"dauphin" poems
August is wonderful month for star gazing.
Camellias, dauphin Oise and renuculars in full bloom this August
How much sun does my August Moon flowers needs;
the more sun, the more golden the texture shine on through
Here came the brides, marching down the aisles with theirs fathers
While, the theme of Goldenrod, Sunflower yellow, Saffron and Dandelion takes center stage,
August is a month that stands its own merit
an excellent month for bird migration, but not for illegal immigrants
August's birth flower is gladiolus, its comes with, calm, integrity, and infatuation
August is the wayward month no less.
Star gazing at its best
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 9:41 AM UTC
Old Neptune marks his boundaries today, leaves sargasso
and thin, bamboo-like reeds on the shore of Dauphin Island. He blows briskly, to urge his white steeds to the seashore.
The water is dark with disturbance, veined with foam like tatted lace. The scent of Neptune swallows the fast-moving air crossing
the island from Gulf to Bay sides. Oil rigs
haunt the horizon like boredom, breaking
the vista, reminding all who see them of human limit. Old Neptune accepts no limit, no boundary. We, who want fixity
as security, we watch as Neptune abuses boundaries, expands us
whether we want him to or not. There is no fixity; yet there is security. There is consolation in flow, in flowing with Great Neptune, rolling in his
tidal urgencies.
c. 2014/2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
olney transportation center.
i put my bag down in the plastic seat next to me and allow the cool musty subway air envelope my senses. the lights are too fluorescent, **** they’re bright. my chest fills with pressure, the cap at my throat holding on desperately to stay put, stay tight. don’t scream. my breath is getting harder now. why do they even hang out with that person? it doesn’t make sense to me. my music gets louder in my ears, smooth bossa nova pounding brain waves. focus on the lyrics. they make me too angry. my lungs are struggling to hang onto the air, it’s coming in and out of my nostrils too fast. my throat is getting too dry, but my water bottle is too heavy. i don’t want to pick it up, i want to keep thinking. why won’t they just listen to me? why won’t they see things my way? how long is this song? it seems like it’s been forever. i’ve passed galaxies and worlds in this subway tunnel, the stars too fast for my eyes to grasp. i can’t think my way out of this one. no amount of thoughts flying around my head can fix the necessity of simply doing nothing. my hand is forced to be empty. i need to bluff. it’s way too bright in here.
logan.
thank god this song is over. i’m going to do homework instead. i don’t like this song very much, but i’m not going to change it. maybe i should turn off the music so i can read better.
wyoming.
hunting park.
erie.
allegheny.
i think i’ll be home soon. i don’t like what they did today, i should listen to my mom more. my eyes are really heavy, i wish i went to bed earlier today. maybe i’ll take a nap when i get home.
susquehanna dauphin.
cecil b. moore.
i don’t like this stop today.
girard.
time is back up to speed. maybe i’ll go to chinatown, buy some moon cakes. the mid autumn festival passed already, i wish i could’ve gone. i don’t really care for half of the things i say i like. maybe it’s a labor of love, to lie about liking something. or maybe i just don’t have the ability to say i don’t like something. but i know i dislike things. i dislike how bright these lights are, **** my migraine is getting stronger. i want to go home. i am going home.
fairmount.
my throat feels like a desert. time to put my phone down. my head hurts too much.
Sep 20, 2022
Sep 20, 2022 at 2:52 PM UTC
For Kara--
I was an idle mind miles out at the wheel, just combustion
On a road. The borderlands
Lose their sense of place and aim
Just skirting the middle space with no face or claim to
Dauphin, Lebanon, or Lancaster.
I’ve given my love to any of the three
One is in memories and
One is in late, and
One is where I graciously keep moored
The threads of my rebirth.
These signs are riddled in bullet holes, their figures
Come to semblance of entangles, brilliant in brunette
And a gaze, reluctant ever to be caught,
I wouldn’t wish to go back
If she could be remade from bones, copse, and sunlight
Through auric clouds of mayflies.
But, the illusion scatters, and in its lack,
I do find her, much more real than ever
She is what keeps me settled in the several fawning hours
And though weak from sleep she’s the very victory of a single breathe
I start my day believing in, that she’s a spirit,
There’s this life of hers inside the countryside
Like winds who speak in sweetened tones, mild
In mockery and bewilderment, the very grip of control
Has her fingers playing palmistry, pretending magic
Distorting the sad matter of earth, her very being is a song
That to lose or to grieve my lonely way
I, to Mt. Hope, find clear direction back.
Fall in love with Lancaster girls and they can break your heart
They'll have you already like rolling hills and city lights,
And she is the entire scene commingling
Where it ought, that summer aura of hers
Is a blessing just so hard to bear,
For stories are not so wearing on me, they are easier to believe.
I no longer need to pretend
That airplanes are shooting stars
When there’s no need for wishing to a home
Where the heart is anymore; there is the
Hand that leads me everywhere,
Back to the miles of shimmering land
Where one hears always sighs of content
And rests easy in disbelief.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 8:30 PM UTC
L'amour fut de tout temps un bien rude Ananké.
Si l'on ne veut pas être à la porte flanqué,
Dès qu'on aime une belle, on s'observe, on se scrute ;
On met le naturel de côté ; bête brute,
On se fait ange ; on est le nain Micromégas ;
Surtout on ne fait point chez elle de dégâts ;
On se tait, on attend, jamais on ne s'ennuie,
On trouve bon le givre et la bise et la pluie,
On n'a ni faim, ni soif, on est de droit transi ;
Un coup de dent de trop vous perd. Oyez ceci :
Un brave ogre des bois, natif de Moscovie,
Etait fort amoureux d'une fée, et l'envie
Qu'il avait d'épouser cette dame s'accrut
Au point de rendre fou ce pauvre coeur tout brut :
L'ogre, un beau jour d'hiver, peigne sa peau velue,
Se présente au palais de la fée, et salue,
Et s'annonce à l'huissier comme prince Ogrousky.
La fée avait un fils, on ne sait pas de qui.
Elle était ce jour-là sortie, et quant au mioche,
Bel enfant blond nourri de crème et de brioche,
Don fait par quelque Ulysse à cette Calypso,
Il était sous la porte et jouait au cerceau.
On laissa l'ogre et lui tout seuls dans l'antichambre.
Comment passer le temps quand il neige en décembre.
Et quand on n'a personne avec qui dire un mot ?
L'ogre se mit alors à croquer le marmot.
C'est très simple. Pourtant c'est aller un peu vite,
Même lorsqu'on est ogre et qu'on est moscovite,
Que de gober ainsi les mioches du prochain.
Le bâillement d'un ogre est frère de la faim.
Quand la dame rentra, plus d'enfant. On s'informe.
La fée avise l'ogre avec sa bouche énorme.
As-tu vu, cria-t-elle, un bel enfant que j'ai ?
Le bon ogre naïf lui dit : Je l'ai mangé.
Or, c'était maladroit. Vous qui cherchez à plaire,
Jugez ce que devint l'ogre devant la mère
Furieuse qu'il eût soupé de son dauphin.
Que l'exemple vous serve ; aimez, mais soyez fin ;
Adorez votre belle, et soyez plein d'astuce ;
N'allez pas lui manger, comme cet ogre russe,
Son enfant, ou marcher sur la patte à son chien.
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four sweet smiling babies on the front page of the paper;
four sweet little lives that are no more.
My throat is tight My hands are clenched My heart is broken.
My eyes flood as my knees hit the floor.
How in the hell could there even be an explanation?
Could the white dope really bring a man so low?
the pretty lady on the TV says it's a complicated situation
and a bunch of other crap that I don't want to know.
Held in the arms they loved and trusted;
Thrown some eighty feet into the bay.
I'm bitter, disillusioned, and disgusted;
and I'm not the only one who feels that way.
My God it's so **** hard to keep believing.
Is this the way you really meant for it to be?
It's getting dark - a half an hour past grieving-
Lets have a heart to heart, just you and me.
I've found this big black book of contradictions;
Though I like what the red letters have to say.
I hope I have the strength of my convictions,
but what the hell is free will anyway?
It's easy now to believe in the devil.
It's good to have some where to put the blame,
but I can't keep from thinking we're the trouble;
If we don't own up, How can we ever change?
I want to know if you're tight with the preacher
Who tells us about peace and love and hell?
Have you got some connection with the teacher
who teaches us just how to hate and ****
This here geopolitical situation
is a little more than greedy cold and hard.
What's all this talk about hell and damnation?
There's plenty of that right here in my back yard;
where four sweet smiling babies are on the front page of the paper
three so far have washed up on the shore.
I guess there must be hell fire and damnation
Cause there just has to be a heaven for those four.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 6:40 PM UTC
The fresh-faced youth, dagger on hip,
is possessed of many secrets.
Spy, chameleon, a wolf in sheep’s clothing,
accustomed to the shadows,
indeed, he is not a ‘he’ at all,
but a woman in service to her dauphin.
The drape of her shirt and breeches
hint at her curves, her muscle,
the delicate arch of her feet
in her red court shoes
long and well suited to
slipping across foreign marble
to do what she must.
She has played the man-at-war,
the page boy and the cupbearer,
the mistress and the catamite,
in the bed of men and women both,
their pillow talk treason carried away
while she still bears their bruises and love bites.
Servant of the state, the empire,
her lord and her god-
she is Madonna, Joan of Arc,
a thousand women unnamed,
her king’s blade, steel under velvet.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 1:22 PM UTC
Where am I?
Unwittingly caught in an invisible struggle
Realizing not, that my soul it tried to smuggle
Who am I?
Of this I was unaware
Nor, at times seemed to care
What am I?
How did this come to be?
This was not me!
As winter's breath brushed my cheek
Revelation came...I was weak
Tears I cried as I glanced inside
* *
* *
* *
Light...from within and outwith...blocked...intermittently
Shrouded by this fog
...............Losing control
D
E
E
P
E
R...I would fall into this sinkhole
B...out, I could...
M
I
L
C
S
L
I
D
E...down again, I would...
Enough! It was time again for me to care
And find that someone with time to spare
It did not work trying this on my own
I realized that I could not do this alone
Cloudy was the day
And Sunshine helped point the way
Support was something I would need often
And was given by an adherent of Dauphin
An old farmer provided directions
To help set up those connections
And a man of affluence
With whom I once had influence
Helped pull back the curtain
And reaffirmed my path I am certain
What am I?
I am Love and Light from above
Who am I?
Of this I am well aware
It is for others I care
Where am I?
Standing in the beautiful light of day
Far removed from my personal Cenote
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 9:10 PM UTC
'MAKE WORDS BREAK FROM ME HERE ALL ALONE, DO YOU!"
( To G.M.H. my saviour )
Grabbed
by my curls
my face forced
into the toilet bowl
flushed with laughter they
with great glee
*** on me.
This the sacred ritual
of becoming
a First Year
in Secondary.
They hang me up
to dry on a coat rack.
I am an all akimbo
feeble bag of flesh and bones
defenceless nerd.
"Tuttuttut!" they tut
"Reading Hopkins at your age!"
I dangle hopelessly
a helpless broken puppet
their brute bullying
mastering me...Lord!
They tear The Windhover
by Christ...from the Anthology.
Scatter the precious words
in a confetti of hate.
I call on Father Hopkins
to come to my aid and
he gives me
his words.
I speak with all the authority
of his voice.
"I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding "
"Shhhhh....shushhhh!" they try to shush me
in case Br. Finbar storms out of his cell
like a soutane'd spider
to see such poetry
scrawled in a scream
upon the air.
But I am not for shushing!
"My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!"
"Shhhhhh.....SHHHHHHH!" they now plead.
"here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!"
"SHHHHHHH,,,,SGGGGGG!" they beg.
But there is now no
stopping me I
am charged with the grandeur
of Gerard Manley Hopkins.
See, they flee before the glory
of his words.
I fling phrase after phrase after them.
His words chasing them.
"No wonder of it:
shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and **** gold-vermillion."
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 8:32 AM UTC
Quand la belle Vénus, sortant du sein des mers,
Promena ses regards sur la plaine profonde,
Elle se crut d'abord seule dans l'univers ;
Mais près d'elle aussitôt l'amour naquit de l'onde.
Vénus lui fit un signe, il embrassa Vénus ;
Et, se reconnaissant sans s'être jamais vus,
Tous deux sur un dauphin voguèrent vers la plage.
Comme ils approchaient du rivage,
L'amour, qu'elle portait, s'échappe de ses bras,
Et lance plusieurs traits en criant : terre ! Terre !
Que faites-vous, mon fils ? Lui dit alors sa mère.
Maman, répondit-il, j'entre dans mes états.
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