"chiming" poems
Burning fuel but not to leave,
boys circled town, came back
to the station where they began.
Gas exhaust drifted like spirits
above asphalt, dissolving in the night.
Girls stayed in the lot,
waiting for men old enough
to buy liquor, their names
claiming the land-
long after other names lay
buried in the ground.
They kept to the faces,
legs folded on hoods,
lip gloss catching the station lights,
bracelets chiming, hair flips rehearsed,
laughing at trucks circling back.
They wanted to be chosen, and I tried
to want that too- tried to be a girl among girls,
waiting for the moment some hand
would tug me out of the circle.
But my eyes kept straying-
across the street,
to the rise that was not just dirt
but a chest under earth,
ribs shifting,
a hum curling into my throat.
Something skeletal in its patience,
as if Baykok himself
were sharpening arrows in the dark,
waiting for breath to break.
Built long before us by Ojibwe,
still honored as sacred ground.
The others smoked, struck sparks,
sequins spilling from careless wrists,
never thinking how easily flame
might travel down, through us,
into what we couldn’t see.
I could hear bones shifting,
a buried drumbeat, the land’s own warning.
Every glance of the mound
pulled me back into silence.
It told me what the others
didn’t want to know-
that all this circling, waiting,
was only the lid of a grave.
Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 12:02 AM UTC
I remember it like it was yesterday.
We were driving a little too fast,
and the destination didn't matter.
I was just watching you,
Singing the song on the radio,
Reciting every line perfectly,
(me chiming in where I could),
The smile on your face filled my heart with nostalgia.
Because in that moment,
You weren't the guy that you grew up to be,
You were the boy I fell in love with years ago.
I go to that moment whenever I miss you.
Whenever my heart goes numb,
Or worse,
When I can feel every ounce of pain from you not being there.
In that moment,
I was safe.
In that moment,
I knew,
the definition of never-ending.
I knew,
that I would forever be stuck,
In that seat,
In that car,
In that moment,
Watching you.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
running
deliquescing into nature
i am engulfed in stillness
i encounter a deer as i round a corner
its chestnut eyes intensely sense
something wild within me
transfixed
we meld palpably
whispering our essence
myopic views warp into acute focus
golden flowers stretch and arch
and yawning into the sun
swell with bursts of luster
whilst violets polka dot the path
with lilac luminescence
dead tree trunks
mutating into masterpieces
yearn for new life
drawing in the squirrels
yellow-bellied birds
hover
sensing my motions
whilst woodland winds undulate
pine scented waves of sea salt oceans
my ears enchantingly enhanced
by bristling leaves caressing trees
as scintillating amber butterflies
dance in synch
with the clock tower’s
ancient chiming
a gust of wind
catches a patch of sand
and sends it quivering
fusing high in summer air
then falling soft as feathers
hidden fairies prance about
answering unheard questions
problems dissolve in emerald meadows
without a hint of striving
essays write themselves
upon my mind
poetry flows through me
wings of meadowlarks
trace my face with nuances
interlaced with connotations
rushing home
i write it down
then bowing i take credit
for what was etched upon my soul
by a sunbeam in the forest
©2016janetaylor
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 10:09 PM UTC
I.
Hear the sledges with the bells—
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they ****** ****** ******
In their icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II.
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten golden-notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III.
Hear the loud alarum bells—
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now—now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the ***** of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV.
Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple.
All alone,
And who toiling, toiling, toiling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry ***** swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells—
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
10.5k
As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
"Love has no ending.
"I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
"I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
"The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world."
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
"O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
"In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
"In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
"Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.
"O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
"The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
"Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
"O look, look in the mirror?
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
"O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart."
It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
9.4k
Eyes on the clock
Tick toc tick toc
Sipping a cup of coffee
Darker than the sky
Rain sliding down the windows
Pitter patter pitter patter
Watching people come in and out
Sitting at the table
"Order up!
Two Vanilla Blonde Roast Coffee's!"
