Oh, this is why I hate love!
How I used to moon over it;
shape it and craft it and run after it
in my brambles,
how I used to indulge it in my *****
protect it from any uncivil desecration
cherish it for its wilfulness
relish it for its greed;
how I tainted my heart with its fake scent!
It just dawneth on me!
Oh how I fervently remembereth the scene; the very afternoon scene, before me:
I was heaving my dull steps against the sheepish grounds;
so peaceful in their breezy slumbers;
unlike the busy grass afield!
their dainty colours blackened by the whirring clouds from afar.
Hung cozily amongst the sky, whose childishness wasth adjourned by
the sleeping rain!
Oh but it was none yet coldeth but temperate;
when his moorish figure, blent into the naturalness of the afternoonth;
retreated into the lingering scene,
swiftly and lightly as the chirruping birdth aloft,
as if no anguish was within reach,
as wildly glistening as the mirth of the old den!
How my soul warmed towards the sight of him,
and on he went to relate his selfish story.
How I celebrated it - its giddy, gullible outset!
How I endorse its unknowing innocence!
How I adorned it with my passion!
His reclamation proceeded,
I was but astounded to hark to the rest;
into it he amorously poured the account of a bizarre creature;
namely a stranger;
invariably a woman!
How insolent!
He named her his love;
he waveth his moronic praise at hers;
at her charm, andth not mineth!
I was spurned, my heart was churned;
despite my stranded efforts to keep my pair of
relenting eyes
unblinking;
I steadied my legs, I was more than ready to
bounce and go
sway myself away from this gloomy tragedy
as before me the story undesired unfolded:
my love was repressed, my heart was
bludgeoned, heartily bludgeoned,
and I was silenced; could no longer feelth the tinges of blood
in my latent veins.
He hath slaughtered my peace!
My inner visions, hopes, and dreams!
I hath lost all of which!
I hath lost my shrieks; I could not voice my despair;
yet I could not utter my grief!
I was cursed and condemned;
my soul was appallingly dishonored;
my entirety is for lifelong anger,
desolation, ignominy and utmost desperation!
My crossness against the Creator arose,
like a wave of torment,
a surge of unbecomingth animosity,
as to no matter how I suppressed it unthinkingly,
all ended in vain:
My stern heart shan't ever melt to love again.
Oh my love, my love,
my princeth, my deviousth prince,
the only one I was so ardently fond of
how could thou deepen my misery?
How could thou ****** my sweetest virginal affection
in the midst of my isolation?
Like the sultry willows
whose memories unshaken, unbitten in the most
melodious, but pallid from the heath
in this musty, salubrious air
my blooming flowers hath died
I am brokeneth, I am torn!
I am writhing in my vainness,
my foolish longing, unmissed and unsung by the dandy branches aboveth
Dancing in my own blueness, weariness that is both livid
and unforgiving
scared by the heartless world
in the course of this barren winter.
Winter with no whiteness;
winter unholy and fulleth of diminutive, evil suffrage.
How ungodly!
I am raked into pieces;
and this is what remains.
This is my misery; oh how I could not riseth above the misery itself!
This is my solemn admonition,
this is my fate!
I have no right to love,
to embrace and to be embraced,
and from this day on I wanth but to dismiss my love;
onto my heart was bestowed not serene affection but intelligence;
and intellect is far better regarded than love!
How sully, narrow, and vicious love is!
How unimportant it is in the eyes of glory,
and the sea of fictitious admiration.
I quit the monstrousness of yon outer devastation;
I take hold of my pen,
and swim deeper into my whining words, again.

Peace be still, strike thy pose

Epitome of eloquence, footsteps of the queen

Pearls of wisdom, solemn portrait

Position thy hat, attend to thy shirt, that of satin, that of lace

Family ties, adornment to each

All is well with thee, obedience calls – o’ child be seen, be not heard

Be seated; be still, thou shalt not be disturbed

Workhouses – be deterred, apprentice house preferred

Sacrificial morning, make way to the pit

A revolution of demand, provisions of coal, of iron, of copper, deposits of old

What sayeth thee?  We shall supply!

As pitheads wind, so miners grind

Seek and follow, tunnels be low – passages of the great

Toil dawneth on me, forty winks be yearned

As we flock to the town

Of craftsmen, of blacksmiths, tailors assist

Technology equips, shoe last o’ stiff

Fine fettles are thee, inventions surpass

Full steam ahead!  Country be lead.

Of sheets, of rolls, printing amass

Fortunes be stirred, households back to back

Our cast-iron range, warmth to thy home

Fresh statuses arise, relieve former ties

Ambition abound, middle class be found

Boil water on the range, afore we bath

Of fresh produce, of luscious game, black pudding o’ delight

Shilling be spent, fill up thy churn

Horses’ clod on cobbled streets, ploughed fields, farmer’s relief

Leg thy narrow boat, steam locomotive, cut short thy duration

Better to tow, canal bank astride

The Victorian age, of history, of pride



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©

My life is only a breath, the psyche of the fountainheads
Logos, you see me now but never again; the suspiration
Upon the flaming tip of Gods tongue, if you look for me
I will be gone like a cloud that fades and is gone,
Voidness cannot injure voidness - Orcus hath the soul:
Fireless smoke, the pneuma that brought forth the
Anthropogenesis of atman; the sparks of holiness lodged
In all things: the self-realization my happiness has already
Ended, that which dawneth the way of all flesh, the ghost
Hover over the grave; the qualityless cannot injure
The qualityless.
If a man dies can he come back to life?
The earth covers the flesh, for thy desire-body of propensities
Is void and the lords of death are supplications for the
Parousia of our own hallucinations; as too the dark art
Of necromancy! stars do the spirit crave and a heavenly
Exile exists until the light returns unbroken to its source.



ELEETE J MUIR

beauty is the night----
the solace majestic that warrants
the weary eye----
the muse ethereal to whom is beholden
the creative mind.----
yonder the elden oak
'twixt darkness and moonlight;
the wolves whose cries resound
beneath the ebon skies;
the fauna savage that prowls
with prey in sight.
anon, a gentle rain dawneth
and giveth life unto the earth.
anew, the aqueous offerings!
o how nightly wonders
are but the eidolon of beauty,
the paragon of grandeur.
‘tis oft i roam
the terrain so dark and calm
of jovial mien, allur’d
by the starry plane above.
and think most profoundly
on the coming morrow
when departs dian
upon the arrival of apollo.
thereat awakening the many a soul
of their repose,
and the day’s concomitant joys and woes.
bathing the land in a burnished glow.
tho’ in study will be i
‘mid texts of prose and rhyme.
and with wont eye
mark the passage of time,
till cometh once more
the beauteous night.