"chronicle" poems
It's too soon to live in memories
I try to convince myself
Years don't change everything
I try to convince myself
This is no prison I'm living in
I have the keys, the locks are not broken
I try to convince myself I have a reason
For not using them
Grab a pen and some paper
Some of these are important
I just know they are
These are the things that made me what I am
Aren't they?
The sum total of all my experiences, right?
I need to chronicle and catalog
Separate the wheat from the chaff
This will set me straight
Or maybe not...could be a waste of time
Time takes them away, one by one
Teases, bringing some back
Then snatching them away again
Despite my best efforts
To hoard them
Years don't change everything
The cruel workings of time
Are eternal
Of this I am convinced
I've sacrificed freedom
To live in a cage
To settle for memories
For fear that hurt would break in
And make itself comfortable
Quick to remind me of the memories
It helped make
I'm convinced I have no reason
To break these chains
An empty house, alone
Is better than such bad company
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 8:26 AM UTC
Sequestered stream flows tranquil
It’s journey from an unknown origin
Traveling through varied landscapes
Carrying stories from lands afar
Listen to faint murmur with keen ears
Narrates the stories from its chronicle
You, an unknown traveler, alone
Waiting by its side to drink from the stream
To quench the thirst that’s within
The contradictions and distractions
Casualties of the unrelenting world
Finally, your steps have led to this stream
It flows, in spite of the challenges
Cuts through every hurdle with resolve
The messenger carries stories and life
Breathing life with its tranquil presence
Drink from the stream, replenish your resolve
Think not of the hurdles and distractions
You are to flow through this life
Carrying the anecdotes and memories
Be like the stream, and rejuvenate every life
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC
Thinking About …Jealousy
I don’t sense envy in me -
But sense jealousy
Given the right (or always wrong) occasion
Why?
The past disloyalties?
A guilt? The lies?
A deep and hidden narcissism?
Is it them that I surmise?
A sickly need to own –
To call someone my own
When I, in fact have known
That no one, nothing is my own?
Does it begin in fantasy?
One asks the question
Wherefrom, why from
Comes that special gallery
Of idle fancy?
If the simile is ‘green’ with envy,
What then color jealousy?
Red, brown, orange, pink or blue?
Perhaps there is no hue
In color’s range
To chronicle that landscape and its danger!
Thus adding one more deadly sin
To slot into the other seven:
Is it…could they be akin
To chilling, killing, love destroying jealousy?
Thinking About…Jealousy 9.18.2016
Pure Nakedness;
Arlene Corwin
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 5:39 AM UTC
I pretend I don't know why I take you.
But really,
I like to chronicle my days, my moods, my looks.
Did I put makeup on that day?
Was I tired?
Was I happy? Smiling?
Forcing a smile?
Using a filter?
The truth is written all over my face,
if you know where to look.
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 11:39 AM UTC
When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing.
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
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My darling, I have begun to dream
Of tractors, crossing
The river Jordan
From my mind spun a chronicle of death, foretold
I began to think that in 100 years, solitude
Will be afforded, there will be
No more tractors, Or
Lawnmowers, Or
V8 engines, Just
Silence, Love, So
I shall not wake you in choleric times, I shall return
To the memories of another; of melancholic insomnia
That ***** that unwritten
Love letter to the colonel,
and think, You know,
Earplugs may not be so bad.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
Dear Diary, I know I haven’t been treating you properly,
I’ve been mundane and confused lately…
But I didn’t know if you would understand,
About the need that my heart did demand…
But I have to turn to you, I have no one else,
The truth echoes within me, like sound through hollow shells….
It all started when I met that person,
Who shone as brightly as the brightest sun…
I won’t mention her blessed name,
In case later there’s a risk of blame…
But I remember my entry in you that day,
“ my life has changed in every way…”
And though my feelings perplex you,
I assure you, Diary, she is one of very few…
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this earlier,
It was because I was confined by fear…
For a guy like me cant get someone like her,
But still, my wretched heart holds her dear…
And though I try to repel the attraction,
I yearn for every possible interaction…
You have all right to be angry, and more,
Because all this in my troubled mind I did store…
Is the situation bad, you ask..??
Getting me back to who I was seems an impossible task..
Because as of now, I can live without filling you with ink,
But I shall die if of her I don’t think…
Yes, its serious, yes I know,
Nowhere is this relationship going to go…
But I still prefer this existence,
Where she and I can be just friends..
For the exuberance that comes with her being,
Seems to give life a whole new meaning…
Diary, I know you are about me, not her…
But she is now part of me, it does appear..
