"cleaves" poems
#*I would not know that wounded hearts will never bend
Except it's by the gentlest wind
Had You not blown Your love on me
I did not know that arrows sprung with poisoned darts
Could be dislodged from human hearts
Till You began to set me free
How should I know that crushing loss can by its pain
Yield intimacy's most treasured gain
Unless You gave Your Word to me?
I could not know that failures worse than greatest fears
Might actually bless through staining tears
This soul undone by Your decree
But now I know that Love's own touch
Brings untold joy which healeth much
From One Who cleaves so faithfully*#
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
Mongst the salacious ferns of
Artemis requested in the land
of the handsome labyris women
wealing and weaving Vulcans
shrewd hearts of jasper and
chalcendony, governess Hulda
cleaves Muspellsheims yew bones
fletching mandrakes philtre whetting
hie Cupids perfuse herb of grace
intercessorial unto volcanic pious
virtues haranguing loves cataract
dashing herewith demotic enditements
distempered of ludic ordination;
forging a year and a day halest
cledonomancies volley of truths
bequeathing privity of Heavens
prismatic trajectory.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
Love has earth to which she clings
With hills and circling arms about—
Wall within wall to shut fear out.
But Thought has need of no such things,
For Thought has a pair of dauntless wings.
On snow and sand and turn, I see
Where Love has left a printed trace
With straining in the world’s embrace.
And such is Love and glad to be
But Thought has shaken his ankles free.
Thought cleaves the interstellar gloom
And sits in Sirius’ disc all night,
Till day makes him retrace his flight
With smell of burning on every plume,
Back past the sun to an earthly room.
His gains in heaven are what they are.
Yet some say Love by being thrall
And simply staying possesses all
In several beauty that Thought fares far
To find fused in another star.
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October's bellowing anger breaks and cleaves
The bronzed battalions of the stricken wood
In whose lament I hear a voice that grieves
For battle’s fruitless harvest, and the feud
Of outraged men. Their lives are like the leaves
Scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown
Along the westering furnace flaring red.
O martyred youth and manhood overthrown,
The burden of your wrongs is on my head.
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The world’s great age begins anew,
The golden years return,
The earth doth like a snake renew
Her winter weeds outworn;
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.
A brighter Hellas rears its mountains
From waves serener far;
A new Peneus rolls his fountains
Against the morning star;
Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.
A loftier Argo cleaves the main,
Fraught with a later prize;
Another Orpheus sings again,
And loves, and weeps, and dies;
A new Ulysses leaves once more
Calypso for his native shore.
O write no more the tale of Troy,
If earth Death’s scroll must be—
Nor mix with Laian rage the joy
Which dawns upon the free,
Although a subtler Sphinx renew
Riddles of death Thebes never knew.
Another Athens shall arise,
And to remoter time
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,
The splendour of its prime;
And leave, if naught so bright may live,
All earth can take or Heaven can give.
Saturn and Love their long repose
Shall burst, more bright and good
Than all who fell, than One who rose,
Than many unsubdued:
Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,
But votive tears and symbol flowers.
O cease! must hate and death return?
Cease! must men **** and die?
Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn
Of bitter prophecy!
The world is weary of the past—
O might it die or rest at last!
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Keep love for youth, and violets for the spring:
Or if these bloom when worn-out autumn grieves,
Let them lie hid in double shade of leaves,
Their own, and others dropped down withering;
For violets suit when home birds build and sing,
Not when the outbound bird a passage cleaves;
Not with dry stubble of mown harvest sheaves,
But when the green world buds to blossoming.
Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth,
Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth, and hope:
Or if a later sadder love be born,
Let this not look for grace beyond its scope,
But give itself, nor plead for answering truth--
A grateful Ruth tho' gleaning scanty corn.
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Bright as the light that cleaves through the night
In the evening's fading firey field,
You come to me, with a hawks grace.
Glimmering, august angel.
For you, I gild my tongue,
so my words may shine, though I fear,
not nearly as bright, as the glow,
of your unfettered majesty.
Were I not already unclothed
I would tear through each article,
so as to expose to you,
that which you may claim, and partake.
With a pulsing pleasure, for each dazzling deed
In the most sprightly shower of starlight,
I wait for you to make your claim.
Uncloak here before me
remove that golden robe,
and reveal your glory, before these eyes
Neither slave or mistress should you be,
As the lions who have fought to a standstill,
concede, let us proceed in blessed equality.
And bed in the short cut grass, beneath the linden.
You, whose mouth is a temple,
With seven seals of satisfaction, concealed inside.
Stay with me, while I am floating in this hope.
