"busied" poems
Through the country paths, I lazily loitered,
watching Nature in its changing hue
straying farther into the interiors,
sundry and sublime vistas came into view.
in response to zephyr’s warm embrace,
the silvery leaves joyously fluttered.
the bees busied themselves collecting pollen
and birds on tree tops merrily chattered
it was the *** end of verdant spring.
summer’s sun stood behind my head.
bleat of sheep was heard from far.
‘Good day to you’….. Someone said.
There stood on the hill, a boy around fifteen
obviously he was of tribal breed.
with a beaming smile, he greeted me
but on walking to him, he ran like a steed
I saw him disappear behind the trees
and enter into a hut tiny as a nest
he lived in the lap of Mother Nature,
far from the city and its sooty dust
being coaxed, he hesitantly came out.
my tone of assurance and pleasing smile,
seemed to have won his confidence
as to a friend, he shared his eventful tale.
pointing to the sheep grazing in the slope,
he said, he earned a living caring the flock.
he stayed in the woods all day long,
feeding and tending his master’s sheep.
from dawn to dusk, through woods and meads,
he leads his sheep, calling them by their name.
un vexed, with simple pleasures he is content
and with a nomad’s life, he seems to be tame
he said, at home he has his invalid mother.
bringing her back to health is his mission in life
on referring to his mother, I watched his eyes glitter
nothing other than her illness posed to him a strife
from every utterance, I could sense his filial love.
even in abundance, while shadows line many faces,
on his visage, hope lingered as a dancing flame
to me he seemed above many, rich in other graces!
While parting, I handed him a little money
pausing unbelievably, with moist eyes
he accepted it, when a breeze passed caressing us
as if over a kind gesture, Nature seemed to rejoice!
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
A nobler king had never breath--
I say it now, and said it then.
Who weds with such is wed till death
And wedded stays in Heaven. Amen.
(And oh, the shirts of linen-lawn,
And all the armor, tagged and tied,
And church on Sundays, dusk and dawn.
And bed a thing to kneel beside!)
The bravest one stood tall above
The rest, and watched me as a light.
I heard and heard them talk of love;
I'd naught to do but think, at night.
The bravest man has littlest brains;
That chalky fool from Astolat
With all her dying and her pains!--
Thank God, I helped him over that.
I found him not unfair to see--
I like a man with peppered hair!
And thus it came about. Ah, me,
Tristram was busied otherwhere....
A nobler king had never breath--
I say it now, and said it then.
Who weds with such is wed till death
And wedded stays in Heaven. Amen.
3.3k
’Tis true, ’tis day; what though it be?
O wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise? because ’tis light?
Did we lie down, because ’twas night?
Love which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should in despite of light keep us together.
Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst, that it could say,
That being well, I fain would stay,
And that I lov’d my heart and honor so,
That I would not from him, that had them, go.
Must business thee from hence remove?
Oh, that’s the worst disease of love,
The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busied man.
He which hath business, and makes love, doth do
Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.
2.4k
Once upon a dainty hill
sat old castle of a young king
not busied by ***** thrills
but in the realm, fair Muse did sing
sorry as such
to trouble you sire
but farmer, lady and great squire
are, unto you, to enquire
how it is the sun makes such fire
to this the young king
furrowed his brow
and scratched his chin
and pondered how
eight days did pass
and woe betide
the pressing question
found no bride
the elders of the castle old
let fairy tales of disorder unfold
a great dragon they say
lit the sun
after finding itself lost
and on the run
from a shadow giant
of world unseen
but the tales of course
were all but dreams.
A little voice
filled the air
with light and weightless
soulful flair
a blacksmith's girl
of simple dress
excuse me sir
i must confess
this minor stir
has caused me stress
the young king bade her speak
and with that, the child weak
stood atop a wonky box
with certain eyes and wavy locks
dear people
i now must say
that it is on this cold and fateful day
my mind has led to such dismay
as I have learned to trust none of you.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
Sleep wouldn’t come, the clock hands seemed to shrug, so I decided to walk.
