"chiselled" poems - Hello Poetry

They are terribly white: There is snow on the ground, And a moon on the snow at night; The sky is cut by the winter light; Yet I, who have all these things in ken, Am struck to the heart by the chiselled white Of this handful of cyclamen

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6.7k

Michael Field

Cyclamens

They are terribly white: There is snow on the ground, And a moon on the snow at night; The sky is cut by the winter light; Yet I, who have all these things in ken, Am struck to the heart by the chiselled white Of this handful of cyclamen

7

1046 I’ve dropped my Brain—My Soul is numb— The Veins that used to run Stop palsied—’tis Paralysis Done perfecter on stone Vitality is Carved and cool. My nerve in Marble lies— A Breathing Woman Yesterday—Endowed with Paradise. Not dumb—I had a sort that moved— A Sense that smote and stirred— Instincts for Dance—a caper part— An Aptitude for Bird— Who wrought Carrara in me And chiselled all my tune Were it a Witchcraft—were it Death— I’ve still a chance to strain To Being, somewhere—Motion—Breath— Though Centuries beyond, And every limit a Decade— I’ll shiver, satisfied.

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5.7k

Emily Dickinson

I’ve dropped my Brain—My Soul is numb—

1046 I’ve dropped my Brain—My Soul is numb— The Veins that used to run Stop palsied—’tis Paralysis Done perfecter on stone Vitality is Carved and cool. My nerve in Marble lies— A Breathing Woman Yesterday—Endowed with Paradise. Not dumb—I had a sort that moved— A Sense that smote and stirred— Instincts for Dance—a caper part— An Aptitude for Bird— Who wrought Carrara in me And chiselled all my tune Were it a Witchcraft—were it Death— I’ve still a chance to strain To Being, somewhere—Motion—Breath— Though Centuries beyond, And every limit a Decade— I’ll shiver, satisfied.

21

The quiet August noon has come, A slumberous silence fills the sky, The fields are still, the woods are dumb, In glassy sleep the waters lie. And mark yon soft white clouds that rest Above our vale, a moveless throng; The cattle on the mountain's breast Enjoy the grateful shadow long. Oh, how unlike those merry hours In early June when Earth laughs out, When the fresh winds make love to flowers, And woodlands sing and waters shout. When in the grass sweet voices talk, And strains of tiny music swell From every moss-cup of the rock, From every nameless blossom's bell. But now a joy too deep for sound, A peace no other season knows, Hushes the heavens and wraps the ground, The blessing of supreme repose. Away! I will not be, to-day, The only slave of toil and care. Away from desk and dust! away! I'll be as idle as the air. Beneath the open sky abroad, Among the plants and breathing things, The sinless, peaceful works of God, I'll share the calm the season brings. Come, thou, in whose soft eyes I see The gentle meanings of thy heart, One day amid the woods with me, From men and all their cares apart. And where, upon the meadow's breast, The shadow of the thicket lies, The blue wild flowers thou gatherest Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes. Come, and when mid the calm profound, I turn, those gentle eyes to seek, They, like the lovely landscape round, Of innocence and peace shall speak. Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade, And on the silent valleys gaze, Winding and widening, till they fade In yon soft ring of summer haze. The village trees their summits rear Still as its spire, and yonder flock At rest in those calm fields appear As chiselled from the lifeless rock. One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks-- There the hushed winds their sabbath keep While a near hum from bees and brooks Comes faintly like the breath of sleep. Well may the gazer deem that when, Worn with the struggle and the strife, And heart-sick at the wrongs of men, The good forsakes the scene of life; Like this deep quiet that, awhile, Lingers the lovely landscape o'er, Shall be the peace whose holy smile Welcomes him to a happier shore.

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4.1k

William Cullen Bryant

A Summer Ramble

The quiet August noon has come, A slumberous silence fills the sky, The fields are still, the woods are dumb, In glassy sleep the waters lie. And mark yon soft white clouds that rest Above our vale, a moveless throng; The cattle on the mountain's breast Enjoy the grateful shadow long. Oh, how unlike those merry hours In early June when Earth laughs out, When the fresh winds make love to flowers, And woodlands sing and waters shout. When in the grass sweet voices talk, And strains of tiny music swell From every moss-cup of the rock, From every nameless blossom's bell. But now a joy too deep for sound, A peace no other season knows, Hushes the heavens and wraps the ground, The blessing of supreme repose. Away! I will not be, to-day, The only slave of toil and care. Away from desk and dust! away! I'll be as idle as the air. Beneath the open sky abroad, Among the plants and breathing things, The sinless, peaceful works of God, I'll share the calm the season brings. Come, thou, in whose soft eyes I see The gentle meanings of thy heart, One day amid the woods with me, From men and all their cares apart. And where, upon the meadow's breast, The shadow of the thicket lies, The blue wild flowers thou gatherest Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes. Come, and when mid the calm profound, I turn, those gentle eyes to seek, They, like the lovely landscape round, Of innocence and peace shall speak. Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade, And on the silent valleys gaze, Winding and widening, till they fade In yon soft ring of summer haze. The village trees their summits rear Still as its spire, and yonder flock At rest in those calm fields appear As chiselled from the lifeless rock. One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks-- There the hushed winds their sabbath keep While a near hum from bees and brooks Comes faintly like the breath of sleep. Well may the gazer deem that when, Worn with the struggle and the strife, And heart-sick at the wrongs of men, The good forsakes the scene of life; Like this deep quiet that, awhile, Lingers the lovely landscape o'er, Shall be the peace whose holy smile Welcomes him to a happier shore.

60

Firm hands Visage, chiselled by gods I pray upon the temple Intertwined fingers Sinful embrace I have longed a touch for Mars So far, yet he saw the wood, The hill, The Temple. The Mars enraged! Raging howl of a lone canine Digging of what the burried desire has for him Digging, digging Dig! The Lumberjack fervently saws the hills O God! Visage with a burning desire! Not a tune of emotion compares to what this broken vision has seen Not a tune of reality passes him. Unconcious by the dew, Concious by the sun Ending the sin of a forbidden bind.

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Jun 18, 2017

Jun 18, 2017 at 1:38 AM UTC

getawayako

The Lumberjack

Firm hands Visage, chiselled by gods I pray upon the temple Intertwined fingers Sinful embrace I have longed a touch for Mars So far, yet he saw the wood, The hill, The Temple. The Mars enraged! Raging howl of a lone canine Digging of what the burried desire has for him Digging, digging Dig! The Lumberjack fervently saws the hills O God! Visage with a burning desire! Not a tune of emotion compares to what this broken vision has seen Not a tune of reality passes him. Unconcious by the dew, Concious by the sun Ending the sin of a forbidden bind.

21

1. Each of us like you has died once, has passed through drift of wood-leaves, cracked and bent and tortured and unbent in the winter-frost, the burnt into gold points, lighted afresh, crisp amber, scales of gold-leaf, gold turned and re-welded in the sun; each of us like you has died once, each of us has crossed an old wood-path and found the winter-leaves so golden in the sun-fire that even the live wood-flowers were dark. 2. Not the gold on the temple-front where you stand is as gold as this, not the gold that fastens your sandals, nor thee gold reft through your chiselled locks, is as gold as this last year's leaf, not all the gold hammered and wrought and beaten on your lover's face. brow and bare breast is as golden as this: each of us like you has died once, each of us like you stands apart, like you fit to be worshipped.

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3k

Hilda Doolittle

Adonis

1. Each of us like you has died once, has passed through drift of wood-leaves, cracked and bent and tortured and unbent in the winter-frost, the burnt into gold points, lighted afresh, crisp amber, scales of gold-leaf, gold turned and re-welded in the sun; each of us like you has died once, each of us has crossed an old wood-path and found the winter-leaves so golden in the sun-fire that even the live wood-flowers were dark. 2. Not the gold on the temple-front where you stand is as gold as this, not the gold that fastens your sandals, nor thee gold reft through your chiselled locks, is as gold as this last year's leaf, not all the gold hammered and wrought and beaten on your lover's face. brow and bare breast is as golden as this: each of us like you has died once, each of us like you stands apart, like you fit to be worshipped.

37

for Barry and Tina Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed, the fitness of waking up and going back to bed 50 years on the trot. But I look to my father’s hands and see all twelve-thousand morning mists he has seen. A gristmill heart, grained hands and workshop walking feet are all hidden from view. He writes in capitals, written with precision, and crosses the T’s as he goes along, So not to prolong the sentence writing chore, making more time, conjuring up the minutes to potter around and mend unbroken objects. - Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed, the fitness of waking up and going back to bed 50 years on the trot. But I look at my mother’s hands and see remedies read about in those magazines, all to look younger in the staff canteen. A watermill heart, smooth iron fingers and contoured, sculpted chiselled corridor feet are all hidden from view. She scrawls her sentences; they become the tide hiding letters and numbers in the swell of punctuation and dotted I’s, The T’s cross themselves and she moves on, another phone call to attend too or a new BBC this-time-more-accurate historical drama to view. - Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed, the fitness of waking up and going back to bed 50 years on the trot. But if you keep on going, stay out of strong sunlight so not to rot, those years will pass as a striking blur leading to coastal Big Sur roads, where the next 50 miles bring just as many smiles as the last 50.

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Nov 2, 2013

Nov 2, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC

tim-knight

The Next 50

for Barry and Tina Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed, the fitness of waking up and going back to bed 50 years on the trot. But I look to my father’s hands and see all twelve-thousand morning mists he has seen. A gristmill heart, grained hands and workshop walking feet are all hidden from view. He writes in capitals, written with precision, and crosses the T’s as he goes along, So not to prolong the sentence writing chore, making more time, conjuring up the minutes to potter around and mend unbroken objects. - Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed, the fitness of waking up and going back to bed 50 years on the trot. But I look at my mother’s hands and see remedies read about in those magazines, all to look younger in the staff canteen. A watermill heart, smooth iron fingers and contoured, sculpted chiselled corridor feet are all hidden from view. She scrawls her sentences; they become the tide hiding letters and numbers in the swell of punctuation and dotted I’s, The T’s cross themselves and she moves on, another phone call to attend too or a new BBC this-time-more-accurate historical drama to view. - Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed, the fitness of waking up and going back to bed 50 years on the trot. But if you keep on going, stay out of strong sunlight so not to rot, those years will pass as a striking blur leading to coastal Big Sur roads, where the next 50 miles bring just as many smiles as the last 50.

41

Celluloid cells of candid smile fun printed in race track, river-run stems, the 120 down to the 35mm fold it over to form the hem. You can be my New York that never sleeps or that Venice Beach with bright, chiselled high cheeks or the more probable lesbian lover I’ll never get to meet; meet properly for a drink.

0

Jun 4, 2013

Jun 4, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC

tim-knight

CELLULOID CELLS

Celluloid cells of candid smile fun printed in race track, river-run stems, the 120 down to the 35mm fold it over to form the hem. You can be my New York that never sleeps or that Venice Beach with bright, chiselled high cheeks or the more probable lesbian lover I’ll never get to meet; meet properly for a drink.

12

The maiden with the bitten heart. The chiselled one made out of ice. Melted by a super nova. From the starkness. Out of darkness. There so appeared the peeping green of snowdrop leaves. Little white flowers trying hard to scratch the surface. To bridge the pain of what once was. The river simmers. If water were able to burn,so sure they should be burning now. Running beneath the bridge. The bridge that sighs under the weight of the world. The water holds it's passion tight, So be it, let it burn. just before it says goodbye. Sends it to the estuary Running wild frothing free. May the sea freeze. Amen. (C)LIVVI

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Oct 14, 2014

Oct 14, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC

olivia-kent

AMEN

The maiden with the bitten heart. The chiselled one made out of ice. Melted by a super nova. From the starkness. Out of darkness. There so appeared the peeping green of snowdrop leaves. Little white flowers trying hard to scratch the surface. To bridge the pain of what once was. The river simmers. If water were able to burn,so sure they should be burning now. Running beneath the bridge. The bridge that sighs under the weight of the world. The water holds it's passion tight, So be it, let it burn. just before it says goodbye. Sends it to the estuary Running wild frothing free. May the sea freeze. Amen. (C)LIVVI

21

This heaviness, a stone in the chest, a brooding passion flower, fully at bloom, at moonlit night- emits the distinct scent of the tormentor of my heart, an intoxicating accent it exudes-- which cages my mind. Lust is its subtext. Lungs are bottled up with a mix of her pheromones, signature perfume and the musky scent of her sweat, If a girl, with that intensity gets in to the system, mixes in blood, it's excruciating pain, is a bane, and an insane ecstatic bliss, same time! This isn't animal instinct, I know, didn't she bare her mind though on the sly, in words that has many facets, like a diamond? No, still not sure, feels like an idiot, (Wasn't she quite an artist, playing with my heart? But I am totally her's, can't help it, from those moments, which refuses to leave me in peace) A longing that won't let me take her off from my mind's GPS. Oh! now, shut both eyes and imagine her undress in slow moves, her lush, chiselled form, sends me waves of fragance, I am on the verge of collapse... Then- suddenly the phone rings, she complains a heaviness of heart, ***** thoughts that- refuse to go to sleep. "What would you do for this?" she anxiously whispers, "Hey, you are the only doctor, I can lay my hands on, to keep this malady at bay, I badly need you near here, **Is it true? Am I falling in love with you?"**

0

Sep 15, 2012

Sep 15, 2012 at 2:54 PM UTC

k-balachandran

Am I falling In Love with you?

This heaviness, a stone in the chest, a brooding passion flower, fully at bloom, at moonlit night- emits the distinct scent of the tormentor of my heart, an intoxicating accent it exudes-- which cages my mind. Lust is its subtext. Lungs are bottled up with a mix of her pheromones, signature perfume and the musky scent of her sweat, If a girl, with that intensity gets in to the system, mixes in blood, it's excruciating pain, is a bane, and an insane ecstatic bliss, same time! This isn't animal instinct, I know, didn't she bare her mind though on the sly, in words that has many facets, like a diamond? No, still not sure, feels like an idiot, (Wasn't she quite an artist, playing with my heart? But I am totally her's, can't help it, from those moments, which refuses to leave me in peace) A longing that won't let me take her off from my mind's GPS. Oh! now, shut both eyes and imagine her undress in slow moves, her lush, chiselled form, sends me waves of fragance, I am on the verge of collapse... Then- suddenly the phone rings, she complains a heaviness of heart, ***** thoughts that- refuse to go to sleep. "What would you do for this?" she anxiously whispers, "Hey, you are the only doctor, I can lay my hands on, to keep this malady at bay, I badly need you near here, **Is it true? Am I falling in love with you?"**

47

If I had Three Wishes, I’d wish for A unicorn Nice skin And you If I could live on only Three Things, I’d survive on Lemonade Lasagne And you If I could only watch Three Things when I turn on the television, I would watch That fireplace background Futurama And you, even if you are a runway model If I was stuck forever on a desert island and could only bring Three Things, I’d bring Food Water And you If there was a zombie apocalypse and I had only Three People I could trust, I’d choose A ninja Chuck Norris And you If I could only cheat at Three Things in MAS*H, I’d change To the mansion To have less than ten kids And to be with you If I was in jail and I somehow got Three Phone calls instead on one, I’d call My dad who would bail me out, maybe Chuck Norris who would break me out when my dad refuses to pay the bail And you, just to say hi because you’re broke and can’t pay the fee If I had to choose Three Of my celebrity crushes, I’d pick Johnny Depp, duh B.D Wong, just for his voice in Mulan And you If I had Three Works of art in my room, I’d have A stolen Picasso painting, shhh, look don’t tell That painting where that guy gets knocked out by the apple And you, chiselled into diamonds If I somehow got amnesia and the doctors could only restore Three Of my memories, I’d want to remember My name That time when we killed those zombies with Chuck Norris and the ninja And you If I could only say Three Words, I’d say Is This Creepy?

0

Sep 11, 2011

Sep 11, 2011 at 2:50 PM UTC

juliana

Three

If I had Three Wishes, I’d wish for A unicorn Nice skin And you If I could live on only Three Things, I’d survive on Lemonade Lasagne And you If I could only watch Three Things when I turn on the television, I would watch That fireplace background Futurama And you, even if you are a runway model If I was stuck forever on a desert island and could only bring Three Things, I’d bring Food Water And you If there was a zombie apocalypse and I had only Three People I could trust, I’d choose A ninja Chuck Norris And you If I could only cheat at Three Things in MAS*H, I’d change To the mansion To have less than ten kids And to be with you If I was in jail and I somehow got Three Phone calls instead on one, I’d call My dad who would bail me out, maybe Chuck Norris who would break me out when my dad refuses to pay the bail And you, just to say hi because you’re broke and can’t pay the fee If I had to choose Three Of my celebrity crushes, I’d pick Johnny Depp, duh B.D Wong, just for his voice in Mulan And you If I had Three Works of art in my room, I’d have A stolen Picasso painting, shhh, look don’t tell That painting where that guy gets knocked out by the apple And you, chiselled into diamonds If I somehow got amnesia and the doctors could only restore Three Of my memories, I’d want to remember My name That time when we killed those zombies with Chuck Norris and the ninja And you If I could only say Three Words, I’d say Is This Creepy?

66

Let us contemplate the superiority of striking presumption, as it seeks to pontificate the order of architectural allegiance. Oh, Grand Master of Greco-Roman antiquity, I bow before the sacred volumes of legal pronouncement where unseen rituals tangibly assert their authority over those who seek to embrace the ancient pathways of knowledge. As the degrees of freedom transcend the definition of a mere mathematical concept, we must never forget the formulations of our Hellenistic forefathers who chiselled the shape of the Order into the annals of the future. As we give thanks to Set, we acknowledge the blindfolded ceremonies of sibling homicide which encourage wisdom in this circular lodge of self-binding. Harpocrates is our God of silence who gained sustenance from feminine anatomical structures – and we are like Isis who has been impregnated by Osiris. So, as we cast our gaze beyond the rites of this ****** union, let us acknowledge those ***** masonry structures of obelisk stability. Have you been born yet?

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Jun 10, 2015

Jun 10, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC

david-barr

The Permission of Babylonian Prohibition

Let us contemplate the superiority of striking presumption, as it seeks to pontificate the order of architectural allegiance. Oh, Grand Master of Greco-Roman antiquity, I bow before the sacred volumes of legal pronouncement where unseen rituals tangibly assert their authority over those who seek to embrace the ancient pathways of knowledge. As the degrees of freedom transcend the definition of a mere mathematical concept, we must never forget the formulations of our Hellenistic forefathers who chiselled the shape of the Order into the annals of the future. As we give thanks to Set, we acknowledge the blindfolded ceremonies of sibling homicide which encourage wisdom in this circular lodge of self-binding. Harpocrates is our God of silence who gained sustenance from feminine anatomical structures – and we are like Isis who has been impregnated by Osiris. So, as we cast our gaze beyond the rites of this ****** union, let us acknowledge those ***** masonry structures of obelisk stability. Have you been born yet?

7

forged into the sea carved into the waves chiselled into the moss and welded to the days combined with the skin stitched into the sand nailed through the mind to bleed into the hand

0

Sep 20, 2014

Sep 20, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC

chiyo

21.28

forged into the sea carved into the waves chiselled into the moss and welded to the days combined with the skin stitched into the sand nailed through the mind to bleed into the hand

8

Oh Darling, look at what you've done Believed the tall tails of boys instead of the female at your feet But why would you when you have an ego that towers over the David? And you thought it was silly that I gifted you the name Michelangelo I couldn't have picked more right You though have forgotten that I am a master piece of my own creation, sculpted by none other but my own hands and never appreciated by yours And my sweet Michelangelo, if you think to call yourself my muse then you are nothing more than a fool For everything I have been through has led to my life's legacy My family chiselled out the shape My childhood chipped away at the detail And men like you did nothing more than carve in the finishing touches I am a beauty in my own right And as always too much for some to handle, and never fully understood by the rest But still she will live on through the ages So the next time darling that you fall confused, I implore you to simply ask the master herself And you would come to realize that this artist was far too focused on creating to let anyone interfere with her work

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Dec 19, 2021

Dec 19, 2021 at 1:29 PM UTC

Persephone33

Michelangelo's Rival

Oh Darling, look at what you've done Believed the tall tails of boys instead of the female at your feet But why would you when you have an ego that towers over the David? And you thought it was silly that I gifted you the name Michelangelo I couldn't have picked more right You though have forgotten that I am a master piece of my own creation, sculpted by none other but my own hands and never appreciated by yours And my sweet Michelangelo, if you think to call yourself my muse then you are nothing more than a fool For everything I have been through has led to my life's legacy My family chiselled out the shape My childhood chipped away at the detail And men like you did nothing more than carve in the finishing touches I am a beauty in my own right And as always too much for some to handle, and never fully understood by the rest But still she will live on through the ages So the next time darling that you fall confused, I implore you to simply ask the master herself And you would come to realize that this artist was far too focused on creating to let anyone interfere with her work

16

She quintessentially embodied the phrase ‘Paragon of beauty’ Perfectly chiselled face Symmetrical features and a smile that could Smoulder one’s heart in a millisecond She had an aura of nonchalance around her And an umbrella delicately balanced over her head Despite it being scorching hot She walked as if in fear of hurting The very ground she trod on Attracting surreptitious glances from passers-by. I stood rooted to the exact spot I had stood ages before In utter awe and wonderment at the breath taking sight I beheld Then out of the blue she appeared to be on the verge of kissing the ground I instantaneously lurched forward to her rescue She, landing appropriately in mine outstretched arms The look on her face * priceless* Discomfiture and fear apparently evident on her face Soothingly I assured her all was indeed well Whilst revelling in the idea that I had come to the rescue Of the exceedingly beautiful lady.

0

May 8, 2013

May 8, 2013 at 3:42 AM UTC

enigma-1

Stiletto clad damsel in distress.

She quintessentially embodied the phrase ‘Paragon of beauty’ Perfectly chiselled face Symmetrical features and a smile that could Smoulder one’s heart in a millisecond She had an aura of nonchalance around her And an umbrella delicately balanced over her head Despite it being scorching hot She walked as if in fear of hurting The very ground she trod on Attracting surreptitious glances from passers-by. I stood rooted to the exact spot I had stood ages before In utter awe and wonderment at the breath taking sight I beheld Then out of the blue she appeared to be on the verge of kissing the ground I instantaneously lurched forward to her rescue She, landing appropriately in mine outstretched arms The look on her face * priceless* Discomfiture and fear apparently evident on her face Soothingly I assured her all was indeed well Whilst revelling in the idea that I had come to the rescue Of the exceedingly beautiful lady.

21

in a dream I robbed a bank and one of the cashier fell in love with me I wore a mask and when asked to describe me the cashier said I resembled a matinee film star all chiselled cheek bones I sent her a £1,000 and a note saying thanks she thinks about me daily

0

Sep 12, 2025

Sep 12, 2025 at 1:11 PM UTC

eatmorewords

bank robber

in a dream I robbed a bank and one of the cashier fell in love with me I wore a mask and when asked to describe me the cashier said I resembled a matinee film star all chiselled cheek bones I sent her a £1,000 and a note saying thanks she thinks about me daily

6

And,by the time I know there's no love defined Some of you find it in a beautiful face Some in overwhelming flesh. And,by the time I know there's no love defined Some of you find it in chiselled curves Some just in alms. Some of you play with organs Some of you kind of ruthless heart. But,I swear;over time time I really discover There's no love defined.-17.04.2016

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Apr 17, 2016

Apr 17, 2016 at 9:07 AM UTC

gourab-banerjee

No love defined....!!!

And,by the time I know there's no love defined Some of you find it in a beautiful face Some in overwhelming flesh. And,by the time I know there's no love defined Some of you find it in chiselled curves Some just in alms. Some of you play with organs Some of you kind of ruthless heart. But,I swear;over time time I really discover There's no love defined.-17.04.2016

13

Crooked bones, coal, steel, clanking and deafened with laboured breath, that heaves up and hacks out as we crawl and ache and sort and hunch and collect our black diamonds, as we mine down, down the rocks and the darkness until we can erupt into the sun like worms haggard with dust and rot and breathe. Again. As each vertebra recoils from being wound tight. We are the pit. The ancient shapes in the Davey lamp chiselled from the coal itself. And the song in our voice is hammers and dynamite. We will be here, always, under your feet.

0

Jan 21, 2013

Jan 21, 2013 at 9:15 AM UTC

joe-bradley

Miners at Work

Crooked bones, coal, steel, clanking and deafened with laboured breath, that heaves up and hacks out as we crawl and ache and sort and hunch and collect our black diamonds, as we mine down, down the rocks and the darkness until we can erupt into the sun like worms haggard with dust and rot and breathe. Again. As each vertebra recoils from being wound tight. We are the pit. The ancient shapes in the Davey lamp chiselled from the coal itself. And the song in our voice is hammers and dynamite. We will be here, always, under your feet.

16

saying **** off* seems so much more easier when you're petting cats.... they just say it for you... there he is, Quarus, the operatic singer nearing sunset, 200 variations of a mulling of meow, i end up calling him Orbison Rufus, the ginger Roy of Peckham - he basically meows lazily like Roy singing... as said / i.d. (id est): the umbras or umbrellas - counting the shadows' version of Apache's yawn: ah-woo ah-woo ah-woo nagging the reflex... gave them the yawn and gave them 1950s America... Billy the Kid talking to the king of Specs... hank marvin.... cheese grater with those teeth... dozen cows buckling with the herding in while the dog carved a feel for religion in the translation of the Vatican from coliseum into football requirements... the movies were great in the 1950s, just after the technicolour... petting cats was never such a thrill... the operatic meow, onomatopoeia from echo in a cave to knock-on-wood... 200 variations of the knock and 12 whiskey shots downed while playing poker... 12 cowboys 1 Milwaukee and 30 Turks... classic Tarantino... i said the Apache yawn... i never said giving out smoke signals... Quarus my ginger is demanded as having laughed... he's Roy Orbison with the meow, pretty much lazy... looks like a murmur when he tries singing, pretty woman, trolling down the street, Gucci, Chanel, and everything in the scrapheap of lobotomy, as is Paris necessarily mentioned: chiselled white collars... Roy knew before Elvis... the trick came with sunglasses, and the gluttonous slur of the half-opened mouthing for subsequent mouthing it off... no amount of cheese in French could ever charter the success of the cheeses added to cheeseburgers with the milkshakes, which were plainly Dutch laughing cows named Novices.... quick-melts and some said: dreadlocks of string-yellow Gouda pulled for a hippies' worth of Chinese chugging down a pint or two, for worth of gag and the slim mascot; the Chinese never taught Cannes arithmetic of the thumb through to pinky... i don't know how they taught counting with their complex ideograms, they never taught arithmetic give their encoding... they taught pure math.. they never taught the simplest of assurances... meaning so few of them became bankers.

0

Aug 15, 2016

Aug 15, 2016 at 11:21 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

Apache Yawn Echo Imitation

saying **** off* seems so much more easier when you're petting cats.... they just say it for you... there he is, Quarus, the operatic singer nearing sunset, 200 variations of a mulling of meow, i end up calling him Orbison Rufus, the ginger Roy of Peckham - he basically meows lazily like Roy singing... as said / i.d. (id est): the umbras or umbrellas - counting the shadows' version of Apache's yawn: ah-woo ah-woo ah-woo nagging the reflex... gave them the yawn and gave them 1950s America... Billy the Kid talking to the king of Specs... hank marvin.... cheese grater with those teeth... dozen cows buckling with the herding in while the dog carved a feel for religion in the translation of the Vatican from coliseum into football requirements... the movies were great in the 1950s, just after the technicolour... petting cats was never such a thrill... the operatic meow, onomatopoeia from echo in a cave to knock-on-wood... 200 variations of the knock and 12 whiskey shots downed while playing poker... 12 cowboys 1 Milwaukee and 30 Turks... classic Tarantino... i said the Apache yawn... i never said giving out smoke signals... Quarus my ginger is demanded as having laughed... he's Roy Orbison with the meow, pretty much lazy... looks like a murmur when he tries singing, pretty woman, trolling down the street, Gucci, Chanel, and everything in the scrapheap of lobotomy, as is Paris necessarily mentioned: chiselled white collars... Roy knew before Elvis... the trick came with sunglasses, and the gluttonous slur of the half-opened mouthing for subsequent mouthing it off... no amount of cheese in French could ever charter the success of the cheeses added to cheeseburgers with the milkshakes, which were plainly Dutch laughing cows named Novices.... quick-melts and some said: dreadlocks of string-yellow Gouda pulled for a hippies' worth of Chinese chugging down a pint or two, for worth of gag and the slim mascot; the Chinese never taught Cannes arithmetic of the thumb through to pinky... i don't know how they taught counting with their complex ideograms, they never taught arithmetic give their encoding... they taught pure math.. they never taught the simplest of assurances... meaning so few of them became bankers.

56

Our initials chiselled, With a crown cork bottle cap, Into the trunk of our favourite tree, Will the world wonder in time to come, Whatever happened to you and me?

0

Jun 7, 2019

Jun 7, 2019 at 6:47 PM UTC

annh

Chiselled

Our initials chiselled, With a crown cork bottle cap, Into the trunk of our favourite tree, Will the world wonder in time to come, Whatever happened to you and me?

5

I cut my thoughts like diamonds— Flaws chiselled away, pure heart exposed. I cut my thoughts like diamonds— Facets polished, clarity revealed. I cut my thoughts like diamonds— Inner brilliance reduced to shadows on the walls.

0

Jan 12, 2016

Jan 12, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC

jon-gilbert

I Cut My Thoughts Like Gemstones

I cut my thoughts like diamonds— Flaws chiselled away, pure heart exposed. I cut my thoughts like diamonds— Facets polished, clarity revealed. I cut my thoughts like diamonds— Inner brilliance reduced to shadows on the walls.

9

From the Tower of Babel, Being chiselled in stone, Come forth new commandments To appease the throngs. One through three Remain the same, Following a change In the demigod's name. Numbers five through ten Need some twerking, Alternatively, They weren't working. Lie, cheat, con and steal, Whatever works To seal the deal. Covet women and neighbour's goods, Stay west of Eden's pussyhoods. Number four stands alone, The command is clear: Honour the unborn, not the Mom. After a frantic panic, Babel collapsed in pitiful spite; Its ruins scattered On the western Atlantic. Our world continued to spin, Because we were resolved To sin.

0

Feb 3, 2017

Feb 3, 2017 at 11:43 AM UTC

francie-lynch

The Tower of Babel

From the Tower of Babel, Being chiselled in stone, Come forth new commandments To appease the throngs. One through three Remain the same, Following a change In the demigod's name. Numbers five through ten Need some twerking, Alternatively, They weren't working. Lie, cheat, con and steal, Whatever works To seal the deal. Covet women and neighbour's goods, Stay west of Eden's pussyhoods. Number four stands alone, The command is clear: Honour the unborn, not the Mom. After a frantic panic, Babel collapsed in pitiful spite; Its ruins scattered On the western Atlantic. Our world continued to spin, Because we were resolved To sin.

27

It was written on the wall It was plain to see, The things that were said Where not looked upon, Scribed, Chiselled, Etched, But not seen by all, It was plain to see, before the eyes But we were Blind Sightless Visionless On what we needed to observe, but couldn't Read, decipher The writing is there, so preserve it Or all that will be left is what was written But we never looked upon, what was always there.

0

Oct 31, 2014

Oct 31, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC

poetic-t

Written On The Wall

It was written on the wall It was plain to see, The things that were said Where not looked upon, Scribed, Chiselled, Etched, But not seen by all, It was plain to see, before the eyes But we were Blind Sightless Visionless On what we needed to observe, but couldn't Read, decipher The writing is there, so preserve it Or all that will be left is what was written But we never looked upon, what was always there.

18