Like a songbird released from captivity,
I wish that I could pour your praises from my lips,
Till my tongue is worn and weary...
and the light no longer lingers,
in the lantern of my eyes.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC
There's a place between society and the wild
Where aimless bodies are piled
We call it the Wastelands
All creatures die of old age
Or hunger inside this cage
The deer are never hit by cars
For they never travel that far
The Wastelands use fear
That's what keeps them here
The Wastelands are a scary place
It's horrifying how nothing happens
It becomes too much to face
So we hide under satin
To provide comfortable resting
And avoid Wastelands testing
The Wastelands are a barren environment
Solitary coyotes learn from the cacti
Who soak up meager moisture
And become prickly to protect it
Never knowing if nourishment was near
They grew prickly because of their fear
We inhabit the Wastelands
We're trapped here
Where the walls of the city
Seem to mirror
The walls of the wilderness
So it's here we build our nest
But surviving is a constant test
Because we have useless hands
Here in the Wastelands
Wastelands
Interaction
Is reaction
Create a faction
And never leave
Even if love cleaves
It lies behind ramparts of containment
And the fear of society's arraignment
Even if peace calls
It stays behind walls
Of trees hiding predators
That keep us embedded here
So we ***** barriers to protect us
From the barriers surrounding us
We find our connections through hatred
And build teams around it
We made foolish deals with Satan
This is what we're amounted
Scavengers from both worlds encroach the Wastelands
Journalists and artists mine our souls
Vultures mine our flesh like gold
Taking what they need and going home
Our rabid mouths begin to show foam
From the frustration of loss
But inactivity is our cross
While we watch carrion feeders
Carry on eating
Our friends
Until we turn and look away
Knowing that'll be us one day
Because in the Wastelands
Friends are just creatures who are near
There are no animals to hold dear
We're afraid to lend an ear
When Wastelands use fear
The Wastelands are hell
Dry river beds tell of a time
When the rain fell
But now we're plagued by drought
You can tell by looking at the trout
They flop on the ground
Wondering where to wander for water
The cacti remain still
It's the Wastelands will
In the Wastelands we wait to die
Although we really want to fly
We're just afraid of heights
Which impedes our sight
Where we can't view over our own barricades
It's fear that prohibits our ability to elevate
And we see that the order is too tall
Back into the Wastelands we fall
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 9:30 AM UTC
She cleaves onto her like a blunt razor-
stroked onto the mustache of a young man.
If only she was omniscient enough into resisting
the beguiling beauty within and beyond the tangible.
She constantly craves composition within thine peoples,
yet they make augured gore holes into her oesophagus.
Lesser does she know to refrain from it,
yet more she knows to stay.
More does she know their separated fortune,
lesser she chooses to be borne in hand.
Her notion is of higher standards,
yet still the lowest.
Scarf up thine eyes;
Plug up thou ears;
Tape up thine mouths;
Nevertheless chop off thy tongue
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 2:37 PM UTC
I will accept thy will to do and be,
Thy hatred and intolerance of sin,
Thy will at least to love, that burns within
And thirsteth after Me:
So will I render fruitful, blessing still
The germs and small beginnings in thy heart,
Because thy will cleaves to the better part.--
Alas, I cannot will.
Dost not thou will, poor soul? Yet I receive
The inner unseen longings of the soul;
I guide them turning towards Me; I control
And charm hearts till they grieve:
If thou desire, it yet shall come to pass,
Though thou but wish indeed to choose My love;
For I have power in earth and heaven above.--
I cannot wish, alas!
What, neither choose nor wish to choose? and yet
I still must strive to win thee and constrain:
For thee I hung upon the cross in pain,
How then can I forget?
If thou as yet dost neither love, nor hate,
Nor choose, nor wish,--resign thyself, be still
Till I infuse love, hatred, longing, will.--
I do not deprecate.
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1395
After all Birds have been investigated and laid aside—
Nature imparts the little Blue-Bird—assured
Her conscientious Voice will soar unmoved
Above ostensible Vicissitude.
First at the March—competing with the Wind—
Her panting note exalts us—like a friend—
Last to adhere when Summer cleaves away—
Elegy of Integrity.
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This secret, best kept away
from prying hands that drop
eyes on eaves and awnings.
They stay within
the perimeter of spies and agents
doubling as bartender ears,
drink up and pour
the punch that hits you where
you bleed invisible. The spleen
lacerating split, a penetrating
ooze, cleaves back and forth with you.
Drain out and glaze over. Be very,
very still.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 3:18 AM UTC
Our empty syncopation's are patiently ambushed
By restless margins of undeclared territory;
Shivering cymbals, entraining cloistered memories,
A nimbus inclining toward unredeemable quarries:
Refrains unimagined, of star-tipped dawns
Upon certain days of ritual, unbelievably worn.