So let us chronicle my love, in liaison,
Let us tell the world about my passion…
For, one day, when I am but dust,
You will show everyone what I did lust…
Diary, I’ve jumped into a well, and I cant come out,
Except you, no one can hear my wretched shout…
Dear Diary, let the pain no longer keep us apart,
Dear Diary, please imbibe the weepings of my broken heart…
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 10:32 AM UTC
Darkness came before the sun fell,
I never saw the eclipse in your heart
Fate turned you against me quietly,
Like the flattered fool I played my part
From the depths of surrender you resurrected grace,
My siren song, your heartbeat
Only I never understood exactly what I had become,
Just a convenient source of heat
Fire and light were born in the space between our eyes,
My soul the freely given fuel
But ice found purchase, in the abyss underneath lust,
Driving love into a frozen pool
Kicking furiously, driven by some Romeo complex,
I would have reached dry land
Yet as my eyes dropped below the surface I saw you.
And you never reached out a hand.
My eyes have betrayed me before though, love.
And I'm willing to assume they have again...
Our kiss is more important than our lips now,
A symbol of something that's never been.
My words are a never-ending ocean of instability,
Dark water like cursed wine
And at this Mass of souls I'll remain in sin gladly,
If only you are still truly mine
Because the words are something more than I am,
Clutching blindly at your sadness
They are the eternal record of your perfect beauty,
And a chronicle of my madness
I once believed that I could stop the world for you,
That such power would win you;
But my faith was never enough to break destiny,
And, in my heart, I always knew.
So when the first flowers of hope are finally dead,
And you have already forgotten my eyes;
I only hope one constant truth remains with you,
None of my promises were intentional lies.
Remember, when you feel thunder shake the world,
That something like this never truly dies.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
Tis the second
daylight of
the Seven
Crushed. Deplore
As I explore
The first
Daylight
and the last of the previous
Seven
That two daylights
…a plethora of speech and papers
A heart-wrenching chronicle.
‘Tis Monday
The Day of Side Effects.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
-Houston Chronicle, 10.1.2018
A robot wandered the mean streets alone
While lighting up and smoking his last transistor
Remembering an IBM long gone
“Buy me a WD-40, mister?”
A ****** thermostat took him to Radio Shack
And talked about some Texas Instruments she knew
A Compaq sent them to a room out back -
“Do ya wanna undo my phillips *****
He paid the thermostat some gigabytes
And then…
He was mugged by a relay who put out his lights
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 7:23 AM UTC
dear adam,
you were my first love
i'm not sure if you loved me
as much as i loved you
but God did i love you
the world began with us
isn't that amazing?
even in the crevices of our
makeshift beds weaved out
of lazy limbs and hazy intentions
even if i felt your heart didn't beat
for flesh such as mine
i loved you i loved you i love you
maybe i'm sorry i wasn't enough
but i know it wasn't me
i know you wished the world
didn't begin with a boy and a girl
being told to love
as if love was easy
i'm sorry i knew that maybe
you wished there was a choice
i knew that you wanted more than
soft sighs and long hair
maybe you wanted someone
who fit you the way your own gods told you
your own gods being your anatomy
your every nerve telling you
this isn't right
this isn't the natural order of things
i'm sorry i didn't pray hard enough
i was happy to have a part of you
even if that part included your dreams
of someone like you
of someone much different than i
we will never know now
and that's the saddest part
even when sacred texts chronicle us
as being an eternal pair
that brought paradise to flames
i do not regret following you into hell
i would bite into the universe
again and again and again
if it meant for the freedom
that came along with shame
if it meant that the world could be
what you wanted it to be
i would navigate every circle of hell
i would find every vision of the devil
if it meant you could love who you were meant to love
i love you adam
the world began with us
and maybe that's why the world is so scattered
two scattered souls don't make for a very good world
now our children run around loving and hurting
just as we did
but you lived a good life and you knew that
you were always the good one
i was always the one who wanted to be more
and you always forgave me for that
we were a strange love - you and i
so perhaps let us forgive ourselves
after all
we are only dirt breathed by God
we had no say in our genesis
that isn't going to change now
love and everything else,
eve
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 2:27 PM UTC
Tell me a story Cuddlekins!
Rawr. Rawr. Grr. Rawr.
Rawr. Grr grr RAWR!!
Wow! That's a good story.
Now let me tell you
one. A story of a boy
who was so afraid of
being alone he put himself
in the most amazing adventures.
Imagine a beautiful forest
in the middle of nowhere.
Untouched. Unmutilated with.
Un-everything. This boy,
John, flew here and
laid his case down
and pulled out his violin.
His music went.
Dah. Dah. Lalalala. Doooo.
Soft. Sweet. Charming with
a twist of a faint memory
on the tip of your tongue
wanting to be known to
the world.
As he played on and on
for hours the animals
gathered around and fell
to sleep. John
inspired by his surroundings
played more and more
until there was a rustle in
the distance.