Yelled a man,
But all I could hear was the music
Chiming around the room
And bouncing off the walls
Multiple conversations
I sat there
In that room
Writing stories
And Tales
Like no other had done
Such where the hero was the villain
Stories that could only be deciphered
By those who have felt the pain
Of the lonesome characters
That these stories depicted
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
“The Owl and The Fox”
Silvery white shines the moon tonight
As the sea caresses the shore
And rain slips through the door
The wind roars aloud
At a ship sailing on a cloud
My safety seems so weak
For these walls are all i seek
To guard against these forces strong
But my safety will not last for long
This hope I abandon in all
And pray to God to catch my fall
His hand i do not feel
Though his help I know is real
My castle is gone
Standing alone I feel so wrong
Secluded on this sandy stretch
I look to my right and to my left
Then looking to the water black
I see a face that has no lack
Of terror and fear
That drowning is near
Forgetting all thats been lost
Saving them is my only thought
Plunging into the icy sea
I try to save them as i tried to save me
Kicking back in hope of life
The waves cease their strife
And the wind sinks in its icy knife
Looking down to face this man
I see it was a woman i brought to land
Taking her hand
I lift her from the sand
Staring at me she opens her lips
Then speaks in a voice not honeyed or crisp
Never the less her speech I can tell
Is the voice of an angel chiming as a bell
I try to let go of her hand lily white
But she holds on so very tight
And whispers so slight
Nine words in my ear
That I could barely hear
“Thank you for saving me
my gallant gray knight”
Heart skipping a beat I knew that I would
Love only her for as long as I could.
I'm sure you can see
Even though this may be
A story far off way out in the sea
I still hope in my heart its about you and me.
From The Fox, To The Owl
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
Like a toddler taking maiden steps
The narrow stream moves through the woods
Tripping and falling over pebbles and boulders
Chiming its silver anklets
Forcing itself in irrepressible flow
It thrusts and shoves its way down
Through thickets and a line of ferns
And the tangle of creepers and thorny brambles
Drowning the whisper of bamboo leaves
Its sweet murmur falls in my ears
As an eternal living melody
The cosmic song heard over eons
As the water sluices down the rocks
It becomes a frothing braided torrent
Producing a harsh grating roar
Like the crescendo of a tribal symphony
There it forms into a small pool
With its waves gently rippling
Where birds merrily come to take a dip
And sunning their feathers, fly back refreshed
Sometimes travelling unseen
It suddenly emerges into the open
Cutting its way through cracks and fissures
Never willing to surrender before hurdles
With a bearing immaculate in grace
It sends out waves of pure delight
What joy it is to watch the dilly dally
Of this sedate pilgrim moving to its destination
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 10:07 AM UTC
I rest my head in the dusky hours
early in the hope I'll awaken refreshed
instead in the lonely hours
at 2am, 3am and 4am
my body rests
while my mind races with complex thought
caught somewhere between sadness and complacency
the past present and future merging into one
clashing and colliding
confusing
working hard into the night
sending my heart to palpitations.
I close my eyes and the words I see written on my ceiling
are engrained on the insides of my eyelids
crawling with the spiders
I overthink instead of sleep
I dream in my conscious state
of what could've been
what is
and what might be
restless in a state of exhaustion
lucid in a state of total consciousness
hopeless to stop the relentless tide of my imagination
from rotting my brain inside and out
ruining any faith I have in a night of sleep
or a day of clarity and competence.
The thoughts leave when I rise again at 7am
as planned
with the chiming of the bells on the nightstand
my head snaps into reality again
focus returns in the form of routine
get up, go
move on, mend.
Distracted and oblivious
my lack of sleep haunts me
until I repeat this dull cycle again tonight
I live my nightmares in the lonely hours
at 2am, 3am and 4am.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 9:08 AM UTC
Rugby town, of landlocked streets,
of wasted field and barefaced retreat;
I miss you now, in absence of a friend,
I miss you now, in the verse that I lend.
Suburb grove, of sleepy mist,
oh, battered housewife, oh blastocyst;
you will remain in place forevermore,
and forevermore, you'll become a bore.
Holding cell, of sporting fame,
you stole my dreams but gave me my name;
I think of you: a multi-storey view,
of happy faces, of which there is few.
Still, my town, in debt's nightgown,
the shop-fronts vacate, we're feeling down;
these streets are poisoned with names of the past,
each memoir to teach: nothing's built to last
Rugby town, of weary folk,
the private school is a private joke;
I miss you now, as I sleep through the day,
I miss the old walks, and all that you'd say.