It was dark, the kind of fall overcast that makes a low ceiling of the sky.
Early mornings, on campus, are always solitary - students shun sunrise like vampires avoid the sun - so I got sole custody of the university. With no traffic, squirrels, birds or humans - predawn was nonchalant.
The wind, busied itself, sweeping the leaves falling in twos and threes, first left then right and finally throwing them in the air like a carefree child.
Frost on grass looked grey, then would suddenly become silverlit by the moon.
If you measure time in steps, as seconds, and then miles become hours. Soon, dawn made night morning, dew became drops, and I searched for coffee.
Nov 19, 2021
Nov 19, 2021 at 10:00 PM UTC
There was a girl named Nancy,
Her habits were all outgoing.
Once she became too busy,
Directly for nine months.
Thanks to all of her habits,
Blocked're all the incoming.
She did not want PregNancy.
She was impregnated by a boy,
His hormones uncontrollable.
Worked not any of the Pills,
Now busied for 9 months.
Used to each 1 of the thrills,
But none of it was avoidable.
Thanks to her being a tomboy..
Nancy was the girl in pregnancy,
Her repentance was no point.
Old habits are hard to go,
She may not be loyal.
Now she hides it,
For avoiding it.
The insult...
As for the boy here,
Aged just 15 like her.
He fumbled to suicide,
And she was destroyed.
She can't name the baby,
Not now, not now at all.
How will she name the baby?
As it was supposed to be,
She will behave a ******
Will she name him Jesus?
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 5:26 AM UTC
04:14 and the shadows are long
A boy pressed into a rail-side bench
Raises his arms to shelter himself
From the cloudless sky
He ticks off seconds with the twitch of his left knee
And the jump of his unhinging jaw
He falls
He falls nowhere
But flat, back, motionless in his seat
Hands cocooning head like a heavy day’s work
And then digging up and pressing down
Trying to rid himself of the sounds
Which splice him like glass shards
Or screaming shrapnel
And mutilate
His view of a pretty English station
And a blue steam engine
Beaming like the moon for which it was named
04:18 and he sets himself straight
Like ***** shoelaces
Or cards on the mantelpiece
Winds a bit of string
Around his wedding finger
And croons
As a man inside a toddler
Re-wired refrains
Lick his lips like soup stains
*Pack up your troubles…
Long way to Tipperary…
In your old kit bag…
I wonder who’s…
My heart’s right there…
Kissing her now…
Smile, smile, smile…*
And from my compartment
I watch him fade like
An ink blot from a pillow case
While a boy who looks a lot like him
Turns with purposeful avoidance
And takes the opposite view
Of a pretty English station
He soothes the angry creases
Of his forehead
Of his uniform
And smiles
Smiles
Smiles
And mutters to himself
And they said it would be over by Christmas
04:14 and the shadows are long
A boy pressed into a rail-side bench
Jogs his knees
With the obligatory poppy
His mum pushed into the zip of his winter coat
Drooping like a hangnail
He is busied and hassled
By the phone in his palm
It plays an odd kind of game
Where those who die
Are allowed to come back
And press Retry
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
The Red Sea! It lay like a distressed soul, unsettled, deserted and restless;
On its tile-paved shore, I leant against a lamp post, in the desert land;
Women in burkas busied themselves with their kids and picnic baskets;
While cats searched voraciously, among the rubble, for the left over bones.
On my left lay Sanaa, the once upon a time city of Shem, first-born of Noah,
Whence Queen Sheba embarked in all majesty with gifts for King Solomon.
And far, beyond the saltiest swelling Red, lay the darkly exploited continent.
Now, a warm gust of wind slogged its way into my lone distraught self.
Tides heaved, flickered their wet tongues across the rubble, and licked me,
Then withdrew themselves tired, but again and again returned half-heartedly
With much salty tears and sweats of ******* and sufferings of bygone ages:
The assorted agonies of the Mediterranean, the Indian and the Pacific deeps.