John didn't hear it
but again and again
the rustle of the leaves
grew ever closer still.
There was one animal
who wasn't sitting at
the clearing in the forest.
It was the jaguar. He awoke
and wondered
where everybody went.
They were no where to be found
As he searched for his
friends a scent caught in
his nose. It smelled of
food but an unfamiliar one.
The long lost forgotten food
that his ancestors once described.
He chased it slowly
turning every corner
hiding behind branches,
bushes, and bark.
Finally he found his prey.
He creeped slowly
and attacked.
All the animals could
say was that 'ol jagy was
at it again just a hungry
beast. Not sophisticated
or classy enough to
understand music.
You know Cuddlekins, I think
it was on that day the rest
of the animals discovered
'ol Jagy was deaf.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 10:00 PM UTC
864
The Robin for the Crumb
Returns no syllable
But long records the Lady’s name
In Silver Chronicle.
2k
I chronicle in rhythm and rhyme,
Scribbling, jotting, imaging the times:
I dug down to Lucy,
And China's Great Wall,
Compared Viking raids with personal tirades;
Asked God questions, questioned Jeff Sessions,
And all of that where-with-all.
I've called wrong out, and written about
Our scandals, all fancy or true;
I've offered you solace,
Even opened my wallet,
And grieved when it was due.
I've been self-righteous,
And sometimes right selfless,
When parsing my love for you.
But now it should end,
I've less left to send,
And so love I bid, Adieu.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 4:25 PM UTC
***The blank paper stared at me for long
Wishing, I wield the pen to paint with ink
As my mind is heavy with thoughts
Blank paper offers me the space to share
Myriads of thoughts and deepest emotions
How effortlessly the blank paper draws me
Out of my slumber, to pen down the words
When the pen touches the paper
It connects my soul and heart to the blank space
Waiting for me to fill the white space with emotions
Offering me an easy access to let go
And express with eloquence, over pristine canvas
Painting the most intricate designs with words
Times when spoken words become few
And the only path for me is to compose
It does not complain if the composition goes awry
Being a true companion without being judgmental
Not weary of my erratic thoughts and going wayward
After all, everyday it brings me to the table
That’s the path which I am drawn towards
Without being wary of the world, I pen down my thoughts
The blank paper always waits for me to wield the pen
And the ink flows again to chronicle my thoughts***
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
~
*Prelude of light
The sublimation hour
In this ruined house
Before meaning comes
(The world is full of
Abandoned meanings)
A slight grip, a gentle hold
And the trembling of glass
Circles of privacy
To shine, to hide, to cross
From the only window
Burning sanctuary
Heaven come crashing
The thicket is no sacred grove:
A chronicle of early failures
But within reach
Of future mistakes
Even the darkness has arms*
~
Oct 2, 2022
Oct 2, 2022 at 3:06 PM UTC
My minds a jumbled mess
I wanna say it all but all I actually do is say less
I want superman to come save this here mind
But frfr. I think he's resigned
Or maybe I'm not worth of any of his time
I'm drowning in my own thoughts
We train ourselves to act the same and I feel like I'm surrounded by robots
No one will rock the boat
No one will actually stand by me and make sure that I stay afloat
Me speaking my mind to others can't be translated I just sound like a goat
This cruel world is blizzard cold and I can't find my coat
Or maybe it's too small
Right now I'm standing outside and I'm forced to say I don't feel anything at all
Even though we're all cold
No One will come clean and admit it and boy oh boy man is it getting old
I'm done forcing myself to fit into that mold
Even when you scold me because I'm divergent
I cleanse my soul
(breath in)
smell that?
clean like detergent
I'm done letting social acceptance control my life like Ima a servant
Being cool and getting Instagram likes really ain't that important
Wether you got fans or not don't matter *** the world keeps on flowing
Need to stop and think about it "wait"
What direction am I goin
What outcome in life for me is the lord currently bestowing
I wanna be able to look back and ask myself "Hey was it worth it"?
And be able to reply "ya baby you fulfilled your purpose"
Weather or not I'll become successful is a difficult topic
I stay up at night just thinking about it
Dreaming about it
Living it in my mind and I can't even stop myself
I scream and shout about it
No not literally
But mentally
I strain my mind on a daily bases
I feel that up until now my whole life has been suspended by braces
But I don't wanna be strait that's not how he makes us
I don't wanna be another boring book on the boring bookcases
I refuse to be like those faces
Those aliens who have tricked theirselves that what is real is tasteless
Trying to look like ken and Barbie sending theirselves on wild goose chases
You know what this world needs?
