"consoler" poems
In childhood, your father’s name is DAD
Now grown, maybe with children of your own
But his name is still DAD
DAD, the teacher, the consoler, the advisor
Admonishes: “Drive safe” and “Save your Money”
Today he’s the bard
“This is like prison,” DAD laments while rolling his eyes
Tubes like thin plastic chains tether his deflated body
to blinking panels; paintings (factory printed ones)
pretend the hospital room is more than just a sterile space
Today, DAD’s eyes cast a faraway gaze, projecting
And I see the characters in his story
I see the 10 year old boy he describes, who snuck to stash a set
Of English Composition Texts in the boy’s bathroom
To escape Mrs. McElroy’s Fourth Grade course in Morose Poetry
I see the thin, sandy blond, 6 foot 2 high school rabblerouser
Who broke into the Vice Principal’s old Fiat
And buried Stilton cheese in the dashboard
All done on a sweltering May school day
The anecdote is punctuated with a smirk and a: “Who would do a thing like that?”
Stories of when he spotted a shy brunette at the dance and knew
Knew he was to marry her;
Stories of when his own DAD grasped his infant grandson’s dimpled hand
Before giving in to complications of a heart attack
The bard stops and exhales a sigh
He cringes in his crinkled skin
Sunken eyes squeeze close “I’m sorry”
the nausea interrupts his tale “These drugs are…”
“It’s okay. Take your time” I console, trying to comfort the pain in the room
Now I’m the consoler, taking on the job to ameliorate
Now this man, vulnerable in his suffering, is no longer DAD
Now mortal, a child, a brother, a lover, a patient
A man chained by the body’s sickness
He is distilled by chemo
reduced to a soul, who, through affliction,
Forgets
As his children remember
He is as helpless in this life as we are.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
Senior Present
I walked in to the school this morning
To see all of the teachers
Munching and nibbling on food.
I turned down the hallway to be greeted
By a glorious sent that hit my nostrils
I watched as kids floated down the hall way
Towards the smell, they were just out of reach
Of the food, as the smell led them to a closed door
Of the teachers lounge.
Inside were all sorts of candies. There was a candy
Of every type, all shapes and sizes. No one was left
Out every teacher had there favorite kind some ware.
There were cakes and pies,
Fudge and brownies,
Ice cream and frozen yogurt.
There was healthy food
And nut free snacks.
There was lollipops
And twizlers.
It was Halloween all over again,
With a twist of fancy,
It was a dessert buffet
Just for the teachers.
It was a way to thank them for all the
Time they spent teaching us the same thing
To have patience for all the questions, to help us
In till we understood, staying extra hours to help us.
This food display is a thanks to not just the teachers
But to the janitors, the special education helpers
The nurses, librarians, office and consoler office ladies
The police officers and the principal her self.
I thought it would be nice to give you all a special treat
A present, instead a prank, since it is my senior year.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 8:26 PM UTC
Your shadows cast down on the lonely spirits
Bringing with them intricate visions
And emitting longing desires
With searing memories that are cutting but so prepossessing
Residing between the clouds of the evening and the curtains of the dawn
You are both mysterious and majestic
With the moon as your crown
The stars as your wealth
And silence as your robe
You gaze with eyes
Open and wise
Into the universe above you
And see all of the depths of life
You listen with ears
Sharp and careful
To the sighs of desolation that flow ever so quietly
From the ever wakeful souls and the ever restless minds
You whisper with lips
Soft and sanguine
Into quiet rooms
Bearing peaceful slumber and secret dreams
With hands
Mystic and powerful
You close eyelids gently
As you guide hushed minds and aching hearts
To a world more kindly than our own
Lovers get lost in the folds of your dark and endless ensemble
And the lonely-hearted weep at your feet
You feel their unfading longing and despair
And lull them with your soft sounds and quiet presence
You are a friend of lovers
A consoler of the lonely
The minds of poets stir at your forthcoming
And hearts of prophetic stature awaken
As imagination and inspiration are both
Born and nourished under your guidance
You are a monarch to the poets
A vision to the prophets
A confidant to the thinkers
Ever so tragic
But ever so beautiful
You are home to the intellectuals and the visionaries
The writers and the artists
Over time you have revealed your secret purposes unto me
You have transformed my fear of the darkness into tireless trust
With your magic fingers you touched my mind
And my thoughts poured out in stardust
And flowed like a river beneath the moonlight
You kissed my spirit
Became my most trusty companion
You accompanied me in times of joy and in times of sorrow
You caressed my cheek and kissed my forehead
We grew closer and closer
Until we became one in and of the other
For within my dark self there are twinkling stars
That scatter passion throughout
And within my heart lies a struggling moon
In which doubt surfaces with the dawn
And comfort envelops me as the evening retreats
You awakened my soul and instilled peace deep within
I am covered with a veil of mystery
Given unto me from your own mysterious shroud
I, too, am a night
Quiet and profound
Yet fettered and unruly
Strong and exalting
Wise and amiable
Yet cryptic and capricious
For there is no real beginning to my darkness
And no real end to my depths
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC
O yesterday,
you hold on dear
I, the all you know
Of collages unto kaleidoscopes
Images breathe on their own
Then go they dancing
Whirlwinds and prancing
O dare be what you are
You are you, loving me
All the day are enchanting friends
Who want their Star,
in the Loving sea
She’d be swimmy splashing, laughing
All Loving and power
Seeing you seeing,
my eternal tomorrows
Painting destinies
In breath,
in love all can be
I know I am that I am
And you are knower of all of me
Would I hop upon the mountaintops
And toil the toilings of your depths
Into the night,
you are the consoler of consolidations
Then they are dancing
Whirlwind and prancing
What of this day,
that tomorrow I don’t see
Tis this the time for wooing of me
Where is the love I give by day
That I doubt in the night
By morn she waits
Am I not form imagined as Love
Giving thy Gifts within thee boundless
I am knower of knower,
that Love I am and ever shall be
Where are my echoes,
is there anything real,
in what I think I see
Woe the tree who falls,
they say does not be
Woe her squirrels,
woe is me
Do I,
or shall I live a fantasy
For what of time,
would you behold of me
If Love I’d rather be and see
Through whirlwinds,
and in my Garden,
they’d say I be
Just a day away,
tomorrow I’d be dancer
In love,
thee prancer,
every color of thy need
Who hears drumming,
every Heart weaves
The yellow brick road,
where all Rainbows
are
Singing and dancing,
loving and laughing
All Hearts and Hands
of form of dust, a Glistening sea
Today’s thy day
Emerald City be
With the Courage of one foot in tomorrow
Allow yesterday to be but prophecy
For this is the day the All You Know too Sees All You Need
For I am Rainbow dancer, Whirlwind and Love
Delightful prancer, tomorrows beholder
One who would bid your Love Dream be
One of One and Infinite Sea
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 9:25 PM UTC
my words; my weapon
my thoughts; my trigger on this paper
my canvas, my heart
my consoler; your thighs
my comforter; your chest
my escapism
your mind; my escape
your body; my fortune teller
your energy, your special subtlety
your hands; my resting place
your eyes; my luminous path
my mine
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 7:20 AM UTC
The Spirit of Wine
Sang in my glass, and I listened
With love to his odorous music,
His flushed and magnificent song.
--'I am health, I am heart, I am life!
For I give for the asking
The fire of my father, the Sun,
And the strength of my mother, the Earth.
Inspiration in essence,
I am wisdom and wit to the wise,
His visible muse to the poet,
The soul of desire to the lover,
The genius of laughter to all.
'Come, lean on me, ye that are weary!
Rise, ye faint-hearted and doubting!
Haste, ye that lag by the way!
I am Pride, the consoler;
Valour and Hope are my henchmen;
I am the Angel of Rest.
'I am life, I am wealth, I am fame:
For I captain an army
Of shining and generous dreams;
And mine, too, all mine, are the keys
Of that secret spiritual shrine,
Where, his work-a-day soul put by,
Shut in with his saint of saints--
With his radiant and conquering self--
Man worships, and talks, and is glad.
'Come, sit with me, ye that are lovely,
Ye that are paid with disdain,
Ye that are chained and would soar!
I am beauty and love;
I am friendship, the comforter;
I am that which forgives and forgets.'--
The Spirit of Wine
Sang in my heart, and I triumphed
In the savour and scent of his music,
His magnetic and mastering song.
1.2k
Il est 1h27 du matin à Dakar
Debout sur le balcon; un désir d'aventurier de l'inconnu m'envahit, de celle qui s'échappe du temps et de la terre mère qui l'étouffe ensevelie sous son noyau.
Le vent me caressant le visage, je l'entend m'inviter à l'hymne de ma liberté. Le bruit des avions m'emportent dans un monde d'aisance et d'émancipation, l'échos des Zikrs me tirent vers ma raison profonde et ma familiarité.
Je ferme les yeux en proie à la nostalgie. Essayant de me souvenir des beaux moments de ma vie; le vent me berce dans l'abstrait où mon âme se jette dans l'aura poétique de la magie des rêves.
Le marchand des rêves m'emporte sur une plage éclairée par la claire de lune et un feu de camp; jouissant d'un ciel dégagé et très étoilé.
La brise me mets à nu devant ses caresses ardentes et m'enivre de son odeur. Je me laisse flotter sur ses ondes.
Le sable en velours réchauffant mes pieds au rythme d'un Samba; riant de toute mon âme et transpirant au rythme de la danse. Nos âmes se transforment en une unité d'énergie donnant naissance à un cycle d'existence de désirs.
Je me confie à mon instinct comme pour consoler mon amour.
A l'horizon, la morosité morbide condamnée dans le concret. Aimant ardemment et follement cet abstrait merveilleux qui me berce.
Qui berce cet amour non réclamé, et cette liberté condamnée. Qui depuis longtemps poussent leur barque fragile à bout de force.
Aussi romantique que la poésie, je danse amoureusement et passionnément avec l'inconnu de mes pensées. Et dans cette passion insensée, de l'infini sublime rêve que cherche l'esprit, la réalité envahit l'abstrait et en fait un asile.
Un asile qui éveille mon cœur à chaque moment d'inattention ou de solitude. Un asile qui m'ouvre ses portes à ses extases fantaisistes quand l'ivresse de la réalité devient lourde et étouffante.
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 9:52 AM UTC
Dans un baiser, l'onde au rivage
Dit ses douleurs ;
Pour consoler la fleur sauvage
L'aube a des pleurs ;
Le vent du soir conte sa plainte
Au vieux cyprès,
La tourterelle au térébinthe
Ses longs regrets.
Aux flots dormants, quand tout repose,
Hors la douleur,
La lune parle, et dit la cause
De sa pâleur.
Ton dôme blanc, Sainte-Sophie,
Parle au ciel bleu,
Et, tout rêveur, le ciel confie
Son rêve à Dieu.
Arbre ou tombeau, colombe ou rose,
Onde ou rocher,
Tout, ici-bas, a quelque chose
Pour s'épancher...
Moi, je suis seul, et rien au monde
Ne me répond,
Rien que ta voix morne et profonde,
Sombre Hellespont !
912
Pour retenir un amant en servage,
II faut aimer et non dissimuler,
De même flamme amoureuse brûler,
Et que le cœur soit pareil au langage :
Toujours un rire, toujours un bon visage,
Toujours s'écrire et s'entre-consoler :
Ou qui ne peut écrire ni parler,
A tout le moins s'entrevoir par message.
II faut avoir de l'ami le portrait,
Cent fois le jour en rebaiser le trait :
Que d'un plaisir deux âmes soient guidées,
Deux corps en un rejoints en leur moitié.
Voilà les points qui gardent l'amitié,
Et non pas vous qui n'aimez qu'en idées.
885
I sleep next to you shrouded in thunderstorms with want to barricade myself about what is possibly the sun I spite so well. To wake up in this ray of light - to stretch myself into liquid like a cat and purr silently into the chest of my consoler - seems too optimistic for a bone-brained organism such as myself. I know myself to be what you desire, I am constructed in purple forget-me-nots and tangled so tightly as to choke out thoughts that run as lawnmower legs when ran apart. Wear me draped around our neck in midnighted velvet so I can appreciate how much you have invested in my warmth. A chair for me and in turn I will prop your eyelids up with chopsticks and tell you to mind your elbows. Niceties breed love, which rebels and grows up and drinks itself to death if only to be resurrected as contempt. I tried to turn myself into an ice statue but I just melted in your arms and now I am condensation on the cold cup of revenge leading into you. We are like sea turtles at a resort, finding their way back home to avoid being gawked at, needing only to gawk at one another in a dingy laboratory romance.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
There is a change
I have to make.
A change for the better;
A change towards happiness.
I'm lying to you,
Yes you: everyone.
I've cheated myself
And the ones I love.
Why do I do this?