Through the dull splashes, waded to me, Moses and Aron and the Pharaoh;
They said: “Visitor, listen to the voices of the depths!” And I heard well
The abysmal rattle of chariots, wheels and bones, uncarbontestably ancient.
And in the splash of the Red, I scarily tasted the tears and blood of torments.
Then they cautioned me: “Beware of the pseudo-democrats and pseudo-reds:
The gunpowder brokers!” and quoted: “In this world, you’ll have troubles.”
And now, the Sea sounded: “Sorry my dear son, I’m here to bear all these.”
I sighed in pain, but the Sea, through the burning lamp posts, smiled at me.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
The Red Sea! It lay like a distressed soul, unsettled, deserted and restless;
On its tile-paved shore, I leant against a lamp post, in the desert land;
Women in burkas busied themselves with their kids and picnic baskets;
While cats searched voraciously, among the rubble, for the left over bones.
On my left lay Sanaa, the once upon a time city of Shem, first-born of Noah,
Whence Queen Sheba embarked in all majesty with gifts for King Solomon.
And far, beyond the saltiest swelling Red, lay the darkly exploited continent.
Now, a warm gust of wind slogged its way into my lone distraught self.
Tides heaved, flickered their wet tongues across the rubble, and licked me,
Then withdrew themselves tired, but again and again returned half-heartedly
With much salty tears and sweats of ******* and sufferings of bygone ages:
The assorted agonies of the Mediterranean, the Indian and the Pacific deeps.
Through the dull splashes, waded to me, Moses and Aron and the Pharaoh;
They said: “Visitor, listen to the voices of the depths!” And I heard well
The abysmal rattle of chariots, wheels and bones, uncarbontestably ancient.
And in the splash of the Red, I scarily tasted the tears and blood of torments.
Then they cautioned me: “Beware of the pseudo-democrats and pseudo-reds:
The gunpowder brokers!” and quoted: “In this world, you’ll have troubles.”
And now, the Sea sounded: “Sorry my dear son, I’m here to bear all these.”
I sighed in pain, but the Sea, through the burning lamp posts, smiled at me.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 8:53 AM UTC
i used to spend a long time with you and thinking about you.
i would write and sing yarns and threads of your life.
we busied ourselves for hours, days, away from
just about whatever it was that kept me sad.
it seems like a lot of years have passed
and even though we're still so close
it seems more and more like i,
just can't spare the effort to.
i love you and always will
don't think that changes
but i can't write letters
or play pretend with,
all my secret friends
i just feel tired yet,
not forgotten or
alone or lost or
is there a way,
an expression
of how wiser
but without
motivation
i feel now?
maybe just
fully lucid
and aware
the clarity
of a mind
only idle
that life
my life
wasn't
worth
much
at all.
how
sad.
and that it wasn't worth the fatigue it took to get here. but what can i do? i am at a dead-end, there is nowhere to go. if i write a longer line, i break the trend. the trend wasn't even very good to begin with. i think a few of those lines are too long for the pattern. i spent some minutes trying to resolve them but i wasn't satisfied.
in truth, though it often takes that idled age to realize, past the self-conscious judgement and harsh, masochistic self-critique
the point is not to be unique or force anything.
it's to express the heart,
because that's not something anyone gets to do very often, especially not to strangers.
if i've gone long past being frightened of death or spiders, i'd expect some words to not spur my anxiety so much.
anxiety is just that; fear of my, your own unreasonable expectations
not the fear of being ridiculed, or the complex fear of success;
not even a fear of being hated, or forgotten and never remembered
it's the fear of never being known to even be forgotten
that awful dreadful horror of not being noticed at all.
not becoming stronger as an individual, but less.
and it can be fatal.