Old market town, the aftermath,
of British summer, suicide bath;
of open mics and closing the shutters,
of waking graveyards, sleeping in gutters.
Hopeless climbs, of dreary times,
of childhood state and nursery rhymes;
each time that I come home, I know you less,
becoming a stranger in my redress.
Clock tower, chiming, chiming loud,
singing for history long and proud;
of Rupert Brooke and the question: “what if?”
What if I was born to some lover's tiff?
To some large and friendless town,
to some body of land, which I drown;
to some active place of pain unknown,
to some place that I'll not gauge that I've grown,
oh Rugby dear, stay with me,
let me live on the periphery;
and although this town seems terribly dull,
it could be worse – I could live in Hull.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
Frigid buildings as those
That scrape the sky, climbing.
In a place that no-one knows,
Distant bells are chiming
To the shots and screaming,
"Stop resisting!" A rise
In terror betraying
The brittle city's brittle lies.
And for a time we hoped that they
Would never know our quiet rage,
And from the melting lights, we pray
For the silent, now upstaged.
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 7:41 AM UTC
They gathered by Williamson Road at sun-up
from neighboring spreads across the Tioga valley.
They came with carts laden with lumber stacks -
with saws, adzes, hammers and sundry tools.
They gathered with the homesteaders bond.
to co-build their neighbor's' dreams.
Sweet music of community echoed off the hills.
Chisels clanged into rock, shaping the foundation,
saws sang into boards to frame a timbered skeleton.
The staccato syncopation of hammers fastened walls
that soon would shelter plowshares, stock and grain.
A smithy leaned over his fire and forge -
chiming iron into sturdy latches and hinges.
Children scurried about mixing squeals and laughter
with exuberant fetching and lifting whenever called.
In two short passings of the sun the deed was done
and a handsome new barn, decked out in a wash of red
was silhouetted tall and proud against the fading light.
Homesteaders gathered at a celebration table
to share a hearty meal adorned by the music
of fiddles, grateful smiles and easy laughter.
Then one by one they steered their wagons home
gazing back at what their labors had wrought -
knowing to the depth of their communal souls
that we are more together than we are apart
Listen up, America! This is the music of community.
We are more together than we are apart.
© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
There's a keen and grim old huntsman
On a horse as white as snow;
Sometimes he is very swift
And sometimes he is slow.
But he never is at fault,
For he always hunts at view
And he rides without a halt
After you.
The huntsman's name is Death,
His horse's name is Time;
He is coming, he is coming
As I sit and write this rhyme;
He is coming, he is coming,
As you read the rhyme I write;
You can hear the hoof's low drumming
Day and night.
You can hear the distant drumming
As the clock goes tick-a-tack,
And the chiming of the hours
Is the music of his pack.
You may hardly note their growling
Underneath the noonday sun,
But at night you hear them howling
As they run.
And they never check or falter
For they never miss their ****
Seasons change and systems alter,
But the hunt is running still.
Hark! the evening chime is playing,
O'er the long grey town it peals;
Don't you hear the death-hound baying
At your heels?
Where is there an earth or burrow?
Where a cover left for you?
A year, a week, perhaps to-morrow
Brings the Huntsman's death halloo!
Day by day he gains upon us,
And the most that we can claim
Is that when the hounds are on us
We die game.
And somewhere dwells the Master,
By whom it was decreed;
He sent the savage huntsman,
He bred the snow-white steed.
These hounds which run for ever,
He set them on your track;
He hears you scream, but never
Calls them back.
He does not heed our suing,
We never see his face;
He hunts to our undoing,
We thank him for the chase.
We thank him and we flatter,
We hope -- because we must --
But have we cause? No matter!
Let us trust!
4.7k
Of serene eyes that follow gently
the illicit pill she could not let go
it was heavy as the waters pulling her inside
serenading her with an estranged voice
coming from within —
her minimizing the desire to let it out
as the sun quiets down
and the gibbous moon exhibiting itself at night,
resisting the waves occurring —
as if it loathed her whole being
of her justness and the absence of these causes
her grieving and the sirens waltzing,
talking through an absentminded eye
eyeing her soul
finding love that seizes it
but hers were two feet and one mouth to breathe in
even in all shades of blue,
she can get a glimpse of the dark hue
illuminating the downside of the ocean
pulling her, wrecking her soul.
