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ENDYMION.

A Poetic Romance.

"THE STRETCHED METRE OF AN AN ANTIQUE SONG."
INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON.

Book I

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

  Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,
They alway must be with us, or we die.

  Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own vallies: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end.
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and ****.

  Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread
A mighty forest; for the moist earth fed
So plenteously all ****-hidden roots
Into o'er-hanging boughs, and precious fruits.
And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep,
Where no man went; and if from shepherd's keep
A lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens,
Never again saw he the happy pens
Whither his brethren, bleating with content,
Over the hills at every nightfall went.
Among the shepherds, 'twas believed ever,
That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever
From the white flock, but pass'd unworried
By angry wolf, or pard with prying head,
Until it came to some unfooted plains
Where fed the herds of Pan: ay great his gains
Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many,
Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny,
And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly
To a wide lawn, whence one could only see
Stems thronging all around between the swell
Of turf and slanting branches: who could tell
The freshness of the space of heaven above,
Edg'd round with dark tree tops? through which a dove
Would often beat its wings, and often too
A little cloud would move across the blue.

  Full in the middle of this pleasantness
There stood a marble altar, with a tress
Of flowers budded newly; and the dew
Had taken fairy phantasies to strew
Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve,
And so the dawned light in pomp receive.
For 'twas the morn: Apollo's upward fire
Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre
Of brightness so unsullied, that therein
A melancholy spirit well might win
Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine
Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine
Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun;
The lark was lost in him; cold springs had run
To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass;
Man's voice was on the mountains; and the mass
Of nature's lives and wonders puls'd tenfold,
To feel this sun-rise and its glories old.

  Now while the silent workings of the dawn
Were busiest, into that self-same lawn
All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped
A troop of little children garlanded;
Who gathering round the altar, seemed to pry
Earnestly round as wishing to espy
Some folk of holiday: nor had they waited
For many moments, ere their ears were sated
With a faint breath of music, which ev'n then
Fill'd out its voice, and died away again.
Within a little space again it gave
Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave,
To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking
Through copse-clad vallies,--ere their death, oer-taking
The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea.

  And now, as deep into the wood as we
Might mark a lynx's eye, there glimmered light
Fair faces and a rush of garments white,
Plainer and plainer shewing, till at last
Into the widest alley they all past,
Making directly for the woodland altar.
O kindly muse! let not my weak tongue faulter
In telling of this goodly company,
Of their old piety, and of their glee:
But let a portion of ethereal dew
Fall on my head, and presently unmew
My soul; that I may dare, in wayfaring,
To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing.

  Leading the way, young damsels danced along,
Bearing the burden of a shepherd song;
Each having a white wicker over brimm'd
With April's tender younglings: next, well trimm'd,
A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks
As may be read of in Arcadian books;
Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe,
When the great deity, for earth too ripe,
Let his divinity o'er-flowing die
In music, through the vales of Thessaly:
Some idly trailed their sheep-hooks on the ground,
And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound
With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these,
Now coming from beneath the forest trees,
A venerable priest full soberly,
Begirt with ministring looks: alway his eye
Stedfast upon the matted turf he kept,
And after him his sacred vestments swept.
From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white,
Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light;
And in his left he held a basket full
Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull:
Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still
Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill.
His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath,
Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth
Of winter ****. Then came another crowd
Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud
Their share of the ditty. After them appear'd,
Up-followed by a multitude that rear'd
Their voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car,
Easily rolling so as scarce to mar
The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown:
Who stood therein did seem of great renown
Among the throng. His youth was fully blown,
Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown;
And, for those simple times, his garments were
A chieftain king's: beneath his breast, half bare,
Was hung a silver bugle, and between
His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen.
A smile was on his countenance; he seem'd,
To common lookers on, like one who dream'd
Of idleness in groves Elysian:
But there were some who feelingly could scan
A lurking trouble in his nether lip,
And see that oftentimes the reins would slip
Through his forgotten hands: then would they sigh,
And think of yellow leaves, of owlets cry,
Of logs piled solemnly.--Ah, well-a-day,
Why should our young Endymion pine away!