Feb 20, 2021
Feb 20, 2021 at 8:12 PM UTC
I. Aprilis
You wished the summer for no one
moments of white wilderness
stars in the blood
sepaled bees scatter
drown each day as all lights
unmade pollen blossoming among
fistfuls of paper tasks
busied thought scrolls with the Seen
afternoon feathers multiply
white honey of Aries
II. Julius
Months as paper pass flitting
through the screens that
separate outdoors from in where
light pools on an ancient carpet and
summer lay broken in pieces
on the floor like
so much shattered vinyl
what happens to the trapped light then, as
it ages, it thickens
curdles in the stale drapes
staunches awareness of
time the moon
is slowly
drifting away
from Earth
III. Octus
Apples fall on the rotten dusty ground we
threw them, trapped in the speckled atmosphere of decades
that never rinses clean you swore
we could see Venus if
the clouds would sit right
Aphrodite in blue jeans a ladder
in darkness is still
a ladder
IV. Januarius
Color dissolves and
hibernates underground grey winds
stampede through the Roman Year
like the ghosts of unchained thoroughbreds
all the bees have drowned their honey
spread thin across the blackened sky when
everything is upside down
stars become seeds
Mar 12, 2010
Mar 12, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC
What came about in a time of wandering.
The consolation getting me by was
knowing it would end,
I could go back
I could go back to how it was
I could go back to how it was when I remember happiness
I could go back to how it was when I remember happiness
although the time,
then,
was not.
Coming home to where I am safe
and where I can be anywhere but here.
I got by in dreaming of stories to tell
that reflect where I have been,
where a path of solitude crossed theirs
and voice where I fear most in going.
I busied my mind in the folds of the concepts,
and I was not afraid.
I came to where I knew I would
but still I can't stop wandering.
The house is here, and I am inside
but both of us are empty.
I know the stories that haunt these halls
even though I could lose my mind entirely
wondering what they mean.
Is it common
Am I lazy
Am I standing in a place that never existed
and if I exist
why.
I am losing the grip of
whatever it is that actually cares to know,
if even anything is worth knowing.
Insight recognizes a pattern
I never will find where it is I am going.
I ought to just stay here, soon it will be snowing.
I'll wait here.
Closed off, abandoned, derelict, haunted
DANGER: DO NOT ENTER
you are unwanted.
I guess let it collapse
on its own; we can't pay
for demolition faster
than natural decay.
If you visit
it is to test the
structural integrity,
else to marvel at what could have been,
pontificate
upon why she
is what is left.
Or theft.
I wish I could collapse into myself
to be consumed within
the black hole in my chest,
so that my lifelong companion,
loneliness, cannot follow.
It is where
it is nothing
and where nothing may follow as a guest.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 6:22 AM UTC
The rubble cries, mourning the loss of human touch. Weeping over the crushing silence that echoes through the once busied cobble-stoned streets. These neglected edifices, with their iron-rusted bones, litter the long-vacant valley. The inhabitants of the forgotten valley stopped bearing children and began falling ill, heralding the arrival of their great collector.
On their own horizons, the people could see the visage of their guilt, cloaked in tattered rags that seemed to disintegrate against the most subtle breeze and sitting atop an emaciated mount with pallid skin. That rider, who strolled ever so slowly, dragging behind him wrapped in chains the ill-begotten promises of fools, the indiscretions of humanity came with ample warning. They ignored him; their self-loving monuments fell, and the crystalline waters of their gilded fountains flowed with arsenic. All too late did they recognize the shameful consequence of their hubris.
And so, when that cold Gray Rider arrived, gaunt and hollow-eyed, to collect his caravan of souls, the buildings howled like mothers sending the last of their children into the cold, unforgiving world. Thus, the sorrowed rubble weeps until it is reclaimed by the borrowed Earth, slowly returning to the soil from which it was born, allowing the verdant valley to take shape once again.
Dec 20, 2024
Dec 20, 2024 at 5:38 PM UTC
Keep me busied until i'm blind,
So I cannot see the divide of yours and mine.
Whisked up in desparate uncounted steps,
Unfeeling unhindered by lonely threats.