Redemption does not lie —
humoring her with plainly just truth
craving for the applause of the moon
only observing the depth of the ocean
eating the once alive soul
of her saving her last breath,
chiming in with the conversation, she
once had with him.
It could have been nice the resistance
he once had — to throw himself out
to the beauty of his light that shed
her whole body
he once was able to have
and he stayed there, eyed her the whole time
being eaten on the lonesome of the night
for he himself, shading all the blueness
like a requiem for the dreams
she kept on having
like a composition giving life
to new generations, he was still on
a token and a curse, and he let her be —
in all shades of blue.
Jul 11, 2022
Jul 11, 2022 at 5:21 AM UTC
*(Not a home, I said.
An address.
The badges and the blossoms
Bragged ‘excess’.
Etched into every tree
The word:
S U C C E S S)*
I am London
And he is me,
Not ever knowing which London to be,
A button eyed orphan,
A one man band,
A Dickensian madman
Whey-faced and untanned.
I was a Ruby Infant,
(Montpelier)
Via turreted school
(Machiavellian lair)
My conspiracy of ravens
The guardians of lore,
Falling in feathers
To a barbershop floor.
My mind is confetti -
From each Westminster wedding,
Each pill, each stumble,
A little be-heading.
I first kissed a girl in Trafalgar Square
And the memory of her is still there in the air,
In the backdrops of photographs snapped up by tourists,
In the lost eyes of pigeons,
(I know it, I’m sure of it -
because I know London
And he knows me -
We flow into each other
Like the Thames, to the sea).
Gobstopper ******** in Whitechapel lanes,
Knee-deep in the streets, leaving opal-ghost stains,
The bleeding graffiti of Mary Jane Kelly,
Our deaths, our murders,
So many, so many...
Bells,
Chiming,
Dark
Oubliettes,
Cradle me, London,
My bowed silhouette,
Settle me down
in your newspaper bed,
Love me,
Watch over me,
And when I am dead,
Make me a martyr,
Smooth out my head
Swallow me up in your gum studded streets,
Somewhere busy where I can feel millions of feet
Treading into me,
Over and
Over again,
And every so often, now and then,
Play out your bells for my syllables four,
*Ding **** ding ****
Four and no more,
To remind yourself, London,
Of silly old me,
Who like you,
Never knew,
Which London to be.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC
*Windchimes
In my advancing years
Clarity eludes me now and then.
I sit quietly in the gazebo.
Your book and glasses
not yet removed from your seat.
Drifting into sleep
I awaken suddenly.
with confusion reigning again.
I quietly call your name
The need to see you is overwhelming.
I search the gardens for you
Panic setting in to my heart.
Then in the cool evening summer breeze.
The gentle chiming of the windchimes
Calm my panic as your soft words once did.
Then under the blooming arches
of the rose arbor I see you.
A basket of flowers hang from your arm.
The fading light from the evening sun.
Frames a halo about your long hair.
My eyes mist
So sweet so astoundingly beautiful
As calm as the mist on a summer's morn.
You smile at me
The windchimes ****** softly in the air.
You tell me the sweet wudruff is taking over
The hollyhocks need trimming
And the roses need pruning
You tell me all of these things.
But all I see is your
sweet heart of purest gold.
The rose arbor framing the light of my life.
Glowing as the sun
at the Centre of my small universe.
I fall to my knees to pay homage.
As you fade into the evening shadows.
Just the lilt of the windchimes
Dance over the perfumed bounty
Of our flowering gardens*
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC
A child, she sits at the piano,
exploring with modest fingers,
the anxious keys.
One day she'll play in church
but for now she'll play in the sea
and stick her tongue out in the rain.
A child watches the modest rain
kiss the window beside her piano.
An anxious sea
stirs in her fingers.
She falls asleep in church
and plays in the wrong key.
"Practice makes perfect, precision is key."
A child walks home in the rain,
and passes the church.
Her teacher has an old piano
that leaves dust on her fingers.
She washes them in the sea.
A girl is drowning in the sea
bare; like a single ivory key
He plays her with his fingers.
She loves him like the rain.
Her mother sold her piano,
when she stopped singing in church.