  Soon the assembly, in a circle rang'd,
Stood silent round the shrine: each look was chang'd
To sudden veneration: women meek
Beckon'd their sons to silence; while each cheek
Of ****** bloom paled gently for slight fear.
Endymion too, without a forest peer,
Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face,
Among his brothers of the mountain chase.
In midst of all, the venerable priest
Eyed them with joy from greatest to the least,
And, after lifting up his aged hands,
Thus spake he: "Men of Latmos! shepherd bands!
Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks:
Whether descended from beneath the rocks
That overtop your mountains; whether come
From vallies where the pipe is never dumb;
Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs
Blue hare-bells lightly, and where prickly furze
Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious charge
Nibble their fill at ocean's very marge,
Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds forlorn
By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn:
Mothers and wives! who day by day prepare
The scrip, with needments, for the mountain air;
And all ye gentle girls who foster up
Udderless lambs, and in a little cup
Will put choice honey for a favoured youth:
Yea, every one attend! for in good truth
Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan.
Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than
Night-swollen mushrooms? Are not our wide plains
Speckled with countless fleeces? Have not rains
Green'd over April's lap? No howling sad
Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have had
Great bounty from Endymion our lord.
The earth is glad: the merry lark has pour'd
His early song against yon breezy sky,
That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity."

  Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spire
Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire;
Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod
With wine, in honour of the shepherd-god.
Now while the earth was drinking it, and while
Bay leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile,
And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright
'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light
Spread greyly eastward, thus a chorus sang:

  "O THOU, whose mighty palace roof doth hang
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;
Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken;
And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken
The dreary melody of bedded reeds--
In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth;
Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx--do thou now,
By thy love's milky brow!
By all the trembling mazes that she ran,
Hear us, great Pan!

  "O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles
Passion their voices cooingly '**** myrtles,
What time thou wanderest at eventide
Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side
Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whom
Broad leaved fig trees even now foredoom
Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow girted bees
Their golden honeycombs; our village leas
Their fairest-blossom'd beans and poppied corn;
The chuckling linnet its five young unborn,
To sing for thee; low creeping strawberries
Their summer coolness; pent up butterflies
Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh budding year
All its completions--be quickly near,
By every wind that nods the mountain pine,
O forester divine!

  "Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr flies
For willing service; whether to surprise
The squatted hare while in half sleeping fit;
Or upward ragged precipices flit
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw;
Or by mysterious enticement draw
Bewildered shepherds to their path again;
Or to tread breathless round the frothy main,
And gather up all fancifullest shells
For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells,
And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping;
Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping,
The while they pelt each other on the crown
With silvery oak apples, and fir cones brown--
By all the echoes that about thee ring,
Hear us, O satyr king!

  "O Hearkener to the loud clapping shears,
While ever and anon to his shorn peers
A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn,
When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn
Anger our huntsman: Breather round our farms,
To keep off mildews, and all weather harms:
Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds,
That come a swooning over hollow grounds,
And wither drearily on barren moors:
Dread opener of the mysterious doors
Leading to universal knowledge--see,
Great son of Dryope,
The many that are come to pay their vows
With leaves about their brows!

  Be still the unimaginable lodge
For solitary thinkings; such as dodge
Conception to the very bourne of heaven,
Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven,
That spreading in this dull and clodded earth
Gives it a touch ethereal--a new birth:
Be still a symbol of immensity;
A firmament reflected in a sea;
An element filling the space between;
An unknown--but no more: we humbly screen
With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending,
And giving out a shout most heaven rending,
Conjure thee to receive our humble Paean,
Upon thy Mount Lycean!

  Even while they brought the burden to a close,
A shout from the whole multitude arose,
That lingered in the air like dying rolls
Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals
Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine.
Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine,
Young companies nimbly began dancing
To the swift treble pipe, and humming string.
Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly
To tunes forgotten--out of memory:
Fair creatures! whose young children's children bred
Thermopylæ its heroes--not yet dead,
But in old marbles ever beautiful.
High genitors, unconscious did they cull
Time's sweet first-fruits--they danc'd to weariness,
And then in quiet circles did they press
The hillock turf, and caught the latter end
Of some strange history, potent to send
A young mind from its ****** tenement.
Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent
On either side; pitying the sad death
Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath
Of Zephyr slew him,--Zephyr penitent,
Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament,
Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain.
The archers too, upon a wider plain,
Beside the feathery whizzing of the shaft,
And the dull twanging bowstring, and the raft
Branch down sweeping from a tall ash top,
Call'd up a thousand thoughts to envelope
Those who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling knee
And frantic gape of lonely Niobe,
Poor, lonely Niobe! when her lovely young
Were dead and gone, and her caressing tongue
Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip,
And very, very deadliness did nip
Her motherly cheeks. Arous'd from this sad mood
By one, who at a distance loud halloo'd,
Uplifting his strong bow into the air,
Many might after brighter visions stare:
After the Argonauts, in blind amaze
Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways,
Until, from the horizon's vaulted side,
There shot a golden splendour far and wide,
Spangling those million poutings of the brine
With quivering ore: 'twas even an awful shine
From the exaltation of Apollo's bow;
A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe.
Who thus were ripe for high contemplating,
Might turn their steps towards the sober ring
Where sat Endymion and the aged priest
'**** shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increas'd
The silvery setting of their mortal star.
There they discours'd upon the fragile bar
That keeps us from our homes ethereal;
And what our duties there: to nightly call
Vesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather;
To summon all the downiest clouds together
For the sun's purple couch; to emulate
In ministring the potent rule of fate
With speed of fire-tailed exhalations;
To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who cons
Sweet poesy by moonlight: besides these,
A world of other unguess'd offices.
Anon they wander'd, by divine converse,
Into Elysium; vieing to rehearse
Each one his own anticipated bliss.
One felt heart-certain that he could not miss
His quick gone love, among fair blossom'd boughs,
Where every zephyr-sigh pouts and endows
Her lips with music for the welcoming.
Another wish'd, mid that eternal spring,
To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails,
Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales:
Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind,
And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind;
And, ever after, through those regions be
His messenger, his little
D Conors May 2010
“The rest is silence.”"-A. Crowley

I

I will know you only because
you are known to me deep down
beneath the subtle shadows carved
permanently upon your deceivingly
angelic face
sculpted by an artist
nameless to none but the heavy slab of stone
he used to create an ache
I’ve come to want to know as you
whose soft and silent rolling voice
where from there springs the torrents
of a turmoil melting like wax
in the mixed up chasm
of your mind
the destroyer of your smile
the reminder of bad times
that causes me to know you and from where you come
riding in bare-back
jet-black hair flying on
the hated molten roaring
riveted steel furnace
of inner anguish
again
and again
you beautiful deadly diamond black jewelry rose
of unworldly charm and perfected pain.

II

This is how I know you
in the steamy swelter of the nightfall’s
stifling bluish pall
you and I alone somewhere
anywhere
but probably nowhere
between the silken smooth heavenly legs of
here and there inside
the broken smoked crystal chandelier
of an ancient chamber room illuminated by
the flicker of more than fifty slowly disappearing
jutting candle-flames
I know you
because you make yourself known
to me
on the black-satin wrinkled bed-sheets that
we lie
writhing around upon like two
dying dancing angels
being swallowed by the suffocating oil
of a shame we bother created
just like gods
or dancing dancers dancing slowly
dying
in the pallid ***** fuming fog
…dancing with the gods.


you are as I know you
silhouetted in the silence of our
ecstatic shattered sighs
as we fly through lust’s futile passions where
we lie, we lie
we lie…


III

You are crawling across
the one-thousand mile mattress
stalking towards me
starvation’s fire fuels
your steely-sharp brown eyes
leopard-like your lithe,
tiny olive-brown body poised
ready to pounce
ready to strike
arrayed in skin-tight crimson lace
deadliness flashing on your face
your ******* dark and pointy ******* feel
fit for me to fed the song—
I smile—
then with healthy, stealthy fury
you leap
and pin me down
trapping
me between these shiny sheets of coal
and your sweeping feline glowing
perfumed-prison hair
polished glossy ruby fingernails
dig deep
into my massive arms
ivory razor-baring teeth
bite my hips
my neck
my chest
my thighs
you stop just in time
to devour me
delightfully
rocking, reeling in the sounds of us around
the intoxicating scent of your
flaming fountain-***
colognes my livid throbbing burning *****
I yell
I try to scream
I want to cry
…but instead, drift off to dream.

IV

You lie awake
aiting watching and waiting allowing
your imagination and your hands
on a journey to your ever-lingering
flaming fury far beyond the heights of hunger’s call
just as we have done no doubt
without each other
for a long time
in the cold
in and out
up and down
back and forth
body arches
thighs uptight
muscular calves quivering
toenails clenching like an eagle’s talons
on the bed
--lift high your sweet holy offering to the air!

Hands wet and warm fly from the glistening
magic perfect patch of forever music
that makes me want to weep
you scream
I awake
we breathe deep
we go back.
Repeat the scene.

V

Pre-dawn purple painted brush-strokes streak the sky
framed by the window where I know I will find you
in nothing more than a gown of sleek vermillion
light-chamois
that displays the room glow striking at your body’s faint
outline
your slender legs
your precious girlish hips
that golden chain around your waist
Divine
your blushing tearless chiseled cheeks
I arise
and walk behind you
run my trembling fingers up your spine
I still don’t really know you as your sighs compete with
mine
you reach around and lead me away
behind a peeling splintered door
warped and withered with
dismay
where you will teach me how to paint
by spilling your blood in
splatters
upon the floor
in said consequence I
calmly take the blade from
your tiny talking hands
pull your slashed and sliced torn wrists
to my tongue
and slowly lick
with a lingering criminal kiss
the dripping cuts that begin to fade
and go away forever in the day
now that the wounds have disappeared
becoming scarless
bloodless
sere
I can but heal your beaten lost youthful body
although I cannot convince you that
I care.
Daylight here.

VI

I know now that I know now
that I know you
and in the ****
with suntanned bodies wind kiss-hissing
through our hair
we walk side by side
on the blistering shoreline sand
avoiding bits of broken glass bottles
one by one
if we can
slowly strolling to the edge of the
abysmal eternal
emerald omniscient ocean-waves
breaking
ttundering
blanketing our feet
spraying its mist upon
our hands
I stop
you sprint
on diving headlong at the deep
the foamy water roars
and roars
you emerge and approach the shore
standing straight along
beside me
to stare
at a pair of grayish seagulls circling
in the air
squawking songs about themselves
when before the breathing of a minute
one
bird drops dying dead to feed
the never-ending belly
of the sea
the other screeches viciously
mourning
you look
at me
and then I come to know now how to know you
now that you have at last known me
as your part your pink and precious lips
for the first time
we will ever kiss
as you finally cry for
our
reality.

That is not sand left clinging to your cheeks
Just the salty tears we need
To set us free.


Now you can bury you and me.


(Threnody means “funeral chant.”)
D. Conors
c. November 1994
All original documentation has been preserved.
Anne Faye Mar 2015
aching, tired, weary.

Pain?

Me?

Why ever me? My pain shrinks.

Never, oh never would that happen.

At least that's what everyone else thinks.

I cover my feelings with a mask of happiness.

Trying to hide,

Trying to shield myself from deadliness

Of my heart.

I sit here thinking, wondering, I feel,

I feel dumbstruck.

Like Alice, curious, wondering,

Wondering what's going on in this wonderland of emotions.

I feel stuck.

I don't even know who I am,

Myself!

But apparently everyone else does.

At least that's what everyone else thinks.

Me.

Me.

Me, myself, and I.

Am I the one or am I three?

No one will ever know.

Well, maybe,

Just maybe,

Everyone else will.

Remember I'm happy!

Happy.

Happy?

Am I really?

At least that's what everyone else thinks.
I wrote this in 6th grade, and just found it in my old journal.
Andre Baez Feb 2014
Four walls are screaming...

Lying here awakened by the deafened sound of silence
Casually existing in a manifestation of neighborly violence
Is a martyr of selfish explanation and station
In the mix for chairman on the way the satan
Gates open for him when he travels from his lair,
But travel comes in spurts of gravitational voids,
Filling up with meals as they enter without choice,
Or any sense of repair for what's there,
Entering crevasses and other openings along surfaces,
That allow one to feel worthlessness,
Never hoisting the trophy given to those whom represent perfectness,
Perfectionist can't resist the temptations to conjure mist,
To make sure and valid that works of art are works of fact which exist,
To be or not to be or create or mislead,
Proceeded by apologies that mislead atrocities,
Across cities so wickedly the deadliness of it all is least thrilling,
As a result of the bland toast experience that leaves most chilling,
Spine tingling, neck wringing, spinal tapping, and wired napping,
Saran wrapping over mouths made by ACME,
Causing destruction much like what's seen on TV,
And bought at your local pharmacy,
Where they farm human beings much like cattle, count the sheep?
Because you're snoring, sleeping through class again and looking bummy,
Roaring is coming from the bottomless pits of your tummy,
You devour the tiniest bits of crumbs and feeling crummy,
Misused sense of self existence is persistent to make you nothing

Because four walls are screaming
The world is yours
The world is foreign
The world is burned
The world is corse
The world is hoarse
The world is worse
The world it turns
The world it yearns
The world is yours
The world is yours
The word is yours
The word is yours

Shadows in the brightness of the dark,
Spread across expansive spaces of empty walls,
Suffocating the echoes formed by creaking halls,
Hand rise and fall while final gasps are drawn,
Choked sounds leaving as they enter withdrawal,
Enter into my senses stating that the beauty lies in dawn,
Drawn faces lie on skulls where lines are made of chalk,
The rest of the skeleton remains but must be bought in bulk,
Off branded and made by foreign nations,
Easily paid for with easy to find replacements,
The mind is not a terrible loss when you've only ever had half,
To lose another half would only be half as bad,
Half as much mind to get up out of the shield of bed sheets,
Half as much mind to walk, any given day, across any given street,
100% percent chance at the fate which awaits me,
Yet the safety net in place fools me to believe,
That a life without risk is worth living,
As ant piles form in any which place along the floor,
And the handles continuously fall from the doors,
Clothes, dishes, and homework, pile up into chores,
A fatal scene of tragedy reminiscent of noir,
Ambiguity remains in what lies just beneath,
The surface as the crust of earth acts as a sheath,
While the remainder of it grows rotten due to the cheats,
The liars and the friars who act as moonlit buyers,
Of incomplete factions and fractions of complete mishaps,
Perhaps an axe to the frontal lobe would loosen up control,
My eyes are scar filled and leaking massive amounts of soul,
The soil is darkening with fertilization,
While the source material is dying from being wasted,
It's the typical atypical response to taunts and trails of peril fraught,
With sounds emanating explaining the cause of a shot,
Straight through the heart piercing through the rock,
Cries to forget everything that's been taught, "it's a crock!"

Because four walls are screaming
The world is yours
The world is foreign
The world is burned
The world is corse
The world is hoarse
The world is worse
The world it turns
The world it yearns
The world is yours
The world is yours
The word is yours
The word is yours

To be happy or give family,
Satisfactions of being right you see,
Interactions of puppets tied to string,
Tears next to taxes they're filing,
Humming songs meant to sing,
Has long been the main thing,
To act yet never do the real thing,
It's a monstrosity of honesty,
Honestly saying you are not a thing,
You have no talents you aren't interesting, it's sickening,
That it's truly what they believe,
And thus extend it to fresh psyches,
Of their children like Socrates,
Faith in their words is philosophy,
Till one broke away from topography,
Stopping streams of tears in their streaks, it's done, it repeats,
But all in all is all that he needs,
To defeat the menacing grins to have them at his feet,
Groveling knowing in time that he'll be king,
The sequences flourish from new daisies to trash heaps,
It's a lion stalking and napping among sheep,
The bygones are gone by yet the goodbyes never cease,
The will of the strong is hoisted up by the weak,
But the weak were those who made up the soul of the strong,
The weak were once knights but turned into pawns,
To check into their mates and remain on call,
To stir up disaster by setting up the alarms,
Their charms through voice never lent psalm,
Through all dampening storms he always remained calm,
Even within the shelter of his apartment home,
Ignorance of the outside world didn't disperse of his wounds,
The shreds of skin, metal tasting flesh torn,
Separate the ligaments of the clothes worn,
Mercurial mental in the midsts of complete war,
Picture frames crowd around on the floor,
Commodities in short supply have dissolved,
A death will occur in a mystery solved...

Because four walls are screaming
The world is yours
The world is foreign
The world is burned
The world is corse
The world is hoarse
The world is worse
The world it turns
The world it yearns
The world is yours
The world is yours
The word is yours
The word is yours
Devan Proctor Mar 2011
Yew
Aligned on arrowed spine, the stance of the warrior does not stir in his thin and scaly armor. Emitting essence, breath, and a deadliness soaking his spiraled lanceolates, ridden with toxic seed, he deceives the thrushes pursuing arils. They are soon surprised by death in the guise of life. Catuvolvus, as well, cast himself away by consuming fatal seed, taken by war-pride, released by yew. The raw assassin is prepared to vanquish beast and bird, to still-battle strangers amongst his ages. And yet, he wields an ancient light. In peace, he guides departed shadows home.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2019
I. nope.



II.
long-windedness verbosity
diffuseness prolixity
wordiness rambli­ng
circuity discursiveness
redundancy tautology
tediousness verbi­age
verboseness length
longevity permanence
garrulity windiness
v­olubility circumlocution
expansiveness babbling
periphrasis gushi­ng
blathering protractedness
waffling lengthiness
iteration repet­ition
prating prattling
jabbering digressiveness
dreariness tediu­m
deadliness wandering
repetitiousness repetitiveness
pleonasm co­nvolution
logorrhoea boringness
maundering superfluity
duplicatio­n tiresomeness
monotony reiteration
gabbiness informality
mouthin­ess diffusion
logorrhea wordage
blah-blah dryness
dullness boredo­m
sameness loquaciousness
talkativeness loquacity
freeness orotun­dity
roundaboutness breadth
gobbledegook gassiness
wittering mult­iloquence
perissology big mouth
gift of the gab garrulousness
staleness tallness
ask and answered
Sara Skora Oct 2011
When I hear these sounds
I find it so easy
to believe and believe and believe
But why does my heart break
at the words uttered
and bleed and bleed and bleed

The summer sun has half the warmth
of your faint embrace
And winter’s snow has more comfort
than the smile upon my face

These overwhelming noises
fill my attention
giving ease upon ease upon ease
But the silence afterward
that deafens me
will not cease will not cease will not cease

Your hand is always warm upon mine
which is colder for reasons I know
Alive within me is a deadliness
that I can never show

So now your heart I feel
beat and beat and beat
And I taste how this life
is painfully bittersweet
bitter, sweet, love, self-loathing
Andreas Simic Jun 2022
If you Google it, the search comes up as a dot it is so small
growing up years ago they said the population was 500
but that had to have included the people passing through
for we had an ESSO, Schell, Gulf, BP and Texaco gas station

Being on the way to cottage country we were that stop
far enough from the big city for cottagers to be ready
for a bathroom break and a fill up at the pumps
Crime was something we only read about in the papers

Our claim to fame the lake, and ice fishing
You could drive your car to the island in the dead of winter
passing by fish huts painted in an array of colors
The ice road delineated by trees to avoid getting lost

Sure we had the odd break in at a cottage but nothing
that got our name in the news
Oh, we also had two churches and a one room school house
we arrived when I was in grade two, Miss Mitchell was the teacher

Growing up in those days meant hours playing
If we weren’t swimming, we were future hockey stars
or baseball players, Ian and I at the back of the school
pitcher and hitter challenging each other

Hours upon hours at a time spent with kids from down the street
Sure there were the petty fights but mostly with my brothers,
but what can you expect when you have four boys growing up
each vying to become adult like

Those were, in my mind, the days of innocence
before computers and the world became larger
and the internet allowed you to see it all,
the poverty, the deadliness of war, man’s cruelty

Once a place I wanted to desperately get away from
to get lost in the city, an introvert looking for a place to hide
I now find myself reminiscing of those long lost days
where life was simple and a day could be spent daydreaming

Andreas Simic©
Helen Jan 2014
I am*
the Turtle
that pulls its head in
just for somewhere to rest

the Ostrich
with head in the sand
at the first sign
of protest

the Sloth
slovenly sitting
unbiasedly
in whatever tree
that holds me

A dolphin, a whale
a rhinoceroses
without fail
disappearing
from those who hunt me

Extinction is a four letter word
but it's inevitable, you see?

Because I'm all them, but not
I occupy the same Universe but
I forgot, there are creatures
less fortunate than me

Often  like them, I'm hunted
for the colour of my skin,
for my difference of opinion
admired to the point of deadliness
But existence is my only sin
It's difficult to be me
Where do I begin?
note to self ~ when restless, drink a glass of warm milk instead of Wine and FFS, turn OFF the Internet or else ^^^^ happens!
Good night, sweet dreams, and be safe in your skin :)
Kellin Apr 2019
have mostly passed,
pressed into the pages
of history books, but how
they linger in memory!

two men, reputations
mutually compromises,
meet to prove their valor
on the feild of honor.

with great ceremony,
their seconds present
the pistols, oiled and gleaming
deadliness in the wavering light.

the rivals take their places
and, beloved guns in hand,
they stand back-to-back,
gathering courage.

eight paces in opposite
directions, at the signal, turn,
take aim, praying it’s straight,
that your sight remains plumb.

Fire.
VD Lee May 2017
Streetlamps pass by my windowpane
As the wheels turn, so does the day
I feel the weariness creep onto my brain
My eyes watch the sky as it turns gray

Back at the tracks I worked myself out
Blisters tore into my soles and soul
But I know when I reach the end of the route
My life will soon again be caught in my control

Because I know that my darling will be waiting there
And we'll both have a life just for us

She's gonna meet me, gonna kiss me from my head to my neck
She's gonna see me, gonna greet me with a ***** peck
And then we'll come home to our children at the time of the stars
Somehow I will get there by trains, planes, or cars

No matter how strong the wind may be
No matter the deadliness of the sun
I'll walk and wait throughout the barren country
Just so I can be with my loved one

Because I know she'll be standing, looking fair
And she'll embrace me at the stop of the bus

She's gonna meet me, gonna kiss me from my head to my neck
She's gonna see me, gonna greet me with a ***** peck
And then we'll come home to our children at the time of the stars
Somehow I will get there by trains, planes, or cars

The wind is growing colder now
It's been hours since I've been indoors
My toes are stiffer than I would allow
I don't think they'll again touch my home's floors

As hunger and sleep dominate my sides
I see my sweetie still waiting alone
The visions push me and become my guides
Because my unfortunate days are agone

She's gonna meet me, gonna kiss me from my head to my neck
She's gonna see me, gonna greet me with a ***** peck
And then we'll come home to our children at the time of the stars
Somehow I will get there by trains, planes, or cars
Esther Mar 2015
Four hours of sleep,
Laughter and tears,
Philosophy with hidden fears,
And shaky hands
From too many coffee sips;
How else do I describe your
Invincible aura?

Are there really any words
To explain the floral imprint
That springs to life
With every thought of you
In my muddied mind?

Am I worthy of that otherworldly smile;
The one that lingers on your full lips
For longer than it takes to glimpse possibility,
Just so you can see its results
In the eyes of both friends and enemies?

I swear there is mercury
In your glossy eyes-
And I think I’ve reworded it a thousand times,
But they will always be
A poisonous brilliance of dual deadliness
That my demons cannot help but admire.

And amidst all the beauty,
There is glorious ugliness
Which I cherish in these deteriorating hemispheres of mine-
I always did envy the soft pillows beneath your eyes,
And how even your blemishes looked to me like patches of light.

Every fleeting thought of you
Is a glowing orb of searing vitality-
Like lightning flashes of opportunity
And sometimes
The only sparks that keeps me crawling
Through this never-ending tunnel of suffering.
But most of all, it is more, much more
Than anyone could ever deserve.

To simply call you Human would be an understatement;
In your case, I believe,
Masterpiece is a fitting supplement.
For my cousin/best friend's 22nd Birthday.
Charles Vorpal Feb 2021
Do I need a reason to love?
Can I not love the beauty,
That makes me happy and free?
Is it not a common feeling,
For me to love the beautiful city,
Where I can be my true self?
Ah, how fortunate it is for me,
Such blissful blessings,
To have this gorgeous land,
Exist within my memories.
Though dreadful deadliness
Now stops me from reaching her,
She has long possessed my heart
I believe, and I sincerely do,
That one day, I will return to her
And, hopefully, be with her, forever.
Title of this poem is a reference to the Celtic Woman song "Isle of Hope, Isle of Tears"
C F Tinney Feb 2019
Manic pace
Endless race
Running quickly every briskly
Never stopping
Springing
Hopping
Blurs of people
Buildings – steeple
Walking, talking never pausing
Coffee cup raised – no enjoyment
Half my life spent in employment
Process, success
Never egress
No time for nonsense – far too serious
They don’t hear us
Writing poems, books and sonnets?
Back to work
Stop being honest!
Project deadliness
News and headlines
Endless lists of pain and crime
Tired – worn out
Day is over
Lights out – dream state
Morning:  it starts all over
Empire Mar 2019
I thought I knew the secret
To really being alive
The key to waking the zombie
The only way for a soul to be revived

I still believe it's true
But I can't shake this feeling
That I'm a dead body walking
Pretending to breathe even, smile, chat

I fought off what was killing me
Only to realize that I was
Far more sick than I had realized
Revived to discover the deadliness of life

I know I am alive, because I took the cure
But there are so many other ways
To make life not feel worth living
So many ways to torture without killing

But, this living zombie has things to do
A kind of bargain for my life
More than fair on my end
And I must remain to uphold it

— The End —