Breathing dragons of fire-squandering meridians
Pour round water upon semblance's drowned emotion;
Cleave then to me, who cleaves to the last vestige
Of rarefied air, breathed by bellows-smothered centuries
When your foot trod the newly opened ****** earth,
And your hand hinged loves diagonal, even unto death.
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 12:15 PM UTC
Love
is a beauteous thing
It overcomes evil
It forgives all sin
Man
cleaves to women
together
they embrace the end
Death
is an open door
step within
for truth and more
Time
is a fickle thing
it will run out
while your still standing
Love
is a beauteous thing
It destroys all evil
it cleans all sin
And love
I say again
overcomes all
there at the end
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 5:38 AM UTC
She can not understand
how much a heart can desire
something it never had.
Those little hands and little toes
soft coos and a tiny, button-nose.
Wrapped in white, an angel sleeping,
peaceful and drowsy,
with all the angels waiting.
With hands that don't know how to stay
and cries are all to communicate,
a darling angel grows and cleaves,
relying on one for all she needs.
And wherever in Heaven she may be,
your lonely mother waits for thee.
Dec 17, 2023
Dec 17, 2023 at 8:50 AM UTC
the thing about love that seldom finds its way into conversation is the peril it carries. you surrender fragments of yourself..no, the entirety of yourself into another’s hands, praying they cradle it with reverence. yet what transpires when your devotion becomes suffocating, when the sheer intensity of your affection drowns them until escape feels like survival? they run. and you remain amidst the wreckage, gathering fractured remnants, attempting to reconstruct a semblance of wholeness.
you spiral into relentless rumination.. dissecting every misstep, questioning whether it was you, whether they’ll ever return.
and the cruelty of it all lies in the conviction since i believed with marrow-deep certainty that the two of us got it right this time around.
they said the first fracture cleaves the hardest, and they were not wrong. i wrestle with the storm until my hands are empty; in an instant a cosmos i trusted unspooled into silence. my emotions orbit without chart or tether, a scatter of constellations asking the same questions: do you still trace my name in the dark? do you love me in the quiet spaces between breaths? would you return to salvage what we built? i yearn to know.
my loving was always meant to be a refuge. a delicate harbor where you could unfurl into your truest form, not a rope to bind or a tide to drown you. it was offered to you for shelter from the world’s cruelties as a small, pure architecture of safety but never as something to drive you away. i hope in time you will see it as such. even if you never do, i can’t fault you for that.
just carry this with you like a quiet ember: my love remains and i ache for the day you remember what we once built together.
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 1:31 AM UTC
be the cigarette that lets the Manchurian
candidate wear your socks to a job interview
because his are all piled in the corner of his
bedroom like a group of dead Kennedy's... bad
thought will never take you home again. the
good is found beyond your comfort zone, so
ride the waves, captain cherokee! *and when
the invisible hand of graduality cleaves you
from my marrow, there is nothing but the irk
of a waterfall beyond my cheek-bone, dripping
from the red corners of his chapped lips,
bleeding in the autumnal creek of Octoberish
winterfreeze*
the poem ended where it did, as my inspiration
faded into caffeine insanity and the cipralex kept
me MDMA'd to the glowing grave.
beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful ! ! !
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
Something is dead . . .
The grace of sunset solitudes, the march
Of the solitary moon, the pomp and power
Of round on round of shining soldier-stars
Patrolling space, the bounties of the sun--
Sovran, tremendous, unimaginable--
The multitudinous friendliness of the sea,
Possess no more--no more.
Something is dead . . .
The Autumn rain-rot deeper and wider soaks
And spreads, the burden of Winter heavier weighs,
His melancholy close and closer yet
Cleaves, and those incantations of the Spring
That made the heart a centre of miracles
Grow formal, and the wonder-working bours
Arise no more--no more.
Something is dead . . .
'Tis time to creep in close about the fire
And tell grey tales of what we were, and dream
Old dreams and faded, and as we may rejoice
In the young life that round us leaps and laughs,
A fountain in the sunshine, in the pride
Of God's best gift that to us twain returns,
Dear Heart, no more--no more.
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***** sock law
states satisfaction is not done
there are things still to be done
like the commodities of sanity
that bathe every street
as Leo Szilard street--avoid the police, avoid the police.
Her fake fur coat
cleaves the words against her lover off
from the veranda stench.
"You're never angry with me."
standing in Moscow
passing out pamphlets
about Communism.
"Everything I want
and I
couldn't be unhappier."