Not a revival we have no chance of a survival as long as we live on earth
It's like spilling spaghetti sauce on a white t-shirt
U can't get it out
it will never revert
This pitiful world is in chronicle need of a rebirth
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 12:19 PM UTC
Night Train, travel through the world unknown
The black hills with a maroon sky thick behind it
The metallic sound of friction valiantly losing battle to the poignant silence
Night Train, write an epic of the hands that cup around the eyes
Of the eyes that talk to the distant light
Of the lights that blink and the ones that stay still
Night Train, don't slow down for each breath falls faster than the wind outside
Night Train, don't slow down for the still is more piercing than the dark blades of grass lying far below
The rhythmic oscillation of the half sleeping bodies stacked one above the other
The threatening aura of the stiff backbones stoically awake
The lone observer is lost in the nightly delusion
Night Train, chronicle a dark fantasy of the broken fragments the night narrates
Night Train, stop, send a jolt, deaden the incantations
Before the dawn or its harbingers intrude
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 2:16 AM UTC
Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew,
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things;
That ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings:
But thou hast little need. There is a Book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright--
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;
And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
1.7k
For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five grey hairs, or ruin’d fortune flout,
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
Take you a course, get you a place,
Observe his Honour, or his Grace,
Or the King’s real, or his stamped face
Contemplate, what you will, approve,
So you will let me love.
Alas, alas, who’s injur’d by my love?
What merchant’s ships have my sighs drown’d?
Who says my tears have overflow’d his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?
When did the heats which my veins fill
Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
Litigious men, which quarrels move,
Though she and I do love.
Call us what you will, we are made such by love;
Call her one, me another fly,
We’are tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find the’eagle and the dove.
The phoenix riddle hath more wit
By us; we two being one, are it.
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit,
We die and rise the same, and prove
Mysterious by this love.
We can die by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tombs and hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
We’ll build in sonnets pretty rooms;
As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
And by these hymns all shall approve
Us canoniz’d for love;
And thus invoke us: “You, whom reverend love
Made one another’s hermitage;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
Who did the whole world’s soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses of your eyes
(So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize)
Countries, towns, courts: beg from above
A pattern of your love!”
1.6k
Glory of Nature poet says in glowing verse!
Disaster of Nature critic says in crying words!
Beauty and love of Nature bring bliss sure;
Wrath and horror of Nature bring nightmare!
For all poisons of pollution man mixes in sky
Nature dilutes to balance with drastic dosage!
But chronicle disease at extreme stage kills
Patients among people without mercy often!
Prevention is better than cure holds good ever
If man is careful in the use of natural resources.
For all the climatic changes man is the root cause
Due to exploitation of resources sans conservation;
Even now it's not too late to take measures well
Before the final stroke comes at unexpected hour!
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 2:38 AM UTC
. In 1787, Ann married journalist
William Radcliffe, who was part-owner
& editor of the English Chronicle; William
often came home late & to occupy her time,
Ann took up writing; eagerly reading her work to him
when he came in. Their marriage was childless
but happy; Ann called him her "nearest
relative and best friend" & the money she earned
from her novels later allowed them to travel
with their dog Chance. In her final years, Radcliffe
retreated from public life; rumored to have become
insane as a result of her writing -
Little is known of Ann Radcliffe's life.
In 1823, the year of her death, the
Edinburgh Review, said, "She never
appeared in public, nor mingled
in private society, but kept herself
apart, like the sweet bird that sings
its solitary notes, shrouded & unseen."
Christina Rossetti attempted to write a biography
of Ann, but abandoned it for lack of information;
According to Ruth Facer,
"Physically, she was said to
be 'exquisitely proportioned' –
quite short, beautiful complexion–
'as was her whole countenance,
especially her eyes, eyebrows &
mouth.'"
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 7:34 PM UTC
I feel the answer to approaching adulthood gracefully
is to chronicle your life in Stuart McLean vignettes.
Spoken like Bach. Rubato. Cadential.
Lovingly. With humor.
Because you will notice, you see,
that job burnout, the belly fat,
and the dent in your bike are all crispy
slices of burnt toast
on the warm Christmas radio sound of
Saturday morning CBC.
They don't matter.
And that's exactly what makes
these stories beautiful.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 11:28 AM UTC
To pick and **** at the creation of one’s mind
To disassemble and dissect what was so carefully made
To not know what you’re looking for or hoping to find
To take a chronicle or joke and slice through with a blade
With no intention of reassembly
Analysis on every word
Chords and notes ripped from a melody
Make logic seem absurd
The bane of creativity
is our tendency to over-think
Logic contributes negatively
Cherished moments seem to blink
A picture worth 1000 words
If at all worthy would deserve none
Break down the image on our own accords
And the image’s fulfilment -gone
Avid appreciation shown only by the speechless
A real artist’s only aspire
Is for their creation to make you breathless
Too worthy for your satire
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC