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K Mae Sep 2013
Every year we have been
witness to it: how the
world descends

into a rich mash, in order that
it may resume.
And therefore
who would cry out

to the petals on the ground
to stay,
knowing as we must,
how the vivacity of what was is married

to the vitality of what will be?
I don't say
it's easy, but
what else will do

if the love one claims to have for the world
be true?

So let us go on, cheerfully enough,
this and every crisping day,

though the sun be swinging east,
and the ponds be cold and black,
and the sweets of the year be doomed.
from her collection, A Thousand Mornings
The Lotos-Eaters

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land,
"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."
In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.
All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke,
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,
Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops,
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown
In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale
And meadow, set with slender galingale;
A land where all things always seem'd the same!
And round about the keel with faces pale,
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave
To each, but whoso did receive of them,
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave
On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake,
And music in his ears his beating heart did make.

They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, "We will return no more";
And all at once they sang, "Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."

   Choric Song

        I

There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
Here are cool mosses deep,
And thro' the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

        II

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,
And utterly consumed with sharp distress,
While all things else have rest from weariness?
All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
We only toil, who are the first of things,
And make perpetual moan,
Still from one sorrow to another thrown:
Nor ever fold our wings,
And cease from wanderings,
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,
"There is no joy but calm!"
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?

        III

Lo! in the middle of the wood,
The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud
With winds upon the branch, and there
Grows green and broad, and takes no care,
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon
Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow
Falls, and floats adown the air.
Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light,
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
Drops in a silent autumn night.
All its allotted length of days
The flower ripens in its place,
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

        IV

Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.
Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should life all labour be?
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last?
All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil? Is there any peace
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
In silence; ripen, fall and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.

        V

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream!
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
To hear each other's whisper'd speech;
Eating the Lotos day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
To muse and brood and live again in memory,
With those old faces of our infancy
Heap'd over with a mound of grass,
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!

        VI

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,
And dear the last embraces of our wives
And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change:
For surely now our household hearths are cold,
Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange:
And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.
Or else the island princes over-bold
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings
Before them of the ten years' war in Troy,
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.
Is there confusion in the little isle?
Let what is broken so remain.
The Gods are hard to reconcile:
'Tis hard to settle order once again.
There is confusion worse than death,
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,
Long labour unto aged breath,
Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.

        VII

But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)
With half-dropt eyelid still,
Beneath a heaven dark and holy,
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly
His waters from the purple hill--
To hear the dewy echoes calling
From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine--
To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling
Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine!
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine.

        VIII

The Lotos blooms below the barren peak:
The Lotos blows by every winding creek:
All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone:
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.
We have had enough of action, and of motion we,
Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free,
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined
On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world:
Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong;
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;
Till they perish and they suffer--some, 'tis whisper'd--down in hell
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.
Eyes meet
In the corner coffee stall
Flint and tinder
All this time
Hello there!
Scrambling
Words all tumble
Scintillating
Knocking tables
Metal legs airborne
Clawing madly
Un-crisping collars
Found you
On the garnet cushions
Back to life
Imagination spinning
Staring at me
Whoops
Having daydreams
Once again.
10/05/12
Jessica Fowler Mar 2012
There are crackles and scratches woven here;
bridges and highways where little things run.

Over tangles of brambles and berries
a bud’s coming out; a hand lying open in grass.

There is bracken crisping; brown and dry;
shaded by waxy leaves where water ***** roll.

There are bees in the air, flitting around.
Air which is thick with nectar and pollen.

It’s dense in here; cramped thorns twist,
ears are twitching, claws scratch on bark.

When the light goes away eyes start to shine,
the scurrying gets furious, noises in darkness.

An owl glides down and a mouse hurries up
but quicker than light, he’s swept from the ground.

Spiralling up from his hawthorn nest
He’s stolen away; into the night.

Sparrows whistle, a feather snags on a branch
and the moon bows down to the lilac dawn.
Jonathan Witte Apr 2017
The girl in the black
bathing suit swims
through my dreams;

her orange eyes warn
me that summer
is coming.

An inescapable
swelter of air
threads itself
through the slats
of picket fences,

crisping insects
and terrifying
an army of black birds
bivouacked in the trees.

I hear the soft explosion
of hibiscus, red petals as
bright as belly wounds,

and the heartbeat
of the dog panting,
stupefied by the heat
of a relentless star.

Up and down the street,
abandoned children call
out from the bottom of
empty swimming pools.

I slouch in an aluminum chair,
trying to get black-out drunk
on warm gin and tonics.

The tidy rectangle
of grass around me
ignites in a legion
of slender flames.

I remember the dark room
and my father’s deathbed,
his whispered, final words:
dying is thirsty work.

I strip to my underwear
and fantasize about ice.
I pray for the neighborhood
sprinklers to spring to life.
Sally A Bayan Sep 2021
Awake still...sipping coffee this
unholy hour...i wonder how buried
moments can easily gatecrash into
my sober flow of thoughts, flipping
like pages of a book, blown by a
strong wind...i could smell dried rose
petals pressed between the pages.

i could also smell mottled pages
holding mottled memories...they
should have crumbled, be forgot,
but, bravely, they flash back, clear
as the rustling of bamboo leaves
right outside my window.....ahh,
the devil never sleeps...he creates
a stir at the unholiest of hours,
drops it like a bomb, disturbing
my calm universe;

suddenly, it's 4:00 am
i blink a few times to dismiss what
should be forgot.....then, suddenly,
it's 5:00 am.....more coffee.

the eyes watching bubbles from
curling, crisping bacon, strayed,
far from the skillet, but, focused
back, before the pieces got burned.

6:00 am now...breakfast time
for online class attendees.

in my universe, mornings are a
mix of sniffs...of coffee, fried eggs,
fried bacon, sausages, fragrant
gardenia blooms...not to forget
whiffs of good and bad memories.
::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::
:::::::::::
::::::::
:::::
::
­:
Good morning everyone!

sally b

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
July 13, 2021
Bob Sterry Jul 2014
You notice the browning leaves,
Early victims,
In midsummer
Late July and August
And they parallel our love
Crisping stale edges
Edging inward
Inward to where growing used to be
I blame the sun
The sun of truth
Blasting unmercifully on our greenness
And returning us to the soil
Of amorous compost.
The first of a series.
spysgrandson Feb 2015
fifty trillion of them,
give or take an exponential few,
programmed to replicate, then die, ad infinitum
spawning perfect copies to ensure
molecular harmony

their perfection could not keep
their host from huffing on tar sticks,
gobbling bacon by the kilo, or worshiping the sun's crisping rays
until one of their eternal days, a perverse mutation occurred
one at first, then two, then four, then more
forgetting that all were once destined to die,
in a crimson clockwork fashion

apoptosis
the new invader would hear nothing
of this strange word, for it was the emperor of maladies,
its geometric procession a spinning spectacle to behold,
purloining space from the mortality hobbled trillions
evicted by cancer's kangaroo court

it will have its reign,
this galloping ghost maker, until
the host gives up the fight, and
that which fed its gluttony  
will starve it as blithely
as the body gave it
******* birth
inspired by my reading of the Pulitzer Prize winning book, The Emperor of All Maladies, A Biography of Cancer by Siddhartha Mukherjee
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2016
~

<>


nearby distant,
the soft thrash of warm waves
lapping interlocking,
happily wet tongue kissing,
sun-oven precision-crisping
the Long Island striped bass
and porgies, at a surreal cooling
77 degrees

Pandora synced to his eyes,
shuffling freely,
by saying
we too see!!
playing for him,
Stairway to Heaven (Led Zeppelin)

poor, poor poet,
strains to brain drain one more time,
conducting an ogling googling word search
for those combinatory storied ones that
sailboat glide
all the while
wildly bursting with Pellegrino effervescence

compromising sounds sights,
to present
properly the balance,
to preserve
properly this moment,
peaceful alive for all times,
as poet has tried,
and failed so many times before...

the caw caw caw of the crow mocks the illiterate human,
for the bird calls it, in single sound perfect and
the human a laughingstock,
for not in his possess,
to capture this perfect moment
of human sabbath.

a Roman Saturn day of rest,
on this day that itself,
is perfection,
perfect for celebrating our common creation,
on a day that our
almost-all-agreed-upon calendar
is marked for us to
forte rest,
from an existence of just laborious

the chubby checkered cheeked squirrels
laughingly pauses,
watching, enjoying a poet's struggle,
mind boggle,
the poet's chubby cheeks
stuffed with discarded words,
all insufficient to capture
the absolution of
absolute beauty

bathing in the noisiest of nature's sounds,
all that contravene the silence of living things,
breathing prayerful thoughts that all
summary end,
with a common gesture of
forefinger upon the lips

a human acknowledgment of
utter obeisance to the forces
calling out by example

listen, see!