Sudans pass by, catchy music plays, and the waitress is late
with our order.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
Freezing fog
Trees protest
They can’t shiver
It’s a test.
Wait for spring
Hold all breath
Patient trees
Denying death.
Stagnant air
Hanging white
Building daggers
In the night.
Grim to breathe
Grim to touch
Patient are trees
That suffer such.
Winter cracks and
Winter cleaves
No bitter words
Are heard from leaves.
Watch the trees
For they will show
The path of patience
And way to grow.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
Tudor Royals. (An Acrostic)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tough times the Tudor King endures
Undecided on his bold armorers
Due to hots for miss Anne Boleyn
Ordered aside the maid of Aragon
Removed poor Anne’s head for Darling Jane
Rare son to Jane but childbirth was a pain
On death we see the shrewdest Ann o Cleaves
You know they didn’t get on or consummate
A fifth in Katherine Howard a **** for sure.
Lost her head , took Kath Parr to bed
Six was five too many for a King named Henry
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip.
November 10th 2018.
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
The coiled phone wire wrapped
around her capricious fingers,
Her chest, pitched then collapse,
air solders clings cleaves splinters,
She sighs, she suspires
And her eyes communicate a vision
veering away from her present self,
Swerving in and out of ambition,
I could never gather all that she felt,
She sights, she seeks skyward
Her mouth leaks what she muses,
her lips remind me of victorian doorways,
The wood, the skin, it bruises
as she absorbs enclosing disarray,
She cries, she is tired
The way she leans in her maroon pants
Her hands plunging in her pockets,
I fervidly hope she finds other plans,
revives abandoned passions, left in cluttered closets
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
Distance cleaves us
Though we drink of the smiles
Bubbling from the corners of our lips
The colours of courtship begin to swivel
Locust echoes bloom ever so fearlessly
As fair passion sweeps through the fog
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 2:49 PM UTC
Once again her ashen crust cleaves , for its once aught to be sought.
In thou curiosity, heft the crude mud, brief a dawn to
the gravity of an intricate craft,
Where thee defy and 'tis a waking howl
Where a flock betrays its trace, flees behind a fowl.
Fowl, shaped upon by the call,
Leads to a world of faux strays,
Where the bodies sway under the moon
But sleeps upon the day.
Nocturnal breaths intertwine around,
Welcoming them into a warm embrace:
Where it is born 'dreamily' to eternally haze.
In no time, the march creates a howl too
That obeys the dance of calamity,
But her refusal hides under a tongue
For it is a refuge, kept under the safety.
After all, it's matriarchy, crumbling a feet of the tantrum,
The wind guffaws, sways to the luminous olive trees;
Where a nest of refugees crawl upon,
Chirping freely to the motion of adversary,
to a moment of cleft.
Thus, it's the mother nature that heaves above all
As if blowing a floral and once again, livid breath.
In its deed, she incessantly cries fugues,
As if a virtuoso morphed upon the death.
Upon lulling the sweet mortality into clay,
Then it strolls around, surreptitiously,the plenitudes of ****** heft,
then heading hither a flaw;
When the day and night sleeps, until the rituals nudges, an absolute,
No sense.
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 3:26 AM UTC
A legion of children enveloped us that day, /
Their presence transparent beneath rays of sun baptismal. /
As the chirp of laughter infiltrated the air, /
There enclaved in their omnipresent mist, /
Passion blossomed in this juvenescent heart. /
Gleaming these eyes sauntered your luminescent skin, /
Pining for that rapture that lay betwixt your arms. /
Although roving within for clarity in words, /
This burgeoning vessel trembled in loss, /
For fugitive they stood in my subconscious. /
Yearning for more than the caress of your voice, /
Its musicality enough to serenade for all time, /
And the flawless rhythm of this heartbeat /
Whispered intently of something divine /
For this keepsake of yours -is immortal.- /
Even now nostalgia cleaves as an arrow, /
-Piercing to the soul- /
And it screams to be nurtured. /
Blooming in reminiscence I conjure dreams immemorial, /
Returning to that hallowed sanctuary. /
Your countenance is a distant glint, now untraceable; /
Marred by elapsed time, that insidious decay. /
My agony has become a vast sea, /
Besieged by the maelstrom of lament /
For my undying piety is all that remains./
A language too grand to be deciphered /
By such an infantile mind, /
Yet now I pensively ponder, "Will you ever return?" /
I would relinquish my soul to gaze once more /
Upon your grace my Materialista. /
Life has become a heavy haze, /
Occupied by a discordant melisma of pain. /
And this memento -without you- is my torture stake, /
For the moment we held hands has bound me forevermore; /
And I stand here everlastingly, yearning for your arms. /
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC