"crost" poems
LESBIA! since far from you I’ve rang’d,
Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say, ’tis I, not you, have chang’d,
I’d tell you why,—but yet I know not.
Your polish’d brow no cares have crost;
And Lesbia! we are not much older,
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,
Or told my love, with hope grown bolder.
Sixteen was then our utmost age,
Two years have lingering pass’d away, love!
And now new thoughts our minds engage,
At least, I feel disposed to stray, love!
“Tis I that am alone to blame,
I, that am guilty of love’s treason;
Since your sweet breast is still the same,
Caprice must be my only reason.
I do not, love! suspect your truth,
With jealous doubt my ***** heaves not;
Warm was the passion of my youth,
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.
No, no, my flame was not pretended;
For, oh! I lov’d you most sincerely;
And though our dream at last is ended
My ***** still esteems you dearly.
No more we meet in yonder bowers;
Absence has made me prone to roving;
But older, firmer hearts than ours
Have found monotony in loving.
Your cheek’s soft bloom is unimpair’d,
New beauties, still, are daily bright’ning,
Your eye, for conquest beams prepar’d,
The forge of love’s resistless lightning.
Arm’d thus, to make their bosoms bleed,
Many will throng, to sigh like me, love!
More constant they may prove, indeed;
Fonder, alas! they ne’er can be, love!
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You thought my heart too far diseased;
You wonder when my fancies play
To find me gay among the gay,
Like one with any trifle pleased.
The shade by which my life was crost,
Which makes a desert in the mind,
Has made me kindly with my kind,
And like to him whose sight is lost;
Whose feet are guided thro' the land,
Whose jest among his friends is free,
Who takes the children on his knee,
And winds their curls about his hand:
He plays with threads, he beats his chair
For pastime, dreaming of the sky;
His inner day can never die,
His night of loss is always there.
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You keep shaking at the branches
just like money grows on trees.
I been dealing in these cheap clichés
just like they'll help me leave someday.
And--easy! Easy! Easy.--
We can't let 'em hear us scheming
at the bottom of their hill
while their victories are streaming.
I can still remember days
when sane folks always laid bets on us.
With our mortarboards tilted all smart
and God left sorting filters,
we tilted, tipped all windmills
and we smoked through all opponents.
You'll tell me I once loved you.
I'll reply that, once, I could.
And we'll keep on telling stories
'til our voices clear the woods
and drift on up their hill
and through their windows
to their ears.
I'll tell you you were beautiful.
You were! I ******* swear!
So tell me I was beautiful
and that we can repair
this broken clumsy story
that ****** us all up and brought us here.
Up there atop their hill,
those thieving ******** sip their wine,
while below them, our white facepaint runs.
We plan ahead for better times.
I keep shaking at the branches
as if friendship grows on trees.
Just as though they might accept me,
when the dollars fall with Autumn leaves.
And you been dealing hard in hollow hopes
and flimsy dreams.
But I still think you're beautiful.
So tell me that I'm beautiful.
And then let's clip their flimsy wings.
Those ************* 'crost the town
are eating **** and grinning.
Cackling,
orgasming,
while counting out their winnings.
But their music plays too loud
and soon their eardrums will be bleeding.
If they can't hear us breathing, babe,
they'll never hear us scheming.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC
As I walked on the street alone, I saw a lady who seemed to be quite sad and lost.
I asked what was the problem.
She told me that her name was Peace and that she was homeless as man's heart had frost.
She told me about her children dying and the ones who seemed quite sick. She told me about how much the wars and their results had really cost.
And explained to me the many vain efforts to prevent her children to fall ill to this Sickness had crost.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
buried half in half I watch
the crescent of your face,
sunken to the pillow, sleeping
miles from our nearing noses.
Hopeless 'crost this gap I linger
listening to your anxious rustlings,
playing back the hour's horrors,
staring at your one closed eye.
Waiting out the distance
mine own mind wanders
sinking back to ifs and maybes
stewing in the seas of self.
If I'd given you the blankets, if I'd
stayed to hold my own.
If I'd done my part, I could have kept
your heart from aching, racing.
Jan 23, 2022
Jan 23, 2022 at 9:33 PM UTC