"I feel like an empty church;
a haunted sea;
a dusty piano
with no keys."
she says softly, to the rain
when he lets go of her fingers.
Reaching out these fingers
in an abandoned church,
the echoing rain
washes the roof in a sea
of chiming keys,
from an old piano.
A girl dips her fingers into the sea,
singing church hymns, out of key.
God plays the rain like a piano.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
my sally my Sally
a wonderful double entendre
for it’s time,
my internal clock chiming
to sally forth and give the due
to where dew in her garden resides,
poetry becoming sweet tears
in all our eyes
when the philipina rain thirst quests our quenching
there is no reason no request for
this sally poem but a tickling thought suggests that a good friday. could be the trigger, or that
pandora bringing me Ave Maria as I compose
when
the due and the dew and the do are a
trinity
the best poems are the un-requested but the most needed,
the most holy
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 1:05 PM UTC
See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon
the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite
Ballad of Hamilton beginning—
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!
From Stirling castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my “winsome Marrow,”
“Whate’er betide, we’ll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow.”
“Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, ’tis their own;
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow’s banks let her herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downward with the Tweed
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
“There’s Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;
And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;
There’s pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?
“What’s Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder.”
—Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;
My True-love sighed for sorrow;
And looked me in the face, to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow!
“Oh! green,” said I, “are Yarrow’s holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
O’er hilly path, and open Strath,
We’ll wander Scotland thorough;
But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.
“Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow,
The swan on still St. Mary’s Lake
Float double, swan and shadow!
We will not see them; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There’s such a place as Yarrow.
“Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it:
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We’ll keep them, winsome Marrow!
For when we’er there, although ’tis fair,
’Twill be another Yarrow!
“If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,—
Should we be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy;
Should life be dull, and spirits low,
’Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow!”
3.6k
I
I see the boys of summer in their ruin
Lay the gold tithings barren,
Setting no store by harvest, freeze the soils;
There in their heat the winter floods
Of frozen loves they fetch their girls,
And drown the cargoed apples in their tides.
These boys of light are curdlers in their folly,
Sour the boiling honey;
The jacks of frost they finger in the hives;
There in the sun the frigid threads
Of doubt and dark they feed their nerves;
The signal moon is zero in their voids.
I see the summer children in their mothers
Split up the brawned womb's weathers,
Divide the night and day with fairy thumbs;
There in the deep with quartered shades
Of sun and moon they paint their dams
As sunlight paints the shelling of their heads.
I see that from these boys shall men of nothing
Stature by seedy shifting,
Or lame the air with leaping from its hearts;
There from their hearts the dogdayed pulse
Of love and light bursts in their throats.
O see the pulse of summer in the ice.
II
But seasons must be challenged or they totter
Into a chiming quarter
Where, punctual as death, we ring the stars;
There, in his night, the black-tongued bells
The sleepy man of winter pulls,
Nor blows back moon-and-midnight as she blows.
We are the dark derniers let us summon
Death from a summer woman,
A muscling life from lovers in their cramp
From the fair dead who flush the sea
The bright-eyed worm on Davy's lamp
And from the planted womb the man of straw.
We summer boys in this four-winded spinning,
Green of the seaweeds' iron
Hold up the noisy sea and drop her birds,
Pick the world's ball of wave and froth
To choke the deserts with her tides,
And comb the county gardens for a wreath.
In spring we cross our foreheads with the holly,
Heigh ** the blood and berry,
And nail the merry squires to the trees;
Here love's damp muscle dries and dies
Here break a kiss in no love's quarry,
O see the poles of promise in the boys.
III
I see you boys of summer in your ruin.
Man in his maggots barren.
And boys are full and foreign to the pouch.
I am the man your father was.
We are the sons of flint and pitch.
O see the poles are kissing as they cross.
3.4k
The shaking stops, numbness ensues
Restless nights take hold
Suppressed negativity rushes to me
Like a title wave of unwanted emotion
When will it stop............?
When will it stop.............?
Dawn breaks over the city
The temptation to reach for the bottle... ever growing
Shaking continues
But this time with rage
Sweat drips from my brow
Drink..........
Drink..........
Drink..........
The voices start chiming in my mind
Diving under cover the bottles clink...
clink.......
clink.......
Empty bottles surround me
Just a drop to relieve my pain
I can't bare this a second longer
The 4 walls of this room, my own person hell
Click!
The electric meter cuts off
Change is hard to come bye
Just empty bottles
Rage flows through me
Smashing up the room I leave
Walk that'll help
People though
People looking
People everywhere
Eyes in every window
Looking.... judging
The agony of the sober anxiety, taking hold consuming my mind
Card rejected a new low
I find change for bread
Managed to pay
Sweating uncontrollably
I can see the apartment block
My head clears
Stumbling into the darkness
I look around the room
The sobering realisation
I have nothing, no one but these empty bottles
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
You asked me once why I felt safe with you
The answer is simple, really;
you speak to me sweeter
than the southern twang
of lightly painted china cups
twinkling with an old tonic
your great grandmother grew up with -
Peach tea,
more sugar than ice
and the chime of silver spoons
stirring away low hanging sky
in a lazy afternoon haze.
You speak to me with the comfort
of a tea cup
cradled by the saucer
lips meeting gently against each other
so as not to scrape a scar against the fragile cheek
of either companion
Sometimes you even whisper
with the rattles of old age
chiming away at the edges
of sweet forgotten bliss -
You, darling, speak to me sweeter
than any grain of sugar
that rubbed me raw.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
the grating voices of neighbors unsuccessfully singing Celine Dion ballads
the monotonous mechanical humming of the metal factory
the squealing of housewives watching an afternoon soap opera
the blaring siren of a firetruck racing with tragedy
the clunks and clangs of a nearby construction site
the roaring of the engine of an overloaded jeepney
the chiming of laughter from kids playing in the streets
the calls of the street vendor peddling sugary cotton candy
the whining of the dog begging to run around outside
this is the music of life in the outskirts of the city
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
Your lips were dew-kissed
Under the velvety sky
The air smelled
Of a June rose
Dancing in the meadow
The sky was studded
With twinkling stars
Like diamonds and crystals
I danced through the mist
And waltzed through the trees
And balled on the shimmering lake
I played my Harp with the Fairies
Who showed me the way to Fairyland
I came here through the hidden-secret door
So now I'm in Fairyland
At least I imagine it's so
Listening to the Enchanted music
Played with the most beautiful
Instruments ever
Perhaps, even some you've
Never heard before
Like bluebells kissed in dew
Chiming like crystals across the stream
Oh, how I'd long to soar
And be a Fairy
With a Key
To Wonderland
And to Fairyland
Even in illusions
I'd love to see this place
Called: Fairyland
Where all the Fae Folk dwell
But this is just
A Fantasy
Written in the sand
~Marian~
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
That day we came
and having come
lapped at by perfumed light
at once separated.
We bathed in the pool
the water like crystal
in the sunset
our limbs like glass.
On the bank
in the hot conjoined air
we made love again
our sweat
like silver in the moonlight.
the water's suppurating flow
drew our limbs
like flotsam in the reeds
grappling glistering lilies
as we floated in slow, ********
currents.
along the bank, the Camphor
shades the forest flowers
through the long-leaved grass
the python slinks
We leave for home
darkened by the sun..........
tongues digging into melons,
pomegranates laid out
neatly for dessert
******* out the Rambutan-
once the hairy skin is peeled-
fiery, red
the soft core sweeter than coitus-
and stays longer in our thoughts.
is this where the dreams are,
or where the dreaming begins,
between the first caress
and the final gasp of satisfaction?
Where the threshing limbs
devour the sun-shredded wheat
and the panting ribbons of air
swallow the final sigh-
the sleek river flowing
seaward, ocean marshalling
the land,
coral languishing in green pools
of broken light.
Here, within this infused beauty,
********** has power
beyond the weather-bound senses
of our northern homes,
encased in dull precipitation
sunshine a blunted knife
beyond the pot-shaped mountains
high above the trees
like a tear emerging from the sky
drops the waterfall
its descent
languid, its fall sharp and effortless;
tinged with azure, carefully sprinkled flakes
it spreads out like a clear, chiming puddle.
There we spread ourselves
naked in the sunlight
the sea's rumbling noise
distant and fumbling-
spreading its curling claws
into the slyly forming sunset
in reiterated rhythms
like beating hearts
like lungs-
the carefully manufactured beats
blending.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 10:28 PM UTC