silently presenting,
this,
this!!


a day that demanded perfection
Liz Apr 2014
Tinctures of orange beam around
the stuffy air

Every thing is still,
thick,
and dark emerald

The suns yoke at high noon
casts a fiery shade
over vast valleys
rolling into eternity

The roses wilt as they bake,
crisping under the ever glorious
rays, creeping from vermilion
to chocolate.
There is a bit of a seasons theme running here.
Elizz Jan 2019
Featherlight suffocation
Leaden words weigh tongues down
Free range cage
Weary heart o mine

Sagging against restraints
Drowning
Burning edges
I wish to tell you these words

Things you've already heard
Pressed into my vinly tongue
Scream the same three songs

1. I'm fine
2. We're fine
3. Our relationship is fine

Scalded skin
Boiling showers

To soak the worries away
To thaw out this anxiety
The insecurities
Its just me

Not everything seems
As polished as it was
Love still graces this heart
Love is a fear

Fear of fading
Falling out
Washing away
A castle crumbled by surf
Grains slipped
Mottled rib cages

Curled under a blanket
A sembalance of warmth creeping in
Mock comfort
Shells rattled by your breath

Inhale
Exhale
Turned over in these fragile hands
Committed to memory

As if it would be the last
Another sunrise
Surprise
Another relief
A sight to hold dear
Throughout this day

Just inside the preferial
Of this skull
Just in my head
My head
My head

This fear that you'll disappear
Vibrancy  leeched out of this shell
Skin crisping
Withered

What if
You were
Never here

Just in my head?

The Last letter typed
Given form
To nightmares at the prow

How is it
So easy to breathe now
Lucy Ryan Jul 2015
kiss me
(says he, maybe she)
cut up on the sharpness
of lips
and teeth

she is that thing -
about plastic flowers;
they never wilt on you
and stay young
and beautiful
as long as you care to see them

kiss me
like real people
do
when they touch
don’t quiver
or glimmer
just bruise like decayed fruit
and bleed as freely

and the flowers,
plastic flowers -
smelling just as sweet
with sprays of perfume
sweating
ugly juniper fragrance
dripping
down spines
like dew

**** me
she says, definitely she says
*******,
wide open eyes
to creep inside him
(or him, perhaps)
and she could
with her fingers
stop his breath
and she might
if the light
hits his eyes just right

burning flowers
smells worse when plastic
like explosives
like fat in a deep-fryer
crisping like
bodies in a burning house
- three bodies, two bodies, and a burning house

**** me
like a litany
**** me
like you promised me
**** me
in fields of plastic peonies
just
**** me*
and
you’ll love me
you’ll see
i re-read fight club and i have *feeeelings* sorry
Katherine Feb 2014
Singing bells tell the sun to sleep
an empty street is suddenly full
lives continue in the bustling crowd
the sky blushes indigo.

An empty street is suddenly full
sirens blare and people scream
the sky blushes indigo
smoke billows and fire rages on.

Sirens blare and people scream
twisted metal and blood
smoke billows and fire rages on
I feel the crisping heat on my skin.

Twisted metal and blood
is this the true meaning of horror?
I feel the crisping heat on my skin
I cannot tell if it is imaginary.

Is this the true meaning of horror?
Everything spins,
I cannot tell if it is imaginary.
The monster prowls towards me as I run in vain.

Everything spins,
I skitter along the ground
The monster prowls towards me as I run in vain.
nature takes it’s course.

I skitter along the ground
brushing leaves with my golden touch
nature takes its course
a new seasons spring up below me

Brushing leaves with my golden touch
life and death swirl and switch,
a new season springs up below me
the cold watches from the shadows, waiting.

Life and death swirl and switch,
lives continue in the bustling crowd
the cold watches from the shadows, waiting
singing bells tell the sun to sleep.
This poem is a pantoum. It's a style of poetry where each line is repeated twice. Lines 2 and 4 are repeated until the very last stanza, where the 1st and 3rd lines of the first stanza become the 2nd and last lines of the last stanza.
Dawnstar Jul 2018
What would a soldier sacrifice
To lay himself on cobbled dirt,
That honestmen might vow by oath
To hold together the union?