Why do I make myself
suffer?
I'm numb; numb
To my self hate.
No wonder,
I don't want to
Remember
The horrible things
I've done.
Its not like I've killed
Or have done anything
Against the law.
But what I've done
Would disappoint
So many people;
The people I love most.
So,
I have to change.
I cannot change my past,
But I can change myself
Now.
What do I have to do
To make my change?
What do I have to do?
I need to tell someone
Of all my sins.
I need to let you know
Through another soul.
I need to know
I won't be judged.
I need to know
I'll be listened to.
I need to know
That everything will be alright.
I don't just need to,
But I want
To change.
I want to change
For you,
For myself.
At least
I know where to start.
Ill start by changing
Myself.
Secrets, secrets
Are no fun
Unless you've shared them
With everyone.
I'll do just that.
Through you,
My friend.
Because I have a feeling,
You're the one
That will listen
With open arms.
Well in reality,
I've chosen you
To be my listener,
My consoler.
Because I don't want
Anyone else to know.
Goodbye,
My secrets.
Goodbye,
My old self.
Goodbye.
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 5:46 PM UTC
i.
Eight thousand, four hundred and twenty four
Miles away;
I shalt waiteth a million lifetime's
To be in her arm's, tis her I crave.
ii.
Tis, I shan't never get sick of her
She alway's bringeth in the new;
Mine convivial consoler is alway's there
When I'm bleeding, feeling blue.
iii.
I canst surely count on her
Evident is her affection's;
Whence was going astray
Her glow now point's me in right direction.
iv.
So when the old serpent
Creep's his horned visage;
I knoweth mine safety, is with mine Reyna
Sweet Jane, her arm's as pinion's, her spirit from God.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
Que mon sort est affreux ! S'écriait un hibou :
Vieux, infirme, souffrant, accablé de misère,
Je suis isolé sur la terre,
Et jamais un oiseau n'est venu dans mon trou
Consoler un moment ma douleur solitaire.
Un pigeon entendit ces mots,
Et courut auprès du malade :
Hélas ! Mon pauvre camarade,
Lui dit-il, je plains bien vos maux.
Mais je ne comprends pas qu'un hibou de votre âge
Soit sans épouse, sans parents,
Sans enfants ou petits-enfants.
N'avez-vous point serré les nœuds du mariage
Pendant le cours de vos beaux ans ?
Le hibou répondit : non vraiment, mon cher frère :
Me marier ! Et pourquoi faire ?
J'en connaissais trop le danger.
Vouliez-vous que je prisse une jeune chouette,
Bien étourdie et bien coquette,
Qui me trahît sans cesse ou me fît enrager,
Qui me donnât des fils d'un méchant caractère,
Ingrats, menteurs, mauvais sujets,
Désirant en secret le trépas de leur père ?
Car c'est ainsi qu'ils sont tous faits.
Pour des parents, je n'en ai guère,
Et ne les vis jamais : ils sont durs, exigeants,
Pour le moindre sujet s'irritent,
N'aiment que ceux dont ils héritent ;
Encor ne faut-il pas qu'ils attendent longtemps.
Tout frère ou tout cousin nous déteste et nous pille.
Je ne suis pas de votre avis,
Répondit le pigeon : mais parlons des amis ;
Des orphelins c'est la famille :
Vous avez dû près d'eux trouver quelques douceurs.
- Les amis ! Ils sont tous trompeurs.
J'ai connu deux hiboux qui tendrement s'aimèrent
Pendant quinze ans, et, certain jour,
Pour une souris s'égorgèrent.
Je crois à l'amitié moins encor qu'à l'amour.
- Mais ainsi, Dieu me le pardonne !
Vous n'avez donc aimé personne ?
- Ma foi, non, soit dit entre nous.
- En ce cas-là, mon cher, de quoi vous plaignez-vous ?
766
Lucifer met me one night,
And in my hand he placed his torch,
Burning will vengeful delight;
Commanding that I build his church.
Above the rock, he sought refuge;
Promising glory and golden beams.
I could not plainly refuse,
For he the only consoler it seems.
Angrily, I exed him with the rock
And built his temple from scratch,
I watched my victims run amuck;
Kissing the dirt, I had no match.
Now, my mission is complete,
But I alone, suffered defeat.