Cough up and out all the black,
The taint the stain of all I lack.
Distract me so I see no ill,
Dillusional I live like on some blissful pill.
Stop the clock and it all hits,
In disconnection my happiness sits.
Away from heartache crave and despair,
Unhealthy obsessed and blissfully unaware.
Give me distraction at every moment,
To save me from future lonely atonement.
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 2:25 PM UTC
A Stirring.
Three quivers of boldness coated in fur,
Courage minutely pawed at short grass
As that sunny day shone on a stirring
Of babiest mouse-life near my feet, fast
Yet unable to see, newborns on a spree
Posed for pictures and nibbled on cake
Like little pros, a shuffling trio of family
Shrews busied minikin fingers, quaking
Squeaky-delight as lips met free cuisine.
Whiskers a-twitch munching until Mum
Ushered them fussily holeward between
Sun-warmed granite stones. I had begun
To doubt the sighting encountered when
One tiny snout ducked out for eats again.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
Wallowing Wisdom stood widowed
with none to carry her bags across the busied road
heavy were Wisdom's bags, and wide was the street
who would want to carry widowed Wisdom's load
For Wisdom was old and Wisdom was slow
who would help the widow
Many ran by Wisdom not noticing her bags
their eyes were sharply focused on the sidewalk ahead
some passed Wisdom by without a second glance
others stared in pity but left for better circumstance
a few did stop to heave Wisdom's bags
only to feel their suffering arms dropped them in the road
In certain happenstance, there appeared another woman divine
who's eyes shined, her beautiful smile wide
many clamored to her side
pondering the name of radiant light
"Happiness" said she, many approved
a fitting name for a fitted love
the throng extended down the road
helping with her bags
how light were they!
Hearts yearned for Happiness
adored around the world
for she was ever-lovely
emptied pockets paid
what a wonderful commodity
The Happiness Company
Inc.
Widowed Wisdom stood alone with heavy bags in hands of old
on she walked alone and dragged her bags of gold
Wallowing widowed Wisdom wept and cried in anguish
her screams ripped through busy streets
on middle road, she lay fallen on her knees
wishing she may have her company
but too many forget
too many ignore
wailing Wisdom
on the road's floor
Sep 6, 2019
Sep 6, 2019 at 4:56 PM UTC
Every tear with its sting busied itself
Gathering from her past
They flew from fragmented piece to piece
Swallowing the ruins whole
Millstones weighing down tiny bellies
Were no match for this resolute air squadron
They were heading to the wilderness to regurgitate her past
Regenerate cell by cell
Rebuild the Lost City
Restore the Land of Milk and Honey
Reclaim the holy and the sacred
Reinforce with cedar's resin
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
The city is asleep
Midnight shrouds all
Owl comes out
Sits on his perch
Alone in the dark
Cooing a sad melody
For feelings past
Love once grand
Long since perished
Past grips tight
The days slowly pass
Owl's dreams crushed
Love not to be found
Was his love that gave out
Pure beauty she was
T'was only her he loved
Not one other close
To him his heart is her's
Last to ever belong to
For she was
His life,
Lover, passion,
Found himself
Anew inspired by her
Here he falls apart
Alone in the dark
This broken hearted
Owl sings,"
will she ever return, will my heart be renewed?
Coo, know not what to do, hopes battered and busied.
Never to know her
To always be incomplete
know only of her
Love's twisted
Embrace to be
Renewed nevermore."
Jul 21, 2010
Jul 21, 2010 at 1:08 AM UTC
if you were to
look
upon me
now
you’d find
my door
so
open
my hands
are busied in
writing
my mind
upon my
door
if you were to
look
upon me
now
you’d find
no one
in my door
frame
but watch me write,
and watch me live,
and watch me exist
with my door open
watch me write
a poem about it
and watch those offenders,
those defilers,
those vagrants,
mock and defame me
like a criminal and
a god
and if you were
to look upon me
now
while the wind
rolls dust on my
doorstep
you would find me
all alone
listening to the sounds
of “you’re a loner”
if you were
to look upon
me now
you would see a man
silently answer
“yes, I am a loner,
yes, I know that quite
well,
but there’s
nothing
I can do
when I sit in my
room
and only the wind
will talk to
me”
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 12:38 PM UTC
I've never quite known how to describe love.