His purse, his purpose, e'en his life,
Our knight would place on hallowed earth;
The silker, though, would rather beg
To hold together the union.

In victory's arms I sleep at night,
Beneath the fierce pharoanic sun
That built and broke the Umayyads
To hold together the union.

I traveled all the ancient lands,
I found no joy where'er I trod;
Ferns are green where rivers spring,
But lauded hills bear blackened soil,
And joy resides where dwelleth God.

The dawn of man is close at hand,
The fall of man is past its due;
The sword lies shattered in the sand
To hold together the union.

Cross-battles waged on crisping ice,
I won't for martial fame partake,
In fear that I would be obliged
To hold together the union.

Of mortal faith I haven't cared
But, lying now on cobbled dirt,
By faith, I solemnly declare
To hold together the union.
This day you left me
And spring lost its flower forever
At early spring, young called never
Again in a low silent day,
I heard the crisping of a lost grasshopper

In a black and white glow dream
Far away from the silky moon sprung
There birds feathers were oping with high delicate
Though Pale petals were losing their pixel with pleasant
But the high divine melody colored the deep purple

Then another high spring fallen to light purple
Yellow flowers bloom on her pale face again
At Night mild murmur cools the heart of the passionate
And the Sunflower rises on the first shines of sun
Melts with a dream after a long winter washed

@ Musfiq us shaleheen
life poem when love and hope move to and fro...
Kyle Kulseth Aug 2015
Autumn racing red and gold
behind half-open eyes of icy blue.
27th Fall. Step into cold
          and race through
          alleyways I've known.
A crunching stride, solitary breaths.
               Staccato notes
banged out on sidewalks' grey scales...

               ...I'm every inch
          of this softened ground,
these shoe treads, hieroglyphics...

               ...My town appends
                      its runic fate
                                    onto
              my story's granite page.

Crisping air, engulf my lungs.
Ensconce my face in drowsy weather.
Sleepy eyelids, sliding down
to Main & Dow Street. Watch me hover
                                         along the margins.
These last 4 months of quiet aching
engraved in me come roaring out now.
               Autumn streets stay silent.

And Kendrick Park
               has whispered low
                              in bashful rustling;
I climb the boardwalk,
               my thoughts are gilded,
                              responding slowly.

The breeze abates,
               it's halfway warm.
                              Bellevue & Lewis
I am a statue;
               smooth, cold marble,
                              still in November.

And, soon, the Summer comes with angry glares.
And, soon, this stony face will disappear.

These months will always linger in me.
Does my ghost haunt this place already?

I'll return here every Autumn when

October signs off on the Summer's death.

And I'll be tracing all your features with

forgotten footsteps' ancient hieroglyphs...
j carroll Oct 2013
one time it was two am and i was outside a bar
when the air was just crisping from its summer bake
and naked trees matched shivering girls in micro-dresses
you asked if i lived in the city
i was a pumpkin-beer-drunken, kohl-smeared mess
so i grinned sloppily and fumbling, lit a cigarette
while i replied "for now"
how ******* mysterious am i?
i am patronizing this well-meaning boy in a polo shirt
but thank god for liquor cause luckily
he laughed and snorted smoke out his nostrils
"heading somewhere?"
i took another drag and exhaled
maybe for emphasis?
am i that ******* contrived?
"i'm thinking australia?"
there that felt sincere
did it look sincere?
and he asks why of course he asks why and now
i can laugh and say
"it's very far away"
because jesus christ i need to pretend i have depth i guess
i'm a mirage begging for substance
he taps his cigarette and grins at the ground
"running away from problems?" he asks, suddenly mischievous
i try to match his smile but i have to think fast because
i don't have the kind of problems that make you run away
my family is loving, big, rooted
my friends are devoted, they better me
i could stay in comfort if i had the patience but
my feet just want new pavement
and my eyes are snow-blind by now
so i demure, i think.
if that eyebrow quirk and downcast gaze
is what demurring is
captain morgan chucks my chin and i am
all smiles again
i stick the cigarette in my lips and spread my
arms wide
"i prefer to think of it as running towards different problems."
i smile the way i know shows off my dimples
because i can't help but be a facade
i guess he's charmed because he texted me a few times
for the next few weeks
until my silence
exhausted his interest
he failed the test marx talks about
no not that one
groucho
i don't want anyone who would want me
since i'd rather be a story
sooner a paper-thin memory
than an illusion revealed.
Don Bouchard Dec 2013
Winter, now, from the upper pole
Turns back his face to close our warm escape,
While whistling low to minions cold
To curtain lands beneath his icy cape.

Green Summer's fled now, with her mentor,
Autumn, in a crisping coat of brown...
Fled southward to the vernal center;
While pale sister Spring cannot be found.

Unsettling old white-bearded man
Blowing icicles and snow,
Driving Seasons feminine
Before his storming blows.

Yet  for all his windy work, how well we know
Now gloaming sisters shall return,
For Spring shall ever end the snow;
Warm Summer's glow and Autumn's burn
Return, return, return, return.
Laurel Elizabeth Oct 2013
I sit thinking, rocking, musing on the edge of the bed- perusing the colors of your memory blinking fractionally in my remote consciousness.  How is it that when I probe tighter, more thoroughly into your visage, trying to define the shape of your face from the faces of my dreams you tend to hide more than ever behind the noise of my thoughts? But the instant I clip into happiness you are there laughing and hugging and spreading lightness on my plaster cast life.  I suppose I need to forget this sticky fear of forgetting you.  You shape my clay life, pressing deftly upon my mind and habits like a waffle iron crisping batter.  I must not forget that I am too deeply stuck in love with you to ever bleed you from my mind.
Angela May 2011
Wise and wistful Njal    perched pleasantly in the heart of Iceland
Vengeance victory and voluptuous vial veined through Flosi    Njal as innocent as an infant
His demeanor held neither mediocrity nor morals    but rather an emotion enthralled ego
Cooled cinders clog Flosi's heart to a stone    To unfurl the expression in an utmost barbaric action
He recollects ways to reclaim rotten ridden revenge   pondering upon which way will win
In one breath of fiery hell Flosi embarked his plan    a sheepish grin gambled graciously on his hard face
The house engulfed in silk flames of scarlet    the blood curdling cries of children never ceased
Onyx hazes of smoke of smoke danced on the top of the roof    taunting the flames to devour more
Flosi's eyes excitedly enlightened in excitement    his perilous plan appeared promising
He laughed lively at the feat   the hysterical hollers of children was suddnely muted
Several silent minutes passed    spirits of ashes resurrected from the charred house
The air was stale    sparse dull life clinged to hold its existence
Bleached black bones held close to each other in a cluster   combusted cloth clothed the cluster
Two tiny tinged skeletons lay in heavy heaps    almost as if they were holding hands
But no longer did the embrace last  no longer did the home host habitability
This sadistic outcome shed no tears for Flosi   he enjoyed the revolting wrath of revenge ever so
He shadowed over the remains of bones and timber   boastfully bubbling blissfully in excitement
kicking the bones like dry dirt   Flosi continued to walk around the ash ridden land
His leather boots crisping in the hot coals   his callused hands thrusting in the air expressing victory
He beaconed a shrill of success   tears trembling down his face
Flosi has won   revenge has ridden him once more
This was an assignment for a World Lit elective class in school. The poem is subjected towards the The Story of Burn Njal. This poem is in inspired Anglo Saxon format. Enjoy.
Cooper Kalamat Mar 2013
The past is the mirror to my soul;
I hold it,
Arms outstretched,
As a gorgeous, timeless orb before me
A spherical chromatic expanse.

The shadow ahead deceives me;
Sporadic pupilled photosenes -
Dim pinpricks in a fuzzy density –
Are all I am allowed to see
All that is revealed to me
As my tender heels crunch closer
Crunch closer on the Mason’s brittle way
His biscuitted remains.

I can now taste the dry crisping
Of the orange and brown
Gnarled, bare fingers stroke my passing being
This delicate vessel, afraid of the coming frost

The way immerges
And the orb illuminates the greyscale before me.
Cesar Botetano Jan 2022
the music of crisping autumn leaves under my feet
resembles the sound of the magic forest of my childhood that lives eternally inside me
Kyle Kulseth Jul 2013
It was colder weather, when I left
Still winter in the bottom drawer
Photographs and birthday cards--
  humming hard, December streetlights
  still laughing at chilly footsteps
             one-two
             one-two
          No three-four

Now wake up August heat undressed
Yeah, wake up next to skeletons
   who "think that we should just be friends."
And--anyway--the bedroom's small
   barely bigger than a closet

Fall asleep in sheets of sweat
claw for the ceiling
          dreaming heavy
Awake. Wet pillow.
     Tousled hair at 4 a.m.
And, for my part, the ceiling clawmarks
soak my dreams up, snow in sheet rock
      spells your name
(I should prob'ly wash my sheets)

Though I'm often ****** on beer,
When Autumn comes, I clearly hear, through crisping air,
   their wilting voices hailing
          while I try to soothe the
          drowsy year

But it's still cold and I'm still here
though "here" has moved
and every year is heating
so, I repeat, repeat, repeat

"What starts September
   dies November
February ******* hurts
  the same way as July."

The bottom drawer's still cased in winter
Skeletons still claw the doors
I sweat. I shiver.
**** I miss you...
Hope you're living. Me? I'm aging
Faster than I was before.
Em MacKenzie May 2019
Stem to bloom pulsing vibrant green,
striving life to groom, Jack’s stock without it’s bean.
Hoping for rain but begging for the sun,
showing signs of strain and the season’s just begun.

The commitment and dependency,
doesn’t cause resentment, nurturing comes naturally.
But no matter the effort I lack a green thumb,
I try to work and assert but I’m just feeling too numb.

Decorate the home and grave,
hint: they’re both the same place.
Dig and plant, my hands; a slave,
decorative dirt smudge on my face.
Seconds to minutes, and minutes to hours,
I play “she loves me, she loves me not” while plucking dead flowers.

Soil embraces the seed but nothing tends to grow,
I cry, sweat and bleed, maybe I dug an inch too low.
Hoping for rain but begging for the sun,
attempt to ignore the pain but the agony has won.

Wiping off stomped and crushed
four leaf clovers off the bottom of my shoe.
Walking through the field I felt I was rushed,
but I just knew I had to get through.
Crisping leaves with light and drowning in strong showers,
I play “she loves me, she loves me not” while plucking dead flowers.

Seasons will come and go,
the sun will rise and will set.
What dies eventually will one day grow,
what we remember we will forget.
Well when you’re sitting back
in your rose pink Cadillac,
making bets on Kentucky Derby Day.
I’ll be in my basement room,
with a needle, and a spoon,
and another girl to take the pain away.
Laura Apr 2018
Rich rigid bricks,
your sheen green cat eyes.
Your mom’s huevos rancheros -
spilling into noons.

Fireplaces off the window panes,
crisping open a warm chest
for a bed of new delights.
Dozing in my ice sheet hands -
I was meant to be bitten,
then bitter.

Lips pushed their forgetful illusions,
His rememberable forehead lines -
tasking away at lost minutes
of too many 14 hour days.

Here between long firm legs
lying in your large white cottons,
over collections of moles,
and forests of scars.

Wondering if she hurt you
in the same ways
that he hurt me.
Michael Hoffman Jan 2013
Sunrise waits hours away
at the stoplight before dawn
the navaswam not yet
even crisping the morning air
and it happens again

my eyes open automatically
mind piercing the dark
1:27 a.m. decision
this flesh defiant
toward the digital god

so it begins again
where should I go?
whom will I meet?
what set in motion?
and it matters because?...

all this wondering
in a nanosecond
before I remember
those are not real
they are only thoughts

just time and space games
insomniac headtrips
when the fact is
I always wake up yearning
before the sun
Michael W Noland Sep 2012
A reminder of futility, in the withering agility of fading days turned night, decaying in the leaves, of dreams, shriveling, as they drop into the crisping frost of lost light.
Conor Letham Oct 2012
In the garden out back
I used to gather up leaves,
looking like burnt flames
crisping up on my lawn.

The sun had stained them
from springtime children
to tarnished stars, waiting
on the ground for my dance.

They would  blush for me
and crackle in delight
as I pirouetted around
then eagerly pounced,

piling up a nest so then
as the winter wind came,
roughly rubbing my cheek,
I'd sit there with sandwiches.
the Sandman May 2015
Or, I Loved You.

The clouds did not look in any way oppressed that morning
when a table held teacups and saucers all scattered about,
Staining light brown on the fine bone china.
Scraping cutlery, cutting deep.
Leaves of a crisping newspaper thumbed through.
Polite guffaws and 'gentle' conversation.
A man lay out a map
at the table and smoothed it down.

Slurp, clink, ah.

Whips lash, sweat breaks.
     Backs break.
Skin glistens, brown grunts muffle into screams across millions of miles.
Lakhs of kilometres?
It's the weather that's oppressive, I'm sure.
     while: "Spices and gold b y  t h e  f i s t f u l,
                  get your bags of gold and spices here!"

Tea, poured into saucers from cups.
Thickly accented words, in a foreign dialect,
sitting oddly on strange, dark tongues.
Men that, years later, were imprisoned for keeping silent
Hanged those that did not.
What are we aping?, echoing in the streets.

Shattered cups and splintered saucers,
strewn neglected on the ground.
A heel crushes out a stub of ashy clove
and the bitter smell of stale coffee
lingers overheard.
With his usual Feng Shui flare
delicately, David snipped the
yellow antique rose
waiting expectantly in the garden
pouring water into an elegant vase
he carefully created a
refreshing, attractive arrangement
for our kitchen counter

It was such a perfectly formed rose
its central saffron petals appeared
as golden palms folded in prayer
and the outer petals rejoicing
we decided it deserved an exalted place
on our new cocktail table

I was busy preparing an Asian lunch
crisping the deep seaweed green nori sheets
I sprinkled finishing touches on a dish
of stir fried brown rice with steamed asparagus

As we graced the luscious, fragrant, yummy food
my eyes fell upon the sunlit rose
In many traditions it is said that
what we see and hear as we are eating is also
imbibed

If the ambiance is peaceful
and visually charming
perhaps with the added benefit
of some soothing music
we are literally eating
beauty
and more importantly
we also
bloom with beauty and harmony
PK Wakefield Jul 2010
XV
i love the slender branches singing and the sun crisping the disheveled songs mixing in the wind's palms. shatter softly sunlight on the meadow of my flesh.

it was the velvet of the cool light. tugging on the dark sun. like singing the nothing touched every ideal and came whispering to the flowers. and


                                    BLOOM.
Timothy Stout Nov 2014
Summer turns to fall
The wind gets colder
The trees grow older
Life itself seems calm
Like a break between extremes
One of heat
One of cold

With the heat, life is active
Joyous
Adventurous
The days seem longer
And nights shorter
While the heat is appealing
It has itself a killing
Too much fun could lead one to pain

Then there's Peace
Comfort
Cold
Now the desires have changed
The cold makes you stand still
What once was done for thrill
It seems there is no skill
But still,
You dream of that hot wind on your face
The sun sweetly crisping your skin
What was once done, is done
A new season of life has come.
metaphorically speaking, life has many seasons :)
Laura Oct 2022
I'm your jester here. In the dawn of early fall
evening crosswalks, I point out my favourite book stores.
Look, the red maples, turning into dust,
paint-by-number yellows. Look, the dirt is drying up
crisping your white shoes on edges.
I walk through Ossington with you
stirring through my mind. Street lights flicker well into
the signs of cold October. Look, the fancy stores,
the cute golden retriever in the red rain coat.
Fall is when the only things you know
become the things I've named them.
Soon I can offer you a new season:
frosting window panes and shiny Distillery lights.
The first time you see me okay with change -
see me laugh with my friends boldly,
coming back into my honest self. I'm forlorn for you
to love the world the way I do, because I brought you here.
Corey Parsons Oct 2017
My first name
Ripped, screamed, slammed
Out of calm air
just before impact

Sounds like trays of silverware
being dropped on linoleum,
The crash in the restaurant kitchen
That stops the dining room

Smoke and steam erupt
From the maimed car hood,
Crescent bent steering wheel
Speedometer needle frozen at fifty-one

Squirming out of windows
Because the doors
are crushed closed

We buried our illegal treasures
Somewhere near a plowed field
Underneath the scraped bridge

No need to panic
Only until the grapey blood  
Runs over my brow

The windshield was molded
With the impression
Of a bowling ball

We saw a slip of hairy scalp,
a wet potato chip crisping
in the sun

The kids at school drew
peace signs and *** leaves
On my mummy-wrap bandage

Ten years later
I look in the mirror
At a fasten seat belt sign
Of a scar
By Corey Parsons

— The End —