Dec 25, 2018
Dec 25, 2018 at 7:37 AM UTC
I once was told when I was younger
that life isn't fair,
that I was ugly,
dumb
that no one in this god **** world could be stupid enough to love me.
That I am just in a mere sense of state, of happiness, that I didn't deserve that, I shouldn't get this.
but I didn't believe.
I am now older, and I believe it all, but now that I believe it,
people tell me, that those are just negative thoughts, obscene gestures over ones self.
However older now, and more aware, why is it you tell me they are negative thoughts when older, but younger you tell me it is trust, truth, honesty.
Why is it, that if I tell
a friend,
adult,
teacher,
consoler,
that these are the thoughts that are in my mind constantly days after days, why is it that I am told, I am the crazy one, I am the depressed one, I am the one that should be put in a mental hospital, that I need the medication, Why am I that one?
I am now in this mindset, I am now stuck with gestures of myself.
But if you point a finger at me,
merely I suggest you read over your lips again.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
Quinze longs jours encore et plus de six semaines
Déjà ! Certes, parmi les angoisses humaines
La plus dolente angoisse est celle d'être ****
On s'écrit, on se dit que l'on s'aime ; on a soin
D'évoquer chaque jour la voix, les yeux, le geste
De l'être en qui l'on mit son bonheur, et l'on reste
Des heures à causer tout seul avec l'absent.
Mais tout ce que l'on pense et tout ce que l'on sent
Et tout ce dont on parle avec l'absent, persiste
À demeurer blafard et fidèlement triste.
Oh ! l'absence ! le moins clément de tous les maux !
Se consoler avec des phrases et des mots,
Puiser dans l'infini morose des pensées
De quoi vous rafraîchir, espérances lassées,
Et n'en rien remonter que de fade et d'amer !
Puis voici, pénétrant et froid comme le fer,
Plus rapide que les oiseaux et que les balles
Et que le vent du sud en mer et ses rafales
Et portant sur sa pointe aiguë un fin poison,
Voici venir, pareil aux flèches, le soupçon
Décoché par le Doute impur et lamentable.
Est-ce bien vrai ? tandis qu'accoudé sur ma table
Je lis sa lettre avec des larmes dans les yeux,
Sa lettre, où s'étale un aveu délicieux,
N'est-elle pas alors distraite en d'autres choses ?
Qui sait ? Pendant qu'ici pour moi lents et moroses
Coulent les jours, ainsi qu'un fleuve au bord flétri,
Peut-être que sa lèvre innocente a souri ?
Peut-être qu'elle est très joyeuse et qu'elle oublie ?
Et je relis sa lettre avec mélancolie.
713
I don't belong here,
Got to get away;
Poet, close your eyes:
The fire at the head of a verse
Takes me where verbs and stars
Collide,
(And the girl whose ancient name
Is fire)
Black rose consoler of sorrows,
My worries ride the sky today,
Brilliant nocturnal fool
I can see all the words escape
A collision with atmosphere,
Flocked with hope
It gathers steam towards
The kiss of the quarter moon;
Your name is HOPE.
I nail my dreams to sky black
Bridging the gaps in the abyss,
I catch a ride with the tail
Of a comet's tears
And endure its loneliness like
A broth of nourishing sacrifice:
"Take my hand dear poet,
Your words are embers
On a midsummer harvest"
And the world froze beneath
It's cylindrical tail
As the wheel of days did not
Revolve;
I became a solar sorrow,
My dreams burst into sunflowers
In a flame of words
Bursting itself from my soul,
Each night as the world
Becomes too much,
I escape and the poem takes
Me away.
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
"Well that's yer opinion" she shrugged and turned on er heels, she was downright determined to be right. That's all she really cared 'bout, was her. I don't recollect a moment she wavered any other way. I suppose that's the country girl in er, never back down, never let em' see you cry. Er daddy taught er that and ta get back up on that pony even if you done skinned yer knees. So she stood tall all er life, she showed er smilin' side, she's a proud one that girl, through and through. Weren't no tears in er less she was breathin' in poison or cuttin up an onion or sonethin' like that, well y'all know what I mean. Mad as a wild dog inside but you'd never know it. She'd carry the weight of ten men. I just wanted to see a bit of er bein', what's the word, uh vul-ner-ble or sonethin like that. So I tried, I tried to be a consoler. I tried ta listen when she wouldn't talk. I could tell there was alot ta hear. **** it she just wouldn't see me. She just say "that's yer opinion". She was stuck. Stuck bein' strong, but what more could she be? It's all she knew.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
Why do our heart crave for pain?
In disguise of our so called desire,
How come we do not see the shallow gains?
Before given it out for hire.
Why do we not see that love?
Till we let it go forever,
Then finally turning the emotions off
Because we noticed coming back was never.
Why do we even sit and cry?
Believing this tears is our earthly consoler,
Instead of getting up to try,
Before our heart deeply get sober.
Why do we blame others for our mistake?
Even though we know that we are not better,
Attitude are like heavenly stake,
Which everybody has in their shelter.
Why do we curse and fight each other?
Even though life is in a uniform color (blood)
The prime aim was to care for one another,
But we choose to focus on just the color (skin)
Why is the heart filled with hatred?
Even with it tender structure and composure,
Evil everywhere, this was meant to be sacred.
But now the major factor is it exposure.
Why do you read enough of this?
And still hurt that person in closure,
Aren’t we suppose to live in peace?
And let our lives in each other’s hand be secure.
Why do I take time to write this piece?
Thinking am different from the picture,
Saint are born for earthly peace,
Tag me as one of these creature.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 8:17 PM UTC
There was this little girl's
face in a passing stroller...
a thick streaking
tear lay on her left
cheek.
Except, her ******
expression was now
one of utter calm.
Her eyes were wide
with expanse, the
Great Consoler had
already dissolved
her little problem.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 5:28 PM UTC
Il est de longs soupirs qui traversent les âges
Pour apprendre l'amour aux âmes les plus sages.
Ô sages ! De si **** que ces soupirs viendront,
Leurs brûlantes douceurs un jour vous troubleront.
Et s'il vous faut garder parmi vos solitudes
Le calme qui préside aux sévères études,
Ne risquez pas vos yeux sur les tendres éclairs
De l'orage éternel enfermé dans ces vers,
Dans ces chants, dans ces cris, dans ces plaintes voilées,
Tocsins toujours vibrant de douleurs envolées.
Oh ! N'allez pas tenter, d'un courage hardi,
Tout cet amour qui pleure avec Léopardi !
Léopardi ! Doux Christ oublié de son père,
Altéré de la mort sans le ciel qu'elle espère,
Qu'elle ouvre d'une clé pendue à tout berceau,
Levant de l'avenir l'insoulevable sceau.
Ennemi de lui seul ! Aimer, et ne pas croire !
Sentir l'eau sur sa lèvre, et ne pas l'oser boire !
Ne pas respirer Dieu dans l'âme d'une fleur !
Ne pas consoler l'ange attristé dans son coeur !
Ce que l'ange a souffert chez l'homme aveugle et tendre,
Ce qu'ils ont dit entre eux sans venir à s'entendre,
Ce qu'ils ont l'un par l'autre enduré de combats,
Sages qui voulez vivre, oh ! Ne l'apprenez pas !
Oh ! La mort ! Ce sera le vrai réveil du songe !
Liberté ! Ce sera ton règne sans mensonge !
Le grand dévoilement des âmes et du jour !
Ce sera Dieu lui-même... oh ! Ce sera l'amour !
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It’s the telemarketer’s day off
he often calls customer service on the weekends as a hobby
he feels like a loaded rifle when they ask
“what can I help you with today?”
a jitterbug with a contemplative stutter
the jilted staleness of his apartment is suddenly
a garden of words
images of violence appear while he rips a hangnail
loneliness is a grown man’s burden, he thinks
“I don’t want you to listen but I do need to be heard”
he waits for silence and he’s spoon fed this attention
“I work with people and yet I do not know people
my mind waters for intimacy not in the sensual term of the word but in the
way hands accidentally touch on a crowded train”
2,000 miles away there is a woman with a headset
a chronic consoler at the tender age of 19
her hand trembles as she hears this man speak
she’s reminded of her grandmother dying in her tiny home
back in Kansas City, desolate like her location
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 4:36 PM UTC
They'll never see her cry though he has gone away some think she'll rue the day ,that love came her way. The invitations were sent near and far and the gifts have been returned no one will see how she grieves inside, as meories deeply burn.She believed in love so faithfully and was hurt so cruel.She's forsaken thoughts of a wedding day and thinks of dreams as the consoler of fools.She looks dazed and sad ,some folks hear her sigh ,friends say she looks tired and should go away. But they'll never see her cry as time passes from that day.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 8:30 PM UTC
Hélas ! je n'étais pas fait pour cette haine
Et pour ce mépris plus forts que moi que j'ai.
Mais pourquoi m'avoir fait cet agneau sans laine
Et pourquoi m'avoir fait ce coeur outragé ?
J'étais né pour plaire à toute âme un peu fière,
Sorte d'homme en rêve et capable du mieux,
Parfois tout sourire et parfois tout prière,
Et toujours des cieux attendris dans les yeux ;
Toujours la bonté des caresses sincères,
En dépit de tout et quoi qu'il y parût,
Toujours la pudeur des hontes nécessaires
Dans l'argent brutal et les stupeurs du rut ;
Toujours le pardon, toujours le sacrifice !
J'eus plus d'un des torts, mais j'avais tous les soins.
Votre mère était tendrement ma complice,
Qui voyait mes torts et mes soins, elle, au moins.
Elle n'aimait pas que par vous je souffrisse.
Elle est morte et j'ai prié sur son tombeau ;
Mais je doute fort qu'elle approuve et bénisse
La chose actuelle et trouve cela beau.
Et j'ai peur aussi, nous en terre, de croire
Que le pauvre enfant, votre fils et le mien,
Ne vénérera pas trop votre mémoire,
Ô vous sans égard pour le mien et le tien.
Je n'étais pas fait pour dire de ces choses,
Moi dont la parole exhalait autrefois
Un épithalame en des apothéoses,
Ce chant du matin où mentait votre voix.
J'étais, je suis né pour plaire aux nobles âmes,
Pour les consoler un peu d'un monde impur,
Cimier d'or chanteur et tunique de flammes,
Moi le Chevalier qui saigne sur azur,
Moi qui dois mourir d'une mort douce et chaste
Dont le cygne et l'aigle encor seront jaloux,
Dans l'honneur vainqueur malgré ce vous néfaste,
Dans la gloire aussi des Illustres Époux !
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Tombez, larmes silencieuses,
Sur une terre sans pitié ;
Non plus entre des mains pieuses,
Ni sur le sein de l'amitié !
Tombez comme une aride pluie
Qui rejaillit sur le rocher,
Que nul rayon du ciel n'essuie,
Que nul souffle ne vient sécher.
Qu'importe à ces hommes mes frères
Le coeur brisé d'un malheureux ?
Trop au-dessus de mes misères,
Mon infortune est si **** d'eux !
Jamais sans doute aucunes larmes
N'obscurciront pour eux le ciel ;
Leur avenir n'a point d'alarmes,
Leur coupe n'aura point de fiel.
Jamais cette foule frivole
Qui passe en riant devant moi
N'aura besoin qu'une parole
Lui dise: " Je pleure avec toi ! "
Eh bien ! ne cherchons plus sans cesse
La vaine pitié des humains ;
Nourrissons-nous de ma tristesse,
Et cachons mon front dans mes mains.
À l'heure où l'âme solitaire
S'enveloppe d'un crêpe noir,
Et n'attend plus rien de la terre,
Veuve de son dernier espoir ;
Lorsque l'amitié qui l'oublie
Se détourne de son chemin,
Que son dernier bâton, qui plie,
Se brise et déchire sa main ;
Quand l'homme faible, et qui redoute
La contagion du malheur,
Nous laisse seul sur notre route
Face à face avec la douleur ;
Quand l'avenir n'a plus de charmes
Qui fassent désirer demain,
Et que l'amertume des larmes
Est le seul goût de notre pain ;
C'est alors que ta voix s'élève
Dans le silence de mon coeur,
Et que ta main, mon Dieu ! soulève
Le poids glacé de ma douleur.
On sent que ta tendre parole
À d'autres ne peut se mêler,
Seigneur ! et qu'elle ne console
Que ceux qu'on n'a pu consoler.
Ton bras céleste nous attire
Comme un ami contre son coeur,
Le monde, qui nous voit sourire,
Se dit : " D'où leur vient ce bonheur ? "
Et l'âme se fond en prière
Et s'entretient avec les cieux,
Et les larmes de la paupière
Sèchent d'elles-même à nos yeux,
Comme un rayon d'hiver essuie,
Sur la branche ou sur le rocher,
La dernière goutte de pluie
Qu'aucune ombre n'a pu sécher.
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