Somewhere between an unsettling ease crashing against a deep sense of belonging.
The constant beating of the waves making me unsteady.
I don't quite know how to navigate these seas.
A masterful captain at everything else.
I find myself unable to instruct my own footsteps.
It's a feeling of suffocation mixed with rising excitement.
The thought of you sends my mind into overdrive.
I'm not safe to do nothing else, but meditate on you.
In that moment when your name crosses my mind or comes into earshot, I am ruined for any task I have busied myself with.
And when we finally meet, your face shines more radiant than anything else, throwing me completely of balance only to be caught by the nets of your touch.
I suppose the only thing I know is that I'm falling in love with you...
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
An angel fell to the earth one day
And lay with a broken wing,
I saw her lying out on the path
And thought I was seeing things.
‘Are you really what I think you are?’
I said, but I saw she cried,
So picked her gently up in my arms,
‘I’d better get you inside.’
Her tears were staining her pale white cheeks,
And weeds were caught in her hair,
The wing was twisted and limp, I saw,
And I couldn’t help but stare.
‘I think I must look a fright,’ she said,
And dabbed away at her tears,
‘I flew straight into a plane, and still,
The engines ring in my ears.’
I laid her down on the couch inside
Stood back, was taking her in,
‘I thought you couldn’t be seen by men,
You’ve set me to wondering!’
Her dress was white, but was stained with mud
From the place she’d lain, by the gate,
And on the wing was a trace of blood
While feathers fell in the grate.
‘We’d best get that in a splint,’ I said,
And busied myself a while,
Tearing a sheet into long white strips
And setting the kettle to boil.
‘I’d take you down to the hospital
But the shock would be hard to gauge,
They’d probably call in the military,
And lock you up in a cage.’
‘I only came to escort you in,’
She said, ‘and now all this fuss.
You should have been walking the street by now,
And due to be hit by a bus!
They’re going to be mad when I get back home,
I’ve botched the eternal clock,
And you’ll live on past the danger zone,
While I’ll end up in the dock.’
An icy shiver ran down my spine
Like someone walked on my grave,
‘You say I was going to die today,
But you were late, so I’m saved!’
‘If you can see me you’re still not safe
Beware of all things on wheels,
They’ll have to revise your life spell now
If a few more years appeals.’
‘I’ll take whatever you’ve got,’ I said,
‘I’m not quite ready to go,
There’s too many books I haven’t read,
And women to, well, you know!’
They must have made a decision then
For the wind blew through in a gust,
Instead of an angel, sitting, there
Was a cloud of Angel Dust.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
She could see that he wanted to cry
She noticed the familiar look in his eye
But he willed his eyes not to leak
He busied his hands
And he made noises- as if to speak
In a futile attempt to regain control over his emotions
As if the single tear rolling down his cheek-
The expression of all the worries
And troubling thoughts
That continue to weigh down his heavy heart-
Will make him less of a man in his daughter's eyes
She can roll her eyes all day
She can scream and shout
She can groan and complain forever about
How he's overbearing
How he embarrasses her
And how he just doesn't understand
But every time she sees him
Sitting across from her
With watery, red rimmed eyes and a tight throat
She is reminded
That he and she are made up of the same stuff
That he loves her more than anything in this world
And that he is the sole reason for her existence
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
there's a web in my head that catches your
thoughts
and wraps them all up in my own
it glows in the dark and it makes me see
spots
whenever i'm feeling alone
as we move along while connecting the
thread
weaving becomes our whole life
we're busied unwrapping each other in
bed
refusing to turn on the light
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 8:15 AM UTC