt
The world was a treasure unbound - now she's trapped
For oft, when poets dream they think
Of nirvana or some such felicity
It replenishes them like a fountain drink
Which brings the bliss of serendipity
And then their feet in wayward trances
Fill with the rhythm of their romances
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 3:00 PM UTC
Rumbling thoughts, Open doors
My mind trying to process as words pop.
Voices in my head saying the world is yours, but the pain in patience constantly hurts.
I don't want to die young though my actions says otherwise
Playing with fire,walking through life tides.
Dreams like wings holding me from drowning as my heart beats, reminding me of timing.
Doomed never to look back.
Even if the journey seems vague, life's lessons will paint pictures on this mysterious canvas.
Make the trees a pathway to nirvana as the herbs brings solace
Keep an open mind when the clouds walk on water.
Always been a rebel.
Never followed the crowd, "Anti-law" if it's allowed.
causing grimace on faces when expected to blench, back sitting outlaw guaranteed never to flinch.
Beauty within the thorns.
But above all a hopeful heart,
Curious mind and spontaneous acts will always keep these quads in motion.
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 3:35 AM UTC
Where life ends.
When the body bends.
No more hunger to quell.
No more problems in swell.
No more thirst quench.
No more need to blench.
_Heaven or hell?_
Not even time can tell.
Is there a soul?
Or is just a hole?
If ideas don't fit the mould,
Where will you go?
I don't want to know.
Not heaven nor hell I want to go.
Cause I fit not in heaven's imagery.
Nor do I want to end in hell's misery.
Oct 31, 2019
Oct 31, 2019 at 9:14 PM UTC